Due Diligence: A Thriller (42 page)

“What if he suspects something? What if he disappears?”

Tony Prinzi chuckled. “No one disappears, Mike. They just go somewhere else. So we have to look. Usually, it isn’t too hard to find them. People are very predictable, Michael. Sadly predictable. When you strike a man, he cries out. When he runs, where does he go?”

“Where he thinks no one will find him?” said Wilson.

“That’s what you would expect, is it not? But this is a very interesting thing. Most people, when they are frightened, go where they will get comfort. This is not necessarily the smartest thing. It’s not necessarily the hardest place to find them. But this is what they do. This is their need, comfort. And the human being, like any animal, seeks to asserge its needs.”

“And where do they get comfort?”

“Where?” Prinzi laughed. “Where would you go, Mike?”

Wilson didn’t answer.

“No, don’t tell me. One day, I may need to find you.” Prinzi chuckled. “Think, Mike. Where would you go? You’re a man. Think about where you would go.” Prinzi waited. “Now, I’ll tell you. Michael, most men go to their woman.”

Wilson nodded.

“Predictable, isn’t it?”

Predictable, thought Wilson.

“He has a girlfriend, our boy?”

“I don’t know,” said Wilson.

“You want to ask?”

“Who would I ask?” demanded Wilson irritably. “The bank?”

“Forget about it. This, we can find out easily enough. A couple of phone calls, it’s done. You ask me, he’s with a girl. Nowadays, sometimes, it’s a boy.” Prinzi laughed. “Modern times. Mike, leave this to me.”

“Tony, you’re sure this is necessary?”

“Michael, you want this done or not done? Either way, you pay me my money. You don’t want it done, I can finish now. So what do you want? Yes or no?”

“Yes,” said Wilson.

“Yes. Good. Good-bye, Mike.”

The line went dead.

Wilson went to his desk. He clicked on Google and did a search and got the Dyson Whitney home page up on the screen. There was a button labeled About Dyson Whitney. Wilson clicked. There was another button labeled Our People. Wilson clicked again. A series of faces came up on the left of the page, the name and a few lines of biography beside each one on the right. Wilson scrolled, scanning the names.

He stopped.

Robert Holding, analyst

Prior to his MBA at Cornell, Robert R. Holding graduated in law from Columbia University and spent two years in the corporate law practice of …

Wilson’s gaze shifted to the picture. A handsome face. Young. Hopeful looking. Nice smile. About the same age as Joey, his oldest son. Just a boy.

Wilson felt the nausea welling up inside him. Until that last conversation with Amanda Bellinger, he had thought he couldn’t go any lower.

He imagined Tony Prinzi, at that very moment, gazing at that same picture on the Net. And then picking up a phone and telling someone to find the boy’s girlfriend.

44

Emmy heard a key turn in the lock.

She watched the door open.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

Silently, Rob closed the door.

“Where? It’s ten o’clock.”

“I had to think,” said Rob quietly.

“Fuck you, Rob! You had to think and you couldn’t even tell me? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

Rob shrugged. “I just … I’m sorry. I needed some time.”

He sat down on the sofa beside her. Emmy’s gaze remained fixed on him, angry, confused.

Rob stared at the rug. Eventually he shook his head. “I keep seeing him, Em. I just keep seeing him opening the door. It was that night, when I rang him. Remember? When I said it was Mrs. Angelou who was knocking. It wasn’t Mrs. Angelou. And when I called him on Sunday, when he didn’t answer … he was dead, Em. That’s why he didn’t answer. He was already dead.” Rob paused. He looked at Emmy. “The radio was still playing.”

Emmy stared at him.

Rob told her about going into the trashed apartment, about hearing the radio, about ringing Greg’s phone. About finally going around the corner to the bedroom and finding him. About the moment before he went around that corner. About the moment after.

Tears ran down Emmy’s cheeks. She reached for Rob and buried her face in his neck.

Rob frowned hard, trying to hold back his own tears. “Emmy,” he said. “Emmy…” He pried her loose. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“The cops didn’t give you a hard time?”

“No. I don’t know, they just asked about where you were. You know, on the weekend. It didn’t take long. Then I came home.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s all right.” She smiled sheepishly. “I called my mom. You weren’t here and I had to talk to someone. She asked if she should come down.”

“Your mom?” Rob looked at her in alarm. Emmy’s parents lived upstate in Rochester. He liked them, but dealing with Emmy’s mom was about the last thing he needed right now.

“It’s all right. I told her I was fine. I said I’d call if I wanted her to come down.”

Rob nodded. “Listen, Emmy. There’s something I’ve got to talk to you about. Did the cops say what they thought happened?”

Emmy shook her head.

“When I went in, I thought there’d been a burglary. But I’m not sure if that’s what it was. I think that’s what it was made to look like.”

Emmy gazed at him, not understanding.

“They knocked on the door, Em. You don’t knock on someone’s door and then kill them when they answer it, not if you’re just trying to steal their iPod.”

“Why not? Some crackhead…”

“Emmy, come on. The radio was still playing. And the place was really trashed. Think about it. They must have trashed it after they killed him. They made it look like a burglary. That’s what the cops think. I can tell from the things they asked me.”

“So someone … what? I don’t understand.”

“Someone went there with the intention of doing what they did.”

“You mean someone wanted to kill Greg?”

“I’m not sure it was Greg they were trying to kill.”

“Well, who—” Emmy stopped. Her eyes went wide. She shook her head. “No! What? You’re saying … no. Come on. No.”

“Greg moved in that same day. How would anyone have known where he was?”

“Maybe he told someone.”

“Someone who wanted to kill him?”

“Maybe they followed him. Rob, he was a DA. There must have been hundreds of people who had a reason to hate him.”

“When was the last time you heard of a DA getting killed?”

Emmy shook her head again. “No. I don’t believe it.”

“What if they made a mistake?”

“No. This is crazy, Rob. You’re saying someone wanted to kill you?” She stared at him in incredulity. “Why? Why would they? What could they possibly expect? No. You’re wrong. It’s ridiculous!”

Rob grabbed her hands. He leaned close to her, looking into her eyes. “Emmy, let’s say it wasn’t really a burglary. It’s a possibility, so let’s assume it for a second. If it wasn’t, then they went in there to kill someone. And if that’s what they were doing, it’s a lot more likely they were looking for me than Greg. It’s logic. It’s gotta be a possibility.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Emmy, it was the cops who suggested it to me.”

“And they let you go?” demanded Emmy in horror. “They’re not gonna … protect you or something?”

“It’s just a theory to them. As far as they’re aware, there’s no one who’d want to kill me.”

“Exactly! Who would want to—” Emmy stopped. Something in Rob’s gaze struck her cold. “You mean this deal?”

Rob nodded. “What else could it be? I’ve thought about it. What I told that journalist is enough to stop this deal cold. The paper prints that and it’s over.”

“But they didn’t print it.”

“Someone must have told someone.”

“A journalist doesn’t reveal her sources.”

“It might not be the journalist. There’s probably a bunch of people at the
Herald
who know about this by now. Editors, secretaries. It wouldn’t be too hard to get my name if you tried.”

“But it’s just business. You said it yourself. They’re not gangsters, they’re businessmen. Fat, middle-aged businessmen.”

“Chasing twelve billion dollars’ worth of deal, Em. That’s what this is worth. You don’t think someone might kill for that kind of money?”

“Jesus, Rob…”

“For us alone, Dyson Whitney, it’s sixty, seventy million in fees.”

“How much did you say?”

“Sixty or seventy million.”

Emmy’s eyes went wide at the sheer scale of the numbers. “Rob, you’ve
got
to go to the police.”

“And tell them what, exactly?”

“That this deal’s wrong.”

“And how do I know that?”

“You’ve got the proof.”

“No, I haven’t. You know what I’ve got. A couple of names. Circumstantial evidence. No detail, Emmy. And no one anywhere is going to back me up. No one in the bank, and sure as hell no one at the Leopard.”

“What about the guy who gave you the names?”

“The guy who gave me the names gave them to me because he doesn’t want to be identified. He’ll deny it just like everyone else will, and I’ll look like an idiot. I simply haven’t got enough. I spoke to the journalist tonight. Yeah, I gave her a call. You know why they didn’t publish? Not enough evidence. Not enough proof. If a shitty paper like the
Herald
isn’t prepared to use that stuff, I don’t think the cops are going to be too impressed, do you?”

Emmy watched him, eyes full of concern. “So, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I need to figure that out.”

“Rob, maybe you should talk to the police. Really.”

Rob didn’t reply.

“Have you been back to the office?”

Rob shook his head.

“Have they been calling you?”

“About a million times. Lucky they don’t have the number here.”

Emmy nodded. She took his hand. “Well, you’re safe with me. No one knows you’re here, right?”

*   *   *

Sleep didn’t come easily. After a while, Emmy fell into a kind of drained, exhausted slumber. But Rob couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in the darkness, staring, and there was nothing to distract him from the what-ifs in his head.

They came back, one after the other. What if? What if? What if? What if he hadn’t told Greg to answer the door? He saw him in his mind, opening it. He imagined what happened in the moments that followed. But how could he imagine it, how could he even begin? Maybe that was why his mind kept sticking with that image of Greg opening the door, because it didn’t want to go any further. He thought of the cops turning up at Greg’s parents’, giving them the news. What if he had been in the apartment, as anyone would have expected, instead of Greg? He thought of cops turning up to his own parents’. To Emmy. His mind rebelled at that as well. It went around and around, looking for something it could bear to think about, moving on to the next thing, and the next.

He had to stop. He had to think. There were things he had to work out. Be rational, he thought. Like when he was in the coffee shop. Be rational. Be analytical.

He kept saying that to himself. He
had
to get a grip. Feelings could come later. There would be time to grieve for Greg, to feel the guilt in knowing that he had died in his apartment, to try to explain it to Greg’s parents, to tell them how Greg happened to be there that night, to ask for their forgiveness, or at least their understanding. Later.

He frowned, forcing the what-ifs and the images and everything else into some closet in his mind. It was almost a physical effort, pushing them in there, closing the door against them. Locking it.

He stared at the ceiling. Okay. Be rational, he thought. Be analytical.

He could go to the police with his suspicions, but where was his proof? Louisiana Light wasn’t some two-bit pawn shop. Allegations about a company like that had to be backed up with evidence. Where was it? Not even enough for a scandal sheet that was a national disgrace to publish the story. It was an allegation without any evidence, without foundation. A couple of names he really knew nothing about and now a theory that someone was trying to kill him because of them. He thought about the two cops. If he came to them with a story like that, what would they do?

He tried to see it from their point of view. It would sound unbelievable. They’d think he was trying to … what? Put them off the scent? Divert them? From what? He’d turn himself into a suspect.

In fact, he probably was a suspect.

He thought about it. He was, he had to be. He went over the questions the two detectives had asked him, the looks on their faces when he answered. And Emmy had said all they asked her about was where he had been over the weekend. Of course he was a suspect. When could he have done it? It was obvious. On the way back from work on Saturday night, before he got to Emmy’s. There was a time gap there when no one was with him to say what he was doing. But when they got the phone records they’d see he didn’t have time. But what if it looked as if he did? Desperately, he tried to remember how long he had been at Emmy’s before he made the call to Greg. That would be the only fixed point the cops would have, from his phone records. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, could it? What if it were ten minutes, fifteen? When exactly did he leave the office? He tried to remember. Sammy and Cynthia had left at the same time. What if they didn’t remember? What if they said it was earlier than it was?

And now, what if he came to the cops with this unbelievable story, backed up with no evidence at all? What were they going to think?

And even if they believed him, they’d leave him waiting while they investigated it. Waiting, hanging out in the open, while whoever killed Greg came looking to correct his mistake. Or say they took it seriously, put him under some kind of protection while they checked it out. Say they did that, at best. What would they do then? Go and ask Louisiana Light if there was any problem with Grogon and ExPar. And what would Lousiana Light say? No. What would they do then? Send in a bunch of accountants with a search warrant? Yeah, right. Two cops like Engels and Nabandian? Or they’d go and ask the journalist and a bunch of people at the
Herald
if they gave his name to anyone. And what would the
Herald
say? Of course not.