“And Oster dug it up?”
“You found the evidence in his pocket.”
Prime snapped, “Nobody ever mentioned this to me.”
“You’re hearing it now,” I told him. “And it would not surprise me if that account had only recently been transferred from the Zurich headquarters to an offshore branch in the Bahamas to make it more quickly and easily accessible.”
“Why didn’t Madden close it out altogether?” Prime demanded. “He must have known the government recently negotiated a treaty with Switzerland regarding information about illegal funds.”
“My guess is that he was preparing to do that, and would have, if a heart attack hadn’t finished him first.”
Nola brooded at me. “So Madden was dead. Who else had a motive to kill Oster?”
“Seems to me you were all primed to nominate Laura Bolt.”
“That’s past history.”
“Good. Because she wasn’t the only victim. Floyd Oster was also putting the squeeze on someone else.”
“Who?”
I pointed. “Our lawyer friend. Mr. Edward Colson.”
Colson’s chair skidded back and toppled over as he came to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about, Jordan?”
“I’m talking about blackmail. Extortion. Floyd Oster may have been an insect, but his brain was working just fine. He knew what you were after. He spotted your game before anyone else and he braced you for a cut of the profits.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying. I’m saying it. Right out in front of witnesses. You were Ira Madden’s personal attorney. You had drawn his will. You were the executor. You knew that he had left everything to his daughter Lily, and you knew about Madden’s heart attack and that he might kick off at any time.”
Colson’s jaw ripped. “So?”
“So you went to work on the girl. You zeroed in. She never had a prayer. All that high-pressure, virile charm beamed at the poor, sad little pigeon. And she fell. Oh, how she fell! I saw her in your office, mesmerized and moonstruck. You planned on marrying the girl, and after that it would be a breeze conning her out of the estate. Especially that money in the Bahamas. One million tax-free dollars.”
“Why in hell would I need Lily’s money? I’m a successful lawyer.”
“Try another hole, Colson. That one doesn’t fit. You’ve limited yourself to one client for ten years — Amalgamated Mechanics, Madden’s private fief. Now Madden is dead and when the opposition takes over you’ll probably get axed. It’s too late to start a new practice. So you were desperate. Everyone knows you’re a big spender and couldn’t stomach a change in style. So you were itching to get your hands on Madden’s loot in that numbered account.”
Perspiration bathed his face. “How would I know where he kept that money?”
“You knew because Madden told you — an essential step in passing the money on to his daughter. That’s the drill, a fixed procedure in transferring secret accounts. The bank has been told the name of the depositor’s beneficiary. When he dies, his lawyer must notify them and furnish an official death certificate, which allows them to transfer the account. In this case, to Lily Madden. But only for a short time, because ultimately you’d take control. Not a cent to Amalgamated Mechanics. And knowing all that, Oster wanted in, so he put the bite on you.”
White lines framed Colson’s mouth. “If he was blackmailing me, why would he go to the IRS?”
“To pressure you. So you would deal with him. That’s why he had to be put on ice.”
Colson flattened a hand against his chest. “Are you intimating that I killed Floyd Oster?”
“Not intimating. Accusing you outright. You knew Oster. You knew he would bleed you dry. There was no other way out. I called on the man myself. I know that he doesn’t open his door for visitors. But he’d open the door for you, especially if he thought you were ready to talk business.”
Colson turned away, facing Nola and Prime, arms spread wide in appeal, voice charged with sincerity. “Something’s happened to Jordan. He’s gone soft between the ears. I’m a respected member of the bar. It’s absurd to think I would kill a man for money.”
“Money,” I said. “The usual motive. In this case, one million bucks. Men have plundered and slaughtered for less. But you had still another motive, Colson. I think you were the moving force behind Oster’s attempt to bribe Judge Bolt. You set it up. You’ve been around the courts a long time and you knew that Judge Bolt was vulnerable. And you were terrified that if Oster ever came to trial he might break and implicate you. That would be the end; complicity, conspiracy, disbarment, disgrace, prison. How does that grab you for motive?”
A dark vein bulged in a blue diagonal over his left eye. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence.”
“Maybe not. But you have, Colson. You’re holding it now in your sweaty right hand. Oster was killed by a bullet through the head. So the killer fired a gun. The police will perform a nitrate test to determine if any gunpowder particles were blown back into the skin of your palm. And if the test is positive, how will you explain it? Target practice in your office?”
He lifted his hand and stared at it.
“And that isn’t all,” I said. “I don’t think you had the time or the foresight to drop your weapon off the Staten Island ferry. They know how to look. They’ll find it and make a ballistics check.”
He transferred his gaze to me, his tongue rimming his mouth.
“You want more, Colson? Here it is. Lt. Nola will put an army into the field, locating witnesses to prove you were in Oster’s neighborhood at the critical time. That’s a heavily populated area. Somebody must have seen you coming or going.”
He found his voice. It was gravelly and hoarse. “I’m leaving. I don’t have to stand here and listen to this ranting maniac.”
As he headed for the door at an awkward trot, Nola came up fast and blocked his way. “Not so fast, Counselor. We have a little business to transact at headquarters.”
Ed Colson blinked, his eyes lost. Then he doubled over and got sick, right there in the Manhattan office of the Internal Revenue Service.