We passed over the East River with an assist from the Brooklyn Bridge. Its many suspension cables were lit up for the season, making it look like a Christmas spiderweb connecting the bridge’s Gothic towers.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl. The bridge had originally been built for horse-drawn carriages and trolleys, which probably crossed faster than we were doing.
Since I wasn’t talking, Falcone decided to speak for me, outlining how he thought things went down. I stared emotionless at the brake lights in front of us, not wanting to tip him off whether he was getting hot or cold.
“Stone Scroggie made his fortune off the desperation of struggling companies. Ones similar to Kerstman Publishing, which was bleeding red ink—a combination of too much overhead, and the drying up of the Harry Crawford pipeline. And as luck would have it, your new friend Professor Gooch had an in with Diedrich Kerstman from their days in the Netherlands, and was able to introduce the two men.
“Being the nice guy that Scroggie was, he offered Kerstman an interest-free loan. All he wanted was the personal details of his employees, including Social Security numbers, which he would sell to companies who were looking to use the info to market their products to specific audiences, mailing lists and such. Scroggie would make a nice little profit, and Kerstman would buy time to get back on his feet.
“Of course, Scroggie had other plans for the information—he used it to rape and pillage the identities and finances of the Kerstman Publishing employees. He drained bank accounts, got loans and credit lines in their names, and cashed out their 401Ks. When he informed Kerstman that he was complicit in a scheme to rob his employees, Scroggie offered a way out. Kerstman needed to sell before the damage was discovered. The only other choice was jail, and as we’ve learned, Kerstman would rather be anywhere, including the bottom of the Caribbean Sea, than in jail.
“But the thing was, who was going to buy a struggling publisher that was headed for bankruptcy? The answer was what it always was for Kerstman Publishing—to go to the Harry Crawford well one last time. And why not? He was the one responsible for that big shiny building in Manhattan. The only problem was that they completely fabricated the story of a Crawford comeback. I’m surprised that Harry never mentioned this to you on the many trips you’ve made to visit him over the last few months.”
Harry Crawford was once one of the biggest selling authors in the world, writing the famed Gin Rumy series. I’d successfully defended him on a charge of growing large quantities of marijuana on his Vermont ranch. And even after he stopped writing, he remained loyal to Kerstman for giving him his first chance, when nobody else would publish him. So he recommended me to Kerstman after his arrest, unaware that Kerstman had lied about his potential return to seduce a buyer into the scam.
And Falcone was right—I still visited Harry, which he knew because he’d been following me. But visiting an old friend was hardly a crime, and what Falcone really wanted to know is what was said in those conversations inside the confines of the ranch. But unfortunately for him, Harry already has enough elves working for him, so it wouldn’t be as easy to get a man on the inside.
Falcone continued, “So Scroggie went to the investment bank he’s worked with all these years. The one that looked past his unscrupulous methods of business—Wainwright & Lennox. And to return the favor for all the money they’d made him over the years, he shared a tip—Diedrich Kerstman was looking to cash in and retire to his home in Sint Eustatius. And Scroggie had inside information that Harry Crawford was ready to sign a five-book deal. Cha-ching.
“Wainwright and Scroggie would partner 50/50, each putting up six hundred million in cash, meant to blow Kerstman away with an offer before word of Crawford’s return got out. It raised a lot of eyebrows in the industry when the struggling publisher sold for 1.2 billion, but Wainwright thought they bought a cash cow that could graze on the manor. Wainwright had no reason to believe Scroggie was setting him up—hell, he was willing to put up over a half a million of his own money.
“Once the money was transferred to Kerstman, he would turn it over to Scroggie. In return, the secret of the stolen employee information would remain hidden, allowing Kerstman to head off to retirement instead of jail. But unfortunately for Alexander Wainwright, all he got for his 600 mil was half of a skeleton company and no Harry Crawford.
“But as we know, Kerstman never handed the cash over. He double-crossed the double-crosser. He liquidated the money, hid it, and turned himself in before Scroggie knew what hit him. He then hired a lawyer he was sure would get him off, and planned for a nice retirement. But when the trial began to go south, Kerstman and his lawyer decided to take matters into their own hands. How’m I doing so far?” he asked with a cocky grin.
“He wasn’t trying to escape. He wanted to go out on his own terms. So I gave him the opportunity … and I paid for it with three years of my life.”
“Like his employees got to go out on their own terms? The ones who had their lives ripped apart!?” He looked like he wanted to toss me out of the cab into oncoming traffic. “I think it was a leverage play by an unscrupulous lawyer who’d proven in the past that he would go to any length to get his clients off. If he was willing to play the cancer card, then he was surely capable of this stunt.”
It was a fact that I used the illness of Harry Crawford’s wife to win sympathy from the jury in his marijuana trial, and it worked. But that had nothing to do with Kerstman. “What kind of leverage could have possibly been gained from him taking off? His flight made him look even guiltier than everyone already thought he was.”
“If Kerstman was able to hide the money, then he could cut a deal. He could offer the return of the money and agree to testify against Scroggie, in exchange for a light sentence … basically the same one that’s being offered to you. And since you haven’t taken it yet, I’m thinking that Kerstman offered you a better deal.”
“I can unequivocally say that never during my association with Kerstman did he ever offer me a ride home in the snow. So I don’t know how much better of a deal he could offer than this,” I said with a shrug that further irritated Falcone.
“I think he was going to give you half the money if you could get him to Sint Eustatius, where he could hide it offshore. And I think that’s why your girlfriend made a recent trip down there.”
He held up a copy of the Inquisitor tabloid from a couple weeks back, featuring Candi Kane on the cover. It showed her frolicking around in a bikini on the beaches of Sint Eustatius.
“But I don’t think you can wear one of these on the beach—it’ll cause some weird tan lines,” he said, and patted me on the bulletproof vest to make his point.
The cab stopped near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. There’s no better view of the city than from the Promenade—Libby and I used to come down here all the time when we were dating. But I was in no mood for taking in the scenery tonight—I was too busy watching my back.
“I thought you were taking me home? I guess the moral of the story is never trust the FBI.”
“Like I said, it’s a beautiful night for a walk,” Falcone said.
“Just watch out for the boogieman … or Gooch,” Boersch added with a cryptic grin.
I stepped out of the cab and turned back to Falcone. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to be at work bright and early tomorrow. My boss has been on my ass ever since she stopped sleeping with me.”
“How the mighty have fallen—was that part of your divorce agreement?”
“The good thing about my new job is that I don’t have the responsibility like when I was the boss. When five o’clock rolls around, I’m out the door. And I won’t be working on New Year’s Eve this year … like you will be.”
I slammed the door shut and began walking.