“Hard to believe that you gave an ex-con discretionary power over millions,” Shilling said.
Morrison shrugged. “I take full responsibility for re-hiring him, but I always felt that he’d been given a raw deal. Then after his unexplained disappearance, a client of his complained that she hadn’t received confirmation of her latest investment purchases. That’s when we decided to look into the matter.”
“The monies,” Farrow said, “went into a bank account in the Banco de Mejico in Mexico City under the name of Miramar Holdings. When we contacted the bank, they informed us that Miramar, a Mexican company, had closed out the account after having purchased Repsol Oil bearer bonds. Repsol is a multinational Spanish oil company, with refineries in different South American countries.”
“I thought bearer bonds were no longer issued.” Shilling said. Morrison shook his head. “That’s not quite true. Nevada and Wyoming still allow them. And in Latin America they’re quite common.”
Shilling gave a half-apologetic shrug. “I don’t see how my office can help. Why not contact the FBI?”
Morrison and Farrow exchanged glances. “One of the accounts Myer took money out from a Fannie Mae escrow account,” Farrow said. “We’d like to get the bonds back and clear this mess up ourselves.”
“Discreetly,” Morrison threw in. “When I saw Commissioner Newbury at the Gotham Charity Ball two nights ago, he mentioned that a Lieutenant James Francis Moran was handling the investigation into Paul Myer’s death.”
At the sound of Moran’s name, Shilling bristled, bunched his lips and shifted his weight on the sofa. “So?”
“We would appreciate if Lieutenant Moran would share with us, through your office, any information he might come across during his investigation. Anything that might point us to where these bearer bonds are so the bank can retrieve them as quickly and quietly as possible,” Farrow said.
Shilling rose from the sofa and rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t know Moran. I’d be surprised if that big lug ever shared anything with anybody. I’ve never met a more arrogant individual… thinks the rules weren’t meant for him,” he said in an agitated voice. He then returned to the sofa and riveted his eyes on Morrison. “And there’s another problem.”
“I don’t understand,” Morrison said.
Shilling shot Farrow a look and then darted his eyes toward Morrison. “Alan, can you and I have a moment?”
Morrison gazed at Farrow and nodded, signaling him to leave. A moment later, Shilling rose from the sofa and sat in Farrow’s vacant armchair.
“If I do this for you, what’s in for me?” Shilling said in a solemn tone.
Morrison wiped his mouth with the palm of one hand and gazed intently at the DA. “How about a large contribution to your political war chest?”
Shilling met the banker’s eyes. “How big?”
“Let’s say large enough to get you the party’s nomination.”
A smile crept across Shilling’s face as he extended his hand. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Alan.”
Alice Simms and Robert Darcey parked their Crown Vic on Lexington Avenue around the corner from Gramercy Park and East 21st Street but near the building where Paul Myer had lived. The two detectives decided not to attract attention in this otherwise tony neighborhood where the privileged few who lived in the brownstones surrounding the park had their own keys to the private park. In an area where Beemers, Jags, and Bentleys were commonplace, a dull gray Ford would stand out like a Swede in China.
“This area depresses me,” Simms said as they walked along the park’s wrought-iron fence. “Reminds me of the dump I live in over on Broadway and 95th Street. Not even a pet to keep me company. Landlord doesn’t like them. Only cockroaches and fleas are allowed.”
“Sounds like you could use a husband or a new place.”
Simms snorted. “The latter definitely. As for the husband thing… done that.”
“There’s an ex?” Darcey said.
“Kevin Palmer, double ex. Ex-husband, ex-Army. Came back from Somalia with what the doctors described as post-traumatic stress syndrome, but it quickly developed into plain old run-of-the-mill alcoholism with physical abuse thrown in for good measure.” She turned and looked away. “Kicked his ass out two years ago.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about what your brother’s going to do next.”
“Oh, yeah. How is Eddie doing?” Simms said as they crossed the street toward the apartment building.
“Spends his whole day in the recliner, chain smoking and watching QVC,” Darcey said. “His room is full of unopened boxes, stuff he’s bought on TV. Says voices make him buy it.”
“He really should be in an institution where professionals can take care of him. Schizophrenia is not easy to handle.”
“Can’t. Promised mom before she died that I’d take care of him. He’s my older brother and the only family I have,” Darcey said as they neared the green marquee that jutted out over the doorway of Myer’s luxury apartment building.
“What I can’t figure out is how Myer rated living here,” Simms said. “When he got out of Attica he was living in a hole-in-the-wall tenement in the Village. Then two months ago he upgraded to this.”
Minutes later, the two cops stood in Paul Myer’s living room with a tile floor large enough and a ceiling high enough for a basketball game.
In Moran’s living room, he and Hernandez sat cross-legged on the abstract design carpet amid five open cardboard boxes, sifting through notebooks, jewelry boxes and other knickknacks that had once been Lacy Wooden’s personal effects.
Moran’s face was screwed on tight, his mood dark as he sifted through one of the boxes. “This is going to take forever. I hope Simms and Darcey get here soon,” he growled.
Hernandez peered at his boss. “Besides that, what else is bothering you?”
Moran narrowed his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to Hernandez. “As if we didn’t have enough to do. Shilling wants us to look into Paul Myer’s embezzling ten million dollars from Morrison Savings & Trust.”
Hernandez creased his brow. “Why is that name familiar?”
“It’s one of the banks that Hubert Singer did business with.”
“Now I recall. Singer closed out all his accounts a week before he…” Hernandez’s voice trailed off.
“Go on, you can say it. Escaped, vanished, disappeared—take your choice. And he did it on my watch,” Moran’s voice was bitter.
Sandra entered the room with a tray of sandwiches and two tall glasses of iced tea. “I thought you could use this.” She moved toward the coffee table.
“Sure looks a lot cheerier in here now,” Hernandez said. Gone was the dark, stodgy classical furniture that had once sat on top of a dark carpet. Also gone were the heavy mahogany bookshelves that had covered all four walls. They had been replaced by maple bookcases and track lighting. Black and white tile gave the living room an art-deco air, with recessed lighting in the ceiling and modern off-white Swedish functional furniture.
“Did you re-do the