Killer's Choice, page 2
I didn’t know, sir, Feng said, that you intended to go out after dinner and to stay out so very late. If I may say so, I was concerned about you.
His tone was, as always, perfect. He wasn’t complaining or scolding. Merely stating the facts.
I’m very sorry, Feng, I replied. I should have left you a note. The fact is that I left unexpectedly and in a great hurry. I’ll explain it all at breakfast.
It was clear that Feng should be informed. My respect for the loyalty and cool nerve of this former member of the Hong Kong Police Force Special Duty Unit—a SWAT team probably better known as Flying Tigers—who’d made himself loathed by the mainland authorities by pushing forward with an investigation they wanted him to drop, had continued to grow. I would want to know his take on what had happened, and, why not admit it, I didn’t mind knowing that he’d have my back.
Thank you, sir. Breakfast can be ready in ten minutes.
Give me half an hour, I replied. I’d like to get out of these clothes and take a hot bath. I’ll have breakfast in the kitchen.
Feng’s breakfast menus ranged from orange juice, whole-wheat toast and bitter-orange marmalade, and coffee, through congee with crullers, steamed stuffed buns, and boiled eggs, all the way to what I considered hearty English fare. Usually, I asked him to stick to the whole-wheat-toast solution. That morning I expressed no preference and when I came into the kitchen was greeted by grapefruit juice, coddled eggs and bacon, and croissants (Feng apologized for their having been frozen), and a very large pot of coffee, the aroma of which alone would have sufficed to clear my head. I prevailed on him to make himself some tea—I knew that was the beverage he preferred—and to sit down with me at the table.
It’s an ugly story, Feng, I said, and proceeded to tell him everything, from the telephone call to the end of my conversation with Bruni.
After a moment of silence, Feng spoke.
I believe Mr. Bruni is right. We will have to be very careful. These are dangerous people. I believe they will try to harm you.
But why, Feng? I asked. What is the reason you think they are after me?
It’s that telephone call, sir. It was made for a purpose. To tell you that something like it could happen to you. If I may make a request, sir, please let me drive you out to White Plains and bring you back home.
I made an effort to clear the cobwebs from my brain.
Thank you, Feng, I said, I would like that. And now I’m going to try to get some sleep—but not past eleven.
II
Bruni met me at the reception desk and guided me past security.
Jack Curley, the D.A., is waiting, he said. With a bunch of people: New York office of the FBI, the Bedford police chief, and a couple of guys from the New York State Bureau of Criminal Investigation. They’re plainclothes state cops who work on violent crimes. Also, the D.A.’s chief of staff. By the way, as you may have noticed, there is nothing in the press, printed or online, and nothing on TV. The D.A. has embargoed everything about the massacre until after he has interviewed you. So far, it’s worked.
I had in fact looked at the online New York Times Breaking News and seen nothing.
Not quite sure whether I was supposed to be grateful, I asked whether there were any developments.
A big fat zero. No fresh fingerprints other than the Lathrops’ and the housekeeper’s. Luckily for her, she doesn’t live in. If she’d been there, they’d have surely killed her too. Nothing in the toilets, no footprints. Really nothing. Here, it’s this door. He knocked, and we entered.
A gray-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties sat at what by virtue of his presence seemed to be the head of a large oval conference table littered with Starbucks cups and paper plates holding remains of sandwiches. Clearly, the D.A. Bruni introduced me. The D.A. asked the other participants to identify themselves and motioned for me to sit across from him. Bruni took his place on his right, next to the FBI man. The BCI representatives and the Bedford chief were on his left.
We’ll get right down to business, Mr. Dana, said the D.A. If you don’t object, this interview will be recorded.
That’s fine.
Thank you! By the way, Mr. Edwards—that was the name of the FBI representative—is here because this crime has some of the hallmarks of organized-crime involvement. That’s just to explain the Bureau’s potential involvement in a murder case. I should also tell you that I’ve explained to the group who you are—some of us have read your books and are fans—and reminded them that there were two attempts on your life. Both in your house in Sag Harbor. Both times you managed to kill the assailant. Based on interviews you gave at the time and your most recent novel, which you state is a true account, I take it you believe that both attempts were linked to the murder of your uncle Harry Dana in the same house in Sag Harbor, some months before the first attempt on your life. Is that correct?
Yes, it is.
And to your uncle’s having collected evidence showing that businesses owned or controlled by his former client Abner Brown, and Abner Brown himself, were engaged in a variety of criminal activities, and to your uncle’s presumed intention to deliver this evidence to law-enforcement authorities. Is that also correct?
Yes.
In fact, your uncle having been murdered, it fell to you to deliver this evidence to the U.S. attorney for the Southern District, as well as additional evidence that came into your hands after your uncle’s death. Correct?
In substance, yes, I replied, but this was a complicated series of events.
The D.A. was clearly reading questions written out on the sheet before him, at which he kept glancing, and wasn’t about to go off script.
Quite right. We may have to get into those complications at some point, though perhaps not this afternoon. In the meantime, could you confirm the report we’ve had from Bedford police chief Mahoney. In relevant part it indicates that the dispatcher on duty received a call from you yesterday, at 2322 hours, in the course of which you stated that a violent crime was being committed at the domicile of Mr. and Mrs. Simon Lathrop on Penwood Road in Bedford Corners. Correct?
Yes.
Would you tell us how you acquired that knowledge? Mr. Bruni gave us his recollection of what you told him at the scene of the crime, but we would all like to hear it for the record from your own mouth.
Certainly, I answered. It was a telephone call I received at home. After the caller hung up, I immediately used the caller-ID function of the telephone and saw that it was made on Simon Lathrop’s line, from his Westchester residence. Then I dialed 911. The duration of the call I received? Not more than five or six minutes.
I went on to describe the screaming and the voice that addressed me.
Have you any idea who the “boss” referred to by the voice might be?
I don’t, I answered. I have absolutely no idea.
Will you tell us about your relationship with Mr. and Mrs. Lathrop?
He was my uncle Harry Dana’s best friend at his law firm, Jones & Whetstone, and his classmate at Harvard Law School. I believe they were both taken into the firm as partners the same year. I met Mr. Lathrop and also Mrs. Lathrop at a book party my uncle gave for my first novel. I saw Mr. Lathrop at lunch several times after my uncle’s murder. He was helpful in some ways with regard to the files detailing Abner Brown’s crimes that I turned over to Mr. Flanagan, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District. I’ve also had dinner with the Lathrops at their apartment in the city. Perhaps three times.
I decided I’d stop there. I had never told Ed Flanagan that I had given Abner copies of the files that the next day I delivered to him, and that I was present while Abner read them and discovered the extent of his ruin, and while he injected himself with the fatal dose of insulin, or that it was Simon who told me that Abner would be in the city that particular day. I hadn’t wanted to volunteer that information. But I had no doubt that if any of Flanagan’s questions had called for it, I wouldn’t have held it back. The fact was that he hadn’t asked, and now I felt queasy about telling Curley more than I had told Flanagan. It was possible that those two would talk, and I didn’t want to put Flanagan in the awkward position of hearing facts from Curley that he might consider material to his investigation but had failed to elicit.
That’s pretty straightforward, the D.A. said. Let’s move on. You saw the crime scene yesterday. Can you think of anyone—let’s assume that it’s someone sick and depraved—who might have a sufficient motive to commit or organize this slaughter?
This is a question I’ve been asking myself, I answered. The fact is that I can’t. Mr. Lathrop was a fine old-fashioned gentleman, kind and charming. That’s based on the limited social contact we’d had. According to what my uncle told me, he was also an exceedingly able and highly respected lawyer. Really, a lovely man. Not someone who would have been involved with criminals of this sort.
And then the thought came into my head, and I raised my hand as though in a class asking permission to speak.
There’s one thing, though, I should perhaps mention, Mr. Curley, I said. It has just occurred to me that it may be relevant. When I began to look into the circumstances of my uncle Harry Dana’s death, I realized that a very considerable effort had been made on behalf of the person who was then the chairman of his law firm, one William Hobson, to search my uncle’s personal papers at his New York apartment and at his Sag Harbor house. Also, his personal papers at the law firm had simply disappeared. Then I discovered that in order to push my uncle out of the firm, to force him to retire, Hobson had spread among the partners the rumor that my uncle had become demented or senile. That was absolutely untrue. I made Mr. Lathrop aware of all this. He was outraged. His own inquiry confirmed what I had said and led him to believe that Hobson and his brother-in-law, another partner in the firm who specialized in trusts and estates, one Fred Minot, had behaved unethically, unprofessionally—I don’t remember how else he qualified their behavior. As a result, he and a group of other seniors did whatever was necessary to fire Hobson from the firm. Hobson, by the way, had been my uncle’s second-in-command on Abner Brown’s legal matters. It was Mr. Lathrop’s belief that Hobson had moved against my uncle at Brown’s behest. Anyway, Hobson and Minot left and became partners in a Houston law firm, taking with them Abner Brown’s very considerable legal business. I’m mentioning all this because Hobson and Minot are the only two people I know of who surely had it in for Mr. Lathrop. But to go from there to what happened on Penwood Road seems far-fetched and grotesque.
That’s probably true, said the D.A., but you were right to bring these circumstances to our attention.
I’ve just Googled Hobson, said Edwards. His current business position is chairman of the board of Abner Brown Holdings. That would seem to be the top company in the Brown business structure. We’ll want to look into the share ownership and related matters.
The D.A. nodded. A good idea. Going back to you, Mr. Dana, have you thought why whoever placed the call—presumably one of the murderers—would have telephoned you and have you listen to the screams. You said that he told you that the boss wanted you to listen. Have you any idea of who the boss might be?
Let me start with your second question, I replied. As I’ve said before, I don’t, I have absolutely no idea about who the boss might be. As to your first question, it’s one I’ve been asking myself ever since, and the only answer I’ve been able to come up with is that someone wants to frighten me, to give me a warning. But a warning about what? Who would want to frighten me? I don’t know. Abner Brown had his hit men or other underlings send me messages such as “You’re next” or “You’re roadkill”—sick stuff spawned by his weird sense of humor. But he is dead. Dead men don’t send messages or stage macabre Punch-and-Judy shows.
No, they don’t, Curley agreed, directing a level look at me. But people who want to avenge them might, if there are such people and they’re sufficiently crazy. People who see you as the architect of Abner Brown’s downfall, perhaps his death. I’ve looked at the clippings about his death from the insulin overdose. People with type one diabetes, who have been injecting the stuff most of their lives, aren’t likely to inject an overdose by mistake. One might consider whether he didn’t do it on purpose, in order to take his own life.
This wasn’t a question, and I remained silent.
Meanwhile, the D.A. was trying to be helpful. I believe you’re right to think that whoever organized these murders and the telephone call to you wants to frighten you. We can’t predict the next move here. But the method chosen is so extreme, and the murders are so gruesome, that I believe you may be personally in danger. Do you agree?
I certainly agree that we can’t predict the next move or whether there is going to be any next move, I answered. As for my being personally in danger, I understand your concern and I intend to be careful. The question is, Careful about what? And how?
The D.A. nodded and said, Here is what I think: You are implicitly under threat, and my recommendation is that you be given police protection. I think that Captain Morrison can arrange it through his contacts at the New York Police Department.
Glad to do it, replied the senior Bureau of Criminal Investigation guy.
I’m very grateful, I replied, but I really think this is unnecessary and premature. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, and I have working for me as housekeeper a Hong Kong Chinese man, Feng Houzhi, who is a former member of the Hong Kong Police Force’s equivalent of a SWAT team. He was recommended to me by a retired FBI special agent, Martin Sweeney, with whom I’ve worked, and by my closest friend, who works for the CIA and is familiar with Feng’s case. As I understand it, Feng has a solid record with the FBI that you can surely access. If not, I can get Martin Sweeney to help. Feng is the best bodyguard I could have, and if Captain Morrison or another one of you gentlemen could help him to obtain on an expedited basis a concealed carry license for a handgun, that would be an enormous help. Feng is a permanent resident of the U.S. but not yet a citizen.
I know Martin well, interjected Edwards, and will reach out to him.
We’ll go off the record, said the D.A., but before we do there is one more thing. If anything happens in relation to you that has a bearing on this case, please report it promptly to Mr. Bruni and Mr. Edwards. This is of the greatest importance. May we count on your cooperation?
It seemed impossible to say anything other than yes, so that is what I said.
Thank you, replied the D.A. as he turned off the recording device, and continued, We will certainly help Mr. Feng. Mr. Bruni will orchestrate this with the help of the Bureau, for which we’re all grateful. At the same time, I would urge you to reconsider the offer of organizing police protection for you. Whatever we’re dealing with here is very ugly.
I will think about it, I replied, and I want to stress that I’m very grateful. May I ask how you and the other gentlemen here intend to proceed given what I understand to be the absence of any clues at the murder scene?
Police work, police work, and more police work, replied the Bedford chief. And hope for a lucky break. Speaking of luck, we’ve been lucky here in this county. We haven’t had a murder anything like this, not in my memory. I guess we all recall the Petit case over in Connecticut almost ten years ago. That was almost as brutal as what happened on Penwood Road, but the perpetrators were drifters. What we have here is a targeted, organized attack.
Edwards and the senior Bureau of Criminal Investigation guy nodded in agreement.
The silence was broken by the D.A. We want you alive, he said with a cheerless sort of smile. So please be careful!
Then he thanked me for my cooperation and wished me luck.
By the way, he added, I’ve kept the media out of this so as not to get you involved in the inevitable circus, but we’ll lift the embargo now, except for the telephone call you received. We will treat that as highly confidential.
* * *
—
I called Feng on his cell phone as soon as I was out of the building, and within what seemed like seconds he pulled up. I got into the Volvo’s passenger seat and gratefully accepted the thermos of coffee he handed me.
Is there anything new, sir? Feng asked.
Nothing. No fingerprints, no foot marks, absolutely nothing to go on. The FBI is on the case, in addition to the local and the state police. I suppose they hope someone will turn up who has seen the men who might be the killers in the area, perhaps at a gas station, or in some diner. Police work and more police work, they said. I somehow doubt that they’ll get anywhere.
I do too, sir.
As Feng coped expertly with the chaotic afternoon traffic, the realization came upon me that I was afraid. The fear was different from any I had ever experienced in Iraq or Afghanistan, in combat or on patrol. That was fear of explosions blowing your vehicle sky-high and you with it, of mortar shells and sniper fire. It receded with the first rush of adrenaline when you went on the attack. This was something radically different: fear as sick as what had been done to the Lathrops, filthy, clammy, and pervasive. It’s true, what I said to the D.A.: Dead men don’t send messages. But Abner had warned me. There would be no end of him. That was, of course, ridiculous, but both the D.A. and Feng seemed to see all the hallmarks of a vendetta in what had happened. Why had I missed them? To the fear was now added a growing sense of my obtuseness. What was it that Eric King, the former sharpshooter noncom in my Force Recon platoon, turned Abner Brown’s hit man, said before he drew his Ka-Bar and went for my neck? You’re not as quick on the uptake as you used to be, Captain Dana, that’s what he said, and he was goddam right. Abner’s threat, whatever it meant, could be real.
