Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (8 page)

“That’s not what I hear,” Capuano said.

“Then you are not listening carefully.”

Capuano was taken aback by Russo’s disrespectful attitude, but he held his anger in check. “You are asking us to change the way we have done business for fifty years. Such a thing is not accomplished overnight.”

Russo smiled, got up, and looked out the window at the lit-up Strip. “You know, I haven’t been here in a very long time. The last time I was here, women walked around the casino with coin dispensers attached to their belts, changing bills into nickels, dimes, and quarters.”

“So?” Capuano asked.

“So this time when I walked through the casino, nobody was using coins. It was all electronic; I never once heard the sound of money coming from the machines.”

“So?” Capuano repeated.

“So times have changed. Technology has caused the people who make and own the slot machines to move on. Technology is making all of us move on. It’s the way of the world.”

“Petrone and technology are reducing my take by sixty percent.”

“The remaining forty percent is for doing very little—just some minor enforcement where necessary.”

“Without my people for that enforcement, you would soon have nothing.”

“Your people are businessmen. If we pay them enough, they will become our people. And then you will be without people, and without forty percent.”

“Are you threatening me?” Capuano asked. He was not used to being talked to this way, but he was also not used to being in this position.

“I would never do that,” Russo said. “I am patiently explaining the situation, because you seem not to understand it very well. The fact is that we want to be in partnership with you, but we don’t need to be in partnership with you. It is a decision that you will have to make for yourself.”

Capuano didn’t cave in the moment; that was not the way these things were done. But Russo knew that he would toe the line; he had no choice. Petrone held all the cards, and would play them as necessary.

What Capuano didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that Russo would be playing the cards differently if he could. That he believed the cards were unnecessary, and only temporarily constituted a winning hand.

But there was a chance that no one would ever know what Russo was thinking; he knew that and was fine with it.

For now, he had the limousine take him directly back to the airport.

He wanted to get home.

If Ted Yates is at the center of the storm, it hasn’t so much as mussed his hair. He’s the CFO of Starlight, a company that currently has one founder in jail and the other just recently stabbed to death. Yet when I called to ask to meet with him, he agreed immediately. Just now, when I showed up at his office for our meeting, he smiled and seemed so casual and at ease that I felt like we were about to have piña coladas by the pool.

We’re in the company’s headquarters in Paramus, and Yates’s office is on the tenth floor of the twelve-story building. It is spacious and modern, exactly what you would expect at a successful, cutting-edge technology company.

After we exchange pleasantries, I ask him about the large taped-up boxes lining the walls of his office. “Are you leaving?” I ask.

“Only this office. I’m heading upstairs.”

“This one seems pretty nice,” I say.

He nods. “It is. But the board of directors just made me interim CEO, and they think it more appropriate that I be upstairs. I disagreed, but the board overruled me.” He smiles. “I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

“You’re moving to Gerry Wright’s office?”

He shakes his head. “No way; far too soon for that. I’m moving into Brian’s old office; it’s been empty since he left.” Then he adds, “This has been a rather difficult time for the company.”

If he’s having trouble coping with the difficult time, he’s hiding it well. Having chitchatted long enough, I ask Yates if he has any theory as to who might have killed Gerry Wright.

He shakes his head. “No idea. But I do have a theory about who didn’t do it. And that would be Brian Atkins.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I know Brian, and I simply don’t think him capable of that.”

“But you thought him capable of embezzlement?” I ask.

“Where did you get that idea?”

“You testified against him at trial.”

He reacts and leans forward; I seem to have struck a nerve. “Did you read the transcript?”

“I did.”

“Then you should know that all I did was recite the evidence, the unauthorized transfer of money out of the company and into private accounts maintained by Brian.”

“You don’t view that as testifying against him?” I ask.

“No. They used me to insert the evidence. I simply stated what happened. They never asked my opinion as to who was responsible, and I never gave it.”

“What was your opinion?”

“That someone defrauded the company. Either Brian, which I doubt, or someone intent on making it look like Brian was guilty. I have no idea who, and at this point it doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Did you think it could have been Gerry Wright?”

“Mr. Carpenter, what I do is come to work and do my job. Every day. One day at a time.”

Brian had told me that Yates was the money guy, and that the head of the technology division, Jason Mathers, was the guy to talk to about the core product of the company.

“I’d like to speak to Jason Mathers. Is he in today?”

“He was,” Yates said. “But he isn’t now.”

“Will he be here tomorrow?”

Yates shakes his head. “It would be surprising if he was. He resigned this morning.”

“Why?”

“He said it was to pursue other opportunities. And he will certainly have those. He is a technology genius.”

“Why do you think he left?”

“I think he was disappointed that the board chose me to be the interim CEO. I think he felt it meant he would not ultimately get the job.”

Brian had predicted this would happen; he said Yates was far better at internal politics than Mathers. “Are you going to get it?” I ask.

He smiles. “I certainly hope so.”

Joseph Westman didn’t have to tell anyone he was leaving early. It wasn’t a coincidence that he worked for a hedge fund called the Westman Group. He had founded it and built it from infancy into a thriving operation, managing over six billion dollars in assets.

At sixty-two, Westman did not work the kind of hours he used to put in. He no longer got in at five thirty in the morning, not leaving until eight o’clock. There was no need for that anymore; he had an experienced, highly competent management team under him. The truth is the place could run quite well without him, though it was Westman’s prestige that was vital for bringing in new investments.

It’s not that Joseph was not busy; there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. He was on three boards of directors and was one of Manhattan’s leading philanthropists. In fact, he had just announced a hospital donation that would result in a building to be named after his wife, Linda. Linda had survived a battle with cancer three years earlier and rightfully credited the doctors and hospital with saving her life.

So there was no need to tell anyone he was leaving early, either in the office or at home. His two kids were grown and successful in their own right, though they had obviously benefited from family wealth and prominence.

But they were good kids, worked hard, and succeeded in their chosen professions, medicine and the law. Certainly no one had ever said of them what Ann Richards had famously said of George W. Bush. Joseph Westman’s kids were not born on third base, thinking they had hit a triple.

Westman always drove to work. It was certainly not out of necessity; in addition to public transportation, he obviously could have afforded a driver. He just liked the feel of being behind the wheel of his Porsche.

On this afternoon, Westman got into his car, pulled out of his private parking space, and headed north. But instead of going to his apartment on Central Park West, he drove farther west and got onto the Westside Highway. Then he continued north until he entered the Saw Mill River Parkway, taking it well out of the city.

His destination was Elmsford, a particular spot along the road that he had scouted out before, around the time the idea had first occurred to him. For a while, he thought he would never go through with it, but it became more real as time went on.

And, finally, it became necessary.

The area along the road was tree lined, a peaceful and serene setting that Joseph considered among the most beautiful he had been to. Some of those trees were majestic, and were in place long before anyone had ever imagined such a thing as cars driving by them. Westman sometimes wondered how many had been erased to make room for the road; he was glad he was not around to see it happen.

There was almost no traffic at that time, as Joseph knew there would not be. He was able to go at whatever speed he wanted, and he gunned the Porsche up to almost ninety miles per hour. He didn’t see any police around, but it was the last thing he would have worried about if he did.

Up ahead, the two trees that he had watched all these years stood along the road, even sturdier and more powerful than their neighbors. Joseph Westman pressed his foot farther down on the gas pedal and slammed into them head-on.

In the split second before he died, he prayed the trees would not be damaged permanently, but if they were, they would have died for a good cause.

Finally, at long last, they had brought Joseph Westman peace.

“The first discovery documents are here,” says Hike, calling from the office. “How do they look?” I ask.

“They look like they’re still in the carton,” he says. “They just got here.”

“Okay, I’ll be down within the hour. Maybe you should open the carton.”

“We got a knife or something? It’s taped up pretty good.”

“Ask Edna.”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning. You think Edna’s here?”

“I think there’s a letter opener in her top drawer; it’s pretty sharp.”

“I could cut myself and bleed to death in here before Edna shows up.”

“That’s always a possibility, Hike, but look at the bright side. You’d miss the alien invasion.”

I put leashes on Tara and Sebastian to take them for their walk, and as we’re heading out the door, Willie Miller pulls up. He’s got Boomer with him. “You going for a walk?” Willie asks.

“What tipped you off?”

He doesn’t bother to answer the snide comment, but instead just starts to walk along with us. Boomer, Tara, and Sebastian all seem fine together.

“He’s a great dog,” Willie says, referring to Boomer.

I nod. “Sure is.” I know exactly where this is going.

It goes there immediately. “I’m thinking, maybe Sondra and I will keep him until Brian gets out. You know, because of how much he loves him.”

I shake my head. “Not a good idea, Willie. It’s a nice thought, but a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not getting out anytime soon. He has to serve the rest of his sentence, then more time for the escape. And if we lose at trial on the murder counts, he’s never getting out.”

“You’ll win,” Willie says, at once overrating my talents and our chances.

“Maybe, more likely not. But it doesn’t matter; he’s still in prison for a long time.”

“So we should place him?”

“Definitely. Otherwise it’s not fair to him; he should get in a permanent home right away.”

“Okay,” he says. “I hear you.”

“Good. You know I’m not going to be at the foundation much, right? I’m sorry about it.” Whenever I’m on a case, the burden of dealing with the dogs always falls on Willie and Sondra, and I always feel guilty about it.

“That’s cool,” Willie says. “We’re on it.” The next time Willie complains about my not doing my share will be the first.

I cut the walk a little shorter than usual, because I’m anxious to get down to the office. I’m also dreading getting there, and not just because Hike is waiting for me. The discovery documents we’ve received will begin to lay out the prosecution’s case against Brian. I want to see if there is other bad news in there, in addition to the very bad news we already know about.

When I arrive, Hike is immersed in the documents. In addition to being a very depressing individual to be around, Hike is also a brilliant attorney. He can inhale information and process it in a logical order, which is what he’s doing now.

“How does it look?” I ask.

“Depends whose side you’re on.”

“Let’s start with our side.”

“Oh. Then awful. If we take this to trial instead of pleading it out, we should be disbarred.”

“Our client doesn’t want to plead it out. He’d spend the rest of his life in prison.”

Hike shrugs. “Whatever.”

Hike takes me through what he’s learned so far, although we’re just scratching the surface. The actual facts are not as bad as his assessment, which is usually the case. There isn’t much more than what we already know, just some additional witnesses who will say that Brian hated Gerry and blamed him for everything.

That’s the good news, and the other good news is that Dominic Petrone is not mentioned anywhere. We’re going to have to find an alternative bad guy to present to the jury, and for self-preservation reasons I’m hoping that it’s not Dominic Petrone.

The bad news is that what we already knew they had is more than devastating enough to convict Brian six or seven times over.

Dominic Petrone had no trouble getting a dinner reservation at Enzo’s. It’s not because he had a regular table, or because he owned that table, or because he owned the entire restaurant. All of that helped, but ultimately wouldn’t matter. No maître d’ in his or her right mind would ever say, “Sorry, Mr. Petrone, we’re booked up. Perhaps you’d like to come another night? Or try and grab a seat at the bar?”

The food at Enzo’s is extraordinary; there are only six entrées on the menu, but each one is as good as could be found anywhere. Of course, sometimes Petrone wanted something that wasn’t on the menu, a request that was always greeted with a “certainly, Mr. Petrone.”