Chapter 3

Martin Polikoff pushed into the tavern just before two-thirty that afternoon, rushing through a late summer downpour. He spotted John and the woman sitting in the far corner of the room, away from everyone else.

"Thanks for coming, Martin," John said, rising from his seat. "This is Nina Milano. She's from Westport, Connecticut. She's pretty sure she's my wife," he grinned.

Martin held out his hand and smiled at the woman. She was nervous. The first thing to do was confirm her identity.

"Mrs. Milano, I've been working with John since he woke up in the hospital and we've been having no luck at all establishing his identity until you came along. Please understand that I'm not here to interrogate you, but the circumstances surrounding John's case reek of foul play. I'm a cop. I'm naturally suspicious, so excuse my questions if they sound like I don't believe you. I need to be certain of the facts. Understood?"

"Yes ... understood," the woman said, calming down.

"The first thing I'm going to need is some proof that you are who you say you are. Pictures of you and John together would be very helpful. References that identify John and you together. Family photos would be good. Particularly older ones. Can you do that?"

"Yes ... I'm sure I have a hundred of photos of us together. I have his passport with his picture too. When do you want them?"

"I'd like to send someone to your home to get them as soon as possible. When will you be returning?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow, I suppose," she answered, looking to John.

"Fine. I'll have someone from the Westport police drop by and pick them up. If anyone asks, we're still searching for John ... Tony, I mean. Please don't tell anyone you've been in touch with Tony. We still don't know what's going on and we have to be careful."

"Of course. Tony said the same thing. I won't mention this to anyone," she promised.

"I have another question. Why did you come to the precinct station to ask about your husband and not give them any details?"

"I don't understand."

Polikoff produced the picture taken by the security camera. "Isn't this you?"

Nina examined it carefully. "Yes, it does look like me. But, I was never in a New York City police station. I know I called several people in the N.Y.P.D., but I never did go to see anyone. I couldn't get anyone interested in looking for Tony. I had the Westport Police fax them their missing person's report. That's as far as I ever got."

The detective sat looking at the woman, studying her face and her reactions as she talked.

"If it's not you ... then who is it?"

The woman shrugged, not looking at the detective. He decided to carry on.

He spent the next ninety minutes talking to Nina and Tony. The questions were largely directed at Nina. He asked her about her husband's background and where they came from.

When he had explored all his avenues of investigation with the woman, he once again apologized for grilling her. Nina smiled her understanding, claiming she was grateful for his thoroughness and willingness to help. She admitted that she hadn't expected to find Tony, but by pure luck she had discovered him in the outdoor market.

Tony had remained silent for the most part, concentrating on the detective's questions and Nina's answers. When the interview was concluded, he slumped back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. The meeting had been very intense.

After Polikoff had left, John turned to Nina.

"Have you got a place to stay tonight?"

"Yes. I booked into a hotel uptown." She studied him for a moment. "Are you going to stay with me tonight?" It was a hopeful question.

"No. I'm sorry, but I'm not ready for that. Today has been a big shock and I don't think it would be a good idea just yet. I'd like you to go home tomorrow and find the pictures that Martin wants. I'll call you. I have a new life here and I can't just abandon it."

"But Tony ... you're my husband. I need you back with me, in our home, with our children. Don't you want that?"

"Of course, but ... it's not that simple. Give me some time to work this out, Nina. You've found me now, so you can stop worrying about that. But I have a lot of lost memories to recover. It isn't as simple as just going back to my old life and picking up where I left off. There are too many gaps ... too many things to learn. I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you, but..." He stopped, gazing at the woman before him.

"I guess I understand, Tony. But ... please ... please ... come home soon. I need you. We need you. We'll help you remember. I promise," she begged.

He nodded. "Just give me a chance to get a grip on things. We don't know if I'm still in danger - and that would mean that if I'm in Westport, you and the children might be in danger too. I can't let that happen."

She sighed and closed her eyes, covering her mouth with her hand. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She nodded her understanding. It may not have been what she wanted, but she appeared to understand.

Detective Sergeant Martin Polikoff phoned Muriel Bartlett's apartment promptly at eight the next morning, almost asking for Tony before remembering to call him John.

"Good morning, Martin. I expected your call."

"Yeah. So tell me ... what's changed?"

"I've begun to get more of my memory back. It was happening throughout the day, especially when you were interviewing Nina. I have a lot of new information for you. I was going to call you to set up a meeting. There's a lot you need to know."

"Does Nina know?"

"No. And that's intentional. I'll explain when I see you. This afternoon OK with you?"

"Yeah ... sure ... two-thirty?"

"See you then," Tony said, signing off.

Martin arrived at two-fifteen. Tony smiled as his friend entered the tavern.

"I didn't think you'd be late."

"I've been waiting a long time for this. I brought my pocket recorder. I don't want to miss anything."

"Well ... where to begin. First things first. My name is Anthony Milano, but almost everyone calls me Tony. I am forty-four years old, and my birthday is December 11^th. I am married to Nina Novak and I do have three children. I have a home in Westport, Connecticut and I am financially very well off. I have a summer home on Nantucket Island and we vacation in the Caribbean in winter.

"I am Vice President of Carbutt, Mellows and Davidson ... or at least I was when I was last there." He paused at that point.

"So far, that confirms what Nina told us yesterday."

"Yeah ... well ... that's where it gets interesting," Tony said, pausing again. He seemed to be gathering himself.

Martin sat quietly, waiting for his friend to continue.

"Nina and I ... we weren't getting along that well in the last year or so. I was working hard and had a lot on my mind, and I guess I wasn't paying very much attention to her. I began to wonder if maybe she was falling out of love with me. Maybe even having an affair. Anyway, I hired a private detective to find out if she was cheating on me. I didn't have the time or the energy to fight with her about it. I just wanted to know, and I could make up my mind what to do about it when I found out."

"So, what did you find out?"

"Nothing. He said there was no evidence that she was having an affair with anyone ... male or female."

"So, now you know she wasn't cheating."

"Yeah. I'm not surprised, I guess. That wouldn't be like her. If she'd had enough of me, she'd have said so and we'd have split."

"What did you do with the report?"

"I scanned it into my computer. Unfortunately, Nina told me the F.B.I. has taken it along with all my business and personal files."

"OK, I'll check with my contact at the bureau and see what I can find out about your computer."

Tony nodded. "Thanks ... I'm going to have to explain it to them anyway. I'm sure they've found my buried files on what was going on at CM&D. It's one of the reasons I'm sure someone is out to get me."

"You better explain."

"Yeah, I guess I better," Tony sighed. "About six months before my 'accident, ' I started to get the feeling that something was going on at the company that wasn't kosher. I was seeing trades that didn't make sense and they were being handled by the same guys. So, on my own, I decided to have a look at what was happening, intending to report to the president if I found some irregularities.

"What I found was something that was hard to believe. Three of the senior V.P.'s were running a scam on a raft of small and medium sized investors, and the numbers were staggering. When I started to put the facts together, it ran to over half a billion dollars. It knocked me flat. I had no idea this had been going on," he paused.

"Who were these guys?"

"Conrad Blyer, Elliot Stainsby and Aaron Mahon. They are all long-timers at the firm."

"What did you do?"

"I did what I thought was the right thing. I got a meeting with the president, Stanton Mellows, and told him what I had uncovered. He was pretty upset with me ... thinking I had to be wrong. When I finally convinced him that I was serious, he said he'd handle it. He said he didn't want me implicated and he was sweating about bad publicity."

"Did that sound right to you?"

"No. It didn't. The very first thing you do in a situation like this is call in the S.E.C. or the law. You can't bury five hundred million dollars. I decided to cover my ass. I called a contact I had at the S.E.C. and told him of my suspicions, but I didn't have any hard proof to show him. I promised him I'd get back to him when I had something. That's the last I remember. A couple of days later, I was in hospital, wondering who I was. Except, it wasn't a couple of days. It was weeks. That's it."

"You know what the implications of this are, don't you?"

"Sure ... the president could be in it up to his neck."

"That's what it looks like. In fact, if I checked with my F.B.I. contact, I'll bet he and the three V.P.'s are under investigation. I doubt charges have been laid yet, but they would probably be facing some serious time if charged and convicted. You would be a key player in their trial."

"You think they tried to get rid of me?"

"That's the way it's starting to look. They probably wouldn't do it themselves ... they'd hire someone to do the dirty work," Martin sighed. "Do you know what they did with the money?"

"Not that I can remember. I'm still trying to pull all the pieces together. I imagine it's in some offshore account. The Caymans or something like that. It'll be on my computer if I did know."

Martin leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "What to do ... indeed," he said to no one in particular.

Polikoff picked up the phone on his office desk and punched in the number. "Frank Lafayette, please."

After a minute, there was a response. "Lafayette here," came the slightly accented voice.

"Jesus, Frankie, you still sound like some redneck from Baton Rouge," Martin laughed.

"Yeah ... well you still sound like some Polak from Brooklyn," the man shot back.

"Hah! Well, enough of these warm heart-felt greetings. I got a problem and I need to talk to someone I can trust at the Bureau. You game?"

"Yeah, I suppose. What's this about?"

"You remember me checkin' on a John Doe that turned up in the hospital last year. No I.D., but didn't look like street people?"

"Yeah ... I recall somethin' about it," the man answered, still sounding cautious.

"I gotta name for him now and it's big. I need to talk to you before the shit hits the fan. Your people are going to want him bad. He's a whistle-blower on a big-time scam. I don't want the poor bastard trampled by the powers that be, you get me?"

"OK. Let's meet somewhere and you can spell it all out. Then, maybe ... maybe I can help," the agent said with emphasis on the maybe.

"How about Lorenzo's at seven. I know you like his Cajun Shrimp Fettuccini," Martin laughed.

"Yeah ... the best of both worlds ... Pasta and Cajun. See you there."

Polikoff was waiting for Lafayette at a booth in the back of his favorite Italian trattoria. The big man entered the restaurant and went directly to the table where Martin was sitting. They had met here before.

Francis 'Frank' Lafayette was huge; six foot five and bordering near three hundred pounds. He loved to eat and it showed. His gut hung precipitously over his belt. His sport coat was open and Martin doubted it could be buttoned.