Money to Burn (21 page)

41

M
ALLORY POURED HERSELF ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE, EMPTYING THE
bottle. She needed a shoulder to lean on—even cry on a little—and she found it in her friend Andrea.

“Let’s open another,” said Andrea.

Mallory grabbed a key from a hook on the wall. “Here,” she said, sliding it down the bartop to Andrea. “Michael’s personal stash is locked up in the cellar.”

“No offense, but do you really want to drink the good stuff in your condition?”

“Yesh,” Mallory said, slurring. “And the bottles we don’t drink we can pour down the drain. Bottom’s up, Michael.”

Andrea walked inside the climate-controlled cellar behind the bar, came out much too soon to have made an intelligent choice, and placed her selection on the bar.

Mallory made a face. “Damn, girl. You picked the twenty-dollar bottle of Italian toilet water that Michael’s grandfather gave us for our first anniversary.”

Mallory started to get up, but the effects of too much wine rushed to her head. She lowered herself back onto the bar stool, suddenly guilt-ridden. “Sorry, Papa. I shouldn’t take this out on you.”

“You’re sloshed,” said Andrea.

“I had a few glasses before you got here.”

Andrea smiled as she came around the bar and cozied up. “Good. Now I get to hear all the secrets.”

“You want to know a big one?”

Andrea leaned in closer, her eyes eager. “How big?”

“Huge,” said Mallory. “Get this: I think Michael’s first wife is still alive.”

“Ivy what’s her name? I thought you said she was eaten by a shark.”

“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Have you lost your marbles?”

“I’m totally serious,” said Mallory.

“Okay, I’ll bite, no pun intended. What makes you think Ivy has literally risen from the depths?”

Mallory attempted to cross her legs, and Andrea grabbed her just in time to keep her from falling off the stool. Mallory gathered herself, speaking with the forced precision of a drunk trying to sound sober.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like when your husband sleeps around?”

“I’ve never been married, but it can’t be good.”

“It’s horrible. When I caught Don—asshole number one—with his second girlfriend, I said, ‘Never again. I am never going to let a man make me feel like this again.’”

“But you said Michael wasn’t cheating on you.”

“He wasn’t. But I was getting that same horrible feeling. Like I wasn’t his one and only. That was when I started sleeping with Nathaniel.”

“What does that have to do with Ivy being alive?”

Mallory blinked hard, fighting through the alcohol to get back on track. “Ah, excellent question. I was paranoid that someone would find out about Nathaniel and tell Michael. So every night when Michael went to sleep, I crawled out of bed and checked his voice mails, his text messages, his e-mails—just to see if anyone snitched on me. Sure enough, he got one two weeks ago. A text.”

“He got a message you were cheating?”

“Yeah, but I deleted it. He never saw it.”

“What did it say?”

“Something like ‘Mallory is cheating on you,’ and then ‘beware the naked bears.’” She drank more wine, then continued. “I’ve never heard anyone call someone’s lover a ‘naked bear,’ have you?”

“No,” said Andrea. “Definitely not.”

“I Googled it, and all I found were old gay men with hairy bodies.
Gross.
”

Andrea’s glass was empty, so she took a sip from Mallory’s. “Focus, Mal: How does any of that make you think Ivy is alive?”

Mallory walked around the bar, hanging on to the rail as she came to Andrea’s side.

“Because it was signed ‘Just Between Us.’ And I happen to know that the song ‘Just Between Us’ had special meaning to Michael and Ivy.”

“You know what their song was?”

The way Andrea had said it made Mallory feel pathetic. People just didn’t understand. “You think I’m sick, don’t you?”

“No, not at all,” said Andrea.

“You’ve never seen Ivy’s picture. She was beautiful. Smart, too.”

“So are you, Mallory.”

“But I didn’t use my brain to build a successful career in Michael’s world. I quit teaching dance and spent all my energy on something much more difficult: trying to make him want me.” She shook her head. “What a mistake.”

“Don’t go there,” said Andrea. “You sound jealous of Ivy.”

“I wasn’t jealous. I just needed to understand. So I snooped through Michael’s stuff. I read every card and every letter Ivy ever sent him. That’s how I discovered the special meaning of ‘Just Between Us.’”

“So the message was signed ‘Just Between Us,’ and you knew it was from Ivy.”

“Mmm…no. At the time, I figured it was someone Michael was friends with when he and Ivy were together. Someone who didn’t want to get involved but who was trying to tell him that his new wife was no Ivy Layton. It just set me off.”

“What did you do?”

“I could have kept it to myself, bottled it up like I always do. But this time I was so pissed that I used it in a special birthday e-mail I sent him.”

“Used it how?”

Mallory did her best in her state to effect the posture of a vintage-1960s sex symbol. “Nathaniel filmed me singing like Marilyn Monroe.”

“How funny.”

“It wasn’t just a joke. In the subject line of the e-mail I wrote ‘Just Between Us.’”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Mallory, but she had trouble rising from her bar stool. Andrea told her to stay put and answered it.

“Hey, Mallory?” Andrea called out from the foyer.

“Yeah?”

“It’s the police,” said Andrea, sounding worried. “They have a search warrant.”

42

J
ASON
W
ALD WAS DIPPING INTO
P
LOUTUS
I
NVESTMENTS’ PETTY CASH.
The thick envelope atop the small, round cocktail table contained ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

Boy toys like Nathaniel didn’t take credit cards.

The two men were in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, seated at a table near the plate-glass window overlooking Grand Army Plaza, away from the marble stairway that led to a noisy nightclub on the second floor. For Wald’s money, the Plaza just wasn’t the same since the condo conversion, and he had agreed to meet there only because Nathaniel had “other business” upstairs: cheering up a new resident who had a slightly less-than-perfect view of Central Park from the multimillion-dollar suite that her Russian husband had foolishly bought for her, sight unseen.

Such punks Wald had to deal with—important work, to be sure, all of it totally underappreciated by his uncle Kyle. No nephew could fill the void of a lost son, especially when the old man had elevated him to sainthood in death. His uncle seemed to forget that he’d never even set foot in Marcus’ lower schools when the boy lived at home, never visited him at Andover when he went away in ninth grade, never took his son on a family vacation that wasn’t for all practical purposes a summer office for Ploutus in the Hamptons or the south of France.

“Does this payday come with a Wall Street bonus?” asked Nathaniel.

Wald knew he wasn’t joking. Nathaniel was cockier than a porn star with a foot-long tool—his previous job description—and more trouble than he was worth. Wald could have hired any number of handsome men to fool a rich, lonely Wall Street wife into thinking that her pleasure was this young stud’s reason for living. But there was no denying that Nathaniel had delivered the goods. He filmed Mallory’s “happy birthday” video, and it was Nathaniel who—without Mallory’s knowledge—embedded the spyware in the video before Mallory e-mailed it to her husband. The spyware monitored Michael’s keystrokes and yielded the passwords to his investment accounts. There were other ways to plant spyware, of course, but the beauty of this plan was that it hid the identity of the true spy and made the whole thing look like just another symptom of a failing marriage.

“No bonus,” said Jason. “Especially for soldiers who hold out on me.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t held anything back.”

Jason glanced around the lobby to make sure no one was within earshot. He waited for two rich Kuwaitis with their six blond girlfriends to cruise upstairs to the nightclub, then continued.

“I just found out that Michael Cantella got a message two weeks ago telling him that his wife was cheating on him. And that he should beware the naked bears.”

“Right, the text message,” said Nathaniel.

“You knew about that?”

“Sure. Mallory intercepted it. She was paranoid about him finding out about me. She started checking Michael’s text messages, e-mails, and voice mail for about three weeks to see if anyone ratted her out.”

“Did she show the text to you?”

“No, but she told me about it. It was like you just said—a warning to Michael that his wife was cheating and that he should ‘beware naked bears.’”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Didn’t think it was important. Mallory and I even laughed about it.”

“Laughed?”

Nathaniel smiled and said, “I’ve never been called a naked bear before.”

Wald smiled back. It was understandable that a guy like Nathaniel wouldn’t know that a “naked bear” was a special kind of short seller. What amazed him, however, was the number of women he knew like Mallory: a graduate of an elite school like Juilliard who was married to a high roller on Wall Street—and who knew absolutely nothing about industry terms. Neither she nor pretty boy had any idea that the warning was about a bear raid on Saxton Silvers—a short-selling scheme that was orchestrated in such a clever way that the world thought Michael Cantella was behind it.

Wald pushed the envelope toward Nathaniel, who peeked inside. He knew better than to count money in a public place, but he didn’t have to do any math to see that it wasn’t enough.

“How much is this?” said Nathaniel.

“Ten grand,” said Wald.

Nathaniel frowned. “You’re five thousand short.”

Wald wrote a name and a phone number on a cocktail napkin and passed it to Nathaniel. “Call him for the balance.”

“Ian Burn?” said Nathaniel, reading it. “Who’s he?”

“Someone I can count on to get the job done. He’ll take real good care of you.”

Nathaniel shrugged, then rose and tucked the envelope into his coat pocket. The men shook hands. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” said Wald.

Wald sank back into his chair, watching Nathaniel walk to the exit. He smiled thinly, confident that Burn wouldn’t simply make Nathaniel forget about the five grand he was owed.

Soon enough, Nathaniel would
beg
Wald to take back the ten thousand he’d already been paid.

43

M
Y HANDS WERE SHAKING AS
I
RODE UP IN THE ELEVATOR TO
P
APA’S
hotel room.

The phone call from Ivy had left me somewhere between total confusion and panic. Could I possibly call the police and say that my first wife—for whom we’d held a memorial service four years ago—may have just been shot? They’d think I was nuts.

And what was that about Mallory and a man two weeks ago—in a gay bar?

Probably just having a drink with one of her old dance pals from Juilliard.

The elevator opened. I went to Papa’s room and delivered a firm knock on the door. He answered, dressed in pajamas—or at least as much of the pajamas that he ever wore. When I was little, it seemed odd the way Papa would never wear pajama bottoms to bed—just the top and some boxer shorts. The mystery was finally solved when my great uncle once spent the night at our house and came to the breakfast table wearing an undershirt and—what else?—pajama
bottoms
. It was then that I learned that Papa had grown up in a family that could afford only one pair of pajamas for the boys. Big brother got the bottoms; little brother, the top. Old habits die hard.

“Hey, Michael,” he said with a smile, even though I’d clearly woken him.

I entered quickly and locked the door as Papa pulled on a robe.

“Papa, I don’t want you to worry, but it’s important for you and Nana to leave New York.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Go back to Florida tonight?”

“No, don’t go back home. I want you to go on vacation.”

“Michael, you’re talking crazy. This
is
our vacation.”

“I’ve already bought the plane tickets,” I said, which was sort of true. I was still having credit card trouble, so I’d redeemed some of my many frequent-flier miles. “There’s a twelve-thirty
A.M
. flight to Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles? Don’t they have earthquakes out there?”

It wasn’t his fault, but I had no time for this. “Papa, listen to me carefully. There’s a limo and a driver waiting downstairs. His name is Nick. A good guy—Italian—you’ll like him. I’ve used him many times. You and Nana are going to get in Nick’s limo, go to the airport, and fly to Los Angeles. I wrote out your flight information,” I said, handing him the paper, “and your hotel reservation. It’s all paid for.”

His eyes clouded with concern. “Does this have to do with that man named Rumsey that the FBI was asking about—the guy who got killed in the Bahamas?”

Rumsey.
I’d almost forgotten about that part of the puzzle. “I don’t know.”

I could have elaborated, but it wouldn’t have helped. Papa seemed to understand.

“You be careful,” he said as he gave me a hug. Then he gave me another look of concern. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

I hesitated, reluctant to tell him that I hadn’t figured that out yet.

“You might as well use this room,” he said. “It’s paid for.” He got the key for me, then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I left as quickly as I’d come and hurried to the elevator. Papa knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t have comprehended the magnitude of it even if I’d tried to explain. My personal net worth: gone. My wife: divorcing me. My firm: worth $75 billion a week ago, now hours away from bankruptcy. Chuck Bell, the man who had cast me as the scumbag who’d short-sold his own firm down the river: dead. Ivy had returned for a moment, and now she might be dead. Again. Or not.

Run!
That had been her only advice to me. Run, or end up like Chuck Bell. But where was I supposed to go? My cell rang as I crossed the hotel lobby. It was my brother—my lawyer. Ex-lawyer. Soon-to-be-ex-law—Whatever.

I didn’t answer, mindful of Ivy’s warning that “they”—whoever
they
might be—were eavesdropping on my cell. We had security seminars on that kind of thing at Saxton Silvers—how anyone with ninety-nine bucks and no fear of jail could purchase spyware on the Internet, target even the most sophisticated wireless devices, and listen to your phone conversations from across the city. I stepped outside the hotel but couldn’t find a pay phone anywhere on the sidewalk. A college-aged tourist with a backpack was texting on his phone.

“Twenty bucks if I can use your cell for two minutes,” I said.

He seemed skeptical, but Andrew Jackson’s face was staring straight at him. “Sure,” he said, handing it over.

I dialed Kevin, who immediately launched into the bad news.

“I just got a courtesy call from the D.A.,” he said. “She’s giving you the option of surrendering to authorities rather than having the police come out to arrest you in the morning.”

“Arrest?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. You’re being charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with Chuck Bell’s shooting.”

“That’s crazy.”

“The D.A. won’t tip her hand as to the entire case, but I did find out that Bell sent an e-mail to the FNN in-house counsel just before he was shot. Said he was on his way to the studio in New Jersey to meet a ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. The D.A. is linking that message to the meeting you had earlier with Bell in the lobby of his building to say that the ‘higher source’ was you.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near the studio when he was shot. I showed you and Agent Spear the receipt that proves I was at an ATM on Third Avenue.”

“That’s why it’s murder for hire. I’m sure the FBI gave the D.A. a heads-up to bring a conspiracy charge instead of indictment for first-degree murder.”

“But if it’s conspiracy, they still have to connect me to the shooter, right?”

“Apparently the police executed a search warrant at your apartment tonight and found some way to make that connection.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s the shooter?”

“Some guy named Tony Girelli.”

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Small-time thug with mob connections. That’s all I know.”

The tourist wearing the backpack was suddenly hovering over me. “It’s been more than two minutes,” he said.

I waved him off, focusing on Kevin. “It’s clear somebody is trying to frame me for Bell’s murder the same way they framed me for the ‘murder’ of Saxton Silvers. You have to find this Girelli,” I said, “and make sure he tells the police that it wasn’t me who hired him.”

“Where are you now?” asked Kevin.

“I’m…unavailable.”

“Don’t play games with me, Michael. You need a lawyer, and—well, I can’t leave you hanging now. I guess I’m it.”

“I thank you,” I said.

“And as your lawyer, my first piece of advice is to surrender peacefully tomorrow. Don’t make the police cuff you and haul you in. But if I call the D.A. tonight and tell her that we’ve got a deal, you can’t go back on it. I want you in my office at nine
A.M
. and we’ll go from there. You good with that?”

I paused, then said, “I think so.”

“No,” he said sharply. “No ‘I think so.’ A deal is a deal. Tell me now if you’re turning yourself in. Because if you’re not, they’re coming for you in squad cars.”

“If I do turn myself in, will I get bail?”

“I’d say yes. But it won’t be cheap.”

“How much?”

“You’re a rich Wall Street player. Could be a million.”

“What?”

“Easy, Michael. If we bond it out with collateral, you have to come up with only ten percent.”

“My life savings are gone, my wife’s divorcing me, and I can’t even get my credit cards to work. How am I going to bond out a million dollars?”

“It might take a few days, but we’ll work it out.”

It was unfathomable—me sitting in jail while Ivy was on the run in New York. But this way I could at least keep the cops at bay for the next twelve hours.

“All right,” I said. “Call the D.A. and tell her I’ll turn myself in.”

“Good decision. I’ll see you in my office at nine.”

“See you,” I said.

The kid snatched his cell from my hand as soon as I hung up, and he was gone before I could thank him. Several lanes of light traffic cruised north on Eighth Avenue. I honestly had no idea where to go. I had the key to Papa’s hotel room, but going there wasn’t exactly in keeping with Ivy’s advice—
Run!
Ivy was at the top of my list of concerns, but convincing anyone that she was in trouble wasn’t going to be easy, especially after a murder arrest. I had to make someone believe that I wasn’t crazy, and Kevin was my only choice—I had to get some face time with him while I still could.

I crossed Forty-ninth Street on my way to the subway station. I had the green light, but a delivery van came flying out of the twenty-four-hour parking garage on the corner. It barreled down on me like a heat-seeking missile, as if determined to T-bone me in the crosswalk. The van cut me off, then screeched to a halt, stopping half in and half out of the crosswalk. I was about to cuss out the maniac driver when the rear doors flew open. Two men jumped out and grabbed me. I tried to resist, but these thugs were amazingly strong, and they had me. They threw me in the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.

“Don’t move,” the man with the gun said.

I tried not to panic as the van sped away.