The Lasko Tangent (8 page)

After a moment I stood, staring at the swans and the flowers in the Garden. Then I turned back to the street. Gubner was still stooped by Lehman’s body, standing guard. The squad cars arrived in a squeal of sirens, with an ambulance. Three policemen got out and squatted around Lehman. A white-coated man probed him with his fingers. Then he and another man lay Lehman on a stretcher and bore him to the ambulance. The ambulance moved away. No sirens and no hurry.

Gubner and the cops drifted to the sidewalk. It all had a strange, dreamlike quality, as if I were stoned, watching a movie. The street was eerily empty, like a stage without props or actors. The only trace of Lehman was the splotch of blood.

I liked being alone. But I forced myself to cross the street. A crowd had gathered. One of the cops was asking questions, a big sharp-eyed man with dark sideburns and mustache and a low voice. He turned to me. I pulled myself together, and told him who we were. What had I seen, he asked. It was a Cadillac, I thought, late model. I hadn’t seen the hit-skip driver. Or the license plate. I guessed the car was going thirty-five, forty, and accelerating fast.

He was watching me closely. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think he was murdered.”

The cop’s eyes narrowed. He turned and barked something to another cop. Then they trundled Gubner and me into the back of a squad car. A crew-cut cop drove while the sharp-eyed one asked some more questions. We didn’t speak unless spoken to. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had stumbled into a surrealistic film. Gubner leaned against the corner of the car, white and waxen. We had stepped outside of our profession. And Lehman was dead.

The police station was down Berkeley Street in a squatty grey building. The police ushered us into the main room. It was sterile and badly lit, a paranoid’s cop-house. A fat sergeant with lifeless grey eyes sat at a desk behind a rail. The sharp-eyed cop disappeared. When he returned he told us we were seeing Lieutenant Di Pietro. He steered us down a dark corridor to an office on the left, and opened the door.

The room was light green, except where paint flaked off the walls, which was all over. Di Pietro sat behind a beat-up metal desk, next to a picture of a plump woman and three black-haired kids, and in front of a map of his precinct. He asked us to sit.

He was in his forties, with dark, curly hair, swept back. He had a kind of ridged, Castilian nose, hooded eyes, and a thin mouth set in a seamed face. “You gentlemen are both lawyers?” he said abruptly.

We nodded. The word “lawyer” had a dry sound, as if Di Pietro had just swallowed something disagreeable. I sensed bleakly that he would have preferred two run-of-the-mill murderer-rapists. “Sergeant Brooks”—he gestured at our sharp-eyed guide—“says that you think this is a homicide, Mr. Paget. I’d like you to tell me why.”

I felt Gubner’s eyes on me. “Do you know a man named William Lasko?” I asked.

The hooded eyes turned vague; evidently Di Pietro was not a reader. I went on. “Lasko’s a big industrialist here in Boston. We got a telephone tip a few days ago concerning some illegal transactions in his company’s stock. Then Lehman contacted me through Mr. Gubner and asked for a meeting. I flew up to Boston and met with both of them at the Ritz. Lehman was controller of Lasko’s company. He didn’t know about the stock. But he said he had something on Lasko—something worse. He never got to tell us what it was.”

Di Pietro inspected me wordlessly. I talked at the impassive face. “The thing is this. Lasko doesn’t need problems with the government. If he does, Justice may stick by its antitrust suit. That means Lasko may lose part of his company. And Lehman had something bad on him. As I recall, that’s known as motive.”

“What else?”

The stiff face was beginning to anger me. “Look, Lieutenant, how many pedestrians get run down in front of the Ritz at forty miles an hour? By hit-skip drivers in late model Cadillacs that accelerate instead of brake? Show me another and I’ll buy two tickets to the Policemen’s Ball.”

Di Pietro snapped at the holes in my argument. “Mr. Paget, I was thinking about motive when you were in prep school. Tell me this. What was Lehman going to tell you? Who drove the car? Whose car was it? How did Lasko find out about the meeting, or where it was going to happen?”

It was the last question that made me sick. “If you find the Cadillac,” I parried, “the rest may come easier. Lehman had to have left some marks.”

Di Pietro looked from me to Gubner. “Was Mr. Lehman a friend of yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gubner replied in a far-off voice. In our own ways, Di Pietro and I had started to look forward. Gubner was still looking back.

The contrast seemed to impress Di Pietro. He turned to me. “We were talking about motive. We’re not geared to come up with a motive on a man like this Lasko. I’m not a stock market wizard.” That was obvious. Still, the admission seemed to cost him something; the voice had trailed off unhappily. It struck me that he had been talking like a cop talks to a lawyer. And that I hadn’t helped.

“And I’m not a criminologist. But I can keep pushing and give you what I get.”

Di Pietro nodded stiffly. Then he stepped back into the safety of his own routine. “First you and your friend give us a complete statement. And don’t leave anything out.”

This last was said to me with the unblinking stare. Either I was touchy, or Di Pietro guessed that I was holding back on something. The possibility suggested dimensions to him that I hadn’t considered. I switched subjects. “I’d like some help from you, too. Sort of a trade-off.”

His voice was noncommittal. “We’ll see how it works out. But don’t get your ass in a wringer, playing detective. You’re not a cop.”

The thought seemed to give him some satisfaction. He stood up. We exchanged telephone numbers and a wary handshake. Gubner did the same, belatedly. Then Sergeant Brooks led us away.

They took our statements in a pale green room with a metal lamp hung from the ceiling. Then the crew-cut cop drove us back to the Ritz. Gubner brooded out the window. I wasn’t much better. My game with McGuire had turned into murder.

Giving the statement had made me feel more organized. But it didn’t help with anything else. Lehman’s chances had run out.

I figured Lasko had killed him. Nothing else made much sense. The question was how he had known to do it.

There were a couple of possibilities. I didn’t like them at all.

Ten

Gubner and I got out at the Ritz and wandered aimlessly through the lobby. We passed the bar without looking in, both of us carrying the weight of unsaid things. I decided to get them out.

“Let’s talk, Marty.”

He gave me a resentful look, like a trapped animal. Then he nodded. “OK, my room. But not long.”

We went to his room. I selected one of two matched blue chairs and turned on all the lights I could reach, to push away the police station. Gubner fell into his chair with a thick-bodied slump. He looked like a man who could use a drink. But this wasn’t the kind of tough day you could ease away with gin. I felt sad and helpless.

“This is pretty worthless, Marty, but I’m sorry.”

Condolences didn’t interest him much, especially from me. The useless words hung in the air. Gubner looked at the wall with an air of deliberate choice.

“OK, let’s have it.” The defensive sharpness in my voice surprised me. He turned on me with tired distaste.

“How did they know about the meeting?”

I wondered how he was so sure of the answer. “You can turn off your spotlight. I didn’t tell anyone outside of my agency. Try Lehman or yourself.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said distinctly.

“That leaves Lehman.” I said it with the hollow feeling that Gubner had an answer.

“I talked to Alec once. He called from a pay phone on the Mass. Turnpike. No tap possible. Sorry.” His voice wasn’t sorry at all.

I decided to play out the string. “What about meeting you? That could have looked strange.”

Gubner’s eyes flashed impatience. “I had lunch with Alec about seven, eight times a year. Almost every time I came to Boston. I was an old friend. Everyone knows that. And Alec swore he hadn’t told anyone else about meeting you. Not Valerie. Not anyone.”

I believed him. I could see Lehman cowering in a lonely phone booth before I could imagine him calling Gubner from his office. His sad afternoon apologia had the freshness of catharsis.

“Do you know anything more than what he told us?”

He shook his head. “Not about what he had on Lasko.”

I got up. “I can’t help you, Marty. But I may want to talk to you later—to get your help.”

His eyebrows raised in bitter inquiry. “Why should I?”

“You’ll have to answer that question yourself.” I let myself out, went down to my room, flopped on the bed, and stared at the bare ceiling, trying to pull my scattered thoughts together. A slow, sick anger spread through me like nausea. Lasko, Catlow, and a friend of theirs paraded around in my stomach. The phone rang.

It was McGuire. I looked at my watch. 7:30.

“Chris. I was at the office late. How was your wild goose chase?” His voice sounded reedy through the bad connection.

“Not good.”

“Cop out on you?”

“Not exactly. Someone ran him over.”

Silence. “You’re kidding me.”

The anger rose and gripped my throat. “You want pictures? He’s dead.”

The phone conveyed reedy awe. “Jesus. What happened?”

“He got hit-skipped in front of the Ritz-Carlton. He didn’t look like anything human.”

“Who was it?”

“Alexander Lehman. Controller at Lasko Devices.”

“That’s awful.” It was hard to tell how he felt. “What’s being done?”

“The police are looking into it.”

“Can you help them?”

“I’ve given them a statement.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“No.”

“What happened exactly?”

I told him. He was silent. “Well,” he finally said, “there’s nothing for you to do then except come home.”

“I guess not.”

“OK. Come see me as soon as you get in.”

I hesitated. “I may take an extra day in case something comes up.”

“Listen, it’s a horrible thing. But don’t fool around up there unless the police want you. We need you back here.”

“I’ll see you later, Joe.” I slammed the phone down, and started thinking.

My thoughts began to mesh. McGuire had never called me out of town before. I remembered that he had let me meet Lehman after a sham argument. And there was the lunch with Catlow. Whatever I was going to do, I didn’t have much time to do it. I jumped up and left the room.

Gubner was still in. He let me in, his dull stare following me to the chair. I steeled myself. “I want you to take me to Lehman’s place tomorrow.”

Hostility changed to shock. “You’re out of your mind.” The stock phrase seemed to be all he could think to say.

“It’s the only way. Lehman said he had a memo and I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

Gubner half-rose from his chair. “You fucking ghoul. You honestly think I’d let you bother Valerie and the kids after this?”

I stayed calm. “If I have to, I’ll subpoena her to Washington.”

His voice shook with disbelief. “I’ll take you to court on it.”

“Which will only upset her more.”

He stood up. “You know, I hadn’t realized what a prick you really are.” He said it as if he had just turned over a rock and found me there, looking up.

“Save the bouquets. You’ve been sitting here sniping at me to indulge yourself. You’ve got a dead friend, and you won’t help. I tell you, man, it’s pathetic.”

My words stung his eyes. “I don’t give a shit about your investigation. Alec’s dead. What else matters?”

“Is that your position on Buchenwald too, Marty?”

It was a raw remark. Gubner stood staring at his clenched fist. I got ready to dodge the punch which had been coiling all evening. But it never came. I figured I knew why. I spoke with a toughness I didn’t quite feel. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Lehman got killed because you didn’t bring him to Washington. Maybe you blew it.” Gubner shot me a look of pained anger. I went on. “You figured that if his information was good, you’d threaten to have him take the Fifth unless we gave him immunity for testifying. That you’d have me come up here and then run back to McGuire, all excited. It might have worked. Except now we’re out of luck, especially Lehman. And you’re trying to push it all off on me. That’s a chickenshit play, and I’m not going to play along. Try a psychiatrist.”

Gubner’s face collapsed in a tired, confused look. I chose a more even tone. “I’ll apologize now, Marty. You can decide to or not, later on. I really don’t care. But Lehman’s death isn’t your personal possession. And sitting on your ass is a crappy memorial.”

Gubner had decided not to hit me. But my agency was in the way. He shook his head slowly.

I had to commit. “OK, you think someone at my place tipped Lasko. But there’s no way you could ever find out. I’m going to try.”

Gubner sat down as if someone had sucked the starch out of him. He sat, elbows on knees, with his head half-covered in his hands. Then he raised a blank, weary face. “I’ll call Valerie in the morning. Whatever she wants. If she’ll see you, OK. If she wants to fight you, I’ll fight you. Either way.”

“All right.”

Gubner looked back at the wall. “Now take off, Chris. I don’t want to see you again tonight.”

I knew what he meant. I left without a word.

I paced my room restlessly, unnerved by the stillness, the sense of being alone. I had lawyer’s nerves and instincts, for maneuvering and bluffing. But always within the rules. The rules made lawyers safe; they cut you off from the nasty parts of life. Such as murder. Lehman’s mangled body had made me feel worthless and frightened.

I tried thinking. The first thing I thought was that I was afraid of dying, afraid that if I kept up someone would kill me. That didn’t say much for me, but there it was. I tried thinking about someone else.

There was McGuire. He was in touch with Catlow. Feiner and Mary Carelli had known I was in Boston; only McGuire had known I was going to the Common. Perhaps he hadn’t counted on murder. If he wanted to be a commissioner, that might be reason to call Catlow. And then Lasko would know where to look for Lehman.