Harper frowned. "But it wasn't Nicholas Furie who killed Bo Wahlstrom. Wahlstrom was killed in the same manner as the servants in New York, and then Furie himself died the same way."
"Indeed."
"Then who's doing all the killing?"
Yet again there was a period of silence as each of us sat with our own thoughts, sorting through the information we had, attempting to separate fact from speculation, examining different scenarios, trying to see a pattern. And then what I was certain was at least a leading candidate for the answer to Harper's question slowly rose to the surface of my consciousness. "It could be the biggest and meanest baddies of all," I said quietly. "The people Cornucopia was set up to service in the first place, the grandfather's backers."
Harper nervously ran a hand back through her long, brown, gray-streaked hair. "If that is the case, then why would they kidnap Neuberger and butcher all his servants?"
I thought I had a pretty good idea why, but so did Veil, and it was Veil who answered. "They killed the servants for no other reason than that they were there, and they kidnapped Neuberger because they may have prepared some kind of special punishment for him. They probably hold him responsible for the fact that Sinclair stole ten million dollars from them. Or Neuberger himself may have been in on-or thought he was in on-Sinclair's scam."
"All right," I said, "let's take it from the top and see how it sounds so far. At some point in time during the course of his own mundane, workaday criminal activities, John Sinclair learns that a certain famous philanthropic foundation is in reality nothing more than a huge money-laundering operation for some big-time criminal organization. He also learns how the money is siphoned off, and he sets up his own scam posing as a Montreal entrepreneur."
Garth, obviously getting into the spirit of things, cleared his throat, his way of asking for the floor. "As Veil suggests," he said, "maybe Neuberger thought he was in on the whole thing. Sinclair could have used incriminating information he'd already uncovered to blackmail Neuberger into giving him the technical information he needed to bypass the security codes, and then offered Neuberger a deal to keep him quiet and in place. Sinclair, posing as French-Canadian, could have made Neuberger believe he was going to be a partner in a foolproof embezzlement scheme."
"Whatever," I said, tapping the table. "Sinclair may or may not have implicated Neuberger in the scam, but it plays either way, because Neuberger is in deep shit either way. He'll be held responsible. Sinclair pulls off the scam, and, assuming Neuberger is a part of it, double-crosses his would-be partner in crime. After taking his ten million, Sinclair forwards any information and documents he may have to his friend, Inspector Bo Wahlstrom of Interpol, for appropriate action by the legal authorities.
"But Wahlstrom's new partner gets a look at the stuff before Wahlstrom can get the ball rolling. Maybe Nicholas Furie can't believe Sinclair only took ten million dollars. He knows there's a whole hell of a lot more than that to be had from Cornucopia, and he doesn't see any reason why a hardworking civil servant like himself shouldn't also get a piece of the pie before the bakery is shut down. He takes on a partner or two to front for him. They contact Neuberger and make their pitch: all incriminating documents will be stolen from Wahlstrom and returned to Neuberger, in exchange for a very hefty fee."
"My turn, Mongo," Garth said.
"It's my scenario, so I should get to tell it. But I may let you speak if you raise your hand."
Harper was not amused. "There's one thing wrong with your scenario, Robby," she said softly, horror in her voice and maroon, gold-flecked eyes. "I don't see how you can assume Neuberger might have originally agreed to cooperate in the scheme. If you were this man, would you consider for even one second crossing an organization that exacts revenge by torturing people to death, burning out eyes and brains?"
"Neuberger-this Neuberger-may not have known who he was dealing with, Harper," Veil said gently. "Cornucopia was founded by the grandfather decades ago and subsequently run by the father for years before control passed to Emmet P. Things probably ran very smoothly for all those years, so no nasty business ever occurred. Now, we have no way of knowing what instructions Emmet P. got from his father. He was certainly told what to do, given instructions as to how to do it, and probably given a stern warning to keep conducting business as usual, or suffer the consequences. But we don't know if Emmet P. had a full appreciation of just what those consequences might be. He may never have had any direct contact with anyone from the organization he was laundering money for. Mongo's scenario doesn't require that Neuberger be in on the deal, but if he was, it was because he'd become complacent. By the time he came to realize the severity of just what could happen to him, it was too late. Sinclair had already double-crossed him, and news of the theft had been made public."
Harper thought about it, shuddered as she nodded her head. "Okay. I guess it could have been that way. You're probably right when you say he would have been held responsible in any case."
"Right," I said. "Now, Neuberger had already been ripped off once, and he wasn't going to let it happen again, especially by a crew he probably sensed were amateurs. So he set up a double cross of his own, using me as a stalking horse to flush them out so they could be killed, and the documents recovered. But it was too late to cover his tracks, if it had ever been possible. By this time the really bad guys had gotten wind of what was happening, and they began taking care of business themselves, not only exterminating the would-be blackmailers but also going after anyone at all who might know anything about the details of the scam, along with anybody who might be in the line of fire, like those people at the hotel."
"Enter the dragon," Veil said in a curiously distant tone of voice.
"The dragon at the hotel had been marked with a combination brand-tattoo on his back. Garth, did you find out anything about that mark?"
My brother shook his head. "Not a thing. I began by assuming it was a yakuza, or maybe a tong, marking, but I couldn't find anything in the literature, and the FBI and NYPD couldn't help. Tong marks are usually much smaller, and yakuza tattoos usually much more elaborate than what you described to Veil. Nobody knows anything about a mark combining a brand and a tattoo."
Now it was Veil's turn to clear his throat.
"Not you again," Garth said with mock sarcasm-a rare show of humor from my brother toward a man with whom he was usually extremely guarded. "I see I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble by taking you out for a few beers instead of spending all night in the library."
Garth's tone had been light, but the implication of his words was clear: left unanswered was the pointed and pertinent question of why Veil hadn't volunteered the information about Cooked Goose, or anything else he knew bearing on my situation, when I'd called him after the massacre at the hotel.
"That's my fault, brother," I said quickly, anxious to head off any renewed tension between Garth and Veil. "I was feeling pissy when I called Veil, and I made it clear that all I wanted, or would accept, from him was for him to deliver my message to you. I didn't want to listen to anything he had to say, and after the things I said to him, I consider it a small miracle that he's here at all, much less that he's willing to help. It was my stupidity and stubbornness that wasted your time, Garth, not Veil's, and I apologize to both of you."
Garth nodded to me, then to Veil. Veil nodded back. It looked like things were all right.