Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (13 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

An hour later Freddie parked in a spot on the north side of Fifty-third, around the corner from the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue. Buck McConnell was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at an energy conference for Wall Street analysts and money managers at the hotel.

“I’m going to want the whole shebang on this,” I said. “The works. Lights blazing. Cameras rolling.”

“The full in-your-face thing?”

“Yes.”

“I call that the Intimidation Package,” he said.

“That’s what I’m paying for.”

“Like I been paid. I got nada. Nothing,” he said.

“Not true, you get to work with a TV personality.”

“Like I said, I got zip.”

We sat for a moment, and I went over my notes, checking the pictures and making sure I had a game plan.

“When we’re inside, maybe we can ask someone if they know who shot my Jeep,” Freddie said.

“Not sure that would be prudent.”

“You shoot my car, you pay,” he said.

“I didn’t shoot your car.”

“You know what I mean. Someone pinged me pretty good.”

“You did a masterful job of driving,” I said.

“Don’t be trying to change the subject.”

“Calm, collected, and in control.”

“Someone’s got to pay for the hole in my hood,” he said.

“You were steely and steady. Steady and steely.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do? Go to Allstate and say someone shot my car?”

“Only if Allstate is your carrier.”

We got out and went around to the back of the Jeep to get the gear.

“So, after you piss ’em off, then what?” Freddie asked.

“Good question.”

“But no answer.”

“Not yet, at least.”

“Maybe get your ass fired,” he said.

“Just think of all the free time I’ll have to spend with you.”

He closed the back, and we started down the street toward Seventh.

“You ready for this guy?”

“The question is, is he ready for me?”

“Oh, brother,” Freddie said.

The sidewalk outside the Sheraton was busy with tourists, clustered in little groups and trying to decide whether to walk in the heat or take a cab.

We went inside, cut through the crowd, and walked all the way to the back to the escalator up to the second floor and the ballrooms. We stepped off into a mostly empty and quiet foyer area. The doors to the ballrooms were closed, and there were a few long desks set up for the event’s registration. They were manned by bored-looking PR types, all busy texting and talking.

Everyone perked up as we approached, and they perked up even more as we blew past their tables and ignored their calls of “Hello, may I help you?”

Freddie had the camera on his shoulder, and the two of us looked like we were about to breach security and walk straight into the inner sanctum of the ballroom, where very important people were discussing very important things.

A young woman in a tight dress raced toward me from my left. “Hello … hello … may I help you?”

A slick guy in a suit closed in on us from the right. “Whoa, whoa.”

This was a major offensive by the enemy, a flat-out code red. We had caught them flatfooted, and they were scrambling to recover.

I had just gotten a hand on the hardware of the ballroom door when the young gal caught up with us and tried to block me from opening it.

“I’m sorry, cameras aren’t allowed inside,” she said.

“I’m here to see Buck McConnell. He’s expecting us,” I said.

It was a good-size lie right off the bat, and it occurred to me this was no way to start a relationship. She gave me one of those skeptical looks young professionals who deal with the press are trained to deliver.

“And you are?” she said.

“Oh, that hurts,” Freddie said from behind me.

I handed her my Liberty News ID and a business card as more of her peers came over, silently multiplying, as if they had been beamed in as backup.

The girl looked at me, then Freddie. He winked at her, and she blushed as she handed my ID back.

“There are no cameras allowed inside,” Tight Dress said.

“Are you even registered for this event?” Slick asked from the other side.

At the far end of the lobby to my right a ballroom door was flung open and out charged a middle-aged man. Tight Dress and Slick seemed relieved. The general was on his way.

He was bald and dressed in a suit and was charging hard toward us, like he had a rocket attached to his ass. If I had to bet, I’d say this was Stuart Ripley. He had probably been alerted by one of the minions that all hell was breaking loose.

He sped toward us with a phone in one hand and a manila folder in the other. Freddie had the camera on his shoulder, the light on top blazing and recorded the guy as he steamed our way.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he yelled in a dramatic tone as he closed in on us.

“Yes, you can ask your underlings to step out of the way and stop hassling me and my cameraman,” I said.

He came right up to me and stood in my face, leaving me no personal space. It was play 101 from the PR handbook. Try to intimidate the pushy reporter. I inched toward him so our noses were almost touching.

He glared at me, and I looked back at him for an uncomfortable moment.

“We’re going to have to dance or kiss, chief. What’s it going to be,” I said.

He had a round little face that went from red to crimson. He was not amused.

“May I see some ID?” he demanded.

I handed him my ID and had to step back to make a little space to do so. “I’m here to speak to Buck McConnell,” I said as he stared at it.

“I don’t think so,” he said, handing my ID back.

“I do think so. He’s expecting us.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, I set it up with Stuart Ripley, his PR guy,” I said.

That was my first lie to Stuart, and I felt kind of bad about it. And as I expected, he assumed a look of smugness, as if it were the greatest thing that he had caught me in a lie.

“Oh, really?” he asked again.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I’m Stuart Ripley,” he said.

I stuck out my hand. “Stu, nice to meet you. Sam North, Liberty News.”

He shook my hand more out of habit than desire. “You didn’t set anything up,” he said.

“You don’t remember?” I asked.

He was shaking his head in a very disappointed schoolteacher sort of way. “Nice try,” he said.

“If you say so.”

“You can leave now,” he said.

“Sure, after I speak with Buck.”

“Mr. McConnell is not available,” he said.

“But he will be, right? After he gives his little speech inside?”

“No. Wrong. And just so you understand, we as a matter of policy do not speak to, or engage with, anyone from Liberty News,” he said.

“Oh, geez, that is too bad. See, I’ve taken over some of Jack Steele’s stories, and I have all this great stuff on IT&E.”

“That’s nice.”

“And I need to get some reaction from Buck on a few things I’ve dug up,” I said.

“As I said, Mr. McConnell is not available,” Ripley said.

“Then how am I going to get his reaction to this?” I asked, opening up my folder and flipping through the pictures of Billy Hunter. I came to the one of Hunter and the Nigerian middleman and held it up for Ripley to see.

He went to take it, and I pulled it back.

“Whoa, we don’t grab,” I said.

“I wasn’t grabbing.”

“This is the only copy I have. Something happens to it and I’m out of luck.”

The PR minions had edged closer, eager to get a look at Exhibit A.

I held on to it and turned it around so Ripley could see it. The minions assembled around him to study it.

“I have no idea who these people are, or what this is about,” Ripley said.

“Let me help you out, Stu. That big guy there? He’s a coworker of yours. Billy Hunter.”

“IT&E has more than ninety-thousand employees in the U.S. and around the world, Mr. North.”

“But Hunter is the only one I’m asking about.”

“You do have a point to all this, I assume,” he said.

“Hunter’s official title is senior VP of international market research and expansion,” I said.

“I don’t know about that.”

“But that’s an awful lot to fit on a business card, so I’d like to suggest … bagman.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow,” Ripley said.

“Hunter is one of your guys who makes payoffs to overseas governments. Also called bribes. How’s that? That clear things up for you?”

“No, not particularly.”

“He’s freaking IT&E’s Santa Claus overseas, except no one has to sit on his lap to get what they want.”

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“That guy with him in the picture? That’s some lackey for the Nigerian government. That bag in Hunter’s hand? The one he’s about to hand to the other guy? That’s filled with cash. Cold, hard naira. That’s Nigerian money, Stu,” I said.

He stared hard at the picture as I made it clear.

“Your guy Hunter is paying off a representative of the Nigerian government. And I got the picture to prove it,” I said.

Ripley shuddered, stepped back, and took on a more detached, formal tone. “I’m sorry, but I will have to look into this and get back to you,” he said.

“Hah,” I said, loud enough to startle the minions. “Isn’t that precious?
Now
you want some time to look into it.” I flipped though my folder while I continued to speak.

“And maybe while you’re at it you can check this baby out as well,” I said, holding up the shot of Hunter and the guy in the Middle Eastern dress. “Maybe tell us what country he’s with and why the hell Hunter is handing him that shopping bag full of cash.”

Ripley was flustered, trying to play defense as best he could. “As I said, I will look into it,” he said.

“Geez, no wonder your stuff ends up in terrorist hands when you have a loose cannon like Hunter running around handing out bags of money,” I said.

Ripley looked like a pipe had just burst in his head. His eyes narrowed, and the crimson returned to his skin; he sputtered as he spoke. “We … we do not …”

“It’s Payoffs ‘R’ Us, Stu. That’s what you should call Hunter’s unit. Bribes for contracts, how do you respond to that?”

On cue, Freddie stepped in closer than was necessary and just about jammed the camera in Ripley’s face. Ripley reached up to push it away.

“Turn that off,” he yelled.

Freddie smacked his hand aside with a violent shove. “Don’t touch the fucking camera unless you want your arm broken,” he said.

Ripley pulled his hand away and stepped back. We had him on the ropes, and Freddie handed me the handheld mic he had been carrying. I stepped forward and jammed it under Ripley’s chin.

“What is IT&E’s response to these photos that clearly show an IT&E employee engaged in bribery with representatives of foreign governments, some of which are hostile to the United States?” I asked.

Ripley managed to look both terrified and enraged, like he was being attacked and couldn’t figure a way out.

At the far end of the foyer one of Ripley’s PR peons was racing over with a guy in a suit. He had to be security, either the Sheraton’s or IT&E’s.

But it was okay, I had only one more grenade to toss. I made sure the mic was right at Ripley’s thin lips and let it go.

“I’ll ask you again,” I said, much louder than necessary, “why has Buck McConnell authorized the use of bribery to win contracts from foreign governments, some of which are unstable and not friendly to the United States?”

Ripley’s little face was all rage and he stammered, “We … he … Mr. McConnell has not authorized—”

“So the CEO of IT&E has no idea bribery is being used by his people?” I asked.

Ripley seemed to shut down. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He tried again and still nothing.

It was like watching a dog trying to catch flies.

A big hand came in from the side, landed on my wrist, and pulled the mic back.

“That’s all,” the security guy said.

“I need a response from Buck McConnell, Stu. I need it now, or I go on TV this afternoon and show off these pictures,” I said.

“I … I …” Ripley was staggered.

I handed him a business card, which he took without thinking. “You have one hour, Stu. Then I’m on. Live. Pictures and all.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was forty-five minutes later when the call from Ripley came. I finished with him and turned to Freddie.

“Guess where we’re going?”

“Penthouse,” Freddie said.

“Presidential suite.”

“First step to being president, rent the suite.”

“Twenty-first floor. Let’s go rattle the cage,” I said.

Less than ten minutes later we stepped into the living room of the presidential suite. A beefy security guard greeted us as the door, and I half expected to be frisked.

“I’m feeling very unwelcome,” I said to Freddie.

“Poor interpersonal skills on our host’s part,” he said.

There was a matching security guard in what looked to be the same navy suit sitting at a little round table in the far corner of the room next to the windows that looked south toward Times Square.

“Look, bookends,” I said.

Ripley appeared from a hallway to my right.

“Mr. McConnell is in the other room on a call. He’ll speak to you when he’s free,” he said.

“Good, because if he’s going to be expensive, I don’t think I can afford it,” I said.

Ripley stared at me like he was new to the language.

Freddie shook his head and took a seat on a couch. “Man, humor is supposed to break the tension, not increase it,” he said.

It was just the five of us in the big room, and it was tense. The kind of tense PR types get when the big boss is around and not happy and somehow it’s their fault.

“There are some ground rules we need to go over,” Ripley said.

“It’s a double if a fan reaches over and touches a ball in play, right?”

Freddie snorted a half laugh from the couch. Ripley failed again to see the humor in my words.

Ripley glanced at Freddie. “No camera when you go to talk to Mr. McConnell.”

“What?” I said.

“Just you and pen and pad. That’s the best we can do.”

I waved my folder with the pictures. “And this is the best I can do,” I said. “I should just go on the air with these and say you wouldn’t comment.”

Ripley said nothing, but it was fine. I hadn’t expected to get McConnell on camera, and it wasn’t really all that important. My push back was more for effect and to give Ripley a hard time.

“Like I said, that’s the best I could do,” Ripley said.

I looked over at Freddie, who had helped himself to an apple from the fruit bowl on the table.

“It’s okay. I can stay out here and discuss staring techniques with these two,” he said, smiling at the security goons.

“And I need to hear and approve exactly how you’re going to characterize Mr. McConnell’s response to your presenting of these photos.”

“You want to know what I’m going to say on air?”

“Yes. I’ll need to approve it.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Ripley’s face reddened. Not the crimson from downstairs, just a few shades of medium red as he worked himself up for another battle. “Then we have no agreement, and we have no interview with Mr. McConnell,” he said.

I waved my folder again and was starting to like doing it. It was a nice prop to have, and it seemed to drive Ripley nuts. “And we have no Buck seeing what I got in here. I’ll just say IT&E refused to comment on the photos.”

I looked over at Freddie. “Come on, trusty cameraman, we’re out of here.”

Freddie put the half-eaten apple on the table, got up, and grabbed his camera.

“Trusty cameraman?” he said. “Hell, that’s what I am now?”

I turned to leave, and Freddie was with me.

“At least you didn’t call me your trusty sidekick,” he said.

“You’re a highly skilled professional. I wanted to convey that,” I said.

Ripley’s voice cackled from behind me. “Okay,” he said. “I can be flexible.”

I turned around smiled. “I knew you would be,” I said.

And I had. There was no way Ripley was going to allow me to walk out the door without McConnell getting a look at the pictures. He had told his boss about them, and they were important enough that McConnell had to see them. Ripley blows this and McConnell would be all over him.

Ripley’s phone rang as we walked back into the main room. Freddie sat down and started in on his apple again; Ripley looked at me and held up a finger like the big moment was here.

He got off the call and pointed to a closed door down a hallway to my right.

“You can go into the back room. Mr. McConnell is waiting for you.”

I exchanged a glance with Freddie and turned and walked down the hall, past a bathroom larger than my first Manhattan apartment, and came to the closed door. It opened into an expansive bedroom with windows that wrapped around the room and you could see the Hudson in the distance and the flatlands of Jersey beyond that.

Standing in the middle of the room was Terrance “Buck” McConnell.

He was slightly taller than me, maybe six two, with the build of an athlete. Lean and in shape. His face was red and weathered, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had to be in his early sixties but didn’t look it. His hair was brown and short and neatly styled.

He was dressed in the gray pants of a suit, with a white shirt and a red-and-blue-striped tie that was perfectly knotted. Even his teeth were perfect. Large, white, and square.

He had the appearance of a baby boomer who had it all. Health, looks, and success.

I walked to him and extended a hand. “Sam North,” I said.

“Sam, nice to meet you,” he lied in a businesslike tone.

“You don’t have to pretend to be cordial,” I said while we were still shaking hands.

I felt his grip tighten before we stopped shaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, son,” he said, and you could hear the Texas in his voice.

“In case Stuart hasn’t told you, I’m picking up where Jack Steele left off.”

“Good for you. Let’s hope the weight of being a big TV star doesn’t get to you as well,” he said. “Fame can be a burden, you know.”

“So can reporting on your company,” I said.

“I’m not quite sure I know what you mean,” he said.

His eyes were hard and his face taut. I could see his jaw tightening.

“I got a stack of photos here showing one of your boys running around handing out duffel bags full of cash. Same stuff Jack was going after before fame suddenly became too much for him.”

I opened the folder and leafed through the pictures and handed the first one to him.

“That guy there, the one with the bag, which is full of cash, is Billy Hunter. He’s one of yours. Maybe you two bumped into each other at the holiday party or something.”

He looked up from the picture and gave me the stare again. “Got a pretty flip manner about you, don’t you, boy?”

“From son to boy,” I said. “I hate getting demoted.”

That got me more of the hard stare.

“What I want to know is where Hunter gets his energy from,” I said. “I mean, it’s got to be exhausting running around to these third-world countries handing out millions of dollars in bribes to thugs so IT&E can score contracts.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I showed him the rest of the photos, and he leafed through them as I spoke.

“Is Billy Hunter an IT&E employee?” I asked.

“We got a lot of employees, more than ninety thousand.”

“But not all of them offer bribes, right?”

He handed me back the pictures. “Sorry, but I can’t help you with this,” he said.

“What’s a bribery scandal going to do to your run for the White House, Buck?” I asked.

He stepped closer. “There is no bribery scandal far as I can see,” he said.

“You know what people are going to say: If this is how he runs IT&E, how the hell will he run the country?”

“You need to be real careful here.”

“Hell, if more of this bribery stuff starts showing up on the campaign trail, you don’t make it to the first debate,” I said.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he said. “A real big mistake.”

“And hell, everyone makes it to the first debate,” I said. “There’s, like, ten guys who get invited to that one. I’ll probably get a spot before you do.”

He moved even closer, and I could smell the stale coffee and cigarette on his breath.

“This is probably where you want to stop yourself before you say something that could end your career,” he said.

“Self-control has never been a strong suit.”

“There’s a surprise.” He stared at me and gestured toward the folder I was holding. “Something you may want to know, it might mean something to your photos there,” he said. “Year or so ago a guy—some blogger or Web site guy or something—tries to blackmail us with a picture he says was of one of our employees caught doing something illegal.”

I hesitated, and Buck went for the kill.

“Turns out the idiot had pictures of a guy who was a sub-subcontractor for us trying to pay off some low-level clown of some state in India.”

He had me confused, and he knew it.

“The hot shot overplayed his hand, big-time,” he said. “We went straight to the Feds. Turns out the guy in the picture wasn’t even contracted out to us at the time of the photo. So Mr. Whistleblower had nothing except an attempted extortion charge to show for his efforts.”

“I’m not talking about then, what about this guy?” I said, gesturing with the folder. “What about Billy Hunter?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know a thing about him,” he said. “But I’d be real careful about believing all of the crap that’s said about my company, understand?”

“I only need to believe the part about your boy Hunter and his bribes.”

“I’ll tell you again. You want to be real careful here, son. Real careful.”

“You telling me not to run something?”

“I’m telling you that if you want to play games with me, you damn well better know that you’re right.”