stock. And paid $1.5 million exactly. I’m wondering what the connection is, if any.”
“Maybe we should ask Sam. He’s due Monday.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that yet. It would just get back to Lasko.” I thought. “Who is this Peter Martinson?”
“The seller? You’ve never heard of him?”
“No.”
Robinson rubbed the back of his neck. “Neither have I.” He kept rubbing. “Slept wrong last night.”
“Any indication that Lasko had a piece of Carib Imports prior to sale?”
“Not according to the sales agreement. Incidentally, under the agreement Martinson stays on to run Carib at $100,000 a year.”
“Do we know when Carib was incorporated?”
Robinson shook his head. “Can’t tell from this stuff. Can’t tell much.”
“What do you think, Jim?”
“It’s a little peculiar. But St. Maarten’s Dutch. We’ve got no jurisdiction.”
My instincts picked up a faint message. “I think I should go down there and look it over. See Martinson. Find out when the company started, how it does business.”
Robinson’s smile was wintry. “Maybe Woods will advance you the money out of his own pocket.”
“At least it gives us something else to talk about.”
“I suppose it’s a waste of time to tell you that you’re looking for trouble again, going down there.”
“I guess you’ll have to count on Woods’ good sense.”
He stood and stretched. “OK, Chris. I’m going to take two aspirins and go home. Anything else?”
“Nope. I appreciate it.”
“Any time.” He smiled. “I hope Woods is as interested in this as you are. Whatever it means.”
He left. I picked up the pile and went home to do some research on St. Maarten.
St. Maarten turned out to be a flyspeck in the West Indies, east of Puerto Rico, with a French side and a Dutch side. My encyclopedia said it was 37 square miles, stuck on old volcanic rock, and turned out some salt, cotton and livestock. Population 6,540. The Dutch side had white beaches and the cruise ships stopped there in winter. Its capital was Philipsburg, for lack of competition. And Carib Imports was there, probably for the same reason.
My almanac added one more fact. St. Maarten was on the northern tip of the Netherlands Antilles.
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.”
