Montaro Caine A Novel

24





A LITTLE MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS EARLIER, DURING ONE long, tedious train ride home from her grandmother’s house in Omaha, Nebraska, to her mother’s apartment in Lincoln, seven-year-old Cordiss Krinkle had counted telephone poles as the flat, gray landscape streaked past her window seat. Then, when the telephone poles no longer interested her, she reached across to the seatback pocket in front of her and picked up a copy of a giveaway travel magazine. Browsing through it, Cordiss was quickly captivated by eight pages of color photographs of laughing children who were about the same age that she was—they were splashing each other on the beach, playing in parks, reaching out to a grinning ice cream vendor who was teasingly holding a bouquet of Popsicles before them. Cordiss studied the pictures enviously.

The article was entitled “San Remo, Jewel of the Mediterranean,” and the city did appear to be a jewel; it seemed to contain everything that was missing from the world Cordiss knew—laughter, friendship, beauty, love. That moment, that day, on that train, her life was transformed forever. The children from those magazine pages became the friends Cordiss didn’t have. One face in particular, that of a saucer-eyed boy with a turned-up nose and a mischievous half smile, drew her attention like a magnet. He became her secret friend in her faraway world. She confided in him, shared with him her innermost dreams. Even as a teenager, whenever she felt lonely or sad, her thoughts would return to that boy with the big, round, wondrous eyes.

Now, as she gazed out at the sun-drenched Mediterranean coast from the balcony of her San Remo apartment, Cordiss thought of that boy. Where was he now, she wondered, and how could he still hold such a special place in her heart? During the course of their relationship, Victor had never quite believed Cordiss when she told him that she was first attracted to him because of his eyes, which resembled those of an Italian boy she had once seen in a magazine. He didn’t realize that she had been telling the truth until they arrived here in San Remo and Cordiss had said, “Finally, I’m home.”

As Cordiss stood on the balcony, a buzzing sound snapped her head around. She looked first at the door, then over to Victor, who was watching a soccer match between AC Milan and Palermo on TV. Victor didn’t know much about the teams or the players or even the sport itself, but he was a competitive man and he could relate to the players’ vigor and their tenacity. He had gotten so involved in the action on the TV screen that he didn’t notice the door buzzer the first time it sounded. Victor was still on the couch, hooting in approval as Milan’s striker rammed a header past the Palermo goalie, when the buzzer sounded again. This time, Victor grudgingly got up from the couch, walked to the front door, and yanked it open. Two unfamiliar men, one slightly taller than the other, were standing shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, glaring at Victor from behind tinted sunglasses.

“Buon’ giorno,” Victor said, smiling inquisitively.

“May we come in?” the taller of the two men asked.

Victor recognized the accent as American. His smile disappeared. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“We’re here to see Cordiss Krinkle,” the shorter man said politely.

“What about?” Victor asked.

“An important matter,” replied the taller man.

“Who are you, and what is this very important matter?” Victor’s tone was challenging and sarcastic.

“Something of great value to Miss Krinkle and to you, Victor.”

Victor started slightly at the sound of his name. “Do you guys have names?” he asked, recovering his cool. Victor received no reply. He looked the two men up and down. Something about their conservative dress, dark shades, and quietly intimidating manner reminded him of the soldiers from the Carlino family whom he would see now and then in the Mafia-owned restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen where he had worked as dishwasher, busboy, and waiter.

“Why don’t you let us in?” the taller man asked.

Victor stood his ground. “First, tell me who you are and what you want.”

“Inside,” the shorter man said, nodding toward the living room.

“Bullshit, mister. Right here. And make it fast,” Victor said.

“Look, Victor,” the tall man began.

“Or f*ck off,” Victor interrupted, his voice rising.

“Stolen property, Victor,” the shorter man said coldly. “That’s one of the things we’re here to discuss. Twenty years in prison is another.”

Victor felt a hot flush at the back of his neck; then, the nerve endings came alive in the pit of his stomach.

“Dr. Howard Mozelle,” continued the shorter man, “Anna Hilburn, Herman Freich, Colette Beekman, Montaro Caine, the coin or coins—you name it, we’re here to talk about all of it.”

Victor’s heart galloped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, so you may as well just get lost.” Whatever they wanted, Victor told himself, whatever had brought them here, he had faced far worse back in New York—some of his boyhood pals had served time on Rikers Island; he’d seen two mob hits in Hell’s Kitchen; once, when he had borrowed money from one of his mentors, a man named Johnny, and hadn’t paid it back on time, he’d wound up choking on a gun that Johnny shoved against the back of his throat. He comforted himself by noting that these men had not mentioned Franklyn and Whitney Walker—apparently, he and Cordiss had done a good job of hiding them away. Nevertheless, he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

Cordiss was the one pissing ice water now. She had drifted in from the balcony and was standing motionless in the center of the room. She was barefoot, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt with no bra underneath, and she hadn’t put on any makeup, but she seemed completely unconcerned with her appearance—as if she were truly at home here, as if San Remo was where she had always belonged and the two men standing in her doorway were old friends.

“They’re cops, Victor, let them in,” she said. “We have nothing to hide.”

Still, Victor, his fears hidden behind his belligerent façade, continued to stare the two men down.

“Not until I see some I.D.,” he said.

The taller man gave a condescending smile, assessing Victor in his baggy Italian pants and sleeveless shirt as if he were some sort of gigolo or a Hollywood version of a blue-collar ladies’ man. “We’re not cops, Victor, but if you don’t talk to us, the next people you talk to will be cops.”

“Then who are you?”

The taller man spoke. His eyes were fierce and predatory. “My name is Alan Rothman. This gentleman is Carlos Wallace. We’re businessmen.”

“Come in, Mr. Rothman, Mr. Wallace,” Cordiss said. Victor stepped aside while Cordiss moved to the TV and switched it off. Victor glanced longingly at the black TV screen, peeved that he wouldn’t get to see the end of the game.

“Sit, gentlemen.” Cordiss pointed Rothman and Wallace to the couch and took a seat across from them in an overstuffed chair. Victor sat on the edge of the table that served as a TV stand. Stay cool, he told himself, just as he had told Cordiss many times before. Whatever happens, stay cool. He wondered why Cordiss had become so much better at following his advice than he was.

“How did you track us down?” Cordiss asked.

Rothman smirked, thinking of how easy it had been for Gina Lao to get the information they needed from Curly Bennett. “You should’ve used a pseudonym at the airport,” he said. “For a few bucks, people remember a name like Cordiss Krinkle.”

Cordiss let Rothman’s sarcasm wash over her. “Well,” she began. “Since stolen property tops the list of items you wish to discuss, suppose we start there.”

Rothman inched forward on the couch. “First, let me acquaint you with the underlying reason we are here. We represent a firm that may have become involved, rightly or wrongly, in this matter of the coins. It is our job to make sure that the integrity of that firm has not been compromised.” Here, he paused to look at Victor, who hoisted his eyebrows and offered a cool, comical smile.

“What is the name of your firm?” asked Cordiss.

Rothman’s stern gaze swiveled back to her. “We’ll ask the questions,” he said.

“Oh, I see,” Cordiss said, letting the matter rest there for the moment.

“If we determine that the firm has not been compromised,” Rothman went on, “then you have nothing to fear and we will be on our way. If we find that it has been, through no fault of your own, we will likewise be on our way, with apologies for the intrusion.” He folded his arms across his chest as his ice-cold eyes slid back and forth between Cordiss and Victor.

Cordiss chewed her bottom lip, tilted her head upward in a manner suggesting serious contemplation, then stared at Rothman as sternly as he had stared at her. “Well, Mr. Rothman,” she said. “I’m not aware of anything that might have been stolen from your firm, whatever its name, or from anywhere else for that matter.” She turned to Victor. “Are you, Victor?”

“Sure as hell not.”

Cordiss spread her hands out, palms down, to indicate they were done discussing this particular subject. “So we can move on to your next point, which was something about twenty years in prison. A threat, I gather, related to this ‘stolen property,’ which, if I understand you correctly, is a coin or coins. Right?”

“Right,” said Rothman.

“Well, Mr. Rothman, let me be blunt. Whatever I may have sold either would have been mine to sell, and I would have the documents to prove it, or the rightful owner would have given me the legal authority to represent him or her. So your threat does not apply to me. None of the people you represent can make any legal claim of any kind against me that will stick. Therefore, neither they nor you can touch me. Legally”—she smiled confidently—“or otherwise.” She leaned back in her chair, then bounced back to an upright position.

“As to whether the integrity of your firm has been violated, it is impossible for me to say, as I don’t even know its name.”

Wallace pulled an iPhone from his jacket and used an index finger to scroll to a particular page in a document. “Before leaving New York,” he began, “you opened a secret account at a private bank in Liechtenstein,” he said. “Two substantial deposits have been made into that account via Mr. Peter Fourneaux, assistant manager of new accounts. The money arrived there through a maze of companies, corporations, trusts, and names of nonexistent individuals as payment for items you will have to prove were not stolen.”

Cordiss appeared unfazed, yet her mind was racing. How had they managed to pierce the secrecy of the banking system? Could they actually prove what he had just said? As if in answer to that unspoken question, Wallace opened his briefcase and pulled two copies of Cordiss’s deposit slips from it and laid them before her.

Wallace continued, “Your next burden of proof will have to do with fraud and forgery. If you have behaved like a good U.S. citizen, close to half the amount in your Liechtenstein account has been sent or will be sent to the I.R.S. If you’re thinking otherwise, that’s tax evasion. Long time in jail. Unless you skip to one of those few places in the world that has no extradition treaty with the U.S. In short, you talk to us, tell us what we want to know, and this visit never happened. Refuse and you’ll have more trouble than you can handle.”

Cordiss leaned closer to the men with a smile that suggested that they had gotten all they were going to get. Wallace tried to wait her out through a long silence.

“Bullshit,” Victor finally blurted out. “You guys are not here about the integrity of no f*cking firm. Now spell it out. Specifics on the table. What the f*ck is it you want?”

“We want to know everything you know about those coins,” Rothman said. “What are they? What can they do? Where did they come from? Who had them? For how long? When and how did you get them? How much did you sell them for, and to whom?”

Cordiss burst into laughter. Rothman watched her warily, not understanding why she was laughing. Victor, too, wondered what the hell was going on in her mind. Soon, Cordiss’s laughter subsided.

“These guys are big business, Victor. The circle is widening, new players are coming in. Soon, we’ll be expendable; but for now, we’re not. So, Mr. Rothman, you’ve told us what you want. How about what Victor and I want?”

“Which is what?”

“First, to be left alone.”

“You can have that. It’s up to you.”

“Can you guarantee it?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Rothman answered.

Cordiss didn’t believe him for an instant; nevertheless, she continued. “Next, that bullshit, as Victor puts it, about your firm’s integrity is just that, bullshit.” She paused, glanced at Victor, inhaled deeply, then deliberately examined her fingernails. “I know what you really want. And we want the same thing—a piece of the action down the line.”

Rothman looked surprised—Cordiss was apparently far smarter than he had guessed she would be. He looked at her for a long time before answering. “Something could be worked out,” he said.

“In writing—before we talk,” said Cordiss.

“I’m sure we can arrive at something reasonable,” Rothman said.

“Good, now let me see your passports.”

“Why?” Rothman asked.

“Why not?” asked Cordiss.

Rothman briefly weighed the request, then produced his passport. Carlos Wallace followed suit. Cordiss examined the documents thoroughly before handing them back.

“Business cards, please, gentlemen?” Cordiss said.

Rothman reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a card from his Gucci card case. He was liking Cordiss less but respecting her more. Wallace handed Cordiss a business card, too.

Cordiss read from a card, “Alan Rothman, Manager of Operations, Fitzer Corporation.” She looked up. “So, chemicals are what you’re into.” She burst into laughter once again. Then, after looking at Rothman and Wallace as if for the first time, she said, “You may find, to your surprise, that we are not such small potatoes as you may think. And, speaking of potatoes, have you gentlemen had lunch?”

“No we haven’t,” replied Rothman.

“Good, I’ll rustle up something while we talk. Victor, open some wine.”

Rothman and Wallace glanced at each other, somewhat uneasily. Meanwhile, Cordiss headed for the kitchen and Victor crossed to the dry bar in the far corner of the living room. Victor wondered if these men were underestimating Cordiss every bit as much as he once had.





25





WHEN MONTARO CAINE ARRIVED UNINVITED AT THE HOME OF Roland Gabler accompanied by Howard Mozelle, he knew there was a good chance he might seem either too eager or too desperate. Yet with both coins currently out of his control, and with Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace out of the country for reasons he did not yet know, he understood that time was of the essence. Nancy MacDonald had tried without success to arrange a meeting with Gabler, leading Caine to understand that the collector was probably stalling. So now, Caine had taken matters into his own hands, showing up first thing in the morning. He was gambling that the collector’s curiosity would overcome his sense of protocol and that Montaro’s bold act would pique Gabler’s interest. Apparently, he had gambled correctly, for no sooner had Gabler’s assistant Jerome Voekle informed Caine and Mozelle that his employer was not inclined to see guests without an appointment, Gabler himself appeared, introduced himself, nodded at Caine, dismissed Voekle, and led the two visitors to his study.

Caine shook the man’s hand. “Please forgive the intrusion,” he said, and introduced himself and the doctor.

“Thanks for receiving us,” Mozelle broke in, somewhat startled by the strength of Gabler’s grip. The collector’s rough, calloused hand reminded him of what he had read in one of the books Caine’s investigators had gotten from Cordiss’s apartment—that Gabler was an amateur weight lifter.

“Not at all, Doctor. It so happens I have a bit of time at the moment. Mr. Caine, of course I’m well aware of who you are. Sorry to hear about the state of affairs at Fitzer.” Adopting the demeanor of a gracious host, the smiling Gabler gestured his guests toward the sitting area in front of his fireplace. “Be seated, please,” he urged.

Caine and Mozelle sat on the couch in the spot where Cordiss Krinkle had sat during her first visit. As Gabler settled into his favorite chair across the table from his guests, he directed his questions to Dr. Mozelle. Caine understood the collector sensed his companion was a far less threatening presence than he himself was. Though he feigned no prior knowledge of Mozelle and claimed to know Caine only as the CEO of Fitzer, Caine suspected that he had learned far more than he was letting on from Cordiss Krinkle.

“So, gentlemen, how can I help you?” Gabler asked Mozelle.

“We’re here to discuss something you have purchased recently,” Caine responded before Mozelle had a chance to speak.

“My,” said Gabler. “I’ve purchased many things recently.”

Although they had barely begun to speak, Caine was already growing impatient with Gabler’s coy, condescending tone and his games. “You purchased a coin from Cordiss Krinkle, and it was not hers to sell,” Caine said plainly.

Gabler’s brow knotted into a series of jagged lines, as if he was trying to make sense out of something unfamiliar. “Miss Krinkle?”

“Yes. Cordiss Krinkle. A former employee in my office,” said Mozelle.

“She stole the coin from Dr. Mozelle, who owned it, and she sold it to you,” Caine said, impatiently explaining what he now felt certain Gabler already knew.

“My goodness. Perhaps you gentlemen should talk to my lawyer,” Gabler said, attempting to appear more amused than irritated.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Caine.

“But it would be proper procedure if I’m hearing you correctly,” Gabler said. He stared into Caine’s steady blue eyes.

“Yes,” Caine said with a nod. “But even among the still small number of us who know about the coins, the situation is already at serious risk of becoming an open secret. If that happens too soon, we’ll all lose.”

“I have never purchased stolen property, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” said Gabler.

Caine interrupted. “Whatever documents you have to verify legal purchase are false, Mr. Gabler,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whether or not you knew they were false when you contracted with Cordiss Krinkle is, indeed, a question for your lawyer and the courts to decide.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?” Gabler asked. “I’ve bought many coins from many people whose faces and names I have long since forgotten. All I understand is that you have fallen just short of accusing me of misconduct in my business. Let me enlighten both of you. In my entire collection, there isn’t one single piece that is not properly documented.”

“Mr. Gabler, a court challenge at this time, to establish legal ownership, will tell the world about the coins,” Mozelle said gently. “The moment that happens, you, Montaro, and I will lose any chance for control. No matter in whose favor the courts eventually decide, the interest of the world’s scientific community will immediately overwhelm us—there will be pressure for access to those coins from the American Astronomical Society, the American Medical Association, and God knows who else.”

“So let’s get back to where we were,” Caine said pointedly. “The name of the woman you purchased the coins from is Cordiss Krinkle.”

“Krinkle? I’ll have to check my files on that.”

“Please save us both the time of feigning ignorance. You already know about Krinkle, much more than we do. You also know about me, about Dr. Mozelle, his wife, Dr. Chasman, and Dr. Walmeyer. You know the whole history from Dr. Mozelle’s notes. There are, of course, a few things you don’t know. For example, where the companion coin is, who Cordiss sold it to, at what price, and what she’s planning to sell next.”

Caine’s remarks caused Gabler’s jaw to tighten. “The information I have on you, Caine, does not include a penchant for rudeness,” he snapped.

Mozelle quietly gave Caine a warning glance not to push so hard, but Caine knew that Mozelle didn’t understand what had just happened. He and Gabler had just completed an intricate, preliminary skirmish during which they had taken each other’s measure. They had listened and watched for telltale signs—fluctuations of voice level, word choice, eye movement, hand gestures, even the pauses between sentences. Now, the opening round was over, and each man was poised for serious talk.

“Mr. Caine,” Gabler said. “Is it fair to say that your interest in these alleged coins is primarily commercial?”

“Primarily,” Caine acknowledged.

“You wish to conduct research with an eye to how well the properties in these alleged coins can be reproduced for commercial exploitation. Am I correct?”

“You are correct.”

“Let us, for the moment, assume for the sake of discussion that the items you are referring to do, in fact, exist; and that the research you’re proposing proves successful, and the elements carry considerable opportunity for commercial exploitation. Who do you propose would have control of that information?”

“If we worked together, Mr. Gabler, we would, but only if we got there first.”

“I see,” said Gabler.

Dr. Mozelle leaned over the coffee table. “We cannot impress upon you strongly enough how important a factor time is in all of this.”

Gabler moved forward in his chair as well and stared silently at Dr. Mozelle before asking his next question. “Why? Because the holder of the second coin could, by moving faster, beat you to those findings before the world at large gets any information about the coins’ existence?”

“That’s about it,” Caine replied simply.

“How do we know they haven’t beaten us to it already?”

Gabler’s use of the word “us” heartened Mozelle.

Caine shook his head. “Because as of now, no one has gone to the U.S. Patent Office to register their findings about the coins; the sooner we have access to one or both of the coins, the sooner we can be certain we have the edge.”

“And when you have that edge, you plan to let the holders of the second coin know?” asked Gabler.

“Yes,” said Caine.

“If they know they can’t beat us, they will be more inclined to join us,” Dr. Mozelle added.

“Ideally, it is our wish,” Caine continued, “to analyze both coins at the same time.”

“And what role do you see for the owners of each coin in the control of your findings?” Gabler inquired.

“None,” said Caine.

Gabler didn’t bat an eye. “I see,” he said.

“You will have a financial interest in the entity that has control of the findings, but you will have absolutely no control over that entity. The financial interest, however, will be a fair one.”

Gabler nodded as if he had expected this answer and found it reasonable. “The second coin, who has it?” he asked.

“We will let you know in time,” Caine said.

“How much did he or she pay?”

“A good deal more than you.”

At this, Roland Gabler smiled.

“Mr. Gabler, how do you feel about what we are proposing?” asked Dr. Mozelle.

“I’ll need some time to think about it. Suppose I call you in a few days.”



In the privacy of the elevator heading down to the lobby of Gabler’s building, Mozelle asked, “So, what do you think?”

“He’ll come in,” said Caine. “He needs us more than we need him.”

With a disbelieving frown, Mozelle chuckled. “Explain that to me,” he said.

Caine reminded himself of how much he liked the old doctor; he assumed that this was why the doctor’s naïveté didn’t annoy him.

“Underneath,” Caine told his friend, “that man is all about money. We’re a giant opportunity for him. Without us, the coin is all but worthless to him. No one can know of its properties, and therefore he can’t even have bragging rights. I think he was already waiting for other players to seek him out, and he knew that eventually they would. Of course he was surprised when we showed up. We weren’t what he expected.”

“What was he expecting?” Mozelle asked.

“Gamblers like him,” said Montaro.

“Really? I didn’t get that at all.” Mozelle scratched his temple. “In fact, I got just the opposite.”

Caine smiled, recalling something his grandfather had often told him. “Sometimes what we hear isn’t always what we see, Doctor,” he said.

“I just hope you’re right.”

“So do I,” Caine said with a sly smile.

Mozelle smiled back. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Fritzbrauner.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Mozelle. “When do we leave for Switzerland?”