“That’s great, Don,” Partridge said. “And we’ve done well on long shots so far.”
Catching sight of the copy of Semana that had brought them here, he remembered Uncle Arthur’s words when the search of local newspapers was begun: “A thing about long shots is that while you seldom find exactly what you’re looking for, you’re likely to stumble over something else that will help you in a different way.”
9
In Alberto Godoy’s office, tensions were easing.
Now that the demands of his high-pressure visitors from TV news were satisfied and the overhanging threat to himself removed, the funeral director relaxed. After all, Godoy reminded himself, he had done nothing illegal in selling the three caskets to Novack, or whatever his real name was. How was he supposed to know the goddamn caskets would be used for something criminal? Oh sure, he had suspicions about Novack both times he came in, and hadn’t believed a word of his phony story about why he wanted caskets. But let anyone try to prove that. No way! They couldn’t!
The two things he had been worried about when today’s shindig started were the city sales tax, which he collected for the first two caskets but hadn’t reported, and the fact that he’d cooked his books so that the ten grand cash he took from Novack didn’t appear anywhere as income. If the IRS found out, they’d create seventeen kinds of shit from that. Well, these TV dudes had promised not to squeal about either of those finagles and he reckoned they’d keep their word. The way he’d heard it, making those kinds of deals was how TV news people gathered a lot of their information. And he had to admit, now that it was over, he’d got a charge out of watching them at work. But he sure as hell wouldn’t talk about anything that happened today if that snooping asshole from the Semana rag was anywhere around.
“If you’ll give me a sheet of paper,” Don Kettering said, pointing to the two small piles of bills still remaining on the desk, “I’ll write out a receipt for this money we’ll be taking.”
Godoy opened a drawer behind his desk in which he kept odds and ends and removed a pad of lined paper. As he was closing the drawer, he caught sight of a single sheet torn from a scratch pad, bearing his own handwriting. He had stuffed the paper in more than a week ago and forgotten it until now.
“Hey, here’s something! That second time Novack showed …”
“What is it?” Partridge asked sharply.
“I told you he had a Caddy hearse, with another guy driving. They took the casket away in it.”
“Yes, you did.”
Godoy held out the scratch-pad sheet. “This was the hearse license number. I wrote it down, put it in here, forgot.”
Kettering asked, “Why did you do that?”
“Maybe a hunch.” Godoy shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Partridge said, “it doesn’t. Anyway, thanks; we’ll check this out.” He folded the paper and put it in a pocket, though was not hopeful about the outcome. He remembered that the license number of the Nissan van in the White Plains explosion had been phony and led nowhere. Still, any lead had to be pursued, nothing taken for granted.
Partridge’s thoughts moved on to more specific reporting. He reasoned that some or most of what they had uncovered, including the involvement of Ulises Rodríguez, would have to go on air soon, almost certainly within the next few days. There was a limit to how much information could remain dammed up at CBA; though luck had been with them so far, it could change at any moment. Also they were in the news business. Partridge felt his excitement rise at the prospect of reporting progress and decided that right now he had to think in terms of presentation.
“Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, “we may have got off on the wrong foot to begin, but you’ve been pretty helpful to us. How would you feel about making a video recording, repeating most of what you’ve told us here?”
The idea of being on TV, and a network no less, appealed to Godoy. Then he realized the publicity would expose him to all kinds of questions, including those about taxes which had worried him earlier. He shook his head. “No thanks.”
As if reading his mind, Partridge said, “We needn’t say who you are or show your face. We can do what’s called a silhouette interview, using backlighting so viewers will only see a shadow. We can even disguise your voice.”
“It’ll sound like it’s coming through a coffee grinder,” Kettering added. “Your own wife won’t recognize it. Come on, Godoy, what have you got to lose? We’ve a cameraman sitting outside who’s a real expert, and you’ll be helping us get those kidnapped people back.”
“Well …” The undertaker hesitated. “Would you guys promise to keep it confidential, not to tell anybody else?”
“I promise that,” Partridge said.
“Me too,” Kettering agreed.
Mony added, “Count me in.”
Kettering and Partridge glanced at each other, aware that the promise they had made and would keep—the way honest journalists did, no matter what the consequences—could cause them problems later. The FBI and others might object to the secrecy, demanding to know who the silhouette subject was. Well, the network’s lawyers would have to handle that; there had been brouhahas of the same kind before.
Partridge remembered when NBC in 1986 had secured a much-sought-after but controversial interview with the Palestinian terrorist Mohammed Abul Abbas. Afterward, a bevy of critics denounced NBC, not only for holding the interview but for a prior agreement—which the network honored—not to disclose its location. Even a few media people joined in, though clearly some professional jealousy was involved. While argument thrived, a U.S. State Department spokesman huffed and puffed and the Justice Department threatened subpoenas and interrogation of an on-the-scene TV crew, but eventually nothing happened. (The then Secretary of State, George Shultz, only said when questioned, “I believe in freedom of the press.”)
The fact was, and everyone knew it, broadcast networks were in many ways a law unto themselves. For one thing, few government departments or politicians wanted to tangle with them legally. Also, free-world journalism, on the whole, stood for disclosure, freedom and integrity. Sure, it wasn’t totally that way; standards fell short more often than they should because journalism’s practitioners were human too. But if you became an inexorable opponent of what journalism stood for, the chances were you belonged on the side of “dirty” instead of “clean.”
While Harry Partridge considered those fundamentals of his craft, Minh Van Canh was setting up for the videotape interview of Alberto Godoy which Don Kettering would conduct.
Partridge had suggested that Kettering do the interview, in part because the business correspondent clearly wanted to continue his involvement with the Sloane kidnapping—it was, after all, a subject close to the hearts and minds of the entire News Division. Also, there were other aspects of the subject that Partridge intended to handle himself.
He had already decided that he would leave for Bogotá, Colombia, as soon as he could get away. Despite sharing the opinion of his Colombian radio reporter friend that Ulises Rodríguez was not in that country, Partridge believed the time had come to begin his own search of Latin America, and Colombia was the obvious place to start.
Minh Van Canh announced he was ready to begin.
A few minutes earlier, on being called in from outside and looking around the funeral establishment, Minh had decided to set up the interview in the basement where caskets were exhibited. Because of the special backlighting, not much of the display room would be seen; only the wall behind where Godoy was seated was floodlit, with the interviewee in gloom. However, alongside the silhouette of Godoy was now another of a casket, an ingeniously macabre effect. The disguising of the undertaker’s voice would be done later at CBA News headquarters.
Today there was no sound man present and Minh was using one-man equipment, a Betacam with half-inch tape incorporating picture and sound. He had also brought along a small viewing monitor and placed it so that Godoy, now seated, could observe exactly what the
camera was seeing—a technique calculated to make the subject, in such special circumstances, more relaxed.
Godoy was not only relaxed, but amused. “Hey,” he told Kettering, seated nearby, off camera, “you cats are smart.”
Kettering, who had his own ideas about the way this interview should go, gave only a thin smile as he looked up from notes scribbled a few minutes earlier. At a nod from Minh, he began, having allowed for an introduction to be written later, which would precede the on-air showing.
“The first time you saw the man whom you now know to have been the terrorist Ulises Rodríguez, what was your impression?”
“Nothing special. Seemed ordinary to me.” Even under this concealment, Godoy decided, he wasn’t going to admit being suspicious of Novack-alias-Rodríguez.
“So it didn’t trouble you at all when you sold him two caskets initially, then one more later on?”
The silhouette shrugged. “Why should it? That’s the business I’m in.”
“‘Why should it?’ you say.” Repeating Godoy’s words, Kettering managed to convey skepticism. “But isn’t that kind of sale exceedingly Unusual?”
“Maybe … sort of.”
“And as a funeral director, don’t you normally arrange, or sell, what’s called a package—a complete funeral?”
“Most of the time, sure.”
“In fact, isn’t it true that before you made those two sales to the terrorist Rodríguez, you had never, ever, sold caskets in that way before?” Kettering was guessing, but reasoned Godoy wouldn’t know he was, and in a recorded exchange would not lie.
“I guess so,” Godoy muttered. The interview was already not going the way he had expected. In the partial gloom he glared at Kettering, but the newsman persisted.
“In other words, the answer is no, you hadn’t sold caskets that way before.”
The undertaker’s voice rose. “I figured it was none of my business what he wanted them for.”
“Did you give any thought at all to communicating with authorities—the police, for example—and saying something like, ‘Look, I’ve been asked to do something strange, something I’ve never been asked before, and I wonder if you’d like to check this person out.’ Did you consider that?”
“No, I didn’t. There was no reason to.”
“Because you weren’t suspicious?”
“Right.”
Kettering bored in. “Then if you were not suspicious, why is it that on the second occasion Rodríguez visited you, you covertly wrote down the license number of the hearse he was using to take away the casket and kept that information hidden until today?”
Godoy roared angrily, “Now, look! Because I told you something confidential, it don’t mean …”
“Correction, Mr. Funeral Director! You did not say anything about that being confidential.”
“Well, I meant to.”
“There’s quite a difference. And incidentally, neither did you say it was confidential when you revealed before this interview that the price you charged for those three take-out caskets was almost ten thousand dollars. For the kind of caskets you described, wasn’t that a high price?”
“The guy who bought them didn’t complain. Why should you?”
“Perhaps he didn’t complain for his own good reasons.” Kettering’s voice became icy and accusatory. “Didn’t you ask that excessively high price because you knew the man would pay it, knew all the time there was something suspicious, and you could take advantage of the situation, get yourself some extra money …”
“Hey, I don’t have to sit here and take that garbage! Forget all this! I’m getting out.” Angrily, Godoy rose from his chair and walked away, the line from a microphone separating as he did. The route brought him closer to the Betacam, and Minh, swinging it as a reflex action, caught him full-face and in light so, in effect, Godoy violated his own confidentiality. There would be discussion later as to whether that closing sequence should be used or not.
“You bastard!” Godoy stormed at Kettering.
The business correspondent told him, “I don’t like you either.”
“Listen,” Godoy said to Partridge, “I cancel the arrangement.” He pointed to the Betacam. “You’re not to use that. Understand?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Partridge said. “But I can’t guarantee we won’t use it. That will be up to the network.”
“Get the hell out of here!” Alberto Godoy glowered as the recording equipment was dismantled and the CBA News quartet departed from his premises.
During the ride back from Queens, Don Kettering announced, “I’d like to drop off as soon as we’re in Manhattan. I want to start tracing that marked money and there’s an office on Lex where I can do some phoning.”
“Is it possible,” Jonathan Mony said, “that I could come with you?” He glanced at Partridge. “I’d very much like to see how the other half of what we did today works out.”
“Okay with me,” Kettering assured him. “If Harry says yes, I’ll show you some nuts-and-bolts reporting.”
Partridge agreed and they separated after crossing the Queensboro Bridge. While the Jeep Wagoneer continued on to CBA News, Kettering and Mony took a taxi to a brokerage office off Lexington Avenue near the Summit Hotel.
On entering, they were in a spacious room where about two dozen people—some seated, others standing—faced an overhead screen displaying swiftly moving stock market quotations. A dark green carpet contrasted with light green walls; comfortable chairs, fixed to the floor in rows, were upholstered in green and orange tweed. Some of those intently watching the market figures held notebooks with pencils poised; others were less concerned. A young oriental man was studying sheets of music; a few more were reading newspapers; several dozed.
Off to one side was a row of computers and some extension phones, a sign above them reading, LIFT RECEIVER FOR TRADING. Several phones were in use; despite lowered voices, snatches of conversation could be heard. “You bought two thousand? Sell.” … “Can you get five hundred at eighteen? Do it.” … “Okay, get out at fifteen and a quarter.”
On the room’s far side a receptionist saw the two newsmen come in and with a smile of recognition at Kettering, picked up a telephone. Behind her were several doors, some open, leading to interior offices.
“Take a look around you,” Kettering told Mony. “This kind of stock shop will be history soon; this is one of the last. Most others have disappeared the way speakeasies did after prohibition ended.”
“Stock trading hasn’t ended, though.”
“True. But brokers looked at their costs and found places like this don’t pay. Too many people coming in to rest or just out of curiosity. Then the homeless began joining them—in winter, what better place to spend a warm, relaxing day? Unfortunately, the homeless don’t generate a lot of brokerage commissions.”
“Maybe you should do a piece for the news,” Mony said. “Nostalgic, the way you just said, before the last of these goes.”
Kettering looked at him sharply. “That’s a helluva good idea, young fella. Why didn’t I think of it? I’ll talk to the Horseshoe next week.”
Behind the receptionist, a closed door opened and a beetle-browed, burly man came forward, greeting Kettering warmly. “Don, it’s good to see you. You haven’t been around lately, though we’re your faithful followers on the news. Is there something we can do?”
“Thanks, Kevin.” Kettering pointed to Mony. “My young colleague, Jonathan, would like the name of a stock he can buy today which will quadruple in value by tomorrow. Apart from that, is there a desk and a phone I can use for half an hour?”
“The desk and phone, no problem. Come through to the back and use mine; you’ll be more private. About the other thing—sorry, Jonathan, our crystal ball’s out being serviced. If it comes back while you’re here, I’ll let you know.”
They were shown into a small comfortable office with a mahogany desk, two leather chairs, the inevitable computer and a phone.
A name on the door read: Kevin Fane.
“Make yourself at home,” Fane said, “and I’ll send in coffee and sandwiches.”
When they were alone, Kettering told Mony, “When Kevin and I were at college, during summers we worked as runners on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and we’ve kept in touch since. Want some professional advice?”
Mony nodded. “Sure do.”
“As a correspondent, which it looks as if you may be, always keep lots of contacts, not just at high levels but lower ones too, and drop in to keep them green, the way we’re doing now. It’s a means of picking up information, sometimes when you least expect. Also remember that people like to help TV reporters; even just letting you use their phone makes them feel closer to you and, in a strange way, grateful.”
While speaking, Kettering had withdrawn from an inside pocket the several hundred-dollar bills borrowed from Alberto Godoy, and spread them on the desk. He opened a drawer and found a sheet of paper to make notes.
“First we’ll try our luck with the bills that have names written on them. Later, if needed, we’ll work on those with account numbers only.” Picking up a bill, he read out, “James W. Mortell” and added, “this hundred smackeroos passed through his hands at some time. See if you can find him in the Manhattan phone book, Jonathan.”
Within moments Mony announced, “He’s here.” He read the number aloud while Kettering tapped out digits on the phone. After two rings a pleasant woman’s voice answered, “Mortell Plumbing.”
“Good morning. Is Mr. Mortell in, please?”
“He’s out on a job. This is his wife. Can I help?” Not only pleasant, but young and charming, Kettering thought.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mortell. My name is Don Kettering. I’m the business correspondent of CBA News.”
A pause, then a hesitant response. “Is this a joke?”
“No joke, ma’am.” Kettering was relaxed and affable. “At CBA we’re making some inquiries and think Mr. Mortell may be able to help us. In his absence, perhaps you can.”