The Path of Silence (11 page)

“What about his other theory? Should we forget about the motive and concentrate on finding this mad scientist?”

“Well, we’ve established Brick’s motive was money laundering but with Jeffries… What would they need a hotel waiter for?” I wondered.

“It could be just like Tavistock said, a warning. By the way, his executives lectured me about the man when I asked them. Didn’t I know that he is the Chairman and the owner of the third largest private banking institution in our country? His name is spoken with reverence. It rings in the company of homegrown American royal lineages, such as the Vanderbilts, the Morgans and the Kennedys. The man’s our President’s golf partner, for God’s sake.”

I could imagine Ken’s expression when the assistants had lectured.

“Someone who would use a human being to deliver a warning like that would have to be warped, not just ruthless,” I said.

“He wouldn’t be bothered by conscience,” he agreed with a sigh.

“If that device were improved and became explosive, he could place the bomb next to the target. Neither victim would be aware of anything,” I said softly, turning to look at him.

He stared at me, with shock-widened eyes and whispered, “Joe’s right. The motive is not important. We have to find these criminal masterminds. Maybe Brick was a guinea pig. Maybe their real target was Jeffries.”

I didn’t think so. “Brick was implanted to set up money laundering operations. That’s the motive. Jeffries was the alternate use—a deadly messenger. Brick was controlled. Jeffries was used. He was not just a warning. He was an example of what these people can do. They can target anyone, implant them and then either control them or use them as a warning.” I paused and shook my head. “Or, if they want to, they can just destroy them outright.”

“It has to be a doctor or someone in the medical field,” he murmured.

“The research that went into the device is medical but the application is terrorist.”

“You said that foreign interests were trying to muscle in on the Tavistock banking strongholds? Do you know who’s behind it?”

I shrugged. “I read the papers. It’s an old story—foreign interests, trying to muscle in on the US banking operations. There’s always someone, offshore, looking for new ways to launder money in the US. The banking system has many safeguards to track and discourage that kind of activity.”

“Didn’t Brick write a smart program for a bank in Lima about tracking tax shelters or something?”

“It wasn’t the same as money laundering but it was in the category. We’ll leave Creeslow for a while. We should visit the IMF tomorrow and then see where Jeffries lived. Did you get anything on his family, friends, girlfriends?”

“He was another Brick. He didn’t even have a girlfriend. There’s no family. The security guard, Amato, was his only friend.”

“Maybe that’s a requirement. They pick people with no family and few friends. I wonder if Jeffries had a part-time job?”

“With an armored car service?”

“Not necessarily. He wasn’t implanted to work for them. He was a walking ghost, a deadly greeting card. I’d like to find out whether he had ever been admitted to a medical institution, or worked in one. Your wife could probably help us with this,” I said, averting my eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Brenda wouldn’t have told Joe that. He just leapt to a conclusion.”

“He doesn’t leap to conclusions. He’s a medical examiner. Are you going to ask her about it?”

“No.”

“That’s probably wise. I’d hate to see you doing the singles bar scene—at your age.”

“How do you know what a singles bar scene is like?”

“I tried it when I was twenty-five. It didn’t thrill me.”

“I’ve thought of marriage,” he grumbled.

“So did Brenda, often, by the sound of it.”

“She’s never brought up the subject.”

“Did you?”

“I thought about it.”

“Say it out loud, Kenny. She can’t read your mind.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our relationship,” he answered shakily.

“Then why would marriage spoil it?” I asked.

He was still mulling it over, when I spooled out of the parking lot.

Jazz must have seen the unhealthy shine in my eyes when I dared to open them wider. She ate her breakfast in silence. Mrs. Tavalho came early and wouldn’t let me pay her extra.

“You should have called me last night,” she said, cleaning the kitchen counter. “I would have come.”

“My neighbor looked in on Jazz. I can’t trouble you in the middle of the night, every time I have an emergency at work,” I sighed.

“You came home at five and you’re off again?” She clucked her tongue.

“That’s the nature of my work,” I smiled tiredly. “There are long periods when not much happens but when something does…”

“When something does, you pick up the phone and call me,” she said sternly.

“Was somebody shot?” Jazz asked, not lifting her head.

“Finish your breakfast and then go brush your teeth,” I said, ignoring the question. I never talked about my work at home. “Here’s five dollars.” I put it beside her plate. “That’s for a snack. Do your homework. I’ll phone to let you know when I’m coming home.”

“We have to draw a family tree for our social studies,” she said in a subdued voice.

“Draw a branch, or two—for you and me.”

“Everyone has a family tree. The teacher won’t believe me if I draw a branch.”

“Have her call me.”

“Why can’t I have a family tree like all the other kids?” she asked tearfully.

“You’re resourceful. Make one up. Whatever you put on it, I’ll back you up with your teacher.”

“I want a real one, not a fake one,” she whispered.

I thought about the opulent penthouse and the tall, thin man in a blue sweater and taupe slacks who instructed my nannies and tutors to talk to me about my mother because he was too busy to do it himself. “There isn’t one. There never was.”

I went to get my car keys. Half an hour later, I picked up Ken.

We went to the Langtry Office building. We had an appointment with Ms Sedgwick at the IMF. I’d called to confirm it and used the opportunity to tell her that we wanted information on an ex-employee, Jonathan Brick. It’d been four years since Brick had worked at IMF so I figured it would take the clerical staff some time to dig it out of the archives.

“I’ve only been here two years,” Ms Sedgwick told us, opening a file. “I may not be able to answer all your questions but I’ve pulled whatever information we have on Mr. Brick from the personnel files.”

“Do you know what projects he worked on?” I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m an administrator. I won’t be able to give you technical details, only what’s in his file. After you called, I reviewed the information so I’d be able to give you a comprehensive summary. His performance review was excellent. He was a programmer and a mathematician, not just an economist. He was developing a mathematical model. It was based on the recommendation of the Financial Action Task Force that was set up a few years ago, during a G7 Finance Ministers’ meeting in Japan. They review rules and practices of several countries and territories, concerning criteria, standards and cooperation in a fight against money laundering. They issue advisories to domestic financial institutions. These are based on the data provided by Financial Intelligence Units. The model was complex. It would have been available to all the domestic banking institutions. It also would have helped them track even the slightest activity of money laundering. It also would have contained a component to track money laundering by government officials who seek to divert public assets. Once it had been implemented domestically, we could have sold it worldwide.”

“But he never finished?” I asked.

“No. And no one else had his expertise to continue. It’s a pity that he didn’t complete his contract. I’m sure the IMF would have assisted him, any way we could, had he told us that his medical condition was severe.”

“What medical condition?” Ken asked.

She leafed through the file. “Here it is, tension headaches. Apparently, they were quite severe. He saw Dr. Martin, our staff physician. I believe he referred him to a specialist.”

“Is Dr. Martin still here?” I asked hurriedly.

She shook her head. “Our project staff is all contract. Mr. Brick’s was the longest I’ve seen. He was an asset. Dr. Martin left just after Mr. Brick. That was more than three years ago.”

“Left?” I echoed. “Do you mean Mr. Brick quit?”

“Why, yes.” She sounded surprised. “Dr. Martin had referred him to a specialist. I believe he had recommended that he leave his job. His opinion was that the job was causing Mr. Brick’s tension headaches.”

“Did the IMF provide this information to the police four years ago?” Ken asked.

She frowned. “I don’t see why they would have. Why exactly are you here, officer?”

Ken and I glanced at each other. He looked as confused as I was.

Brick’s cold case file had information about his job with the IMF but not in detail. We had assumed that our colleagues, who had started up Brick’s case four years ago, would have gone to the IMF to investigate and informed them of his disappearance. Was it possible that they didn’t know? Or was Ms Sedgwick clueless because she was new? It could be that if Brick quit his job before his trip to the Dundalk 7-Eleven, they didn’t know their former employee had disappeared.

“Did he submit a letter of resignation?” I asked, motioning toward the file.

“I believe it was a verbal arrangement, given over the phone.”

“So there’s nothing in his file to suggest resignation?”

She frowned. “His employment was properly terminated. All the administrative procedures have been documented. That’s only done when the employee quits. Given Dr. Martin’s files, I assumed it was for medical reason.”

Horowitz and Weiss had opened the case. Both were now Inspectors in Robbery. They were good cops. We had consulted with them often, when reviewing Brick’s files. They would not have forgotten to visit the IMF, to tell them that Brick was a missing persons case. Even if he had resigned, Horowitz and Weiss should have gone to the IMF and carried away all the information in his personnel file. Yet, we had no medical information. Nothing about the headaches, or that Brick had consulted the staff physician who had referred him to a specialist—or that he’d resigned.

“Was this information available four years ago?” I asked.

“Why, of course.”

“And if we’d asked for it you would have provided it?”

“I wasn’t here then.”

“But it’s been in his file all along?” I persisted. It was possible that if Brick quit his job before his trip to the Dundalk 7-Eleven, they didn’t know their former employee had disappeared.

“Yes, of course. It’s in our database, as well as a hardcopy in our archives.”

“Who would have released this information if the police had asked for it four years ago?”

“My predecessor and our staff physician.”

“Who was your predecessor?” I asked.

“Mrs. Lock. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to get in touch with her. She passed away. That’s how her position became vacant. It was a boating accident. She drowned. There were two acting supervisors for a year and then I got the job.”

“So Mrs. Lock and Dr. Martin would have released this information four years ago?”

She nodded.

We asked her for a copy of everything that was in Brick’s file. She started to refuse. Ken told her what happened to Brick—four years ago and ten days ago—and why we were there. She gave us two copies of everything.

“Mrs. Lock and Dr. Martin had accepted missing persons information from Horowitz and Weiss but didn’t give them everything. Then they ‘lost’ what the police had submitted about Brick’s disappearance,” I said, when we left the IMF offices.

“Mrs. Lock is dead and I don’t think we’ll find Dr. Martin either. His Coolidge Hill Apartment address doesn’t exist anymore,” Ken said.

“How do you know that?”

“Brenda and I saw something about it on TV last year. The apartment complex was demolished to make way for a new development, a seniors resident village.”

“You watch the demolitions of old apartment buildings on TV?” I muttered.

“It’s great entertainment. We both love it.”

“Marry the woman, Ken. Trust me, you won’t find another gem like her.”

Chapter 13

P
eter Jeffries lived in genteel poverty. That was my opinion of the Lofton Terrace neighborhood. It was old. Had it been kept up, it would have become historical and distinguished. However, the city planners had ignored it. The “Rebuilding Day 2010” had not reached this far. We saw a lot of Georgian, Norman and Tudor architecture but the crocuses didn’t bloom in Lofton. The authentic building materials had waged a battle with time and human abuse for decades and lost. The large, stately homes now sagged before our eyes reincarnated as rooming houses and transient shelters.

Mr. Spadafora was the landlord or the manager—he couldn’t make up his mind whether he owned the place or managed it for someone. He was not inclined to remember much, not even the faces of his residents.

“The fellow, the fellow,” he mumbled, when I asked him about Peter Jeffries, who had lived in a left loft. I didn’t dare to ask him whether there was a right loft.