Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,43
and other sources. “I especially want you to look for any connection at all between them. If they ate at the same restaurant, sat in the same section at Mets games, whatever, I want to know about it.”
He glances through the documents. “Not much here,” he says. “Is there a last name on this one?”
He’s talking about Rosalie, whom we and the police know almost nothing about. “She was a street hooker. I’ll get her roommate to try and come up with any information she can, but there won’t be much. Hold her off for last.”
He nods. “Okay. This could take a while.”
Sam’s ability to hack into computers and come up with information is legendary. It also was once criminal, and I represented him when charges were brought against him for hacking into a large corporation’s computer system. He had done it in retaliation for the corporation’s mistreatment of one of his clients. I got him acquitted on a technicality and in the process developed a healthy respect for his unique talents.
“If you can’t come up with anything, don’t worry about it,” I say, knowing he will take it as a challenge.
He motions me closer. “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?”
He’s doing the Beatles, but I pretend not to notice. “I promise,” I say, though he knows I noticed.
“If it’s in the computer, and it always is, I can find out anything about anyone.”
It’s a process that truly amazes me. “How does it all get in there?”
He shrugs. “Companies that people deal with share the information with other companies—that’s part of it. But you wouldn’t believe how many people sit in their rooms and type their life into their computers.” He shakes his head sadly. “All the lonely people . . . where do they all come from?”
My mind, already cluttered, races to find a Beatles reference that I can counter with. Alas, I cannot, so I decide to leave and let Sam get started. “Call me if you come up with anything good. Okay?”
Sam nods. “Okay. And take it easy, Andy. You look tired. Something wrong? Did you have a hard day’s night? Been working like a dog?”
Got it. “I don’t know,” I say, “it must be this case, but suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me.”
He nods. “Let it be. I’m speaking words of wisdom. Let it be.”
• • • • •
ALAN CORBIN DOESN’T want to talk to me. I suspect this because I’ve been trying to reach him for a week with no luck. And that suspicion was strengthened somewhat yesterday when he accidentally picked up my call and said, “I ain’t fucking talking to you, you little roach.”
Vince knows Corbin, of course, since Corbin is an inhabitant of this planet, but even he has been unable to arrange a meeting. I’ve used Vince to get messages to him, and one of them was a threat to subpoena him for a deposition. It was an empty threat, since I’m not legally empowered to do so, and Corbin’s lawyer called me and told me to back off.
Since backing off is not my forte, I sent another message, again through courier Vince, in an attempt to be more persuasive. I warned that I was going to go on Larry King and tell the nation—actually the world, since CNN is seen everywhere—that Alan Corbin has very strong underworld connections and was in fact Linda Padilla’s link to Dominic Petrone.
Vince further conveyed to Alan, although he said Alan was by this time screaming so loud he might not have heard, that the only way I would cancel the King interview is if there was a scheduling conflict. For instance, if I were talking to Corbin instead.
After threats of lawsuits for slander and libel, and so much wrangling and negotiating that Vince likened it to the U.N. Security Council, Corbin agreed to see me in his office for fifteen minutes. That is why I am right now in his reception area, with his secretary glaring at me as if I were Andy bin Laden.
I’m finally let in to the great one’s office. It’s immediately evident that there is a difference between “high-powered businessman” and “tall-powered businessman.” Corbin can’t be more than five foot five; one of his reasons for dating the much taller Linda Padilla must have been to secure her help in reaching things on high shelves.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say cheerfully.
He looks