“Suggestion: Why not call the NASD itself and ask if C. H. George is a member?”
Nola thumped his forehead and quickly reached for the phone and barked an order. As he hung up, the door opened and Wienick was back. “Keep your hat on,” Nola snapped. “Pick up Laura Bolt and bring her in.”
“Now, wait just one little minute,” I said. “Why bother the lady? Can’t you leave her in peace?”
“Your fault, Counselor. You tell me Oster was trying to extort money from Mrs. Bolt. Oster suddenly becomes a corpse, so we have to sweat the lady to find out if she’s clean.”
“Then you’ll do it in my presence. I’m her lawyer.”
“And you’ll advise her not to talk.”
“Come off it, Lieutenant. Mrs. Bolt has nothing to hide. She was out of town when it happened.”
“Convenient. All interested parties manage to leave town while a murder takes place.”
“Not all, Lieutenant. Just Laura Bolt and myself. Somebody apparently stayed here to do the job.”
“Yeah, I know. Or maybe somebody sneaked back long enough to point a gun.”
“Laura Bolt never fired a gun in her life. She couldn’t hit one of the walls from inside a room.”
“You know that for a fact, Counselor?”
I grinned. “No. May I have five minutes with the lady before you put her on the grill?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Lieutenant, the U.S. Supreme Court gives every accused the right to remain silent until he consults with an attorney. You’ve heard of privileged communications. Where’s the privilege if I can’t see her in private?”
“Aagh! Who the hell can argue with a lawyer? You may consult right here in my office.”
“Is it bugged?”
“Do me a favor, Counselor. Kiss—”
“Don’t say it, Lieutenant. It’s not dignified. If—”
The buzzer signaled. He put the phone to his ear and listened, one eyebrow arching. “The man can’t wait? All right, send him in.” He hung up and looked at me. “Stay put. This should be interesting.”
Nola’s visitor was a thin, humorless, balding primate with computer eyes and a razor-slit mouth. He introduced himself in a flat, uninflected voice and presented credentials: Mr. Harry Prime, Frauds Division, Internal Revenue Service. What he wanted was a line on Floyd Oster. He’d been told that Lieutenant Nola was in charge of the homicide investigation.
“Was Oster due for a tax audit?” Nola asked.
“Nothing like that, Lieutenant. Oster contacted my department several days ago and started preliminary negotiations. He wanted information about an informer’s fee.”
Nola frowned. “Informer’s fee?”
“Squealer’s reward,” I volunteered. “A tip to the gentlemen at IRS about someone’s tax evasion and the government rewards the squealer with a percentage of the recovery, if any.”
Mr. Harry Prime regarded me with distaste. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Scott Jordan.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you. Well, for your information, sir, we prefer not to call it a ‘squealer’s reward.’ ‘Informer’s fee’ would be more appropriate. An individual who assists us in tracking down money that rightfully belongs to the government is a patriot performing his civic duty.”
“Mr. Prime, any time Floyd Oster performed a civic duty for patriotic reasons should be declared a national holiday.”
Nola spread his hands. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Prime?”
“Perhaps I’d better give you a little background, Lieutenant. When Floyd Oster got in touch with us, he said that he had valuable information about a tax evader. He did not identify the man, nor supply any information about where the illegal funds could be found. He did say the sum was considerable, in excess of one million dollars. He wanted to know what percentage of the recovery he could expect. At the conclusion of our talk he made an appointment to see me later this week. Well, you know what happened. Oster was killed, foreclosing further disclosures. The Internal Revenue Service would like to know whether your investigation has turned up anything that might help us.”
“Not yet. We haven’t been in the picture long enough.”
“Can you tell us anything about his associates?”
“The only name that comes to mind is Ira Madden. But there is nothing in the record to indicate that he would double-cross his former employer. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“Oster was under indictment by the Justice Department. They’ve been investigating him for months. It seems likely that the U.S. Attorney for this district would have considerably more information about the man than I do.”
“He’s next on my list.” Prime snapped his head around to eye me with sudden recollection. “Scott Jordan... Weren’t you supposed to represent Judge Bolt on that bribery charge for which Oster was under indictment?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know anything about this matter?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “But I have a client who’s being questioned about the Oster homicide, so I have a special reason for digging around. If I come up with anything involving this tax evasion, would I not be in line for an informer’s fee?”
He wore a look of pain. “Each case must stand on its own merits. You are an attorney, sir. An officer of the court.”
“Except that I’m not on salary. I’m just a citizen trying to perform a civic duty. I’ve been shelling out to the government all my life. I wouldn’t mind getting some of it back. Strictly legal, of course, according to your own rules. Now, don’t con me, Mr. Prime. Will I be entitled to a cut?”
He had to clear an obstruction out of his throat. He spoke with difficulty, as though any payment would be coming out of his own pocket. “Mr. Jordan, if you provide us with information that materially assists the government in making a recovery, yes, you would be entitled to a fee.”
“How much?”
“I do not think you would be disappointed.”
“Ten percent?”
“In that neighborhood.”
Ten percent of one million was a good neighborhood. I said, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
He produced a card. “Call me at this number.” He stood and shook hands with Nola. With me, he skipped the amenities. After he left, Nola gave me a searching look. “I know that expression, Counselor. It troubles me. You’re onto something.”
“Only a vague notion, Lieutenant. An unleavened theory.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Later, maybe. After I work it out.”
He nodded in resignation, knowing it would be futile to insist. The door opened and Sgt. Wienick was back again with an outraged Laura Bolt, bitterly complaining. I silenced her with an upraised palm.
“This handsome gentleman,” I said, “is Lt. John Nola. He will allow us to use his office and he assures me the room is not bugged.”
Nola stifled a comment and stalked out, tugging Wienick behind him. I asked Laura Bolt many questions and was not especially charmed by any of her answers. She had driven out to Montauk, the weekend guest of friends. They had also invited another guest, male, a bachelor, hopefully suitable as a companion for Laura. A doomed pairing; ten minutes after the introduction she loathed him. Early the next morning, apologizing to her friends, she drove back to the city.
So she was right here in town when Floyd Oster had bought it.
Yes, she’d heard about his death. No, she had not been near his apartment. Her reaction? No trace of grief; in fact, some elation. She had finished the weekend watching television. No calls from anyone.
Nola is going to love this, I realized. With the Anglo-Saxon presumption of innocence, he would need more than coincidence before he could even hold her as a material witness.
Finally I opened the door and beckoned. “She’s all yours, Lieutenant.”