David Rosenfelt - Airtight

Complicating matters, of course, was the need to now be careful. There were people who wanted to kill me, and if Frank Kagan was any indication, they were people with experience at it. I’d never had a particularly well developed self-preservation instinct, but in this case I knew that my death would ensure Bryan’s.

I called in to the office to get updated on what they had so far uncovered about Frank Kagan. He was a hit man out of Vegas, which was not quite as interesting as something else they learned. He was known to partner with an old army buddy named Tommy Rhodes. It turned out that Rhodes was an expert in bomb making and, more important, bomb using. It was those kinds of devices that were responsible for Richard Carlton no longer having a guesthouse.

As soon as I hung up, the cell phone rang. “Lieutenant Somers. This is Ice Davenport.”

Because of the strange name, it took me a moment to make the connection. It was Nate “Ice Water” Davenport, longtime friend of Daniel Brennan and unofficial counselor and confidant to his wife.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“You said I should call you if I wanted to talk some more about my friend.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I’m ready to do that.”

“Ice Water” Davenport lived on 88th Street and Riverside Drive in Manhattan.

To my amazement, I found a parking spot. The sign said that parking was OK except on Monday and Thursday mornings, which is when street cleaning allegedly takes place. I have my doubts about that, since I’ve been there on Monday and Thursday afternoons and suffice it to say that the streets do not look spotless.

He greeted me with a fairly tense, “Thank you for coming,” and offered me something to drink. I took coffee; it had not been a great week for sleep.

We sat in the living room. The apartment was huge; I hadn’t seen other doors when I got off the elevator, so it was possible that it occupied the entire floor of the building. The furniture was extremely modern, mostly glass and stainless steel, and the place was spotless. The doorways were higher than usual, in deference to the inhabitant.

“I’d like to establish some ground rules,” he said, which is one of my least favorite ways to begin a conversation. “I will provide you with some information, which may or may not prove relevant to your investigation. You in turn will keep Denise Brennan out of this, and will do nothing to damage Daniel Brennan’s impeccable reputation.”

“I’ll do my best,” I lied. The stakes being what they were, the last things I’d be concerned about were reputations or public personas. If I had to publicly brand Daniel Brennan as a Taliban-loving pedophile to save Bryan, I would not hesitate.

It seemed to satisfy him. “I’m speaking to you on behalf of Denise Brennan,” he said, continuing one of the longest preambles to an interview in recent memory. He spoke carefully and precisely, as if each word had been vetted and cleared before takeoff.

“Why isn’t she speaking for herself?”

“Believe me, I tried. Her allowing me to speak represents a major concession. But almost all of what I will tell you represents her feelings and relates events as she experienced them.”

I didn’t understand why “Ice” needed someone to “allow” him to speak, but I figured I’d find out soon enough, so I waited.

“In the weeks prior to his death, Judge Brennan had seemed under stress. I noticed it, but I didn’t spend much time with him. Denise saw it much more clearly, and was quite worried about it.”

“What was the cause?”

“She initially believed it to be financial. Despite an amazing career, Judge Brennan was not a wealthy man. He was injured before he could attain a large salary in basketball, and judges certainly earn far less than what would be commensurate with their importance to society. And I include Appeals Court judges in that.”

“With his name and reputation, I assume he could have earned far more practicing law?”

He nodded. “Without question. But he wanted to contribute to the greater good. So he was happy in his work, but concerned that he would not leave Denise financially stable upon his passing. His father died a very young man.”

I needed to move this along. “What does this have to do with his murder?”

“Perhaps nothing. And perhaps his increased stress was simply a result of the Appeals Court nomination process, testifying before Congress, and the like. But now there is this.”

He got up and walked over to his desk, opening the drawer and taking out a small folder. He opened the folder and took out a piece of paper, handing it to me.

I looked at it, but he told me what it was as I did. “It is a bank account in Judge Brennan’s name, opened six weeks ago in the Central Bank of Belize. There is one deposit, made two weeks later, in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.”

“And Denise has no idea where the money came from?”

“She does not. And she tells me that there were no secrets between them, that they discussed finances and everything else as equal partners.”

I held up the paper. “How does she reconcile that with this?”

He shook his head. “She cannot. Which is why we are having this conversation. If it is somehow related to his death, then the likelihood is that the real killer has not been apprehended.”

“Where do you think he got the money?”

“I simply cannot imagine. My hope is that you will come up with a benign explanation.”

“You’d be amazed how few benign explanations I run into in the course of a day.”

I left there thinking that Judge Daniel Brennan may not have been the total paragon of virtue that his wife and friend believed him to be. I was also thinking that there was a damn good chance that the two hundred grand, however he got it, played a role in his death.

Given his job and position, my initial instinct would have been to think of the money as a bribe. But his taking the money would likely have signified his agreement in the matter, so why would he have been killed? Had he reneged, and was going to rule the other way?

I certainly did not know the answer to that, but there was one thing I did know.

Steven Gallagher did not give Daniel Brennan two hundred thousand dollars.

I never thought I’d say this, but I was happy to see Chris Gallagher.

He was sitting in his car in front of my house, probably in deference to the fact that it was raining outside. Apparently the great man was not impervious to water.

In any event, I needed to talk to him, to find out what, if anything, he knew. And, just as important, to impress him with how much I had learned.

I got out of my car and we made eye contact, which was enough to get him to follow me into the house. He was carrying a suitcase; I hoped he wasn’t planning to move in. The first thing he did was walk into the kitchen and take a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Have I said or done something to make you think we’re buddies?” I asked.

“Not that I recall. I also don’t recall you thanking me for saving your life.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Following you, as was Kagan. You’re not that hard to keep track of; does your car have a rearview mirror?”

“That explains why you were there. Why are you here?”

“It’s time for an exchange of information. We seem to be getting somewhere, and the deadline is approaching.”

“It can be extended,” I say.

“No, it cannot. Everything we discover makes your killing Steven even more unforgivable. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

I brought him up to date on everything I knew and suspected about Richard Carlton and the situation in Brayton, as well as my belief that it was my nosing around there that got Kagan after us.