Steve Martini - Shadow of Power

“You worry too much,” she says.

“I get paid to worry.”

What has me worried in this case is that Bonguard, a close acquaintance of the victim, would normally be high on the list of possible prosecution witnesses. The cops would be all over him, urging him not to talk to the defense and, if he does, to pump us for as much information as possible. Talking with him could be tantamount to a conference call with the cops.

“He’s probably just curious,” says Sarah.

“Let’s hope so.”

“So what are you going to tell him?”

“As little as possible.”

“What about this letter?” As it has with Harry’s and mine, the mystery letter mentioned by Bonguard on Leno has captured Sarah’s interest.

“All I know is what he said on television.”

“But the police must have checked it out?” she says. “They must know something.”

“If they do, they aren’t sharing it with us. Besides, there’s a certain dynamic to a case like this, once the cops start to focus on a suspect. And they arrested ours-”

“Yours,” she says.

“Mine.” I smile at her. “They arrested Arnsberg very early on. In that kind of a situation, where they focus early on one suspect, unless there’s an alibi-the suspect was somewhere else at the time of the killing and can prove it-or some other hard evidence that points away from their suspect, the cops can be very myopic. Shortsighted,” I say.

“Dad, I know what ‘myopic’ means.”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not a kid anymore.”

The taxi takes a right, and we head down one of the less-congested cross streets toward the East River. Here we are surrounded on both sides by well-manicured multistoried brownstones. The cab pulls up in front of one of these and stops. We step out, and I pay the driver.

I check the address against the note I’d taken during my telephone conversation with Bonguard. “This is it.” I had been expecting a commercial high-rise.

There are baskets of colorful hanging flowers adorning the wrought-iron trellis that arches over the doorway at the top of the stairs. The small-paned windows are framed by neatly painted green wooden shutters, the paint glossy and fresh. Sarah and I head up the steps. On the door a small brass plate announces:

BONGUARD & ASSOCIATES

Talent and Literary Agents

I ring the bell, and an instant later a buzzer unlocks the door, so I push it open, and we enter. Inside is a large vestibule, polished hardwood floors, and solid millwork, a heavy beamed ceiling. Dark mahogany banisters flank a curved stairway leading to the upper floors in what was once an impressive private home.

Set back and off to one side is a small Louis XV desk, dark enamel and gold leaf. Seated behind it, a pretty young woman is talking on the phone.

“I’ll give him the message. I’m sure he will get back to you as soon as he can.” She hangs up, makes a quick note, and then looks up at us. “Can I help you?”

“We have an appointment with Mr. Bonguard. Paul Madriani.” I hand her a business card. She takes the card and glances down at a calendar in front of her.

“Just a moment.” She picks up the telephone receiver and pushes two buttons on the desk set, waits a couple of seconds, and then, to a voice on the other end, says, “A Mr. Madriani here to see you. Your ten o’clock. Yes.” She hangs up. “Someone will be right with you. Please have a seat.” She points toward a Louis XV sofa that is fitted into the curving wall supporting the staircase. The couch is one of those antiques with fluffed-up pillows the air from which will dissipate the moment you look at it.

Between planes and taxis over the last two days, we have been sitting for a long time, so we elect to mill around studying the artwork.

“Can I get you some coffee, a soft drink?” the receptionist asks.

I look at Sarah. She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“We’re fine,” I tell her.

We spend five minutes checking out the prints on the walls, copies of early Manhattan landscapes, sailing ships in the harbor, and Wall Street when the stone wall it was named for was still in place. I am beginning to wonder whether Sarah is regretting that she didn’t go shopping. Finally I hear footsteps on the landing overhead. They move quickly down the stairs. When I turn to look up, I see the face I saw on Leno, a little thinner than I remember on the tube.

“Mr. Madriani.” He holds out his hand as he reaches the bottom step. “Richard Bonguard.” He is younger and a little taller than he appeared on television, and his smile is broad. If he retains any reticence regarding our meeting, he covers it well.

I take his hand, and we shake. “Good to meet you.” We pass a few pleasantries until he realizes that there is someone behind him, standing in his shadow. “This is my daughter, Sarah.” He turns to look, takes her hand, and shakes it as well.

“So do you practice with your father?”

“No. No. Just on vacation,” she says.

“Oh, good, then it’s not all business.” He smiles, large and buoyant, an affable soul. We talk about the trip, the endless hassle that is now American air travel. Finally he motions us toward a set of double doors off the entry hall. “We can talk in here. Janice, maybe you can bring us some coffee. What would you like?”

“Just some water,” I tell him.

“Bottled water, Janice.”

He asks Sarah, and she begs off again.

He leads us through some double doors, what used to be the front parlor, now a sizable conference room with a large oval table in the center ringed by comfortable executive leather chairs. “Have a seat, wherever you want.”

Bonguard settles into the chair at the small curve of the oval, the head of the table to my left. Sarah and I take the two closest chairs, our backs to the door, Bonguard to my left and Sarah on my right.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to New York?” Bonguard asks her.

“No. I’ve been here twice before. But I was pretty young.”

“Then you have to stick around for a while and enjoy the city. Tell your dad to hold over for a few days, and I’ll get you some Broadway tickets,” he says.

“That would be great.” Sarah’s ready to put the arm on me.

“I wish we could. Unfortunately, business calls.” I am the ogre.

“I regret that we have to meet under these circumstances,” he says.

“I agree. I do appreciate your willingness to talk with me.”

“Oh. No problem,” he says. “Why not? After all, you’re just doing your job. I can’t imagine how I can possibly help you, but ask away.”

I know that the cops have already talked to him. This was reflected in the investigator’s notes immediately following the murder. They caught up with Bonguard before he could leave San Diego. I mention this.

“Yes, I talked to them,” he says. “Not that I wouldn’t have cooperated, but they didn’t give me much choice. They threatened-” He stops, thinks for a moment. “‘Threatened’ may be too strong a word. They intimated that they might be compelled to name me as ‘a person of interest’ with the press if I didn’t tell them everything I knew.”

A fact that of course was not in the investigator’s notes.

This, according to Bonguard, was because he was the last person to see Scarborough alive, except for the killer.

“You can imagine what that would have done to my business,” he says. “Half my clients would have bailed on me before morning.”

I am packing a subpoena for Bonguard to appear at trial. It is in my coat pocket. Depending on what he says here, it may or may not stay there.

“It was fortunate for you that the police landed on Carl Arnsberg so quickly,” I say.