He turned his head so fast his neck made a cracking sound. “He played the market!”
“He made the market. He shorted the stock, based on insider information only he possessed. He knew exactly when the stock would fall, and my guess is that he’s been doing it all along. If he sold short on margin, or if he played options, he could be worth a fortune by now.” She whispered, “Think what he had riding on the test of the F-A-S-T Track!”
“He would have bet the farm,” Tyler said.
“The FiBIes have been trying to follow his trail. They never thought to follow the market. What we need is somebody in the SEC to check Internet trades for us,” she suggested.
“So call someone,” he said.
“You’re going to let this go,” she replied skeptically. “It’s not my investigation.”
She thought a moment and said, “What if I offer you a job?”
That turned his head. “Has this latest promotion gotten to you?”
“It’s still very much in our interest to see Alvarez arrested. He’s caused over a hundred million dollars in damages. He killed our CEO.”
“You’re insured.”
“I could hire you on special assignment.” She added, “Unless you’re uncomfortable working for a woman.”
“Loren Rucker knows everybody in Washington,” Tyler said, not allowing her that one. “He could open up a contact for us at the SEC.”
“Quietly.”
“Absolutely.”
“Expenses plus a starting salary at what Rucker was paying you. I’ll have no problem justifying that.”
“Make the call,” he said.
“Let’s find out what the SEC can tell us first. If we can confirm someone was selling short prior to the derailments, you’ve got yourself a job.”
“No charity, Nell. That won’t work for me.”
She leaned over and kissed him. He wanted to pull her into his lap, but it wasn’t proper conduct for an employee. Between kisses, she said, “Call Rucker. We’ll see what we see.”
CHAPTER 42
For nearly two months, Tyler sat behind the wheel of a nine-year-old Pontiac convertible—the top up—in front of a bland brownstone on Arcadia Street in Rockford, Illinois. Through a twelve-hour shift he watched winter tighten its grip on the upper Midwest. Slouched low, dressed to fight off the cold, he lived on a diet of fast food and hot coffee, reminded of his years on Metro and dozens of stakeouts. He continued to pay off creditors, including his attorneys, who had generously worked out a long-term payment plan, and he began to see a pinpoint of light at the end of the debt tunnel. He wouldn’t own a house anytime soon, but the time would come when he could rent. He might lease an inexpensive car. Get back on his feet. He’d been eyeing the classifieds, hoping to see a 1953 Norton—something to dream for.
Nell Priest remained his boss at Northern Union Security and was rumored to be under consideration for the top slot. She had flown to Chicago for several weekend visits, technically there to supervise an active investigation. But it wasn’t all business between them.
Nell arrived on a Friday morning, intent on a three-day weekend with Tyler. She had long since hired a local private detective to take the graveyard shift, believing little activity would occur at the halfway house in the off-hours. She sat in the passenger seat reading the nine o’clock movie listings in the local paper aloud to him. Tyler dropped the surveillance each night from 8:00 P.M. till 8:00 A.M.
At Rucker’s request, a forensic accountant at the SEC had in fact identified a series of option trades, all timed around the derailments. The seven trades had netted a total of $927,000 over the last eighteen months, including a $710,000 option following the F-A-S-T Track derailment. All the funds had been wired to England, back to Bermuda, and finally into a custodial account held on behalf of one M. Alvarez, who currently resided at the Bennett House, across the street from where they were currently parked.
“UPS,” Nell said, her attention divided between the paper and her door’s rearview mirror.
Tyler watched in the driver’s door mirror as a uniformed UPS man walked from his truck to the front door of the halfway house. The delivery man walked with a slight limp, and he wore his company-issue baseball cap pulled down onto his head.
Tyler said, “How many UPS deliveries have we seen here?”
“I haven’t seen any,” she reminded him. She had never spent a weekday with him in Rockford.
Tyler said, “Yeah? Well, I’ve seen several, and it’s always the same guy. Kind of heavy. Sideburns. A smoker.” He added, “That is not him.”
Sitting up to pay more attention to the mirror, Priest noted nothing about this man that matched that description. “A substitute?” she asked. “Your guy’s home sick?”
“This one, I think we follow,” he said, checking his watch and making a note of the time: 12:40 P.M.
The UPS man had spent over ten minutes inside the halfway house, at which point Priest said, “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Some of those guys can be chatty, but yes, I think maybe it is.”
“Visiting his brother.”
“It’s a decent enough disguise. It gives him a way to come and go.”
“The limp. Did Alvarez limp?”
“Could be he had a rough landing in that parasail.”
“Should we call for backup?” she asked.
“Scooch down,” he advised. And they both slumped in their seats.
The UPS man left the house, boarded the old brown panel van, and drove off. Tyler said, “When those trucks reach a certain mileage, the company sells them off.”
“So he bought one, painted it up like the original, and got himself a brown uniform.”
“Could be,” Tyler agreed. “We know he’s good with disguise.”
“Then why exactly did we sit here and let him take off?” she asked. “Why not question him?”
“We’ve waited this long. We can wait a while longer.”
“This is Peter Tyler talking, right?”
For nearly ten minutes, Tyler followed the brown step van at a good distance. As they entered a residential area, Tyler backed off even further.
The UPS truck pulled into the driveway of a brick two-story, and the Pontiac rolled past just as the driver lifted the door to the garage. Tyler drove well down the street and parallel parked.
“It’s him,” Tyler confirmed.
“You saw him?” she asked, her voice nervous.
“No, but he’s parking the thing in a garage. It’s him.” He wondered aloud, “What do you want to bet he’s been to the halfway house before this and I never caught on?”
“If you’re going to beat yourself up, I’m going to take a walk,” she announced. “You’ve got to cut yourself some slack.”
Briefly, he took his eyes off the outside rearview to look over at her. “Is all this advice of yours free?”
“You wish,” she said, suppressing a grin. “Too much advice?”
“Sometimes.”
“You’ll live. What now?” she asked.
“We wait,” Tyler announced.
“Why?”
“Did you happen to notice what time it is?” he asked.
“Twelve-fifty,” she answered.
“Lunch hour,” Tyler supplied.
“You’re hungry?”
“His lunch hour,” Tyler answered.
“You’ve been at this too long,” she said. “No one should do two months of stakeout solo. You’re losing it, Peter Tyler.”
“Gives a person a lot of time to think,” Tyler said.
“You take the front, I take the back. What’s to think about?” She added, “Or we call in the local cavalry, get some backup.” She reminded him, “I have jurisdiction to make arrests in every state.”
“Except Louisiana,” he said.
“Point taken,” she said. “Lucky for us we’re in Illinois.” She hesitated and said, “So, do you want the front or the back?”
“Neither.
We sit tight.”
“Is the real Peter Tyler locked up in the trunk or something?”
“The real Peter Tyler is sitting right here,” he said. “The Peter Tyler before Chester Washington. The Peter Tyler who has nothing to get even for. No grudges. No chip on his shoulder.”
She said cautiously, “Well, that sounds good.”
“Maybe you won’t like the real Peter Tyler.”
“Are you afraid of that? That if you change, I won’t like you?”
“I’ve already changed,” he said. “Or maybe I haven’t. Maybe I’m just back to the same old me again.”
“Does this have anything to do with your not touching me?” she asked.
“I touch you.”
“I love sleeping with you. Don’t get me wrong. But I mean the other kind of touching.”
“I don’t want to rush things.”
She laughed. “When we first kissed, it was December.”
“And you didn’t want to rush things. So we do other things, and they’re fun. I don’t want you thinking that that’s all I’m after.”
“I spend four weekends out here with you in the freezing cold, and you’re wondering if I’m going to give this a chance? I’ve got news for you: I don’t like western Illinois all that much.”
Tyler concealed a grin, but she saw it.
“That’s better,” she said. “Don’t tell me this new Peter Tyler doesn’t have a sense of humor, because it’s one of the things I love about the old Peter Tyler.”
Use of that particular word turned his head. He stared her down. “I thought we were going to be careful about that word.”
“I am being careful. Or actually, I think I’m sick of being so careful. That word. In bed. Whatever.”
Tyler was saved a response by the activity behind them.
“Here we go,” he said, indicating the house, where a late-model Volkswagen Jetta pulled out of the drive. “Five minutes of one,” he noted, checking his watch.
“He’s going the other way. Turn around! We’ll lose him,” she said.
“Lose him?” Tyler questioned. “We now know where he lives. We’re not going to lose him.” Tyler waited until the car disappeared down the street.
She said angrily, “What the hell, Peter?”
He pulled the Pontiac off the curb and drove straight.
“He went in the other direction!” she reminded him.
“I’ve spent two months in this town. I know the terrain.”
“Are you withholding something from me?”
“What exactly do you want this guy for?”
“As in crimes perpetrated, or what?”
“Or what.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Other than the ego thing of ‘I set out to get him, so I’m going to get him.’ Other than that.” He negotiated the big car through a series of turns. She stared at him in profile. He said, “I’ve had a long time to think out here, Nell.”
“You’re freaking me out here, Peter. You really have been out here too long.”
He said, “Destruction of property?”
“Millions of dollars’ worth of property,” she answered.
“But you’re insured,” Tyler responded. “Loss of life?”
“Goheen. O’Malley,” she recited.
“He lost three lives,” Tyler said. “Northern Union lost two.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I told you: two months is a long time,” he answered.
“So you get cooped up and lose your brain.”
He turned left and pulled the car over. They faced a field of grass, a parking lot, and the back of a brick building.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Westside Middle School.”
The dark green Jetta was parked in the lot. It took Priest a moment to pick out the car, but as she did, she asked, “Is that the same—”
“Yes,” he answered.
“You’ve been here before,” she suggested, knowing him.
“There are three other public middle schools. Four in all. All named after points of the compass. After a week or so of the surveillance, I started watching one or the other of them when school let out.”
“Because?”
“Once a teacher, always a teacher,” he said in a dry, hoarse whisper.
“You knew he worked here?” She sounded angry.
“No. But Westside is the closest to that house. And it’s his lunch hour.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“To me I am,” he said.
“That’s the same Jetta,” she stated.
“I’d say it probably is. Yes.” He added, “I’m guessing maybe he’s a substitute teacher. He came into the year late. Maybe that’s why I never saw him, even when I staked out the schools. Maybe he works at all the various schools, depending on when they need him.”
“He’s teaching school.”
“Substitute science, and computer science, would be my guess.”
“Under an alias,” she proposed.
“Some name he bought a while ago and never used. Yes,” he said.
“So let’s go in and have a little talk with him,” she said.
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“Isn’t that what you want to do?”
He said, “You hired me to find him. I found him. My job’s over.”
“What exactly are you saying?” she sounded nervous.
Tyler stared at her, allowing a grin to slowly occupy his face. The smile grew wider, as Nell’s eyes went wide.
She complained, “You’re kidding, right? You’re either kidding or you’re out of your mind.”
“It’s fetal alcohol syndrome. Did you know that?”
“The brother?”
“Miguel,” Tyler supplied.
“Yes. I know. It’s horrible.”
“It’s horrible, and it’s forever.”
“Meaning?”
Tyler said calmly, “Who needs Alvarez more? The People? A prison? Or these kids he’s teaching and his little brother who has no other living relative?”
“There is definitely another Tyler locked in the trunk.”
“How many more trains do you think he’s going to derail?”
“That’s not the point.”
They sat in the car for another five minutes in silence. Nell seemed preoccupied with her own hands. Tyler broke the silence. “I won’t stop you, if it’s something you have to do.”
She snorted derisively and looked over at him. Then she glanced back at the school, taking it in. “I took you for the committed type. Do not tell me you’re not the committed type.”
“I’m very committed to some things.”
“It isn’t showing.”
“I went through the system, dear woman, and it spit me out the other side. The same system I’d given much of my life to. It’s there for a reason, this system. I understand that. And it’s a decent system most of the time, but not always. It deals in evidence—what it calls fact—which works fine until you take into consideration that people can’t always be judged by the facts. How do you suppose it will judge Umberto Alvarez?”
Again, for a long time neither of them said a word. A gray bird made a lot of noise from a nearby tree. The winter sun shone strongly. Tyler slipped on a pair of sunglasses.
Nell snorted several times during those minutes as she worked through an internal dialogue. She shook her head, looked over at Tyler, and then went back to worming her hands as if she were washing them.
“How’d you do in science?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “I liked it,” Tyler answered himself. He looked over at her, studying her, awaiting a reaction. It came slowly, but as brightly as the sun over the horizon. She was smiling. He dared to start the car.
“I sucked at science,” she admitted.
“Why, do you suppose?”
She grinned. “I probably didn’t have the right teacher.”
She took a deep breath, had one last look at the school, and asked, “How long do you think it will take you to pack?”
“What’s the hurry?” he asked, pulling the car out into the empty street.
“No hurry, I suppose. But there’s a red-eye that leaves at eleven. I’d just as soon have breakfast in Manhattan as Rockford.”
“Leaves us the rest of the afternoon,” he said, suppressing a grin. He drove into traffic and headed to the motel, where he hoped they might find a way to kill some time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was edited by Leigh Haber (Hyperion) and my agent Al Zuckerman (Writers House).
Special thanks to William Eder, Nick Gilman, C.J. Snow, for reading with a trained eye. Matthew Snyder, for the film work. Nancy Litzinger, Debbie Cimino, Mary Peterson, Louise Marsh, for everything you do at the office. Heidi Mack for creating and maintaining the web site. Courtney Samway for being our cyberspace mail courier. Thanks, too, to Ellen Archer and Bob Miller.
Marcelle, Paige, and Storey—as always, yours.
About the Author
Ridley Pearson is the co-author of the bestselling Peter and the Starcatchers. His novels have sold over six million copies and have been translated into twenty languages. The bestselling author of fourteen novels, including The Body of David Hayes and The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer, he is the first American to be awarded the Raymond Chandler/Fulbright Fellowship in detective fiction at Oxford University. He divides his time between Sun Valley, Idaho, and St. Louis, Missouri.
ALSO BY RIDLEY PEARSON
The Art of Deception*
Middle of Nowhere*
The First Victim*
The Pied Piper*
Beyond Recognition*
Chain of Evidence
No Witnesses*
The Angel Maker*
Hard Fall
Probable Cause
Undercurrents*
Hidden Charges
Blood of the Albatross
Never Look Back
*features Lou Boldt
WRITING AS WENDELL McCALL
Dead Aim
Parallel Lies Page 34