Kristmas Collins (7 page)

“But the thing was, who was going to buy a struggling publisher that was headed for bankruptcy? The answer was what it always was for Kerstman Publishing—to go to the Harry Crawford well one last time. And why not? He was the one responsible for that big shiny building in Manhattan. The only problem was that they completely fabricated the story of a Crawford comeback. I’m surprised that Harry never mentioned this to you on the many trips you’ve made to visit him over the last few months.”

Harry Crawford was once one of the biggest selling authors in the world, writing the famed Gin Rumy series. I’d successfully defended him on a charge of growing large quantities of marijuana on his Vermont ranch. And even after he stopped writing, he remained loyal to Kerstman for giving him his first chance, when nobody else would publish him. So he recommended me to Kerstman after his arrest, unaware that Kerstman had lied about his potential return to seduce a buyer into the scam.

And Falcone was right—I still visited Harry, which he knew because he’d been following me. But visiting an old friend was hardly a crime, and what Falcone really wanted to know is what was said in those conversations inside the confines of the ranch. But unfortunately for him, Harry already has enough elves working for him, so it wouldn’t be as easy to get a man on the inside.

Falcone continued, “So Scroggie went to the investment bank he’s worked with all these years. The one that looked past his unscrupulous methods of business—Wainwright & Lennox. And to return the favor for all the money they’d made him over the years, he shared a tip—Diedrich Kerstman was looking to cash in and retire to his home in Sint Eustatius. And Scroggie had inside information that Harry Crawford was ready to sign a five-book deal. Cha-ching.

“Wainwright and Scroggie would partner 50/50, each putting up six hundred million in cash, meant to blow Kerstman away with an offer before word of Crawford’s return got out. It raised a lot of eyebrows in the industry when the struggling publisher sold for 1.2 billion, but Wainwright thought they bought a cash cow that could graze on the manor. Wainwright had no reason to believe Scroggie was setting him up—hell, he was willing to put up over a half a million of his own money.

“Once the money was transferred to Kerstman, he would turn it over to Scroggie. In return, the secret of the stolen employee information would remain hidden, allowing Kerstman to head off to retirement instead of jail. But unfortunately for Alexander Wainwright, all he got for his 600 mil was half of a skeleton company and no Harry Crawford.

“But as we know, Kerstman never handed the cash over. He double-crossed the double-crosser. He liquidated the money, hid it, and turned himself in before Scroggie knew what hit him. He then hired a lawyer he was sure would get him off, and planned for a nice retirement. But when the trial began to go south, Kerstman and his lawyer decided to take matters into their own hands. How’m I doing so far?” he asked with a cocky grin.

“He wasn’t trying to escape. He wanted to go out on his own terms. So I gave him the opportunity … and I paid for it with three years of my life.”

“Like his employees got to go out on their own terms? The ones who had their lives ripped apart!?” He looked like he wanted to toss me out of the cab into oncoming traffic. “I think it was a leverage play by an unscrupulous lawyer who’d proven in the past that he would go to any length to get his clients off. If he was willing to play the cancer card, then he was surely capable of this stunt.”

It was a fact that I used the illness of Harry Crawford’s wife to win sympathy from the jury in his marijuana trial, and it worked. But that had nothing to do with Kerstman. “What kind of leverage could have possibly been gained from him taking off? His flight made him look even guiltier than everyone already thought he was.”

“If Kerstman was able to hide the money, then he could cut a deal. He could offer the return of the money and agree to testify against Scroggie, in exchange for a light sentence … basically the same one that’s being offered to you. And since you haven’t taken it yet, I’m thinking that Kerstman offered you a better deal.”

“I can unequivocally say that never during my association with Kerstman did he ever offer me a ride home in the snow. So I don’t know how much better of a deal he could offer than this,” I said with a shrug that further irritated Falcone.

“I think he was going to give you half the money if you could get him to Sint Eustatius, where he could hide it offshore. And I think that’s why your girlfriend made a recent trip down there.”

He held up a copy of the
Inquisitor
tabloid from a couple weeks back, featuring Candi Kane on the cover. It showed her frolicking around in a bikini on the beaches of Sint Eustatius.

“But I don’t think you can wear one of these on the beach—it’ll cause some weird tan lines,” he said, and patted me on the bulletproof vest to make his point.

The cab stopped near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. There’s no better view of the city than from the Promenade—Libby and I used to come down here all the time when we were dating. But I was in no mood for taking in the scenery tonight—I was too busy watching my back.

“I thought you were taking me home? I guess the moral of the story is never trust the FBI.”

“Like I said, it’s a beautiful night for a walk,” Falcone said.

“Just watch out for the boogieman … or Gooch,” Boersch added with a cryptic grin.

I stepped out of the cab and turned back to Falcone. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to be at work bright and early tomorrow. My boss has been on my ass ever since she stopped sleeping with me.”

“How the mighty have fallen—was that part of your divorce agreement?”

“The good thing about my new job is that I don’t have the responsibility like when I was the boss. When five o’clock rolls around, I’m out the door. And I won’t be working on New Year’s Eve this year … like you will be.”

I slammed the door shut and began walking.

I entered the dark, third-floor apartment. The barking dogs startled me, as they always did when I entered.

The first thing I did was remove my shoes. It was one of Alyson’s non-negotiable rules. And since she spent ten years in the army as a sharpshooter, along with flying Black Hawk helicopters into enemy territory, I tended to go along with her rules.

I turned on a lamp and Olive and Oil, her two pugs, made a run for me. I petted them, which was more of a defense mechanism to stop them from scratching my legs, and other areas. I then re-filled their bowls, which was the real reason for the enthusiastic reception.

After leaving the military, Alyson pursued a career in law. But to support her son while she attended law school, she provided security for celebrities. She was working for one of my clients—a famous actor accused of assaulting a tabloid cameraman—and she spent the trial questioning my strategy, and generally telling me how to do my job. This didn’t mesh well with my gargantuan ego, but as the trial went on I found myself incorporating her ideas into my defense. I would never admit that she was the reason I won an acquittal, and got a restraining order slapped on the photographer in the process. So I did the next best thing, which was to hire her.

I had to match what she made from the security job, which was steep. But it was worth every penny. Since I’d always taken a seat-of-the-pants approach to law, her militaristic detail balanced me, and helped take Kris Collins Esq. to new heights. Her broad range of duties included everything except actually trying the cases, and she had nothing to do with the crash and burn—that was all me.

She finished law school while I was in prison, and she and Libby took over my practice. It’s now Wainwright-Collins & Rudingo. The dash, which Libby still uses in her professional life, makes it sound like I’m still a partner, but I was stripped of my license to practice law as part of my plea bargain. So in a twist that only Shakespeare could love, I now worked as a paralegal for Alyson and Libby.

I removed my wet shirt and the vest underneath. I felt like I could breathe for the first time since I left for the Wainwright party. My growing gut was now also free of restraints. The sight of it should have sparked me to grab a carrot stick, but my mind went right to the oatmeal raisin cookies my mother had made for me. The same ones she used to bring to me in prison because I looked “too skinny.”

I went into the kitchen, and found a note from Alyson that informed me of what Falcone had already filled me in on—that she’d be working late tonight, and Robbie was with her ex-husband, Herm. He stayed at his family farm on the Pennsylvania and Ohio border when he was on leave—the property splits between both states. Alyson referred to it as Pohio.

I found the plate of cookies on the counter, and began to salivate—I hadn’t eaten since my Peruvian cheeseburger. I needed something to wash them down with, so I opened the refrigerator and searched for a beer. When I located a bottle of Sam Adams left over from the Wainwright-Collins & Rudingo office Christmas party, I noticed his reflection in it. It was too late to respond.

I felt a sharp blow to my kidneys. I crumbled to the floor and the assailant pounced on my neck.

“My boss wants to know where his money is,” Gooch calmly stated with a slight Dutch accent—sounding different from when he was the professor. He had also removed his hairpiece, revealing a healthy head of slicked back hair.

“If I had any money, would I be living here?” I said, and barely got the words out of my mouth before receiving a chop to my windpipe.

“Because I’m in the Christmas spirit, I’ll give you one last chance.”

When I didn’t answer—I wasn’t even sure I could after the blow to the neck—he began shoving oatmeal cookies into my mouth. Not what I had in mind when I got the craving. When I tried to close my mouth, he pried it open. It felt like he was going to remove my jaw from my face.

I began to choke, and when he held my nose shut the room started to get hazy. I could hear the dogs barking, but they sounded far away. I was certain I was going to die.

Suddenly Gooch’s head snapped back. Then a boot knocked the Cookie Monster to the ground. I spit up the cookies and sucked in as much oxygen as I could cram into my lungs.

When the room stopped spinning, I realized that Alyson was my savior. I was thankful to see her, but also concerned for her safety. Falcone’s scare tactics didn’t do this lunatic justice.

Gooch rolled away like a cat and sprang back to his feet. He stood about six-three, while Alyson was a foot shorter.

She lunged at him, and he moved away like a bullfighter. He grabbed a chunk of her dark curly hair on her way by and drove her to her knees.

She spun around like she was break dancing, and applied a martial arts kick to his knee, just enough to loosen his grip and regain her fighting position. Showing no fear, she came at him again.

This time his fist snapped so fast that her blood was already pouring onto the hardwood floor by the time she saw it coming. That was the end of the fight.

But instead of coming back after me, he retreated toward an open window, and disappeared down the fire escape.

Alyson staggered to her feet. I remained bent over and sucking for air. But as much as she would never admit it, she was the one who needed the help—the blood gushing out of her nose was impossible to conceal.

I grabbed the first thing I could find—my wet shirt—and held it over her nose.

Once the bleeding was under control, she said, “What would you ever do without me, Collins?” It was about as sentimental as she got.

“Probably die of cookie asphyxiation,” I replied. But as much as I appreciated her courageous effort to save me, I was starting to doubt that it would have affected the final outcome—if Gooch wanted me dead, I’d be dead. This was a warning shot—not much different than the one from the FBI … just more painful. And he wanted me to know he could get to me anytime, anywhere.

“Looks like you scared another man out of your life, Rudi,” I tried to joke.

“I can’t seem to get rid of
you.”

“How’d you know someone was in here?”

“I use the fire escape at night, because it freaks Olive and Oil out when I come through the front door. I noticed that the window was slightly cracked—I never leave the window open. I’m obsessive about shutting it.”

What wasn’t she obsessive about? But as much as I’ve teased her about it over the years, tonight was another example of how the small details might mean the difference between life and death over the next few days.

“I should move out. Everyone except Seal Team Six is after me. What if Robbie was here?”

“The people after you are trained killers. They’re targeting you, and will attempt to lessen any collateral damage. The more bodies, the more complicated their mission becomes.”

So that’s where I learned that. “Very comforting.”

“And besides, Robbie will be staying with his father through Christmas break.”

Herm and Alyson met in the military. Herm was still active, just returning from another tour in Afghanistan. I’ve always got the feeling that their divorce was about logistics, rather than lack of love. But it wasn’t something she ever discussed with me.

She took a long look at me, making me uncomfortable. “What?”