“Downtown.”
“Yeah. Anyway, not a peep about big bad Bolden beating her to a pulp. No record at all of someone by her name pressing charges against you.”
“But Mickey Schiff said she’d filed a complaint. He had detectives waiting to take me to the station.”
“He was lying,” said Kravitz matter-of-factly. “We had better luck with Schiff. Didn’t know he was a marine.”
“Yeah, Mickey’s our own Chesty Puller,” said Bolden.
“I’d watch invoking the name of a legend to describe Mr. Schiff.” Kravitz settled a folder on his lap. “Lieutenant Colonel Schiff served in supply. A procurement officer. Outstanding record. Numerous medals, commendations. All in all, a fine career. After leaving the military, he joined the firm of Defense Associates.”
Bolden nodded, feeling a gear lock into place.
“Schiff lasted at said company for all of nine months, then jumped ship to HW.”
“Defense Associates went bankrupt,” said Bolden.
“Nothing fishy there. Just a few lousy investments. Paid too much for Fanning Firearms and couldn’t turn it around despite Mr. Schiff’s best efforts. That’s that.”
“What happened next?”
Suddenly, Kravitz went mute. One by one, he slipped the folders back into his briefcase.
“We’re not done here,” said Bolden.
“Speak for yourself.” Kravitz buckled his briefcase and stood. “The way I see it, Tom, you’ve taken advantage of me enough as it is.”
Bolden remained seated. “Did you expect me to stop you? Go ahead, if you want. But I’ll leave it to you to explain to Allen Prell that you used the firm’s resources on behalf of a suspected murderer without doing any double-checking. You said it yourself. You thought you were helping the next CEO of HW. Guess you screwed up. Right now, your ass is on the line as much as mine. You help me, and you’re helping yourself. If I get caught, sooner or later it’s going to come out that we met. I don’t think Prell likes to be caught in bed with a murderer any more than HW.” Bolden shrugged. “Your call.”
Kravitz walked past Bolden to the door. “Good luck, Tom.” He opened it and stepped outside.
Bolden let him go. He wasn’t about to beg. What was the point? Kravitz had confirmed what he knew. Schiff had been involved with Defense Associates. He opened a bottle of water and drank greedily from it.
The knock on the door startled him. He looked through the peephole, then opened the door. “You’re back?”
Martin Kravitz swept past him into the bedroom. “I’m not quite the cynical bastard you think I am. If you’d killed Sol Weiss, you’d never have allowed me to leave. Therefore, I’m left with the conclusion that you are innocent, and that someone at your firm is helping to frame you. Given the information I discovered this afternoon about Mickey Schiff, I believe I can help you get out of this mess.”
Bolden nodded. “Glad to hear it. Have a seat.”
Kravitz sat down, and once again, unpacked his briefcase. He sighed, slapping his hands on his knees. “And so… Lieutenant Colonel Schiff’s last project as a procurement officer was overseeing bidding to equip the Marine Corps with a new generation of side arm. Following his recommendation, the Marine Corps signed a seventy-million-dollar contract with Fanning Firearms for the purchase of nine-millimeter automatic pistols.”
“Interesting.”
“Not as interesting as Mr. Schiff’s purchase of a $1.2-million home in McClean, Virginia, a few months after his retirement from the military. This was 1984, I remind you, when a million-dollar home bought you something more than a tract house with marble flooring and a toilet that irrigates your asshole. The place was located next door to the Kennedy estate, Hickory Hill.”
“Sounds like a good neighborhood.”
“Schiff’s maximum pay grade was ‘0-10.’ With nineteen years in, Lieutenant Colonel Schiff earned a maximum of fifty-two hundred dollars a month.”
“Did he have a trust?” asked Bolden, playing the devil’s advocate. “Parents leave him any money?”
“No to both questions. The highest balance his account at the credit union ever saw was twenty-two thousand. Respectable, but hardly sufficient to make a three-hundred-twenty-thousand-dollar down payment on the home.”
“Three hundred twenty thousand? That’s not bad for a career military officer.” Bolden looked squarely at Kravitz. “You’re saying that Schiff steered the contract to Defense Associates and got the house and a job as his reward.”
“I’m saying no such thing. I have no proof of any wrongdoing, Tom. What I offer you is conjecture based on the information I was able to gather. But,” he added a moment later, “a reasonable man might make that assumption.”
Kravitz paused and took a breath. When he next spoke, his voice was softer, pitched high with a tangible fear. “Are you currently doing any business with Jefferson Partners?”
“Yes, I’m handling the purchase of a consumer data company. Trendrite. Heard of it?”
“Oh yes, most definitely.” Kravitz dropped his eyes to the floor. “Earlier you mentioned Scanlon Corporation. Back in the late seventies, Scanlon was split into two divisions. One concentrated on surveillance software systems designed to gather information from consumers. I believe it’s called ‘data mining’ now. They started a company called Guardian Microsystems in Albany, New York.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have. Before your time. What you should know is that the company changed its name a few years back. Now they call themselves Trendrite.”
“You said they split into two divisions?”
“The other is their training side. Contractors. Officially, they’ve ceased to exist, but unofficially…” Kravitz shrugged.
Before Bolden could question him further, he delved into his briefcase and came out with a buff envelope. “I almost forgot. You asked for the background check we performed on you. Here it is. Interesting about your name. Do you know of any reason why your mother changed it?”
52
In the spacious parlor of his Georgetown townhome, Senator Hugh Fitzgerald kicked his stockinged feet onto an ottoman and succumbed to the pleasures of his worn and comfortable leather chair.
“Ahh,” he sighed loud enough to rattle the windows. “Marta, a glass of Tennessee’s finest, por favor. And generoso. Muy generoso.”
From the start, it had been a taxing day. A prayer breakfast with his conservative counterparts across the aisle at seven-yes, even Democrats like Fitzgerald believed in God-was followed by the usual office business, the meeting and greeting of visiting dignitaries from his home state. Today, that meant pumping hands with the head of the Vermont Dairy Promotion Council and saying hello to this year’s National Spelling Bee champion, an impressive young man who hailed from Rutland. Then came the “specially scheduled” appropriations hearings that had drawn on and on.
Six point two billion dollars to refill the military’s pre-positioning depots, or pre-pos, as they were called so affectionately. It boggled the mind that the armed forces could require so much money. Six point two billion… and that just to return the country to fighting fettle. It was a minimum. Not in any way earmarked to expand manpower, or to gear up for imminent conflict. Six point two billion dollars to bring the water back to the level mark and ensure that the United States of America could respond with adequate force to two regional conflicts. Six point two billion dollars to buy boots and bullets and uniforms and MREs. Not a dollar of it to commission a new tank, buy a new airplane, or build a new boat.
The terrible irony was that while America had the finest equipment and the best-trained troops, she did not have enough money to finance their use in battle. Waging modern war was prohibitively expensive, even for the wealthiest nation on the face of the globe. One year prosecuting a half-assed war against a pitiable opponent had cost the country over two hundred billion dollars. And for what?