Practice to Deceive (30 page)

“Tell me something,” I asked, returning to the subject. “Levering Field didn’t invest his own money in Willow Tree. He invested other people’s money, people who might want to know what happened to it. Why did you let him?”

“We were using Willow Tree to avoid paying taxes, as you said,” Saterbak confessed. “Levering was using it to fleece his clients.”

“Why did you let him?” I repeated.

When Saterbak didn’t answer, I asked, “Was it because of Amanda?”

He sighed.

“Levering thought you two were having an affair, but Amanda denies it.”

Saterbak inhaled deeply, then spoke quickly, like it was his last breath and he wanted to get the words out while he could: “I’ve loved Amanda since we were sixteen years old. And I think she loves me. But she was married to that jerk and wouldn’t even consider having an affair. Never.”

“If she loved you, why did she stay married to him?”

The smile on Saterbak’s face was one of admiration. “Amanda is an old-fashioned girl,” he said. “Not long ago, people used to stay in bad marriages for the kids. Amanda is one of those people.”

“So you remained friends.”

“Sometimes you have to settle for what you can get,” Saterbak said.

“But you and Levering weren’t friends.”

“No.”

“Then why did you let him in on Willow Tree?”

Saterbak was on his feet now, pacing my office, his hands behind his back. I watched his hands while making sure mine never strayed far from the desk drawer.

“He came to me with an offer. What’s the saying, an offer you can’t refuse? He told me that since I loved Amanda, I could have her. He said he was tired of being married to her, anyway; said she was boring. He said he would divorce her—clear the decks for me, he said—for one million dollars.”

“He offered to sell you his wife?”

“Nice guy, wasn’t he?”

“Helluva human being,” I agreed.

Saterbak kept pacing, but now his arms were folded across his chest. “I didn’t have a million dollars lying around,” he continued, “so I told him about Willow Tree.”

“He was in to it for only seven hundred-fifty thousand,” I reminded Saterbak.

“That was his choice,” he told me. “Apparently those were the only investors he was sure of.”

“The only ones he thought would soon die intestate.”

Saterbak shrugged.

“You people—”

“Us?!” Saterbak shouted. “Your hands aren’t so lily-white. You tried to blackmail Levering.”

“I tried to force him to give back the money he stole from my client!” I shouted back. “And that’s not the same thing.”

“You threatened his life.”

“I did not.”

“That’s what Amanda said.”

“I admit to making his life miserable, but I did not threaten him with violence,” I announced as if that absolved me of all sins.

“He thought you were going to kill him. That’s why he asked me …” Saterbak stopped walking and talking simultaneously. I filled in the blank.

“That’s why he asked you to supply him with the name of a killer, preferably an inexpensive one.”

Saterbak looked at me like he was going to deny it. I didn’t let him.

“I’ve been to the pony rides before, pal,” I insisted, tapping my chest.

Saterbak defended himself: “He said you were trying to kill him, and I couldn’t very well tell him to go to the police.”

“Course not,” I agreed.

“I knew some people in Chicago.”

“Don’t we all?”

Saterbak sat down again. He looked defeated. I found his expression encouraging. But then he perked up, announcing, “You can’t prove any of this.”

He was right, of course. “But I can prove what I need to prove,” I told him. “And the Dullys will probably prove the rest when the IRS leans on them. Joan is a woman who likes company. Do you think she’d be willing to go to jail alone?”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s start with some honest answers. Why did you have Levering killed?”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“And when I was shot afterward …?”

“I wasn’t involved that time, I tell you.”

“Why did you try to have Amanda killed?”

“Now, wait a minute!” Saterbak said.

“The cops matched the bullets,” I told him. “Whoever shot Levering and me used the same gun on Amanda.”

Saterbak was on his feet now, his hands resting on my desk top.

“Sit down!” I shouted at him.

He did.

I waited a few moments then asked, “Why?”

“I had nothing to do with any of that,” Saterbak claimed.

“Have it your own way.” I didn’t believe him, but that was OK. I had worked out my plan before Saterbak arrived, and whether or not he confessed to murder was immaterial at this point. I just needed to ratchet one more bolt into place before I turned on the machinery.

“Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars,” I said.

“What?”

“That’s how much Levering stole from my client to invest in your Willow Tree. That’s how much I wanted from him. That’s how much I want from you.” Saterbak did not so much as blink, so I added, “You have until noon tomorrow.”

And then he blinked plenty.

“Are you insane? You think I can get that kind of cash overnight?”

“Yeah, I do.” I shrugged. “And if you can’t, ask Joan Dully. I bet she has the exact total all packed up in a briefcase and ready to go.”

Saterbak studied me hard, like I knew he would, his lips drawn into an angry line. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, then turned and left my office, leaving the door open behind him. I was up quickly, the nine in my hand, went to the door, closed it, and locked it.

NINETEEN

I
WAS WEARING
a gray sweatsuit with the emblem of the University of St. Thomas emblazoned on the shirt and pants. Over the sweatsuit I wore a green-and-blue down vest. Hidden in the vest was my four-and-a-half-inch long .25 Beretta. I would have preferred something with a little more range, accuracy, and stopping power, but it was the only weapon I had that didn’t make the vest look like I had a gun in the pocket.

I had chosen my ground carefully. I wanted a location that was secluded, where civilians were unlikely to be hurt—where a shooter would be encouraged to take his chances. Yet, I also needed a natural setting; a place where my presence would not cause suspicion. I did not want the shooter to know that I knew he was coming. And he was coming—between now and noon tomorrow. Carson Saterbak wasn’t going to pay me two hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars. No way. Not at this late date. Not after all the trouble he’d gone to to protect himself and the other Willow Tree investors. I knew that before he came to my office, before he even
called
my office.

I had picked the time, and now I chose the place—the asphalt jogging path that hugged the modest lake in Central Park in Roseville—and waited.

The lake was in the center of the park; the jogging path followed its shoreline. The east and west sides were open to playground equipment, tennis courts, softball diamonds, volleyball pits, a pavilion, and a band shell. They were usually populated, even late on a cold April afternoon with the sun about to set. But the north side of the path that ran between the lake and the railroad tracks and the south side that cut through a thick grove of trees were not. I dismissed the tracks. Michael Zilar could shoot me from the tall grass between the tracks and park, but then he’d have a lot of open space to negotiate before he could get to a car—all of it in the shadow of several apartment buildings. The grove was more secluded and was bordered by residential streets. It was not uncommon for joggers to park their cars along them.

Yeah, he would try to hit me in the grove. I’d bet my life on it.

I
LEFT MY
car in the lot off Victoria Avenue. Experience told me that that was the most populated area of the park and therefore the safest. I walked slowly down to the shore, stopping at the wooden pier that reached one hundred feet into the lake. A couple of white kids dressed like gang bangers, who knew only what they saw on MTV, were leaning against the railing, playing the part, talking loud, not caring who heard them.

“You smokin’ too much grain, man!” the first shouted unnecessarily. “Your head is juiced.”

“Don’t wanna hass, man,” answered the second. “Whaddya say we nee-go-she-ate? Maybe throat some beverage, do some sub if ’n you a mind. Talk it over.”

I was stretching, my left leg propped on the top rung of the railing, my body leaning into it. I was trying hard not to be obvious as I scanned the area around me, my eyes everywhere at once, seeing everything, watching nothing. I must not have done a very good job of it because the first kid waved his companion quiet and moved down the railing to where I was standing. He didn’t say a word. Just locked onto my eyes with his, mad-dogging me, not moving, not even blinking, like a prize-fighter trying to put the fear of God into an opponent.

There was a time you caught a kid goofing, you’d straightened him out, maybe cuff him upside the head. (It takes a village to raise a child, isn’t that what Hillary Clinton says?) Now when a kid gives you the business, you turn away, say nothing, for fear the kid will put a bullet in your heart. But this guy and his buddy? They knew the jargon, knew the look, but they weren’t bangers. There was too much life in their eyes. They were wannabes; kids who might actually be impressed—and fearful—at the sight of a gun.

I did not speak to the kid. Instead, I showed him the inside of my vest, showed him the butt of the .25 sticking out of the pocket. When he saw it, he glanced back at his companion and said real low: “He’s packed.”

The second kid asked me, “You iron?”

I nodded my head. Public or private, a cop is a cop is a cop to them.

The first kid asked, “You ever trace anyone?” There was a hopeful expression on his face. The idea that I might have actually killed someone excited the bejesus out of him. Man, just like TV! And it was that hopefulness that made me think he had a chance, that Mom or Dad or a teacher or coach could save him. Some kids you meet, they can be just twelve years old and you already know they’re history; no way to turn them around, no way to save them. It’s only a matter of how much pain they inflict, how much suffering they cause before we put them into a cage; out of sight, out of mind. But to these kids it was still cops and robbers; life was still a game with rules.

I gestured with my head for the kids to vacate the pier. To my surprise, they did.

I
WAS RUNNING
now, actually running. Not fast, not without pain, but I was picking them up and laying them down nonetheless. It would have given me great pleasure had I not been so totally scared to death.

I was rounding the northwest corner, moving at a slow pace past the volleyball pit, heading east, nearly parallel with the tracks. I put my hand inside my vest, gripped the .25, then took my hand out again. Nobody runs with their hands in their pockets. I relaxed just a tad as I approached the area where the path and the track came closest. The grass was still lying flat, beaten down by the winter. I was right, it wasn’t a good place. Just the same, I picked up the pace as I passed it, which was hard to do, holding my breath as I was.

The park opened up on my left as I moved around the northeast corner. It offered iron barbecue grills unused since last fall, another volleyball court, a few tennis courts, a pavilion and a maze of playground equipment. In the distance a pond, its water level low, sparkled in the setting sun. I continued on for another hundred yards, slowing my pace as I made the turn, my feet thudding against the wooden bridge that spanned the creek connecting the pond to the lake. It was not my intention to slow down, but it had been weeks since I last ran, and while the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. Besides, my leg had set to throbbing, and I was fearful of blowing it out.

Three full strides past the bridge, and I was in the grove. The leaves were just buds on the trees, and the undergrowth was dormant, yet it was still thick enough to obscure the streets and houses that line the park and, in some areas, block out the lake. I went deeper. My breath was coming hard now, and not just from exertion. The pain in my leg had increased, and I found myself wanting to stop and rub it away. I didn’t. I stayed close to the right edge of the jogging path, the edge nearest the lake. I expected Zilar to come at me from the left. If he attacked from the lake side of the path, he would have to cross over to make his escape, and for a few brief moments he would be visible to, say, another jogger. So I guessed he would stay on the left—“guess” being the operative word. I went deeper.

Up ahead was another jogger, a woman, moving toward me at an easy pace, her hands inside white athletic socks. I gave her plenty of room. She nodded as we passed.

The path climbed gradually up a hill, then just as gradually fell away into a small valley.
There
, I thought as I crested the hill.
That’s where it’ll happen
.

I began my descent, and with each step I lost confidence.
Are you out of your mind?
I asked myself.
Are you nuts? Do you have some kind of death wish?
I couldn’t believe that I had actually thought this was a good idea, dangling myself as bait, daring a professional killer to shoot me. A professional! Man, I wasn’t going to see him coming. I wasn’t even going to hear him. He was going to pop me using his homemade suppressor, and I was going to fall, and some unfortunate jogger would find me laying facedown in a pool of my own blood, and Anne Scalasi would be called to investigate, and she would go, “Tsk, tsk, I wonder what he was thinking.”