Mortal Bonds (23 page)

T
he offices of Kuhn Lauber Biondi were less than a block away—a few steps down from the side entrance to the bank. The building was an unremarkable four-story redbrick structure built sometime between the Reformation and the First World War. The street-level entrance was a simple glass-paned white wooden door. I followed Guelli into a comfortable sitting room. The door chimed behind us, announcing our presence, but there was no one to greet us. Guelli seemed to take this as quite normal. He sat, shuffled through a pile of Swiss newspapers, and began to read. I set my briefcase on the floor and paced. We waited.

There was a single door on the far wall—locked from this side, I found—and a small elevator built into the adjoining wall, a comparatively new feature, probably added to the building no more than thirty or forty years earlier. The fireplace and a bare mantel occupied the fourth wall. A couch, two high-backed armchairs, a pair of matching end tables. No paintings or other artwork. The only windows were the glass panes in the door we had entered. A space to wait in, but not comfortably. The room was a sensory-deprivation chamber. The only sound was the crackle of the newspaper as Guelli turned pages. After ten minutes there, conversation with a lawyer would feel stimulating. I could feel my claustrophobia beginning to play tricks on me. Much longer and the walls would start moving.

I sat down. “How long do we wait?”

Guelli gave a small sigh at my impatience. “The receptionist is behind that door and is able to see us through that camera.” He looked pointedly at a tiny hole in the crown molding. “Though she will have been alerted by the door chime, she may be involved in some other work-related activity. She will eventually check her monitor and then come and check up on us. Such an arrangement is not uncommon here.”

The door in the rear wall opened.

“Et voilà.”
Guelli smiled.

A small gray-haired woman came in. Her face was all angles, but her body was all curves—like a snowman. Thick ankles peeked out from beneath a long gray skirt. Her shoes were black and sensible.

She looked me over. “Welcome. Good afternoon.” She turned to Guelli and made another appraisal.
“Buonasera, dottore. Come posso aiutarla?”

Guelli rose from the chair and introduced himself in English. “We wish to speak with one of Herr Biondi’s colleagues. A senior partner.” He handed her one of his cards. “This is Mr. Stafford, an American who is assisting in our investigations.”

If she was surprised or flustered, she hid it well. I couldn’t imagine that a visit from Interpol was an everyday occurrence.

“One moment, gentlemen.” She turned and went back out the same door.

“You’ve been here before,” I said to Guelli.

“Not at all. This was never my case.”

“Then how did you know?” I nodded toward the camera.

“I am a trained investigator,” he said. “And I did some speculation.”

This time we waited less than a minute before she was back.

“Herr Kuhn will see you now,” she said. She walked to the elevator and removed a small black key from a pocket and inserted it into the plate next to the door. I slid my hand into my pocket and rubbed a finger over my key. If they weren’t identical, I would be mightily surprised. I had to devise some strategy for checking it out.

Moments later she ushered us into a large, heavily furnished corner office. Dark wood, possibly mahogany, prevailed in the desk, chairs, and the glass-fronted bookcases. Leather cushioned the chairs and the couch. The blue-and-maroon Persian carpet felt like it was ankle deep. There was a faint aroma of expensive cigars. It was a space where decisions were made and secrets were revealed—though they never left the room.

I put Herr Kuhn in his early seventies, though he could have been younger. The crutches and leg braces added years. But despite the ravages of what I assumed was some degenerative disease such as multiple sclerosis, the man radiated power. He made a point of rising to greet us, then let us see the mechanical effort the act had required by releasing the braces on his leg, one at a time, as he lowered himself back into an intricate, motorized wheelchair.

Guelli took the lead and I sat back and watched. He explained that there were no new direct developments on the case of his murdered partner, but some new questions had arisen. Nothing that would challenge the firm or the other partners, of course. He was smooth, but Kuhn was impossible to read. Even his pupils were under control. He gave me a polite smile when Guelli introduced me as a “private investigator from the U.S. who is assisting police on both continents.”

“He brings a new point of view to the case. Would you mind answering a few questions about your colleague?”

“As long as it does not interfere with client confidentiality, I am prepared to give you complete cooperation.” He gave the same neutral smile.

If I opened with polite, he would be able to twist me in circles and tell me nothing. There was nothing to lose if I played the rude American.

“MS?” I said. “I had an aunt with MS,” I lied. “When did yours start up?”

He blinked before answering. I had gotten to him. “This is relevant?” he asked Guelli.

I jumped in before the cop could answer. “No, not really. I was guessing that the elevator is for you, so I was wondering when it went in.”

“You are correct. My father had it installed more than forty years ago, soon after my first series of bouts.”

“You seem to be holding up pretty well. You’re what? Seventy-something?”

He looked to Guelli for help with the madman in the room. “I cannot imagine how this bears on Serge’s death.”

“You’re right. Sorry. Who has keys to the elevator? Everyone who works here? Do you ever inventory them? Who would know if one disappeared?”

Kuhn nodded. “You are thinking how did his killers get in? But the police have already been through that, Mr. Stafford. Unfortunately, the camera downstairs is focused on the door, not the elevator. But it is possible that there is no mystery about it. You see, there is an override switch on this floor. For me. In case I misplace my key. Serge must have let in the men who killed him. Obviously, he was expecting someone else.”

“Everyone else has a key?”

“This is a law office, not a bank. Active case files are kept secure, but anyone can ride the elevator. There are probably hundreds of keys that fit that elevator. When someone leaves the firm, we do not check to see that they have turned in their key. If someone loses a key, they simply request another. Our office manager probably orders them ten at a time to get the discount.”

“So, did you know that Biondi was doing business with the Von Beckers?”

He blinked twice—I had him on the ropes. “William Von Becker?”

“The same. The one and only.”

“Your question presupposes that he was, in fact, working for the Von Beckers, a notion that I would challenge. Where does your information come from?”

Rude Americans don’t have to answer questions, no matter how polite the questioner. “How would you know whether he was or not?”

Kuhn let some of his annoyance with me begin to show. “Because I personally reassigned all of his active files. There were not many. Most of his time was devoted to managing or mentoring our junior lawyers. I can tell you unequivocally that there was nothing to indicate that this firm has done any business for William Von Becker or for any of his companies, either directly or through their New York law firm.”

“And if there was a cache of bearer bonds hiding in Biondi’s files, you would know about it.”

“Bearer bonds?” He looked to Guelli again, but the cop gave him nothing. “This is absurd.”

“So if Biondi was doing something, he was hiding it. From you and the rest of the firm. Why would he do that?”

“I have answered that question. He was not working for the Von Beckers.”

“Actually, Mr. Kuhn, you haven’t answered me. The question is why. Why would he do it? It’s actually a pretty interesting question when you think about it. Here’s this senior partner at an exclusive firm, too experienced to get involved in something truly stupid, and yet he’s helping a crooked banker launder money for Central American drug gangs. So, excuse my directness, but why would this guy be doing that?”

“And I maintain that he was not doing any such thing. This is fantasy. What evidence do you have for any of these allegations?”

“You said that you had been through all of his active files. What about old files? Are they warehoused somewhere nearby?”

“There are over a hundred years’ worth of files in the basement.”

“And have you checked all of those?”

Kuhn’s eyes were threatening to leap out of their sockets. “To what purpose? To prove a negative?” He slammed both hands on the desk in frustration. “This is nonsense. Serge Biondi was murdered here, and in six months the best the police can come up with is this fantasy? What is next? Knights Templar? UFOs? An ancient curse?”

I nodded distractedly. “Is there a bathroom up here I could use?”

Guelli looked at me as though I
had
just started ranting about UFOs.

I patted my stomach and made a scrunched-up face, indicating intestinal discomfort. “That roesti seems to be going right through me. I guess I’m not used to your rich foods.”

Herr Kuhn tried not to look disgusted, and almost succeeded. “Across the landing. The door to the left of the elevator.”

Perfect.

I walked out of Kuhn’s office, took the black key out of my pocket, and headed straight for the elevator. Was I nuts? Delusional? Or was the germ of an idea taking root? What Vinny had said about hiding sand at the beach—was that possible?

The key slid in like magic. I turned it. There was a click and a hum. The elevator car rose up and the door slid open.

The next step would not be looked on kindly. Once in the elevator, I was a snoop and a potential threat. I stepped in and inserted the key and hit the button for the basement. The door seemed to close very slowly.

The car sank, emitting soft chimes as we passed each floor. In case anyone stopped the elevator and found me, I put on my best dumb smile, imagining myself as a goofy tourist, out joyriding on the elevator. It was weak, but the best I could come up with. But I didn’t need it. The car stopped, the doors slid open, and I was facing a wall of metal shelves loaded with identical cardboard boxes. The aisle stretched in both directions for forty feet. I flipped a mental coin and jogged down the aisle to the right, passing a giant shredding machine—industrial-sized. Rows of shelving extended to the far wall, fifty feet away. Four thousand square feet of shelves—I looked up and estimated—ten feet high. Forty thousand cubic feet. A team of forensic accountants and lawyers might be able to search through it in a week or two. If they knew what they were looking for. If someone pointed them in this direction.

I checked my watch. I’d been gone for three and a half minutes. Time to head back—almost. The elevator was still waiting, door ajar. I braced my foot to hold it while I examined the nearest boxes. Each had a handwritten label. At the top, a feminine hand had written the name Kuhn. Below, there was a series of numbers. Case numbers? The first four digits were definitely years—the section immediately in front of me was all in the last decade. Then there was a dash, followed by another four-digit number. Case numbers. Each box label showed anywhere from one to twenty case numbers. The boxes were all about a foot and a half wide. Eighty linear feet per aisle—fifty-three boxes, stacked eight high, each containing, on average, say ten cases. If each row took up five feet, there were forty-five thousand case files here. I revised my one- or two-week estimate upward. A month. But with luck, I wouldn’t need a month. A plan was percolating in my head.

I stepped back into the elevator, inserted my key again, and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The door closed and the hum began. The car chimed once, twice, and stopped. Second floor. The door slid open. I was busted. What possible, legitimate reason could I give for being on my own traveling in the elevator? I tried to give myself a friendly aura. I stopped breathing.

The little gray lady pushed in with a small wire basket cart filled with sorted mail. She gave me a vague smile. She inserted her key and pushed for the third floor. We rode up. She exited. I started breathing again.

They needed to work a little harder on their security arrangements.

I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands. The man looking at me from the mirror had a crazy look in his eyes, as though he was planning something that had the potential to put me in a Swiss prison for a number of years. I ignored him.

There was a thick cloud of silence hanging in the air between the cop and the lawyer when I reentered. Kuhn was too polished to seethe, but I could see he wanted to.

“Mr. Kuhn, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a plane to catch. If you have nothing more to add . . .”

Guelli stood up. “I have just finished telling Herr Kuhn that we will be seeking a subpoena to examine the firm’s files.”

Guelli was no fool. He saw the potential of the situation as well as I did.

Kuhn drove the wheelchair out from behind his desk. “And I will file an injunction to stop it.”

I had to hand it to him—he was a fighter. He must have asked himself what his dead partner might have been involved in that got him tortured and killed, but he wasn’t going to let us see his doubts. I’d done my best to shake something out of him, but he had nothing to tell. You can’t bluff an honest man.

We saw ourselves out.

Guelli checked his watch as we walked out onto the cobblestone pavement. “This way.” He pointed back up toward Bahnhofstrasse. “I’ll take you to the airport. We can finish our talk on the way.”

The car was still on the same corner. The two uniformed cops saw us coming and leaped out to open the rear doors for us. Guelli gave them orders, and we were off.

“It will take me a day to make the arrangements. Kuhn will eventually cooperate—there is no reason for him not to. He is a proud man, and he was angry. Give him a day or two and he will be reasonable.”