The Lasko Tangent

Twenty-Three

The meeting was scheduled for the next morning. I got to the office and called McGuire’s secretary. It was still on, she said. I was thrilled.

I was stepping out my door when the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Good morning,” Greenfeld said. “Still want the stuff from IRS?”

“Sure.”

“OK. The Lasko Foundation contributed heavily to only one mental health facility in the Boston area. The Loring Sanitarium, outside of Boston. Gave it a half million last year and three hundred fifty thousand the year before.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Lasko’s a nice guy. Don’t know what use you can make of it.”

“I’ll try to think of something. Maybe it’ll come to me the first Easter after my death.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Listen, I appreciate this.”

“Not good enough. You owe me a squash game, at least. 12:30?”

Tuesday, beatings and speeding cars; Friday, squash games. Somewhere my life had stopped making sense. But I owed him.

“OK. I’ve got to run now. Got a meeting.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“I always do,” I said, and hung up.

I made it to the meeting on time. I could tell they were serious; a banged-up coffee pot and Styrofoam cups graced McGuire’s conference table. I poured a cup and glanced around.

Everyone was already there. McGuire occupied his usual place at the head, looking grim and fidgeting with his belt buckle, as if it wouldn’t fit. Feiner perched next to him, wearing a martyr’s grimace and managing to hover while just sitting. Woods sat a little apart and to the middle, as if to get a better view of the battlefield. His expression was one of concerned unconcern, as if he’d been working on it. They seemed to circle each other like strange dogs, without moving at all. I slid in at the far end, facing McGuire.

The coffee tasted foul, and the atmosphere smelled of raw nerve ends. I rarely came out of these meetings as well off as I’d entered, and this one felt even worse. I could sense Lasko’s unseen presence. A harsh sun cut through the window and into my eyes, forcing me to squint.

McGuire cleared his throat. “As you know, Chris broke Sam Green yesterday. We now have testimony that Lasko goosed the price of his stock.”

Woods gave me an approving nod. Feiner picked that up with a nervous half-twitch of his neck. I figured he was still antsy about being one-upped by an anonymous tipster. McGuire droned on. “Lasko apparently found out from Green. His attorney contacted me this morning to discuss settlement.” The flat voice tried to make it all sound like nothing.

I jumped in. “Hang on, Joe. This is a criminal case. Just what are they offering?” Woods’ eyes tracked the exchange like he was watching ping-pong. He turned back to McGuire.

McGuire looked at me for the first time. “Lasko will take an injunction restraining him from such future conduct, without admitting responsibility for Green’s actions.”

I turned to Woods for help. His eyes deflected the glance. I began to feel very hollow. “What’s your recommendation?” I asked McGuire.

“I say we should accept.”

“Are you sure we’re not being too tough? Maybe we should just revoke his visitor’s privileges at Disney World. We could call it ‘Son of Hartex.’”

“Don’t be cute.”

“I’m just curious. Will he agree to any limit on the number of witnesses he kills in any one year?”

“I’m sick of this,” McGuire snapped.

“Look,” I said to Woods, “there’s more to this than stock manipulation or even Lehman.” I paused; I couldn’t reveal the memo, the chips, or my talk with Tracy. That would tip Lasko, perhaps even push him into another murder. But I decided to open up a little, wondering whether each word made me less safe. “That Carib Imports in St. Maarten looks like a dummy. Lasko started it this July, with a guy named Martinson fronting. Lasko paid Martinson a million-five for it. But I can’t find Martinson. He turned up missing as soon as I got there.”

Woods took that in. But McGuire cut me off before he could comment.

“And just how does all this connect?”

“I don’t know. The point is,” I added for Woods, “that this isn’t just a stock manipulation.”

Woods spoke for the first time, to McGuire. “On what basis do you recommend settlement?”

“On practical grounds.” McGuire’s gravelly tone was urgent. “We’ve identified the problem publicly and prevented its recurrence. But we haven’t embarrassed the White House more than necessary. They’ll remember that at budget time.”

I had to hand it to McGuire; he had the cold-eyed pragmatism bit down pat. And he could usually sell it. The reason for Green’s cooperation was clear. Lasko had let Green give us just enough of a case to settle, to keep me from going after the rest.

“What about Chris’s other stuff?” Woods was asking McGuire.

McGuire shrugged. “It’s all speculation. We’ve got police for Lehman. And the rest of it’s off the subject.” Forget it, his voice said. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed this with Catlow.

Woods raised his eyebrows in my direction. “Chris?”

It was no use accusing McGuire of Martinson’s disappearance. Woods wouldn’t buy it, and they could always point to De Jonge. I spoke to Woods. “The night I was in St. Maarten, someone tried to run me over. Later, they knocked me out from behind and ransacked my room.”

Woods sounded shocked. “What happened, for God-sakes?”

I told them. Woods’ expression changed to pained sympathy. “I’m sorry, Chris. Are you all right?” The others mumbled their concern.

I said I was fine. “The point is, there’s violence running through this case, and now there’s a missing man. This Martinson has disappeared.”

Woods leaned over the table. “Any idea where he is?”

I glanced at McGuire, picking my words carefully to protect Tracy-and Martinson himself. “No, I don’t. But it’s clear that there’s a lot to this case, and whatever it is is dangerous.”

“But you don’t know this Martinson is in danger,” Woods said.

“Not in the sense that I can prove it to you. But I believe it.”

“Just what do you suggest?” McGuire asked.

“I think we keep on digging until we solve this.” I turned to Woods. “You told me that cases like this were the measure of an agency. Do you think this deal rates a supplement to Profiles in Courage?”

Woods looked troubled. “It has its merits.”

“Not many, even overlooking the special handling for Lasko.”

“That’s hardly unique,” he said in a defensive tone.

“And neither are you if you sign off on this.”

He shook his head. “The thing is, Chris, we’re not criminal investigators. This case has gone beyond what we do. What’s happened to you is proof of that. I don’t want you hurt. It’s time for someone else to take it on.”

I kept trying. “But I’m on the right track, if you’ll keep me on it. We can’t just settle and forget it. That’s what Lasko wants. I think he’s let Green confess to give us enough to settle the case. There’s something else here that Lasko is desperate to keep hidden.”

Woods thought for a moment. “What bothers me,” he said to McGuire, “is dropping the rest of it.” McGuire didn’t reply, and Woods continued. “What I propose is that Chris report all this to the Department of Justice and let them look into it.”

McGuire nodded. Feiner looked pleased. And I was out of a case, just like that. The pit of my stomach seemed to drop two feet. I could almost sense Lasko at the table, smiling. I made a last stab in Woods’ direction. “You know damned well Justice will sit on this. If we feel pressure over here, look at them. The Attorney General is a cabinet member, for Christsakes.”

“I don’t accept that,” Woods replied calmly. “And it’s the best thing we can do. Your investigation has been unconventional, to put it mildly. This case belongs at Justice.” His voice was very final.

I hoped no one knew I was hunting Martinson. Then it hit me that I wasn’t anymore. I forgot myself and remembered Tracy. Someone would have to find him for her-Di Pietro, I hoped. “I’d like to brief the Boston police before I write this up,” I said.

“What for?” McGuire asked.

“Because Lehman is their business. You said so yourself.”

That stung him. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

Woods spoke over him. “If Chris confines himself to facts, I think that’s acceptable. We can’t pretend facts don’t exist.”

McGuire flushed and was silent.

“All right,” Woods said smoothly. “If you recommend settlement to the Commission, I’ll support it. I’ll set up a meeting. Chris will make his report and brief the police on Monday, if he likes. Then this case is closed.”

“It isn’t good enough,” I said to Woods. “It’s not even close.”

Woods looked at me evenly. “I’m sorry, Chris. You’ve been through a lot, worked hard, and done well. But I think this is the right thing for you and for the agency.” He glanced around. “Is there anything else?”

They all turned to me. My eyes moved over them slowly, one by one. Then I stood, slid my chair in carefully, and left them sitting there.

I stalked back to the office and called Di Pietro, while I could still think. He agreed to meet me Monday, with no particular enthusiasm. That only made me angrier. I wanted to leave right then. But to go before Monday, without orders, could only give away my plans and endanger Martinson. I had to wait-and hope. And I needed Di Pietro. So I thanked him for his time.

I had been standing with the phone in hand, talking. I slammed it down and slumped into my plastic chair. For some reason, I began staring at the one thing there I owned: my bookends, onyx, carved with fierce Aztec faces. I called them mine. They were Great-grandfather Kenyon’s, really. He’d picked them up in Mexico in the last century, while he was picking up part of Mexico. I looked at them glumly. The only thing I could say for McGuire’s settlement was that it might make me safe-as safe as the nicest little bureaucrat at the sleepiest agency in town. I wondered why it felt so bad.

I was still staring at the bookends when McGuire opened the door. I was surprised. He’d never done that before.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” I parroted.

He ignored that. “You think Woods is your friend, don’t you?”

I wondered where that came from. He stood in front of my desk, his face completely expressionless. “Are you going to be my friend, Joe? That’s a real comfort.”

His eyes narrowed, as if debating whether to say more. I watched him, feeling as friendly as the Aztec carvings. “I’m just telling you to watch your step,” he answered quietly.

I shrugged. “I guess you know what happens to people who don’t watch their step.” I looked up at him, but what I saw was Tracy-and Lehman in the street.

His eyes sparked, then turned blank. “Shut up, Chris,” he said, very softly. He wheeled and snapped the door behind him, as if kissing me off.

Life goes on, I thought. Cases come and go and widows get over it. Husbands get lost and stay that way. I couldn’t worry about that. After all, I had important things to do. Greenfeld and I were playing squash.