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“Notorious local criminal and fugitive. His brother was president of the state senate.”
“State senate?”
“It’s a long story. Who is this reporter? What’s his name?”
“Lyle Burquart.”
When he said the name, I didn’t make the co
Maybe Susan’s intuition was right. Maybe a woman is the first to know her husband has died, even if he is a sack of shit.
8
LYLE BURQUART WAS AT LEAST SIX-FOOT-FOUR, WITH dark, wiry hair that sat on his head like derelict shrubbery. His stooped shoulders were a perfect complement to his sad, aching eyes. With a gait that was more like a series of co
“Who are you?” It wasn’t a warm greeting.
“Alex Shanahan. Thank you for seeing me. Can we-”
“What do you want?”
“I’m a local private investigator. I’m working on a case, and I saw in the paper you wrote-”
“What kind of case?”
“Missing person. It’s my partner. Can you-”
“Who is your partner?”
“Harvey Baltimore.” I stopped there, grateful to get through a whole sentence, even if it was a short one. When he said nothing, I pressed on. “I called the newspaper, and they said you had left and to try you over here. I was hoping I could get a few minutes to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“Sala
He took a step back. It put him directly under one of the overhead fluorescent tubes. The unflattering light caught the bags under his eyes and made them look absolutely huge.
“I can’t talk to you,” he said.
The receptionist was not bothering to hide her interest. I reached out, as if to gather Lyle in, and made a move for a couple of chairs in the lobby, a good distance from prying ears. “Could we just move over here where we can be a little more comfortable?”
There were lots of things going on with him. His jaw was working, and I could hear his teeth grinding. With his elbows locked, he was bouncing the heels of his hands against his thighs. I watched his chest rise and fall at least ten times before he finally agreed to take five steps to his right.
I turned us so that our backs were to the receptionist. “Look, my partner is missing. He’s sick. He’s got multiple sclerosis, and I’m worried about him. The FBI came to the house and asked all kinds of questions about a man named Roger Fratello. Do you know that name?”
“No.”
“What about Stephen Hoffmeyer? Do you know that name?”
I could see in his eyes that he did. He knew it from the hijacking story. I could also see a spark of interest in his pale face. It wasn’t much, but I was hoping it could be the thread that unraveled his resistance. I started to pull on it. “Roger Fratello is an embezzler. He ran a company called Betelco. It sounds as if he got into trouble with a bunch of Russian investors and stole some money and disappeared. This was four years ago, right around the time of Sala
“There was no one named Fratello on Sala
“The FBI says Fratello might have been going by the name of Stephen Hoffmeyer.”
“Why do they think that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They were the ones asking all the questions. Do you think that’s true? Do you think Fratello might have been on Sala
“Not under his own name.”
“Could he have been Hoffmeyer, in which case he’d be dead, I assume?”
“No. Stephen Hoffmeyer was not an embezzler from Boston.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know everything there is to know about that incident. You’re wrong about that. So is the FBI, but…” He stared at me with the obsessive look of a problem solver who had left the problem only half solved. He was taking this latest piece of data, putting it with everything else he already knew, trying new combinations, and hoping the answer would emerge. But as quickly as the desire had gripped him, it let him go. Or he threw it off. “I’ve got a different gig now,” he said finally. “I can’t help you. I’m sor-”
“Wait a minute. You know something else. I can tell. What is it?”
He let out a deeply troubled sigh. “Why are you asking about all this? It happened four years ago.”
“The FBI told me that they found a bunch of money with Roger Fratello’s fingerprints on it in Brussels. Sala
“It originated there.”
“On top of that, I just left Susan Fratello. The FBI told her that her husband has turned up again. I don’t know where or what the circumstances were, but something is obviously going on. Then I saw these two guys checking out the house of my partner’s ex-wife. It turns out they’re from a company called Blackthorne. When I looked into it, it turned out you had reported on both Blackthorne and the hijacking. All I’m trying to do is find my partner. These happen to be the leads I’ve turned up, and they happen to lead to you.”
Something about what I’d said took hold with him. He stuffed one hand into the pocket of his corduroy jeans and used the other hand to mash down that thick hedgerow on his head. “Let me think about this,” he said as he spun around the lobby talking to himself. “They know I’m here. If they saw you come here-”
“I don’t have a tail. I’ve been aware of that, and I’ve been checking.”
He didn’t even look at me. “You wouldn’t have seen them. If they know you’re here, and they know for sure I’m here, then that means-” He looked at me and let out a sharp and bitter laugh. “That means I’m fucked.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s already too late.” He turned and swooped one of his long arms toward the wall of windows that faced Soldiers Field Road. “They’re out there already, and they’re thinking I’m back in it.”
I looked where he was looking. All I saw were dozens of cars speeding by in both directions. “Who’s out there?”
He put one hand on his hip, hooked the other around his long neck, and dropped his head back. He almost looked as if a weight had been lifted. He cocked his head in the direction of the hallway. “Come on back,” he said as he started that way. He was no longer lunging. His gait was far more languid and relaxed. “You might as well get what you came for.”
I followed him to the back offices. We had to pass the receptionist’s desk to get there. She gave me the fisheye on my way by. She didn’t like me. Lyle took us to a control room and closed the door behind us. The cramped space had panels and counters with lots of buttons and dials. It smelled like machines in there and looked like the inside of a cockpit. It also had thick soundproof tiles on the walls to absorb our conversation. He sat in one swivel chair, and I sat in the other.
“What do you do here?” I asked him.
“I host a sports call-in show with my partner.”
“Why would an award-wi
“Because I love sports.” He gave me a loopy smile. It made me think that some part of him had gone right over the edge.