(c) Copyright 2017, 2019 Mary Faderan
"CHAPTER SEVEN
Jonathan Moore, Esquire, sat in his chair, looking
dissatisfied. He was dissatisfied because he did not yet receive his afternoon
coffee; his secretary was engaged in finding paperwork for the informal
discussion that was to commence. He looked at the document on his desk and saw
the name at the very top. That name belonged to the man who sat in front of
him.
Two other people were in the office. Adam
Mattingly and Lauren Moore. Adam, silent and dark in demeanor, looked
dispassionately at the scene before him. He glanced at Lauren and saw her
looking at Mike Oates. Adam frowned.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” Moore started,
leaning forward to make a note on the document. “Let’s dispense with the audio
recording of our interview with Mike. I would like it, Lauren, if you can take
notes. Adam, you know that this is a part of our interrogation of a client. I don’t
want to belabor the point, but as such, Mike is our employer.”
Adam nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand.” He
continued to regard Mike without much emotion.
Moore leaned back. “Yes, well, we want to
keep it within the family as it were.” His tone sounded ironic. Lauren took her
seat on the leather divan. She avoided looking at Mike who sat like the
proverbial hostage in the middle of the room. “Ready.”
“Mike, you brought to Lauren’s attention your
involvement in Dr. James Levy’s murder,” the elder Moore started. “Is that
accurate?”
“Yes.”
“And if you can describe in your own words
how you became involved in his murder, please do so now.”
Mike’s face was pale. Beads of perspiration
appeared on his brow. “It started when I parked in his reserved space the morning
of the twenty-eighth of January,” he began. His voice was steady. Unemotional.
“I was late for rounds. I never want to be late for rounds.”
“Why is that?” Lauren asked.
“I wanted to impress Dr. Bartholomew.”
“Who is Dr. Bartholomew?” Adam asked sharply.
“He’s the chief of surgery.” Mike glanced at
Adam, then at Lauren, and then went on. “I didn’t want to be late. The parking
lot was full. I decided to park in Dr. Levy’s space and put a sign on my
dashboard.”
Lauren wrote on her pad.
“So I thought nothing of it all day. When I
left work and went to the gym, I didn’t think about it.”
Mike paused. Then when nobody spoke, he
continued. “When I was done with my workout, I showered at the gym and got my
bag and left to go to my car. That was when I saw Dr. Levy. Only I didn’t know
it was him. Until he spoke, accusing me of parking in his space.” The words
came out headlong as if Mike didn’t want to own any of it by speaking aloud, as
if what he was saying would not be tagged to him, in his thoughts. “I tried to
talk to him about it. Tried to persuade him to give me another chance.”
“And did he say he forgave you?” Jonathan
glanced at his daughter.
“No, he actually threatened to kick me out of
the program,” Mike replied. His hands were sweating, and he rubbed his palms
against the material of his pants.
“And then what happened?”
“I hit him between the eyes. Then I felt my
switchblade deploy in my hand, and I instinctively stabbed him with it.” He
stopped. His eyes sought Lauren’s. She stared back at him unwinkingly.
Jonathan quickly asked, “What did you do,
then?”
“I dragged the body to get it out of my way. Then
I got into my car and left.”
“What did you do with the knife?”
“I kept it.”
Jonathan avoided looking at his daughter when
he said, “I’d be glad if you gave me the knife, Mike.”
Mike put his hand in his pocket and pulled
out the knife.
“Place it on the table. Thank you.” Jonathan
wrote a few more notes on the document that bore Mike’s name. “I need to go
into a discussion with Lauren and Adam. Mike, I commend you for coming to us
for help. Needless to say, I will be your counsel, and as your counsel, I don’t
want you to leave Columbus at this time. I have a few thoughts to ponder, and
it will help if you stayed here. Does Lauren have your current contact information?”
“I have it, Dad,” Lauren said.
“You do your part in letting your hospital
know you’re on an extended vacation,” Jonathan directed Mike.
“Yes.”
“What I can say now, Mike, is that you won’t
be totally out of the woods when all is said and done. I hope you at least see
that reality?”
“Yes,” Mike replied. He felt like a noose was
being fitted around his neck. “I’d like to leave now. I have to talk to my
mother.”
“I won’t tell her anything about this right
now, Mike,” Jonathan said quickly. “It will have to be strictly between us for
the time being.”
Mike stood up and shook Jonathan’s hand. Jonathan
smiled at him in a reassuring way. “Don’t worry, Mike. The worst is over for
you.”
“Is that really true?” Mike remarked to
himself before turning toward the door.
Lauren made a movement toward Mike, but
Jonathan’s words stopped her. “Lauren and Adam, let’s have a huddle, shall we?”
As Mike closed the door after him, Jonathan
lifted his intercom and barked, “Laina, can I have my tea now?”
“Yes, Mr. Moore,” Laina answered.
Jonathan leaned back and lifted his arms over
his head. “Damn, Lauren, what a pickle.”
“I’m afraid it’s not a great case for us.”
“What happened between you?”
Lauren’s eyes met her father’s directly. “Nothing.
Well, something.” She tried not to glance at Adam who straightened up at the
reply.
“Oh?” Jonathan pursed his lips. “Why don’t we
discuss that later, Lauren? For now, Adam, you and I will work together and
figure out how best to work on Mike’s case. Do you have any thoughts, Adam?”
“I think he needs to give himself up,
Jonathan,” Adam said straightforwardly. “He’s confessed. We are the law, and as
such, we have to work with the authorities.”
“Remember, Adam, that we work for Mike now. Yes,
he should give himself up at a point in the future, if our efforts to find out
what exactly transpired come to the same conclusion.”
“What more can we know?” Lauren asked.
“That’s where Adam comes in,” Jonathan said
with a slight smile. “Adam, you have a few contacts in the East Coast that
might come in handy. You could make a few inquiries?”
Adam sat back and looked at him unblinkingly.
“Yes. I’ll see what I can do.”
Jonathan looked at his daughter. “As for you,
Lauren, I would keep a certain distance from Mike. You used to be childhood
friends. But he’s a different man now. Having said that, I think you and he can
keep your friendship. Keep an eye on him. I think he’s interested in you.”
Adam’s lips were pressed together. “If that’s
all, I will get to work.” He stood up abruptly.
“Yes, Adam, thanks.” Jonathan watched his
straight figure head for the door. He frowned momentarily.
“Now, what happened between the two of you?”
“Mike and I—we had what you might call a
night of passion.”
“When? The man is a fast worker, damn it.”
“In New York. When we went out for a . . . a
date.”
“What do you feel for him now, Lauren?” His
voice was deceptively gentle.
“Not sure, Dad. Confused. He’s . . . he’s
hard to say no to.”
“I’m tempted to get him back here and give
him a tongue-lashing.” He pressed his lips together in pent-up emotion and then
tossed his pen down in front of him. “I blame his father for this. George Oates
was a driven man. Made his career by stepping over bodies and gave his son that
same attitude. I knew something like this might happen someday. And that day is
now.”
“But you and George Oates were good friends.”
“I have to tell you this is a dangerous
journey you are on, my dear. He is not to be trusted. Despite what I told you
earlier, Lauren, will you promise me you won’t have any more relations with
him?”
Lauren lifted her eyes to his. “I promise.”
Jonathan looked at her and read the plea in
her gaze. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. “OK, if you promise to at least keep
out of each other’s business for the time being, let me decide how to get him
out of this pickle. I’ll be very glad.” He sighed.
The early-morning bustle in Manhattan’s Lower
East Side gave Mark Henderson a good feeling as he stared out of his thirty-second–floor
office window. The lights of the coffee shop eight hundred feet below flickered
on, and the morning manager was outside, flushing away the previous night’s
detritus with the water hose. A few steps down from that coffee shop, the
vegetable-store owner, Mr. Kim Seoung, was up and ready, the fruits round and
plump in the different bins outside.
Henderson looked away from the view and
noticed his right-hand man entering his office. “Morning, Sal. How’s it going?”
Salvatore “Buddy” Trivero was a husky man
whose physique belied three tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. Sal, as his
boss called him, looked bland on the outside but the blandness belied a steel-trap
mind and cunning reflexes. He looked at Mark Henderson’s handsome Irish Italian
face and spread his hands. “It’s too soon to tell, Mark.”
“I don’t know about that.” Mark moved to his
desk and pulled out two documents. “I’ve been talking to my lawyer and to our
unnamed contact.”
“Ah.” Sal had an expectant tone in his reply.
“The unnamed contact came up in conversation
last night. He called my home.” Mark wrinkled his brow. “Sal, could you please
make sure these people never have my phone number? I get really nervous when
this happens.”
“Sorry, Mark. Won’t happen again,” Sal said. “But
this man is golden. He’s good at his job.”
“Well, he didn’t do his job.” Mark’s eyes
were like slits.
“Sorry?”
“He didn’t come up with the goods.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Mark tossed the first document at him. “Read
that and tell me if that is what we agreed on.”
The document was a copy of surgeon’s notes
after surgery on a woman named Mary Keene. Sal knew about this. He also knew
that the patient, Mary Keene, died eighteen hours after Dr. James Levy
performed extremely risky surgery on her arteriovenous malformation. “So that
is what it is. Levy died. What’s to be upset about?”
“Damn it, he died, but someone else got him
before our unnamed contact did.”
Sal looked interested. “Yeah? How good is
that? Some other unhappy client got to Levy first?” He sounded a crow of
delight.
Henderson sighed. “Yes, Sal. Someone else
did. And you won’t believe who it is.”
“Who? I know Levy was a son of a bitch. Nobody
cares if he died.”
His boss handed him the next document.
Sal looked through it. “This is a contract. You
agreed to run a Manhattan branch of the Ohio Bank and Trust. That’s a legit
company, boss.”
“Look at the signatories.”
“Your name.” Sal looked up. “And another
guy’s name.”
“What’s the name?”
“George Oates.”
Sal’s intellect was being tried. He shifted
his position. “Boss, I know you think I’m smart. But I’m not as smart as you
are. And plus, this document has been in your possession since eleven years
ago. Surely you don’t think this George Oates had anything to do with Levy’s
hit?”
“No, but his son has.” Mark looked
sympathetically at his assistant. “He killed Levy.”
“No kidding?” Sal crowed again.
“No kidding,” Mark said ironically. “I’m
owing a lot to George Oates more than I thought I would.”
“OK. So now what? His son—what about him now?
Do you need me to do something about that?”
“I’m still thinking, Sal.” Henderson sat down
finally and sighed. “There’s a word out that his son was here over the weekend.
He had lunch with a woman at Pellegrino’s.”
“Um hm.”
“You know, Sal, I pay you to be up on the
news.”
“I’ll do my best, boss. I’ll call over and
talk to Danny.”
“Do that. And send one of your best to tail
Oates’s son. He might be needing a little help.”'
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