The Trials of Max Q, page 9
“Go away,” I say and turn to the next page.
“Jack, open up—it’s Shep.”
“Go away!”
“Jack, we have to evacuate. There’s been a bomb threat—they said if we don’t release Drew Anderson, the building will be blown up.”
Chapter 22
My alarm is blaring the Simon and Garfunkel classic “Wednesday Morning 3 A.M.” I lay in a daze, immersed in a dream of Reyanne.
A banging noise on the sliding-glass door jolts me awake. Then another. Bam. Bam. Bam. I remember the bomb threat from the day before and I’m instantly alert and on my feet.
I realize these are not shots from a sniper rifle—my window is being pelted by small rocks.
I slide open the door and step out into the hazy morning. A small pebble glances sharply off my left shoulder.
“Agh!” I scream out.
“Jack—I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you there,” shouts Ashley, who for some reason is throwing rocks at her own house.
“What are you doing?”
“I was just trying to get your attention, Jack—I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
It’s hard to stay mad at Ashley. “No, I was already up,” I lie. “What’s going on?”
“I was going to offer you a ride to work.”
This doesn’t strike me as an emergency of rock throwing proportions. Besides, the bike ride always clears my head. “Thanks for the offer, Ash, but I’m going to bike in today.”
I contemplate other motives she might have for me in the name of Jack Lawson’s best interests. Perhaps she plans to whisk me away for an early morning “stress relieving” skydiving trip. Or maybe she met a woman that she decided was beyond a reasonable doubt the one for me, and has set up a romantic breakfast for us.
Ashley remains steadfast. “Jack, I think it would be a really good idea for you to ride with me this morning.”
I have never won one of these struggles with her, so I give in. “Just give me a minute to change,” I say.
Ashley smiles at her victory.
I return to my room and flip on the television. Gifford Brown appears on the screen in a taped interview from yesterday. He’s discussing the bomb threat that turned out to be a hoax. He reveals that the Otsego County DA’s Office has received over a hundred death threats since the news of Drew Anderson’s arrest. Most are just kooks looking to stir up trouble. But some threats, like yesterday’s from a known group of fanatics, must be taken seriously. Their belief is that Drew Anderson was either innocent, or had performed a great deed for mankind by eliminating the devil. Basically, the same misguided nonsense that led to Reyanne being taken away from this world.
I throw on a pair of jeans and T-shirt that salutes my alma mater, the Brown Bears. I add a black and gold New Orleans Saints baseball cap that I bought when I went to visit Reyanne’s family in Louisiana—an offbeat but tight-knit group that believed in pursuing dreams more than the almighty dollar—and round off my disguise with a pair of dark sunglasses. Just another tourist in Cooperstown.
I head back past the television where I catch a clip of Kerri. She is hitting home the same points she made in our office yesterday, and they are just as powerful.
I click off the television and head off to join Ashley.
I hop in the van and she jets out onto Route-80, driving toward Cooperstown Village. “What’s going on?” I ask.
She nods her head toward the back, indicating for me to take a look. I get the feeling that this is not an impromptu skydive or blind date.
Behind the curtain, wearing his wool, pinstriped New York Yankees uniform, is George Herman … private investigator extraordinaire.
“I thought this would be a good place to meet, kid. Tough to get any privacy the last few days.”
Ashley looks back with the smile of a Cheshire cat, proud of pulling off such a covert operation.
“I’m just going to do my normal schedule, while you two talk,” she informs.
I nod and shut the curtain. I duck under hanging dry-cleaning, and try to avoid stepping on the many bags of groceries and other items marked for Ashley’s clients. I find my way to a bench that lines one side of the vehicle and take a seat next to George
Before he begins firing information my way, I ask, “George, would you mind if I brought someone else into this conversation? I promised her that she would be present when we discussed information pertaining to this case.”
He is hesitant to bring in a third party, but agrees to make an exception in this instance.
I instruct Ashley to stop in front of our office on Main to pick up Shep. She agrees with a smile, loving the spy-movie she’s playing the female lead in. I check my phone and notice a warning that says my voice mail is full—looks like one of my friends in the DA’s Office gave out my number to the media. I make a mental note to get a new phone, and possibly new co-workers, before calling Shep’s number.
“You want me to do what? We have a million things to do today, Jack. I don’t have time to go on some joy ride!”
“Just meet us out front in five minutes, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going,” I say, and hang up before she can respond. If she doesn’t show, she can’t say I don’t trust her again.
I peer out the tinted rear window. We can see out, but the caravan of media following us—who seemed to have popped up from nowhere—can’t see in. If Ashley keeps on the move, we’ll have privacy. An ingenious idea.
We stop in front the DA’s Office, which is now surrounded like General Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn.
Out of the chaos appears Shep, running awkwardly in her high-heeled shoes. She pushes her way to the passenger door, fighting through the crowd that’s blocking her way. It looks like a crowd rushing the stage at a rock concert.
Ashley swings the door open and whisks Shep into the van. I can already visualize the headlines: Assistant District Attorney Kidnapped in Broad Daylight!
Ashley hits the accelerator, and the crowd parts. Nobody is willing to die for the cause.
“What’s this all about?” Shep asks, as the van moves down the crowded Main Street. We are boxed in—a slow trolley in front of us and a funeral-like procession of media on our heels.
“Go back and find out,” Ashley says with a smile.
Chapter 23
Shep looks at me, demanding answers with her eyes. I agree this could use some explanation, so I let her in on George’s alter ego.
She thinks I’m kidding. Like most in Cooperstown, she only knows George as the lovable impersonator. Once she understands that I’m serious, her look turns annoyed. I can guess her thoughts—Kerri has an army of elite investigators working on this case and we have a Babe Ruth impersonator! But being underestimated has always been George’s secret weapon.
While she appears skeptical, I have scored points for extending the trust branch. She sits down beside us, ready to listen, which is her way of saying thanks.
George starts right in with his businesslike approach. His serious tone is much different from that of his jovial Babe character.
“For a little background, Laney Bang arrived in Cooperstown on Sunday morning. Her first act was checking into the Otesaga Hotel with a fellow adult film actress who goes by the name Amber Jazz.
“Laney was brought by a limo service to Saratoga, where she watched her horse win the final race of the day. The second item on her itinerary was a book signing at Cooperstown Books that began at five o’clock that evening. Then the third and final act, was a scheduled meeting at Anderson Estate at nine o’clock.”
“What was the purpose of the meeting?” I ask, still convinced it was just an excuse for Laney and Anderson to partake in a different type of business.
“From her perspective, she wanted Lansdale’s group to back off. As much as the publicity helped initially, whether it be good or bad, eventually the loss of sponsors from her show, or stores not selling her book, would take its toll on the Laney Bang brand. She wanted to stop the decline before it started, and kept the negotiations secret so that she didn’t hurt any of her anti-establishment street cred.”
“But business deals are two-sided, what would Anderson or Lansdale’s group get out of it?” Shep asks.
“Anderson is about to run for governor of New York. Whatever you think of her, Laney Bang had become an enormously powerful voice who could swing a large block of voters. And Lansdale probably wanted Anderson to win the governorship more than Anderson did. They were discussing a public truce, in which Anderson would have appeared on her talk show.”
“It’s good strategy,” I say, thinking aloud. “He would appeal to those who never thought to vote for Drew Anderson. He might offend his closest followers, but they’ll vote for him anyway. Not only will Laney’s show get big ratings when he appears, but Max Q will also give her some mainstream credibility. She has gotten this far being the rebel, but ultimately the rebel always loses to the establishment. She was going to make an attempt to get her establishment membership card.”
The van jolts to a sudden stop.
“I’m at CVS Pharmacy, guys. I have to pick up some prescriptions for a couple of my clients. Our next stop will be old Mrs. Johnson’s farm in Milford,” Ashley yells back to us.
A mob of reporters greet Ashley as she leaves the van and heads into the pharmacy. She strolls past their confused looks like a movie star working the red carpet at a movie premiere.
After the brief distraction, George continues, “The third person present at the meeting was Anderson’s personal assistant, Ryan Maxon. The fourth was Laney’s travel comapnion, Amber Jazz. And the fifth person at the meeting was James Lansdale.
“He arrived with Anderson at approximately eight p.m.—they had dined together at a Saratoga restaurant after leaving the racetrack. At 8:30, Anderson sent the house-staff home, citing an important and confidential meeting that was going to take place that evening.
“Laney Bang was supposed to wrap up her book signing by 7:30, but because of high turnout, it lasted an extra hour. The local police agreed to give her an escort to her meeting at Anderson Estate, due to concerns for her safety.”
I remember Anderson telling me at the racetrack that he was returning to Manhattan that night to attend a party with his wife. Perhaps he wanted anyone and everyone thrown off the scent, but Drew Anderson not telling the truth is starting to become a trend.
“Roger Beneke was the police officer who escorted her,” George goes on. “First, they dropped by the Otesaga Hotel to pick up Amber Jazz, before proceeding to Anderson Estate, where they were let in about 9:15 by the guard manning the front gate, John Scurry—the only estate employee still present.”
“Beneke is the same officer who was the first one on the scene,” I make a note of what I now see as an interesting coincidence.
“I have no idea what took place in this meeting,” George admits, “but I do know that at eleven o’clock, Ryan Maxon and Amber Jazz left together. They took a motorboat across Otsego Lake to the hotel, where they made quite a spectacle of themselves at the patio bar. Drinking, dancing on tables, and generally all over each other. When their display became too graphic, they were asked to leave the bar area. They retreated to her room where they kept the neighboring rooms up all night with their antics—multiple complaints were filed with the front desk.”
“What about Lansdale?” Shep asks.
“At 1:15, a helicopter arrived for Lansdale. It first took him to his home in Saratoga, where they made a brief stopover, and then on to New York City.”
Shep’s mind is at work. “Maybe that’s what he wanted people to think, but instead, Lansdale remained in Saratoga, so he could be in striking range the next morning to do some smut hunting.”
“The thought did cross my mind, but we have confirmation he landed in Manhattan at the West 30th Street helipad at three o’clock, and security video shows him checking in to the Four Seasons Hotel—where he stays when he’s in Manhattan—just before 3:30 a.m. And he was present at a meeting in Midtown at eight the next morning.”
George provides us with a printout of the flight log. The helicopter left the West 30th Street helipad in Manhattan at midnight to pick up Lansdale—the trip took eighty minutes—then followed the path that George outlined, arriving back in Manhattan at three.
But there’s a twist. The helicopter made another trip the next morning. Leaving Manhattan at 5:45 and flying to Lansdale’s yacht. It returned to Manhattan, arriving at 8:21.
“If Lansdale was at a meeting in the city, then what was this flight about?” I ask.
“I also found it strange. But from what I’ve learned, Lansdale likes to keep his girlfriends overnight on his yacht and then fly them into Manhattan the next morning. According to my sources, and from checking past log records, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
George hands us a copy of a pilot’s license. “I checked with the pilot, who was sworn to secrecy on the identity of the girlfriend, citing confidentiality agreement with Lansdale. But he did let it slip that the trip was to pick her up. He also revealed that Lansdale is especially protective of this one, since she’s going through marital problems—as in she has a husband. The helicopter went directly to the yacht, then immediately returned, so it’s hard to see how it could be connected to the murder—the time-line just doesn’t seem to fit. But I’ll dig deeper.”
I look at the fresh-faced pilot. He looks to be about sixteen years old, even if the license says he’s twenty-five. His name is Anthony Forge.
I hand the log and pilot license back to George, the meeting still tugging on my mind. “I just can’t believe that Lansdale would be willing to risk his group’s support to cut a deal with Laney Bang. That would totally crumble his credibility. And I met the guy at Saratoga—he’s a true believer in what he’s selling. ”
“Don’t underestimate how important it would be to have his friend as the governor, and possibly in the White House down the line,” George turns into a political analyst before our eyes. “Can you imagine if President Max Q got the opportunity to reconfigure the Supreme Court? Endless possibilities in shaping the social fabric of America, which is what Lansdale’s group really wants. He could sell that to his followers.”
“Makes sense,” Shep agrees.
“So between Lansdale leaving at 1:15, and Laney’s call for help approximately five hours later, did anyone else come onto the property?” I ask.
“Nothing I can confirm, but I’ll continue to work on it, kid.”
I think what he’ll find is that Laney Bang and Drew Anderson were alone on the estate for the next five hours. If she willingly agreed to stay, she obviously didn’t feel threatened. I remember what the medical examiner said about the trust Laney Bang felt toward her attacker.
“Yesterday we received affidavits from the defense, stating that Anderson was jogging at the time of the 911 call,” I change gears.
“I checked with John Scurry. He didn’t see Anderson leave, but he said that’s not uncommon. The gate is there for vehicles, but there are numerous acres with access to the road. So there’s no way to prove that he didn’t.”
“What about the cops?” Shep asks. “Beneke escorted her to the property the night before, so he knew she was there. And Sheriff Opp has been rumored to have an ax to grind with Anderson—not to mention a specific knowledge of the security systems at Anderson Estate.”
The van begins to bounce over a gravel driveway. I was so wrapped up in the discussion that I didn’t notice that Ashley had returned to the van and set out for her next destination. Through the tinted window, I view the procession of vehicles that are following us to Mrs. Johnson’s farm, despite the numerous No Trespassing signs that feature a picture of a shotgun. After an abrupt stop—thankfully she’s much smoother behind the controls of a plane—Ashley collects the items for Mrs. Johnson from the back of the van. I briefly consider how funny it would be for the three of us to carry them in with her.
“Opp was overseeing a security meeting for the upcoming Hall of Fame ceremonies at the time, so he has an alibi. Beneke was on duty, but that’s all I really know at this point.”
“Anderson is the only one who could have done it,” I assert. “Something happened in those five hours to give him a motive. Nobody rises to the top without collecting some skeletons in their closet. Perhaps Laney Bang threatened to use some of those old bones against him and it got her killed.”
“We still have no evidence, no motive, and can’t disprove his alibi,” Shep isn’t buying it.
Ashley returns and aggressively backs the van out of the driveway. The media vehicles behind us panic into reverse, causing a humorous domino effect.
“Next stop will be a dry cleaning drop off in Oneonta,” Ashley announces.
“Anything else that can help us?” I ask George.
“I got Drew Anderson’s cell phone records. He called his New York City residence twice. There was a twenty-second call at eleven o’clock, so I assume he left a message on voice mail. Called the same number again at 11:36 and spoke for almost ten minutes—probably talking to his wife.
“According to the police, she returned home from a party just after eleven. Was so intoxicated that a neighbor had to help her inside,” I say.
“I’m curious if he told her he was having a slumber party with a porn star?” Shep wonders aloud.
“Regardless of the crux of the conversation, a husband calling his wife is not out of the ordinary,” I add.
“No, but his other call might be. At 6:19 a.m. he called Ryan Maxon’s cell phone,” George says, unable to hold back a big grin.
Chapter 24
Shep looks at me—then at the motorcycle—before announcing, “I’m not getting on that thing.”
“Suit yourself—I’ll go interview Maxon alone.”
“How about I call someone at the office to drop off my car?”
“I don’t want anyone at the office to know where we are. I don’t trust any of them.”
