Conceived Without Sin (32 page)

I met someone.

He fell back with a punctuated certainty. He stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed,
wondering about…
what?

El Grecos. Centurions. Impossible Hail Mary basketball shots.

Chapter Thirteen

1

Five weeks after Buzz's basket, Johnny Traverse came into Sam's office as his boss was just settling behind his Compaq.

"There's a guy from the FBI here to see you," Johnny reported furtively. "Serious-looking dude, too."

"Did he say about what?" Sam asked.

The Feds?
He did a quick mental accounting.
Relax, we're clean as a whistle.

"No," Johnny replied, a consternated look still
on his face. "Except that he's with a special white collar something or other."

"Oh." Sam rubbed his chin. "We've got nothing to hide, have we, Johnny?"

Johnny laughed. "You see the spreadsheets and clear every dollar we spend and take in. You would know better than I would. Ro Mack files all the right papers with all the right agencies, as far as I can tell."

Sam chuckled sagely. "Yeah; it's
probably nothing. Send him in."

Sam sat forward in his Herman Miller chair as Johnny walked out. The Herman Miller was his only luxury; it was difficult for a man of his height to sit in an ordinary office chair for hours on end. His desk, the bookcase filled with software manuals, and the filing cabinet were strictly functional, but solidly built–middle-of-the-road stuff out of the catalogs.

The FBI agent walked in alone. When Sam stood up, he was surprised to find that the agent was looking him directly in the eyes from the same level. The two men were the same height, but Sam could guess that the agent was at least fifty pounds heavier from the way he filled out the standard-issue blue suit. The G-man didn't have an ounce of fat on his frame. He had dark brown eyes. His face was all-American
handsome, and his bristly brownish-red hair was the strongest clue that the agent was of Irish descent.

"Hello, Mr. Fisk," the agent said, holding out a large right hand. "I'm Mark Johnson, from the FBI Special White Collar Crime Unit here in Cleveland."

The two men clasped with strength. Sam strained to hide a grimace.
Wow,
he thought.
Agent Hercules.

"It's my pleasure, or at least I hope it
is," Sam replied smoothly, consciously trying not to look guilty, even though he wasn't. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Thank you," Mark said, taking a simple chair across from Sam's desk.

"There's no need to be alarmed, Mr. Fisk," Mark continued, accustomed to the anxiety his presence caused. "I'm not investigating your company. I'm doing a background check on one of your clients–"

"I'm not in the
habit of discussing my clients with law enforcement officials without my client's prior consent," Sam said, a dark look coming to his brow.
Am I playing this right?
he asked himself.

"I understand," Mark said, his deep voice almost sweet, a wisp of a smile coming to his mouth, as if he had heard Sam's reply a thousand times before. "And if this, ah, discussion, goes well, you won't ever get into
such a habit. In the big picture, I'm here for your benefit." Mark held up his hands.

Sam looked out the window. "I'm sorry. What did you say your name was?"

"My name is Mark Johnson," he replied evenly.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I overreacted. Of course I want to help you. I may not answer all your questions though, if they strike me as too intrusive. Okay?"

Sam turned to face the agent.

Mark gave a
nod worthy of the Mona Lisa.

Did he just agree to something?
Sam asked himself.

"I'm not here to harm your relationships with your clients, Mr. Fisk. Let's just get started. Answer what you will, but answer straight. I'm one of the good guys." The big man ended with a smile.

"Right, then," Sam sighed quickly. "Fire away."

"I understand that your company set up the computer systems for an international
securities trading firm on West 9th Street, near the Flats, called Rutwielier Investment Partners."

"Yes," Sam replied, somehow relieved. "About two years ago. I worked closely on that account at the time. But I haven't had any direct contact in well over a year. I've delegated that account to associates."

"Did you have any contact with a man named Arlo Harpensburg, who worked there?"

"No," Sam
replied in a clipped tone after a moment. "I didn't. I've never heard that name before."

"During your contact with Rutwielier, did you deal with the president, Herve Bittenvold?"

Sam paused. "No, I didn't. That was odd, because I usually deal with the top man of a firm that size. But no, I only dealt with their designated MIS man, Rick Carter, an American. He signed all the contracts and made
all the phone calls. He walked me through the installation."

"I see," Mark replied, squinting, then nodding. "May I speak with your associates here who have had contact with Rutwielier?"

"Of course. John Traverse can show you to them. That would be, let's see, Heather Bach and Elm Pilsner," Sam replied, relieved. "That's all?"

"That's all, Mr. Fisk," Mark said, then rose from his seat.

Sam was
accustomed to looking down to see another man's face.

"You watch too much television. Relax," Mark continued. "Most FBI interviews are quite mundane. That's what background means: perfunctory. I'll find Mr. Traverse. I know you must be busy. Thank you for your time. I may need to come back for more questioning over the next few months."

Sam rose. "Please call first if you can. You're welcome,
though, Agent Johnson. That wasn't so bad. You probably run into nervous guys like me all the time. I'm not used to this kind of thing."

The two men shook hands. Sam, prepared this time, gripped hard from the get-go.

"I can tell. I run into that all the time, Mr. Fisk, especially in the White Collar Unit. Despite what they say on the television, most businessmen are quite honest. Thank you for
your time," Mark repeated. He turned to leave Sam's office.

Sam felt something slip away. It was like letting go of a kite. He chased the string.

"You're new to Cleveland, aren't you, Mark?" Sam asked, aware that he had used the agent's first name without permission for the second time.

Mark stopped in mid-step and turned.

"I would rather not say," Mark replied, his eyes clouding slightly.

Sam
smiled his toothiest smile. "I knew it! You're new here, aren't you?"

Mark looked slightly from right to left, as if Sam had not asked the question. He tried to hide the truth on his face.

"As a matter of fact," Mark replied, smiling a tad sheepishly. "I just moved here with my family three days ago. This is my first day on the job in Cleveland."

Sam nodded. Mark was not used to looking at another
man at eye-level either.

I misjudged him,
Mark thought. He filed that away. He wasn't used to dealing with executives.

They're bound to be sharp if they built their own company from scratch.
A follow-up question arose in Mark's mind.

"How could you tell, Mr. Fisk?" Mark was genuinely curious.

"Call me Sam," Sam offered. "Lucky guess. That, and your accent gave you away. You sound just like my
best friend. He's from New Jersey. Is that where you moved from?"

Mark laughed. The laugh told Sam that he had guessed correctly about New Jersey.

Buzz taught me how to guess about people…

"Good guess," Mark replied, not giving in to the temptation to use Sam's first name. "You should be in law enforcement."

Sam smiled broadly. He felt as if he had won a kind of competition against a superior
foe.

Mark had an urge to leave the room. It wasn't professional to socialize on the job–even harmless conversation such as this.

But Mark found himself asking, "There had to be other clues besides my accent. I'm curious. For professional reasons."

Sam thought for a moment, looking up at the drop ceiling. Yes.

"There was one other clue. Everybody from Cleveland knows that West 9th Street is down
by the Flats. You didn't have to point out the obvious. That was it. My friend from New Jersey taught me how to guess people's backgrounds."

"Well that explains it then. You can't put much over on us New Jersey boys."

Sam nodded. An awkward silence ensued. The string was leaving his hand again.

Mark half-turned, then stopped.

"Yes?" Sam asked.

"Well, this is off the record. Not FBI business. But
you wouldn't happen to be a Catholic, would you?"

Sam was completely surprised.

"Not at all. I'm not a Catholic. Not even close."

"Really?"

Now Sam felt a brittle anger rising in his chest.
What kind of question is that? I just told him, didn't I?

"Yes. Really. Why do you ask?"

Mark felt the ice in Sam's voice.

"I saw the Miraculous Medal on a shelf on your bookcase when I walked in, and I just
thought…well. Forgive me. That's prying. I'm sorry…"

"The medal was a gift from a friend."

Donna had given Sam the silly thing months ago.

"No, tell me what's on your mind, Agent Johnson," Sam demanded, watching the big man reel back a bit on his heels.

"Nothing. It's a Catholic thing, that's all. I'm sorry for intruding. I was going to ask you where I could find a good Mass in the morning–that
is, if you were a Catholic."

Sam quickly realized that Mark's question had been a reasonable one.
What's got into you today?

"Sorry, Mr. Johnson." He found himself apologizing to Mark Johnson for a second time. "Good guess. My two best friends happen to be devout Catholics, including the one from New Jersey. He goes to Mass most mornings. He'll be able to tell you ten different Masses, and the
theological views of all the priests who say them, if I know him. His name is Buzz Woodward. I'll give you his number. In fact, give me your office number and I'll have him call you."

"No, really. You've been too patient. I'll just find my own Mass–"

"I insist," Sam said, returning to his desk, pulling a yellow index card from a small file, and jotting down Buzz's number.

Mark looked at his watch.
Buzz, eh? The theological views of every priest?

"Here," Sam said, holding out the card. "Take it."

Mark hesitated. It felt uncomfortable: hesitating. He walked back to Sam's desk and took the card.

"Thank you…Sam."

"You're welcome. I wish I could be of more help," Sam said with finality.

"Good-bye."

Mark Johnson left the room without another word.

Sam felt briefly that something monumental had
just transpired. Then he blew off the feeling.
I'll probably never see Agent Mark Johnson again.

2

After he left Sam Fisk's office, Mark Johnson finished his two other interviews at Edwards & Associates, and took a break for lunch at Joe's Deli on Hilliard. When he reached into his pocket for a loose dollar for the tip at the end of his meal, he pulled out the index card with Buzz Woodward's phone
number.

He really did want to find a decent Mass. The Mass he attended this morning at the parish closest to his new house in Rocky River had been unbearable. The priest had conjured up his own version of a Eucharistic Prayer.

I should have asked Bill White for a morning Mass!
he chastised himself.

He threw down the tip and almost left the index card for the busboy to throw away. But he didn't.
When he saw the pay phone near the men's room, he made a quick decision and punched in the number. He left a message on Buzz Woodward's answering machine, explaining briefly that Sam Fisk had recommended that he call. Mark left his home number.

He returned to his government-issue Ford, and paused before inserting the key into the ignition.

It had been six short months since his fateful visit to
the Kemp's home with Bill White. At the time, he had lived in New Jersey. Now he lived in Rocky River, near his friend Bill, and the Holy Spirit had already lined up a contact to help Mark find a good morning Mass.

In a few hours, after visiting another company for interviews about the nefarious Rutwielier Investment Partners, he imagined pulling into the driveway of his new home. Maybe one of
his daughters would be playing in the front yard, would call out his name, then run up to him and give him a big hug.

Inside, Maggie would be finishing preparations for dinner. She would also give him a big hug and kiss. Later, after dinner, and after the kids were put to bed, he and Maggie would have Couch Time. After, they might try to make a son.

God gave it all back to me. He gave me my family
back, my daughters, my life. Thank you, Lord!

Mark felt the emotion of gratitude well up within his heart.
Thank you!

He wiped the ghost of a tear from his eye, and started the car. It had all happened so unexpectedly…

…months earlier, after leaving the Kemps, he and Bill had traded notes in Bill's kitchen the next day. His leave of absence was almost over.

But first, Bill insisted that Mark drive
down to the University of Steubenville, on the Ohio River less than an hour west of Pittsburgh.

"There's a men's conference there this weekend. Today is the last day. We can go and pray together–like a pilgrimage. Maybe something will happen. I went to the men's conference last year. I learned a lot. But the best part was standing under a tent with five hundred other Catholic men who love their
faith. I'll follow you down in my car, and we can say good-bye from there."

At Steubenville, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place for Mark Johnson. It had been a hazy, humid day. They arrived just after one in the afternoon, parked their cars and registered, receiving their conference badges at the student center, and walked to the big, red and white tent. They didn't need directions
to the tent. All they had to do was follow the sound of the singing.

The singing blew Mark away. The voices of five hundred men raising their hearts to God was stunning. The only thing Mark could compare it to was singing during the Army-Navy games as a midshipman.

Neither Mark nor Bill were familiar with the songs, which were standards from the Charismatic movement. Finally, the music ministry
played Faith of Our Fathers, and Mark found himself belting it out. He turned to Bill, who was also singing his lungs out, and put an arm around him.