Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

“So does Hunter work for IT&E or not?” Freddie asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “All I know is that McConnell wasn’t fazed by the pictures.”

We were on Seventh Avenue stopped at the light on the corner of Fiftieth Street.

“Grace under pressure,” Freddie said.

“No, it was like he knew what was coming. Ripley prepped him, and he had time to make some calls and sit down and figure out a response.”

I pounded the dashboard with a fist. “Son of a bitch,” I said.

“Hey, hey,” Freddie said, “easy on the car. And the language. I try to run a family car service here.”

“I was sure I had him. But I blew it. Gave him too much damn time to come up with a response.”

“The mouth again. Watch the mouth,” Freddie said.

“Should have played it differently,” I said.

“And maybe check out Herman the blackmailer before taking his word,” he said.

“That could be a problem,” I said.

“Could be?”

“We don’t know if Herman was blackmailing him. We don’t know if anyone was blackmailing him, or IT&E,” I said.

“Made it up to confuse your ass,” he said.

“Possibly, or to slow me down.”

We drove down Seventh, heading into Times Square.

“You ask him why he had someone shoot my car?” Freddie said.

“I forgot.”

“Always thinking of yourself.”

“Plus, we don’t know it was him,” I said.

“What the hell do we know at this point?” he asked.

“We know that Steele died a couple of weeks ago. We know he was chasing this story on IT&E. We know he was supposed to meet Herman Bindagi, but Herman got nervous and canceled. We know that IT&E was aware of Jack’s desire to nail them. We know that as soon as I picked up the ball and started asking people about what was going on in Jack’s life, someone got worried. We know the guy who told me to back off gets paid by IT&E,” I said.

“Don’t forget the car,” he said.

“Yes, we know someone shot your car.”

“Makes it sound like the car was the intended target.”

“Okay, we know that, thanks to your skillful, evasive driving skills, someone shot your Grand Cherokee when otherwise it could have been you or me. How’s that?” I asked.

“Much better.”

We stopped at the light at Forty-sixth, and a sea of people crossed in front of us.

“He was calm and cool and scripted when I showed him the pictures. He handed them back and just flat-out said he had no idea about any of it. It was like the pictures of one his employees handing out bribes didn’t even bother him,” I said.

“Maybe wasn’t one of his employees,” he said.

“I thought of that. But I checked Hunter out as best I could. He works there. Or worked there, at least.”

“Then maybe wasn’t bribes he was handing out.”

“Yes, it was probably tips, for jobs well done. Or maybe they were bonuses.”

“Never know.”

We were moving again, slowly, through Times Square.

“Only time McConnell came close to losing control was when I got in his face and said it was a good story. Said if he ran for president and this came out, people would question whether he should be running the country. That really pissed him off.”

“Tweak me off, too, you come into my presidential suite and start pissing on my presidential dreams,” Freddie said.

“So he handles the question about the pictures easily, but gets nasty when I bring up the idea of this hurting a possible presidential bid. What does all this tell us?”

“That you can be annoying?”

“Keep in mind that you are easily replaceable. Lots of shooters looking for wonderful freelance opportunities like this,” I said.

“Not like fortysomething male reporters are in short supply, either,” he said.

We were stuck in traffic at the light at Forty-second now. To my right a couple of cops on horseback were in the street in front of the Reuters Building, talking to the tourists and posing for pictures.

“This tells me you need a hell of lot more if you want to bust Buck McConnell,” Freddie said.

“Yes, it does. But there has to be something we’re missing here,” I said.

“Maybe old Buck was expecting something a lot worse,” he said.

Traffic opened up a bit, and we cruised down Seventh toward Madison Square Garden.

I looked over at Freddie and said, “You may be onto something.”

“Don’t need to sound so surprised,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Susan’s desk outside Daniels’s office was empty. The gatekeeper had been given a reprieve for the night, or so I thought.

“Don’t even think of trying to go in there without going through me,” she said from behind me.

I turned to see her approaching with a coffee mug.

“Don’t you ever go home?” I asked.

“No. Not until the boss man dismisses me,” she said.

I looked at the mug.

“Green tea,” she said. “He’s concerned about his health all of a sudden.”

“It’s stressful being the king.”

“Please tell me you came over to shoot the breeze with me, you good-looking pain in the ass.”

“If only.”

“Damn. I knew it. It’s always Cal, Cal, Cal with everyone. I’m just the pretty face at the door.”

“Eye candy, as they say in the biz,” I said.

It was almost seven, and I was delivering on a promise to Daniels. I was to fill him in on what happened with McConnell.

“What do I have to do to get an audience?” I asked.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she said.

She winked, went to the door, and poked her head in.

“Prince Charming is here, shall I send him in?” She turned back to me and said, “Enter at your own risk.”

I walked in, and Daniels was staring at the wall of monitors, watching Liberty and all the cable competition.

“I saw McConnell,” I said as I sat down.

“I know.”

“He dismissed the photos.”

Daniels eyes finally left the TVs and landed on me.

“I got a call,” he said, taking a drink of his green tea.

The evening sky in the windows behind him was a brown haze, one of those unhealthy mixes of humidity and stagnant air.

“From McConnell?” I asked.

“No.”

“Ripley?”

He shook his head.

“How many more guesses do I get?” I asked.

“Try the Feds,” he said.

“My tax dollars at work.”

“I wish I could have a sense of humor about it,” he said.

“What’d they want?”

He sat back and glanced at the TVs. One of our junior flamethrowers, a Jack Steele in training, was opening his show. Rick Applebaum was no more than forty and well on his way to cable-news stardom, or at least he thought so. He had the thick, it-might-be-fake it-might-be-real hair and a very strong sense of self-importance. Both were big pluses in the business.

Daniels looked back at me. “Where are the pictures?” he asked.

“I have them.”

“Yes, I assumed as much. Where?”

“Why?”

“How about, being that I’m your boss, you answer my question.” he said. He was sitting forward now, leaning over the desk.

“I’m a little nervous.”

“You should be,” he said.

“Why do you want the pictures?”

He gave me the stare that was essentially asking me to reconsider my answer and save myself. It was a nice gesture, but one I ignored.

“Cal, I have only one copy of these things. As far as I know they are the only copies, at least according to my source.”

“Your source is a goddamned extortionist,” he yelled.

“One, we don’t know that for sure. And two, he’d probably prefer entrepreneur.”

Daniels took a slug of green tea, looked at me, and shook his head. “You got some balls. I want those pictures in here,” he said, taping his desk, “on this desk, in thirty minutes.”

The pictures were resting securely in a locked drawer in my desk downstairs in the newsroom.

“Why do you need them?” I asked.

“Because I do.”

“You want to turn them over to the Feds?”

“I do,” he said.

“Then I’m not giving them up,” I said.

“Then they’ll issue a subpoena for them. Following that, I’ll fire you.”

“I dug to find them. I get to keep them. If the Feds were so vigilant and so concerned, how come they didn’t find them?”

He said nothing for a few moments, and I used the time to come up with some semblance of a game plan.

“Give me a day to verify them. If I do, I get to go on the air with the story. If I don’t, I hand them to you, and you give them to the Feds.”

“You’re mistaking this for a negotiation; it’s not. I issued you an order,” he said.

“And I defied it.”

“You realize I can throw your ass out the door right now and have you escorted from the building for good,” he said.

“I do. But you won’t.”

“No?”

“I’ll take the photos and walk into CNBC, CNN, or some other newsroom, and they’ll be on the air in a few hours.”

He sipped his tea and looked at me with a face that was flushed red but gave no hint of emotion. After a few seconds he was ready.

“Here is my one and only offer,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours from right now, seven ten p.m., to verify that yes, the guy in the pictures is or was an IT&E employee.”

I was about to speak but he kept going.

“With an admission that yes, he was bribing some foreign official on behalf of IT&E,” he said.

“I can live with that,” I said.

“You get to go on the air, use the photos, and break the story,” he said.

“So long as we agree that I give you the pictures only after I’m off the air,” I said.

“And if you don’t pin it down by this time tomorrow night, you hand me the photos,” he said.

“I’ll confirm it,” I said.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Let me introduce you to William S. Hunter, better known as Billy,” Rinaldi said, sliding a sheet of paper across a desk in a dreary, gray office in the back of the Thirteenth Precinct. It was nine thirty Wednesday morning. I now had about nine and a half hours left to verify Hunter and confirm the bribe photos.

“Last known address 137 Ridgeview Lane, New Paltz, New York,” Rinaldi said.

“And you’re sure this is the Billy Hunter I’m looking for?” I asked.

“You forget I do this for a living,” Rinaldi said, gesturing to the gunmetal-gray desk and battered gray filing cabinets along the wall. “Or you think maybe I just like to come in here to take advantage of the luxurious office space?”

“What’s a world traveler doing in a little upstate college town?”

“Tending bar, apparently,” he said. “He’s lived all over: Tucson … Austin, Texas. Was born in Newburgh, New York, so maybe this is his idea of returning home to settle down.”

“Maybe his work is done for IT&E,” I said.

I looked at the sheet and saw the line for present employment. P&G’s, Main Street, New Paltz, New York. “How long has he been back in the good old U. S. of A.?”

“Passport hasn’t been stamped since April. Looks like he came home then and hasn’t left since. Maybe he’s pursuing a degree at that fine academic institution up there,” he said.

“Yes, international studies,” I said.

“You going to tell me why you need this information now?” he asked.

“Can’t. It’s top secret. Part of a special investigative series,” I said.

“I see. Is it anything the authorities should be aware of?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Why don’t I believe any of this?”

“Because you’ve known me for thirty-some-odd years?”

“Yes, that’s it,” he said. “You’ve never been a good liar.”

“I’ll try to improve.”

“You’ll keep me informed if this gets a little tricky?” he asked.

“I will,” I said.

“Is this little investigation a solo effort?”

“No, I have a very competent and able cameraman, enforcer, and a regular man-about-town looking after me.”

“That makes me feel better.”

“Me, too.”

Forty-five minutes later Freddie and I were driving up the New York State Thruway.

“What if we can’t find Billy?” he asked.

“Must you always be the pessimist?”

“Long way to go for me to shoot an empty house,” he said.

“You can go walk the campus, see if any of the summer students think you’re a professor.”

“Professor Freddie,” he said. “Maybe meet a cute co-ed.”

“Tell her about your class. Introduction to BS.”

“I also teach the advanced BS course,” he said.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Okay, so let’s say Billy’s around,” he said.

“That’s my hope.”

“You think he’s gonna say, ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll go on camera and tell you everything’?”

“A man can dream, can’t he?” I asked.

Freddie shook his head. “Absolutely no clue,” he muttered.

“Don’t take away my dream,” I said.

“Pathetic,” he said.

We took the exit for New Paltz and wound down Main Street into town. P&G’s had the look and feel of a college bar. It was nestled on a corner of Main Street, which wound downhill with little stores, a bakery, and other bars lining both sides. The area had the funky, progressive feel of a college town and was framed against the backdrop of the Shawangunk Mountains off in the distance.

It was noon when we walked in and took two seats at the bar. And there at the end of the bar, counting cash, was our very own Billy Hunter.

“Appropriate,” Freddie said when he spotted Hunter with the money.

“At home anywhere there’s cash, apparently,” I said.

Hunter was oblivious to his two new customers and went on counting the cash drawer. Only when he was done did he look up and spot us. He made his way down the bar and tossed two coasters in front of us.

“Drink, guys?” he asked.

I ordered a glass of something called New Paltz Crimson Lager brewed by Gilded Otter while Freddie ordered a bottle of Heineken. I waited for Hunter to go down to the other end of the bar to pour my beer, then opened my folder and selected a copy of the shot of Hunter and the guy in the Middle Eastern attire.

I put the photo on the bar between Freddie and me.

“Here goes,” I said.

“Pin out of grenade. Grenade tossed,” Freddie said.

We watched Hunter make his way back to us with a drink in each hand. He was putting them on the old wooden bar when he froze, my glass an inch off the surface of the bar. It was like someone had unplugged him for a moment; he just stood there staring at the shot.

After a long moment he placed the drinks on the bar and glared at me. “What the fuck is this?”

“Whaaaaat?” I said. “What are ya talking about, Billy?”

He snatched the picture, examined it, then peered at me.

“No way you two are cops,” he said.

“Obviously not a viewer,” Freddie said.

I extended a hand across the bar, but Billy didn’t shake it.

“Sam North, with Liberty News. This here is Freddie. You don’t need to know his last name. Heck, I’m not even sure he has one,” I said.

Hunter flipped the picture back on the bar like it was a coaster and glanced down to where an older guy sat reading the paper and drinking from a coffee mug. His gaze then shifted past us and out into the dining room and toward the windows and door that looked out onto Main Street.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” he asked.

“I was hoping you could do the same,” I said.

I sampled my lager. It was clean and refreshing and quite good for a local brew.

“You need to tell me where you got this,” he said, leaning over the bar and trying to be intimidating.

He was a pretty big guy, and the intimidation thing seemed to come easily to him. I had some more of the lager, savored it for a second, then put the glass down.

“So worldly, yet so naive,” I said.

Freddie chuckled and looked straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar. Hunter stared at me like he wanted to come across the bar and hit me, maybe more than once.

“Billy, you were handing a foreign government official a sack of cash,” I said. “We got a shot of it and are about to air it live, on national TV. Billy Hunter, bagman for Buck McConnell and IT&E. And you’re copping an attitude with me?”

His face tightened up, and I assumed this was where he’d punch someone causing trouble for him about his past.

“Look,” I said. “You’ve been overseas so much, immersed in different cultures, so you’re probably a little rusty on how this works here in the U.S.”

That got another snicker from Freddie as he took a pull on his beer.

“See, I have pictures of you breaking U.S. laws,” I said. “I happen to be a TV reporter, which means I go on TV and say things. Later today, I am going to go on national TV and say Billy Hunter was delivering bribes for Buck McConnell, the CEO of IT&E.”

“I’ll sue your ass,” he said.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Sue you until you have nothing left,” he said.

“Don’t have too far to go,” Freddie said.

I shot him a glance. “Thanks, friend.”

“Ain’t no friend,” he said.

“Apparently,” I said, “but let’s not bicker in front of our new bud Billy.”

I turned back to Hunter and heard the door open behind me. Hunter’s eyes scanned the new arrivals then came back to me.

“What I need, Billy, is a yes or no from you.”

“You ain’t getting shit.”

“Let me try this again,” I said. “I have photos—plural—of you delivering money in big sacks. Hell, I even know the story of the car stuffed with cash, so I got you dead to rights. Now, the question is, were you authorized to do all this by Buck McConnell?”

“Like I talk to the CEO,” he said.

I looked at Freddie, who was turned around in his seat and looking at the two young women who had taken a table out in the dining room.

“Am I not being clear?” I asked Freddie.

“About what?”

“Never mind. Billy, I probably should tell you that the Feds want the photos now,” I said and watched his face for reaction.

There was a hint of tension, but not a lot.

“I’ll just deny everything,” he said.

“So, what, that’s a body double or something in the picture?”

He hesitated, knowing he had no leverage.

He stood up straight, took a moment, and looked at me. He was used to dealing with thugs and local customs, and now he was using those skills to get a handle on what his options were. I knew he didn’t have any. That dawned on him a few second later.

“What do you want?” he asked.