Once a Killer

by Martin Bodenham

  “Did you find the names of any?”

  “No, nothing. Their fund appears to be all their own money rather than from the usual investor types. Could it be they’re bankrolled by—?”

  Michael made a chopping motion across his neck. “I don’t need to hear any more. It’s clear we can’t take these guys on as a client. That’s all we need to know. You’ve done a great job. This is precisely why we need to investigate potential new clients, so we can avoid any embarrassment for the firm.”

  Towers appeared disappointed to be halted in mid-flow. “Is there anything else you need me to do on them? I’ve got quite a lot of data on—”

  “No. Just leave the papers with me. Let’s not waste any more time on Grannis. They’re history. I want you to focus on the Spar deal now. We have to get that one over the line.”

  After Towers left, Michael swiveled his chair away from his desk and toward his window. The rumors that Rondell had mob connections made absolute sense. Where else could his money have come from? No legitimate investor in his right mind would deal with a crook like him. Besides Michael, who else was Rondell leaning on, or paying off, for inside information on public company deals? That had to be where his hedge fund’s strong returns were coming from: illegal trades based on confidential information. The man wouldn’t know a good investment if it was staring him in the face.

  In only three days, Michael was expected to start handing over details of one of his deals—the Spar transaction. It was a sickening thought. And now he’d discovered Rondell was backed by organized criminals, there was no way this would stop at Cedar Street. Rondell was bound to pass details of the Spar deal to his backers. And what would stop them trading in the stock? That would massively increase the risk of being caught. A wall of money traded ahead of a public announcement was bound to attract the attention of the authorities. And once they started asking questions, they’d look to the advisers involved in the deal. It wouldn’t be too long before they came searching for the source of the leak at Dudek’s.

  Michael closed his eyes. What had previously been a dangerous, but manageable, risk now appeared an almost certain road to incarceration. In light of what he’d just learned, there was no way he could go through with it. Meeting Rondell on Friday would be madness.

  There had to be another way out of this mess.

  Chapter 9

  MICHAEL SPENT FRIDAY LUNCHTIME away from his own office and with his team in one of Dudek’s meeting rooms going over the draft acquisition papers on the Spar deal. In case Rondell tried to contact him, he’d told Rachel not to disturb the meeting, no matter who called. Throughout the two-hour session, he kept thinking about Rondell and how he was likely to react when he failed to show up. When he returned to his room, Michael expected to be met by a raft of messages to contact a Mr. Grannis, but there were none. Then, as he spent the rest of the afternoon at his desk, hunched over yet more Spar legal documents, he kept anticipating the call, but it never came. That didn’t feel right. What was the man up to?

  One thing had become clearer over the past three days: there was no way Michael could ever share the Spar deal with Rondell and his criminal network. Not only did it break every ethic he believed in, but the risk of being discovered on such a high-profile transaction was simply too high.

  Later that day, Michael’s regular train pulled into Westport’s Saugatuck station at five to eight. Friday night was pizza night and, as usual, he’d telephoned ahead with the order moments earlier. After swinging by to collect the pizzas, he figured he’d be home with his girls by eight twenty, eight thirty at the outside. Walking toward the Lexus in the dark car park, the ground appeared slippery and there was a thick layer of ice on most of the vehicles. As he prepared to scrape it off his windshield, Michael began slipping on his leather gloves.

  The wheezing sound caught his attention a split second before the hand on his shoulder. When Michael swung around, standing right in front of him was Glass Eye, his breathing as labored as it had been when he’d first met him at the college. A couple of steps behind stood Bull Neck, his slightly open coat revealing a pistol in his right hand.

  “Over there,” said Glass Eye, pointing with his chin to a silver Escalade parked in a daily parking space a few rows behind Michael’s car.

  Unlike the Lexus, the Escalade had no frost on it, and the windows were steamed up. These two heavies must have been waiting in it, anticipating his arrival.

  When Michael saw the Imperial Avenue shuttle bus approaching, he thought about making a run for it, but there was a risk they’d come straight to his home looking for him. The idea of two strangers turning up with a weapon in front of his family was more frightening than dealing with them now. He knew what they wanted, so he said nothing and walked with them to the SUV, climbing into the back next to Glass Eye, while Bull Neck sat in the driver seat. There was a strong smell of coffee and a sickly sweet scent in the air. Down by Glass Eye’s feet was a crumpled Dunkin Donuts paper bag. They must have been waiting for him for quite some time.

  Bull Neck spun the wheels on black ice as they drove out of the car park, heading west on Park Street and then south on Saugatuck Avenue.

  Michael dropped his briefcase next to his feet. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said Glass Eye, rolling back his jacket to reveal a pistol holstered just above his waist.

  Michael was unable to see where they were heading through the misted-up back windows, but he felt the car pull off the tarmac road a few minutes later, drive over rough terrain and, eventually, come to a halt. There were no lights nearby to orient him, but he could make out the sound of the ocean some distance away. Where were they? Panic gripped him. Maybe they weren’t here just to find out why he’d missed his meeting with Rondell. Maybe these men were the same animals that had beaten and murdered his mother. After all, they were in Chicago. Was he about to be killed in this remote spot?

  “Mr. Grannis is not happy with you at all,” Glass Eye said, sneering at Michael. “You’ve offended him.”

  Michael looked at Glass Eye. “How did I do that?”

  “By failing to turn up today.”

  Michael struggled to find a credible reason to explain his absence. “I tried to make it, but it was really difficult to get away from the office. Every time I tried, something came up.”

  Bull Neck rolled his body around to face him. “Yeah, sure.” He still had sugar granules from the donuts stuck to his top lip.

  “So you were planning to come?” Glass Eye had a quizzical look on his face.

  “That’s right. Maybe we can arrange another time.”

  Glass Eye looked down at Michael’s briefcase. “Why don’t you hand over what you have for us right now, and we’ll forget all about lunch today?”

  Michael swallowed. “I don’t have anything for you yet.”

  Glass Eye shook his head. “So you lied to us just now?”

  “No. Even if I’d been able to make the meeting today, I was going to say I had nothing for you. I’m still working on it.”

  Bull Neck laughed. “This guy’s good. I can see now why he’s a lawyer. The lying’s second nature to him.”

  “Mr. Grannis won’t like that,” Glass Eye said. “He won’t like that at all.”

  “Look, it’s not that easy. I don’t see deals every day. I just need more time. You can’t force the pace of these things.”

  Michael’s cell phone rang in his suit pocket. It was bound to be Caroline, worrying why he hadn’t yet turned up at home with the pizzas. He moved his hand toward his jacket.

  Bull Neck pointed his pistol at Michael. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Michael ignored the Marimba ring tone until it stopped.

  Glass Eye looked at Bull Neck. “What do you think?”

  “I say we kill the fucker now.”

  Glass Eye nodded then turned to Michael. “Get out of the car. I don’t want blood on my upholstery.”

  Michael’s h
eart pummeled the inside of his chest. Was this it? Was this how he was going to die? “Listen, I know I can get you what you need. Please, all I need is a little more time.”

  “You heard him. Out of the fucking car,” shouted Bull Neck.

  Michael opened the door and stepped onto the sandy ground. An icy sea wind hit him in the face, biting into his skin. They had to be on the marshes at the back of the Shorehaven Golf Club. Christ! Had these people chosen this deserted spot because they’d meant to kill him all along? Why else pick a place where no one could see them? And with the gale coming off the sea, no one would hear a gunshot out here.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  Glass Eye slid along the back seat toward the open door. “Get on your knees.” His weapon was now held in his right hand and pointed at Michael.

  Michael dropped to the wet ground. “Please. I just need more time to get you the information you want. I know I can get it.” He closed his eyes and braced himself for the shot.

  Chapter 10

  “YOU’RE A VERY LUCKY MAN,” said Glass Eye, returning the pistol to his holster. “We don’t have orders to kill you. Least, not today.”

  Michael opened his eyes and watched Glass Eye’s every move.

  “But make no mistake: Mr. Grannis wants his information.” Glass Eye threw Michael’s briefcase out of the car. “We’ll give you a week to come up with something. If we have to come back here to remind you again, one of your girls will pay the price.” He pulled the door closed and nodded to Bull Neck, who hit the gas.

  Michael remained on his knees, trembling as the arctic gale off the sea conspired with the terror he felt inside. Half a mile away, the Escalade’s brake lights flashed as it stopped briefly before pulling out onto Old Saugatuck Road. They were gone.

  Holding his head in his hands, Michael closed his eyes as it hit home how close he’d just come to being killed. In that moment, he knew he had no choice; no matter how risky it would be, he had to comply with Rondell’s demands. He’d been naive to think he could avoid him earlier today. And given what had just happened, there would be no second chances. The risk of being discovered by the authorities was very real, but it was nothing compared to losing one of his girls.

  In his pocket, the cell phone rang again. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know it was Caroline calling. What could he say to her?

  Think, Michael.

  It stopped ringing. If he called her back right now, when his mind was still whirring, he was bound to screw things up, say something he’d later regret. In the little time it would take to get home, he needed to come up with a story, something plausible. Standing up, he brushed the sand from his wet suit pants, pulled his overcoat tight around him, and then picked up his briefcase. The adrenaline was beginning to fade now, leaving him cold and exhausted.

  The lights on Old Saugatuck Road acted as his beacon and, by using the poor moonlight, he could just about follow the tracks left by the SUV until he reached tarmac. The golf club had a pay phone inside the entrance, where he called a cab. Shivering as he waited outside for it to arrive, Michael ignored the curious looks from club members entering the building.

  When he arrived back at the station, he sat in the Lexus for a few moments, trying to tidy himself up. His suit pants were soaked from the knees down, and his shoes and briefcase were plastered in wet sand. No wonder people had stared at him at the clubhouse; he looked a mess. How was he ever going to explain his appearance to Caroline? Whatever the story was, he’d need to come up with it quickly.

  It was nine thirty five when he pulled up on the drive outside his home. Caroline came rushing out and met him climbing out of the car. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. When you called, you said you were on the usual train.”

  His overcoat flapped open when he shut the car door, revealing his wet clothes underneath. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything inside.”

  “You’re absolutely soaked. What happened to you?”

  “I’ve just been attacked.”

  “Oh my God.” She hugged him. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay. Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

  Caroline took his briefcase, and they walked into the warmth of the house, where she made him a mug of hot chocolate with three sugars. “Drink this. The sugar will do you good. You look shocked.”

  Michael removed his gloves and clasped his fingers around the warm mug while seated on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. Staring into the frothy drink, he shuddered.

  “What happened?” Caroline said, holding onto his shoulder. “You’re soaked through. You can’t stay in these clothes.”

  Michael was still wrestling with a credible story. “Do you mind if I get changed into something dry before I tell you about it?”

  “I’m sorry. Let’s get you changed now and then go sit near the fire in the den.”

  Minutes later, he was wearing a pair of thick tracksuit bottoms and a gray sweatshirt with Rhode Island emblazoned across the front. He sat on the floor next to Caroline in front of the log fire.

  “Thank God I put the girls to bed. I’d hate for them to have seen you in this state.”

  He forced a thin smile. “It was frightening.”

  “Can you talk about it? I’d like to know what happened.”

  Michael kept staring into the flames of the fire. “I was about to jump in the car at the station when two men held a gun at me.”

  Caroline’s jaw dropped open. “Oh my…”

  “They came out of nowhere. One of them punched me down to the ground while the other grabbed my briefcase. As they ran off, stupidly, I chased after them. If it hadn’t been for the shuttle bus turning up, they’d have gotten away with it, but when they saw all the people getting off the bus, they dropped my case and disappeared.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Of course.” Michael finished off the hot chocolate, still unable to look his wife in the eyes as he made up the next part. “That’s why I’m so late. I went down to the police station and gave them a statement.”

  Caroline leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t imagine what you were thinking of chasing after them. They had a gun. You don’t know what they might have done.”

  “I know. It was instinct. If I’d had time to think about it…”

  She threw another log onto the fire and prodded about with it using the poker. “I tried calling you several times. I was worried.”

  “I know. I saw you’d called when I left the police station, but I’d left my phone in the car. I didn’t call you back. I knew it would scare you unless you could see for yourself that I was okay. Besides, I just wanted to get home as soon as I could and see you and the girls.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Just so long as you are in one piece.”

  He nodded. “I’m okay. It’s wounded pride more than anything.”

  “You’re not doing any work this weekend. I want you to rest.”

  That night, Michael lay awake, staring into the dark bedroom, trying to work out what he found worse: having been held at gunpoint by Rondell’s henchmen, or having to lie about it to Caroline.

  Thinking he could just ignore Rondell had been crazy. In his heart, he’d always known he was trapped. There had never really been a choice whether or not to cooperate with him. And if he was going to get any control over the situation, he had to start sharing deal information soon. It was the only way to avoid any harm coming to his family. In the end, that was all that mattered.

  He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. By this time next week, he would have breached a whole raft of SEC rules and, worse still, committed securities fraud. Not exactly how he’d imagined spending the first few weeks of becoming an equity partner at Dudek’s. But it was still the right thing to do.

  Chapter 11

  RUNNING HIS FINGERS BACKWARD through his hair had become second nature to Fabrizio Caravini. He didn’t even know he was doing it. It was
only when he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink that he saw what he’d done.

  “Shit,” he said, taking a comb out of his inside pocket.

  He looked around the empty men’s room, then leaned over the sink and combed his thin blond hair forward to cover the receding hairline. In the last eighteen months, the hair loss had really begun to show. Many times, he’d thought about going to a male baldness clinic, just to find out if anything could be done. But so far, his pride and ego had stopped him. Why, at forty-two, did he have to put up with this indignity, when his father still had a thick mop, and he was now well into his seventies? He glanced at the door before taking out a small can of Consort Extra Hold from his attaché case and caking it onto his mane, locking it back it into place.

  “Much better,” he mouthed at his reflection. Now all he had to do was resist running his fingers through it again.

  After checking his teeth with a few practice smiles in the mirror, he straightened his tie, pulled his shoulders back, and power-strode out of the room. As he walked along the corridor toward the conference hall, the noise of the press pack grew louder. There was a slight twinge in his gut, but there was no time to return to the restroom; the press conference was about to start.

  “Looking good, Fab,” said a woman, catching up with him from behind.

  He turned, instinctively pulling in his stomach muscles, and flashed his expensive dental work when he recognized her as one of the friendly journalists from the New York Post.

  “Thanks,” he said, opening the door for her. He didn’t need to be told, but it was nice to hear all the same.

  Caravini dodged the flashing cameras as he sauntered up to the raised podium at the front and then patted his hands down through the air to quiet the audience. His eyes made a quick scan of the faces in front of him. All of the main newspapers and local TV channels were here. He cleared his throat and, hidden behind the base of the podium, rolled forward onto his toes, adding another two inches to his height.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here this afternoon,” he said in his barely disguised Brooklyn accent. He waited for the photographers to stop clicking away before continuing. “For those of you who do not know me, I am Assistant Director Fabrizio Caravini, responsible for the FBI’s financial crimes unit in New York City.” He stopped and took a sip of water, not to quench his thirst, but to make sure the journalists had enough time to capture an accurate record of his full name and position. Nothing irritated him more than when he saw his name in print and it was spelled incorrectly. Sometimes, he was convinced they did it deliberately to wind him up.