Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“We got company,” Freddie said.

I looked out the window. We were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic at the toll plaza for the GWB.

“Being that we’re surrounded by hundreds of cars, I think that may go without saying,” I said.

“Being that it’s not me they have a beef with, maybe I just kick your ass out the Jeep and let you fend for yourself in the dark out here,” he said.

“That’s not part of our agreement,” I said.

“Might be time to rework the agreement,” he said.

I looked in the side-view mirror and saw a sea of cars behind us, all jockeying and squeezing down into the lanes for E-ZPass and cash.

“Black Mercedes,” he said. “Five cars back now. Getting a little panicky about staying
with us.”

I spotted the car in the mirror. It was a dark model, probably black. In the lights of the toll plaza that was all I could tell about it. The car was angled and trying to get into our lane.

“Think it’s your new best friend, Bulger,” he said.

“I thought you were my new best friend,” I said.

“Crap, only thing wrong with that sentence is the word
friend
,” he said.

“That hurt.”

“Might as well take
best
out of there while you’re at it. You’re getting to be too high maintenance to be a friend of any kind. People chasing you, trying to beat you up. Probably even shoot your ass eventually.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful.”

I looked in the side-view mirror and spotted the headlights and grille a few cars back.

“Was he with us at Herman’s?” I asked.

“Nope, not that I saw at least. I kept a pretty good watch while you were inside.”

“Where’d you pick him up?”

“Few miles back. Saw him keeping pace with us, then closing the gap as we got closer to the bridge. He came even with us at one point, then dropped back. Probably wants to make sure he’s with us when we cross.”

“Think he was checking us out?”

“Yup.”

“He could have followed us out from the city,” I said.

“Maybe. But I like to think I would have noticed him.”

“If he did, he knows where we went.”

I thought of Herman Bindagi and made a mental note to call him.

“And if he picked us up when we visited that guy,” Freddie said, “means he was out at the house already, watching the dude.”

We edged closer to the tollbooth where the E-ZPass would be scanned. We were in line to cross on the lower level of the bridge, and it looked like things opened up a bit as soon as you cleared the booths.

“Third possibility,” I said. “Could be just another motorist crossing the bridge in an expensive car.”

“Then why’d he pull even with us and drop back?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were the brains of the operation,” he said.

“No, I got the good looks, remember?”

Freddie shook his head as we crossed through the booth. “One sure way of finding out what he’s up to,” he said.

The roadway onto the lower level sloped downward to the right, and as soon as we crossed through the booth Freddie punched the gas and we jerked forward.

“Let’s see how desperate he is to keep up with us,” he said.

The Cherokee sped ahead, Freddie hitting the gas and steering us into any little space and filling whatever gap opened up for us as we raced across the roadway high above the Hudson.

I turned around and tried to pick up the Mercedes. I saw headlights of a car way back, cutting in and out of traffic.

“Here he comes,” he said.

We sped across the bridge and stayed to the left to exit down the ramps that twisted and curved around and eventually led to the Henry Hudson Parkway. The Jeep hugged the curves and we were going way too fast; it felt like were driving down a corkscrew and in danger of rolling over.

“He still back there?” Freddie asked.

“About six cars back, trying to get closer.”

“Let’s see about that,” he said, nailing the gas once again as we came to the straightaway to merge onto the southbound Henry Hudson. Freddie cut to the left, and someone hit a horn behind us. We merged into traffic and he bumped up the speed.

Out the back windshield I saw a pair of headlights slicing in and out of traffic and cutting from lane to lane and closing in on us.

“How close?” he asked.

“Four cars.”

“Crap.”

“You used to be a good driver,” I said. “What happened?”

“Started hanging around with you. Made me soft,” he said.

We sped south past the big sewage plant that sat overlooking the Hudson with the Mercedes keeping pace behind us. I saw it cut from the center to the right lane to get around a car and then cut back into the center lane.

“Two cars back,” I said.

“He’s really starting to annoy me,” he said. “Making me use a lot of gas.”

“You can put in for it on your expense report,” I said.

“Like I’m being paid.”

Freddie cut to the center lane and hit the gas and we sped through a gap in traffic. We had to be doing close to seventy on a road where traffic averaged forty or fifty on its good days.

“You watching?” he asked.

There was a thud from behind, and the Cherokee lurched forward.

“We’ve been hit,” I said.

“Guess that’d be a no on the watching,” he said.

I turned and saw the headlights of the Mercedes just below the back window.

“I can confirm it’s definitely a Benz. I can see the hood ornament.”

We flew down the stretch where the Hudson was way too close for comfort on our right, separated only by a low guardrail and a bike path. To the left was an uphill embankment separating the northbound side of the road.

I watched out the back as the Mercedes cut to the left lane.

“He’s coming around your side,” I said.

Freddie let off the gas, and the Mercedes flew past us, then slowed to try and draw even.

“What the …” Freddie said.

“Maybe he wants to ask directions,” I said. “Roll down your window.”

We were side-by-side and going sixty-five, speeding toward the exit for the Seventy-ninth Street boar basin.

“Let’s get off,” I said.

Freddie glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Can’t. There’s some clown in the right lane. I can’t get over.”

I looked across Freddie and saw the tinted window of the Mercedes open.

“Oh, no,” I yelled. “Take the exit. Take the exit.”

“What?” Freddie yelled, slamming on the breaks.

A gunshot flashed from the window of the Mercedes.

Chapter Thirty

We were on the second level of the driving range at Chelsea Piers. It was Liz’s idea as a way to avoid going to work on another slow weekday in vacation season. I readily agreed.

I hit a shot with my old driver and watched it sail far and straight for a good one hundred and seventy-five yards. Then it took a sharp right like it had a flight pattern and sailed another forty yards into the netting surrounding the old pier on the Hudson.

“Should at least put your directional on if you’re making a turn like that,” Liz said from the next stall over.

“I was practicing in case I encounter a tricky dogleg,” I said. “Just wait until we get on a course and you’ll see how prepared I am.”

“Remind me to wear a hard hat,” she said.

I stepped back and watched her line up a shot. She was wearing shorts and golf shoes and a T-shirt tucked in. She was lean and lithe, and with a smooth and relaxed stroke she hit a three-wood that sailed straight off toward the river and landed at about the one-hundred-and-fifty-yard marker, then rolled another twenty-five or so.

“Not bad,” I said. “Short, but not bad.”

“Short and on the fairway as opposed to long and deep in the woods,” she said. “I’ll keep playing, and maybe you’ll catch up when you’ve found your ball.”

I watched her take a few more shots. All were hit flush and sailed straight.

“Again, not bad,” I said.

“I know.”

I stuffed my driver back in my bag and went over and sat on the bench that looked out onto the fake fairway and the Hudson. Boats bobbed in a little marina to our left, and a tug pushed a barge upriver. Overhead, helicopters cruised back and forth on sightseeing tours and business runs.

Liz came over and sat next to me and draped her arm across my shoulders. “You never told me how you made out at this newsletter guy’s place in Jersey,” she said.

“He had a ton of stuff on IT&E. Pictures of one of their guys paying off bribes for contracts overseas,” I said.

“The jackpot.”

“Sort of. Shows IT&E is definitely dirty.”

“And we’re assuming that’s the angle Steele was working on?”

“I am.”

“But is that any reason for someone to want him dead?” she asked.

“Funny you should ask.”

I turned, and she was staring right at me.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You have good instincts,” I said.

“You have no idea.”

I looked out at the Hudson and the boats moored next to the driving range and thought about how nice it would be to have one. Maybe cruise down the Hudson and out into New York Bay.

“We were driving back last night after meeting this guy who, by the way, is nutty,” I said.

“Some other time,” she said. “Stay on point.”

“Of course. We were driving back, and Freddie noticed a car following us.”

“And?”

“It followed us across the GW. When we tried to make a run for it, it sped up and stayed with us.”

“Did it follow you home?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said.

“Freddie lost him.”

“Thank God.”

“But not before it took a shot at us.”

There was silence, and I watched a small cabin cruiser make its way up the middle of the Hudson.

“A shot?” Liz asked after a second.

I turned to see her staring at me.

“Like a gunshot? That kind of shot?” she asked.

“It was,” I said.

“And this shot, did it hit anyone or anything?”

“The front of Freddie’s Jeep.”

She exhaled slowly and then rested her head on my shoulder; I felt like the worst had passed, at least for the moment.

“I can stop poking around in this,” I said.

“This car—the one with the person inside who shot at you—did you ever see it before?” she said.

“No. It was a black Mercedes, a sporty model.”

“Was this that guy? That Bulger guy Freddie’s cousin told you about?” she asked.

“One would think so. But I can’t be sure. It was dark; there was no way of getting a license plate or anything.”

“And what happened after it, or he, shot at you?”

“We went flying down the Seventy-ninth Street exit, by the boat basin.”

“Was anyone hurt?” she asked.

“No, just a little shaken up.”

We sat and watched the boat traffic in the Hudson and the helicopter traffic crisscrossing the river.

“What do you do now?” she asked.

“Either give up or go forward.”

“Going forward would mean more danger.”

“It probably would,” I said.

“And giving up would be walking away knowing you’re onto someone and something. Something big.”

“Yes again.”

“Is this the type of danger where you’re going to be looking over your shoulder every time you step outside?” she asked.

“It may be. I was a bit nervous about meeting you, worried someone is watching me and seeing you.”

She shuddered, and I wrapped her in a hug and pulled her closer.

“I can stop all this now,” I said. “I just stop asking questions, and this probably all goes away.”

We were quiet for a few moments. I watched a red tug pushing a barge up the Hudson. After a bit Liz looked up and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t stop asking questions,” she said.

Chapter Thirty-One

Terrance “Buck” McConnell had a reputation as a nasty SOB. He apparently had that special brand of arrogance associated with men who were born into wealth but believed they were responsible for their own success.

IT&E had been founded by Buck’s grandfather as an oil rig company, then expanded by Buck’s dad, Wilson McConnell, into a larger oil services company, snapping up smaller companies that manufactured parts and equipment for the energy business.

The thing grew like a ballplayer on steroids during the go-go eighties and was handed to Buck McConnell to run a decade ago. McConnell promptly became one of America’s outspoken CEOs, with an opinion on everything from manufacturing to energy. At some point he started listening to the nuts who told him he’d make a good president of the United States.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Cal Daniels said, when I told him of my plans to antagonize McConnell.

I was sitting in across the desk from Daniels in his office trying to ignore the look on his face that indicated he thought I had gone mad.

“I didn’t have to tell you my plans,” I said.

“No, but you were smart enough to realize that if you didn’t, and I got a phone call, then I’d kick your ass right out of here. Which I still hold as an option.” Daniels sat back and fiddled with a large, gold golf tee that doubled as a paperweight.

I wanted to pursue IT&E’s Buck McConnell, on the premise that someone at the company, maybe even McConnell, was tied to Jack’s death.

My boss didn’t see the value in that at the moment.

“I thought I made it clear when I said you were embarrassing this network,” he said.

“You did.”

“And now you want to ambush Buck McConnell?”

“
Ambush
is such an ugly word. I prefer confront.”

“I prefer
no
, as in, No, you’re not going to stick a mic in McConnell’s face and question him about some insane conspiracy theory.”

“If I’m wrong, fire me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s my job I’m getting concerned about. I’m starting to get questions about why I can’t control my employees.”

I opened my folder and pulled out a couple of the photos I got from Bindagi and slid them across the desk.

“In case you think I’m crazy,” I said.

“I do.”

“That’s Billy Hunter, an IT&E employee. That thing in his hand is a bag full of cash. He’s handing it to a representative of the Nigerian government. Three weeks later IT&E wins a billion-dollar contract to be the lead on a new energy plant there.”

He put the golf tee down and picked up the pictures and studied them.

“What a coincidence, huh?” I said.

“So what, Buck McConnell is supposed to be able to comment on every one of his employees?” he asked.

“No, just the ones bribing government officials for contracts.”

He flipped through the photos. “And you have others?”

“Yes. Reps of other countries where IT&E does business. Brazil, Senegal. Different countries, same story. Pay cash, get contract.”

“And you got these by going through Jack’s stuff?”

“He didn’t have the pictures.”

“Who did?”

“Some guy who runs a newsletter. He follows graft, bribery, corporate corruption. Jack had been in touch with him about these, but never got them.”

He put the pictures down, sat back, and looked across the desk at me. “Could these”—he nodded at the photos—“be so bad as to drive McConnell, or someone, to kill Jack?”

“I don’t know. The Justice Department is cracking down on this stuff big-time. I’m no executive, but my guess is you don’t want to be the CEO of a company indicted for handing bribes to some shady third-world government figures,” I said.

“Especially if you consider yourself White House material.”

“Hard enough to run for president when your equipment is showing up in Iran,” I said. “Then try dealing with pictures of one of your guys handing bags of cash to third-world thugs.”

“So now you want to ambush McConnell and ask him why he’s paying off thugs to get contracts?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“I let McConnell know someone has picked up where Jack left off. Let’s see what he, they, whoever, at IT&E does next.”

“You want to announce yourself.”

“Every action gets a reaction. Let’s see what this one is.”

“So that’s why you came to me? To tell me you’re going to go provoke Buck McConnell?”

“You’ll probably get an angry phone call.”

He gave me a hard stare. “You damn well better be sure you have something here. This is dangerous territory, Sam.”

“I’m sure.”

“And it’s not some Robbie Steele stupidity?”

“Nope.”

“Let me make this clear, I want you to understand that you are still a long way away, and I mean light-years away, from accusing Buck McConnell of murder. Do I make myself clear on that?” he said.

“All I want to do is start with the corruption allegations, and I’ll work my way from there. See what else crops up once he knows I have hard evidence,” I said.

“It’s one thing to have evidence of bribery,” he said. “It’s another to accuse a CEO of murder.”