Once a Killer (24 page)

Towers met Crouten in the FBI’s reception area on the twenty-third floor at 26 Federal Plaza. He dried his clammy palm on his trouser leg before shaking Crouten’s hand and following him along an airless corridor until they reached an internal meeting room. The contrast with the meeting rooms at Dudek’s was stark: no modern art on the walls; no well-stocked refrigerators offering a choice of snacks and soft drinks; no freshly brewed coffee on the table with a selection of cookies. Instead, on one wall, there was a single framed photo of the local FBI director, whose name Towers couldn’t read, and a small American flag perched on a plastic stand in the corner of the room. In the center was a dark wooden table that had seen better days. It wasn’t mahogany, but it had been painted to make it look like it was.

Crouten sat opposite Towers and locked his hands together across his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. This close up, his crumpled suit looked cheap—it was a polyester/wool blend at best—compared to the elegant outfits worn by everyone at the firm.

“What do you have for me?” Crouten asked, offering no opening pleasantries, not even an offer of a drink.

“You wanted to know when my partner had a new deal on.”

“We’re talking about Hoffman, right?”

“Yes, Michael. He’s the only partner I work for.”

“So what’s he working on?”

“He’s just picked up another deal from Corton Zander, the investment bank.”

“I know who they are. Didn’t they give you the Collar deal, too?”

Towers nodded. What else did these people know? “Michael gets a lot of deals from them. They respect his work.”

“We know he’s been over there a few times recently.” Crouten began making notes. “Who’s his main contact there?”

“Amanda Etling. She’s one of their senior people. A heavy-hitter.”

Crouten wrote down the name. “Tell me about the new deal.”

Towers spent the next ten minutes or so giving Crouten the detailed background on the K-Mines acquisition and explained how he and Michael had just spent the best part of a week in Kazakhstan with Etling and one of her colleagues. Crouten wrote everything down, taking up four sheets of his yellow legal pad. Towers noticed Crouten kept missing the H each time he wrote the word Kazakhstan, but he wasn’t about to irritate him by pointing this out.

“When’s the deal going to happen?” Crouten asked.

“It’s not certain just yet, but it’s likely to be within the next four weeks.”

“And you’re certain of the pricing?”

“Yes, the bid price will be at a substantial premium to the current level.”

Crouten smiled, and Towers could tell he was thinking through the implications of what he’d just told him. “Who else at Dudek’s knows about all this?”

“It’s known throughout the corporate department.”

“I mean the details, the confidential stuff such as the bid price.”

“I see. That would be kept to Michael and his deal team. I’d say no more than six of us on this one.”

Crouten lifted his pen from the table. “Give me all their names.”

Towers listed them, the pangs of guilt increasing each time he mentioned a name. Was he about to throw them under the bus, too?

“Have you told me everything you know about the K-Mines deal?” Crouten’s tone made it sound more like an accusation than a question.

“Yes. Why would I hold anything back?”

“You never know. Misplaced loyalty, maybe? You seem to like Hoffman.”

“I do. I don’t feel good about all this, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, don’t let that make you do anything stupid.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like that?”

Crouten ignored the question. “I want you to keep me informed as things happen on this deal and any others Hoffman works on. If in doubt, tell me. Hold nothing back.”

“I understand. Are we done?”

Crouten stared at Towers. “Almost,” he said before pausing. Then: “What do you know about a company called South Side Logistics?”

Towers straightened his back. The name sounded familiar. What did it have to do with this conversation? “I’ve heard the name before.”

“Where did you hear it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If we ever find you’re hiding something from us…”

“I’ve told you everything I know. Wait, I remember where I heard the name. I’m sure it came up when I was researching Grannis.”

“The research you did for Hoffman?”

Towers nodded. “Right. I think the company came up as one of those associated with the Grannis Hedge Fund. It wasn’t one of their investments—more a related company. I’m struggling to remember anything else. I could check my notes back at the office.”

Crouten wrote it all down. It was clear from his reaction that the information Towers had just shared meant something.

“Can I go now? They’re going to start asking where I am if I don’t get back to the office soon.”

“We’re almost done,” Crouten said, parking his pen on the table. “I have just one more question.”

How many more times was he going to have to tell Crouten he had no more information? “I can’t stay much longer.”

“What business would Hoffman have down near the container port in Brooklyn?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never been over there.”

“I told you; don’t fuck with us.”

“I don’t know anything about a client over that way.”

“You don’t know who he might have reason to meet there?”

Towers shook his head no. “Really, I don’t. Maybe it’s personal.”

“That’s a shame, because that piece of information might have gotten you completely off the hook.”

“Am I still a suspect?”

“Until we can pin more on Hoffman, you remain our main target.”

Towers sat in silence while his stomach churned. What was it going to take to prove his innocence? How could he make this all go away? It was clear the FBI was going to indict someone at Dudek’s and, for now, Crouten had only two people in his sights: him and Michael.

“There is something,” Towers said in a quiet voice, staring down at the table top.

“Spit it out. It may help you.”

“It may be completely innocent.”

“That’s for us to decide.”

“I saw something on Michael’s cell phone. Something that might be relevant.”

“What?”

“I was sitting at his desk, and his phone rang. He couldn’t answer it, as he was out of the room.” Towers raised his head and made eye contact with Crouten. “When I looked at the missed call, it said Grannis.”

Crouten made a poor job of suppressing a grin. “When was this?” he asked, scribbling another note.

“Last Thursday. I remember because we’d just returned from Kazakhstan.”

“Time?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Around five, maybe five thirty. It wasn’t long after we got back to the office.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“No. I’ve told you everything.”

“What you’ve just told me will help you.”

An overwhelming surge of relief ran through Towers. He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Can I go now, please?”

“We’re done.”

Chapter 32

U
NITED
4520 L
ANDED
A
T
P
ORTLAND
J
ETPORT
at seven thirty-two in the evening. Caravini showed his Hertz Number One Gold card at the rental office and, with nothing to sign, collected the car keys and was on the road just before eight. As he cleared the airport perimeter, he hit one of the speed dials on his cell phone.

“I’m on my way. Just leaving Portland now.”

“I’m waiting,” said the woman at the end of the line. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“Should be with you no later than ten. Hopefully sooner. The traffic ought to be lighter this time of night.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t travel together. It was too risky. If anyone saw us together…”

“I understand.”

“What do you think of the property?”

“It’s really cool. Wait till you see the views. You’ll love it.”

“What time did you get there?”

“Around two. It gave me a chance to get some things in. Have you eaten?”

“I grabbed something at Newark, so don’t worry about me.”

“Drive carefully.”

Caravini put his foot down once he hit I-295, but had to slow down again when he reached US-1. The Friday night traffic was heavier than he’d expected. Maybe the tourist season had started early. His route took him past Brunswick and Bath, every now and then revealing glimpses of the ocean on his right as the sun set. When he crossed the bridge at Wiscasset, his mind drifted back to his childhood, growing up in Boothbay Harbor just a few miles to the south of here. He smiled when he saw the sign for it on the other side of the bridge. Back then, he’d hated the dullness of this backwater and, as the son of first generation Italian immigrants, he despised how his name made him stand out at school. Funny how things change, he thought. Now whenever he introduced himself, he made a point of stressing his name—Fabrizio Caravini—rolling out the syllables slowly and deliberately. He liked that it made him different, more memorable somehow. Certainly, it was a name that would be remembered by voters when it came to the mayoral elections.

For a fleeting moment, he toyed with the idea of driving by to see his parents on Sunday afternoon before the flight back to New York. But he soon dismissed it. They’d only want to know why Cindy wasn’t with him, and he’d have to give them a long-winded explanation. They would never understand and were bound to give him a hard time. After all, they had been married almost fifty years now, so how could they comprehend that his second marriage was almost over? His parents would be devastated by the news. While, no doubt, they were proud of what he’d achieved in his career, they would far rather he had a long and happy marriage like theirs. He sighed. It wasn’t worth the hassle; maybe next time.

Caravini turned on the car radio and put his foot down as the traffic thinned out. The Eagles were playing “Hotel California.” Cranking up the volume, he sang along and thought of the weekend ahead. It had been a long time in coming, and he was intent on making the most of it. It would be nice to be out of the public spotlight for a short while. Sometimes it felt like he was living in a goldfish bowl in Manhattan. The press watched everything he did since he’d declared his interest in running for mayor.

It was exactly ten o’clock when he pulled into Camden’s Bay View Street and, moments later, drove down the tree-lined drive of the oceanfront property he’d rented for the weekend. It had cost a small fortune, but he figured it was worth it to impress Abi. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror one last time and then grabbed his carry-on bag from the back seat. The front door of the house opened as he approached it.

Abi was standing in the doorway. “I missed you, Fab.” She was wearing a towel dressing gown and a wide smile.

Caravini flashed his teeth. “I’m here now.” He dropped his bag inside the hallway and hugged her, kissing her neck. She smelled of perfume and soap.

“I’m glad you said you’d eaten,” she said, opening the dressing gown to reveal her perfect twenty-four-year-old body. “Let’s go straight to bed. You can see the house later.”

The following evening, they were sitting in the window of Francine’s Bistro on Chestnut Street, halfway through their second bottle of Caravini’s favorite Napa chardonnay. He’d made a fuss about ordering the wine and had insisted on reading the label when the bottle arrived, not so much to impress the waiter as Abi.

“I can’t wait until we can do this all the time,” Abi said. “We never seem able to get away now.”

“You know I can’t do much to change that before I run for office.”

“I know.” She looked disappointed. “But I need to see you more often. And I don’t just mean at the office.”