Reckless (18 page)

Fitzpatrick nodded, seeming to glance in the direction of the adjoining conference room. “You said this was part of a confidential search. What does your firm think of what you stumbled on?”

Hauck shrugged. “This is where it starts to get a little sticky for me, Vern. I haven’t told them.”

“Haven’t told them?”
Vern put down the papers. “Some things don’t seem to change, do they, son?”

“One of the firm’s largest clients is Reynolds Reid. Apparently, they’re seeking to pick up some of Wertheimer Grant’s assets. Their retail broker division. My boss doesn’t want to muck up the deal by bringing out possible revelations of fraud or a possible scandal. So they pushed me off the case.”

“Some people might find it sticky that two New York City detectives are trying to tie you into a murder case, Ty.”

“Someone’s trying to set me up. I don’t know whether that pen is mine or not. I don’t know what they’ll find on it. More to the point, what does it even matter? Do I have to prove myself to you? You think you’re going to find my face on some security tape sneaking into the building? That’s why I couldn’t go to my firm. I can’t trust them. Four people are dead, Vern. I don’t know why they had to be killed, but while I’m out there having to prove my innocence two banks have collapsed. Am I the only person in the world who sees what may be going on?”

Fitzpatrick was silent. His gaze was fixed on the sheets. Hauck took back the evidence. He placed it back in the file. Stood up. He wrapped his briefcase around his shoulder and looked back at him.

“Am I, Vern?”

Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened. A woman stepped out. In a navy pantsuit. Slim. Pretty. Round, gray eyes and short, dark hair.

Hauck’s stomach almost hit the floor.

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not the only one who sees it, Mr. Hauck.”

Hauck looked back at Steve and Vern with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he had just been betrayed. “Who are you?”

The woman dropped a federal ID in front of his face. Department of the Treasury.

“I’d like to see just what you have,” the woman said. “And I promise, no one, at least no one with half a brain, thinks you had anything to do with those murders.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

M
y name is Naomi Blum, Mr. Hauck,” the petite agent said. “I’m an investigator with the Treasury Department.” She put away her ID. “And yes, I’m interested in how these deaths are connected too.”

Hauck swung his gaze back to Vern. His first instinct was that the very people he thought were his friends had turned him in. And he’d laid it all out for them.

On a platter.

And a government investigator had been listening to every word.

“Ty, she came to
us,
” Fitz said. “She only wants to hear what you found. No one turned you in.”

“You’re not under any investigation, Mr. Hauck.” The Treasury agent met his gaze. “No one’s thinking you had anything to do with either of these deaths. But if it’s all right with Chief Fitzpatrick, I would like to speak with you alone, if possible.” She motioned to the conference room. “
On
the record this time.”

As a rule, Hauck trusted government agents about as much as car salesmen. He’d butted heads with enough over the years, last but not least on the David Sanger drive-by shooting last year. And he still hadn’t figured out what side of the mess the FBI had come down on there.

But something about this agent seemed to put him at ease. He needed someone to run with what he’d found. And the last thing he needed after his run-in with the NYPD was to give anyone the sense that he had something to hide.

“Sure.” He nodded. He looked at Vern and Steve with a grunt of disappointment. “Thanks. I’ll decide later whether to buy you a beer or take a swing at you.”

“I think I’d go for the beer,” Naomi Blum said with a smile. “They both went to bat for you one hundred percent. They told me there was zero probability you were involved.”

“Cheers,” Hauck chortled, managing a dry half smile.

He and Agent Blum went into the adjoining room. There was a large polished table that would seat ten or twelve in front of a picture window overlooking the courtyard between the new and old buildings. Hauck took a seat at one side of the table. Instead of sitting across from him, Naomi pulled up the adjacent chair and swung it around to face him.

She had bright, intelligent eyes.

“I guess it was you who spoke with Leslie Donovan?” Hauck said to her.

She nodded. “And Detective Campbell of the NYPD. Sharp as a tack, that man.” She rolled her eyes. He liked her even more. “I’d like to record this, if it’s okay. Your call. Technically, you’re not under any official obligation to do so. Although we both know I could have a judge’s writ to
make
it official in about a quarter of an hour if you choose to decline.”

“You had me at ‘sharp as a tack,’” Hauck said with a smile. “Go ahead. It would be good, however, if whatever I say could be kept clear of my current employers, only so I have a job to go back to when we finish up, if that’s okay.”

The agent took out a small digital recorder from her briefcase. “You seem to be eliminating that prospect rather well on your own,” she said, matching his smile.

“Touché.”

She flicked on the recorder. “Anyway, it’s a deal,” she said, adjusting the volume and placing it between them. “I’d like to go back over a few details of what you said in the other room, but first, it would be good to get a few things out on the table. You’ve never met either Mr. Glassman or Mr. Donovan, is that correct?”

“Never.” Hauck shook his head.

“But you did have a connection to Mr. Glassman’s wife? I think her name was April?”

“Yes,” Hauck said. “I knew her several years ago, before I even moved up to Greenwich. It’s what first made me look into her murder.”

Naomi Blum turned off the recorder. “Do you mind characterizing that relationship on the record?”

“I’m not sure what bearing it has on the case.”

“It has the bearing that it will help eliminate any suspicion that your motives in looking into her death had any connection to her husband,” she said.

“Okay.” Hauck shrugged. “What the hell…” Agent Blum turned the machine back on. Hauck noticed that her fingers were slim and graceful and her nails brightly polished, a stylish brown to match a highlight in her hair. She restated the question.

“We were friends,” Hauck answered. “We met as part of a support group for handling depression under the care of a Doctor Paul Rose in Manhattan.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I had lost a daughter in an accident, and my marriage had fallen apart. I left the force. It was part of my union separation agreement. I stayed in the group for around four months. April—Ms. Glassman,” Hauck corrected himself, “she helped me back onto my feet.” The rest he felt he could leave out. “After I left, I never saw her again until years later, here in Greenwich. On the street. And only one time. That was three years ago. But what happened to her”—he wet his lips—“I couldn’t put that aside.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Picking up where we were before, you had never been to Mr. Donovan’s place of residence, the place where he died, prior to the conversation you had with his wife, Leslie, in her apartment, after his death?”

“No, I had not.”

“And you claim you have no idea how the pen found by the NYPD at the place of Mr. Donovan’s apparent suicide, with the logo of the Talon Group, the company you work for, got there?”

He shook his head. “None.”

“Even if, after testing, your fingerprints turn out to be on the pen?”

“Especially if my prints turn out to be on it,” he said. “If that’s the case, the pen could have come from a variety of sources. From a jacket. Directly from my desk. A business meeting…”

“Why would someone be interested in placing a pen that could be tied back to you at the scene where an unrelated person took his own life?”

“The obvious thought might be that someone was trying to set me up.”

“Set you up?”
The Treasury agent jotted on her pad. “For what purpose, Mr. Hauck?”

“My guess, since it would likely never be enough on its own to warrant any indictment, would be to distract me from linking the deaths of Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan.”

“You said inside you were looking into a person’s background on behalf of your firm? You referred to him as Subject A?”

“Confidentially, Agent Blum. I could get into a boatload of trouble if that got out.”

“You’re already in a sizable amount of trouble, Mr. Hauck. You’ve illegally obtained private phone records. You’re being looked into by the NYPD. I don’t know what your definition of a boatload is, but if I were you, I’d start to look at me as the person who’s going to get you out.”

He could have asked for an attorney. For a guarantee against further prosecution. But he decided there was no gain. He had done nothing wrong. Whoever was trying to steer him off, he had to trust someone, he realized. Agent Blum seemed capable and earnest. She might as well be the one.

“His name is Thibault,” Hauck said. He spelled it out. “First name Dieter. He also goes by Dani.”

“This Mr. Thibault is an American citizen?” Naomi Blum asked, making a note on her pad.

“Dutch. Or at least, that’s what he claims. His passport is Dutch. He might also have a Belgian one as well. Of course, that’s only the beginning.” He shook his head and smiled.

“So what is it people might want to distract you from, Mr. Hauck? Take me through.”

He did. Starting in his office with Merrill Simons. Then Thibault. The Conyers Farm photo—Thibault’s connection to Glassman. Knowing he could get himself fired for what he was divulging, for going around Foley—and probably would. Finally Thibault’s connection to Donovan, the phone calls to the super’s office where the second trader died.

Agent Blum made notes. She could take it from here. She had the resources on the highest levels. Find out who Thibault was. Subpoena the security video in Donovan’s building. Trace it back to Cat Rock Road. The black SUVs. Find the guy with the red knotted hair and the tat. Maybe a hundred ways everything could be tied to Thibault. What his motives were. Where it all led from there.

April. Find who killed her.

Naomi listened, making occasional notes. She asked astute questions. Her sharp eyes deepened as the links to Thibault grew more clear. When he was done, around forty minutes later, she thanked him. Made copies of what he’d found. He felt a little deflated when it was over. After giving up everything he knew. He realized that for four weeks his juices had been running.

And he realized how much he had missed that. How good it felt again.

When she was arranging her notes, Hauck said, “I’ve given what I have to you. Now you owe me a couple.”

Naomi Blum turned to him. “Okay.”

“The first is, how did
you
get onto this? You visited Donovan’s widow. That was a police matter, not Treasury. You weren’t looking into either of these people. How did you know?”

The agent shrugged. “When two high-level money managers die and both their firms fall apart due to their actions, it’s my job to check it out.”

“What do you think is happening?”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid that’s one I can’t fully answer right now.” The agent started to get up. “What’s the second question? You said there were two.”

Hauck placed his hand on her arm, stopping her. “I want to stay involved.”

“Stay in?”

“I have a reason to keep looking into Thibault. Without attracting notice. There’s also the chance my firm could even be involved. It won’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

Naomi shook her head. “Look, Mr. Hauck—”

“Ms. Blum…” She sat back down. “These people think I’m onto something. As far as they know I’m only looking into this matter for a client. But that can be useful. Whatever they’re hiding. You can chase down all the money wires, the fake passports, the overheard chatter, the e-mail trails. But I’m already involved.”

“How about I think about it,” the Treasury agent said. “It’s not exactly the policy of the U.S. government to put private citizens at that kind of risk.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“I said I’ll think about it,” the agent said, standing up. “Look, Mr. Hauck, I know your background, and the United States of America owes you its full appreciation. But we have people who handle this sort of thing. Interagency people. The kind of money it takes to do what they’re doing—it’s the kind of money that takes on governments, Mr. Hauck, not suburban police departments. I know what you’ve already done, but to put it plainly,” the pretty agent said, looking at him directly, “you have no idea the shit-storm of trouble staying in this could bring on.”

Hauck stood up as well, opening the door for her. “I don’t mind trouble.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

T
here might have been a time, years back, Jack “Red” O’Toole reflected, riding the Metro-North train to Greenwich, that his soul was worth saving.

The teenage girl texting on her BlackBerry reminded him of someone from long ago. A girl he knew back in high school. Desiree Flynn. When he played linebacker at Haysville High in Kansas and the thought of stuffing the line and knocking heads for the blue and white of Kansas State was something he could reach out and touch. When maybe a job at a lathe at Great Plains Tool Company like his father had was a dream worth living for.

But that was before the sky grew dark and an F5 tornado crashed through town one May afternoon, leveling half of it, including the die plant.

Red O’Toole’s parents too.

Before he left to go into the army and developed a deft touch with an M4. Before IEDs exploded in his ears or, amped on Dianabol, he chased a fleeing insurgent into a stone hut in Hilla and emptied his mag on six “unfriendlies” sitting there—who turned out to be a family at the dinner table and their ten-year-old son, who’d been chasing after a soccer ball.