“And I turned out to be right, didn’t I? And no, it doesn’t make much of a case for anything-by itself. That’s why when the guy in New York suddenly died as well, the other trader-”
“Subject C,” Vern said, nodding patiently. “The suicide that’s not a suicide.”
“The second guy who died under other suspicious circumstances. Who was covering up massive losses. Not to mention who brought down a second Wall Street firm. I went in to try to see if there was any connection.”
“That’s what sticking your nose into an ongoing police investigation and harassing the victim’s wife was all about?”
“There was no active investigation. And all I did was talk to her, Vern, with her consent. And yes, I can see how maybe I might’ve overstepped on some things. And how maybe it would be easy to think I’m a guy who just can’t get used to life away from the force, or that a photo of two guys talking at a polo match doesn’t mean shit-all of it-if it weren’t for what I found.”
The chief’s smile suddenly got narrow and Vern’s stare steadied on him. “You mean like a pen with your company logo on it found at the crime scene?”
“Come on, Vern, you really think I killed that guy? For what? So I could short Beeston Holloway in my 401(k)?” He turned to Steve. “What kind of vehicle did the Glassman kid claim to have seen at the end of the driveway that night?”
“A black Suburban. Unmarked.”
“The same thing James Donovan’s wife told me her husband spotted outside their apartment building two days before he died.”
Vern wrinkled his brow. “Jeez, Ty, that’s even weaker than the photo.”
Hauck took out the rest of the file. He dropped Thibault’s phone log in front of Vern on the table. He jabbed his finger at it. “How about I place three separate calls from that same person in that photograph to the very office where James Donovan hung himself? One, Vern, the night before he died. Are we getting warmer?”
Vern picked up the sheets and put on his glasses and scanned over the yellow highlights delineating Dani Thibault’s phone calls to Donovan’s apartment building.
“That enough to maybe make you rethink the home break-in theory?” Hauck pointed to the highlighting. “That’s why they did it there. It wouldn’t show up on a routine search of Donovan’s phone records. The only reason it did turn up is I happened to be looking into the other case. C’mon, Vern, Steve, you don’t have to know what a credit-default swap is to figure out two successful traders are dead, traders who lost billions and whose two firms are history now…”
Fitzpatrick nodded, seeming to glance in the direction of the adjoining conference room. “You said this was part of a confidential search. What does your firm think of what you stumbled on?”
Hauck shrugged. “This is where it starts to get a little sticky for me, Vern. I haven’t told them.”
“Haven’t told them?” Vern put down the papers. “Some things don’t seem to change, do they, son?”
“One of the firm’s largest clients is Reynolds Reid. Apparently, they’re seeking to pick up some of Wertheimer Grant’s assets. Their retail broker division. My boss doesn’t want to muck up the deal by bringing out possible revelations of fraud or a possible scandal. So they pushed me off the case.”
“Some people might find it sticky that two New York City detectives are trying to tie you into a murder case, Ty.”
“Someone’s trying to set me up. I don’t know whether that pen is mine or not. I don’t know what they’ll find on it. More to the point, what does it even matter? Do I have to prove myself to you? You think you’re going to find my face on some security tape sneaking into the building? That’s why I couldn’t go to my firm. I can’t trust them. Four people are dead, Vern. I don’t know why they had to be killed, but while I’m out there having to prove my innocence two banks have collapsed. Am I the only person in the world who sees what may be going on?”
Fitzpatrick was silent. His gaze was fixed on the sheets. Hauck took back the evidence. He placed it back in the file. Stood up. He wrapped his briefcase around his shoulder and looked back at him.
“Am I, Vern?”
Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened. A woman stepped out. In a navy pantsuit. Slim. Pretty. Round, gray eyes and short, dark hair.
Hauck’s stomach almost hit the floor.
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not the only one who sees it, Mr. Hauck.”
Hauck looked back at Steve and Vern with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he had just been betrayed. “Who are you?”
The woman dropped a federal ID in front of his face. Department of the Treasury.
“I’d like to see just what you have,” the woman said. “And I promise, no one, at least no one with half a brain, thinks you had anything to do with those murders.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
My name is Naomi Blum, Mr. Hauck,” the petite agent said. “I’m an investigator with the Treasury Department.” She put away her ID. “And yes, I’m interested in how these deaths are connected too.”
Hauck swung his gaze back to Vern. His first instinct was that the very people he thought were his friends had turned him in. And he’d laid it all out for them.
On a platter.
And a government investigator had been listening to every word.
“Ty, she came to us,” Fitz said. “She only wants to hear what you found. No one turned you in.”
“You’re not under any investigation, Mr. Hauck.” The Treasury agent met his gaze. “No one’s thinking you had anything to do with either of these deaths. But if it’s all right with Chief Fitzpatrick, I would like to speak with you alone, if possible.” She motioned to the conference room. “On the record this time.”
As a rule, Hauck trusted government agents about as much as car salesmen. He’d butted heads with enough over the years, last but not least on the David Sanger drive-by shooting last year. And he still hadn’t figured out what side of the mess the FBI had come down on there.
But something about this agent seemed to put him at ease. He needed someone to run with what he’d found. And the last thing he needed after his run-in with the NYPD was to give anyone the sense that he had something to hide.
“Sure.” He nodded. He looked at Vern and Steve with a grunt of disappointment. “Thanks. I’ll decide later whether to buy you a beer or take a swing at you.”
“I think I’d go for the beer,” Naomi Blum said with a smile. “They both went to bat for you one hundred percent. They told me there was zero probability you were involved.”
“Cheers,” Hauck chortled, managing a dry half smile.
He and Agent Blum went into the adjoining room. There was a large polished table that would seat ten or twelve in front of a picture window overlooking the courtyard between the new and old buildings. Hauck took a seat at one side of the table. Instead of sitting across from him, Naomi pulled up the adjacent chair and swung it around to face him.
She had bright, intelligent eyes.
“I guess it was you who spoke with Leslie Donovan?” Hauck said to her.
She nodded. “And Detective Campbell of the NYPD. Sharp as a tack, that man.” She rolled her eyes. He liked her even more. “I’d like to record this, if it’s okay. Your call. Technically, you’re not under any official obligation to do so. Although we both know I could have a judge’s writ to make it official in about a quarter of an hour if you choose to decline.”
“You had me at ‘sharp as a tack,’” Hauck said with a smile. “Go ahead. It would be good, however, if whatever I say could be kept clear of my current employers, only so I have a job to go back to when we finish up, if that’s okay.”