The Rule of Nine

FIFTEEN

Snyder…?”

The name doesn’t click in my brain until he says: “My son was murdered in Washington a few weeks ago.”

“Ah…”

“I’m afraid I followed your partner over here. I’d like to talk to you,” he says.

“Sure, drag up a chair.”

“It might be best if we could talk where we have a little more privacy,” he says.

“Listen, I can go,” says Joselyn. She’s trapped in the curved booth between Harry and me.

I put my hand on her arm as she starts to slide toward me to get out. “We haven’t had lunch yet,” I tell her. “Have you had lunch, Mr. Snyder?”

“No.”

“Then please pull up a chair and join us. You already know my partner. I keep no secrets from him. And this is Joselyn Cole, our resident mystic psychic for whom my head is a glass display case. She knows all my most intimate thoughts.”

He gives Joselyn a cautious once-over. “How do you do?”

“He’s joking,” she says and gives him a simpering smile.

“You want to talk here, it’s fine with me,” says Snyder. He drops a leather portfolio on the corner of the table next to Harry and grabs a chair. He slides it over and finishes up the foursome, sitting at the outside edge of the booth.

I flash the waiter to bring us menus. We take a couple of minutes and we order lunch. As soon as the waitress leaves, I turn and look at Snyder. “So what can I do for you?”

“I may as well cut to the chase. Why waste time?” he says. “I am told that my son discussed certain legal matters with you prior to his death. I want to know what these matters regarded, what the two of you talked about.”

“Who told you this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, because the information you’ve been given isn’t accurate. The fact is, I never met your son, never talked to him, never communicated with him in any way.”

“Listen, if you’re worried about violating privileged communications we can go to your office and talk. It won’t take five minutes. Besides, any privilege died with my son. I too am a lawyer,” he says. “And even if the privilege didn’t die, I’m the executor of my son’s estate. I stand in his shoes. So what you could say to him you can now say to me.”

“It’s nothing to do with lawyer-client privilege. There’s nothing to talk about because I never had any dealings with your son.”

Snyder looks perplexed, casing me with his eyes. “Then why would they give me your name?”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Then there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

It’s going to be a long, silent lunch. He thinks about it for a few seconds. “All right. I was interviewed a week ago by the FBI. They asked me if I knew whether my son had recently hired a lawyer. They mentioned you by name,” he says. “So if you never met Jimmie, why would they give me your name?”

“What exactly did they tell you?” I ask.

“Just what I said.”

“They gave you my name. They didn’t say anything more? No other details?”

Snyder shakes his head. “No.”

“What they didn’t tell you is that at the scene the police found my business card in your son’s wallet. That’s how the FBI had my name.”

“But you say you never met Jimmie?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how did my son get your card?”

“I don’t know. The FBI asked me the same question and I told them the same thing. I didn’t have a clue.”

Snyder thinks about this for a moment. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I mean, it’s possible somebody else gave Jimmie your card, one of his friends, on a referral. Maybe he was going to call you and never got around to it. You do criminal work?”

“Right.”

“Do you ever handle drug cases?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. I knew Jimmie never did drugs.” He seems at least relieved by this thought. “Still, he was in Washington. You’re in California. Regardless of what the problem is, I’d get somebody local. Wouldn’t you?”

I nod. What can I say without telling him everything?

Harry has a pained expression. We could just sit here and allow Snyder to wander down this posy path, coming to all the wrong conclusions, wondering if his kid was a closet addict and maybe got a flawed legal referral from some drugged-out junkie.

“The cops are horsing you around,” says Harry. “Sending you here to talk to Paul with only a fraction of the facts.”

“The FBI didn’t send me,” says Snyder.

“Oh, yes, they did.” Harry’s looking at me from under arched eyebrows, shirtsleeves rolled up, his forearms sprawled on the table. “And I think you deserve all the answers.” Harry says it to Snyder, but he’s still looking at me.

“Okay, so you think we should tell him?”

“Hell, yes. If it was anybody else, I’d say no,” says Harry. “But given the circumstances…”

“Tell me what?” says Snyder.

“There’s a tad more to the story,” says Harry.

“Do we have your word that you’ll keep what we’re about to tell you in confidence?” I ask Snyder.

“Sure.” Or at least until he can get outside, whip out his cell phone, and call the FBI to kick the crap out of them, demanding whatever they have on the man Thorpe called the Mexicutioner.

“When the police found my business card in your son’s wallet they also found some other forensic evidence. Based on that, there’s reason to believe that your son may not have been the one who put my business card in his wallet.”

“Explain,” says Snyder.

Plates arrive juggled up the waitress’s arm. Over lunch I tell Snyder about the thumbprint that the cops found on the back of my business card, the fact that the print was somewhat obvious. I tell him that, according to the police, this unidentified print matched a second unidentified print found at the scene of another murder in Southern California committed several months before his son was killed. I’m careful not to give him Afundi’s name or any of the details in the other murder. With Joselyn tuned in, it would probably take her a nanosecond to connect this earlier murder to the shoot-out in Coronado. This would only ignite her candle all over again.

Snyder asks whether any arrests were made in the earlier case or whether the police have any suspects.

“Arrests, no. Not that I know of. But they may have a lead. Call it a rumor.”

I tell him about the tidbit from Thorpe, that the Southern California murder may have been the work of someone called the Mexicutioner, aka Liquida.

“According to the FBI, the narco buzz out of Mexico is that this man is connected to the Tijuana drug cartel.”

With the mention of drugs, Snyder lifts his eyes from his plate, snaps a quick look at me, and grabs a notepad from the leather portfolio at his elbow.

“What did you say his name was? Liquida? How do you spell that?”

I give him my best guess.

“He deals in drugs?” says Snyder.

“I don’t know. It’s only a name,” I tell him. “I know nothing about him other than what the authorities told me, which was very little. It’s possible I may have seen him one time, just a fleeting glimpse, but I can’t even be sure of that.”

“When was this?” says Snyder.

“About a year ago, down in Costa Rica. We were working a case. It was late at night, dark, and as I say it was just a quick glimpse. This guy had a swarthy, pockmarked face, looked like acne, and a set of evil eyes you could never forget. Of course that’s assuming it was even him.”

“Why didn’t the FBI tell me about Liquida?” says Snyder.

“I don’t know. Probably for the same reason they didn’t tell you about my business card. It’s part of their continuing investigation.”

“So why did they tell you?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

Harry looks at me. I cut him off with a glance. I don’t want to tell Snyder about the warning from Thorpe and the fear that Liquida may be playing out a vendetta against Harry, Herman, and me. If I go there, Snyder will want to know the rest, like pulling a thread on a sweater. How was it that we ended up on the death list of a man we don’t even know? Pretty soon we’ll be sitting here naked in front of Joselyn and her friends in the media trying to explain Liquida’s part in the events leading up to the attack at the naval base, the details of which I don’t fully understand myself.

“Go on,” says Snyder.

“There’s not much more to say. The FBI was unable to match the two thumbprints, the one on my card or the one at the earlier crime scene, to any known person in their database.”

“But,” says Joselyn, “if the information out of Mexico is accurate, that this man Liquida is responsible for the murder in Southern California, the FBI must be operating on the assumption that it must be his print that they found at that scene. Correct?”

“I assume so.”

“Hmm…” She goes back to nibbling at her salad.

“Let me get this straight,” says Snyder. “They don’t have any background on this guy Liquida?”

“If they do, they didn’t share it with me,” I tell him.

“Who was the victim in the Southern California case?” says Snyder. “And what city was it? I’d like to look at some of the press reports, and maybe talk to the local police.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.” I wink at Harry, but he’s looking down, taking a bite out of his sandwich when I do it.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, we do…”

“No, Harry. That information was wrong. I checked with Thorpe. They had the wrong name. It was a different victim. When he found the right information, he refused to give me the name.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, I checked.”

Joselyn is listening to the words, smiling as she looks at me, deciphering the facial language of lies.

“You say so.” Harry shakes his head and goes back to his sandwich.

I don’t want Harry dropping Afundi’s name in front of her. I can’t be sure how much she knows from her own sources regarding the attack at Coronado. She may already be aware of Afundi’s name.

“Lemme get this straight.” Snyder’s looking down at the pad in front of him, scrawled notes. “If the fingerprint found at the scene here in Southern California belongs to this guy Liquida, then he also owns the print on the back of your card in Jimmie’s wallet. If so, that means he did both murders.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I assume that’s what the cops are operating on. But your guess is as good as mine. Now you know everything I know.”

“Not quite,” says Joselyn. “What’s your connection to this man?”

“Who?” I look at her like a spotted owl caught in the headlights of a lumber truck.

“This Liquida. What’s your connection to him?”

“None. What makes you think there’s a connection?”

“Well, he didn’t take my card and put it in Jimmie’s wallet,” she says. “Why would he pick you?”

“Who knows?” Any second she’s going to lean over and sniff the sweat on my forehead, analyze the acid content in her gas chromatograph, and her buzzer will go off.

“It’s possible he could be an unhappy former client,” she says. “Didn’t like the result, got out of prison, and used your card as a kind of consumer complaint.” Joselyn looks at Snyder. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make light of your son’s death.”

“No. I wanna hear.” Snyder is all eyes at me.

“No. I don’t think he’s a former client,” I say.

“Why not?” she says.

“Yeah,” says Snyder, both of them waiting for an answer.

Harry looks at me as he fills his face with another bite of sandwich. I know what he’s thinking: “You got yourself into this with one lie; you’re going to have to get yourself out of it with another.”

“The thought crossed my mind. We checked our records. But there’s no one we can think of.” Then the afterthought, like a stroke of genius. “Besides, if it was a disgruntled client, someone unhappy with my services, they would have been booked and finger printed at the time of arrest. Their prints would be on record with the FBI.” Take that!

Harry gives me a wink, good job.

“Right. Of course. How stupid of me,” she says.

“All I have is a name-Liquida. No physical description. So that’s it. That’s everything. That’s all I know.” I’m still smiling when she says it.

“That’s too bad.”

“Why?”

“Because it must be hard on you.”

“What do you mean?” It’s one question too many. What they teach you in law school is to stop when you’re ahead.

“Because that thumbprint on your card is no accident,” says Joselyn. “It may be your business card, but it’s his calling card on the back of it. You did say the print was on the back of the card?”

“It’s what the FBI told me,” I say.

“You must have done something to really piss this guy off,” she says.

I refuse to ask why. I don’t want to play in her sandbox anymore.

“Do you have one of your business cards on you?” Joselyn looks at me.

“Yes.” I’m gritting my teeth as I say it.

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” What else can I say?

I reach into my pocket and pluck a business card from the small cardholder I carry. I reach over to hand it to her.

“You just proved my point.” Joselyn doesn’t look up from her salad or take the card from my hand. Instead she leaves me there, my arm extended, holding the card, as she sweeps a small piece of lettuce into her mouth from her fork. “Do you see…” She wipes her mouth with her napkin.

“You see how you’re holding the card, thumb on one side, first finger on the other? I never practiced much criminal law, but anyone handling a business card, unless they held it by the edges, in which case they won’t leave any prints, would hold it like you are, front and back, thumb on one side, finger on the other. Even if they were smudged, you would still find two smudged prints, one on each side of the card, not one clear thumbprint. To get that you would probably put the card on a table or a hard surface and press down with your thumb. Besides, isn’t it normal for a professional to wear gloves at a crime scene? Wouldn’t that be part of the uniform of the day? And yet he left thumbprints at both scenes. It’s a conscious act.” She punctuates this statement of fact with a sip of wine she had ordered in a stemmed glass and then places it back on the table next to her unfinished drink in the tumbler. “I wouldn’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but it seems to me he’s sending you a message.”

“Is that why he killed my son?” says Snyder.

“I don’t know. But then it wasn’t my card that he used.” Joselyn looks at me with a Cheshire-like grin. “Do you have any ideas?”

“No.” I slip the business card back into my pocket.

“What could you have done to make him that angry?” says Snyder. “I wanna know how you know this guy. What’s the connection between you and him?”

“I told you. I don’t know him. I don’t have a clue. I wish I did.”

“That doesn’t tell me why my son was killed,” says Snyder. “He wasn’t involved in drugs. That I know. So how would he come in contact with someone like this-this Liquida?”

“Maybe he didn’t,” says Harry. “Maybe this man Liquida came looking for your son. It’s how he earns his money. He’s hired to kill.”

“No. Why would he be hired to kill Jimmie? My boy wasn’t involved in anything that would put him in that kind of danger.”

“Obviously he was,” says Harry, “or else he’d be alive.”

“What do you mean by that?” Snyder starts to get out of his chair.

“Relax.” I put a hand on his arm. People at the other tables are starting to look at us. “Harry didn’t mean anything.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” says Harry. “If what you say is true, then Jimmie was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. For all we know he could have been killed by mistake. The information we have on Liquida is sketchy at best, only that he works for the cartels and hires out. The people employing him would have the moral judgment of a cancer cell. If they thought the rain was a threat, they’d shoot the weatherman. So it might not have taken much for your son to get killed. If he saw something, heard something, and he may not even have realized it.”

“They would kill him for that?” At this moment Snyder has the look of a clerk who has rung up a sale and is calculating the change.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” says Snyder. “Only…”

“Only what?” I ask.

“It was just a minor problem, trouble he had at work. It’s why I thought he might have come to see you.”

“What was it?” says Harry.

“Jimmie violated some security protocols in the building where he worked. At least that’s what I’m told. He took someone into a secure area without authority, and apparently he got caught.”

“Your son told you this?” says Harry.

“No, the FBI, when they interviewed me. They showed me some pictures, Jimmie and another man. They didn’t tell me that this was the actual event, but I have to assume…”

Snyder reaches into the leather portfolio next to his elbow and pulls out what appear to be three glossy prints. He hands them to me. I look at them. I recognize Jimmie Snyder from the death scene photos shown to us by Thorpe that day at the FBI office. The other man is pudgy looking, a little shorter than Snyder’s son, wearing a baseball cap, Bermuda shorts, and a polo shirt.

I hand the photos to Harry. “Did they say anything else?”

“No. They showed me the photos in hopes I might recognize the man. They let me have them so I could run them by Jimmie’s friends to see if anyone knew who the man was. I thought that if Jimmie talked with you about the problem at work, he might have told you who he was.”

I shake my head.

“Hard to tell what he looks like from the pictures. The hat’s down over his eyes in two of them.” Harry zeros in on the other photo, the enlarged close-up. Over the shoulder is just a piece of a sign, the words “basketball and weight lifting” and a line below it that was out of focus. Harry studies it for a moment, then lays it on top of the other two and pushes them off to the side.

“When were these taken?”

Snyder looks up at Joselyn. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

She picks them up.

“I’m pretty sure they are stills from a security video camera,” says Snyder.

“That’s exactly what they are,” says Harry. “Where were the photographs taken? What building, I mean?”

“Oh, God.” Joselyn is leaning over the enlargement, peering down at it on the table. She’s white as a sheet, and slack jawed.

“What is it?” I say.

“It’s like a bad dream,” she says. “I thought he was dead. They told me he was dead.”

“Who?”

“National Security Agency.” She coughs, covers her mouth. “Gimme-can I have some water,” she says.

Harry motions for the waitress, but she doesn’t see him.

“There’s a pitcher and glasses on the side table near the bar.” I point.

Harry starts to get up, but Snyder’s closer. He makes a beeline for it just as Joselyn topples sideways onto the booth seat.

I grab her before she can fall. Snyder scurries back with the water. He’s got it in a glass, but Joselyn’s not going to be drinking. She’s out cold. I dip my linen napkin into the glass and wipe her forehead. The shock of the ice water on her skin causes her eyelids to flutter. A second later she opens them.

By now the waitress is over. “Is she all right? You want us to call 911?”

“No!” says Joselyn. “I’m okay. Really, it’s nothing.” She struggles to right herself on the booth seat.

Her skin is clammy, with cold sweat on her arm. “Sip a little water,” I tell her.

She gives a feeble shake of the head. “No, my stomach right now…” I steady her so if she goes down again she doesn’t bang her head on the edge of the table. “Yeah, you’re just fine,” I tell her.

“I think she’ll be all right.” Harry looks up at the waitress. “We’ll get her back to the office. We’ve got a couch in the conference room. She can lie down. If she needs help we’ll call from there. Can you bring the check?”

“We’ll deliver it to the office. Go,” she says. “Take her on over. We’ll catch up.”