to the file, “that Myer told police there was something familiar about that individual, but he couldn’t remember what it was.” She pulled at her hip-long white cardigan sweater.
“He said he handled the knife out of panic and possibly touched the wall on his way to the phone,” Hernandez said.
Darcey shrugged and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “I think we should check out the victim’s apartment and Myer’s place.”
Moran swung out a swivel chair from the table and lowered himself into it. “Thanks for volunteering; you can take Simms with you.”
“Me?” Simms said with broadened eyes.
“Darcey sometimes needs guidance,” Moran said. “With regard to Lacy Wooden’s apartment, that’s a no-can-do. It was rented out right after Myer’s conviction. However, there are five boxes full of her belongings that Frank and I will go through.”
The phone in the middle of the table rang. When Moran answered, he crinkled his brow, pointed at the receiver and mouthed: S-h-i-l-l-ing.
“Yes, I just finished briefing my people and—” he began, and then listened to the raised voice of Manhattan District Attorney Howard Shilling. Moran pulled the receiver away from his ear and everyone in the room heard the DA’s shrill voice.
“I know you’re the mayor’s fair-haired boy, because you saved him and his wife from Hubert Singer,” Shilling shouted, “but I also know that Singer, one of this city’s most sadistic serial killers, vanished from under your very nose. This time—”
Moran raised the middle finger of his left hand to the phone, gave the DA the Bronx cheer, and hung up. “God bless his pointy little head.”
“Moran… Moran!” Shilling yelled into the phone and slammed the receiver onto the cradle when he realized that Moran’s voice had been replaced by a dial tone. Through gritted teeth he muttered, “Sonuvabitch.”
The door to the DA’s office at Hogan Plaza swung open and a thin, middle-aged woman with short graying hair entered the office.
“You said to bring Mr. Morrison in as soon as he arrived,” the woman said.
A handsome silver-haired man with a firm jaw that accentuated his patrician features stepped out from behind her. Alan Morrison. His tailored charcoal gray suit had probably cost the lives of thousands of silkworms. Alongside him was a slightly shorter, rougher-looking man with flaxen hair in the Burlington Coat Factory’s version of the same suit.
Shilling jumped to his feet and gestured to the two module chairs in the center of the room that faced a black leather sofa.
“Good to see you, Alan,” Shilling told the silver-haired man, and then added, “please, sit down, gentlemen,” and turned to his secretary. “Janice, could you get us some coffee?”
“None for me, thanks,” Morrison said, and lowered himself into one of the chairs. “This is Pete Farrow, our head of security.” He pointed to his companion.
Shilling gazed at Farrow’s unsmiling, heavy face. It was evident that the man took his position at Morrison Savings and Trust seriously. When Janice left, the DA moved to the sofa where he sat, crossed his legs, and faced Morrison and the head of security.
“How’s Helen?” Shilling said.
Morrison leaned back and laced his fingers across his chest. “Visiting our daughter and grandkids in Sarasota. Then she’s off to London for her annual holiday assault on Harrods.”
“Now, Alan, what could be so important that would bring you all the way from your office on Wall Street?” the DA asked.
Morrison darted his hazel eyes at Farrow and then back to Shilling. “This is a bit awkward, but the bank needs your help. As you know, before Paul Myer was convicted he was the bank’s chief investment analyst. At the time, we were shocked by what had happened. He was very good at his job and had an excellent reputation with us. When he was released I felt sorry for the guy and offered him his old job back.” He stopped and gazed at Farrow. “You take it from here, Pete.”
Farrow straightened his tie and leaned forward. “Two weeks before Myer disappeared, we discovered that over the course of three months he had electronically transferred some ten million dollars from various clients’ accounts.”
“Ten million in three months!” Shilling said. “Why wasn’t it picked up earlier by the bank?”
Farrow rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “It’s not that easy. Paul Myer was head of that department, with authorization from clients to invest monies in stocks, bonds, and mutual funds as appropriate. So those periodic transfers were not unusual.”
“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
