* Burned down following explosion, presumably just after Charles's visit. To hide his secret?
* Body in basement, man presumably killed by Charles Singleton.
* Shot in forehead by .36 Navy Colt loaded with .39-caliber ball (type of weapon Charles Singleton owned).
* Gold coins.
* Man was armed with Derringer.
* No identification.
* Had ring with name "Winskinskie" on it.
* Means "doorman" or "gatekeeper" in Delaware Indian language.
* Currently searching other meanings.
* Was title of official in Boss Tweed's Tammany Hall political machine.
PROFILE OF UNSUB 109
* Determined to be Thompson G. Boyd, former executions control officer, from Amarillo, TX.
* Presently in custody.
PROFILE OF PERSON HIRING UNSUB 109
* Bani al-Dahab, Saudi national, in country illegally after visa expired.
* Deceased.
* Search of apartment revealed no other terrorist connections. Presently checking phone records.
* Currently investigating his employers for possible terrorist links.
PROFILE OF UNSUB 109'S ACCOMPLICE
* Determined not to be man originally described, but Alina Frazier, presently in custody.
* Search of apartment revealed weapons and money, nothing else relevant to case.
PROFILE OF CHARLES SINGLETON
* Former slave, ancestor of G. Settle. Married, one son. Given orchard in New York state by master. Worked as teacher, as well. Instrumental in early civil rights movement.
* Charles allegedly committed theft in 1868, the subject of the article in stolen microfiche.
* Reportedly had a secret that could bear on case. Worried that tragedy would result if his secret was revealed.
* Attended meetings in Gallows Heights neighborhood of New York.
* Involved in some risky activities?
* Worked with Frederick Douglass and others in getting the 14th Amendment to the Constitution ratified.
* The crime, as reported in the Coloreds' Weekly Illustrated:
* Charles arrested by Det. William Simms for stealing large sum from Freedmen's Trust in NY. Broke into the trust's safe, witnesses saw him leave shortly after. His tools were found nearby. Most money was recovered. He was sentenced to five years in prison. No information about him after sentencing. Believed to have used his connections with early civil rights leaders to gain access to the trust.
* Charles's correspondence:
* Letter 1, to wife: Re: Draft Riots in 1863, great anti-black sentiment throughout NY state, lynchings, arson. Risk to property owned by blacks.
* Letter 2, to wife: Charles at Battle of Appomattox at end of Civil War.
* Letter 3, to wife: Involved in civil rights movement. Threatened for this work. Troubled by his secret.
* Letter 4, to wife: Went to Potters' Field with his gun for "justice." Results were disastrous. The truth is now hidden in Potters' Field. His secret was what caused all this heartache.
V
THE FREEDMAN'S SECRET
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12, TO FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The fifty-four-year-old white man in a Brooks Brothers suit sat in one of his two Manhattan offices, engaging in an intense debate with himself.
Yes or no?
The question was important, literally a matter of life and death.
Trim, solidly built William Ashberry, Jr., sat back in a creaking chair and looked over the horizon of New Jersey. This office was not as elegant or stylish as the one in lower Manhattan but it was his favorite. The twenty-by-thirty-foot room was in the historic Sanford Mansion on the Upper West Side, owned by the bank of which he was a senior officer.
He pondered: Yes? No?
Ashberry was a financier and entrepreneur of the old school, meaning, for instance, he'd ignored the eagle of the Internet when it soared into the heavens, and hadn't lost a night's sleep when it turned on its masters, except to superficially console clients who hadn't listened to his advice. This refusal to be wooed by fad, combined with solid investing in blue chip companies and, especially, New York City real estate, had made both himself and Sanford Bank and Trust a huge amount of money.
Old school, sure, but only to a point. Oh, he had the lifestyle afforded by a million-plus annual salary, along with the revered bonuses that were the mainstay of Wall Street, several homes, memberships in nice country clubs, pretty, well-educated daughters, and connections with a number of charities that he and his wife were pleased to help out. A private Grumman for his not-infrequent trips overseas was an important perk.
But Ashberry was also atypical of your Forbes-level business executives. Scratch the surface and you'd find pretty much the same tough kid from South Philly, whose father'd been a head-knocking factory worker and whose grandfather'd done some book cooking, and tougher work, for Angelo Bruno--the "Docile Don"--and later for Phil "Chicken Man" Testa. Ashberry had run with a tough crowd himself, made money with blades and brains and did some things that could have come back to haunt him in a big way if he hadn't made absolutely sure they were forever buried. But in his early twenties he had the presence of mind to realize that if he kept loan-sharking and busting heads for protection money and hanging out on Dickson and Reed streets in Philly, his only rewards'd be cheese-steak change and a good shot at prison. If he did more or less the same thing in the world of business and hanging out on lower Broadway and the Upper West Side of Manhattan, he'd get fucking rich and have a good shot at Albany or Washington. He might even try to fill Frank Rizzo's shoes. Why not?
So it was law school at night, a real estate license and eventually a job at Sanford Bank--first on a cash drawer, then moving his way up through the ranks. The money did indeed start coming in, slowly at first, then in a steady stream. He rose fast to be head of the bank's hottest division, the real estate operation, rolling over competitors--both within the bank and outside--with his bare-knuckle approach to business. Then he'd finagled the job as head of the Sanford Foundation, the philanthropic side of the bank, which was, he'd learned, the best way to make political connections.
Another glance at the Jersey horizon, another moment of debate, rubbing his hand compulsively up and down his thigh, solid from his tennis sessions, jogging, golf, yachting. Yes or no?
Life and death . . .
Calculating, one foot forever rooted on South Philly's Seventeenth Street, Bill Ashberry played with the big boys.
Men, for instance, like Thompson Boyd.
Ashberry had gotten the killer's name from an arsonist who'd made the mistake of burning down one of Ashberry's commercial properties--and got caught in the process--some years ago. After Ashberry realized he had to kill Geneva Settle, he'd hired a private eye to track down the paroled burn-man and had paid him $20,000 to put him in touch with a professional killer. The scruffy man (for God's sake, a mullet?) had suggested Boyd. Ashberry had been impressed with the choice. Boyd was fucking scary, yes, but not in some over-the-top, ballsy South Philly way. What was scary was that he was so calm, so flat. Not a spark of emotion behind his eyes, never spitting out a single "fuck" or "prick."
The banker had explained what he needed and they'd arranged for payment--a quarter million dollars (even that figure hadn't gotten a rise out of Boyd; he seemed more interested--you couldn't say excited--about the prospect of killing a young girl, as if he'd never done that before).
It looked for a time like Boyd would be successful and the girl would die, and all of Ashberry's problems would be over with.
But then, disaster: Boyd and his accomplice, that Frazier woman, were in jail.
Hence, the debate: Yes, no . . . Should Ashberry kill Geneva Settle himself?
With his typical approach to business, he considered the risks.
Despite his zombie personality, Boyd had been as sharp as he was frightening. He knew the business of death, knew ab
out investigating crimes too, and how you could use motive to point the police in the wrong direction. He'd come up with several phony motives to mislead the cops. First, an attempted rape, which hadn't worked. The second was more subtle. He'd planted seeds where they'd be sure to grow nowadays: a terrorist connection. He and his accomplice had found some poor raghead who delivered Middle Eastern food to carts and restaurants near the jewelry exchange, the building that was across the street from where Geneva Settle was to be killed. Boyd located the restaurant he worked for and staked out the place, learned which van was his. Boyd and his partner set up a series of clues to make it seem that the Arab loser was a terrorist planning a bombing and that he wanted Geneva dead because she'd seen him planning the attack.
Boyd had gone to the trouble of stealing sheets of scrap office paper from the trash behind the exchange. He'd drawn a map on one sheet and on another written a note about the girl in Arabic-tinted English (an Arabic language website had been helpful there)--to fool the cops. Boyd was going to leave these notes near crime scenes but it'd worked out even better than that; the police found them in Boyd's safe house before he'd planted them, which gave more credibility to the terrorism hook. They'd used Middle Eastern food for clues and called in fake terrorist bomb threats to the FBI from pay phones around the area.
Boyd hadn't planned to go any further with the charade than this. But then a goddamn policewoman--that Detective Sachs--showed up right here, at the foundation, to dig through their archives! Ashberry still remembered how he'd struggled to stay calm, making small talk with the beautiful redhead and offering her the run of the stacks. He'd used all his willpower to keep from heading downstairs himself and casually asking her what she was looking into. But there was too great a chance that this would arouse suspicion. He'd agreed to let her take some materials and when he looked over the log after she left, he didn't see anything too troubling.
Still, her presence alone at the foundation and the fact she wanted to check out some materials told the banker that the cops hadn't caught on to the terrorist motive. Ashberry had immediately called Boyd and told him to make the story more credible. The hitman had bought a working bomb from the arsonist who'd put Ashberry in touch with Boyd. He'd planted the device in the delivery van, along with a ranting letter to the Times about Zionists. Boyd was arrested just after that but his partner--that black woman from Harlem--had detonated the bomb, and finally the police got the message: terrorism.
And, since the raghead was dead, they'd pull back the protection on the girl.
This gave Alina Frazier the chance to finish the job.
But the police had outsmarted her too, and she'd been caught.
The big question now was: Did the police believe the threat to the girl was finally gone, with the mastermind dead, and the two professional killers arrested?
He decided they might not be completely convinced, but their defenses would be lowered.
So what was the level of risk if he went ahead?
Minimal, he decided.
Geneva Settle would die.
Now, he only needed an opportunity. Boyd had said she'd moved out of her apartment in West Harlem and was staying someplace else. The only connection Ashberry had was her school.
He rose, left his office and took the ornate elevator downstairs. Then walked to Broadway and found a phone kiosk. ("Always pay phones, never private landlines. And never, ever mobile phones." Thank you, Thompson.)
He got a number from Directory Assistance and placed the call.
"Langston Hughes High," the woman answered.
He glanced at the side of a nearby retail-store delivery truck and said to the receptionist, "This is Detective Steve Macy with the police department. I need to speak to an administrator."
A moment later he was put through to an assistant principal.
"How can I help you?" the harried man asked. Ashberry could hear a dozen voices in the background. (The businessman himself had detested every minute he'd spent in school.)
He identified himself again and added, "I'm following up on an incident that involved one of your students. Geneva Settle?"
"Oh, she was that witness, right?"
"Yep. I need to get some papers to her this afternoon. The district attorney's going to be indicting some of the people involved in the case and we need her signature on a statement. Can I speak to her?"
"Sure. Hold on." A pause as he asked someone else in the room about the girl's schedule. Ashberry heard something about her being absent. The administrator came back on. "She's not in school today. She'll be back Monday."
"Oh, is she at home?"
"Wait, hold on a minute . . . "
Another voice was speaking to the principal, offering a suggestion.
Please, Ashberry thought . . .
The man came back on the line. "One of her teachers thinks she's at Columbia this afternoon, working on some project."
"The university?"
"Yeah. Try a Professor Mathers. I don't have his first name, sorry."
The administrator sounded preoccupied, but to make sure the man didn't call the police just to check on him, Ashberry said in a dismissing way, "You know, I'll just call the officers who're guarding her. Thanks."
"Yeah, so long."
Ashberry hung up and paused, looking over the busy street. He'd only wanted her address but this might work out better--even though the principal didn't sound surprised when Ashberry mentioned the guards, which meant that somebody might still be protecting her. He'd have to take that fact into account. He called the main Columbia switchboard and learned that Professor Mathers's office hours today were from one to six.
How long would Geneva be there? Ashberry wondered. He hoped it would be for most of the day; he had a lot to do.
*
At four-thirty that afternoon, William Ashberry was cruising in his BMW M5 through Harlem, looking around him. He didn't think of the place in racial or cultural terms. He saw it as an opportunity. For him a man's worth was determined by his ability to pay his debts on time--specifically, and from a self-interested point of view--a man's ability to cough up the rent or mortgage on one of the redevelopment projects that Sanford Bank had going on in Harlem. If a borrower was black or Hispanic or white or Asian, if he was a drug dealer or an ad agency executive . . . didn't matter. As long as he wrote that monthly check.
Now, on 125th Street, he passed one of the very buildings his bank was renovating. The graffiti had been scrubbed off, the interior gutted, building materials stacked on the ground floor. The old tenants had been given incentives to relocate. Some reluctant residents had been "urged" to and had taken the hint. Several new renters had already signed expensive leases, even though the construction wouldn't be completed for six months.
He turned onto a crowded, commercial street, looking at the vendors. Not what he needed. The banker continued on his search--the final task in an afternoon that had been hectic, to say the least. After leaving his office at the Sanford Foundation he'd sped to his weekend house in New Jersey. There he'd unlocked the gun cabinet and removed his double-barreled shotgun. At the workbench in the garage he'd sawed the barrels off, making the gun only about eighteen inches long--a surprisingly hard job, which had cost him a half dozen electric-saw blades. Tossing the discarded barrels into the pond behind the house, the banker had paused, looking around him, reflecting that this deck was the place where his oldest daughter would be getting married next year after she graduated from Vassar.
He'd remained there for a long moment, gazing at the sun breaking on the cold, blue water. Then he'd loaded the shortened gun and placed it and a dozen shells in a cardboard carton, covered them with some old books, newspapers and magazines. He wouldn't need any props better than these; the professor and Geneva weren't going to survive long enough to even look inside the box.
Dressed in a mismatched sports coat and suit, hair slicked back, with drugstore reading glasses--the best disguise he could come up with--Ashberry had
then sped across the George Washington Bridge and into Harlem, where he now was, searching for the last prop for the drama.
Ah, there . . .
The banker parked and got out of the car. He walked up to the Nation of Islam street vendor and bought a kufi, an Islamic skullcap, drawing not the least blink of surprise from the man. Ashberry, who took the hat in his gloved hand (thanks again, Thompson), then returned to the car. When no one was looking he bent down and rubbed the hat on the ground beneath a telephone kiosk, where he guessed many people had stood during the past day or so. The hat would pick up some dirt and other evidence--ideally a hair or two--which would give the police even more false leads on the terrorist connection. He rubbed the inside of the hat on the mouthpiece of the phone to pick up saliva and sweat for DNA samples. Slipping the hat into the box with the gun and magazines and books, he climbed back into the car and drove to Morningside Heights and onto the Columbia campus.
He now found the old faculty building that housed Mathers's office. The businessman spotted a police car parked in front, an officer sitting in the front seat, looking vigilantly over the street. So she did have a guard.
Well, he could handle it. He'd survived tougher situations than this--on the streets of South Philly and in boardrooms down on Wall Street. Surprise was the best advantage--you could beat overwhelming odds if you did the unexpected.
Continuing along the street, he made a U-turn and parked behind the building, his car well out of sight and aimed toward the highway for a fast escape. He climbed out and looked around. Yes, it could work, he could approach the office from the side, then slip through the front door when the cop was looking elsewhere.
As for getting away, there was a back door to the building. Two ground-level windows too. If the cop ran for the building the minute he heard the shots, Ashberry could shoot him from one of the front windows. In any case he should have enough time to drop the kufi as evidence and get to his car before any other police arrived.
He found a pay phone. He called the school's main switchboard.
"Columbia University," a voice replied.
"Professor Mathers, please."
"One moment."
A black-inflected voice answered, "Hello?"
"Professor Mathers?"