The Lasko Tangent (18 page)

He steered me toward the living room. I looked around. Furniture sparse, mostly antiques, very tasteful and not too much. A lot of it I remembered from the old house.

“You’ve done a nice job with this place,” I said.

He nodded his thanks. “It’s given me something to do since Martha died. That’s when I decided to move here. Cheryl’s husband is with the State Department, you know, and they’ve just had a second boy. This is close enough to Chevy Chase to see them and far enough away not to be a bother.” And farther away from Boston, I thought, but didn’t say so.

He was taking stock of me. “You look well, Chris. Older. Old enough,” he added with a smile, “to have a drink. Gin and tonic?”

He was proud of those, I remembered. “Fine,” I said, and followed him into the kitchen. We chatted, catching up while he worked on the drinks. He made them carefully, measuring and stirring, as if sealing an act of hospitality. Then he cut the lime into slices, and squeezed them with a careful, practiced twist which feared the first betrayal of old age. It was that, oddly, that reminded me that I had missed him.

He was still peering at the drinks. “Do you ever hear from Brett?”

I shook my head. “No. How is she?”

“I don’t really know.” He glanced up sideways. “No, I suppose I do know. That’s one reason I live here instead of there.”

Brett was his favorite, I knew. I tried joking. “Vietnam is over now. I would think you’re out of things to argue about.”

He smiled fleetingly. “I tell myself that wishing for past things is the first sign of senility. But I remember that you and Brett talked, communicated.” His voice lingered on the last word. “She and Roger just play act.”

I looked down at the drink. “There were a lot of things about it that were my fault. But that’s not one of them.”

He gave me a quick, questioning glance, then touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry to bring it up,” he said in a dismissing tone. “What can I help you with?”

The chips were in a sandwich bag in my pocket. I pulled them out and spilled them on his kitchen table. They scattered with a hollow rattle. He raised an inquiring eyebrow in their direction.

“I need them analyzed.”

“With what in mind?”

“Are you familiar with chips manufactured by Yokama Electric?”

He nodded. “I worked with them at the company.”

“Can you get a hold of some Yokama chips and compare them? I need to know if these are the same.”

“I can. But I probably can’t answer until Monday. Why do you need to know?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I’m a little out of bounds on this one.”

He made a satiric face. “Top secret?”

“Something like that. To do this, does anyone at Yokama need to know?”

“Not if that’s important.”

“It is.”

“All right then. Can you stay?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m under some pressure right now.”

Concern grazed his face. “Anything I could help with?”

“You already have.”

We talked a moment longer. Then he walked me to the door and gave me a firm handshake. “I’ve missed our talks, Chris.”

So had I. “I’ll come out again.”

“Good.” He waved as I went down the pathway, then turned back to the empty, quiet house and shut the door.

I rode back to the agency, trying to think of the case. It made me face something unpleasant: that I was wishing it was someone else’s problem. Sometimes I didn’t know whether I was trying to avenge Lehman, save Martinson, or catch up to my troubles before they caught me. I went to my office—thinking of Brett, then the case—depressed.

Debbie was waiting with a message. McGuire had called a meeting the next morning. Woods, McGuire, Feiner, and me. I was pondering that when some rodent who processed travel vouchers came quivering through my door. He was wearing plaid pants and white patent leather loafers and blinked a lot, for no particular reason except maybe the glare from his shoes. He was very disturbed by my expense report for Boston and couldn’t reimburse me until I explained. Why, he wondered, had it been necessary to stay in Boston overnight? Because the blizzard had closed the airport, I countered. He started to lecture me on the difficulties of his job, which I should take more seriously. I amused myself by wondering what Martinson was up to while I performed such socially useful work. Then I explained that my witness had been run over by a car. I was sure he understood that made my job more difficult. First I had to help remove the body from Arlington Street, and then the tiresome police wanted to rehash it all. So I hadn’t been able to see the widow until the next day and, of course, I’d wanted to give her a proper mourning period. Did he want a memo explaining all this, I wondered, or would autopsy photos suffice? By this time he was green, and I felt a little sorry for him. Dealing with madmen wasn’t in his job description. He said he would think about it and backed out, looking worried.

Robinson passed him on the way in. “What happened at the hospital?”

“The doctors say I’m OK. No fracture.”

Robinson looked pleased. “That’s good.” He checked his watch. “Let’s call it quits, Chris. I’ll run you home. You’ve earned it.”

That sounded good. But I hadn’t talked to Woods yet, about Green or St. Maarten. Robinson waited while I called him. I struck out. Woods was testifying on the Hill on corporate payoffs, then giving a speech in New York. He would be back in the morning. I gave up and accepted the ride.

We walked to the garage, got in his car, and headed toward my place. “So what are you going to do about all this?” he asked.

“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow. Woods, McGuire, and Feiner. Maybe I can get someone to wake up.”

“You might try being nice to McGuire.” I looked over at him. He wasn’t joking. “You know, Chris, you’re a natural target. There’s nothing about you that asks for help. You go your own way. Your better side most people don’t see because you’re so damned private. And you’ve got no use for the little accommodations people make for each other so they don’t have to look at their lives.”

I felt touchy. “Just where is all this getting us?”

Robinson glanced over. “Just this. A requirement for liking you is for people to like themselves. If they don’t, there’s too much in you that feeds the tapeworm most people carry with them. Look at you and McGuire. You’re comfortable with yourself in a way that McGuire will never be. You’ve never scrapped for money, questioned your right to what you wanted, or worried about pleasing anyone. McGuire’s had to do all of that. And you sit there with that you-be-damned expression telling him that it hasn’t meant shit.”

I wanted to tell him what I was holding against McGuire. But I couldn’t. “Look, I never said I was inherently noble. But it’s not my fault that McGuire’s turned into silly putty and the reasons for it—whatever they are—won’t make Lehman less dead.”

“Have it your way.”

“Come off it, Jim. I’ve got a dead witness and another man missing—maybe dead too. And I can’t even find out why. I’m quite a threat to the social fabric.”

Robinson pulled up in front of my place. “Look, you’ve already half-killed yourself. Just what do you want, perfection?”

I opened the door, then leaned back. “No. Just something to halfway justify the splendid opinion I’m supposed to have of myself.”

Robinson gave a tired smile. “OK, Chris. Just take it easy with McGuire. And don’t be too disappointed the first Easter after your death.”

I was amused in spite of it all. And I wanted to talk with him. But the things on which we parted company were the reasons I couldn’t. So I smiled, slapped the hood of his car, and went into my apartment.

I mixed a martini, put on some Chopin, and sat, staring into the empty fireplace. I turned the facts around, but couldn’t quite fit Martinson and Sam Green. What thoughts I had kept evanescing. Martinson could help, if I could find him. If he were alive.

That night there was another call. No words. Just silence, to remind me they were there. I hung up. They didn’t call back.

Twenty-Three

The meeting was scheduled for the next morning. I got to the office and called McGuire’s secretary. It was still on, she said. I was thrilled.

I was stepping out my door when the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Good morning,” Greenfeld said. “Still want the stuff from IRS?”

“Sure.”

“OK. The Lasko Foundation contributed heavily to only one mental health facility in the Boston area. The Loring Sanitarium, outside of Boston. Gave it a half million last year and three hundred fifty thousand the year before.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Lasko’s a nice guy. Don’t know what use you can make of it.”

“I’ll try to think of something. Maybe it’ll come to me the first Easter after my death.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Listen, I appreciate this.”

“Not good enough. You owe me a squash game, at least. 12:30?”

Tuesday, beatings and speeding cars; Friday, squash games. Somewhere my life had stopped making sense. But I owed him.

“OK. I’ve got to run now. Got a meeting.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“I always do,” I said, and hung up.

I made it to the meeting on time. I could tell they were serious; a banged-up coffee pot and Styrofoam cups graced McGuire’s conference table. I poured a cup and glanced around.

Everyone was already there. McGuire occupied his usual place at the head, looking grim and fidgeting with his belt buckle, as if it wouldn’t fit. Feiner perched next to him, wearing a martyr’s grimace and managing to hover while just sitting. Woods sat a little apart and to the middle, as if to get a better view of the battlefield. His expression was one of concerned unconcern, as if he’d been working on it. They seemed to circle each other like strange dogs, without moving at all. I slid in at the far end, facing McGuire.

The coffee tasted foul, and the atmosphere smelled of raw nerve ends. I rarely came out of these meetings as well off as I’d entered, and this one felt even worse. I could sense Lasko’s unseen presence. A harsh sun cut through the window and into my eyes, forcing me to squint.

McGuire cleared his throat. “As you know, Chris broke Sam Green yesterday. We now have testimony that Lasko goosed the price of his stock.”

Woods gave me an approving nod. Feiner picked that up with a nervous half-twitch of his neck. I figured he was still antsy about being one-upped by an anonymous tipster. McGuire droned on. “Lasko apparently found out from Green. His attorney contacted me this morning to discuss settlement.” The flat voice tried to make it all sound like nothing.

I jumped in. “Hang on, Joe. This is a criminal case. Just what are they offering?” Woods’ eyes tracked the exchange like he was watching ping-pong. He turned back to McGuire.

McGuire looked at me for the first time. “Lasko will take an injunction restraining him from such future conduct, without admitting responsibility for Green’s actions.”

I turned to Woods for help. His eyes deflected the glance. I began to feel very hollow. “What’s your recommendation?” I asked McGuire.

“I say we should accept.”

“Are you sure we’re not being too tough? Maybe we should just revoke his visitor’s privileges at Disney World. We could call it ‘Son of Hartex.’”

“Don’t be cute.”

“I’m just curious. Will he agree to any limit on the number of witnesses he kills in any one year?”

“I’m sick of this,” McGuire snapped.

“Look,” I said to Woods, “there’s more to this than stock manipulation or even Lehman.” I paused; I couldn’t reveal the memo, the chips, or my talk with Tracy. That would tip Lasko, perhaps even push him into another murder. But I decided to open up a little, wondering whether each word made me less safe. “That Carib Imports in St. Maarten looks like a dummy. Lasko started it this July, with a guy named Martinson fronting. Lasko paid Martinson a million-five for it. But I can’t find Martinson. He turned up missing as soon as I got there.”

Woods took that in. But McGuire cut me off before he could comment.

“And just how does all this connect?”

“I don’t know. The point is,” I added for Woods, “that this isn’t just a stock manipulation.”

Woods spoke for the first time, to McGuire. “On what basis do you recommend settlement?”

“On practical grounds.” McGuire’s gravelly tone was urgent. “We’ve identified the problem publicly and prevented its recurrence. But we haven’t embarrassed the White House more than necessary. They’ll remember that at budget time.”

I had to hand it to McGuire; he had the cold-eyed pragmatism bit down pat. And he could usually sell it. The reason for Green’s cooperation was clear. Lasko had let Green give us just enough of a case to settle, to keep me from going after the rest.

“What about Chris’s other stuff?” Woods was asking McGuire.

McGuire shrugged. “It’s all speculation. We’ve got police for Lehman. And the rest of it’s off the subject.” Forget it, his voice said. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed this with Catlow.

Woods raised his eyebrows in my direction. “Chris?”

It was no use accusing McGuire of Martinson’s disappearance. Woods wouldn’t buy it, and they could always point to De Jonge. I spoke to Woods. “The night I was in St. Maarten, someone tried to run me over. Later, they knocked me out from behind and ransacked my room.”

Woods sounded shocked. “What happened, for God-sakes?”

I told them. Woods’ expression changed to pained sympathy. “I’m sorry, Chris. Are you all right?” The others mumbled their concern.

I said I was fine. “The point is, there’s violence running through this case, and now there’s a missing man. This Martinson has disappeared.”

Woods leaned over the table. “Any idea where he is?”

I glanced at McGuire, picking my words carefully to protect Tracy—and Martinson himself. “No, I don’t. But it’s clear that there’s a lot to this case, and whatever it is is dangerous.”

“But you don’t know this Martinson is in danger,” Woods said.

“Not in the sense that I can prove it to you. But I believe it.”

“Just what do you suggest?” McGuire asked.