Montaro Caine A Novel

14





MONTARO HAD SPOKEN BRIEFLY TO HIS WIFE, WHO HAD ADVISED him to stay in the city and get some rest. He was in his apartment in The Carlyle and though it was only nine o’clock was, in fact, about to pop an Ambien so that he might enjoy a few hours of peaceful sleep when his cell phone rang. He was expecting Howard Mozelle might be calling, but when he looked down at his cell phone display, he saw the name Larry Buchanan.

Caine answered the phone. “What’s up, Larry?” he asked.

“You at the hotel, Monty?”

Larry’s casual tone sounded cocky and self-satisfied, which made Caine fairly hopeful that his friend might be calling him with news about Herman Freich and Colette Beekman.

“You got something for me?” Montaro asked.

“Think I do,” said Larry. “Come over to Sam’s and let me buy you a drink.” With a modicum of regret, Montaro put the Ambien back into the medicine cabinet.

When Caine arrived at Sam’s, the usual noisy crowd ringed the circular bar near the entrance. Sam Vogel, a practicing attorney and former college football star who frequently doubled as maître d’, was, next to the food, the most important reason his pub had become a popular watering hole. Sam was busy arguing with a party of six whose members were complaining that Sam hadn’t placed them in the back room. To be seated in the back room, one had to be a very special customer or a close friend of Sam Vogel’s, which was why Montaro Caine, an impressive CEO, and Larry Buchanan, who racked up impressive bar tabs, got to sit there.

Caine crossed behind the group of six that was still arguing and paused long enough to get Sam’s attention. Sam waved a greeting and pointed to the back room, then escorted him through the packed dining room through an archway covered with flowers to the booth where Larry was waiting. As Caine slid in across from Larry, Sam placed a menu on the table and left.

“Want a drink?” asked Larry.

“No, thanks,” Caine replied.

“Did you know that being scared shitless cleanses the psyche in some deep, dark sort of way?” asked Larry.

“Rough time?”

“You could say that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s to tell? Anyway, it sure as hell can rattle your marbles. And I’m not sure I didn’t enjoy it in some f*cked-up way.” Larry pushed his empty Bloody Mary glass to one side of the table before bending closer to Caine. “Socoloux is an investment company,” he said. “The names Beekman and Freich didn’t show up on anything I saw.”

“Why were their bills paid by Socoloux?” asked Caine.

“My guess is that those two work for one of Socoloux’s clients.”

“Who’re their clients?”

“Companies, corporations, trust accounts, insurance outfits, manufacturing concerns, banks headquartered in Europe, Tokyo, and Hong Kong.”

“No individuals listed?” Caine asked.

“Not a one,” said Larry. “Old Man Hargrove is a meticulous son of a gun. I only hope I’ll be that good when I get that old. I went through everything I could, and let me tell you, there’s a lot locked away that no one can get to. But what I did see, which was plenty, looked pretty clean. Nothing out of place. His tracks are covered; the firm is covered.”

“Who does Socoloux’s accounting?”

“It’s done in-house by our own people. But I couldn’t find a thing there either. Socoloux is paying Freich and Beekman’s hotel bills, but there’s no record of where those costs will be passed on to. Old Hargrove designed a system that delivers every morsel of privacy permissible under U.S. law.”

Montaro scowled. “So what you’re saying is, you dragged me out here and you got nothing for me?”

“On the contrary, partner,” said Larry, who was grinning widely. “The lady is traveling on an Argentinean passport issued to one Colette Beekman, which may or may not be her real name. The guy, Freich, is Austrian, or that’s what his passport says. As we speak, they’re finishing dinner at Hargrove’s house in Chappaqua, New York. That’s where they went after they left you this morning. From there, they will head for Sheltair Aviation at LaGuardia and a private jet back to Switzerland. Scheduled to take off at eleven-thirty tonight. Haven’t yet found out if they own the plane, a Gulfstream II, by the way, or if it’s a rental. Either way, the answer to that one will tell you a lot about Freich and Beekman.”

“That’s a pretty good score.” Caine was smiling now. “For a moment there, I thought you’d struck out.”

“I did at first. I tried the old man’s office, his secretary’s files, accounting, and the computer; I got zip. But I did get an idea from the computer when it showed that Socoloux was paying their hotel bills. If these clients were important people from out of town, I figured they wouldn’t be running around the city in a taxi. I figured right.”

“Limo?” Caine asked.

“That’s right. Our firm has used the same service for years. Two or three of their chauffeurs do most of the work because the old man likes their manners. I called the company, didn’t tell them who I was, just said I was from the accounting department of Hargrove, Hastings and Dundas and I needed some information. That’s how I learned they’d gone to Hargrove’s house. The rest was easy. I called the airport, told them I was from the D.A.’s office and needed to verify a couple of passport numbers. The guy on the other end of the phone was suspicious as hell until I threatened him with obstruction.” Buchanan nodded his head in quick jerks to punctuate his remarks. He was still grinning at Caine, waiting for his friend to show some sign of approval.

Caine obliged with half a smile before reaching into his jacket pocket to take out his phone. “Registration number?” he asked, poised to key in the number.

“What registration number?”

“Of the plane. You got it, didn’t you?”

Buchanan grimaced and spanked his forehead with his palm.

“Oh shit. I didn’t think of that. Of course. How else would you check ownership?”

“It would make it a lot easier.”

“Damn it. Type and manufacturer, that’s all I asked for. Shit! I’ll call them back.”

Caine stopped him. “No, they’re already suspicious and they’ll probably give you the runaround this time. We know where the plane is; let’s take a look ourselves.”

Caine saw a flicker of doubt in Larry’s eyes—he was nervous about missing the last train home that evening. He had already told his wife he would be late and that she should feed the kids but hold dinner for him. Going along with Caine’s idea meant he would probably not make it home at all that night. At the same time, he didn’t want to refuse Caine.

“Ahh, what the hell,” Larry said. “LaGuardia’s only twenty minutes away. Let’s go.”

A light rain was falling as Caine smoothly maneuvered his car over the Triborough Bridge and Larry looked out at New York City. When they were young men together at the U of C, Montaro had told Larry something his grandfather had told him—if you listen close enough, you can see things; and if you look long enough, you can hear things. And, as he did from time to time, Larry tried to listen carefully with the ear of his inner consciousness; sometimes, if he did so, particularly if he had drunk a triple Bloody Mary as he had tonight at Sam’s, he could hear human hearts breaking. Tonight, he could hear the soundless screams of a nameless brigade trying to find its way out of a concrete jungle of unrealized dreams.

What a massive, unpredictable, neurotic giant of a city this was, Larry thought as Montaro steered his Mercedes, what a multitude of worlds existed within this one world. And what an undeniable majesty shone from within this tattered queen of all the world’s cities. To Larry, New York was like no other place. At heart, he still counted himself as one of the many—probably millions—who squared off against themselves first thing every morning in the never-ending struggle against the enemy within.

That terrible struggle, that most personal of battles, thought Larry, was what fueled the routine of living and dying here. Secretly, he viewed himself as one destined to bear witness to the emotional rampage of his eight million neighbors. He knew, firsthand, how some of them hammered, clawed, struggled, and scratched in the often-punishing search for success, knowing all the while that failure’s dark shadow was spreading over their lives faster than their best efforts could outrun it. He knew others who strained relentlessly each day simply to avoid pain. Or to capture a little joy. But best of all, he knew those kindred spirits, those peculiar, disturbing all-or-nothing shooters for whom winning was life—a place above the crowd—and losing was death, to have come and gone with no sign of their having passed this way. Alas, he also knew that each of those people would, in time, discover that he or she had lived out their lives in the unbearable in-between, exactly where destiny had anchored them. Larry, however, was determined to be one of those inevitable exceptions to that rule, one who would rise to the top, even if he had to struggle a little more than his pal Montaro did to get there.

Montaro passed through the guard gate, where his Mercedes was well known. Then, he drove along the private road that led to LaGuardia’s Sheltair Aviation terminal, where private planes took off and landed. Montaro parked his car in the fixed base operators’ lot so that he and Larry could have an unobstructed view of both the terminal and the airfield. Dozens of parked planes stood row after row in dark silence. Peering through the windshield of his car into the semidarkness, Caine managed to isolate the familiar lines of four Gulfstream II aircrafts sitting like mother hens among the mostly smaller planes.

Caine ripped a fistful of tissues from a Kleenex box resting between the front seats of his Mercedes. He arched forward over the steering wheel and wiped away the moisture that had fogged the windshield. Suddenly, a pair of headlights attracted both Caine’s and Buchanan’s attention. The two men locked their eyes on a vehicle that was moving through the hazy blackness toward the terminal building. Not until the Holiday Inn courtesy van pulled into the pool of light that spilled out from the terminal’s window could they see that it was not a limousine.

Two men carrying overnight bags stepped leisurely from the van and waved their thanks to the driver, who gunned the van back into the darkness as his passengers strolled toward the Sheltair lobby. Pilots, Caine guessed. He jammed the soggy Kleenex into his Mercedes’s ashtray.

“Thanks, Larry. Really appreciate this,” Caine said, thinking that now was as good a time as any to say it.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I know you’re dying to ask some questions,” said Caine.

“That I am,” Larry said, brightening.

“Don’t. Not now. It’s complicated. For now, let me owe you some answers.”

Larry wanted desperately to know what was going on. There had to be some reason why his friend was being turned upside down, inside out, and tied up in knots, trying to read numbers off the tail of some plane as rain and fog wrestled for control of the night. Less than a mile away, the intermittent drone of takeoffs and landings from LaGuardia’s main terminals rumbled through the night air, sending out sound waves strong enough to make the Mercedes vibrate. For several minutes, neither man spoke. They sat quietly staring into darkness until they saw the headlights of a limousine.

“That must be them,” Caine said. Larry narrowed his eyes for a better view. Caine turned the ignition key, then twisted the stem beside the steering wheel, sending the wipers sweeping back and forth across the glass to swoosh away the mist on the windshield. Larry absentmindedly cracked the knuckles of both hands while he watched the headlights drawing nearer.

When the car stopped, the chauffeur leaped out of the limo and moved briskly around the front of the car toward a passenger door.

“It is them,” Larry said, bobbing his head back and forth. “That’s one of Hargrove’s drivers.”

The chauffeur extended his hand to assist Colette Beekman from the massive automobile. Close behind her came a stocky older man, then Freich. The older man looked familiar to Caine. The three headed for the terminal entrance, leaving the chauffeur to gather the luggage from the trunk. Freich swung the front door of the terminal wide and held it open for Beekman and the stocky stranger. The man bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Chasman, thought Caine. But it couldn’t be Chasman; he was supposed to be in Europe.

Armed with curiosity and determination, Montaro burst from the car and moved quietly through the darkness toward the fence that separated the parking area from the terminal itself.

“What’s up, buddy?” Larry asked, then followed Caine to the fence, through which they could view a side window of the terminal. Yes, Caine thought as he looked, the third person was indeed Dr. Chasman.

Peeking over Caine’s shoulder, Larry whistled softly at the sight of Colette Beekman. “Which one is Freich?” he asked.

“The tall, thin one. Keep an eye on them and let’s get the number of that plane. It should pass close enough for us to see it. I’m gonna make a call,” Caine said.

Montaro took out his cell phone and keyed in Howard Mozelle’s number.

“May I help you?” a woman’s voice asked. It was an answering service.

“This is an emergency. I must speak with Dr. Mozelle immediately,” said Caine.

“Would you tell me the nature of the emergency, sir?”

“My name is Montaro Caine and I need to talk to him. Get that message to Dr. Mozelle.”

A half-minute later, Mozelle was on the phone with Montaro.

“Yes, Montaro?”

“I need you to answer a question for me.”

“What is it?”

“The person who stole the original coin from your safe, do you have any evidence or even any suspicions as to who it was?”

“Why is that important right now?”

“Look, I think I’m on to something,” said Montaro. “But I’ve got to move right away. Right now. You asked for my help, and now I need you to help me.”

“Well, we don’t have any hard evidence, but everything points to one of my former employees, a receptionist named Cordiss Krinkle who worked for me for about six years,” replied Dr. Mozelle, then spelled Cordiss’s name.

“But it could have been any number of people, couldn’t it?” asked Caine. “Me even, or a burglar, or a cleaning woman, or some patient in your office?”

“It could be, but it wasn’t,” said Mozelle. “The circumstantial evidence is too overwhelming.”

“Howard,” said Caine. “I’m going to have a man call you tonight. He is an investigator. He represents me. His name is Lawrence Aikens. I want you, your wife, and Anna to give him all the information you can about Cordiss Krinkle. I would like to locate her within the next six hours.”

“Six hours?” asked Dr. Mozelle.

“Yes. Before a certain airplane lands in Switzerland.”

Caine quickly called Aikens to update him while Larry continued to stare through the fence at the plane. They watched the shadowy outlines of Beekman, Freich, and Chasman on the other side of the fence. A dispatch officer was leading the three of them along a corridor between parked airplanes. The Gulfstream II sat at the far end of the field with its lights on and its motor humming. Caine was weighing two possibilities: one, that Chasman was merely escorting Beekman and Freich to their plane; and two, that he himself might also be a passenger.

An electric golf cart departed the terminal; Caine could make out a pile of luggage stacked on the seat next to the driver. He glanced back at the plane to see the blur of images silhouetted against the light spilling out of the G-II’s interior. The passengers were about to board.

It was nearly eleven-thirty now. Takeoff was probably only five or six minutes away.

Caine’s thoughts leaped back to the limousine that was still parked in front of the terminal. If it’s waiting for Dr. Chasman, he thought, then the doctor is only seeing Beekman and Freich off. Do I approach him when he returns to the limo, and if so, what do I say? Was Chasman at Hargrove’s estate in Chappaqua? Was he in Chappaqua because he knew Beekman and Freich were coming to see me, or doesn’t he know that they came to see me? Was Chasman somehow involved in the disappearance of the original coin?

Caine heard the thundering whine of the jet engines; then the plane moved slowly forward, and the limousine pulled away into the darkness, heading back to the city. Caine’s attention settled on the baggage cart, which was returning to the terminal. Two figures got out of the cart and entered the building—the baggage handler and the dispatcher. So, Chasman’s leaving for Switzerland, Caine thought. I’ll be damned.

Larry stood ready with pen and notepad in hand, expecting to see the numbers on the G-II’s tail pass right by where he and Caine were standing. But the plane was too far away to make out the numbers, and now it was turning and moving farther away.

“Damn it,” Caine said.

Larry looked at Caine, confused. “I didn’t see a thing. I thought it was coming this way,” he said.

“Wind conditions,” said Caine. “They’re heading over to runway two. We’re screwed.”

“No, we’re not, buddy,” said Larry, and before Montaro could ask what his friend meant, Larry was running along the length of the fence, shouting something at some of the uniformed men who were standing near the terminal building.

Montaro let Larry go about his business while he watched the jet roll toward its takeoff position. This place was no stranger to Caine, who had taken off dozens of times from here in the Fitzer Corporation jet. He knew exactly where the taxiing jet was heading. He kept looking at its running lights flashing through the misty night before the jet swiveled around its front landing gear until its nose faced east.

When Larry returned ten minutes later, he was grinning. “You owe me two now, buddy,” he said. He flashed a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled the plane’s registration number.

“How’d you get it?” Montaro asked.

“Couple of the line guys,” said Larry. “They don’t get paid much more than minimum wage. Fifty bucks got ’em talking real quick.”

Montaro began to reach for his wallet, but Larry shook his head. “I’ll put it on your tab,” he said.

Once the men were back in Montaro’s car and headed for the Grand Central Parkway, Larry said that by the time they got back to the city, it would be past midnight—too late for him to catch the last train home.

“Got a spare bedroom at The Carlyle, buddy,” Montaro said, knowing full well that Larry could get home if that’s what he really wanted to do. “I can put you up there for the night. It’ll be like college all over again.”

Larry smiled, but then he shook his head.

“Take me to the Wyndham,” he said.

“You sure about that?”

Larry nodded.

When they pulled to a stop in front of the Wyndham Hotel on West 58th Street, Caine stabbed his hand at Larry, who slapped his palm against Caine’s. They held a firm handshake before Larry stepped out onto the curb, slammed the door, and leaned back through the open window smiling at Caine.

“This has been one hell of an evening, buddy. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Caine countered with genuine appreciation. “Sure you don’t want to try the extra bedroom?”

Larry shook his head and Montaro knew why—no doubt Larry would be prowling the bars of the nearby deluxe hotels looking for action. Whenever Larry spent a night alone in the city, the Larry of old, temporarily smothered into submission underneath a three-piece suit, came bursting out. As he looked at his friend, Montaro paused to wonder how his life would be different if he lived according to Larry’s code of ethics. His mind drifted quickly to the face and figure of Colette Beekman, but then, just as quickly, it drifted back to his wife, his daughter, his home, and his room at The Carlyle, where he hoped that he would finally be able to get some sleep.

“Naw, thanks anyway,” Larry answered. “You know, if you want the information about that plane’s registration, it’d be pretty easy for me to get it at my office, if you’d like me to handle it.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Caine told him before driving off.

Montaro had been sleeping in his room at The Carlyle for a little over three hours when he was jarred awake by the sound of his phone.

“I don’t have a hell of a lot for you,” Lawrence Aikens began the moment he heard Caine’s voice. “We’ll have to wait till morning to go any deeper, but for now, here’s where it stands. Cordiss Krinkle has completely erased herself from everywhere one would expect to find her, starting about a couple of months ago. She told people that she went to California, but she never did. She’s from Nebraska, but she didn’t go there either. Her father died, her mother is still there, so are some distant relatives, but the girl hasn’t kept in touch with them. Before she vanished, she and a boyfriend named Victor Lambert sublet their apartment here in New York to complete strangers.”

“Who’s Victor Lambert?” Montaro asked.

“As we understand it, he’s a handsome, street-smart jack-of-all-trades,” said Aikens. “He was in the restaurant business for a while. He dabbled in construction. But he disappeared about the same time Krinkle did. Word around Hell’s Kitchen is that he owed a loan shark fifteen grand, so he took a powder. That wasn’t quite the case, though. He owed the money all right, but he paid it back before he and Krinkle dropped out of sight. I’m gonna keep digging here, but for now that’s about it.”

“Good work. Keep digging,” Caine said before he hung up.

Caine was now wide-awake again. It was too early in the morning to call his wife and it was too late to take another sleeping pill. He sat in a chair next to the window thinking about the strange turns his life had been taking of late, until he could see that dawn was breaking.