Murder Miscalculated (4 page)

I got off the streetcar at Battery Street across and down the street from Wykowski’s Gym. The buildings in that part of the city dated from the heyday of the sea trade. They were made of red brick and stone, three and four stories high, and sat right up against the sidewalks. Their mullioned, sash-and-counterweight windows had been replaced with energy efficient smoked glass panes that didn’t open. The whole neighborhood, once the realm of stevedores and longshoremen, has become a high-tech ghetto, a place where caffeinated young workers slave over computer workstations and dream of winning the stock option lottery.

Except Wykowski’s Gym.

Wykowski’s Gym has squatted in the same location since the turn of the last century, and it’s held fast to the old ways as if in defiance of the changes around it. The short, stout building boasts elaborate deco designs and is made of gleaming, white Portland cement. Along the side of the building I saw faded traces of painted advertisements still visible on its walls, promoting prizefights fought almost eighty years ago. I crossed the street and went inside.

A very fit man and a very fit woman, both wearing t-shirts so bright and unwrinkled that I half suspected they’d been ironed, were behind the desk in front of the main exercise room. They greeted me with bright smiles and found the passes arranged by Talbot for Lynn and me. They directed me to room 202, up the stairs and first door on the right, only after giving me an obligatory five-minute spiel about the joys of working out at Wykowski’s.

I escaped their glow and navigated my way across the polished cement floor toward the stairs. I passed through a haphazard collection of heavy, clanking gym equipment, all in use by sweating men and women in gym clothes, towels around their shoulders, plastic water bottles by their sides. I went up the stairs, found room 202 and knocked. A muffled voice from inside invited me in.

Cochran was sitting on a bench on one side of the room with a small barbell in each hand. I watched him finish his curls. After a few seconds he put down the weights and wiped his face and hands with a towel.

“Greg! It’s great to see you. Thanks for helping me with this. I couldn’t think of anyone else who could do it.” We shook hands.

Cochran, as I should have expected, was dressed in clothes suitable for exercising, sweatpants and a t-shirt. Still, his appearance took me by surprise, as it was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than a conservative business suit. Without it he didn’t look like the squeaky-clean FBI agent I knew him to be. His blond hair was longer than it had been the last time I saw him, not well trimmed, and he needed a shave. Cochran saw me looking him over and laughed.

“Kind of a change, isn’t it?” He held up a finger, then crossed to the door and opened it, peered out and closed it again. He turned back to me with an embarrassed smile. “I know, it seems silly, but I’ve been building up an undercover identity for the past four months, and I have to be careful not to blow it.” He motioned to a chair in the corner of the small room. I sat down, and he sat back on the weight bench. “Did Talbot explain what we’re trying to do?”

“Not exactly, just some nonsense about a data card in a wallet.”

Cochran gave a short laugh. That laugh told me all I needed to know as to how he felt about his new boss. “Yes, that sounds like Mister Special Agent Talbot. Everything on a need-to -know basis, and apparently only he needs to know.”

“He told me Riley is back east teaching a course.” The news of this had surprised me. “He made it sound like Riley was in the doghouse.”

Cochran made a face. “That’s his assignment. Two hours a day teaching a class on the fundamentals of investigations, and nothing to do the rest of the time. He’s too senior, and he’s cracked too many big cases to be forced out of the Bureau, but they can make him miserable enough to quit. I’m afraid that my boss—my old boss, that is—stepped on too many toes.”

That wasn’t difficult to believe. Riley had pulled all kinds of strings and bent quite a few corners getting me a clean record. Of course, I like to think I earned it. I started to ask Cochran more about what happened to Riley, but the uncomfortable look on his face caused me to decide to wait until later. I changed the subject to the matter at hand.

“So what is the story? What are you and Talbot up to, and what am I doing here?”

Cochran leaned back against the wall. “Ever hear of a guy named John Wolfe?”

I searched my memory. “He’s that financier who ran away to the Cayman Islands or someplace like that. Looted his bank and got away with millions.”

“It’s closer to a billion, but that’s about right. He loaded the bank up with sub-prime mortgages and sold them off to other banks. Lots of banks did that, but at least they kept a veneer of legality to it. Wolfe didn’t bother. His outfit had teams of people faking documents and cooking the books. So far, twenty-seven people have been convicted of fraud, and some are getting serious jail time.

“But Wolfe got away.”

“Yes, it’s amazing what a few million in bribes will buy you. In his case it bought him a twenty-four hour warning, a home on a Caribbean island and a guarantee against extradition.”

“Okay, that’s who. What about why?”

Cochran chewed his lip. “I’m not certain how much I can tell you without the wrath of Talbot descending.”

“He’s that bad?”

“It’s like he’s looking for a reason to write me up. Kruger and Miss Yee have already jumped ship. They transferred together to another team down in LA.”

Agents Kruger and Yee comprised the rest of the FBI team with whom I had worked last year.

“Okay, I won’t press you, but you’re going to have to give me details about the actual operation. I need to know as much as possible about who you are targeting and what the physical set-up will be.”

“Do you really think you can teach me to lift a wallet without being caught?”

“Talbot tells me we have a month. I don’t see why not, but it depends on the set-up, so give.”

Cochran took a breath and dove into the story. “The target works for Wolfe. He’s a trusted aide who hasn’t been indicted yet, so he’s able to fly into the city once a month from that island in the Caribbean. Wolfe is smart. He doesn’t use email or call anyone on the telephone, so there’s no way to set up a tap. Instead, he relies on this courier to carry those data cards.”

“Who does he take them to?”

“Wolfe still controls a network of interlocking corporations here in the States. The courier takes the data card to Wolfe’s stateside lawyer, and he distributes them. We believe those cards contain enough information for us to indict and extradite Wolfe.”

I started to ask why Talbot didn’t simply arrest Wolfe’s lawyer, but Cochran was ahead of me. “Per Talbot, the lawyer, a guy named Dennis Metcalf, is off limits for us. Talbot says he doesn’t want to contaminate the investigation by violating lawyer-client confidentiality. So that leaves the courier as the only avenue for us to get the data card. It’s going to be tricky. The courier doesn’t take a cab from the airport. He uses a private limo service. The same car and driver picks him up at the hotel in the morning, and he goes about whatever tasks Wolfe has assigned for him.”

“How confident are you that the card will be in the courier’s wallet?”

“Talbot is one hundred percent certain.”

“And you?”

“Whoever it is that he’s got working as a mole inside Wolfe’s organization is close enough to the inner operation that his info is good.”

Cochran took a drink from his water bottle and then continued. “We’re thinking we can lift his wallet as he leaves his hotel, before he gets into the limo. The thing is,” he leaned toward me, “it’s critical to our plan that both the courier and Wolfe are confident the wallet was stolen by a street thief wanting a wallet, not by someone like us after the data card.”

He gestured to his unkempt hair and the stubble on his face. “That’s why I’ve been undercover the past few months. I’ve been building an identity as a small-time sneak thief. If Wolfe’s people start checking things out, there will be enough people around who will identify me as such.” He gave a slight smile. “Of course, I’ll have to keep low afterwards. Wolfe is known to play for keeps.”

I studied him anew. “Cochran, you have a devious mind. Now what do you say we get to work?”

I began by showing Cochran the basic concepts of picking pockets, using the same words that Fast Eddie had used all those years ago.

“It’s all about misdirection. You have to give the mark something else to notice. That can be bumping into them, a loud noise, a pretty girl, a couple of people getting into a shouting match. Watch, the first time I saw Fast Eddie in action, this is what he did.” I got down on one knee and pretended to tie my shoe.

“Then, when the mark is next to you,” I stood up. “You bump into them and in the process take his wallet.”

“Is that what you suggest I do?”

“No, there’s too much chance of missing him if he veers around you. That’s no problem when you’re targeting strangers, but it won’t work for you.”

“So?”

I took off my coat. It was the same sports coat I’d practiced with the day before. I handed it to Cochran. “Here, put this on.” He did.

“Does it fit?” I pulled the shoulders tight and straightened the lapels, moving around him like a tailor fitting a customer.

“Pretty much.” Cochran seemed amused by my activity. I stepped back.

“Did you see what I was doing?”

“Not really. What were you doing?”

I held out my hand. There was a slim billfold in it. I held out my other hand. A silver pen and matching mechanical pencil were in it. Understanding dawned in Cochran’s eyes.

“Those were in the coat, and you took them from me while you were moving around me.”

I put the matching pen and pencil back into the jacket but kept the billfold. “Yes. Of course, I had the advantage of knowing where they were. That’s really the first step. There are even ways of getting the mark to show you himself. It’s pretty hard to steal something if you don’t know where it is.”

“Our man carries his wallet in the left inside pocket of his coat.”

“Don’t tell me, Talbot’s pet mole again?”

“Who else?”

“Okay,” I said. “That makes it easier already. Let’s try that.” I put the wallet back into the coat pocket on the left side, placing Cochran’s hand on the breast of the coat so that he could feel the wallet and confirm that it was in place. “Now watch what I do.”

I went through the motions again of adjusting the coat, walking around him and touching and pulling. Cochran’s eyes followed my hands carefully. As I began tugging at the lapels, he grabbed my left hand. “There! You’ve got it in your hand now.”

I slowly opened my fingers and showed him that they were empty. He checked my right hand but could see that it was empty, too. Cochran felt for the wallet through his coat. “But it’s not there. You have it, don’t you?”

I smiled and reached into my back pocket. I handed him the wallet. “I cheated,” I admitted. “I never put it back in, only made it seem that way.”

“But I felt it.”

“You felt it, but I had my fingers inside the jacket and was holding it in place. As soon as you felt it and confirmed that it was back in the pocket, I let it drop down and caught it with my other hand.”

Cochran shook his head. “I don’t think I’m ever going to learn to do this.”

I gave him a comforting pat on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cochran. I’ll make a thief of you yet.”

“Oh, no. This won’t do at all.”

The words woke me from my thoughts. I blinked and focused on the here and now.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was comfortably installed on the barstool behind the counter in the bookstore. My mind had been working the puzzle of how to teach Cochran the ancient art of picking pockets in only four weeks. I put down the pencil I twirled idly in my fingers and gave my attention to the young woman who stood in front of me.

I hadn’t taken much note of her when she’d walked into the store a few minutes earlier. I like to let customers explore the store on their own. I try not to bother them until they have a question. The woman was in her mid-twenties, short and slim, dressed in a business suit, the severe cut of which was offset by the small rectangular-framed glasses she wore and her high-heeled boots. Hairpins held long, reddish-dark hair in a tight bun in which I could see streaks of purple hiding. She had the look of a recent college graduate trying to look businesslike. I’ve found such people generally eschew any offers of help, having learned everything already.

Now, with her standing a scant two feet away, drumming her manicured fingernails on the counter, I figured it was possible I might have been wrong, though the small holes in her ears where multiple piercings had resided until recently suggested otherwise.

“I’m sorry if this,” I motioned to the interior of The Book Nook, crammed from top to bottom with books, “won’t do at all. Most of our customers seem to like it, though.”

She placed a business card on the counter with a snap. “My name is April Quist, and I’m with Dunham Press. If you don’t mind, I need to speak to the owner of this store.”

I picked up the card and studied it with unhurried and exaggerated care. “April Quist, Author Event Coordinator.” Her name and the publisher sounded familiar. A small poster taped to the side of our ancient cash register caught my eye. It advertised the upcoming reading and book signing by Max Carson. At the bottom of the poster was the name of Carson’s publisher, Dunham Press.

“Oh, right, the book signing.” What with Cochran, Talbot and everything in between, the book signing on Friday night had slipped my mind. It was four days away. “So tell me, Miss Quist, to what specifically are you referring when you say it won’t do?”

“This whole place.” She swept her arm around. “I mean, look at it. It’s small, it’s cramped, and there are only a couple of chairs. When Max Carson has a book signing, he draws crowds. This place is totally inadequate.” She locked eyes with me as though daring me to challenge her. I accepted her dare.