Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [38]
“Veteran’s Administration,” answered the bored voice at the other end.
“Extension Three-six-six-four, please,” came Michelle’s executive secretary voice. It buzzed four times before it was picked up.
“Mr. Leary’s office,” answered a flat female voice.
“Mr. Leary, please—Assistant United States Attorney Wayne calling,” said Michelle, now with a clipped, upper-class tone. If Leary was around, it was clearly expected he was to get his ass over to the telephone—pronto.
A pause, then a voice: “This is Mr. Leary. How can I help you?”
“Hold for Mr. Wayne, please,” said Michelle, hitting the toggle switch and handing the phone to me with a smile. I took the instrument, smoothed out my voice (all those Strike Force guys went to Ivy League schools), and opened the dialogue. “Mr. Leary? Good of you to speak with me, sir. My name is Patrick Wayne, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. We’ve had a situation come up here that I hope you can help us with.”
“Well . . . I will if I can. Are you sure it’s me you want to talk to?”
“Yes, sir—allow me to explain. We are interested in an individual who is currently receiving VA benefits—and our interest frankly concerns traffic in narcotics. We are in the process of preparing an informational subpoena for your payment records so we can determine the extent of this individual’s ability to support himself.”
“A subpoena . . .”
“Yes, sir. It would be delivered to you personally, and would encompass the full range of your activities pursuant to . . . but, let me explain. That’s why I’m calling you. The subpoena—and the Grand Jury testimony, of course—may not be necessary if we can secure your cooperation.”
“Cooperation? But I haven’t done—”
“Of course you haven’t, Mr. Leary. All we really need is the opportunity to speak with this particular individual. You see, we have learned that he has no permanent address—that he comes directly to the VA for his check every month. All we want you to do is put a temporary stall on that check the next time he comes, and give our office a call. Even a day’s delay is more than sufficient. Then, when he returns the following day, we will be able to pick him up and speak with him.”
“And then there’d be no subpoena?”
“No, sir—there’d be no need for one.” First the pressure—then the grease. “Of course, I realize you probably have no interest in such things, but it is the policy of our office to award governmental commendations to those who assist us as you will be doing. If you are shy about the media we could avoid all publicity, but our office does feel you should have official recognition in some way.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” chanted the bureaucrat, “I just do my job.”
“And we appreciate it, Mr. Leary—rest assured that we do. Our man’s name is Martin Howard Wilson.”
“What’s his service number?”
“Sir, I’ll be frank with you. We only have an old number, and we’re fairly certain he’s been collecting under a new one. We assumed your computer network—”
“Well, we are fully computerized. But searching for just a name takes longer.”
“Would his last known address help you?”
“Certainly,” he snapped back, now officially on the job.
“We have Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, but we understand he’s long since departed that location.”
A sly note crept into Leary’s civil servant’s voice as he said, “This will take just a few minutes to check—can I call you back?”
“Certainly, sir, please take down our number,” and I gave it to him.
We said good-bye on that note. I smoked another couple of cigarettes and Michelle went back to her Gothic romance novel, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. In about fifteen minutes, the phone box buzzed.
Michelle threw the switch, bit down on the wad of gum. “United States Attorney’s Office,