Undue Influence (15 page)

Suddenly her look becomes more serious. “Who told you that? Have you been talking to Mr. Vega?”

“We have talked. But he didn’t tell me. He didn’t have to. Jack’s a natty dresser,” I tell her, “and fargos tend to make a bulge. He shot a button into the next county,” I tell her. “And I got a glimpse.”

“Oh, shit.” She’s looking at me from the corner of one eye, like she only half believes this. Then she starts to laugh at the mind picture drawn here, her napkined hand in front of her mouth. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” I go along with her, and we both end up laughing.

“I can’t believe this. What an idiot,” she says.

“Well, Jack wouldn’t be my pick for an informant,” I tell her.

If she thinks he’s bad now, wait until she gets him on the stand. In front of a jury, Jack is likely to possess the credibility of Jell-O a lot of wiggles and all transparent. “You understand I can’t confirm or deny,” she says.

She already has, but I tell her I understand.

“Who else suspects this?”

“Some of the press believe he’s the target of an investigation. They’re just a little behind the curve,” I tell her. She looks at me, and I can tell she’s wondering how long the secret is good with me. “How long has this been going on?” I ask her. “Jack’s part in your investigation.”

“This is very awkward. You put me in a spot,” she says. “Who would have thought that his wife would be killed in the middle of it?”

“See it from my perspective. The man’s married to the victim. He’s a principal player. I suppose I could get a subpoena,” I tell her, “but it would be easier for both of us if I didn’t have to.”

“On what grounds?”

“On grounds that if Jack was turning state’s evidence in a major federal undercover investigation, it’s conceivable he could have been the target of a murder attempt the night his wife was killed.”

“You’re not serious?” she says. “It’s only a white-collar investigation.” She says this like these people are all uppercrust. Like they do all their crimes only with pen and pad, and only on starched white linen. “Like none of them ever panic?” I say. “Maybe snuff one another to keep a secret?”

She’s shaking her head in disbelief.

“The jury would certainly have a right to hear it,” I tell her.

“You believe that’s what happened?” she says.

I make a face. “Whether I believe it or not is not the issue. To get a subpoena all I have to do is show relevance. And I think a court would agree that this is relevant.”

“I should have known better. He couldn’t even turn it on and off at the right times.” She’s talking about Jack and his electronic hip pad. “Half his conversations are things we didn’t want or need. Calls to check on his laundry and have his hair styled.”

“Sounds like Jack fell early?” I say.

“First fish in the net,” she says. “So he got a good deal.”

“And let me guess. You’ve been turning the screws on him pretty hard?”

“He folded like a house of cards. Told us things we would never have discovered in two lifetimes. And when he fessed up, he cried like a baby. Seems he was having some personal problems of his own,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Marital,” she says. “I almost felt sorry for him.”

“And how did you know this?”

“I can’t say any more. Until I get authorization,” she says. “Do I have your word you won’t say anything to anyone until I talk to my superiors?”

“I’m not interested in saving Jack’s bacon. But I need to know what’s going on.”

“Do I have your word?”

I nod.

“Maybe we can cooperate, wrap up our investigation quickly before you go to trial,” she says. “If we can get indictments, it won’t matter if Vega’s cover is blown,” she says. “Can we meet tomorrow night?” she says. “It’ll give me a chance to talk to my people.” I nod. “Whatever,” I say.

This is fine with me. I have no stake in Jack. They can have his ass, roast it over an open flame for all I care. What I want to know is what kind of pressure they were putting on him. At this point I have two theories of what might have happened that night, only one of which I have told to Dana.
CRAPTE
“The Resolution Trust Corporation,” says Harry. “What?”

“The
RTC
. The agency that took over the bankrupt savings and loans.” Harry is driving as I am looking at him from the front passenger seat of his car. He is telling me who holds the mortgage on George and Kathy Merlow’s house. Harry’s run up a dead end with the realtor. “What’s more, the agent said they never heard of George or Kathy Merlow. The sales listing was signed by some swag from the
RTC
, part of the excess real estate the agency picked up when they were shutting down the thrifts,” he says. According to Harry, this property, the Merlows’ house, has languished on their rolls of unsold assets for some time. “How did the Merlows come to live there?”

“Your guess,” he says. “The realtor thinks it was probably rented out.

He says that’s not uncommon. Public agencies often do it, he says, while trying to sell property they hold. It defrays expenses.”

“Where do we go from here?” I ask him.

“I got a call in to the
RTC
,” says Harry. “Left a message on their voice mail. They’ll probably call us back in the next life,” he tells me. In the meantime Harry is driving me to the old downtown post office, the place where, according to neighbors, Kathy Merlow worked. “This employment is past tense,” he says. Harry’s talked to a supervisor.

“They haven’t seen her in almost a month,” he says. “Not a word. She just didn’t show up for work one day, and hasn’t been back since.”

“Let me guess. Right after Melanie Vega was murdered?”

“Next day,” says Harry. Kathy Merlow vanished like a ghost. I’m not sure what we hope to find at the post office, but Harry thinks it might be worth nosing around. He’s made an appointment. “What about George Merlow?” I ask.

“If he worked, it was out of the house. Neighbors said they never saw him leave. Once in a blue moon,” says Harry. “Like the guy was a recluse.”

“That house,” I say. “Pretty expensive digs for a guy without a job and a wife who works at the post office.”

“Maybe he clipped coupons,” says Harry. “Big stock portfolio.”

“And his wife needed to work at the post office? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe with the government for a landlord the rent wasn’t much,” says Harry. “You don’t expect em to charge fair rental value?” Harry sneers at the mere thought of a rational act by a government agency. A lot of maybes, but no answers that make any sense. We pull up and park in front of a meter at the curb. Harry pumps three quarters and watches as the dial barely budges. He hits me for some change. I give him two more.

“We’ll have to work fast,” he says.

We’re up the stairs, through the heavy bronze doors.

The old post office is one of those structures built during the time of the
WPA
, when only the government had money and wage scales were on a par with the pay for the pyramids. Dark, with dated artistic touches, more marble than a mausoleum, it is now a tomb for the unknown bureaucrats who toil here. We take the elevator to the second floor.

Harry’s reading from a scrap of paper, a note with the man’s name and room number. He finds the number, 224, a door with a translucent window, lots of chicken wire in glass, and a transom over the top of the door that looks like it’s been stuck open since the forties. It’s too dark to tell if they’ve painted the corridor since then, but my guess would be no from the state of the dingy walls. Harry opens the door and we go inside. The room is immense, and mostly empty. There are two metal government desks, one of which is vacant. At the other sits a thin Black man, pencil mustache, maybe in his early fifties. Short-cropped graying hair. He looks up at us. “Looking for Mr. Goldbloom,” says Harry. “You found him.” The guy gets up and Harry introduces us.

“Oh, yes. You called. Lawyers,” he says, “about some case.” Harry gives the guy his card and plucks one from a holder on the man’s desk, government issue recycled stock, the gray cast of cardboard: “Cyril Goldbloom, Postal Inspector.” Leave it to Harry to find a cop.

“What’s this about?” he says.

Harry refreshes his recollection, their telephone conversation.

“Oh, yeah. You called this morning. Something about a criminal case.

Looking for one of our people. A personnel matter,” he says. Relief on Mr. Goldbloom’s face. He’s found the right pigeonhole for our problem.

He sits back at his desk and motions for us to join him. I take a chair on the other side of the desk. Harry opts to put one cheek on the empty desk across the way and watch from there. Goldbloom opens a top drawer and pulls out a form, more small print than the Bible. “Employee’s name?” he says.

We’re going to do this by the numbers. Harry looks at me. I can tell he is thinking profanities. “Kathy Merlow,” I say.

“That’s right. I remember,” he says. He writes her name in the block at the top of the page. Now he’s writing Harry’s name, address, and phone number from the business card, putting it in a little box on the form.

“Purpose of the inquiry?” he says.

I look at Harry, shrug my shoulders. “Legal investigation,” I tell him.

“Your relationship to the employee?” He looks at me, then to Harry.

“Strangers,” I tell him.

“Emm.” There doesn’t seem to be a little box labeled “strangers.” He labors over this for several seconds, then finally scribbles a note at the bottom of the form. He has a dozen more questions, most of them inane. Then he looks up.

Task done. “We’ll file this,” he says. “As I explained when you called” he’s looking at Harry “Mrs. Merlow no longer works here. We’ll check her personnel file to see if there’s any information that we’re free to disclose.”

“Can we look at the file?” says Harry.

“No. No. Personal and confidential,” he says. “Federal law. There could be all kinds of stuff in there.” That’s what Harry’s hoping for. “What can you tell us?” I say.

“That’s about it,” he says. “What position did she hold? You oughta be able to tell us that,” says Harry. He makes a face, thinking, like maybe what he’s considering is against his better judgment, giving information to citizens. Then he reaches for one of the lower drawers of his desk and pulls out a series of typed sheets, stapled together in the upper left-hand corner. This is an impromptu phone directory of some kind, what is given to employees to find each other. He flips through some pages. “Here it is. Kathy Merlow. Customer Relations,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Customer complaints. That kind of thing.”

“Did she transfer in from another post office?”

“That I don’t know.”

“She was only in town a short while.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“She worked in this building?”

“Uh-huh. Downstairs,” he says. “Now that’s about all I can tell you.”

“How long before we get a reply?” says Harry. “To your form. Maybe a forwarding address for Mrs. Merlow?” Goldbloom makes a face. “Could take a while. Has to go over to the main branch. Postmaster will have to review it. Personnel Department,” he says. “So we could die of old age?”

says Harry.

Goldbloom laughs. Staring all day at four dingy walls, his humor threshold is low. Harry’s getting hot. “If we were the cops you’d show us her personnel file today, wouldn’t you?”

“That’d be a different matter,” says Goldbloom. “An official investigation,” he says.

“Would a subpoena do any good?” I ask him.

“Oh, sure. Then we’d be free to show you the file.” He smiles at us.

“One of the exemptions in the law, a court order,” he says. “I’d like to help, but my hands are tied,” he says. Dark eyebrows arching. “Sure,” says Harry.

We say good-bye and head out.

We’re halfway to the elevator. “We get a subpoena,” I tell Harry.

He has a better idea. We’re down the elevator and out the door, and Harry’s not headed for the car. Instead I’m tracking him down the street, along the side of the building, which covers half the block. In the rear is an alley that cuts the block in two. From Seventh Street this runs downhill and back up to Eighth Street on the other side. At the lowest point in the alley is a loading dock, several small postal vans backed up to this. “No law against talking,” says Harry. We’re down the alley and up on the dock before I can say a word. A couple of carriers are loading mail. They ignore us, maybe hope we will go away, pain-in-the-ass citizens looking for mail. Harry walks up to one of them.

“We’re here to pick up a package,” he says.

“You go to the window out front,” says the guy. He’s not even looking at Harry, still loading his crates of letters, his back to us. He flings the little flats of letters into the back of the truck like some Bedouin ffipping camel dung into a fire. “They told us to come here. It’s a big package,” says Harry. “We got a call some time ago from Kathy Merlow,” he says. “I think one of her friends here, I can’t remember the name, is supposed to be holding it for us. Could you check?” he says. The guy finally straightens up, gives Harry a look and the government service sigh. You can tell what’s going through his mind. “Like world crisis, national calamity, a package lost at the post office.”

“Gimme a minute,” he says. He loads two more crates in the back of the van, empties the little hand dolly, and turns for the building and another load. Harry’s on his heels.

The guy turns.

“Stay here.” He freezes Harry with a look. Then he disappears through a swinging door into the building. Harry gives me a devilish grin. Even in the short time that she worked here, Kathy Merlow must have made at least one friend, somebody this guy will run to who would come outside to see who is using her name. It’s a couple of minutes, Harry and I killing time on the dock, dodging other carriers with crates full of mail, happy to ignore us so long as we reciprocate. Finally the carrier comes out. I think he’s alone. Then I see her, a woman, more properly a young girl, lost in his shadow. She could be anything from sixteen to twenty-two, not so much slender as gaunt. Dressed in the blue uniform shirt of the Postal Service a size too big, the shirttail hanging outside of her dark trousers nearly to the white tennis shoes on her feet. Her mousy brown locks are braided into two pigtails that jet from either side of her head and explode in a frizz of hair just beyond the rubber bands holding them together. In a rational world someone might be pressing the Postal Service under the child labor laws. She has a pale complexion dotted with a few freckles, and all the hope she can muster resides in oval brown eyes that seem to belong to somebody else. She has the look of an urchin from a Dickens fable that ends badly. But one glance and I know, that whether locked in hell or the bowels of the federal post office, from what I remember of Kathy Merlow, this woman and she are likely soulmates. “You looking’ for Kathy?” she says. Harry nods. “She don’t work here anymore.”