Kiss and Tell (21 page)

“I guess I can understand that. To a point. This is your lucky day, pal. I'm free today, since a trial I had scheduled has been postponed because of the recent bad weather. I'm going to go see my buddies. I want you to go home and spend time with your mother. Can you do that?”

“But I thought—”

“Don't think, Adam. That's what I'm here for. That's why I get paid the big bucks. By the way, who is your father's attorney?”

“Asa Bellamy.”

Sam laughed. And kept on laughing. “I kicked that guy's ass twice in court. And then I battled their firm all the way to the Supreme Court and won my case. Don't sweat those thousand-dollar-an-hour goons. When they go up against the U.S. Justice Department, they will get blown away like a card table in a hurricane.”

Adam just stood there with a stupid look on his face.

“What? What, you didn't think I knew how to kick ass and take names later? I do. But, and this is the important thing: You are not in an adversarial legal position with your father or his lawyers. If things go as I hope, you are a government witness against your father, and the only contact you have with his lawyers is when they take your deposition and cross-examine you during a trial.”

“Okay, Sam, you're the boss. As long as you're sure.” He hugged his old friend, then looked deep into his eyes. “I wish I was half the person you are. I mean that, Sam.”

“I know you do, Adam. Now go on, get out of here, and let me figure out how I'm going to save your ass.”

When the door closed behind Adam, Sam went through Adam's backpack. Everything was there, just as he had said it was. He stuffed the binders and the stapled stacks of forms back into Adam's backpack. Then he picked up the phone and called his friend, Fred Barry Isaacson, on his personal cell phone, knowing he'd answer it. Fred was meant to be a federal agent because, as he said, his initials spelled FBI. Fred was that rare person who had a heart even though he dealt with the underbelly of society.

“Sam, what's up?”

If you only knew.
“Blue Goose in forty minutes.” “Ooh, you're scaring me, Sam. I'll be there.”

And that was it.

The Blue Goose was a dirty dive in a dirty alley in a dirty section of the District. There was no sign on the establishment, just a faded picture of a blue goose. It was owned by a skinny ninety-year-old lady from Poughkeepsie who had made her fortune in bottled water that she sold for ten bucks a pop. While the Blue Goose sold food that was inedible and liquor that was watered down to the nth degree, it was reported by those in authority that the lady from Poughkeepsie was a multimillionaire. When people questioned how that was possible, it was explained that anyone entering the dive had to spend at least ten dollars. The lady from Poughkeepsie was happy to sell bottled water for ten bucks a pop, and her customers obliged. Most times, the bottles were never opened and just recycled.

The Blue Goose was known far and wide in Washington circles. It was the best-kept secret in town that everyone knew about. Congressmen, senators, cabinet members, judges, lawyers, and all manner of snitches met there at one time or another, duded out in baseball caps, wraparound dark glasses, and scuzzy jackets. No one ever looked up, not that there were any cameras; it was just the kind of place a person didn't want to be seen in. The Blue Goose was where business that couldn't bear scrutiny was conducted.

When you left the Blue Goose, you either felt the need for not one but two showers or, at the very least, a dip in the Tidal Basin.

The old lady from Poughkeepsie laughed all the way to the bank, the sack carrying her red book of guests tucked deep inside. There were those who said the red book was worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox.

Sam hated touching the greasy door handle on the equally greasy door, but there was no other way to enter the Blue Goose. He yanked at the bill of his baseball cap, settled his Ray-Bans more firmly on his nose, bit the bullet, and opened the door. The dump was full of people whispering to one another, water bottles all over the place. Sam had his ten-dollar bill in hand, accepted the cold bottle, and looked around for his friend. It was hard to look around without calling attention to himself. When he felt a light touch on his arm, he moved off with Fred toward the back of the long, narrow room.

Fred Barry Isaacson, Mr. FBI himself, was tall and broad shouldered. He had a narrow waist and a runner's legs. He wore a buzz cut that was starting to go gray at the temples. His face was chiseled, and his nose was a study in broken bones. He had a lopsided grin that could lull you into a nice quiet frame of mind or cause terror to run through your veins. “Get to it, Sam. I don't want to spend one more minute in this shithole than I have to. Talk. Now!”

Sam obliged. When he wound down, he broke the rule and looked up at the stupefied expression on Fred's face.

“Are you going through some life crisis, Sam? Is Patty cheating on you? What the hell are you telling me?”

“Well, Mr. Super Agent Isaacson, what I'm trying to tell you is to believe in me, help me out here, and you stand a shot at going up the food chain to maybe Director of the FBI. What I'm about to give you will put you right on top.”

“You're crazy. Who said I wanted to be the Director of the FBI anyway?”

“You did, you big jerk. More than once, as a matter of fact. Granted, you were drunk, but when someone is drunk, they say things they mean.”

“The answer is no.
NO!
Don't give me that crap again that this is a hypothetical. Who is your damn client? I want to know.”

Sam's plump chest puffed out. His dimples deepened. “Sorry. It's hypothetical until you agree to my terms. Take it or leave it, Mr. FBI.”

“Stop calling me that, Sam. I could haul your ass, right now, across to the Hoover Building and hold your ass for seventy-two hours. I can lose your paperwork and keep holding you until I find it. Think about that,
Pudgy!
”

Sam knew he had him right then. He could feel it in his bones. Fred never called him Pudgy until he was ready to cave. “Try it! I'll just put in a call to Lizzie Fox to hop right up here to help defend me. You really want to go there, Fred?”

Fred was so wired up, he actually removed the cap from the water bottle. Crap. He set it down on a fly-crusted table. He knew Sam would do just what he said. He'd learned the hard way a long time ago that the pudgy lawyer never made idle threats. The director was going to piss green at the mention of the legendary lawyer Lizzie Fox. That alone would put him in Sam's corner. Still, he had to posture and bluff to save face. “Don't push me, Sam.”

Sam ignored him. “This is what you're going to do. You're going back to your office, you're going to run everything I told you past your section chief, who will then run it past his boss, who will carry it to the assistant director, who will beat feet to the director's office, who will then get back to you and you to me. By four this afternoon or the deal is off the table. Capisce?”

“I'm not doing that! There is no way in hell I'm doing that. You think your client should get immunity! What the hell planet are you living on, Sam? After all he's done, you want a walk! Man, you are one sick puppy.”

“I didn't say he was guilt free. He is guilty. But he never actually took any of the money that was illegally generated. What was thrown to him is still in a separate account. And, yes, he even paid taxes on the account's earnings, so do not go there. I just don't want prison time for him. You can give him a hundred years of community service, make him give speeches to college students on the greed and wicked ways of Wall Street. Give him house arrest for twenty years, I don't care. No prison time. You take all the illegal money—he hasn't spent a cent of it, as I told you. And he has $2 million in money he earned honestly from investing with his own capital. He's blowing the whistle, so you can nab the big Kahuna. And then you get to be director down the road. Remember, he knows where all the bodies are buried. Well, maybe not all of them, but I think it's safe to say quite a few. And if the consequences of his actions do not include forfeiting his own money, you get to save half of the fee you would have to pay him as a whistle-blower.

“Don't even think about going there, Fred. I know you guys pay off whistle-blowers, but my guy is willing to forgo half the fee, which is probably in the tens of millions, if he can keep his own honestly acquired money. How else is he going to live out the rest of his life, which will be ruined once he talks? He won't be able to get a job anywhere—you know it, and I know it. So, how much is the fee for something like this? I can find out on my own if you're too shy to tell me. Like I said, win-win!”

“Win, my ass! It's $7 million,” Fred said through clenched teeth, “so by taking only half in exchange for keeping his own $2 million, he leaves $1.5 million on the table. And if I don't do what you want?”

“Then you and your fellow agents can spend the next five years chasing your tails trying to run the others into the ground. Think about all that bad publicity, to which I will personally be contributing. Four o'clock, buddy.”

Sam yanked at his baseball cap and headed toward the door. He didn't look back.

The minute he stepped outside, he realized that what everyone said was true: he desperately wanted to take a shower. He would have danced a jig, but he knew Fred was watching from the doorway. He knew in his gut that Mr. FBI was on his cell phone.

Next stop, the satellite offices of the Securities and Exchange Commission here in D.C., and his friend Sinclair Bonaventure. That was going to be a walk in the park. He only hoped he didn't smell like the Blue Goose.

Sam debated with himself as to whether he should call Adam or wait until he left the SEC offices. He knew his old friend was tormented, but a little wait certainly wouldn't hurt him. He felt pleased with himself as he looked around for a trash can to dump the baseball cap and sunglasses. He wanted no more reminders of the Blue Goose and the number he had pulled on Fred about the money. Just because Adam was willing to walk away with nothing more than the shirt on his back did not mean that Sam had to stand by and let him do so.

D
ennis West tried his best to make himself invisible, but it wasn't working.

“You might as well tell us what's going on, Dennis,” Maggie said, her eyes narrowed into slits.

“Or I can beat it out of you. Then Espinosa and I will bury your body in all that snow out there in Maggie's backyard. You won't be found till the spring thaw. Spit it out, youngster!”

“Okay, okay. I don't think it's a secret anyhow. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure. I'm driving Manny Macklin out to Pinewood. Myra and Annie are cooking dinner for him. It's to . . . soften him up, I guess. Originally, Macklin was going to invite them to Olympic Ridge, but Myra and Annie vetoed that. At my suggestion, I might add. It always helps to operate on your own turf. Right or wrong?”

“And here I thought you just scooted off to get out of shoveling snow,” Maggie groused. “What else haven't you told us? Don't even think about holding out on us, either.”

Dennis spilled his guts. The others nodded their approval.

“So, that leaves us . . . where?” Espinosa asked fretfully.

“Look, I told you everything I know. I have to leave to get ready because I'm supposed to pick Macklin up at his office. He said he'd be waiting out front. I want to give myself plenty of time so I'm not late getting to Pinewood.”

“Hold on, kid. What else went down today?”

“Oh, you mean Myra and Annie's going to see the first Mrs. Macklin?”

Ted grabbed the young reporter by his shirt collar and swung him around. “Are you telling us you didn't think that was important?”

“I did tell you at the restaurant. You were sitting right there with the guys. Don't pretend you didn't hear me either.”

Ted almost choked when Maggie did an about-face and zeroed in on him. “And what was
that
meeting all about? The one you didn't see fit to tell me about.” Maggie erupted then like a seething volcano.
“SIT!”
she bellowed.

“I can't do that. Sit, I mean. I have to follow orders, and Annie
is
my boss. I have to leave now, or I'll be late. Ted can fill you in,” Dennis said as he ran for the door as if the Furies of Hades were chasing him. The arctic air blasting him felt like a balm after Maggie's seething eruption. He raced to the curb and climbed behind the wheel of his car, which was double parked. No ticket. Great. He pulled onto the narrow road and drove as fast as traffic would allow. The dashboard clock said it was 3:50. If nothing else interfered with his plans, he should arrive at Pinewood right on schedule.

Across town, Sam Andover's secretary opened his door and said, “Sam, there's an FBI agent out in the waiting room to see you. He said his name is Fred Barry Isaacson.”

Sam grinned from ear to ear. “I do so love it when the Federal Bureau of Investigation sends one of its finest for a chat. Show him in, Irene, and if it isn't too much trouble, could you make us some of that hazelnut coffee you like so much?”

“For you, Sam, anything. How about a raise while you're in such a complimentary mood?”

“I'll think about it. Does he look pissed or jubilant?”

“The former.” His secretary giggled as she closed the door.

“Well, hey there, Mr. FBI. Been a few hours since we spoke. You're looking a little worse for the wear. Did a round or two with the higher-ups, eh? Not to worry. When this is all over you'll be the new director. You can count on it,” Sam said expansively.

“Have a seat, my friend. Coffee is on the way. Small talk first? The weather? I see it's flurrying out there again. What a crappy start to the winter season. Don't you agree? And Christmas is still weeks away.”

“Stuff it, Sam. Okay, you have a deal. I can't say at this time what your guy's punishment will be, but you said you were okay with anything but prison time. I got that right, didn't I?”

“Well, you did, but within reason. You're going to have to do better than that. We're not signing off on something that is so up in the air. Sending him to live in an igloo in Alaska is not in the cards. I'll go with a ball park, but we need something in writing.”

“Not till you give us a name. It's Macklin, isn't it?”

“Yep. My client is his son, Adam. Is his personal bank account in the clear?”

“If you have the paperwork to back it up, then yeah, it's in the clear.”

“The whistle-blower fee?”

“It comes to $7 million, half of which is $3.5 million, so he ends up with $5.5 million if everything checks out. That has to be on the QT. We good on that, Sam?”

“We are absolutely clear on that, Fred.”

“The director wants you to swear under oath that you will not—I repeat, will not, in any way, shape, or form—bring Lizzie Fox into this mess. I think he wants it in blood. Yours.”

Sam doubled over laughing. In spite of himself, Special Agent Isaacson grinned. “The minute I mentioned her name, you had the director in the palm of your hand. He would have agreed to anything. You got yourself a sterling deal here. That's between us, Pudge.”

“When can we expect his share of the whistle-blower's fee?” Sam asked.

“After the first sit-down interrogation, which is scheduled for noon tomorrow at the Hoover Building. The director himself will be doing the interrogation. It goes without saying that you are invited. So, hand it all over. He wants to go through everything before tomorrow's meeting.”

“I'll have my secretary make copies of everything for you. It's all in the backpack on the sofa. I keep the originals.”

“Fair enough. You said something about coffee.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Sam's secretary entered the room, carrying a handsome silver tray with fine bone china cups and saucers.

“Irene, take everything in the backpack and divvy it up among the paralegals and make copies for Mr. Isaacson. Try to speed it up. He needs to take it back to the Hoover Building to his boss.”

“Just one copy?”

“No, make three copies. The originals go in the safe, along with the backpack.

“What's your game plan, Fred?”

They were just two old friends then, even though they were on opposite sides of the law. In the end, they both knew right would win out and both could walk away with their heads high.

“Not sure. We'll know better after tomorrow's meeting. I think the director wants to strike hard and fast. Before the bastard can take off for parts unknown.”

“You should put a tail on him starting right now.”

“They're working on it. The director said he should have his best team good to go by six tonight. By the way, how'd it go with Sinclair at the SEC?”

“No sweat. They're on it, too. He said you were on his list to call. They're swamped over there. He wants the three of us to go to lunch next week. I told him you'd call him, and he's buying. You need to make nice, Fred. You get his jockeys in a knot, and he'll go down another road.”

“Damn, I hate prima donnas, and he's one of the biggest ones I know. The guy is so full of himself, he makes me cringe.”

“He's a bloodhound is what he is, and a hell of a first baseman. You're just ticked that you got called out when you slid into first.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“So, how's the wife and kids?”

“Sue dyed her hair, said it was time to see if blondes really do have more fun. The twins just got braces. Tommy broke his arm a month ago. He tripped over a bale of hay when we went pumpkin picking at Halloween. Seth got expelled for three days for calling some girl a name that rhymes with witch at school. But after I met the parents, I couldn't punish the kid anymore because the whole family is nutsy cuckoo. Sue was pretty upset, but I wasn't. How are Patty and the kids?”

“Good. Everyone is good. Patty's parents are coming for Christmas. I am not looking forward to that.”

“Know what you mean. Sue's parents came for Easter and forgot to go home. They finally left after Memorial Day.”

“Guess that takes care of the small talk,” Sam said, pouring more coffee into both their cups. “Just out of curiosity, Fred, what happens if you can't reel Macklin in? What if he slips through and takes off?”

Fred shrugged. “You know better than to ask me something like that. I do have a question for you, though. Do you really believe in your client, that he was a victim like you said?”

“I do, Fred. You'll agree, too, after his interrogation. I told you from the beginning that he wasn't innocent and deserves to be punished. Who the hell knows if you or I wouldn't have done the same thing he did? The good thing is, he finally wised up. It's pretty damn hard to turn on your father, especially if it involves turning him in to the law. That's my opinion. When he came to me, he was expecting to go to prison that day. That has to say something for him.

“You didn't say anything about the sister. You putting a tail on her, too? She is the chief compliance officer. Adam says she knows everything and is totally loyal to her father. But I already told you that, didn't I?”

“Yep, you did, and yes, we're going with the whole ball of wax. The director is out for blood.”

Further small talk ground to a halt when Irene walked into Sam's office with a dark brown accordion-pleated file. She handed it to Fred and left the office.

“Treat that file like the Holy Grail, Fred. It's all you've got for now.”

“Yeah, I will. Hey, Pudge, thanks.”

“Anytime, Mr. FBI. Anytime. Always remember, we're the good guys.”

Sam looked at the clock on the wall. Time to wind down and head for home. He wondered what Patty was making for dinner. He felt warm all over when he thought about Patty, who was the love of his life, and the kids he couldn't wait to see. But first he had to call Adam and tell him they had a deal. He closed his eyes for a moment to try to picture his friend's face when he gave him the news. Today was a good day. A really good day. Even better than a really good day.

Life was good.