Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

Neary shook his head and helped himself to more onion rings.

“Once he got over the initial shock, he demanded that his management get out there and defend his good name- circle the wagons, call out the marines, that sort of thing. That went over like a lead balloon, of course. Pace-Loyette just wanted it all to go away. Their tactic was to say as little as possible, and they suggested to Danes that he do the same. That apparently made him crazy- or crazier. He’s gone from arrogant and contemptuous to openly hostile and paranoid. He claims management is setting him up as a fall guy.”

I worked on my sandwich for a while and thought, while Neary put an end to his buffalo. “If he’s so hostile and so nuts, why hasn’t Pace gotten rid of him?”

Neary put his flatware at parade rest and took up his napkin. “If not for this SEC threat, and the investor grievances still floating around, they would have. As it is, they’re reluctant to force him outand all but guarantee that he becomes a hostile witness in any action. They need to keep up at least the pretense of a united front.”

“Then why not do what other firms have done? Make a deal with the guy. Agree on a sum in exchange for a nice quiet resignation.”

“From what I hear, the issue with Danes is ego, not money. He wants his rep restored; he wants vindication. He’s got no interest in going gentle anywhere.”

“So he’s still got them by the balls.”

“It seems to be a talent of his.”

I finished my sandwich and the waitress came by to clear the table. We passed on dessert but said yes to coffee.

“How good is the Journal’s information?” I asked. “How likely is it that the Feds will target Pace?”

Neary snorted and shook his head. “How the hell should I know? I’m only slightly more welcome than you are down at One Saint A’s these days- which means not at all. And I’ve been getting the cold shoulder at the Woolworth Building too.”

One St. Andrews Plaza is downtown, near the courts and City Hall, and it’s where you find the office of the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Neary and I had had dealings with that office late last year, as part of a case he’d helped me with, and the ill will we had left in our wake apparently extended a block or so west, to 233 Broadway- the Woolworth Building- and the regional offices of the Securities and Exchange Commission.

“Tell me these guys have nothing better to do than nurse their grudges,” I said.

Neary gave a rueful laugh. “Don’t kid yourself. We got special training in that, down at Quantico.”

“Still, I find it hard to believe all your sources are dry.”

Neary shrugged. “I’ve got some friends of friends who tell me that Pace is just one of several firms the SEC is looking at. Apparently, no decision’s been made on who or when.”

“Have they been talking to Danes?”

“Not that I’ve heard.” The waitress refilled our cups and Neary’s belt chimed again. He pulled the wireless out, peered into the tiny screen, and read. He shook his head and sighed.

“Fuck it, John. How about we give up the investigation shit and go halves on an eatery someplace. Maybe a bistro in Murray Hill or a tapas bar in the East Village. It couldn’t be more aggravation than this.” He drank some coffee. I smiled.

“Has Pace filed a missing persons?” I asked him.

Neary ran a big hand through his hair. “Not yet. So far they’ve convinced themselves it’s not their responsibility. And it’s not like they’re in a big hurry to have him back. Besides, they don’t relish police attention or the kind of publicity that goes with it.”

He reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket.

“A present for you,” he said. It was a small paperbound book with yellow covers. On a gray square on the front were the letters PLS in black capitals. “Pace-Loyette phone directory. I marked the names that might interest you.” I looked at Neary. He looked back.

“You’re awfully helpful today,” I said. “And you know a lot of Pace-Loyette gossip, considering they’re not a client yet.” Neary smiled enigmatically and drank more coffee.

“I like to look before I leap,” he said. Wheels within wheels.

It was late afternoon by the time we picked our way across Union Square toward the subway station. The crowd was light at the farmers’ market in the square, and the vendors were restocking for the evening rush. The yeasty fragrance of baked goods, the scent of cut flowers, and the earthy smells of produce and potted plants masked the less appealing city odors. The sky was full of high thin clouds and pink light. We walked slowly, looking through the stalls as we passed. Neary’s wireless chimed a few times along the way, but he ignored it. We crossed 14th Street and stopped outside the station and shook hands.

“You still seeing that neighbor of yours- what was her name?” Neary asked. The question took me by surprise.

“Jane. Her name is Jane,” I said.

He nodded. “You look… better.” His belt chimed again and almost simultaneously his cell phone trilled. He shook his head. “Fuck this,” he said, and disappeared into the subway.

It was a short walk home, and I went back through the farmers’ market. I stopped at a flower stall for some tulips for Jane.

Winter had taken hold early- well before Christmas- and it had held on tight till April Fools’. Nearly every week had brought a storm, and in between the blizzards and the frozen rain there had been long stretches of head-cracking cold and breathtaking wind. It seemed that I’d been running through ice and sleet and blackened city snow forever. So these last few weeks had been a gift.

Overnight, the plow shavings and dirty rinds of ice had vanished from the curbsides and intersections, and a drenching rain three weeks ago- the day we’d changed the clocks- had sluiced away the sand and salt and flotsam that remained. Feathery blossoms had appeared on the trees, faintly at first, like tentative green sketch marks, and then with more color and conviction. Grass was coming in on the dirt patches in the parks. Even now, the sidewalks and buildings had a scrubbed, surprised look- like a drunk, waking up sober and in his own bed for the first time in a long time. I picked up my pace.

I turned west on 20th Street, and ran between Peter Cooper Village and Stuyvesant Town. I headed south at First Avenue, and west again at 17th Street, past some Beth Israel Hospital buildings and over to Stuyvesant Square. I had five miles behind me. I checked my watch. It was after seven and there was still some light in the sky. I felt loose and limber, and my breathing was easy. I was good to go for another two. I dodged around a pair of dog walkers on Rutherford Place and went west on 15th Street. Thoughts jumped and skittered in my head as I ran, like a ball over a roulette wheel.

Nina Sachs was an edgy, prickly woman, and she emanated a tension that seemed to permeate her household. It was there in her son- in the painful twist of his shoulders as he shrank from his mother’s touch and in his thin, angry voice. And it was there in Ines Icasa, too- in her quick movements about the apartment and in her face that was like a smooth dark-eyed mask.

There was something about Nina’s story that didn’t sit quite right. Maybe it was her reluctance to call the police- and risk upsetting the ex-husband she so obviously disdained- that didn’t make sense. I’d seen enough of divorced couples, though, to know that sense only rarely entered into things- and particularly not when kids were involved. And I’d had few clients whose stories hadn’t raised at least an eyebrow.

I turned north onto Irving Place. The street was quiet and yellow light came from the windows of the town houses and old brick apartment buildings. The block was lined with spindly trees, studded with white blossoms. A gust of wind sent some drifting, like fat snowflakes, as I passed. My thoughts turned to Jane Lu.