“Without any doubt, Mr. Sonn,” Wesley asserted.
“I think we can safely assume then that Lentz was the latest victim of the crossword murderer. Do you see any references in the puzzle to the time and place of the murder, or the modus operandi, Mr. Wesley?”
“Wesley again perused the puzzle. “Wait one minute,” Wesley said. “What’s today? It is today. It all fits together.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Wesley?” Sam asked.
“If I remember my history correctly, the Pulers were blown up on May 11, 1982. Yes, the Pulers. It’s right here, 56 across. The Pulers were a group that protested the building of nuclear power plants in populated areas of Illinois. All of the members of the group were blown up in what was later determined to be an accident, ten years ago, on the eleventh of May.”
Wesley paused to refresh his strawberry daiquiri. But before he settled back in his seat, he took the time to put more ice, liquor and fruit into the blender and mixed another batch. “I think it’s certainly more than a coincidence,” Wesley continued. “Lentz wrote a series of articles in favor of building the plants.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Sam replied, “is why Lentz didn’t try to stop his own murder. He was with me when he solved the puzzle, and in police headquarters to boot. If he had just informed us, we might have been able to capture the killer right there and then.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Sonn. But I can tell you one thing,” Wesley said. “If Lentz saw this puzzle, he had to know that he was the intended victim. Perhaps he misconstrued the exact time and place of the murder.”
“This is an interesting case. Tonight I’ll be looking over some of the other victims e-mail. I wonder if I could ask you some questions about them should the need arise? Can we communicate by e-mail?”
“Of course, Mr. Sonn. My email address is [email protected]”
“My father thinks that he’s the reincarnation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” Jefferson Wesley said, smiling broadly.
“C’mon. I’ll drive you back to your office, Sam,” Frank volunteered.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Sam said. He shook everyone’s hand before leaving with Frank.
“Mr. Sonn is quite a clever fellow, father,” Jefferson said.
“Yes, I agree,” Madison added, “very clever. I predict he’ll get to the bottom of these murders.”
“I think that you may be overestimating him,” the elder Wesley said.
“I for one don’t think Mr. Sonn is deserving of his reputation,” Kessler stated.
“We shall see, Heinreich, we shall see,” Wesley said. “In any event we’ll all feel relieved when this case is resolved.”
Chapter 3
The Yin and the Yang
For the fiscal year just ended, Sonn and Son Investigations grossed revenues of more than 80 million, an increase in the top line of fourteen percent. The big money was in Corporate Theft and Industrial Espionage, but the Computer Security business was growing fastest of all. The firm still handled Missing Persons and Domestic Surveillance, but they had become small potatoes. Sam had made a name for himself by taking on high profile cases, cultivating an image of a high tech-guru in a three-piece suit: he made the cover of People Magazine, appeared on Dwight Morgan and other television and radio talk shows, not to mention regular commentary on Tru TV. Hollywood loomed on the horizon. Money was rolling in, but his successes were not just predicated on his image—Sam produced.
At 32, Sam had the world at his feet. It was cash and carry at every clip joint, watering hole and five star restaurant in Manhattan. Sam rocketed into the spotlight of the New York scene with his money, good looks and charismatic smile. At every venue he visited, the door was held wide open for the Super Sleuth. There was only one notable exception, Top Flight Jet. Among the customers of Top Flight Jet, Sam was near the bottom of the pecking order. Although ninety-five percent of the time Sam could book a business flight with no more than 24 hours notice, vacation flights were another story. Top Flight only allocated four planes for pleasure runs. They were generally booked well in advance: the reservations cast in stone. Sam had been shut out a number of times. He tried to pull rank but to no avail; he was very annoyed with them, especially now—a high roller had pushed his way onto Sam’s flight. Apparently the rules were not applied with strict equanimity.
At the very least, Sam was curious as to who the son of a bitch was. After leaving Wesley’s boat, docked at the South Street Seaport, Frank drove Sam back for a quick stop at his office at 919 Madison. Esther had taken the Volvo. The corporate headquarters of Sonn and Son Investigations was a sprawling complex, occupying the entire ninth floor: more than ten thousand square feet including an impressive lobby decorated with sculptures by Ashley Davis, the classical cubist, and two original oil paintings by Devon Wood, depicting the infinite. Sam barely greeted Lilly Pearson, his secretary. But the petite five-foot, slim, light complexioned Harlem born young woman who he had hired only five years ago right out of community college would not be taken for granted. Sam anticipated the usual backlog of cases that would have to be dealt with; Lilly pounced on him before he could loosen his red and white silk polka dot Pierre Cardin slim-jim necktie, one of a dozen he just treated himself on at Brooks Brothers. “Sam, everyone’s in the conference room. You’d better get your butt in there.”
“Lilly, didn’t I teach you to say tush instead of butt?” he retorted, relishing teaching Lilly all sorts of Yiddish expressions.
He ventured into the conference room to find Rudy Errico, Executive Vice-President of Sonn and Son, leading a staff meeting. Arielle Cohen, head of the department of Industrial Espionage, Mike Overton, the new head of Accounting, Nick Tunney, head of Missing Persons and Dr. David Meyerson, head of Computer Security filled out the executive slate. Although Sam believed in delegating responsibility, he was nonetheless a control freak. He trusted Rudy completely, but felt pangs of jealousy every time he saw him in a position of authority. Rudy took over Sam’s old position when Solomon Sonn, Sam’s father, was murdered last year, the victim of an assassin’s bullet.
Sam couldn’t help himself; he was a micromanager demanding that all actions by his department heads receive his personal stamp of approval. Even while he was on vacation, he demanded that he be kept informed of all major decisions by e-mail. Sam had assigned Nick Tunney the task of running a background check on all the victims of the crossword murders. Nick was a former FBI agent and still had access to the FBI database. Sam was convinced that if there was a pattern to the murders, the FBI already had a beat on it. Sam filled Nick in on the renegade group known as the Pulers, referred to in the Principia Mathematica puzzle.
It was five past four when Sam arrived at the Top Flight Jet terminal at LaGuardia, nearly two full hours before the scheduled take-off. He checked in with the flight director, a short round-faced officious looking young man with three long strands of hair combed over his receding hairline who had discarded his sports jacket due to the unusually high temperature.
“Gonna do some heavy gambling, Mr. Sonn?” he asked respectfully.
“I like to consider myself a high roller,” Sam responded, “but I have some important work to catch up on before take-off. Could you have my baggage cleared through customs?”
“Sure,
