Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (14 page)

Richard has become the go-to guy in the prosecutor’s office for child pornography cases. Fortunately, it’s not a full-time job, though there have been some successfully brought cases in recent years. But he has become an expert in that area of the law, so cases naturally fall to him.

He is also called in to consult in other jurisdictions, and is privy to all that goes on in the child pornography area through most of the metropolitan area. He has to stay on top of all of it, because he is now part of a tristate task force, created because that kind of garbage really doesn’t respect artificial geographic borders.

I’ve asked to see him today to talk about Joseph Westman, the successful Wall Street guy who recently killed himself by plowing his Porsche into a tree at ninety miles per hour. According to the newspaper accounts, Westman feared that his involvement in kiddie porn was about to result in his arrest, and he took his own life so as not to have to face that fate.

The reason I’m interested in Westman is that he was on Gerry Wright’s call list. Since they were both involved in equity trading in some capacity, his presence on the list is not so surprising. But his suicide is interesting enough that it makes me want to check this box off my list.

I had called Richard and asked if he was involved in the Westman case, and his answer was “to some extent.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, but he agreed to meet me to talk about it. So here I am.

As he leads me back to his office, his colleagues stare at me as if I were Peyton Manning wandering uninvited into the Patriots locker room. If they could think of something to charge me with, I’d be in handcuffs already.

Once I’m in the safety of Richard’s closed office, he gets me a cup of coffee and we chitchat about the old days. I generally think that as a rule the old days are overrated; they only seem great because we’re comparing them to the new days, which are pretty crummy. But talking to him reminds me of my father, which is never a bad thing.

Finally, he says, “So you want to talk about Joseph Westman?”

I nod. “I do. What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much.”

“The media reports were that he killed himself to avoid facing an imminent child pornography prosecution. His wife as much as admitted it; she referred to him as tormented and in pain.”

“I know. But if he killed himself because cops were after him, he should ask for a do-over, because he wasn’t on any of our radars. Of course, he is now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we never heard of him before he drove into that tree. But we saw the same reports you did, so we started an investigation. We want to see if we can connect him to other people, or to his source. Sure enough, he was guilty as hell; the garbage was all over his computer.”

“Where was he getting it?”

“Normal places; there’s no shortage of slime on the Internet,” he says. “We run them down as best we can, but they can be anywhere.”

“What would make him think you were after him if you weren’t?”

He smiles. “My reputation?”

“You got a second choice?” I ask. “Just in case that’s not it?”

“Nope. Why don’t you ask his wife?”

“You know her?” I ask.

“I do now.”

“Will you call her and suggest she talk to me?”

He thinks for a moment. “What’s your interest in this, Andy?”

“It could be connected to the Atkins case, but basically I’m fishing. But if it means anything, I’m fishing for Dominic Petrone.”

For Richard, the prospect of nailing Dominic Petrone is game, set, and match.

“I’ll call her right now,” he says.

“Where the hell have you been?” The caller is Jimmy Rollins, who is sort of my friend, and definitely my bookmaker. He’s wondering why I haven’t been calling to bet on football. “Everything okay with you? Laurie and the kid all right?”

Jimmy is not worried about his loss of revenue; I don’t bet nearly enough for that to be the case. He’s just genuinely concerned that my absence might mean there’s something seriously wrong.

“It’s a long story,” I say, not wanting to get into the situation with Ricky, and my vow to set a good example. “But nothing to worry about.”

“Good, because you’re one of my regulars, and my regulars aren’t so regular anymore.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Goddamn Internet is taking over the world.”

“You mean that Costa Rica stuff?” Sports and casino gambling Web sites have been operating offshore for a long time now. Americans use them, though they are technically illegal. Gamblers don’t get prosecuted, probably because of a recognition that the gambling laws in this country are hypocritical and insane.

For example, it’s perfectly legal to bet on horse racing online, but not on other sports. Why one is immoral and dangerous, and the other isn’t, has never been satisfactorily explained, at least not to me. Same goes for why sports betting is okay in Nevada, but not in the other forty-nine states.

So sports betting has gone offshore, where it operates with relative impunity, but without our government getting a piece of the pie in taxes.

“No, that’s yesterday’s news,” he says, referring to the offshore betting sites. “I can deal with that. This is local.”

Bells are clanging inside my head. I’ve been trying to figure out how and why Petrone could be using the Internet. Could it be something as simple as gambling?

“What do you mean by ‘local’?” I ask.

“I mean local. And I think it’s connected.”

“Petrone?”

“That’s the word on the street,” he says. “My self-preservation instinct and I would ask that you don’t quote me on that. I’m an independent operator; I don’t swim in those waters.”

“Jimmy, I need to talk to one of your customers that’s left you, somebody who you think is using this local Internet thing.”

“Why?”

“It may tie in to a case I’m working on,” I say.

He thinks for a few moments. “I don’t know, Andy. I doubt anybody’s going to want to do any talking. They’ll be afraid of trouble.”

“How about for money?” I ask. “You got someone in this situation who can use a couple of thousand dollars? I’ll pay for the information, and I can promise I won’t tell anyone that they spoke to me.”

“A lot of these guys can always use money.”

“Good. I’ll go as high as five thousand,” I say.

“For five thousand, they’d rat out their mother. Let me see what I can do.”

I tell him I need for this to happen quickly, and we hang up. It could turn out that Ricky’s picking up on my gambling will prove to be beneficial to my case.

Ain’t fatherhood great?

I’m now going to be anxiously awaiting calls from both Jimmy, to set up a meeting with one of his gambling ex-clients, and Richard Wallace, who is attempting to arrange a conversation with Joseph Westman’s widow.

Both of these meetings are long shots to have anything to do with the murders, or even Petrone, but I’ve got nothing better at the moment, so in my mind they have more importance than they deserve. In fact, I think I’ll spend some time fantasizing about the possibility that they’ll crack the case wide open.

“We’re ready, Andy.”

So much for fantasy; the words that Laurie has just spoken are a cold dose of reality. She and Ricky are about to leave for Wisconsin, and although it was my idea, I’m dreading it.

The plan was to exercise an abundance of caution and not have me drive them to the airport. In case I am being followed, we would not want the bad guys to have any idea that Laurie and Ricky are leaving town.

So we put the suitcases in the trunk of the car while it was in the garage, thereby making it seem to anyone watching that Laurie and Ricky are not going anywhere special. I wanted to have Marcus follow them just in case, but Laurie vetoed it. She claimed, probably accurately, that she is experienced enough to detect if she is being followed.

I’m feeling both sadness and anger, and I think anger is winning out. This is my family, and they are being temporarily taken away from me by a bunch of assholes. Even worse, they are being deprived of the freedom to live their lives as they see fit. Add to that the fact that Laurie and I are being forced into worrying about the safety of our son, and I can’t remember the last time I was this pissed.

For now I conceal these feelings, and prepare to say goodbye. I have to feign enthusiasm, because Ricky has no idea that he is being shipped out because of any danger; he thinks he’s going on a fun vacation.

“Great!” I say. “Boy, you guys are going to have a terrific time; I wish I was going with you.”

“We’ll call every night, won’t we, Rick?” Laurie says.

Ricky nods. “Sure will.”

“Say hi to Aunt Celia for me,” I say, and Ricky promises that he will.

I give Ricky a big hug, which thankfully he returns in kind. Then it’s Laurie’s turn, and we give each other a hug the likes of which it would be nice if it never actually ended. I can see that she is upset but won’t let Ricky see it.

“I love you,” Laurie says.

“And I you” is my response.

They go, and I watch my family leave, and it raises my anger level a notch higher.

I’m not a particularly tough guy, and my threats are usually empty, but this time I’m making a silent one that only I know about.

Someone is going to pay for this.

I’ve decided to kill two public relations birds with one stone. I’ve been neglecting the PR aspect to the Brian Atkins case, which is uncharacteristic of me. I haven’t spent any time talking to the public, a major mistake since residing in that public are the people who will make up the jury.

My other goal in utilizing the media is to exercise my self-preservation instinct, as it relates to the threat of Dominic Petrone. I fully trust Marcus, but just in case, I want to take out some insurance.

I invited Vince Sanders to lunch, since I want to break the story in his newspaper. I can’t be sure that he’ll think it’s newsworthy, though I’m quite sure that if I gave it to some other outlet, he would berate me for betraying him.

He’s fine having lunch with me because he’s a friend and he knows I’ll get the check. He would eat horseshit on a bun if he didn’t have to pay for it. But that doesn’t mean he has to be cheery; he’s always going to be Vince.

When he walks in to the diner, the first thing he says is, “You ever tweeter?”

“Do I ever tweeter? You mean, do I tweet? Am I on Twitter?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I don’t and no, I’m not. Why?”

“The publisher wants me to include tweeters in my stories, like from the general public. So in the middle of the piece, I should include what some dope holed up in his room typing and eating cupcakes says about it.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. One, the publisher is an idiot. Two, he thinks it will make people feel like they’re part of the story.”

“What did you say?”

“I said they’re not part of the story; they’re barely part of the human race. But if you care what these idiots have to say, why don’t you pay them and put them on staff?”

“What did he say?”

“He said why should he do that if he can get them for free?”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I said he should take today’s edition of the paper and shove it up his ass, and then I walked out.”

“How much of what you just told me isn’t true?”

“Only the part about shoving the paper up his ass. I just thought of that now.”

“Good. Now, can we talk about what I want to talk about?”

“Let’s order first,” he says, so we do.

Once that’s out of the way, he asks me why the hell I dragged him out of his office. “Are we off the record?” I ask.

“Off the record? Are you nuts? What the hell am I doing here if we’re off the record?”

“You’re being given a scoop, but you’re not getting it unless it’s on my terms,” I say. “And if you don’t like that, you can read it in the
Daily News,
and then you can tweeter about it. And you know what?
Daily News
reporters pay for their own goddamn lunch.”

He sighs loudly for effect. “You’re a pain in the ass. Okay, here’s the deal. You say whatever you have to say, the full story, and then you can tell me at the end what’s on and off the record, and what I can print.”

“Deal. My investigation is showing that Brian Atkins did not murder those two people.”

“Wait, let me run back and stop the presses,” he says. “I can write the headline now. Legal Shocker: Defense Lawyer Claims Client Is Innocent.”

I ignore him and continue. “And I’m going to tell the jury who ordered the killings: Dominic Petrone.”

That shuts him up successfully, at least for the moment.

“And one of the reasons I know about Petrone is that he sent two goons to threaten me and tell me to back off.”

“When was this?” he asks.

“Sunday, at Giants Stadium.”

“The two guys they found unconscious in the parking lot?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Marcus?” he asks.

Another nod from me. “Marcus.”

“Can I take Marcus to my next meeting with the publisher?”

I go on to tell Vince the whole story, while not revealing any privileged communications between Brian and me. The other thing I leave out is any mention of Ricky being at the game, or Laurie’s and my concern about his well-being.

I tell him that he cannot publish Petrone’s name, but he can make references that will make it clear to most people who I am talking about. He also needs to say that I have gone to the police and told them of the threat, the implication being that if I turn up dead, they will know who to go after.

When I’m done, he asks why I’m placing the story. “So the jury pool out there will understand there is another side to the story, and also so Petrone might hesitate to go after me once all this is public.”

He thinks about it and says, “You may not be as dumb as you look.”

“Thanks.”

“It might work,” he says.

“I hope so.”

“But keep Marcus around just in case.”

Jimmy Rollins was the first to come through. The name he gave me was Daniel Bowie, and when I asked if it took much convincing to get him to meet with me, he said it had not.