The Lasko Tangent

Seventeen

Monday morning was hot, cloudy, and dense with exhaust fumes. The city felt and smelled like a locker room, and the ECC building looked dismal. There is almost nothing as grey as a government building on a dark morning. It matched my mood.

Woods was waiting for me in his office door. He whisked me past the receptionist before I could open my mouth. I looked around on my way in. Mary was nowhere in sight.

I took a seat. Woods walked to his desk with a purposeful air and sat, staring at me. It seemed to be a symbolic gesture, his desk the armor of rank and power. He spoke. “I think we’d better start with what happened with Lasko on Friday and work back to your dead witness.” His voice was cold with withheld anger.

“I’d rather begin with Lehman.”

He examined me, as if appraising a slide through a microscope. “If you think it will make any more sense.”

I began. “OK. Tuesday, Marty Gubner calls me and asks me to meet his unknown client. Gubner’s client turns out to be Alexander Lehman, who’s controller at Lasko. Lehman’s never heard of any stock manipulation, but says that he’s on to something else. Which he doesn’t explain. I arrange to talk with him about it that evening.” Woods’ eyes held a bright cynical glint. I went on, editing out the memo. “Lehman walks out of the Ritz and gets run down.” Suddenly I was angry at my own defensiveness. “You know, it’s fine to sit here as if I were rationalizing the loss of a chess game. Except you’re missing the flavor of the thing. Maybe I should dump Lehman’s body on your desk, so you could look it over.”

Woods leaned back in his chair, head tilted, as if to consider me from another angle. “All right, I wasn’t there. Go on.”

“The point is that I had to consider what it meant. Two questions occurred to me. First, why was he killed? Second, how did it get out that I was meeting with him? The last one concerns me a lot. Gubner swears that neither he nor Lehman told anyone. That leaves three people aside from Jim Robinson and me: Joe McGuire, Ike Feiner, and Mary Carelli.”

Woods had frozen somewhere in the middle of my speech. “Let’s make sure that I understand. Are you suggesting that Lasko murdered Lehman after someone from this agency warned him?”

“I’m suggesting the first. I’m considering the second.”

He stared at me, then half-raised his hands as if calling time out. The hands framed a thin, wry smile. “OK, Chris, you’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

I didn’t like the drift of that. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for civil commitment.”

He dropped his hands on his trousers with a slap, then leaned on his desk in a friendlier attitude. “Look, you’ve been in a hell of a mess. But you’ve got a long way to go before you convince me that anyone here is involved. You don’t know anything that even makes that kind of suggestion responsible.” His voice was rich in nuances; it conveyed loss of respect, and regret, all in one sentence. I wanted to reclaim his regard. But accusing McGuire wasn’t the way. I dropped it.

“As for the Lasko meeting, it caught me by surprise. All that I could think about was facing him down, sending him away with nothing. I didn’t think to tell you-it felt like my problem. I apologize for that.”

“What happened?”

“He came expecting to pick my brains. I asked him if he had killed Lehman. He said no. I sent him home.”

“Why in hell did you ask him that?”

“I’m not sure.”

Frustration burst through his voice. “I expect more from you than adolescent macho. You should have told me about the meeting. I could have cancelled it, or maybe insisted that it be done under oath. Instead, we’ve got a goddamned confrontation and a goddamned mess.” He stared angrily at the desk, as if the mess were sitting on it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and regretted saying it. It sounded pitiful.

He looked up, continuing as if he hadn’t heard. “The White House called me this weekend. They wondered if I knew what was going on here. Which I didn’t.” He leaned back. “You know, Chris, you’re on the way to becoming famous.”

“I’d just as soon pass it up.”

His face was cold. “Listen, all I expect is some sense of responsibility. You’ve given Lasko the perfect excuse to snipe at us. Now we’ve got the White House on our ass. Without support from the Administration, Congress could slice our budget-hamstring us. The problem is a lot bigger than one case.”

“OK. That’s understood.”

“Good,” he said crisply. “Another thing. No more playing both ends against the middle. Any big discussion will include you, McGuire and Mary-or me. Whatever you and McGuire have going, I don’t want it to screw up this agency.”

I found myself staring at his books and paintings. His voice broke in, in a different tone. “OK, Chris, I’m not going to pull you off, in spite of what some people may want. I want to do it right, as long as we don’t ruin this place in the process.” His eyes held me, seeking trust.

It wasn’t much of an opening. But I took it, and told him about St. Maarten. His face held bleak amusement. “You’re not exactly dealing from a position of strength,” he said. “It also seems to me I just finished telling you not to go over McGuire’s head.”

“I know. But I’ve been looking for a reason for the stock manipulation and haven’t found any. There has to be a connection between the stock thing and Lasko buying this nothing little company. The timing is too perfect. Besides, Lehman didn’t die because of the stock manipulation. Something else killed him.”

“You’re just guessing. And we’re authorized to look for stock manipulation, not comb through Lasko’s affairs.” His voice turned dry. “Don’t you think we should keep our heads down a little? Besides, we’re running out of time on this one. Better to stick to what we know.”

I felt a little desperate. “Have you ever met Lasko?” I asked. He shook his head. “I have. He’s pretty close to the evolutionary tree. He may kill someone else if we don’t wrap this up.”

His face assumed a youthful gravity, the look of the boy genius faced with a tough exam. “We’re not the police.” He paused. “When did you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

He shook his head. “I can’t see it. But I’ll ponder it and give you a final decision. One more thing.” He jabbed his finger at his desk for emphasis. “Calling Lasko a murderer is dangerous. We’ve no proof. If we ever do, I’ll take it to the proper authorities. That’s not your job. Understand?”

I nodded.

“OK,” he continued, “you’ve got Sam Green this morning. Go do it.”

I decided to leave on a higher note. “Thanks for your time.”

He gave a shrunken version of the lopsided grin. “Just keep out of trouble.” I left.

On the way out I ran into Mary. She was looking good, slim in tan cotton slacks.

“Good morning,” she said, as if she hadn’t seen me in a very long time.

“Hi.”

Her eyes seemed to appraise my mood. “Have time for coffee?”

“A minute or two.”

“Come on in.” I followed her in and sat.

The receptionist brought us two cups. Mary reached in her desk for creamer and sweetener. “How was your weekend?” she asked, looking at me for the answer.

“Terrific. I brooded over my sins.”

She handed me my cup. “Cream and sugar, isn’t it?” She had learned that Friday morning. A small spark of warmth lit her eyes. “I’m sorry about Friday afternoon.”

“So am I.” It occurred to me that we spent half our time apologizing. I told her so.

Her brows knit. “You know, I looked for you Friday after you left.”

“I had drinks with a friend. We concluded that women are difficult.”

She smiled. “Who is this misogynist?”

“Fellow named Lane Greenfeld.”

She sipped her coffee. “Doesn’t he work for the Post?”

“The very same. You know,” I added, “this place doesn’t help. It seems that our peachy professional relationship keeps interfering with the other, or vice-versa.”

She gave a small, helpless shrug. “I can’t help my job.”

“Nor I mine.” I looked at my watch and stood up. “I’ve got Sam Green in ten minutes. Let’s try communicating again in a couple of days. We might surprise ourselves.”

She smiled her good smile. “All right. I’ll look forward to it.”

I went to my office and asked Debbie to make St. Maarten reservations, for luck. Then I met Robinson back at the conference room.

I sat down and told him about Woods while we waited for Green. The shorthand reporter arrived to set up her machine. She was my favorite-face as bland as a baby’s and her eyes as glassy as marbles. I had seen lawyers screaming and swearing all around her, while she tapped on her machine, a dizzy half-smile directed at some inner space, getting it all down. Right on schedule, five days later, the transcript would arrive, all its threats and “screw you’s” neatly typed, recorded for posterity. In my fantasies, she left her machine at five and went home to a scruffy apartment where she sold smack and was known as the Potomac Connection. It was a nice theory.

Green and his lawyer showed up just when she had finished. I looked Green over. He was a walking definition of the word “seedy.” It wasn’t his clothes; Green was just one of those people who looked second-rate. He had a ferret face and the kind of furtive eyes that seemed to dart away. His thinning hair was styled in the wet look and his skin was fish-belly pale. Robinson and I shook his hand reluctantly and turned to his lawyer.

It was the lawyer who was a surprise. Green usually came equipped with a low-rent item named Johnson, with a scar on one cheek and a dull, nasty look that made you wonder where he had gone to law school. But this time Green had stepped up in class. All the way to Edmund O’Hair.

O’Hair shook my hand, and sat next to Green. He had white hair and a red Irish face, gone Establishment around the edges. I knew a bit about him. He was a boy from Hell’s Kitchen turned Wall Street hired gun, and he’d never looked back. Now he was chief trial lawyer for a hundred-man law firm, with a tough, atavistic pride in his work, and clients like General Motors. Green wasn’t in his usual line. That suggested possibilities I didn’t much like.

Robinson and I sat at the opposite end of the conference table. I asked O’Hair if his client was ready. He nodded. The reporter’s fingers poised over the machine. I began my litany: right to counsel, Fifth Amendment, and the penalty for perjury. I came down hard on the last.

Then my questions started. Yes, Green had purchased 20,000 shares of Lasko Devices on July 14 and 15, through three different brokers. Yes, he still had the shares. I moved in, feeling O’Hair’s watchful eyes.

“For what reason did you place those orders?”

Green’s eyes slid off toward a corner. “I thought it was a good investment.”

“Did anyone specific suggest it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you know a man named William Lasko?”

He stared at the curtains. “I can’t recall.”

“Have you ever spoken to a William Lasko?”

“I don’t remember having done that.” He had a thin, reedy voice. Lying didn’t improve it.

“Speak up, Mr. Green. Did you discuss your purchase of Lasko stock with William Lasko at any time prior to July 15?”

“I’m not sure.” His whine took on a phony, insulted quality.

“It’s a simple question,” I snapped. “Yes or no?”

He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t. I don’t know.”

“How did you finance your purchases?”

“I’m trying to think.” He spoke to the ceiling in feigned recollection. “I believe I borrowed the funds from the First Seminole Bank of Miami.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred thousand.”

“When did you borrow the money?”

“About the first week of July.”

“With whom did you make the arrangements?”

“A Mr. Billings. He’s a vice-president.” The sentence had an incomplete sound.

“Did you discuss the First Seminole Bank with someone else at any time prior to the loan?”

“I can’t recall doing so.”

“What about discussions with Mr. Lasko?”

“I can’t remember.”

I shifted abruptly. “Who’s paying for Mr. O’Hair’s services here today?”

O’Hair broke in. “I’m directing my client not to answer that. It’s privileged.”

“The hell it is.”

“Then take us to court and try to compel an answer.”

I stopped, frustrated. O’Hair stared back impassively. He would stick to it. Green was either more afraid of someone else, or O’Hair figured I could be fixed somehow, or maybe stopped before I ever got that far. And he knew that I didn’t have proof. I asked several similar questions and got similar answers. I noted for the record that Mr. Green would be recalled at a later date. Then I quit.

O’Hair and Green rose. Lying made Green nervous. He looked weary, and he left quickly. O’Hair got ready to follow, but I stopped him. “When we call Green back, Mr. O’Hair, it won’t be so much fun. I know you’ll remind him of that.”

O’Hair shook his head with a slight smile and walked out. So did the reporter, with her own half-smile. I turned to Robinson. “Being lied to always makes me hungry. Can I buy you lunch?”

“Sure.” He smiled. “You know, that kind of thing makes you wish for thumbscrews and rubber hoses.”

“Damn O’Hair anyhow, the smug bastard. It’s clear Lasko put Green up to it. Or else Green would have denied it without the weasel words. But all we have on the record is the First Seminole Bank. Can you dig around to see who owns the big interests in the bank?”

“OK. I’ve got a friend I can call at the Florida Corporations Commission. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

We walked out together. Robinson headed for the telephone. I went back to my office.

The phone rang. It was Woods. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Still want to go to St. Maarten?”

That threw me off. “Sure.”

“When would you go?”

“Tomorrow.”

Woods paused. “OK,” he said, “go ahead. I’ll tell McGuire.” His phone clicked.

I stared at the phone, surprised. But there was no use puzzling over a break when you got one. I hung up.