Kristmas Collins (37 page)

“I almost forgot that I was dining with the famous Kris Collins.”

“More like infamous, but I was referring to you. Can you imagine the field day the tabloids would have if they caught you on a date with the enemy.”

“You mean a non-date.”

“When your picture is plastered on the cover of the
New York Globe
tomorrow, I tend to think it won’t mention that part. Pushing people off their pedestals is the favorite sport in this city.”

She nodded, turning serious. “I still get recognized from that newspaper cover.”

“Nothing under the tree,” I said, repeating the headline.

“But there was this year … thanks to you.”

“You mean the Santa Burglar.”

“I stand corrected.”

As an appetizer of fried calamari arrived, I went into the story about Alyson, Herm, the farm, fresh starts and building something new from the ground up. She seemed to relate to the concept.

“So you’re going to stay in the apartment you’re in now?” she asked.

“It will be nice to have a place to myself for the first time in a long time,” I said. “And if I ever have a real date one day, I could have her over without my gun-toting roommate there.”

I studied Nicole to see if she had any reaction to the “real date” comment, but there was none. So I moved on, “How about you? Do you plan on moving out of your mother’s place now that you got your savings back?”

“No, I think we’ll stay for a while. Obviously living on our own would be ideal, but the kids have had their lives uprooted so much the last couple of years, and I really think they’re finally starting to settle into a routine.”

“They seem like really great kids.”

She lit up like a Christmas tree, and stroked her earrings. “They’re my gift from Janie, and Peter gave me the coat I wore tonight. Although, I think their grandmother might have helped out with the shopping.”

“So who helped out with the dress? That person deserves a medal.”

She smiled at the compliment. “That was also my mother. She calls it my mating dress … you know, for whenever I start dating again.”

“I’m glad you decided to take it out for a test-run on our non-date.”

She smiled again, but didn’t seem comfortable with the subject. “How about you? I know how the
giving
thing went for you this Christmas, but how about the
getting
?”

“Taylor and Alex are taking me to the Jets game this weekend. We’re going to make a day of it—tailgating, the whole thing. A family friend, Justin Duma, is being inducted into the Ring of Honor.”

“I think I remember him, something about taking my kids.”

“I believe he was saving them.”

“I guess there’s a fine line between scoundrel and saint.”

I was living proof, but didn’t want to labor the point, so I returned to the original question, “And the twins got me a gym membership—they said I was starting to get a ‘Fat Albert tummy’.”

“You’re hardly fat. And isn’t Fat Albert a little before their time?”

I smiled proudly. “Collins kids are all about the classics.”

But just when the conversation seemed to hit a lighthearted rhythm, she suddenly turned deathly serious. “I need to tell you that it wasn’t your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

She began nervously playing with her hair. “My husband had suffered from depression for years. It would come and go—he would get on a new medication and it seemed like things were going to be fine, and then it would just stop working, and we were back to square one. He’d tried it before the Kerstman thing, a couple times, but I always believed his excuses … because I wanted to believe them. The time I’d caught him in the garage with the car running, or when he drove off the road and told me that he’d fallen asleep at the wheel.

“It doesn’t change the fact that my children lost their father and I lost my best friend. Or that your defense of Kerstman was insulting and nauseating. But that didn’t make it right for me to blame his death on you. I had to blame someone or something, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m truly sorry.”

“No need. I probably would have done the same thing. I might have been an easy target, but I made myself an easy target.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and blew them out slowly. “Okay, now that I’ve totally dropped a buzz-kill on New Year’s Eve.”

“Last time I came to the city for New Year’s some drunk threw up on me on Metro North. Trust me, that was way worse.”

Our food arrived—chicken francaise for me, pasta primavera for her. As we ate, and sipped another glass of wine, Nicole let out a big yawn. Not exactly how I envisioned the evening going.

“If you’re tired, we can go,” I offered in a neutral tone.

“No … no, I’m sorry. Christmas is just so exhausting that it takes me like a month to recover.”

“Well, the good news is that you have 359 more days until the next one.”

“I wish. Peter is already talking about next year. It’s like a year-round thing now.”

“I know what you mean. The twins mentioned that they are going to get me a sleigh next year, so that they can pull me behind their ponies.”

“Sounds like Santa Claus and his reindeer. Speaking of which, do you think they’ll ever find the identity of the Santa Burglar?”

Subtle she was not. There had been a feeding-frenzy over the last week in the media, and the internet was at fever pitch. The
New York Globe
listed its top ten potential suspects the other day. I made it, at number seven, one spot behind the ghost of Diedrich Kerstman, and just ahead of Donald Trump.

I thought about her question for a moment. “I don’t think anyone will pursue it. There will be a bunch of unfounded theories on the internet and it will be eternal Mardi Gras for conspiracy nuts. But law enforcement, from the FBI down to the local level, all work for somebody. And those somebodies are usually politicians. The Santa Burglar is quite popular at the moment—you saw the outrage when the IRS even suggested that they might ‘look into’ going after the taxes from the gifts to the Kerstman families—and one thing you can count on in this world, is politicians associating themselves with what’s popular.”

She looked curiously at me. But on second glance, she was actually looking past me. “If that’s the case, then how come the FBI is still following you?”

I followed her gaze to a table across the room. Sitting there was a smiling Agent Falcone, who raised his wine glass in my direction.

Falcone stood to greet me. He introduced his wife, a pretty brunette with a wide smile. I figured that he must not bring his job home with him, because she greeted me kindly.

“So you’re the one responsible for my husband not working tonight. It’s the first time he’s ever not worked on New Year’s,” she said.

“It was the least I could do—I apologize for keeping him away so much.”

She waved her hand at me dismissively. “If it wasn’t you, it would be somebody else. Paulie thinks if he takes a day off, the criminals will take over the world.”

She politely excused herself and headed to the ladies room, leaving me alone with her husband—always a precarious place for me to be.

“I see that your incessant stalking finally got Ms. Closs to go out with you. It’s good to see that crime still pays,” he began.

“It’s actually a non-date.”

“That doesn’t look like a non-date dress to me.”

“From what I hear, this is your first date since the turn of the century. So I’m not sure you’re an expert on the subject.”

“That’s because I was too busy chasing around guys like you.”

“Well, I guess you caught me this year. Which must mean that you got back the money you were looking for.”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m sure it will turn up.”

“Oh, it has. At least a portion of it. And on that subject, I noticed that your friends Candi Kane and Justin Duma both made large charitable contributions this past week. Was twenty million the going rate for helping you pull this off?”

“As you know, I no longer have a dollar to my name. But Candi and Duma are both very financially successful, and willing to give back to worthy causes. I think they should be commended for that.”

“Perhaps, but how do you explain the Wainwright’s landscapers being able to purchase what’s left of Kerstman Publishing, including a burned-out warehouse, a sunken ship, and a house in Statia? Why hide the evidence when you can buy it, right?”

“No idea, but I know they’ve lived on the Wainwright property for many years, and probably know more than they should about what goes on over there. Keeping secrets can be a really high paying job in that world.”

“As can hacking into people’s bank accounts,” he said and reached into the breast pocket of his suit. He pulled out a photograph that he handed to me.

It was of Marcus Hacker, leaving through the front entrance of Crawford’s ranch. “Your old cellmate had disappeared since his release, but for some reason I wasn’t surprised that he ended up here. I was pretty confident that you and Candi Kane weren’t the ones who hacked into those accounts.”

“I’m not sure why the FBI was looking for a free man,” I said with a shrug and handed him the photo back.

“We weren’t looking for him, we were monitoring Harry Crawford’s ranch, which we both know was the epicenter of the crime. And like your other friends, Harry was very philanthropic this year, starting a charity that provided toys for underprivileged kids. We’ve learned a lot at the Bureau since 9/11 about how charities can be used to launder and funnel money. It’s become a specialty of ours.”

“Did you just compare Harry Crawford to a terrorist organization?”

He handed me another photo, this one was a scenic photo of what looked like a typical rock formation in Vermont. “It looks innocent, but with use of some high-tech equipment we were able to determine that it was a secret, back entrance onto Crawford’s property, with access to the main thoroughfare. Just big enough to fit a semi-truck through. Well played.”

I shrugged again, acting disinterested. “From what I heard, you got your man Scroggie, who’s looking at spending the best years of his life in jail. And the money was returned to its rightful owners. So it sounds like you got everything you wanted, including that date with your wife … unless you also wanted the glory.”

“Not all the victims had their money returned.”

“I thought I read that all former Kerstman employees got their money back, plus a hefty bonus for their trouble.”

“Stone Scroggie is still out over a half a billion dollars. Those hefty bonuses had to come from somewhere.”

“Sorry if I can’t find any tears for Scroggie.”

“The law states that stealing is stealing, no matter how twisted and corrupt Scroggie is. Nobody gave you the right to play Robin Hood.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do know enough about the legal system to know that the money would have never been fully returned to those victimized. And as they drowned in their bills, Scroggie would be hunting down new prey.”

Falcone shook his head, frustrated. “The system is flawed, but if you don’t believe in it, then it’s every man and woman for themselves. And without the system, the Scroggies of the world will always win in the end.”

“If you believe in it so much, why don’t you get a warrant and search those tunnels on Crawford’s property? Bring us all in on suspicion of being the Santa Burglar.”

“It seems those above me don’t like bad publicity, which is exactly what they’d get if they went after you. So you’re in the clear, Collins, along with the rest of your cronies. But before you celebrate, be aware that we no longer will be able to protect you from the likes of Gooch if he decides to take the law into his own hands—like I said, every man for himself.”

He patted me on my dress shirt. “If I were you I might start wearing that bulletproof vest again.”

He noticed his wife stepping out of the ladies room. “One last question, Collins, and then I’ll be out of your life for good.”

“And that is?”

“How did you get Alexander Wainwright to go along with it? Talk about a Christmas miracle—handing over the Lake House to the Woods family, and that fund for identity theft victims will cost him a small fortune.”

I smiled. “I threatened to marry his daughter again.”

Falcone laughed and headed across the dining area toward his wife. As he did, he looked back at me and said, “I can’t believe you were willing to give up three years of your life to do what you did.”

“I didn’t give it up,” I said. “I got it back.”

The afternoon storm had passed, and the Caribbean was now as calm as bathwater on the leeward side of the island. The sun was sinking into the sea in spectacular fashion.

Candi strolled through the sand toward the large house that was built at the foot of the dormant volcano. After a week that took her from New York to Afghanistan, and back, she had been looking forward to some R&R in Sint Eustatius over the New Year.