Steven Cioffi, we slowly gathered, had been employed at Leatherton for twenty years. He’d begun as a young clerk at their previous factory near Bellows Falls, working out of the accounting office. According to the office people we interviewed, all in the company of the rotund Mr. Kleeman “from legal,” his personality through those years remained as Dr. Duquesne had described it-dull, humorless, and utterly without charm. An early orphan, he had been raised by his stern maternal grandparents until they were both killed in a car crash when he was sixteen. His only sibling was an older sister, still living in Bellows Falls, with whom he had little contact and who, on the afternoon we talked to her, showed no interest in him whatsoever.
He graduated from high school, living off a small sum of money he’d inherited from his grandparents, and then embarked on an unremarkable round of local odd jobs until he landed the position at Leatherton, which had just moved to town and was hiring people from the area.
He worked hard, if without visible inspiration, and his efforts were traditionally rewarded. With the relentless energy of a growing weed, he infiltrated up through the ranks of the accounting department, suddenly leaping to his present unrelated position three years ago. Curiously, none of the people we interviewed could explain the career jump, nor could they remember a single outstanding feature about the man.
So what he did as vice-president of “industrial relations” remained an enigma. It had something to do with conventions, as his secretary had vaguely pointed out. It also involved keeping in touch with-and keeping friendly with-the various unions working for the Leatherton network of factories. But primarily, as one disenchanted observer remarked, Cioffi was a case of deadheading; he had worked his way into a crack in the corporate wall, closer to the top than to the bottom, and had effectively disappeared. It was this man’s opinion that the wall was full of such cracks and that all of them were stuffed with Cioffis.
One interesting but unprovable comment surfaced late in the day linking Cioffi’s financial well-being to his ties with the unions. The allegation was that Leatherton’s peaceful relationship with its work force was maintained by something more tangible than corporate harmony. What that meant preciat wed cousely was never explained and would demand more than a scant few hours of research.
What was gnawing at me by the end of the day, however, wasn’t the possibility of under-the-table payments between management and labor-with Cioffi and God knew who else skimming off the top-but rather, where that money was stashed. The only bank accounts we could find in Cioffi’s name were negligible-enough to keep his bills paid, but in no way reflective of his obviously expensive tastes.
Willy Kunkle, on temporary bright-eyed leave from his manic depression, gave me the answer at ten o’clock that night. He poked his head around my door and gave me a grin I’d never before seen, “I think I found the loot.”
“Where?”
He waved a thick sheaf of papers. “Phone records, going back over the past four years. Most of it’s crap, but there’s one number that pops up as regular as rain.”
He came in and laid the papers on my desk. On sheet after sheet, sometimes in clumps, sometimes singly, but never separated by more than a week, was the same New York City number.
“Who’s it belong to?”
“Timothy Cramer. He’s a stockbroker.”
I smiled. “Bingo.”
· · ·
I was on the first flight to New York the following morning, traveling under an assumed name. I’d had Kunkle tail me all the way to the Keene airport to make sure I wasn’t followed. If Timothy Cramer did in fact have Cioffi’s money, I was convinced it would lead me to the man himself. Considering Cioffi’s lack of personal attachments-hobbies, interests, or people-money seemed the only lead left, and judging from the number of calls he’d placed to Cramer, it was obviously a big one.
I found Cramer in an enormous, brightly lit room on the fifteenth floor of the headquarters of a large, well-known brokerage house. He sat in one of a long line of cheek-by-jowl cubicles, each equipped with a metal desk, two chairs, and a computer. It reminded me of someone’s pessimistic vision of the future.
He was an affable man, still in his twenties, and very much impressed by the sight of a badge. I explained to him it was utterly worthless in New York and that he was under no obligation to speak with me.
“No, no,” he said, getting up and leading me to another row of glassed-in conference cubicles lining the wall. “This is a nice break. Unconventional, too, which is saying a lot for this place.”
He opened the door and ushered me in. The silence after the glass door had closed was eerie, as if all the activity within our sight had suddenly had its sound unplugged.
We sat in opposing padded plastic chairs, like contestants in a game show.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I gather you handle the account of a man named Steven Cioffi.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you be able to tell me how much it comes to?”
“I could but I can’t, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure. Could you tell me at least if it’s big or small?”
He gave me a lopsided smile. “Those are relative terms, especially around here, but I could say that I personally don’t consider it small.”
“And is it still in place? Has he liquidated yet?”
He looked at me curiously, his face suddenly still. “No, I’ve still got it. Why do you ask?”
“He’s wanted for murder.” I watched for his reaction, hoping I could tell if his surprise was genuine or not.
His mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
I believed him. “He knows we’re after him. He’s already cleared out of town, taking everything with him, but I was hoping things had been a little slower at this end. Has he asked you to liquidate?”
“Yes, about a week or so ago. In fact, I was getting ready to mail him a check for a large chunk of it.”
“Where to?”
“A post office box somewhere in New Hampshire. I’d have to look at my notes to tell you where exactly. It didn’t mean anything to me. Who did he kill?” He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Is that all right to ask?”
“Sure. About three years ago, we think he was involved in the rape and strangulation of a young woman. Have you ever met him?”
“Never set eyes on him. He just called up-about three years ago, now that you mention it-and started doing business. I didn’t have anything to do with it, really. He calls-he called-his own shots; I just carried them out.”
“Did he do well?”
“Extremely well. He really does his homework.”
“How did he strike you as a personality?”
Cramer held up his thumb and index finger and formed a circle. “Zip. He didn’t strike me as anything. At first, I tried being friendly, you know? Maybe a light comment or two? But there was nothing coming back. I felt like I was pitching pennies into an empty well, so I stopped. It was all business.”
“And a lot of business, according to his phone records.”
“You bet. He calls me more than any of my other clients, giving me orders and asking for research.”
“Did he send you a lot of money to invest?”
“Oh, yes, regular installments would come every month. That’s not unusual, though. Lots of people take a set sum out of their monthly paycheck or whatever and put it on the Street.”
“When did he contact you last?”
“Just a couple of days agole ht="0em". He asked if I had the money yet and I said, ‘Almost,’ and then he gave me the post office box number.”
“Could I have that?”
For the first time his face clouded. He looked doubtful. “That would probably get me fired. Is there any way you could get a warrant?”
“Yes, but it’ll take time, and I’m not sure we have it. So far, he thinks he’s covered his trail; if he senses something’s wrong, we may lose him.”