Montaro Caine (12 page)

“Dr. Chasman,” said Caine.

“Yes, but I wasn’t honest with him either. The time wasn’t right, I thought, to turn the scientific community loose on such little facts as we had. I told Michael that the object was a coin from an ancient civilization, and that it belonged to a friend of mine who wanted to have it analyzed by a top metallurgist. I asked him to intercede on behalf of my friend with Dr. Walmeyer at M.I.T. After he agreed, I asked him what he made of the configuration on the face of the coin.”

“What did he say?” asked Caine.

“He said that it brought to mind a familiar grouping of stars that includes portions of two different constellations,” said Mozelle. “He asked me who the owner was. I told him he was a dealer in rare objects who preferred to remain anonymous. That afternoon, after I returned to New York, he went to your old professor in the Metallurgy Department and asked him to do the workup. As you know, the professor had to leave for a conference the next day, so he turned the job over to you.

“Until now, Elsen, Anna, and myself were the only people in the world who knew what I’ve just told you. The girl never met her father; he was out of the picture. But the mother and child remained patients of our clinic. In fact, we did our utmost to maintain a doctor/patient relationship with the family and did so for many years. During that time, we closely monitored mother and child. The child was normal in every way—perhaps a bit above average in intelligence, but not strikingly so. Nothing unusual appeared anywhere in the mother’s chart. Then the mother died fifteen years ago, and the child went to live with her uncle in Brooklyn.”

“What were you looking for, specifically, when you examined the woman and her daughter?” asked Caine.

“Explanations,” said Mozelle. “Any explanation. There were so many questions that we wanted answers to. The object was found in
the hand of a newborn baby, and it seemed to be an exact image of something hanging on the wall in a Caribbean hut. Why had this happened? What did it mean? Had such a thing ever happened before? Why was the object from the child’s hand not an exact image of both pieces of art? It was a carbon copy of one, but the other side was blank. What about Matthew Perch? Was he the one who had made those pieces on his wall? If not, who did? We didn’t know what we were looking for. I kept thinking about those last words Perch had spoken to us—
The son shall hold the coins
.

“We began to quietly research everyone in the mother’s family—her brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents. We did the same with the husband and his family. We came up with nothing. I made sure that the girl was examined in our clinic, and when she was older, I saw her myself for regular appointments, but we found nothing extraordinary about her either. There were no unusual signs in her blood work or development, nothing unusual in her behavior.

“That’s the way everything stood for years, until you called us. A tragedy has taken place, Mr. Caine. From the beginning, we kept the coin you analyzed here in a safe in these offices. Today, we discovered that it’s been stolen.”

“When?” Caine asked, stunned by the news yet riveted by the story.

“We can’t say for sure—it could have been any time over the last few years. After we heard your message, we checked to make sure it was still there. It wasn’t. If the coin you saw this morning is indeed different, we will not be surprised if it turns out to match the other object on the west wall of Matthew Perch’s hut.”

“But where did it come from, that second coin?” asked Caine. “The girl’s husband maybe? Her boyfriend? Someone in his family? In hers? Do you have any idea?”

But Dr. Mozelle remained silent.

“Or … did she have a baby?” Caine asked. “A son?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Dr. Mozelle said. “All I can say is that for years Anna, Elsen, and myself have all had the same theory—that when that girl has a baby, whenever that might be, something momentous will occur.”

“Another coin, you mean?” asked Caine.

“Coins,” said Mozelle. “Perch said ‘coins.’ But for now, we must find the coins that we already know to exist; I feel that it’s our duty to do so. They must be preserved for science, your branch and mine, and Matthew Perch’s, whose involvement, I suspect, might be far more significant than we can presently imagine. The person who went into my safe and stole the coin also had access to my notes. Whoever has that coin probably knows just about everything I’ve told you. I hope your interest is sufficiently high, Mr. Caine, to want to help us with this situation.”

“How do you see me helping?” asked Caine.

“We must get hold of those coins.”

“That may be extremely difficult, Doctor.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, particularly for a man as influential and resourceful as yourself.”

“It actually may be impossible.”

“But you do know where the second coin is? I mean, who has it? The people who brought it to you this morning?”

“Hold on, Doctor,” said Caine. “The first questions we have to tackle are: Who stole the
first
coin from your safe, and where is that item now? Whoever has it won’t just hand it over to anyone just for the asking.”

“You’re right about that. Of course we have to find out who has it,” said Dr. Mozelle with stubborn determination. With his hands on his knees for support, he bent over closer to Caine and asked in a low, confidential tone, “Can we pursue this together, Mr. Caine?”

Caine shook his head at the strangeness of the situation. “First, please call me Montaro. And second, I would like nothing more,” he said.

M
ONTARO HAD SPOKEN BRIEFLY TO HIS WIFE, WHO HAD ADVISED
him to stay in the city and get some rest. He was in his apartment in The Carlyle and though it was only nine o’clock was, in fact, about to pop an Ambien so that he might enjoy a few hours of peaceful sleep when his cell phone rang. He was expecting Howard Mozelle might be calling, but when he looked down at his cell phone display, he saw the name Larry Buchanan.

Caine answered the phone. “What’s up, Larry?” he asked.

“You at the hotel, Monty?”

Larry’s casual tone sounded cocky and self-satisfied, which made Caine fairly hopeful that his friend might be calling him with news about Herman Freich and Colette Beekman.

“You got something for me?” Montaro asked.

“Think I do,” said Larry. “Come over to Sam’s and let me buy you a drink.” With a modicum of regret, Montaro put the Ambien back into the medicine cabinet.

When Caine arrived at Sam’s, the usual noisy crowd ringed the circular bar near the entrance. Sam Vogel, a practicing attorney and former college football star who frequently doubled as maître d’, was, next to the food, the most important reason his pub had become a popular watering hole. Sam was busy arguing with a party of six
whose members were complaining that Sam hadn’t placed them in the back room. To be seated in the back room, one had to be a very special customer or a close friend of Sam Vogel’s, which was why Montaro Caine, an impressive CEO, and Larry Buchanan, who racked up impressive bar tabs, got to sit there.

Caine crossed behind the group of six that was still arguing and paused long enough to get Sam’s attention. Sam waved a greeting and pointed to the back room, then escorted him through the packed dining room through an archway covered with flowers to the booth where Larry was waiting. As Caine slid in across from Larry, Sam placed a menu on the table and left.

“Want a drink?” asked Larry.

“No, thanks,” Caine replied.

“Did you know that being scared shitless cleanses the psyche in some deep, dark sort of way?” asked Larry.

“Rough time?”

“You could say that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s to tell? Anyway, it sure as hell can rattle your marbles. And I’m not sure I didn’t enjoy it in some fucked-up way.” Larry pushed his empty Bloody Mary glass to one side of the table before bending closer to Caine. “Socoloux is an investment company,” he said. “The names Beekman and Freich didn’t show up on anything I saw.”

“Why were their bills paid by Socoloux?” asked Caine.

“My guess is that those two work for one of Socoloux’s clients.”

“Who’re their clients?”

“Companies, corporations, trust accounts, insurance outfits, manufacturing concerns, banks headquartered in Europe, Tokyo, and Hong Kong.”

“No individuals listed?” Caine asked.

“Not a one,” said Larry. “Old Man Hargrove is a meticulous son of a gun. I only hope I’ll be that good when I get that old. I went through everything I could, and let me tell you, there’s a lot locked away that no one can get to. But what I did see, which was plenty, looked pretty clean. Nothing out of place. His tracks are covered; the firm is covered.”

“Who does Socoloux’s accounting?”

“It’s done in-house by our own people. But I couldn’t find a thing there either. Socoloux is paying Freich and Beekman’s hotel bills, but there’s no record of where those costs will be passed on to. Old Hargrove designed a system that delivers every morsel of privacy permissible under U.S. law.”

Montaro scowled. “So what you’re saying is, you dragged me out here and you got nothing for me?”

“On the contrary, partner,” said Larry, who was grinning widely. “The lady is traveling on an Argentinean passport issued to one Colette Beekman, which may or may not be her real name. The guy, Freich, is Austrian, or that’s what his passport says. As we speak, they’re finishing dinner at Hargrove’s house in Chappaqua, New York. That’s where they went after they left you this morning. From there, they will head for Sheltair Aviation at LaGuardia and a private jet back to Switzerland. Scheduled to take off at eleven-thirty tonight. Haven’t yet found out if they own the plane, a Gulfstream II, by the way, or if it’s a rental. Either way, the answer to that one will tell you a lot about Freich and Beekman.”

“That’s a pretty good score.” Caine was smiling now. “For a moment there, I thought you’d struck out.”

“I did at first. I tried the old man’s office, his secretary’s files, accounting, and the computer; I got zip. But I did get an idea from the computer when it showed that Socoloux was paying their hotel bills. If these clients were important people from out of town, I figured they wouldn’t be running around the city in a taxi. I figured right.”

“Limo?” Caine asked.

“That’s right. Our firm has used the same service for years. Two or three of their chauffeurs do most of the work because the old man likes their manners. I called the company, didn’t tell them who I was, just said I was from the accounting department of Hargrove, Hastings and Dundas and I needed some information. That’s how I learned they’d gone to Hargrove’s house. The rest was easy. I called the airport, told them I was from the D.A.’s office and needed to verify a couple of passport numbers. The guy on the other end of the phone was suspicious as hell until I threatened him with obstruction.” Buchanan
nodded his head in quick jerks to punctuate his remarks. He was still grinning at Caine, waiting for his friend to show some sign of approval.

Caine obliged with half a smile before reaching into his jacket pocket to take out his phone. “Registration number?” he asked, poised to key in the number.

“What registration number?”

“Of the plane. You got it, didn’t you?”

Buchanan grimaced and spanked his forehead with his palm.

“Oh shit. I didn’t think of that. Of course. How else would you check ownership?”

“It would make it a lot easier.”

“Damn it. Type and manufacturer, that’s all I asked for. Shit! I’ll call them back.”

Caine stopped him. “No, they’re already suspicious and they’ll probably give you the runaround this time. We know where the plane is; let’s take a look ourselves.”

Caine saw a flicker of doubt in Larry’s eyes—he was nervous about missing the last train home that evening. He had already told his wife he would be late and that she should feed the kids but hold dinner for him. Going along with Caine’s idea meant he would probably not make it home at all that night. At the same time, he didn’t want to refuse Caine.

“Ahh, what the hell,” Larry said. “LaGuardia’s only twenty minutes away. Let’s go.”

A light rain was falling as Caine smoothly maneuvered his car over the Triborough Bridge and Larry looked out at New York City. When they were young men together at the U of C, Montaro had told Larry something his grandfather had told him—if you listen close enough, you can see things; and if you look long enough, you can hear things. And, as he did from time to time, Larry tried to listen carefully with the ear of his inner consciousness; sometimes, if he did so, particularly if he had drunk a triple Bloody Mary as he had tonight at Sam’s, he could hear human hearts breaking. Tonight, he could hear the soundless screams of a nameless brigade trying to find its way out of a concrete jungle of unrealized dreams.

What a massive, unpredictable, neurotic giant of a city this was, Larry thought as Montaro steered his Mercedes, what a multitude of worlds existed within this one world. And what an undeniable majesty shone from within this tattered queen of all the world’s cities. To Larry, New York was like no other place. At heart, he still counted himself as one of the many—probably millions—who squared off against themselves first thing every morning in the never-ending struggle against the enemy within.

That terrible struggle, that most personal of battles, thought Larry, was what fueled the routine of living and dying here. Secretly, he viewed himself as one destined to bear witness to the emotional rampage of his eight million neighbors. He knew, firsthand, how some of them hammered, clawed, struggled, and scratched in the often-punishing search for success, knowing all the while that failure’s dark shadow was spreading over their lives faster than their best efforts could outrun it. He knew others who strained relentlessly each day simply to avoid pain. Or to capture a little joy. But best of all, he knew those kindred spirits, those peculiar, disturbing all-or-nothing shooters for whom winning was life—a place above the crowd—and losing was death, to have come and gone with no sign of their having passed this way. Alas, he also knew that each of those people would, in time, discover that he or she had lived out their lives in the unbearable in-between, exactly where destiny had anchored them. Larry, however, was determined to be one of those inevitable exceptions to that rule, one who would rise to the top, even if he had to struggle a little more than his pal Montaro did to get there.