The Crasher (45 page)

Muriel cut across him. “What do they base their case on?”

“A prima facie case, one based on adequate evidence to establish a fact or raise a presumption of fact until refuted. We have
to get it thrown out before an indictment, and never let up for one second to show how weak their case is…”

Now was the moment to tell Muriel what—he agreed with Caulter—she had to do. Although he felt more repulsed by her than at
any other time in their long relationship, Samson forced himself to stroke her still-shaking shoulder for a few more minutes
before looking at her directly and saying, “It will help, Muriel dear, if you show your support for Arthur and, of course,
your total belief in his innocence, as soon as possible. First, I want to release a statement from you.” He unfolded a single
sheet of paper from his inside pocket and put it on the table beside her. “Here is a draft I prepared this morning.”

She glared at him without moving, but he wasn’t deterred. “Caulter and I agree it is vitally important you be seen with Arthur,
giving him your full support.” He used a childish habit and crossed his fingers before continuing. “As soon as Arthur is released
on bail—”

There was another short, shrill scream. “You want to kill me, too! Doesn’t Caulter know—”

“He knows about your condition, Muriel,” Samson snapped. “We have two suggestions. I can bring Arthur to my office following
the preliminary hearing, where you can be reunited and appear together at a brief—very brief—press conference, or you can
be seen welcoming Arthur home here—in the lobby on his return.”

When Muriel looked at him first with shock, then with loathing, Samson held up his hand, repeating, “Caulter and I think it
is extremely important for your support to be highly visible. In other words, let me say your absence-and silence—would be
noted, commented upon, and construed as wishing to distance yourself from the accused, whereas a loving, supportive wife seen
accompanying her husband with dignity and confidence through this terrible ordeal, certain of his total exoneration, can only
be valuable for everyone concerned…” He paused effectively. “Including Stern Fashion and Textiles, Incorporated.”

There was an embarrassingly long silence, as Samson expected there would be. Muriel looked around, searching for something.
Without a word Samson brought her walking stick to her. She took more long minutes to get out of the chair, only to proceed
to another one facing out over the East River. Finally, she said coldly, “You know my health situation—I don’t want to put
myself at risk, but I suppose I must accept your advice that it could look”—another long pause—“suspicious if I’m not anywhere
to be seen.”

Another silence. “The board—the building-would never permit such a circus… ‘welcoming Arthur home on his return,’” she mimicked
sarcastically.

“You’re the chairman of the building’s board,” Samson said quietly, as if she needed reminding how often the board had been
putty in her hands. In any case he knew exactly what she would choose to do. For all her protestations about going anywhere,
he knew Muriel loved being the center of attention, providing she was in situations she could control.

Sure enough, she now acted as if the decision were already made. She would meet Arthur at his office for a brief, strictly
controlled press conference. “Of course, David will have to go with me… have you called him?”

David Sorenson was, at the moment, her favorite cardiologist.

“Yes, I took the liberty of informing him this morning.” Irritated by the charade that was dragging on for too long, Samson
couldn’t resist adding, “He thought I might call. He heard about it all on television last night-there was a news flash after
Nightline.”

She ignored him, looking at her watch, then pressing the bell on the arm of the chair. A maid appeared instantly. (Samson
often wondered if one was detailed to hover outside any closed door, for once summoned, servants always immediately responded.)

“Tell Absley to arrange to pick up Dr. Sorenson and bring him here no later than eleven o’clock.” Muriel looked over to the
piece of paper on the table. “Let me look at that statement.”

She took several minutes to peruse it, but he had no fears she’d hold up its release. From a lifetime of preparing documents
for Stern, Inc., first under the direction of Muriel’s elder brother (now deceased) and then Muriel, Samson knew exactly the
language to use.

Muriel nodded her approval as she handed the statement back. “Now help me back to my room. I must get some rest.” She pressed
the bell again and when the maid opened the door, announced, “I’ll wear the gray pinstripe.”

Slowly she got to her feet. “If I went to the arraignment, would I be able to see Arthur before he goes before the judge?”

Samson inwardly shuddered, thinking of the squalor and turmoil of the criminal court at 100 Centre Street, swarming with hookers
and pushers and pimps, the dregs of society, a place likely to give anyone a heart attack, let alone someone like Muriel.
“That would not be wise, and in any case the answer is probably no.”

“Make sure the oxygen is in the trunk,” was Muriel’s last command as she made a slow exit out of the drawing room. “This is
just the kind of day when I’m going to need it.”

Quentin Peet entered the Woolworth Building at 233 Broadway as if he owned it. He was a man in a hurry today, with an agenda
that would have defeated most mortals, but
there was nothing harried about his movements. He still had time to cast an approving eye at the intricate mosaics of the
soaring vaulted ceiling as well as to give a brief nod of recognition to the men on duty at the information desk. They were
both ex-cops, pleased to be acknowledged by the celebrated journalist, who was revered in their world for his contribution
to fighting crime.

It wasn’t surprising they were ex-cops. One only had to look at the directory on the wall to see that the building was full
of police-associated organizations, from the CEA, the Captains’ Endowment Association, to the SBA, Sergeants’ Benevolent Association,
to the SOC, Superior Officers Council.

What most people didn’t know was what went on in the giant building’s underground. Reached by a subterranean tunnel with many
tunnel tributaries of its own was “Harry’s at the Woolworth,” a restaurant that was the literal watering hole for anybody
who was anybody in law enforcement.

It was in Harry’s restaurant, in dark corners and alcoves, that favors were exchanged, IOUs granted and honored between high-ranking
members of the police department, the D.A.’s office, the FBI, and the CIA.

Some said more police business was conducted there than at One Police Plaza; and not for nothing had it been renamed long
ago by its habitués “Corregidor,” reminding many World War II veterans of the fortress of tunnels carved out of the island
rock in the Philippines.

Peet was one of the few journalists, if not the only one, who didn’t quickly empty the huge U-shaped bar on his arrival, and
he was proud of the distinction. The press wasn’t wanted here and there was no attempt to conceal it. If Peet wasn’t welcomed
with open arms, at least he was treated like everyone else, with studied indifference, everyone minding their own business,
usually business of a very special kind.

While gratified that among this tough crowd he was known as a man who would always keep his mouth shut, he was sure he’d earned
the privilege to witness who was trading with
whom, adding two and two together to sum up a situation accurately after a lifetime spent on the front line.

As he moved into the room he waved to the police C.O./O.M.A, Commanding Officer of the Office of Management and Analysis,
in a huddle with a deputy from the mayor’s office; smiled, but shook his head “no” at a Special Agent from the Federal Bureau
who, leaning at the bar, indicated he’d like to buy him a drink. He moved purposefully past the main dining room, where other
tunnels burrowed their way to other smaller dining areas.

On the way he made eye contact with the man he’d arranged to meet, Patrick O’Neill, who with his crow-black sleek hair, olive
skin and dapper, tight-fitting, but well-tailored suits looked more like the quintessential Latin lover than “just a poor
Irish lad who got lucky,” as he often referred to himself.

Nobody could remember if or when O’Neill had been poor, but to his detractors—and there were many—he’d certainly been lucky.
As the recently named Commanding Officer of the Major Case Squad, part of the Special Investigation Division at Police Headquarters,
O’Neill was resented for treading on other people’s turf and, worse, getting better results. In that division there was plenty
of turf to tread on, from the Special Fraud Squad to the Joint Robbery Task Force, the Safe, Loft and Truck Squad, not to
mention the Missing Persons Squad.

For Peet there couldn’t be a more valuable contact in the NYPD. Over the years each had seen the other score and bypass those
so busy worrying about their egos, they’d missed some obvious professional chances to move ahead.

One reason they’d got on so well for so long was the way they conducted business. Neither man expected the other to volunteer
much, if any, major information. The main object of every meeting was to receive either confirmation or rejection of information
one or the other already possessed. Rarely was it greeted with a shrug of the shoulders “don’t-know.” Their meetings invariably
saved them an inordinate amount of what
they valued most-time-precluding false trails, setups and booby traps.

Once O’Neill joined Peet in an alcove far away from the main crowd, a waiter came by to place the usual tub of cheese and
crackers on the table. Both men ordered a beer.

Cutting a chunk of cheese, with no conversational preamble, Peet began, “Pat, m’boy, I gather the Villeneva jewels haven’t
surfaced yet, and the theft remains on the unsolved list.”

“Yep,” said O’Neill, plunging a knife into the cheese tub to get his own piece.

“And it still looks like the work of the new guy on the team?”

“Yep.”

“But so far no sign of the jewels being used for collateral?”

O’Neill shook his head. “Not sure that particular heist fitted the big picture.”

“Could Stern in any shape or form fit the big picture?”

O’Neill rolled his eyes as he took a huge bite of cheese.

“A man can have more than one kind of enemy,” Peet said softly.

“Damn right, particularly an ice skater like Svank. Pity.”

O’Neill didn’t need to explain himself. Peet knew Svank had been skating on thin ice, yet he’d been so cunning, so incredibly
skillful, even as pieces of the labyrinthine puzzle of his criminal activities had slowly been fitting into place, he’d managed
to distance himself from the underworld it was now believed he’d totally controlled. With his death he’d escaped forever from
paying the penalty and public disgrace O’Neill and others had sought for him for so long.

“Pity indeed,” Peet repeated, then, “Stern was arraigned this morning, out on a couple of million bail, right?”

“Right-after an almost successful plea to dismiss and file a new document.”

“Unbelievable. With his fingers, not only his fingerprints on the trigger, he’s lucky to get bail. Caulter’s the best and
Stern’s not talking, on his advice. I hear Caulter might try for
manslaughter. It wasn’t the gun that killed Svank, right? It was the fall?”

“Where d’you hear that?” O’Neill smiled, knowing he’d never get a straight answer.

“Oh, around and about. It was a fight, Svank pulled a gun, it went off accidentally, a freak shot or something. The bullet
ricocheted off the floor into his foot; in the struggle he lost his balance and Stern’s push at the wrong moment pushed him
over the edge… or rather, somebody’s push.”

When O’Neill didn’t answer, Peet sipped his beer reflectively. “I hear the assistant D.A.’s are wetting their pants to get
this one…”

“That’s the fault of people like you, Big Q,” O’Neill said with his lopsided grin. “If you didn’t show’em how it’s done with
your multimillion dollar book and movie deals and your name in the gossip columns with beautiful dames, they wouldn’t have
such big ideas about life after Centre Court.”

Peet grimaced as he knew he was expected to. “I wish! That’s a lot of bullshit. But I don’t think Stern did it, although it’s
just possible. In any case Caulter’s guys will work like crazy to delay the indictment on lack of evidence. They’ll probably
help lead you straight to the slippery light-fingered guy, the one from London we know that Svank loved to hate.”

“We’ll be watching.”

“So will I.” Peet took another sip of his beer. “It’s catching, this collateral business. As I think you may know, Angel Face
Maniero confessed in court last week he’d not only stolen the loot from Padua Cathedral, but Vivarini’s
Madonna and Child
from the Ducal Palace in Venice. Can you believe it? To use both as plea-bargaining chips, he admitted, should he ever be
arrested; claimed he made a deal with the head of the Italian Art Squad. Bad timing for them… they’d just announced the successful
recovery of some other invaluable stuff from Rome. Now everyone wonders what they had to promise the thieves to get it back.”

“Yep, works of art and big jewels have become the currency du jour, particularly in the drug trade. Once they’ve
found their way to professional art handlers, we know they’re being traded all over the place-at a discount-in every kind
of criminal deal, for counterfeit notes, loans, for anything they can raise, but more and more for shipments of drugs or the
setting up of new drug distributors.”

“Glad the DEA’s got Constantine. Operation Dinero seems to be working-”

“No thanks to Svank.”

“Didn’t the DEA guys stumble into a haul in Atlanta recently? A Picasso, a Rubens and some other masterpiece being traded
for cash for cocaine?”

O’Neill nodded somberly.

“It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing Stern would be involved in, but you never know. Always the least one you’d suspect.
Remember that asshole Delchetto? Who would have thought after all he’d written that he was actually being paid off by Cali,
but he got too greedy.” Peet looked at O’Neill intently for his reaction.