“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Just then Ann Jenkins stepped to the podium and the overhead lights began to dim. “Gotta go,” Maggie whispered. “Maybe we can do it tomorrow night?”
“I can’t wait ‘til tomorrow night,” Brent said, cutting the connection.
Maggie sat there feeling helpless. There was nothing she could do.
“We’ve received a threat warning from CIA Europe that the Wahaddi Brotherhood may have gotten their hands on some dirty weapons,” Jenkins announced, causing the room to fall silent. “Previously, the CIA claimed these guys had no more money because their bank accounts were seized, but it looks like they might have missed a billion dollars or so. French police reported the disappearance of a motorcycle cop and an ambulance a couple hours outside of Paris, and a few hours ago they discovered the ambulance and some bodies in a warehouse outside Le Havre. They also picked up trace radioactive readings in the ambulance.
There’s concern in London and Paris that the weapons may be there, but my gut tells me they’re headed here.” She paused and looked around. “My superiors don’t agree. Homeland Security is holding the threat level at yellow, and we still have a POTUS visit in three days.” She scowled when she said this as if POTUS was a communicable disease. “I don’t know what the other Project Seahawk districts will decide, but as of now we’re going to Condition Red, meaning double shifts on all port and ship inspection teams. I’m sorry, people, but I believe we have no other choice.”
“If this is such a big deal, how about pulling our guys off the POTUS security teams,” somebody suggested.
“Already tried,” Jenkins snapped. “Request denied.”
Muffled groans came from several of the Ports Authority cops in the back row because Jenkins’ announcement meant they’d get almost no sleep for the next few days. Maggie glanced over her shoulder, giving one of the men—the father of a new set of twins—a sympathetic grin.
Beside her, Kosinsky snorted. “She’s just climbed out on a skinny limb,” he muttered.
Maggie shrugged. In spite of the inconvenience she felt a grudging admiration at how Jenkins had just taken full responsibility for an unpopular decision. “You have to give her credit. She’s got a set of brass balls.”
“Balls don’t look good on women,” Kosinsky whispered.
He groaned a second later when Maggie’s elbow caught him in the ribs.
TWENTY-SEVEN
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT BROKE THE CONNECTION, DROPPED his cell phone on the passenger seat, and glared at the stagnant river of brake lights ahead. He wasn’t sure what to think. It wasn’t like Maggie to make phony excuses.
He glanced toward the passenger seat where Harry slouched against the door and gave him a disgusted look.
What you expect, bro? Harry asked. You had your chance. She’s a beautiful woman. You think she’s gonna hang out for a bonehead who won’t commit?
“It wasn’t gonna work anyway,” Brent countered. “She wanted kids.”
So?
“So, bad idea.”
Bullshit!
“Okay, then why didn’t you get married?”
Harry shook his head. Sooner or later you always bring it back to Mom.
“I didn’t even mention Mom, but as long as you bring her up, I guess women who try and toast their own kids are completely normal?”
She was trying to kill herself, idiot! She wasn’t thinking about us!
“Okay, you made my point for me. Lucases never think about their families. What did you think about when you ran up those stairs? What did Dad think about?”
Are you just stupid on purpose?
A horn sounded behind him. Brent blinked and saw the cars ahead already moving. He threw a glance at the empty seat beside him and, feeling a fresh blast of resentment at his brother for letting himself get killed.
After a half mile, he exited the highway at West 136th Street. Southbound traffic on Riverside Drive was light, but he took his time. He’d already made up his mind that he wouldn’t go along with the FBI’s gag order. However, he’d hoped to talk it through with Maggie before he actually went to Dr. Faisal. Now there’d be no chance.
Twenty minutes later, he looked up at the dark windows of his client’s house. It appeared no one was home, but he went to the door and rang the bell. He waited then pushed the button a second time, hearing the muted chimes through the thick, barred glass. A security camera looked down from just overhead, and he tilted his face so anyone inside could see him.
He rang a third time, then put his face to the bars and saw a glimmer of light coming from the back of the house. As he pushed against the door, it moved slightly.
He looked around instinctively, but the sidewalk was empty—no dog walkers or pedestrians, no one watching. He pushed the heavy door, and it swung inwards a few inches. “Hello?” he called, as he stepped into the darkened entrance, half expecting an alarm to go off or someone to start shouting, but there was only silence. He tried to tell himself that someone had simply been careless, but people in Manhattan never left their doors unlocked, especially people in ten million dollar townhouses.
“Dr. Faisal?” he called. His voice echoed back out of the emptiness. He stepped through an inner door then inched his hand along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it on. An overhead chandelier lit the room and drew his eyes to the jagged smear of dried blood on the marble floor.
His pulse began to hammer. He touched his belt, but he’d left his cell phone on the car seat. He considered going back, but he’d parked nearly a block away. Instead, he pushed the outer door closed and followed the blood trail into a dining room with a long formal table. Light and the sound of a TV came from a doorway to his right.
He crept ahead and looked through the butler’s pantry at a pair of legs splayed on the kitchen floor. He moved closer, seeing the body of an Asian woman. She was wearing a white cook’s smock, her head in a pool of congealed blood. Her eyes were open, staring, her skin almost the color of paste.
He took several steps back through the butler’s pantry, and when he turned he spotted a hand sticking out from behind one of the tall dining room doors. He walked around the door and saw that the second corpse was a middle-aged man with a gaping wound at his throat.
He braced his hands against the wall and sucked air into his lungs for a moment then went back to the entry hall and forced himself up the marble staircase. He found a light switch on the second floor landing and moved through a pair of double doors into a large formal living room, toward the lighted doorway at the far end.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he came around the corner and spotted Dr. Faisal in an overstuffed chair, an open book at his feet. A reading lamp behind the doctor’s head carved a bright circle of light and highlighted the bloodstains on his white shirt and the two holes in his forehead.
Brent stared, unable to move, his mind filled with wild conjectures but also a feral outrage that anyone had done this to an old man who’d spent his fortune making peace.
Finally, full of fresh fear that Dr. Faisal’s granddaughter might also be there, he went back to the landing and climbed to the top two floors. He walked through a large master suite with an office and small sitting room as well as four other bedrooms. Thankfully, they were empty.
As his brain slowly calmed, one question remained. Was this some terrible coincidence, or was it somehow connected to the seizure of the doctor’s account? He was sure he knew the answer—there were no such things as coincidences.
He was walking down the stairs when it hit him. His hands! He’d touched everything—doorknobs, light switches, the wall in the dining room, woodwork and banisters! He’d even looked into the security camera when he rang the bell. Was his face on film?
His mind began to race as he walked out of the house and down the sidewalk toward his car. He was bonded like everyone in the financial industry, his fingerpri
nts filed with the FBI. The minute the police dusted the house they’d have a match. What if the real killers had been more careful and left no trace? If that was true—since there was no sign of forced entry and since he’d known Dr. Faisal—he would be the only suspect.
He tried to slow his brain and think rationally. A number of old classmates from Yale had gone to law school, but they were almost all securities, tax, or estate lawyers. One was doing legal aid work in Texas, but otherwise he didn’t know a single criminal attorney, not one, and besides, only guilty people ran straight to lawyers. Nobody had even accused him . . . yet.
Next, he thought about Simmons. She would be his alibi! She could tell the FBI and the police why he was working at Genesis Advisors!
He reached his car, fumbled for his cell phone, and punched in the emergency contact number Simmons had programmed into it. The number rang and rang. He killed the call and dialed a second time. Again no answer. How was that possible?
He shook off the panic he was starting to feel and decided to contact the two FBI agents, Stewart and Anderson. He’d talk with them before the police found his prints, explain that he was working for Simmons, that he’d found the doctor already dead. The agents would understand. Ironically, their testimony might be the only thing that could clear him.
TWENTY-EIGHT
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT HUNCHED IN HIS DARKENED car and punched out Agent Stewart’s number on his cell phone. As it rang he looked up the block at a couple walking their black lab in front of Dr. Faisal’s front steps. The dog pulled against its leash and began to sniff. Brent froze, fearing that it would smell dead bodies and start to howl, but the owner gave the leash a tug and moved off. Brent let out the breath he’d been holding then realized that the phone was still ringing and no voice mail had picked up. He checked the number and redialed. No answer. Same result as Simmons. Government inefficiency, he thought. Probably it would be fixed by morning, but he couldn’t wait.
He considered his options. He could call the FBI’s central number, but the night duty officer wouldn’t put him through to Stewart’s home, not unless Brent disclosed the reason for his call, which he wasn’t about to do. Even if they promised to relay his message, it might be hours before Stewart got back to him.
He checked Stewart’s business card. The address was Avenue of the Americas somewhere in the high Fifties. If he showed up in person, even if they wouldn’t call Stewart’s house, he could at least demand to see another agent. He needed a face-to-face meeting with another human being to tell his story. One way or another, the FBI had to understand that he was innocent.
Twenty minutes later, he parked in a loading zone on a side street less than half a block from Stewart’s building. As he climbed out of his car, a light colored van cruised slowly past. He would have paid no attention, but he caught the guy in the passenger seat giving him an intense stare. It made him feel strangely furtive, but he shook it off then hurried up the block and through the front doors to the night security desk in the lobby.
“Fourteenth floor—FBI,” he told the guard as he prepared to sign in.
The guard put his hand over the sign in book. “FBI?”
Brent nodded.
The guard shook his head. “Ain’t this building.”
Brent reached for his wallet and extracted Stewart’s card, pointing to the address and floor number. The guard looked at it then shook his head. “Don’t care what it says. We ain’t got no FBI.”
Brent took back the card. “Who’s on the fourteenth floor?” he demanded.
“Law firm.”
“Which one?” Brent challenged, certain the guard was mistaken.
The guard pointed impatiently at the tenant listing on the wall beside the elevator banks. “Tweed, Barker.”
Brent stepped to the roster, which confirmed that Tweed, Barker and Rowe occupied floors ten through sixteen. His stomach went cold at what appeared to be such an odd coincidence. Could a printing company have made a mistake when Agent Stewart ordered new cards? It seemed a ludicrous explanation.
He asked the guard for a Manhattan phone directory and looked up the listing for the FBI. Their only address was 26 Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the main number. Again, there was no answer. “Is there a pay phone?” he asked.
The guard pointed across the lobby to several phones beside a shuttered magazine stand. Brent went over, dropped some change in the slot, and re-dialed the number.
A night operator answered immediately, and Brent asked for Agent Darius Stewart’s extension. The operator put him on hold, and when she came back she told him there was no Darius Stewart in the Manhattan office.
Brent took a deep breath, a fresh flame of panic burning in his guts. There had to be an explanation. Maybe Stewart worked out of Washington. When he asked for Tom Anderson’s extension and got the same response, he asked the operator to check the national record. She typed for a time before telling him that there were a number of Stewarts, but no Darius. The only Tom Anderson was a programmer, not a field agent.
Brent hung up. Back at the security desk he said to the guard, “I need to go up to the reception desk at Tweed, Barker and Rowe.”
“It’s after hours. You got business?”
“My attorney works there.” Brent heard the lack of conviction in his tone.
The guard’s expression was careful. “Why don’t you call ‘em in the morning?” he said, raising his voice a little.
The second guard had been casually flipping through pages of the New York Post, but now he raised his eyes and cast Brent a wary glance. At six-four, two twenty, even in a suit he undoubtedly looked threatening to a couple over-weight security guards. Fearing they’d call the police if he pushed any further, he walked outside, ignored the rain, and headed toward a pay phone on the corner.
A call to information gave him Tweed, Barker and Rowe’s number, and a second later he asked the firm’s night receptionist for Spencer McDonald. Manhattan lawyers worked the same crazy hours as investment people, so it would be nothing unusual for McDonald to be there at eight o’clock on a weeknight. The extension rang until McDonald’s voice mail answered. “This is Spencer McDonald,” it said. “I will be out of the country for approximately three weeks beginning . . .”
Brent’s breath caught. He gripped the receiver as if he could choke out the truth. He wanted to call back and listen to the recording again, but nothing would change. Spencer McDonald had a deep baritone and a thick southern accent, very different from the flat, slightly nasal tone of the lawyer who had taken him to New Jersey.
He knew it was fruitless, but he called the firm’s main number one more time. “Mr. McDonald’s still out of the country?”
“Yes, Europe for two more weeks.”
“And you couldn’t have more than one Spencer McDonald?”
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist replied.
Brent knuckled his eyes. How was it possible—three people dead, Faisal’s money seized, the FBI Agents vanished, Spencer McDonald . . . an imposter?
He felt a surreal dread in his guts as he hurried to his car and fumbled the scrap of paper with Biddle’s cell number from his briefcase. He dialed, got Biddle’s recording and left no message. Wofford was the only other choice, so he looked him up in the firm directory and dialed his mobile number.
On the third ring, he heard Wofford’s drawl. “Hello?”
“Fred!” He took a deep breath, struggling to sound calm because what he was about to say was so unbelievable. “It’s Brent Lucas. I need to talk to you about—”
“Lucas!” Wofford snarled. “What the hell have you done?”
Brent opened his mouth, but at first no words came. Could Wofford already know about the bodies? “What?” he managed at last.
“We’re onto you! We know you wired Faisal’s money out of the country! How long have you planned this?”
Brent was too stunned to reply.
“T
his is how you repay Biddle’s trust?” Wofford continued. “You’re not going to get away with this! Where did you send the damn money, Lucas?”
Brent’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t send it anywhere! I swear! The FBI took it!”
“According to Betty, you gave wire instructions!”
“Betty’s lying!” Brent shouted. “I released the money to the FBI! It was their wire instructions! I talked to Prescott! I—”
“Lucas!” Wofford said sharply. “You’re a wanted man! Turn yourself in!”
Brent clicked off and knuckled his eyes. His lungs couldn’t seem to get enough air. This had to be some kind of hallucination. He tried to think analytically, but his brain refused. Wofford’s words echoed in his ears—Faisal’s account transferred out of the country on his signature!
He thought of Betty Dowager. Had she planned this? Otherwise, why would she lie? He looked up her number and dialed.
A man answered on the first ring.
“Betty Dowager, please.”
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Brent Lucas. It’s urgent.”
“You!” he exclaimed. “You’re put her through a terrible time! Mrs. Dowager is extremely upset! She isn’t well enough to come to the phone.”
“Look, I’m innocent, and she may be the only one who can help me! It’s extremely important.”
“She’s sedated. She’s already asleep, and I’m not about to wake her.”
“Please!”
The man’s voice went up several octaves, betraying his tension. “I just told you, she’s not going to talk to you! Now don’t call here again!”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
TWENTY-NINE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
FROM THE BENCH BENEATH THE sycamores on the west side of Fifth Avenue, the Genesis Advisors’ building appeared stately and peaceful, an island of stability in the midst of New York’s bustle. What crap, Brent thought.
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