Authors: John Lawrence Reynolds
“It's crossed my mind.” Pinnington stared out the windows towards the airport.
McGuire turned to leave.
“You've been seen with that Schaeffer woman,” Pinnington said. “The two of you, you were out playing vigilantes last night, I hear. I thought you were finished with all that cowboys-and-Indians stuff. I thought you were content to be associated with us and leave all the rough stuff to your friend Donovan and his cronies.”
“It's tough to stop being a cop. Besides, I had a score to settle with that guy. He's a murderer. He would have killed more people if he hadn't been brought down.”
“Brought down?” Pinnington swung his eyes to McGuire and grinned. “I hear you ran him over with your car.” He turned to face McGuire. “Look, I still like you, and you've got your own gang of fans around here, too. Although I wouldn't count Lorna Robbins among them. I'm just asking you to kind of rein yourself in a little bit, okay? I saw Marv Rosen last night. He says you're still acting like a cop instead of like a counselor. You know the difference, don't you?”
“Whatever it is,” McGuire said, turning for the door, “it got Orin Flanigan killed.”
His message light was flashing when he returned to his office. He punched his phone code and listened to Libby Waxman's washboard voice speak to him as though she were reading a shopping list.
“You there? You gonna pick this thing up or you want me to talk, give you what I got?” After a pause, she said, “Okay, this is what I got. First, your friend Myers, this one's easy, one phone call and I had what I needed two minutes after you hung up. Your buddy paid off a big-time gambling debt last week and it's a good thing, too, because the bookie he owed it to, the guy's got connections from here to Palermo, and Myers was only a couple a days from walkin' the streets without no feet on the ends of his legs. Whatever he tapped into looks like a gusher, because he's layin' down long green on short odds every day, but he doesn't show his mug around Pimlico any more, just does business with this bookie, phone calls and money drops. He's got the scratch but he doesn't have the smarts, which means he's the bookie's pension plan right now.”
McGuire heard a wispy intake that he recognized as a deep drag on a cigarette, then a long, slow exhalation before Libby's drone began again.
“So that's that, and on the company you were askin' about, Amherst Electronics, it's owned by an outfit called TriTech Incorporated, which is what they call a shell. It spreads money around, but it hasn't been spreadin' it around with much luck lately, because three of its outfits've gone tits-up in the last two years. But there's this rumour, see, that has somethin' to do with one of the three families in this TriTech Company. This one lives in the Caymans where, like you already know, you can slide the odd boxcar-load of cash in and out, and there's no questions asked. Anyway, I got three names for this TriTech thing, so you might want to scribble 'em down. One's named Stoller, he's the guy lives in the Caymans, and he's got a rap sheet for fraud. Got a mouth looser'n panties on a bean pole. Found somebody on the street who knows him. Stoller used to be a fifty-buck-a-week punk in Southie. Now he's a million-a-year punk in the Caymans, frontin' other people and gettin' paid not to talk about it. But punks talk, McGuire, you know that, and Stoller's talked to some people he shouldn't, about some things he shouldn't. Guy still smells like cold piss and warm beer.
“He's got partners up here, and they don't smell of nothin' except old money and maybe Chanel. One a them's named van der Kramer and the other's De Coursey, that's a big D, small
e,
big C and
course
,
with a
y
on
the end, okay? They both got Beacon Hill addresses, the van der Kramers and De Courseys, when they're in town, which probably isn't a hell of a lot, because they also got places in Palm Beach and Kennebunkport and Squaw Valley, and for all I know on the moon, so there you are.”
Another wispy inhalation and this time there was a longer pause before she spoke, her voice coloured a little from the smoke that was escaping her lungs with the words.
“Now I gotta tell you, McGuire, don't hold out a lotta hope for this Schaeffer fella, the guy with the kids, 'cause he's been gone two years and all I know is he's west, Arizona or someplace where the air's dry. You know that if there's nothin' on a record somewhere, or the guy isn't doin' deals here and there, that he's tough to find, and besides I can't do a hell of a lot with somebody dumb enough to go to Arizona to live, either in the suburbs or in the desert, but then what the hell's the difference in Arizona, right? Either way you're just cuttin' cactus, or whatever there is to do out there. So that's a blank, McGuire, but it's okay, I'm not chargin' you for that, and the Myers thing is free, because you already paid me and it was easy. Maybe you owe me a hundred on the Amherst deal, okay? So you keep your hair curly and your shoes shined, and you can come around and see me any time, okay?”
McGuire smiled as he replaced the receiver. He had written four names, Stoller, van der Kramer, De Coursey, and Schaeffer, on a sheet of paper, and he crossed the last name out.
He sat staring at the three remaining names while random thoughts formed in his head, ideas muscling their way to the front of his consciousness, until one of them dominated the view. Why not? he asked himself. He rose from his chair and walked through the office area and back up the stairs to the fifteenth floor, where he found the two secretaries for King and Pratt sitting at their desks. One of them, a red-haired woman in her forties, who wore her hair in a modified beehive style, looked up and smiled when he paused in front of her desk.
“Is there a file on our law staff somewhere that lists where they were educated, what kinds of awards they might have won, what their specialty is, that kind of thing?” McGuire asked her.
She looked across at the other secretary, a small woman with dark, badly permed hair, who was watching McGuire carefully. “Marie?” the secretary said. “Do you have a copy of that?”
Marie nodded, opened a drawer in her desk, and withdrew a file folder. “It's my only copy,” she said, handing it to the red-haired woman.
“I just need a glance at it.” McGuire walked to her desk and reached for the file, but she began to withdraw it. “Just a quick look,” he said, and this time his hand shot out to seize it from her.
The dark-haired woman watched as he opened the file, which held perhaps two dozen typed pages. Then, throwing a look at the other secretary, she rose from her chair, walked to Fred King's office, knocked lightly, keeping her eyes on McGuire, and entered.
McGuire flipped through the sheets, each headed by the name of a Zimmerman, Wheatley and Pratt lawyer, listing senior partners first, then full partners, and finally staff lawyers, all in alphabetical order. He located Barry Cassidy's sheet just as Fred King's door opened. The lawyer stood buttoning his jacket. The secretary named Marie stood behind him, her arms folded. “Bit of research, Joe?” King said.
“Public records,” McGuire said. “Nothing I couldn't find in a lawyer's
Who's Who
.” He began reading:
CASSIDY, BARRY JEROME MONTROSE, B.A., LL.B.; b. Boston, MA, 28 Oct. 1967, s. William S. (M.D.) and Helen (Montrose); educ. Rutland, Boston College (B.A. 1988), Yale (LL.B. 1991) . . .
King's voice was closer now. “Dick Pinnington and I had a talk a few minutes ago,” King said. “There's nothing for you to be doing here, is there?”
McGuire took a step away from the lawyer and continued reading.
Admitted to the bar 1993, attended state conference on corporate litigation 1996, member Massachusetts Law Society 1997, recording secretary Greater Boston Republican Lawyers' Advisory Group 1998 . . .
“McGuire, I don't believe you are to have access to documentation of any kind without Dick Pinnington's permission.” King was walking towards him in measured strides. He whispered something to Marie, who nodded and reached for her telephone.
The woman with copper-coloured hair sat watching the scene, a hand to her mouth.
Member Mass. General Hospital Volunteer Citizens' Organization 1998, Chairperson corporate law review sub-committee of Yale Law School Alumni Association 1998-9, contributor “Data Analysis Impact on Corporate Law”
Yale Law School Review
MarchâApril 1999 . . .
“Give me the file.” King was approaching McGuire, his hand outstretched, and with his next glance McGuire discovered what he had been looking for, or at least had hoped to find, and there it was.
Committee member Prospect Hill Community Recreational Council. Married to Kirsten Maureen, daughter of Michael and Maureen De Coursey, Boston, MA. . . .
McGuire closed the file and tossed it at King. Several sheets of paper spilled from it onto the floor. “All yours, Fred,” he said. “You might want to read the part about Cassidy. You know that fair-haired twit down the hall? If he doesn't find his name listed as a partner here next month, he might find his ass in jail.”
He trotted downstairs and called Sleeman again, who told him what he needed to know. “I know the name,” he said, meaning the name on the court document he had accessed. “Didn't know she had anything to do with Father Frank.”
“Maybe she didn't,” McGuire said. “Maybe he was just bragging about it.”
“Sure as hell didn't brag about it to the judge.”
After McGuire hung up, he savoured both a final cup of coffee and a vaguely reassuring feeling of victory before returning upstairs. He walked past Pinnington's secretary and through the partially open door to find Pinnington behind his desk, making notes on lined sheets of paper in a three-ring binder. Pratt stood nearby, speaking softly into Pinnington's telephone. Fred King was slouched in one of the wing chairs.
“We're cutting you a check,” Pinnington said after glancing up. He appeared to be expecting McGuire. “For your three months of service. We'll want you to sign a release . . .”
“Make it certified,” McGuire said.
“Make what certified?” Pinnington looked up from his notes. King's smile metamorphosed into a smirk.
“The check. I want it certified.” McGuire looked across at King and returned the cold smile.
“You think Zimmerman, Wheatley would bounce a check for a lousy fifteen thousand dollars?” King said.
“Probably not,” McGuire nodded. “But I want to cash it today for a chunk of money. It'll be easier if it's certified.”
“You're a goddamn pain,” Pinnington muttered, not lifting his head.
“Pain, hell,” McGuire said. “Up to now I've been a mild itch.”
Pinnington looked at McGuire again, his eyebrows arched, and McGuire waited until Pratt finished speaking on the telephone and replaced the receiver. “There's some information in Orin Flanigan's files I want,” McGuire said.
King snorted. Pratt looked from McGuire to Pinnington and back again.
“Well, forget it,” Pinnington said. “First, Orin's files are possible evidence in his murder investigation, and second, I wouldn't let you read our telephone directory right now . . .”
“He grabbed the personnel file right out of Marie's hand,” King said from the corner.
“You want the check certified, come back in an hour,” Pinnington said.
“I want an address from Orin's file.” McGuire stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at each of the men in turn. “It has nothing to do with Flanigan's murder.”
“I said forget it,” Pinnington said.
“Whose address?” Pratt asked. His voice was soft, his manner wary.
“Thomas Schaeffer,” McGuire said. “Flanigan acted for him in a child-custody case about two years ago.”
“Schaeffer?” Pinnington frowned at McGuire. “Let me guess. He's Susan Schaeffer's former husband.”
McGuire nodded.
“You're nuts,” King said. “That's a breach of confidentiality, especially if the client gave specific instructions not to reveal his whereabouts. No lawyer in town would agree to that. Why don't you just clear your desk out . . .”
“I'm trading something for it,” McGuire said.
“Like what?” It was Pratt. He rested one buttock on Pinnington's desk.
“The fact that your boy Barry Cassidy not only has a serious conflict of interest with a client . . .”
“Cassidy?” It was King, his mouth open and his eyes swinging from Pinnington to McGuire and back again.
“You've really got it in for him, haven't you?” Pinnington said.
“What else?” Pratt said.
“He may have been involved in concealing criminal activity . . .” McGuire began.
“What
is
this crap?” King said, still smiling.
“Why don't you just get the hell out of here?” Pinnington slammed the binder closed.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” It was Pratt. His arms were folded across his chest and he leaned towards McGuire but spoke to King. “Close the door,” he said. Then to McGuire: “What are you talking about?”
McGuire waited for King to return and stand beside Pinnington. “Cassidy is married to a woman, Kirsten, I believe her name is,” he said. “Her maiden name is De Coursey. He gave me documents to examine on a company called Amherst Electronics, a customer of one of your clients, Saugus Incorporated . . .”
“Ray Finkle's company,” Pratt said to Pinnington.
“Amherst is owned by TriTech, a holding company headed by a guy named Stoller, who lives in the Caymans.” McGuire paused to look at each of the three men in turn, and when they made no comment, he went on. “TriTech is supported by two silent investors, Boston families. There's no record of either one on any documents Cassidy gave me. But of course, neither is TriTech. That wouldn't have been so hard to find anyway. Finding the families was the hard part. One's named . . .” McGuire removed the crumbled sheet of notepaper from his pocket and glanced at it. “Van der Kramer.” He looked up again and smiled. “The other's De Coursey.”