Fever Dream (40 page)
Stu Biegler stirred, grinning. “You and I are on the same page there, Agent Alcott.”
“No need to pucker up just yet, Lieutenant. There’ll be plenty of time for that after this fiasco is contained.”
An embarrassed silence, as Biegler ducked his head down over the files fanned out on the table in front of him. Everybody else, glancing down at the duplicate materials in front of them, pretended to do the same. This included Harry Polk, ADA Parnelli, and Eleanor Lowrey.
Since a similar packet of files hadn’t been left on the table for me, I was free to keep my attention focused on Neal Alcott. Watching the color drain from his smooth, telegenic features as I stared. Smiling.
Finally, offering me a weak smile in return, Alcott put his palms down on the table. “Obviously, Doctor, it’s nothing personal against you. I assume that if you weren’t an asset to the department, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Assume whatever you want, Agent Alcott. Especially since I have no idea what’s going on. Except that it concerns Bobby Marks.”
Alcott flipped open a slim manila folder.
“Before we begin, I should mention that I’ve already briefed the assistant chief on most of what we have so far. He and I have agreed that we’ll need more clarification on some crucial aspects of this case before sending our conclusions further up the food chain.”
“Meaning the Cchief, the DA, the mayor…” Biegler stating the obvious in a desultory, still-wounded voice.
Which Alcott studiously ignored, as he looked at me.
“First of all, Dr. Rinaldi, Detective Lowrey shared with us your suggestion that the bank robbery wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be.”
“And…?”
“Apparently, you were right. There are a lot of puzzle pieces still missing, but we’re fairly convinced the bank job was a cover for something else. Namely, the murder of Bobby Marks, the assistant bank manager.”
I let this sink in. “You mean, Marks was the intended victim all along?”
“It appears so, yes. But I’ll get to that.”
I turned to Harry Polk. “What about James Franconi, the bank manager at First Allegheny? Did you ever figure out whether or not he was involved?”
“He’s clean as a whistle, far as we can tell.” Polk rubbed his broad, ruddy brow. “He really did have a bad cold the day of the robbery. Plus he’s got no priors, not even a parking ticket. Solid gold rep. Friends and family swear he’s a fuckin’ paragon of virtue.”
“Moreover,” Alcott continued, “it was Franconi who set everything in motion…whether he meant to or not.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“We just found out yesterday that Franconi had suspected for some time that Bobby Marks was involved in shady financial doings. So he approached the SEC a few months ago and they began an investigation into Marks’ activities. Let their forensic accountants loose on him. Turns out, Marks has been using the bank’s resources to funnel large funds through various dummy corporations into the Cayman Islands. Some of these funds were traced back to a number of PACs—political action committees, who work to help specific candidates get elected.”
“I know what PACs are,” I said. “Now let me guess: one of the PACs is affiliated with Leland Sinclair.”
Dave Parnelli spoke up quickly. “That’s right, though in itself that fact proves nothing. Not a goddam thing.”
“We’re all aware of that, Mr. Parnelli,” Alcott said evenly. “But it’s certainly suggestive…”
“Of what? Shit, as evidence of wrong-doing it doesn’t even pass the laugh test.”
Alcott raised his hand, palm out. “Relax, will you? We’re nowhere near making any connections to your boss yet. But one thing is clear: Bobby Marks was the target all along. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Roarke and Baxter never even tried to open the bank vault. Then, with the whole Bureau on their tail, instead of heading for the border ASAP, they go after this Henry Stubbs. These two murders have to be connected.”
Eleanor glanced over at me. “Which is the same notion Dr. Rinaldi came up with. A couple days ago.”
Alcott ignored this. “The point is, whoever Marks was working for got nervous for some reason, and—”
“You know
exactly
what the reason was,” I said. “Evan McCloskey found out his conversation about having Sinclair in his pocket had been recorded. Because Henry Stubbs had been paying somebody to spy for him inside the firm. My friend Sam Weiss, from the
Post-Gazette
, thinks the spy was some poor guy named Howard Gould.”
Harry Polk smirked. “You mean, that loser in New York, on the news? Ate his gun last night in his office?”
Alcott peered at me. “Oh, yes. This obsession of yours about some big-shot lawyer named Evan McCloskey. We’ve heard about that, too. As I understand it, you believe he’s been pulling strings to help Sinclair win the election. So that he can leverage this influence to get the newly-elected governor to play ball with one of his firm’s major clients. That’s the gist of your theory, right?”
I held his gaze. “I don’t think it’s a theory. I think McCloskey paid Bobby Marks to hide illegal funds used to bankroll Sinclair’s PAC…and who knows how many other candidates’ campaigns? But once he discovered that Howard Gould had sent an incriminating recording to Henry Stubbs, both Gould and Stubbs had to go. As well as Bobby Marks.”
“But why kill Marks?” Eleanor asked.
“Because McCloskey didn’t want any loose ends. Marks might talk, if pressured. Maybe McCloskey had even gotten wind of the SEC investigation and figured it was only a matter of time before Marks was exposed.”
“So Roarke and Baxter were sent to get rid of Marks, but to make it look like he’d been killed as a result of a bank hold-up gone wrong.”
I nodded. “Which was why Roarke didn’t care about killing the only guy who knew the codes to open the vault. They were never there for the money. They were only there to silence Marks.”
“I’m bettin’ Marks was probably supposed to be the only victim,” Polk added, “but when Baxter panicked and skipped out, Roarke freaked, too. Figured he’d lost control of the situation. Started shootin’.”
“Better than that,” Eleanor mused, “killing the other bank employees helped disguise the fact that Bobby Marks had been the target all along.”
Polk rubbed his chin. “Then, after Roarke escapes from the hospital and drives to the construction site, his old buddy Baxter is there to pick him up. Next stop: Harville, PA, to finish off Henry Stubbs and get the recording.”
“Which Stubbs had converted to a CD and tried to hide,” I added. “Unsuccessfully.”
Neal Alcott had listened in stony silence as this narrative was laid out. Then, sighing heavily, he closed his manila file and folded his hands on top of it.
“So,” he said to the room, “we’re assuming Roarke and Baxter were trigger men for this Evan McCloskey guy? That the senior partner of a well known, highly respected law firm is behind all this? Ordered all these murders?”
“Looks that way,” Biegler muttered, almost to himself. “Of course, there’s not enough to connect any of it to Lee Sinclair…”
“That’s for damn sure,” Parnelli growled. “Or, may I point out, enough to move against
anyone
! I mean, I worked for Evan McCloskey. God knows, he gave me the willies. But last time I checked, that’s not an indictable offense. Face it, people—there’s no credible evidence to support any of these allegations. Certainly nothing linking him to Roarke and Baxter.”
“Exactly.” Alcott’s voice sharpened. “That’s why bringing in Ronny Baxter is our number one priority. We need him to connect the dots.”
“Even then,” Eleanor said, “we’ve gotta hope he hasn’t destroyed that CD.”
Polk laughed. “Lotsa luck with that. As the man says, ‘it ain’t the despair that kills ya, it’s the hope.’”
“On that optimistic note,” Alcott said coolly, “let’s move on. We still have to coordinate the security protocols for tonight’s debate.”
He turned to me. “Which means, Doctor, you’re excused. You have the relevant information on Bobby Marks. How you plan to deal with his girlfriend once the news becomes public is your department.”
Eleanor put her hand on my forearm. “We can probably keep a lid on it until Baxter is brought in. But after that, there’s no way Treva won’t hear about Marks. That he was crooked. That Roarke and Baxter were sent to kill him.”
“Which means that if it weren’t for him,” I said, “those other people in the bank would still be alive. Once the reality of
that
hits her…”
Polk winced. “Christ. Talk about survivor guilt. Sure glad it’s
you
havin’ to deal with her, Doc. And not me.”
At four that afternoon, one of the cleaning crew prepping the main floor of Hilman Library found an old, grimy backpack stuffed in a men’s room trash can.
Not ten minutes later, the bomb squad was on the scene, as well as half the Department’s Oakland division. Campus security was reduced to emptying the building of its few Saturday visitors, diverting traffic from Forbes Avenue, and keeping pedestrian onlookers from interfering with law enforcement.
I saw all this on the TV news, as I stood at the ironing board in my living room. I was in my underwear, sipping a Jack Daniels, trying to take the creases out of my last remaining dress shirt in the house.
I put down my drink and shut off the iron. Watched in disbelief as news cameras came in close on techs in heavy armor shuffling awkwardly into the low-slung, gray-walled building. An on-scene reporter, her face gleaming red in the unrelenting sun, moved along the sidewalk in front of the library. Shoving her mike in the general direction of anyone in a uniform, wearing a badge, or who looked even tangentially involved in the police operation.
The report cut back to the TV station, where the anchor kept repeating what few facts they had. No information yet on the contents of the mysterious backpack, nor official word from either gubernatorial campaign about whether the debate would be rescheduled.
I pulled my semi-ironed shirt off the board and slipped it on. Its warmth made it cling to my arms and chest. Then I went into the bedroom to finish dressing. I was adjusting my tie when my cell rang. Eleanor Lowrey.
“Tell me you’re watching the news, Danny.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, so was Treva. She was waiting at her place for one of Sinclair’s campaign staffers to pick her up. Brian Fletcher invited her to sit in the front row at the debate, so Sinclair can introduce her from the podium before they start.”
“I know. Total sop to the cameras. The sole survivor from the bank massacre, there to support the candidate.”
“Whatever. The point is, by the time the driver got to her place, Treva was in hysterics. The bomb threat. You can imagine her reaction…”
I could indeed. “Where is she now?”
“Still at home. The driver called Sinclair’s campaign headquarters to ask for instructions, and apparently they told him to stay with her and sit tight.”
“Why?”
“They’re trying to find another venue for the debate.”
“Tonight? Won’t be easy on such short notice.”
“Tell me. Rumor is they’re pulling strings to get that big conference hall at the Burgoyne again. Wouldn’t take long to prep the room for the cameras and stuff.”
“Where are you getting all this?”
“Biegler. He’s been on the phone for the past hour with Sinclair and Fletcher. They need the Department’s help to pull this off.”
True enough. The logistics alone would be a nightmare.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What about the audience? Weren’t they expecting a couple hundred people?”
She chuckled. “Way I hear it, they’ve got everyone in both campaigns—from high-level staffers to student volunteers—calling all the ticketed attendees. Telling them to show up at the Burgoyne instead.”
“I’ll bet the bomb scare at Hilman keeps a lot of those folks away from the hotel, too. Why take chances?”
“That’s the concern, all right. No matter where the debate is held, no matter what the precautions, people know somebody out there wants Sinclair dead. It could really cut into the size of the live audience.”
“Though it’ll probably triple the debate’s TV ratings. And give Sinclair another bump in the polls.”
“Whatever.” Her tone softened. “Anyway, if Treva
does
end up attending…”
“Don’t worry, Ell. I’ll be there.”
***
Before leaving the house, I checked the TV news report again to see if there’d been any developments. There had.
The same on-scene reporter was standing next to a black bomb squad vehicle, its opened rear doors spread out like condor wings. Two bomb techs were carefully loading what looked like a dirty denim rug into the truck. It was the backpack, now wrapped in a plastic evidence bag.
The reporter explained that the techs had examined the backpack thoroughly and found nothing dangerous inside. Just some balled-up old newspapers.
“A prank?” She looked sternly at the camera. “Or some deluded individual’s idea of a political statement? At this juncture, the police don’t know.