Mad Dog Justice (30 page)

Harris’s chin begins trembling. He sets his palms on the desk. His hand shakes as he reaches for the cognac snifter, sips quickly, and sets it down unsteadily.

“Then, John, you use this altered money to purchase high-end items so the cash is converted into tangible assets.”

“That’s ridiculous, utterly absurd. I’ve done no such thing.”

But Harris’s lips go pale as they press together. His eyebrows rise and knots appear at the sides of his face, as though his teeth are clenched. Roddy’s certain if he places his fingertips on Harris’s wrist—if he feels for the man’s radial pulse—it would be galloping at over a hundred beats a minute. In fact, Roddy thinks he can actually see Harris’s carotid arteries pulsing in his neck.

“After all, John, with these assets soaking up all that cash, it becomes tangible,” Dan says. “We call it real property in the accounting trade. Like the hundred-foot yacht you keep at Santa Monica, the house at Laguna Niguel, or the beachfront mansion in Palm Beach. Oh, I almost forgot: the ski lodge you bought in Aspen and the hundred acres you own in Sun Valley, Idaho. These have all been purchased with laundered money.”

Dan turns to Roddy as he uncrosses his legs. “Just so you know, Roddy, that’s part of John’s scheme. It’s a two-fold operation. The last part is called integrating the money. The cash reenters the mainstream economy in legitimate form and looks like it came from legal transactions, like buying a house or a boat. The first part, where the money is moved all over the place, is called layering the money. And it’s something John does quite well.”

Danny turns back to Harris. “I have to say, John, I’m impressed by your criminal skill.”

Harris exhales audibly. “Well, Dan,” he warbles, “I had no idea you came here tonight to accuse and insult me. I thought you popped in the other day because you wanted to get back to doing some more work for me and were interested in making an investment in the Caribbean. I never dreamed you were here to malign and accuse me like this.”

Harris leans back in his chair and assumes a look of nonchalance.

“But now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re such an altar boy, Danny. Always doing what you think is the right thing.” He shakes his head, smirks, and leans forward with his elbows again on the desk. “Now, I think it’s time for you and your doctor friend to leave my home. And you can rest assured, I’ll be calling my lawyers to discuss your accusations.”

“We’re not leaving,” Roddy says. “There’s plenty more to discuss.”

“I have nothing more to say to either of you,” Harris says, scowling. “Now, I’m asking both of you politely to leave. Otherwise, I’ll call the police.” He leans toward the telephone, but the receiver stays in the cradle on top of the tortoiseshell inlaid desk. Harris’s hand remains motionless, about a foot away from the telephone.

“Oh, go ahead, John. Call the police,” says Danny. “We’ll have no trouble telling them what you’ve been up to. I’m sure the SEC and the federal government will be interested, too.”

“Oh, really?” Harris says thickly. Roddy knows the man’s throat is filled with phlegm. “What else do you allege I’ve been doing that makes you so certain I won’t call the police?” He leans back in his chair. His smirk reignites.

Dan stares long and hard at Harris. “I’m a numbers cruncher, John. It’s what I do for a living. And the numbers are going to send you to prison.”

Harris’s face turns ashen. He blinks repeatedly.

“The numbers and much more,” says Roddy as that neural impulse shoots through him. “And it’s time to tell John exactly what we know.”

H
arris remains rigid. He doesn’t even blink.

Heat seeps into Roddy’s face. He has that exhilarating yet ugly feeling of butterflies looping crazily in his stomach—the adrenaline-pumped prefight jitters of years ago. It presaged the sound of the bell when he plunged into animal mode, where it was kill or be killed. Like the feelings he had on the Army Ranger infiltration course or before his first jump from a C-17 transport plane.

“You’ve been issuing false annual statements to your investors, John,” says Dan. “Or should I call them suckers?”

Harris’s jaw is clenched. His pupils look so dilated, his eyes no longer look blue.

“You see, John, I know those statements are doctored,” Dan says. “No, they’re more than that: they’re completely fabricated. What it boils down to is that your investment company is nothing but a Ponzi scheme. You pay off anyone who’s leaving with new money, and your clients’ fine returns are figments of your imagination. Your annual reports show the clients’ accounts growing at a decent clip, but in reality, the money moves between offshore accounts and ends up converted into your personal assets. You’re nothing more than a mini-Madoff.”

“What leads you to this conclusion?” Harris asks. His semi-smirk remains, but a flicker of doubt appears in his eyes. He
blinks repeatedly, and his Florida tan seems bleached. He sits stiffly behind the desk.

“Everything in your computer tells the story, John.”

“Everything in my
computer
?”

Harris’s head shakes from right to left as though he can’t believe his ears.

“Yes, it’s all there.”

“How did you get into … ?” Harris stops midsentence. His eyes widen. His pupils are huge, dark circles obliterating his irises. “You
didn’t
.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You mean the other day when you showed up here?”

“Yes, John. I accessed it when you were temporarily indisposed. I believe it might have been a stomach virus, or maybe it was something you ate. It might have been those truffles … those Teuscher truffles. The finest in the world, aren’t they? Who knows? Anyway, while you were indisposed, I looked at your computer files, and there it was, all the little details about your Ponzi operation. Funny, isn’t it? Technology can be a boon or a curse. And for you, John, it’s the latter. Your computer shows it for the whole world to see.”

“You hacked my computer?”

“I accessed it, that’s all. You’d already opened it and typed in your user name and password.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not nearly as illegal as what you’ve been up to.”

Harris’s face takes on a sickly greenish hue. His eyes bulge in their watery sockets. “This … this isn’t what it looks like.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like. It’s a Ponzi scheme. You take in loads of money, launder it, and issue false statements to investors, while you convert their money into personal assets. I’m sure you intend to sell them and eventually leave the United States—no doubt, to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with
the US.”

“But … but that’s all a supposition.” Harris’s chin quivers.

“Is it, John? Is it something I’m just supposing, or does your computer show you’re a conniving con man who’ll take anyone’s money as long as they can pony up fifty grand or more? You really think I’m speculating about this?”

“You can’t prove a thing.” Harris shakes his head, but beads of sweat form above his upper lip.

“We’ll see about that.” Dan says, leaning forward in his chair. “But there’s another thing, John.”

Harris’s chair creaks as he leans back. “What’s that?”

Roddy’s brain fires charged impulses. He feels the blood rush of aggression and knows he could explode in another second. But he waits for Dan to go on.

“It has to do with the Aruba deal, the one you put on hold,” Danny says.

“What about it?”

“This all began after I asked you—really quite innocently—about some of the numbers on that deal back some weeks ago. You remember?”

Harris shakes his head. His eyes flit back and forth between Danny and Roddy. Sweat droplets form on his forehead.

“Sure you do. I asked about the Aruba deal. I said something about the numbers being a little off, maybe a bit strange. There was either some arithmetic error or the money was disappearing in some Caribbean accounts. Actually, I was being a bit facetious and made a joke about it. I sometimes do that with clients, kid them about the IRS when I see something that doesn’t look right on their worksheets or in their books. It’s just a stupid habit of mine.

“And I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’ve thought long and hard about it recently. I’ve figured it out—completely. When I made that offhand comment—that stupid little joke—I must have
hit a nerve somewhere deep in your nonexistent soul, John. I must have triggered some warning signal in your reptilian brain, because I recall as clear as day that my comment got you very upset. No. You were
more
than upset; you were absolutely beside yourself. You even told me to forget about it, that the Aruba deal was on hold. My God, even when I was at St. Joe’s, you popped in and made sure to tell me the deal was off. You remember that, don’t you, Roddy, seeing him in my room?”

Roddy nods his head but says nothing.

“So? I visited you in the hospital. So what?” Harris says in a shaky voice. Sweat sheen covers his face.

“Well, when I
really
began thinking about it all, when I went over the chain of events, I realized it was soon after I asked about the Aruba deal when I got
this
.”

Dan holds up his casted hand. Harris stares at it. His lower lip trembles.

“It goes to show, Roddy, how some innocent question, or even a dumb joke, can lead to some very bad consequences.” Dan waves his casted hand in the air.

Harris is drenched in sweat. “Just what are you saying?” he asks in a voice thick with phlegm.

“I’m saying you wanted me out of the way. You thought I knew more than I actually did.” Danny pauses and stares at Harris. “You thought I suspected something about your Aruba scheme and about the other investments you’ve been making on behalf of the suckers entrusting money to you. Actually, the truth is, John, I had no fucking idea what you were up to. Not until I put things together and thought it was quite coincidental that soon after I asked about the Aruba deal and you got all bent out of shape, someone comes to my office and tries to kill me.”

“Don’t be
absurd
.”

“I’m being 100 percent logical. I’m using what I now know about you to come to very precise conclusions.”

Harris rubs his chin with a trembling hand. “You’re actually accusing me of attempted
murder
?” His eyes widen again. “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t know where on earth you got this ridiculous idea. This sounds like a paranoid man’s ravings.”

“Is it paranoia that someone came into my office and shot me twice?”

Harris’s body is trembling. His palms again go to the desktop and press down on it in an attempt to steady himself. His shoulders are hunched.

“Is it paranoid that a doctor got killed in the garage at Lawrence Hospital, a guy who from behind looked just like Roddy Dolan and who left the hospital at about the same time Roddy did? And that murder happened only two days after I was shot? Is that paranoid?”

“What are you
talking
about?” Harris says, shaking his head from side to side. “I had nothing to do with Dolan until this evening. I never even met the man until that time in your hospital room. And you’re saying I tried to
kill
him? Danny, you’re disturbed.”

“Am I?”

“This is insane. It’s … it’s absolutely …” Harris sputters and stops speaking. Specks of spittle form on his lips.

“Well, then, John, who’s been coming after both of us? Oh yeah, could it be someone who knows we’re best friends who go a long way back?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do. I can prove it.”

Harris’s face is florid. It shines in the room’s soft lighting.

Danny turns to Roddy. “Why don’t you take over, Roddy? I’m tapped out. And my fucking hand’s killing me. It’s just killing me.”

R
oddy gets to his feet and moves toward Harris. He walks around the desk to where Harris sits and hovers over him. Harris’s leather chair creaks again as he leans back.

“You said something interesting before,” Roddy says. “Know what it was?”

Harris shakes his head. His hands grip the arms of his chair as he looks up at Roddy. His mouth opens, and the whites of his blue eyes are bloodshot. His sweaty face glistens in the lamplight.

“You said you know Danny and I grew up together … in Brooklyn.”

“So?” Harris croaks in a strangled voice.

“Danny never told you that.”

“I don’t recall who I heard it from.” Harris leans back so far, the chair seems ready to topple.

“You heard it from Kenny at McLaughlin’s.”

Harris shakes his head. “Kenny’s not the kind of person I particularly cared to talk with.” Harris coughs and then swallows hard, keeping his eyes on Roddy.

“Okay, John, you didn’t hear it from Kenny. You heard it from Crystal, who probably heard it from Kenny.”

“Crystal?” Harris’s forehead creases in deep furrows. Sweat dribbles down from his hairline.

“Yes. Crystal. That pretty blond woman Kenny hired as a
hostess. Remember her?”

“Vaguely.”

“How vaguely do you remember her, John?”

Roddy’s face feels incendiary—as though the blood vessels in his cheeks are about to burst. Doc Schechter’s words from Herbie’s Gym bolt through his brain.

“Don’t be an animal in the ring, Roddy. You gotta execute a strategy.”

“What are you talking about?” Harris says in a shaky voice. “She was a hostess at a restaurant where I went occasionally for lunch when I was at the New York office, for the love of God.” He shakes his head back and forth.

“So you never spoke with Crystal?”

“Just a ‘Hello,’” Harris warbles, leaning as far back as the chair allows.

Roddy can virtually smell the man’s fear. He perches himself on the edge of the desk and plants himself there as his hands begin throbbing.

“Tell me, John, where does Crystal live?”

“I have no idea.” Harris’s tongue slides along his lower lip.

“Is that so?” Roddy says. “We have her living at 301 East 79th Street in apartment 40-A. Does it sound familiar?”

Harris’s eyelids flutter like a hummingbird’s wings.