Stephen Frey (17 page)

“I appreciate that,” the other man said respectfully. “A presidential campaign must be grueling.”

“You have no idea.”

“I won't take much of your time, I promise.”

“All right.” The demands of a tough campaign could be pushed aside for a few minutes in the name of an attractive business proposition. The man on the other side of the desk had come to Baker's office soliciting an offer to participate with a prominent New York family in a high-profile Manhattan real estate project. Manhattan was a market Baker had never been able to crack from the West Coast, and he wanted to hear more. “The family you represent comes highly recommended by people I know in New York.”

“I'm sure.”

“Tell me what you want.”

Joseph Scully cracked a thin smile. “I want to tell you a story.”

Baker looked up from the small bag of sour cream potato chips he'd been rooting through. “I just told you I don't have much time.”

“This won't take long, and I think you'll find it most interesting. It involves child pornography and an abortion.”

Baker felt his mouth run dry.

“We have detailed records of certain Web sites you have visited over the last two years, and the material you've downloaded.”

Too late, Baker realized what was happening. “Get the hell out—”

“Through a vast Web network and cookie technology, we have tracked your movements on that computer right there,” Scully pointed to the unit on Baker's desk, “as well as the one you have at home. You have been downloading illegal pictures of underage girls. You have also been exchanging pictures with individuals who are known by federal authorities to traffic in child pornography,” Scully continued matter-of-factly. “I'm willing to believe that you had no idea the girls were underage, but the public won't care. I think you know that.”

“I ought to throw you out the window—”

“I wouldn't recommend that, Mr. Baker. If I don't call my people in an hour, not only will the newspapers be filled with reports of your activities on the Internet, but there will also be accounts detailing the fact that your wife had a very secret abortion several years ago.” Scully smiled triumphantly. “There was no indication that the fetus was brain-damaged or had any physical deformity that might have prevented it from growing up normally.” Scully paused for effect. “You simply didn't want another child. It's safe to say that a candidate running on a platform as conservative as yours will be dead in the water soon after that kind of information is released.”

“My wife was raped,” Baker whispered.

“Maybe, but you never reported the crime. We checked. There is no record anywhere of her being attacked. If you use that explanation, people either won't believe you or they'll feel sorry for your wife and hate you for using her to save your campaign. It's a no-win situation.”

“Who do you represent?” Baker's voice was barely audible.

“I'll let you figure that out. Meanwhile, I'll give you detailed instructions on everything you are to say and do within the next twenty-four hours.” Scully stood up to leave. “By the way, the real estate transaction is legitimate. As long as you play ball, you will be a partner with the family I mentioned on the phone in that Manhattan real estate project, and you will profit handsomely.”

B
o entered the antique-filled Park Avenue apartment, took Catherine by the hands, and kissed her gently on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Fine. Really okay.”

Bo nodded. It was as he had described to Michael. Catherine seemed very controlled for a woman who had just lost her husband, father, and brother. “I'm glad you're holding up.”

“But you can't understand it.”

“Well, I—”

Catherine pulled her hands away. “Jimmy Lee made me marry Tom Bristow. It was all in the name of greed, Bo.”

“Now is no time to be bitter. We all have to—”

“I hadn't been intimate with Tom in five years. I felt nothing when I heard he was dead. I know how dreadful that sounds but it's true.”

Bo gazed at Catherine. He was well aware that the marriage had soured, but until now had had no idea how badly.

She turned so that her back was to him and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Tom and Teddy were lovers for years, Bo.” For the first time since she had received the phone call from Paul informing her that Tom and Teddy were dead, emotion overtook her and tears began streaming down her face. “For a long time I lived with it, but you can be lonely for only so long.” She wept gently into her hands. “I'll probably go to hell, but I needed companionship. I needed someone to love me.”

With that, she fled the room and Bo's questioning look.

T
onight's mission was out of the ordinary, but he had learned long ago not to question directives. It was a more mundane operation than he was accustomed to—he had enjoyed killing Tom Bristow and the Hazeltine Security employee—but he had learned not to complain either. They took good care of him.

He had easily penetrated Reggie Duncan's campaign headquarters without tripping the alarm that was connected to the window through which he had entered. Now, as he stood beside a motion sensor and deliberately passed his hand back and forth in front of it, he smiled. The police would be here in a few minutes and his superiors would be pleased. Perhaps, once they had bailed him out of jail, they would give him one of those assignments he enjoyed. If not, he'd have to do it for no reason. He was becoming addicted.

Satisfied that the alarm had been tripped at the local precinct, he sat down in a desk chair to wait. When the police arrived, sirens blaring, he'd have to make it look like he was trying to escape.

CHAPTER 11

“
B
ring me the private equity sheet,” Bo demanded, glaring at Ramsey from behind the bank of computer monitors on his desk. The private equity sheet listed, by amount and date of transaction, every investment Warfield Capital had made in a nonpublic company. Each of Warfield's ten departments, from commodities to equity arbitrage, maintained similar sheets—updated hourly by the firm's central network—so that Bo could quickly determine exactly what lay in the firm's huge portfolio. He allowed his department heads wide latitude in managing their specific portfolios, but when he noted something that seemed amiss—concentration in a particular sector or an unhedgeable security—he was quick to step in and buy or sell accordingly. Portfolio management came naturally to him, even with two hundred billion under his control. Even with a year's layoff.

Ramsey glared back from the office doorway. He had been certain that, despite Teddy's death, Paul would somehow manage to block Bo's return to Warfield Capital. Ramsey was fairly sure that Paul didn't understand the full scope of what was happening within the firm or who was pulling the strings now that Jimmy Lee was gone—as Ramsey did not either. But he knew that Paul understood quite well the critical need to keep Bo from Warfield's records. He knew that Paul understood how quickly his campaign could unravel if Bo were allowed unrestricted access to everything in the private equity portfolio. “Did you discuss all of this with Paul?” Ramsey asked.

“All of what?” Bo wanted to know. He could see Ramsey's intense discomfort, and it elated him. He had come to detest the man during his exile in Montana, but only now did he realize how much.

“This,” Ramsey stammered, gesturing around the office.

In the last two days Bo had made the office his again by removing most of Ramsey's decorations—the expensive furniture and the paintings. Now papers and reports covered tables and chairs, and the six computer monitors on Bo's resurrected desk—brought out of storage yesterday—were blinking madly with financial quotes. The office no longer resembled a museum. Now it looked the way it should, Bo thought. Like the nerve center of a two-hundred-billion-dollar hedge fund. “I don't need my brother's approval concerning how to maintain my—”

“I mean working at Warfield Capital,” Ramsey interrupted icily. “I'm not talking about your lack of taste.”

“Four days ago you were so certain that I wouldn't be back, weren't you, Frank? You were so certain Paul would be able to keep me away from here.”

“I was certain Paul
and
Teddy would be able to keep you away.” Ramsey hesitated, aware that he should keep his mouth shut. Aware that Scully would be furious with what he was about to say. But he couldn't stand the smug expression on Bo's face. The hatred was mutual. “But Teddy was killed. Now he isn't around to help Paul. Quite convenient for you, isn't it?”

Bo glanced up from one of the screens. “What's that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, but I'd better have misunderstood the implication.”

“Misunderstand what you want, but let me make one thing very clear. I think the timing of Teddy's death is extremely convenient for you.”

“Get out of here, Frank,” Bo snarled, standing up. “Get out of here and go get me the damn private equity sheet. I'd better have it in the next ten minutes. And close the door behind you,” he ordered.

Ramsey stood his ground for a moment, then darted away as he saw Bo starting to come out from behind the desk.

“Asshole,” Bo muttered, striding across the office to close and lock the door himself.

When he returned to his seat, he removed a legal-size envelope from the credenza and spread the contents of the envelope out before him. The first piece of paper he picked up was a detailed memo from Michael Mendoza to Jimmy Lee, outlining a plan to alter Warfield's partnership agreement. The proposal, to be drawn up by Bruce Laird and effective in the event of Jimmy Lee's death, mirrored the new voting structure that Laird had described four nights ago in his apartment.

The words blurred in front of Bo's eyes. Michael Mendoza had proposed the structure and Jimmy Lee had implemented it. It wasn't Paul, Teddy, or Ramsey after all. It was Michael Mendoza who had been behind a reorganization of the partnership agreement that would effectively freeze Bo out of Warfield. After his meeting at the Waldorf with Mendoza, Bo had discovered the memo stuffed in a box stowed in a third-floor bedroom closet of Jimmy Lee's mansion. The box, and two others sitting beside it under a sheet, had been filled with his father's personal papers and effects, all thrown haphazardly into the three containers as if someone had been hurriedly trying to hide something.

Bo put down the memo and picked up a second piece of paper detailing all the long-distance telephone calls Jimmy Lee had made from his office on the day Mendoza claimed to have flown from Washington, D.C., to Wyoming. Mendoza had claimed that Jimmy Lee called him while he was waiting to take off from Reagan National Airport, Bo recalled, certain he was remembering the conversation accurately. His memory rivaled Laird's and he was certain Mendoza had described a call
from
Jimmy Lee, not to. Bo examined the paper line by line. There was no call from Jimmy Lee's office phone to Mendoza's cell number.

The last item he studied was a breakdown of what Warfield Capital and all other Warfield entities had paid Bruce Laird since he had resigned from Davis Polk eight years ago to join the Hancocks. The family controller had put the numbers together. Bo shook his head as he reviewed the document. Laird had been paid two hundred thousand dollars a year since joining the Hancocks. No more and no less. There had never been a raise and there had never been a bonus. “It doesn't make sense,” Bo muttered to himself. Laird must have been doing very well at the high-profile Manhattan law firm before accepting Jimmy Lee's offer to come into the Hancock fold. “Two hundred thousand is nothing to sneeze at, but he would have been making much more as a Davis Polk partner. Why would he have left for this?” The intercom buzzed on Bo's desk, interrupting his analysis. “Yes?”

“A Mr. Taylor is here to see you.”

“Please show him to my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few moments later Allen Taylor sat down in the chair in front of Bo's desk. He was a private investigator whom Bo had known for two decades, unrelated to Hazeltine Security. Taylor's specialty was fraud detection. He was a heavyset man with thinning dark hair, bushy sideburns, a beard, and a heavy New York accent.

“How was Europe?” Bo asked.

“Fine.” Taylor was as abrupt as Laird. “I have information for you, Bo.”

“That was fast.”

Taylor glanced around the office warily. “Do you think it's wise to talk here?”

Taylor was as cool as they came, but today he seemed distracted. “Yes, why?”

“Just wondered.” Taylor got up and went over to a stereo system installed on a bookcase near the window. Bo often listened to classical music during stressful periods of the day. Taylor flicked on a CD, then turned up the volume before sitting back down.

“What the hell is wrong, Allen? Why so secretive?”

“As you instructed, I traced the flow of funds on the new equity that came into Warfield Capital three months ago.” He was still being evasive. “The two billion.”

Four days ago, after confronting Frank Ramsey, and before heading for the bar on Forty-eighth Street, Bo had sat down briefly with the family controller, whose office was at Warfield. Besides the compensation records for Bruce Laird, he'd gotten all available details of the European equity investment Ramsey had mentioned during their meeting. With that information in hand, Taylor had immediately hopped a plane bound for London. Taylor had warned Bo that the process of trailing the money would take at least a week, but he had already returned. “What did you find?” Bo demanded.

“A brick wall.”

“I don't understand.”

Taylor shifted in his seat. “I've been tracking money for years and I pride myself on being able to locate the origin of any wire transfer. My network of back-office employees in major moneycenter banks all over the world is immense. It's strong in secondary cities too.”

Bo nodded. Taylor was the best. He was the man Bo had called the night Fritz Peterson and Teddy had panicked about Warfield's gold position. “It's true, Allen. You've got more moles than the CIA.” Taylor could confirm or refute even obscure rumors in minutes.

“But I couldn't crack this one, Bo,” Taylor said. “The trail ended at a bank in Italy like an abandoned railroad spur. One minute I'm rushing along on the express train certain I'm about to find out who sent Warfield two billion dollars, and the next minute the engine comes to a grinding halt.” Taylor sat back in his chair, an odd expression on his face. “It was eerie, Bo. I haven't had that experience in years. Back then it was because I didn't have the contacts. This time . . .” His voice faded.

“This time what?” Bo asked.

“Either people were too scared to talk, or they really didn't know the origin of that last inbound wire,” Taylor answered. “I can't tell. I'm still working on it,” he said, handing his report to Bo. “But I can't promise that I'll be able to get any further.”

Bo took the report and slid it into the envelope containing the material he'd been reviewing before the intercom buzzed. “What about the other thing?”

Taylor brightened. “It turns out Bruce Laird had a little problem when your father came calling eight years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“Laird had a massive malpractice suit staring him in the face to the tune of hundreds of millions. Davis Polk needed to get rid of him quietly and it looks like Jimmy Lee was doing them a favor.”

Bo nodded. Now the two-hundred-thousand-dollar salary without a raise or a bonus was beginning to make sense. “Look, I want—”

The office door burst open and Ramsey strode into the room. “Here's your damn sheet,” he announced loudly, tossing the report down on Bo's desk. “Up-to-the-minute,” he said, eyeing Taylor suspiciously. “Who's this?”

“That'll be all, Frank.”

Ramsey waited for Taylor to introduce himself. When he didn't, Ramsey headed straight for his office to place a call.

Bo watched Ramsey rush from the office, then relaxed into his chair and rubbed his eyes. Tomorrow he would bury his father and brother.

T
hey had nailed the guy crawling out of Reggie Duncan's Harlem campaign headquarters early this morning but, as yet, had been unable to identify him. The detective eyed the suspect sitting calmly in the holding cell of the precinct. It was strange. The man was too composed.

They had been unable to pry any useful information from the suspect during three hours of interrogation. He had been carrying no identification, just a few papers in a jacket pocket, with an address and telephone numbers, and he refused to say a word. Now he sat on the cot, smiling confidently from behind the bars of the cell, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

“Hey, look at this!” The detective's partner rushed up the hallway carrying a note.

“What is it?” the detective asked, snatching it.

“We traced the address and the telephone numbers the guy in there had in his jacket pocket,” he answered, pointing at the man in the cell. “Can you believe it?”

“Jesus,” the detective murmured under his breath, seeing the name on the note. “What about this?” he demanded, holding up the note so the prisoner could see the name. “Got anything to say about this? You can help yourself by being cooperative.”

The man shrugged. He had no intention of being cooperative. He'd done his job and he'd been instructed to say nothing.

“We've got to make certain this doesn't get into the hands of the press until we've figured out what's really going on here,” the detective warned his partner.

“I know. This thing is the fuse to a ten-thousand-pound keg of dynamite.”

“Nothing to say?” the detective asked the suspect again.

The suspect shook his head.

“Oh, by the way.”

“What?” the detective asked, turning to his partner.

“The guy's already made bail.”

The detective's eyes widened. “That's impossible.”

“Why?”

“I haven't allowed him his phone call yet.”