Saving Jason (9 page)

T
he last time I had been to Chilton, the grand estate across the bay from Newport where Virgil had grown up, I had arrived with revelations that did almost as much damage to the emotional fiber of the family as the collapse of the old man’s bogus empire. It had been necessary, but I wasn’t sure that I would be welcomed back. Virgil’s mother, Livy, had been distant when I called, but she had agreed to see me. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be waiting for me with a twelve-gauge pheasant shooter.

I took I-95 all the way, despite the traffic and the rain. The ferry from Orient Point to New London would have avoided all the worst tie-ups, but would have cost me hours that I didn’t have. And the rain would have prevented me from enjoying the view on the ferry ride anyway. I traded stress for time. That rarely pays off, but being home early for the Kid was the greater goal.

The road to the house was unassuming, not much more than a break in the trees with a discreet sign announcing the name of the estate, and another that heralded the security company who watched over the place. I noticed that Livy had changed providers since I was last there—the previous company had been less than reliable.

The gardens needed work. The flower beds around the circular drive were brown and barren. The boxwood needed a haircut. The grass had been recently cut, but whoever they’d hired had skimped on the edging and the weeding. Clumps of crabgrass and dandelions had sprung up in spots. The house, a hotel-sized stone structure designed to resemble some nineteenth-century architect’s vision of a Medici castle, needed a face-lift or, at the very least, a power wash. I’ve always
been skeptical—cynical, my ex-wife would have said—about people who need to live in a monument to their own wealth and power, but I felt sad looking at the fading beauty. The place had belonged to Virgil’s mother’s family and been passed along for many generations. She’d had a bad marriage to a man who had conned the world. He’d taken her as he had his investors. Much of the money was gone, and what was left she had bet on Virgil.

A uniformed maid in her forties welcomed me, told me that I was expected, and led me to a glass conservatory that I had not seen on my last trip. I found Livy sitting in a padded white wicker chair surrounded by tall potted palms. A book with a blue cover was spread on the end table beside her. She was gripping her usual glass of clear liquid, her long, thin fingers wrapped tightly around the glass as though it were the lifeline that still might rescue her from sinking under the unrelenting weight of life.

“Mr. Stafford. How good it is that you have come to visit. Wyatt and I are left too much to ourselves these days. How have you been?”

I played along for a bit, keeping the tone light and conversational. I was in a hurry, but I wasn’t going to let her brand me as rude. Rude was beneath her, and therefore could be safely ignored. I needed her.

“And how is Wyatt?” I asked.

“You may ask him yourself. Wyatt!” she called over my shoulder.

I turned and saw that, beyond the grove of palms and a pair of shoulder-high grassy plants in ceramic tubs, was a cleared area that looked out on the harbor. Wyatt had been sitting there all along. In front of him was an easel with paints and the kind of folding field table that artists in English cozy mysteries all seem to have. I stood up and met him by the grasses. He declined to shake hands, but he was more polite and less aggressive than at our first meeting.

“I’m Wyatt,” he said. I saw that, despite his recent activity, he did not have so much as a spot of paint on his hands or clothes.

“Yes, we’ve met,” I said. “Jason Stafford. Nice to see you again.”

“Mother says some people have trouble remembering names, so it is polite to always announce your own name. I don’t have that trouble. Do you?”

“I do pretty well in that regard. I must have gotten it from my father. He was a bartender and remembered everyone.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Retired.” Wyatt’s directness didn’t bother me. Asperger’s doesn’t often recognize the sensitive nature of some questions. It was a symptom, and once accepted it was invigorating. Anything might pop out next.

“How’s your son?”

“Doing well, thank you.”

“Has he had any seizures yet?”

Seizures. Another monstrous aspect of autism that the Kid and I had to look forward to.

“None. Not everyone gets them, I’m told.”

“No. I did. But he’s still very young. Too young to masturbate.”

“Uh. Yes.” I was doing my best to keep up my end, but the mention of my son and masturbation in the same sentence was a bit of a hurdle.

“They started with absence seizures. Do you know about them?”

Absence seizures were sort of a mega version of tuning out. The Kid tuned out less than he had a year earlier, but there were times when he was simply unreachable.

“Yes, I do. They frighten me.”

His eyelids fluttered for a moment. “I need to paint.” He turned away abruptly and returned to the easel.

I took a seat facing Livy and found her beaming at her son.

“You have no idea what an effort that was for him,” she said with incalculable pride.

“Maybe I do.”

She turned to me and let herself search my face for a moment. “Yes, maybe you do. You have surprised me before and now you’ve done it again. Kindness, I find as I get older, is really quite a rare thing.”

“My son is on the spectrum,” I said.

She bridled slightly at that, sitting straighter as though challenging me physically. “Wyatt is very high functioning.”

I ceded the point. It cost me nothing. “He is indeed.”

“How is Virgil these days?”

“You two don’t talk?” I was surprised.

“Virgil always tells me that he’s ‘fine.’ He is under considerable pressure, and though he is by far the strongest of my children, I don’t entirely believe him.”

“He
is
under pressure, but I don’t know anyone better able to handle it. He’s a rock.”

“You’ll excuse a mother who objects to hearing her son described as an inanimate object. When he was a child, Virgil was very close with his father. He rebelled, as young people do, but he returned. I think he took his father’s unveiling very hard.”

This was a version of Virgil that I had never seen. The father had been one of the biggest crooks in history, a cold and distant parent, and he’d cheated on his wife. It was hard for me to think that anyone would have felt any sorrow at his demise—but I wasn’t his son.

“Virgil has a problem,” I told her. “Someone is orchestrating a hostile takeover. If it works, he’ll be out without much to show for all his work saving the place. I’m trying to help him, but I don’t have much to go on.”

“Impossible. I control the single largest block of shares. I can assure you that I have no intention of selling.”

“Or voting with the opposition?”

“I find the suggestion offensive.”

“Someone whispered in my ear that the family was behind it.”

“Who?”

“Nobody you’d know. But he’s usually right.”

“Not this time.”

“What about Morgan or Binks? Could they have reason to see the firm taken over? Or to see Virgil taken down?”

She wasn’t put off by the question, but she took a deep slug of the vodka before answering. “Morgan is capable. She is a very angry woman. But she is in prison and will remain there for another two years—at least. James isn’t able to control his own life, much less conspire with others. He is unreliable.”

“He’s still in the rehab place out west?”

“He is.”

James had a vicious heroin habit. Virgil and Livy had pushed, cajoled, and begged prosecutors and judges to let him remain in rehab rather than face the courts. That plan had worked—maybe too well. He was turning into a permanent resident.

“I was thinking that it might be worth questioning him.”

“A waste of resources. As I explained, I control the trust. There is no way that any of the children could undermine Virgil without my participation. And, think what you will about my dysfunctional children—all right,
family
—but I would never allow it. They can all squabble as much as they need to, but I will never take sides.” She began quietly dismissive but picked up steam as she went along. She finished in a defiant roar. I believed her.

She polished off the last half inch of her drink and placed the empty glass on the end table. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“It’s been an enlightening visit. I’m left with more questions than answers, but that’s my concern, not yours. Thanks for your time. I’ll let myself out.”

The maid passed me in the main hall, hurrying in the other direction with a fresh sweating glass of clear liquid.

The whole four-hour drive back to New York, I worried over an impossible conundrum. Could the Mouse be wrong for once?

Y
ou might want to pour yourself a drink,” Larry said.

I was in my armchair, staring out at Broadway. Sometimes it was a great place to sit and think. Today it wasn’t working. I pushed the mute button on the Bose remote and “One More Saturday Night” ended mid-note. “I’m not drinking these days. Just give it to me.”

“You will soon be famous again, if Blackmore gets his way. You, Virgil, and the firm are all targets of his investigation. I offered your wholehearted cooperation as a witness and he, rather reluctantly I think, agreed to a meeting.”

“I don’t see myself ratting out Virgil.”

“Neither do I. But in order to find out what he has, we have to give him a little something. Anything. Just tell him the truth.”

“Any other great advice?”

“When you hear me say, ‘Don’t answer that question,’ please don’t answer that question.”

“That seems rather obvious,” I said. I got up and put the kettle on. A cup of tea might help the brain cells to kick in and allow me to find a way through this ordeal.

“One would think, but I am constantly surprised by clients whose only familiarity with the legal system is as a defendant, and yet they firmly believe that their innate ability to talk their way out of trouble is their greatest asset.”

“I really don’t want to do this.”

“Understood. But you overpay me ridiculously to give you the kind of advice that will keep you out of jail. You should follow it, if only for the economics.”

“I will do my best.” I opened the cabinet and three boxes of herbal
tea bags jumped out at me and landed on the counter. My storage method of simply jamming them in up there needed some improvement. I pulled out a few jars of dried leaves to make my own blend and squeezed the three boxes back on the shelf.

“You were a big hit with the FBI. Your file contains both the words ‘hostile’ and ‘noncooperative.’ They believe you are hiding something.”

“I don’t know why they care. This is small stuff, Larry. Compliance doesn’t even think what they’re doing is illegal.”

“It seems your good friend Special Agent Brady sold them on the idea that you are a valuable CI of his.”

“I think I resent that. I’m not a snitch. I turn over rocks, and when I find nasty bugs I pass the information on to the appropriate parties.”

“Well, when you failed to live up to expectations, they took it personally. You are now on their shit list. Congratulations. My father defended two Black Panthers accused of plotting to blow up a D.C. police station back in the early seventies and he still couldn’t get on the FBI’s hate list.”

“Did he get them off?” The kettle began to sing and I turned it off while I mixed a combination of green tea leaves with a pinch of gingko and some chamomile. The caffeine in the tea would give me the immediate jump start while the flower would take the edge off. The gingko was for long-term benefit. I didn’t know whether or not I believed in all that, but I liked the way it tasted.

“Yes, but that’s immaterial. They are not a forgiving institution, as a rule.”

“Another accolade to put on my mantel. As soon as I get one.”

“So are you free tomorrow morning?”

That was a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered. Of course I was free to appear before the Inquisition. “Who’s running the meeting?”

“You will be questioned by the great man himself. Wallace Ashton Blackmore, United States Attorney for the Southern District. This is an exceedingly rare occurrence.”

The challenge would be to somehow stay out of jail without putting Virgil there in my place. “What time?”

“I’ll have a car pick you up at eight-fifteen.”

“Make it seven forty-five. We’ll drop the Kid at school. He likes Town Cars.”

“Who doesn’t? See you then.”

I
had nothing to trade except for the fact that I was innocent. Innocence is a greatly devalued asset in the criminal justice business.

I sipped my tea. Still too hot. I punched some numbers into my phone. “I’m trying to get hold of Richard Hannay. Do I have the right number?”

“Please state your name.” The voice was as neutral as could be. American. But from anywhere. There was no regional inflection.

“Jason Stafford. We’re old acquaintances.”

“Please state the nature of your business.”

“Just put me through. Or have him call me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t catch that. Please state the nature of your business.”

“Wait a minute. Are you a computer?”

“Ha ha. Do I sound that bad? Sorry. Please state the nature of your business.”

“Stop screwing around! Just have him get back to me. ASAP. I can’t believe I’m still talking to a computer. Let me ask you something. Do you dream in color? Do you keep file folders of favorite poems? Do you listen to music when you’re not answering the phone? Define the nature of the human soul.”

“Jason? Are you okay?”

“Nice touch. You sound almost capable of empathy. Almost.”

“Listen, let me call you back. This is no longer a good line.”

“You don’t sound like a computer anymore.”

“I’m not. It’s a screening program I use.”

“Next you’ll be promising me a ‘free Bahamas vacation’ or trying to get me to switch auto insurance. Guess what? I don’t own a car.”

“Jason. Jason.” He tried to interrupt my continuing rant. “I’ll call you right back.”

The line went dead.

Before I had time to think about what my next move should be, my iPad dinged. I looked around for it. The sound seemed to have come from the other room. I scouted the living room. The couch. My broken-springed armchair. The bookshelf nearest the door. I circled the room again. This time I stopped at the Kid’s bedroom door. It was closed. It was usually closed when he was not at home. That way, no one could go in and rearrange his cars on the shelf. Carolina, who provided our once-a-week cleaning service, had a special dispensation, thanks to the Kid’s fear of germs, dust, and any other indoor dirt.

I opened the door. My iPad was lying on top of his half-made bed. Another mystery. Life with my son provided so many.

There was a new email message from a Salvatore Albert Lombino, a name that meant nothing to me. I thought about hitting the delete icon, but held off. The timing was too coincidental. I Googled the name. Wikipedia informed me that this was the birth name of Evan Hunter, aka Ed McBain, the man who wrote the screenplay for Hitchcock’s
The Birds.
It was Hannay. I opened the message and found a series of numbers, the first beginning with a 1 followed by ten digits. A phone number.

I ran my eyes down the other numbers while I dialed. None made any impression.

“Hey, Jason.”

“Do I call you Sal now?”

“No. I’m still using the Hannay persona. Did you look at those numbers I sent?”

“I’m looking now. What am I supposed to see here?”

“I don’t know. Anything, I guess.” He sounded both tired and defeated.

I looked again.

19 7 23 47

89 31 37 103

223 83 89 311

5 19 41 71

1 3 13 31

“Is this a code? What am I supposed to be looking at? I’m lost.”

“Ah. These are all seemingly random names of companies that have recently purchased shares of Becker Financial.”

I found my cup of tea and took a sip. It had cooled off just enough.

“Okay,” I said. I shifted into my mathematical analytical mode. “Each line is comprised of four numbers. Every number is a prime. No number has more than three digits. Is this true of all of them?”

“Yes to your first and last comments. But I didn’t catch that they’re all prime numbers.”

“Prime numbers sometimes group themselves into little clusters, but that doesn’t apply here,” I said. “How do you know they’re companies?”

“Incorporation documents. We’ve been able to get into digital files and read a few. Each of these series of numbers is followed by either a ‘Co.’ or an ‘Inc.’ or an ‘Ltd.’ The docs are all filed in island countries in the Caribbean.”

“Are there more like this?”

“Maybe, but you’d have to break into the offices and find the physical files. It’s not a job for me and my people. But you were right. All the trades were done through law firms and private banks. To get this much, we had to hack into each firm’s digital files. These all came from banks. Most of the law firms don’t trust electronic files. Those that do have multiple security systems.”

“If this is the best we can get, I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

“Hold up. I have to keep changing phones so I don’t set up a pattern. Call me back on this number.” He rattled off another number and the phone cut off.

I dialed the new number and he picked up immediately.

“I’m so sorry. Can you repeat your last question?”

“You sound like a computer again.”

There followed a shrill beep and an electronic crackle. Then he was back. “Shit! Sorry. I wrote the app for this and I’m afraid it still needs work.”

“That’s okay, you sound like a normal paranoid again,” I said.

“Really. I know I’m acting paranoid, but I also know it’s the only thing keeping me safe. It often results in a bad case of cognitive dissonance.”

“And a migraine. I was saying that I’m not going to recommend that Virgil sink much more into this until we are confident we can show him results.”

“Great things happen when men and mountains meet. Would it help if I sent you more info? Names of some of these law firms or banks?”

I considered for a moment. “I don’t think so. It’s great that you found some kind of pattern. It shows Virgil that he is right. There is a conspiracy out there to buy up shares of the firm. No doubt about it. But even if I can identify one or two of the names you run by me, it’s not going to get us any closer to who is behind it all. I’m going to have to find another angle. And flying to the Turks and Caicos to break into a string of law offices isn’t going to do it.”

“In the meantime?”

“Can you run these numbers through code-breaking programs? I know that prime numbers have been used in codes often enough.”

“I’ll need more data points.”

“Then spend a few more days on it. See how many more of these you can come up with. We’ll talk again early next week.”

We made arrangements for me to get another envelope full of cash to him. I was to leave it with the night-shift bartender at the Dublin House up on Seventy-ninth Street. I checked my watch. The Kid and Heather wouldn’t be home for another hour—more, if he persuaded her to swing by the dog run in Riverside Park.

“I’ll take a walk up there now. Stay safe.”

My tea was cold.