Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

Without using any names besides MWB’s and Nassouli’s, and staying vague about the dates, I laid out the bare bones of the case. It was blackmail, I explained, on account of some dealings my client had had almost twenty years ago, with Nassouli and another firm, an MWB client. I told him that my guy had gotten some documents, which might have come from MWB’s files.

“If they did come from MWB, it could mean that the investigation is compromised, or that your liquidation work is. It could mean that somebody is doing a little freelancing.” Neary stopped eating and stared at me as I spoke, his face empty. When I finished talking, he stared at me some more. Then he shook his head slowly.

“I must not be following,” he said. “Your guy gets faxed a bunch of documents from a deal he did with MWB, twenty years back. Somebody wants to squeeze him. Now, you’re trying to backtrack the documents. Okay, I’m with you up to there. It’s after that I’m missing somethinglike the part where this has anything to do with me.” Neary paused to tear off a mouthful of naan, and continued.

“These documents are twenty years old. You have no idea how many copies of these things were around back then, or who had them. And you have no clue where those copies could’ve got to in twenty years’ time. But somehow you decide-I don’t know why-that maybe they came out of my shop, or from the feds.” He shook his head more vigorously. “I’ve got to tell you, this is the thinnest damn thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

“It’s pretty thin,” I agreed. “But pretty thin is all I’ve got.” Neary stared at me and shook his head some more. I continued. “I can’t give you the details, but believe me, of the possible sources for these documents, MWB looks the best. Plus, I have reason to believe that a cop or an ex-cop might be involved.” I figured it couldn’t go much worse, so I told him about my chat in the park with Faith Herman, and how she pegged the guy who paid her as a cop. Some amusement mixed with his incredulity.

“This just gets better and better. Your solid lead is a bag lady who’s probably off her meds and thinks everybody’s a cop or a werewolf or a space alien. And based on this you figure it’s got to be one of my guys, right?”

We paused as the waiter laid bowls of steaming soup before us. Neary regarded his with some reverence and tucked his tie inside his shirt. He had a few peppery spoonfuls and sighed heavily before he continued.

“Your star witness give you a description?” I gave him what I had. “Could be anybody,” he said after a while. He had some more soup. “So, assuming I gave this an ounce of credence, which I don’t, what’s this favor you want?” he asked.

“I want to look around MWB, meet some of the people on the job, see how the records get handled, see who has access to what. See if I can find copies of the documents in the fax.” Neary snorted.

“While we’re at it, maybe I could put my whole staff in a lineup, for your bag lady to look over.” Neary shook his head and had some more soup. “You want to tell me anything more about the documents, or your guy?” he asked. I looked at him, but said nothing. “But I’m supposed to just invite you in and hold your coat while you rifle the drawers. I guess client confidentiality only applies to your clients, huh?” He sat back in his chair and looked at me, expressionless again. He was skeptical of the trail I was following, and indignant at the suggestion that his operation might be compromised. But behind the sarcasm and the studied dismay, there was something else-a little worry.

“Look, I’ve got a very narrow set of interests here, Tom. I could give a shit about MWB, or how your people pad their time sheets or how the feds get tangled in their own underwear. I just want to know if these documents are in MWB’s records and, if so, who might have got at them. Chaperone me if you’re worried. You can slap my wrist if I step out of line.” I paused to taste some soup. “But if you’re really concerned about confidentiality, then you’ve got to be interested in whether one of your people has something going on the side.” He turned this over in his head for a while, and then decided.

“Okay, you get the cheap tour. You can meet a couple of people, see how we manage the documents. And we’ll have a look for your stuff. But unless we turn up more than the nothing you’ve got now, that’s where it ends. And, trust me, I’ll do more than slap your wrist if I think you’re out of line.” I believed him.

“Thanks, Tom,” I said, and went back to my soup.

“You work closely with the feds on this?” I asked.

“Pretty close,” he said. “I see them once a week, sometimes more.”

“They hang around the office much?” I asked. Neary looked up.

“Not so much anymore. Why? You looking to avoid awkward encounters?” I nodded.

“I’d like to keep a low profile,” I said.

“I bet you would,” Neary said, nodding. But there was a knowing edge to his voice that I didn’t understand.

“What?” I asked. Neary looked a little puzzled.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just not surprised you’d want to keep clear of him.” It was my turn to be confused.

“Keep clear of who?” I asked. Neary stared at me, an odd look in his eyes.

“Shit. You don’t know, do you? You don’t know who the special agent in charge on this thing is?” I shook my head. “It’s Fred Pell, John.” The waiter came to clear our soup bowls and lay out the main courses. But suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

Fred Pell, there was a name to conjure with. He was FBI, based in D.C. but posted to upstate New York when I’d met him, there to work the case with Neary and the rest of us-the state police, the Mounties, and the Burr County Sheriff’s Department. Technically, he’d been Neary’s boss, a fact Neary had all but ignored. It hadn’t done much for their relationship, or for Neary’s prospects in the bureau. But Neary had never actually hit the guy, and that was a claim I couldn’t make. Of course, Pell had never threatened him with murder and conspiracy charges, or had him worked over in a holding cell, either, so maybe Neary just lacked the proper motivation.

Pell was all kinds of bad news. He was a career thug who saw everything through the lens of what was best for Freddy, and who divided his time between blatant self-promotion, vigorous ass-kissing, and plotting the downfall of his rivals. He was quick to lay claim to other people’s successes, and quicker to run like hell from his own screwups, usually leaving some poor fool behind to hold the bag. And he was a bully, with an explosive temper and a wide violent streak. As Neary once observed, he was the guy most likely to be shot in the back by his own men.

But what made Pell really dangerous was that he was not a dumb guy. He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, and his ambition and malice often blinded him, but Pell had a certain animal cunning-like a mean, clever pig. When I’d last seen him, he believed that I had done just about the two worst things that anyone could to Freddy: loused up his shot at glory, and made him look stupid. So, he hated me. Knowing him, he’d nursed that hatred carefully for the past three years. Fred Pell. Small world.

“That’s unfortunate,” I said evenly.

Neary gave a grim little laugh. “Unfortunate, yeah, like a root canal with a wood chisel. He came on nearly two years ago. And in case you’re wondering, he’s the same asshole he’s always been, only fatter now. All in all, a low profile is a good idea.” He dug into his food. I did the same.

We worked our way through dinner, and as we did, Neary gave me some background. Brill and Parsons and Perkins, the accounting firm, were serving, in part, as high-priced librarians-sifting through the ocean of paper left behind when the bank was closed, and classifying and cataloging each document they found. And there were lots of them, dealing with everything from a multimillion-dollar bond issuance to an order for a thousand desk calendars-and a whole range of things in between. Loan applications, catering bills, deal tickets, expense reports, meeting minutes, account statements, car leases, letters to clients, and contracts for cleaning services. As Neary put it, it was like trying to alphabetize sand.