The Lasko Tangent (17 page)

“The corollary of that is if they have to they will.”

“Don’t depress me.”

“I’m trying to depress you.”

It was a conversational blind alley. I looked at my watch. “When do we see Green?”

“9:30.”

“Then you had better tell me what I should know.”

Robinson shrugged. “OK. Lasko owns 25 per cent of the stock of the First Seminole Bank. Actually he doesn’t own it. His companies do—Lasko Devices and its subsidiaries, through their various pension funds. Made it sort of hard to trace. Anyhow, the 25 per cent is effectively his. That makes him the largest single stockholder, not enough to control the bank itself, but enough to have real pull.”

“That’s nice. Talk to anyone at the bank?”

“No. I figured you’d worry that it’d get back to Lasko.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that I called up O’Hair, reminded him the subpoena was still good and invited Sam back. I didn’t say why.”

“OK.”

“How are you going to handle this?”

“I’ll give O’Hair a veiled offer of leniency, then threaten a perjury prosecution. He’s got to believe I’d do that, although I wouldn’t. Then, I’ll try to make him think we’ve gotten to the bank, which we haven’t. From there on, I’ll see what turns up.”

“Hope O’Hair buys it.”

“So do I. Listen, I’ve got a couple of things to do.”

He got up. “OK. I’ll see you down there.”

“Yeah.” I was feeling a little guilty. “Jim, thanks for your help. I mean it.”

“Sure,” he answered, and shut the door behind him.

I stared unhappily at the phone. Once I picked it up I was committed to going it alone. But I hadn’t left myself any choices. So I made the easy call first.

Greenfeld was in. “Lane, I’ve got a pure favor to ask you. No strings.”

“You can always try,” he answered in a dry tone. “What is it?”

“Do you have sources at IRS?”

“Sure.”

“If you can do it without getting them excited, check IRS for a list of any mental hospitals or sanitariums to which the Lasko Foundation has contributed. Especially around Boston. Can you do that?”

“Do I get to ask why?”

“Sure. You just don’t get answers.”

“Isn’t this something you can do through your channels?”

“No. Not this one.”

“What the hell is going on over there?”

“Can you do it?” I persisted.

“All right,” he said in an aggravated tone. “I’ll call you back.” The phone clicked off.

There was one more favor to ask. I readied myself to reach back in time, mix past with present. Then I made the call.

“Mr. Stansbury? Chris Paget.”

“Chris,” the vigorous voice answered, “where are you?”

“Here. Washington. I work here.” And have for three years, I didn’t add.

“That’s marvelous. You’ll have to visit.”

“I had that in mind. I think perhaps you can do me a favor.”

“I’d be delighted.” His voice warmed suddenly with old hopes. They had been my hopes too, and they had died hard. But I had buried them.

“It’s business, I’m afraid.”

His tone faded a bit. “Surely, Chris. What is it?”

“I remember you were an electrical engineer, before you went into the business end. How are your skills?”

“Pretty good still, I think.”

“I need an expert opinion on some computer chips. Can you look at them today?”

“Surely. Retirement has left me with nothing but time. Too much time. Can you find the place?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Thanks much, Mr. Stansbury.”

“See you later then.” There was a question in his voice. I hung on for a second, but he didn’t ask it. I was just as glad. I rang off and felt absently for the chips in my pocket. Still there. Then I went off to question Sam Green.

Robinson was already sitting in the conference room, with Green, O’Hair, and my favorite reporter. She set up her machine next to the potted palm, still smiling like the Mona Lisa. Green was perspiring. The room was cool enough; the sweat was from wondering what we had. O’Hair was next to him, looking ostentatiously calm.

I moved to the head of the conference table and sat next to Robinson. Green stared at an empty corner, as if that would make me disappear. I shuffled some papers, to let him stew awhile.

O’Hair thrust forward. “On behalf of my client, I demand to know why he’s been recalled.”

I excused the reporter, then turned to O’Hair. “Because we’re interviewing mental defectives this week. We got Green for today’s special.”

“What kind of crap—”

“You can take your demand and shove it. Someone’s already dead, and your boy here has been horsing us around.”

O’Hair picked a lower key. “My client is aware of his constitutional rights.”

The bargaining had started. I asked Green to leave. He rose clumsily, almost tripping, and stumbled out. I looked after him. “I hope his constitutional rights console him at Danbury. With his record, he’ll do some time.”

“You said yourself you couldn’t prove perjury.” O’Hair tried sounding aggrieved, as if I had broken a promise.

“I’ve changed my mind. I figure no jury will believe that he can’t remember one month later who got him a $400,000 loan.”

“So why don’t you prosecute?”

That was tactic number one. Trying To Get The Prosecutor To Admit Your Client’s Importance. “Because Green is a piss-ant, of no importance. To be honest, I don’t much care what he does. If he talks, that’s another witness against Lasko. If he doesn’t, I just prosecute them both.”

“You haven’t shown me a thing.”

I shrugged. “It’s your choice, Mr. O’Hair. Green can take the Fifth, or he can cooperate. But he’d better not try perjury.”

Robinson was playing his part, regarding O’Hair with a faint, superior smile. O’Hair stood. “I’ll talk to my client.”

We stared back at him. He left.

Robinson turned to me. “That was raw,” he observed. “And I thought McGuire used to be a prick.”

I shrugged. “Some night, when this case is over and I have time to review what a shit I am, I’ll drink a martini and feel bad about it. Right now, I can’t afford to. Anyhow, no one forced Green to be a crook.”

Robinson nodded. He knew that was right; he was just glad that I’d played the heavy. That was a normal reaction; sometimes it bothered me that I didn’t mind. It didn’t bother me on this one.

O’Hair returned. “Can you guarantee that Mr. Green’s testimony will be confidential?”

For at least two or three hours, I thought. “Are you asking for special treatment?”

“I can’t tell my client to do something that’ll be public knowledge.”

I tried to look blasé. “You know our rules. No investigation is made public before a case is brought.”

My answer was beside the point. In the Lasko case, our rules were worthless. And O’Hair might end up a creditor of Green’s estate, fighting it out with the First Seminole Bank. But O’Hair ducked back outside.

I heard vague mutterings in the hall. Then Green came in first, wearing the fretful look of a weak-willed man who had just been cornered by a high-pressure salesman. He didn’t know what he had bought and wasn’t sure he’d enjoy finding out. O’Hair just looked inscrutable. “Go ahead,” he nodded.

The reporter trailed after them, and smiled at her machine. I caught her eye, then began.

“We are continuing the testimony of Samuel Green in The Matter Of Lasko Devices, Home Office File Number 774.” The reporter’s fingers twitched on the keys of her machine. “Mr. Green, you testified previously that during this July, the First Seminole Bank of Miami loaned you approximately $400,000. Please describe fully and completely the circumstances of that loan.”

“Yes, Mr. Paget, I would be pleased to.” The written transcript, I thought idly, would never do justice to how unpleased he sounded. “In late June I was contacted by Mr. William Lasko.”

“By what means?”

“Telephone.”

“And what was that conversation?”

“I’d heard of Mr. Lasko—you know, in the papers, the Journal and all—but I’d never met him. Just maybe seen his picture once or twice. Anyhow, I asked him why he was calling me and he said how he got my name wasn’t important but he had a business proposition for me. Well, since last year when I had trouble with Mr. Robinson here and the others, I haven’t done too well. So I said sure. I mean it wouldn’t hurt to listen, right?” Green stopped, looking moist and irresolute.

“Go on.”

Green gave his hands a wan, antiseptic glance, as if he had just spotted dirt under the skin. “Well, so I met with Mr. Lasko and he said that he knew that I wasn’t too flush so he would help me if I would help him. You know—” Green’s threadbare quality permeated his speech. I waited for him to say “one hand washes the other.” He let me down: “Sort of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ Mr. Lasko said he would get me four hundred thousand in capital and set me up to play the market again. All I had to do was buy Lasko stock. He said if I couldn’t repay he’d make good on the loan, and if Lasko stock went up, well, I could sell the stock, pay the loan back, and keep the profits. So I couldn’t lose. He called me twice, once on the fourteenth and once on the fifteenth and asked me to buy. He told me how much to buy and where to place the orders. I didn’t use all the money so he said to do with the rest what I wanted to, so I bought a couple of other things.” Green stopped, out of breath. Under the light he was pale and spindly. O’Hair stared out the window, as if he saw something interesting.

Green realized I was waiting. “That’s all,” he said.

I nailed down the rest. He’d met Lasko in New York, for lunch. Lasko had plied him with white wine, oysters, and a whiff of money. We went through each purchase. Lasko would call before the market opened each morning. He hadn’t known why Lasko wanted all this, he claimed. That, I thought, was about as likely as Green intending his profits for the March of Dimes. But I didn’t much care. I had what I wanted. I closed the record. The reporter smiled, folded her machine, and left.

Green was eyeing me warily. O’Hair glanced from Green to me. “I hope you appreciate that you have had Mr. Green’s full cooperation.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said gravely.

O’Hair looked benign; Green, hopeful. They both decided it was time to leave. The empty ring of their footsteps faded and disappeared.

“Well,” I said, “we’ve got Lasko for manipulation.” The problem was I couldn’t make it fit with anything else. Martinson, Lehman, and St. Maarten were a jumble of puzzle pieces.

Robinson slid in his chair. “You know, they’ve got a pretty good argument for immunity.”

I nodded. “Green will always do OK as long as he can trade up. That’s the way it works. Hell, look at the guy who ratted on Tricky Dick. Three easy months and then he’s a star at literary luncheons.”

Robinson smiled and said nothing for a while. Then he spoke. “I wonder why Lasko would settle for a cheap operator like Green?”

That bothered me, and there was something else. My triumph was beginning to ring a bit hollow. I wasn’t used to winning on this case. “Did O’Hair strike you as entirely too agreeable?”

Robinson looked interested. “I’ve seen him tougher.”

“It was almost as though he didn’t mind us pinning the manipulation on Lasko.”

“That would make sense if he was Green’s lawyer.”

“Yeah, but I think he’s Lasko’s lawyer, here protecting Lasko’s interests. And why would Green stick his neck out? Lehman died over something like that.”

“Where does that take you?”

“Maybe that Lasko is willing to let us find out about the stock manipulation and settle the case on that basis. Maybe he wants the agency to close out the investigation, to keep us from finding something worse.”

Robinson considered that. “I don’t see why, offhand.” He tilted his head backward, as if he had forgotten something and would find it on the ceiling. “He would have to have something big to hide.”

My skull was throbbing. I decided someone should look it over. I excused myself. Then I took the chips and taxied to the hospital, wondering if Stansbury could tell me what I needed.

I was pretty clear on one thing. Stock manipulation wasn’t what this case was all about. I had a long way to go yet and not much time to get there.

Twenty-Two

The hospital kept me until about 3:30, a fair amount of which I spent filling out forms, ours and theirs. No fracture, they told me cheerfully, and they had pretty much ruled out brain damage. I was delighted.

Normally I would have flagged a taxi in front. Instead, I found a pay phone in the lobby and called a cab to meet me in the rear. Ten days before I would have laughed at that but now nothing much was funny.

I waited inside until the cab showed up, then got in and routed the cabbie toward Old Town Alexandria on the George Washington Parkway, paralleling the Potomac. As near as I could make out, no one was following.

The Parkway ran abruptly into Alexandria and turned into Washington Street. The cabbie turned left and steered through cramped lanes onto Duke Street. Old Town was mostly brick townhouses, very old, with small yards stubbing the sidewalk. As Georgetown, it would never quite make it. Not enough trees and no restaurant I cared for. But it was peaceful for the most part, and not jammed with weekend tourists hell-bent on making it impossible to live in. That had its charms.

Stansbury lived on Pitt Street, named after William Pitt. The Elder. His house had a front yard, large for Old Town standards, and crammed, but neatly, with the kind of lush stuff you can grow in Washington. The house itself was brick, painted grey, with a freshly painted black door and new brass knocker. I could have picked it out without an address.

I told the cabbie to wait and went to the door. I skipped the door bell and gave the brass knocker two good raps, thinking to please him.

The door opened and Stansbury stood there, looking as clean and trim as the house. He smiled broadly. “Chris, how are you?”

“Fine, Mr. Stansbury. You certainly look well.” I shook his hand.

He waved me in with a pleased expression. I looked for signs of aging and couldn’t find any. Sixty-eight, maybe. Grey hair. Skin leathery but still almost unlined. The one price of age was in his voice, a sort of manly croak.