I had some time before I could try Kenneth Whelan in Singapore. I spent some of it calling Mike.
“No smoking gun, then? No prior career in adult video?” he asked, after listening to my report.
“Not that she admits to,” I said. “She knew the guy, dated the guy, had sex with him, broke up with him.”
“… and declined to be a part of his little stable afterward,” Mike added.
“… and parted friends, and lived happily ever after. You know her socially-any of this surprise you?” I asked.
“Not really. She’s never struck me as a shrinking violet, and she’s never pretended she was raised in a convent. Anyone who came to New York on her own, to model, when she was barely old enough to vote, has probably been around the block a time or two.”
“You don’t think she was a bigger part of Nassouli’s scene?”
“I don’t think so,” Mike said after a while. “From what I’ve seen, Helene’s not the hanger-on type.”
“So what type is she?”
“She’s smart… a bit of a loner. She shows up at some social things- the fundraisers, mostly-and I think she’s on the board at her daughters’ school. But mostly she goes her own way.” He paused. “Any of this help us with Pierro’s problem?”
“Hell if I know,” I admitted.
At around seven I placed a call to Singapore. All I had was the main number for the bank that employed Whelan, so that’s what I dialed. A woman answered. She had a high, girlish voice with a faint English accent. The connection wasn’t great, and there was a noticeable delay on the line. From the main receptionist I was passed to a couple of other people, and in the process I discovered that Whelan wasn’t just another expat employee out there, he was the head guy for his bank in the whole Asia-Pacific region. I figured that would reduce my chances of reaching him, but I was wrong. After about ten minutes I found myself on the phone with Whelan’s personal assistant, a Ms. Li, who asked in precise, unaccented English what I wished to discuss with Mr. Whelan.
“Tell him it’s about MWB and Gerard Nassouli,” I said. She put me on hold again. She was back in less than a minute.
“Hold, please, for Mr. Whelan,” she said. And then Whelan came on.
“This is Kenneth Whelan. What can I do for you, Mr… Marsh, is it?” He had a deep voice, and even across the spotty connection he sounded like a radio announcer.
“It’s March,” I said. “I’m calling to ask you a few questions.” And I told him my story. Whelan was quiet after I finished, for long enough that I wondered if we’d been cut off. But he was there.
“I don’t know that I can help you much, Mr. Marsh. I dealt with Gerard Nassouli many years ago, when I was with another institution. We did some advisory work for an MWB client. They were looking to acquire a U.S. company… an automotive parts manufacturer, as I recall. They ended up not doing the deal-I can’t remember why. It was all pretty straightforward. I never had much else to do with Mr. Nassouli after that, other than at some social events.”
“It’s March, Mr. Whelan, like the month. Do you recall the last time you saw Nassouli, or spoke with him?” Another pause.
“Not precisely, no. Certainly it was several years ago, long before the MWB blowup. Perhaps five or six years.”
“And you’ve not seen him or spoken with him since?”
“No.”
“Besides me, has anyone else contacted you regarding your dealings with Nassouli or MWB?” Whelan was quiet for a long while.
“No, no one, Mr. Marsh. No one but you has mentioned Nassouli to me in many years.”
“My name is March, Mr. Whelan, like the March Hare. How long ago were you posted to Singapore?”
“It’s been about three years, now,” Whelan said, and then I heard Ms. Li’s voice in the background. “I’m sorry, that’s all the time I can give you. I hope this was useful. Good-bye, Mr. Marsh.” There was a click, and all I heard was the hissing of the ether.
“It’s March,” I said to no one.
Chapter Fourteen
Rick Pierro’s suit looked good. It was medium gray-darker than the cloud-filled sky, but lighter than the Town Car that idled at the curb- and it hung with an easy, liquid drape from its master’s big frame. Though it was nearly noon, and had been raining hard since dawn, its trouser creases were sharp and supple. Pierro stepped briskly onto the pavement, into the cafe, and across the room to greet me.
He looked good, too, though perhaps not as good as his suit. His shiny black hair still held its obedient sweep back from his forehead, and his smile was still broad and bright and affable, but his dark eyes were tired and smudged-looking, and his olive skin was tinged with yellow. The flesh above the knot of his deep blue tie seemed to sag. Still a sleek bear, and still well dressed, but a little off his feed. The grip was as firm as ever, though.
“Good to see you, John,” he said. Pierro sat and looked around the room. He had wanted to meet someplace out of the way, and I figured Black Cow fit the bill. It’s in SoHo, just off Prince Street, a small place with a glass front, a high, tin ceiling, and some small black tables along one wall, opposite a massive ebony bar on the other. We were late for the breakfast crowd and early for lunch, and besides a pair of skinny women who’d come from the gallery next door, a bored waitress, and a guy behind the bar who looked like a junkie, we were alone in there. Pierro seemed satisfied with his anonymity, and turned to me, smiling.
“How was your Thanksgiving? Get your fill of turkey and ball games?” he asked. I made a noncommittal noise, and he continued. “I think it’s my favorite holiday. I like having the whole family together, and my kids are still young enough to love the parade. My folks were up from Boca, and Helene’s mom and sister were up too, and they went crazy in the kitchen.” He patted his middle. “I got a little more here than I did last week,” he said. In fact, it looked like he had a little less. The waitress wandered over, but Pierro raised a hand before she spoke.
“Nothing,” he said. She shrugged and looked at me.
“More coffee, please.” She wandered off to get some. Pierro looked at his watch.
“Sorry I don’t have a lot of time, John. I’m on my way to a lunch uptown.” I nodded.
“I won’t keep you. I had a long talk with Al Burrows last week, and I got an earful about Gerard Nassouli. Maybe Helene mentioned it?” Pierro stared at a point around my left ear and nodded vaguely. “Burrows went into gruesome detail, but the long and short of his story was that Nassouli was the devil-not just a money launderer, but a corruptor and a blackmailer-and that you’d have to look hard to find someone he did a straight deal with.” Pierro fixed his eyes on mine. He snorted.
“Is there a question there someplace-another version of are you a crook, maybe? I thought we’d settled this bullshit already.” His voice was hoarse and rumbling. Mr. Nice-Bear was fast disappearing into the woods. I held his gaze but didn’t speak. His big hands fiddled with the flatware.
“I guess you need to hear it again,” he said. “Fine-my dealings with Gerry were legitimate. Okay? That do it for you? Can we get back to work on my problem now?” I looked at him some more.
“What do you make of what Burrows had to say?” I asked. He snorted again.
“How the hell should I know? How is it my place to make anything of it?” Pierro took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face, but it was faint-a twitch away from a scowl. He sighed, and his shoulders sagged a little.
“I guess it’s like what the government is saying about Gerry-I’ve got no reason to doubt it, but my dealings with him had nothing to do with any of that. So maybe Burrows is right-what the hell do I know?”
“Any reason why he would make up this kind of stuff?” I asked. Pierro turned a fork over and over. He shrugged.
“I barely knew the guy; I don’t know what he’d do or wouldn’t do,” he said. I nodded, then I tried out the five names I’d gotten from Burrows: Whelan, Bregman, Welch, Lenzi, and Trautmann. He looked at the tabletop and listened to the names and said no five times.
Pierro checked his watch and looked up. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again.
