Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  Galvin nodded. “And maybe we’re safe as long as we stay on the property. But I can’t stay here indefinitely. I’ve got to vanish. At some point soon I need to leave.”

  “And then what? He’s gonna . . .”

  “You know the videos on the Internet of those guys with chain saws cutting off people’s heads and all that? The ones you see in your nightmares?”

  Danny exhaled audibly, nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, this is the guy who gives those guys nightmares.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Danny said, and for a long time he was silent. Then: “What does he want from you?”

  “Account numbers, access codes, everything.”

  “Was he behind what happened in Aspen?”

  “No, I don’t think so. That was a Zeta signature. And that’s what I still can’t figure out.”

  “What can’t you figure out?”

  “Blood in the water brings out the sharks. I get that. My guys—Mendoza—they’re Sinaloa. But I don’t know how the Zetas got involved. Or why they’re coming after me.”

  He turned and looked at Danny curiously. Something in his expression seemed almost accusatory. As if he knew Danny was holding something back.

  And Danny could no longer keep Galvin in the dark about the ex-DEA agents. No more. Keeping that secret from Galvin had become unbearable.

  “Now I need to tell you something,” Danny began.

  76

  The air in Galvin’s study was thick with cigar smoke. It hung in the air like clouds, like suspended jet contrails. A cigar smoldered in a big glass ashtray on the desk in front of him. The husk of another one sat blackened in the ash.

  Galvin had listened to Danny’s story in silence, barely reacting.

  “I knew you were ensnared in something,” he said when Danny had finished. “I’ve known it since that squash game.”

  Danny winced. “I don’t even know what I can say to you. How I apologize.”

  “You think I’m gonna judge you? After what I’ve done? Come on, man.”

  Danny fell silent for a moment. “Do you . . . you think they’re working for Zeta?”

  He shrugged. “Could be. I’d say it’s likely. They’re apparently ex-DEA contractors, and we know at least one of them was in Aspen. I told you, that obscenity in Aspen—that looked and smelled like the work of the Los Zetas cartel.”

  “And that ticket to Nuevo Laredo—isn’t that where Los Zetas is based?”

  “Right. Tell you something else. This is exactly how Zeta operates. They’re—like hermit crabs.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Know how the Zetas got their start? They were all members of Mexico’s special forces, who were hired by the Gulf cartel to do security, enforcement. But after a while they decided, why be just the hired muscle—when they could make as much money as their bosses? So they broke off and started their own cartel. Kinda like the way hermit crabs find empty seashells and move in.”

  “So in this case they’re trying to take over . . . what, the whole Sinaloa cartel?”

  “They want what I built for the cartel. The entire financial structure. Account numbers and passwords and the keys to the kingdom. Cut to the head of the line. They colonize. They take over. Forget hermit crabs—they’re like cancer.”

  “They want your master password by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, or . . .” He shook his head, didn’t want to let his mind even go there. “I mean, is there even such a thing? Do you have one master password?”

  “How would they know that?” Galvin said with a curious half smile.

  “Do you?”

  He nodded. “Look, I’m no computer guy, but I’m smart enough to hire smart people, and they set me up with the most sophisticated password-management system you can get. All the most sensitive information—the entire list of account numbers and passwords and contact names and numbers—is encrypted and stored on a cloud-based service and blah blah blah. If you want to unlock that directory, you need to enter a passphrase, not a password. It’s actually a lyric from a Lynyrd Skynyrd song.”

  “I’ll bet I know which one.” “Sweet Home Alabama” was a fairly safe guess.

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “But it’s not going to do me any good. It’s not like I’m going to give them the passphrase and they’re going to say thanks and shake hands and leave me alone.”

  Galvin grimaced. “I’m sorry you got into this.”

  Danny looked at him for a long time. What did Galvin have to be sorry about? He didn’t get him into this. Danny did, himself. “There’s pretty much nothing I can give them that will guarantee my safety or the safety of my family,” he said softly. A gloomy desperation was settling in. “The best I can do is buy a little time.”

  “I wish I had the answer,” Galvin said, “but I don’t.”

  “And what about you? You disappear with however many billion dollars of their money, they’ll look for you forever.”

  “Of course. Which is why I’m only taking the profit.”

  “The profit?”

  “The cartel owns real estate and shopping malls and fast-food franchises and a whole range of companies. All owned by a holding company. Plus a lot of cash.”

  “You’re taking their cash?”

  “Uh-uh. I always knew this arrangement had an expiration date. I knew the time would come when I’d have to disappear. I’ve been squirrelling away nuts for years now.”

  “Meaning what? You’ve been ripping the cartel off?”

  “Not at all. It’s money I’ve earned. A couple of hundred million dollars in an array of offshore accounts. Management fee.”

  “So you’re going to sail to, what, the Caribbean and disappear under the name of that one hundred percent genuine US passport you bought?”

  Galvin nodded once.

  “And the couple of hundred million bucks—that’s in the same name?”

  “No. All the offshore accounts are in a different name. You have to keep the passport name and the account name completely separate. I’ve done the research.”

  “And what happens when US law enforcement starts pulling at the loose threads? They’re getting good at it, aren’t they? A lot of these Caribbean countries are starting to cooperate with the US.”

  “Some are more than others, but that’s beside the point. My money’s in something the accountants call a walking trust. Meaning that the moment law enforcement opens an inquiry into one of my accounts, the trust is automatically dissolved. The funds are wired out immediately to another account in another country. Believe me, they’re not going to find me.”

  “There’s no guarantees. Even if you do something elaborate like faking your death, they won’t be convinced. They won’t believe it.”

  “You’re right. But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Maybe not. Unless there is.”

  “This is not for you to worry about. You just need to take care of your family.”

  “Well, you’re protecting my daughter. That means a lot to me.”

  Galvin bit his lower lip. “You and Lucy are—over, right?” It sounded like he’d been wanting to ask about her for a while.

  Danny nodded.

  “You did it to protect her.”

  Danny just blinked a few times. His eyes were moist. “She walked out.”

  “But you didn’t stop her.”

  Danny nodded again.

  “You did the right thing.”

  “It wasn’t up to me.”

  “But you let her go. You’re letting her walk away because you love her. I get it.”

  Danny winced, nodded. “What about you?”

  “What?”

  “Walking away. You’re just going to, what? Get on your boat and sail off the grid?” />
  “Pretty much.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My being gone is their best protection. You think it doesn’t rip my heart out?”

  “Of course it does. But it’s not enough. It’s only half an exit strategy.”

  “I’ve got my walking papers and my walking trust. What else is there?”

  “I’m a biographer. Trust me on this. You need a narrative. A story.”

  Galvin peered at him, shook his head, not comprehending.

  “The answer’s been staring me in the face this whole time,” Danny said.

  77

  Galvin looked at Danny, shrugged. “What?”

  “What would Jay Gould do?”

  “Huh?”

  “Jay Gould. The guy I’m writing a book about—industrialist, robber baron, whatever?”

  “Right.”

  “So we play one off against the other. That’s the only way we’re going to survive this.”

  “How?”

  “A double cross.”

  “Explain.”

  “I’m starting to have a real appreciation for Jay Gould. He was a shrimpy little guy. Frail, often in poor health. Had a lot of enemies—just about everyone on Wall Street. But he was just light-years ahead of anyone else. And the way he did it, the way he got so rich, was by playing a far deeper, far more sophisticated game than anyone else.”

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “The way he went after Western Union. Back in his time, the telegraph was like our Internet. And the big gorilla in the telegraph business was Western Union. So naturally, Jay Gould wanted to own it. But their board of directors wouldn’t even let him in the door.”

  “Okay.” Galvin was listening closely now.

  “So he scammed them. Made them think he was going into business against them. Started buying up shares of the competition, the Atlantic and Pacific. And he knew that Western Union monitored the telegrams sent by their competitors. So he sent telegrams that made it look like he was planning to build a rival company. Sure enough, Western Union read those telegrams, and of course they didn’t want competition. So they bought his company. But the whole thing was just an elaborate scam, because he’d jacked the stock price way up. He made them pay ridiculously inflated prices for the stock. Like a poison pill. So Western Union stock tanked. And then Gould moved in, striking quick like a rattlesnake, and—presto—he owns Western Union.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “It may be a bit complicated,” Danny began. “But I think it should work quite nicely. You have a bunch of companies in your portfolio—I mean, the cartel’s portfolio. Right?”

  Galvin nodded.

  “Are any of them, say, construction companies?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any of them around here?”

  “We own Medford Regional Construction & Engineering. Nothing in the city.”

  “That may do it.”

  Galvin looked puzzled.

  “Let me explain,” Danny said.

  For the next thirty minutes, he laid out his idea. Galvin listened and made notes and occasionally argued. He made a few calls.

  In time they had come up with something that seemed feasible.

  Not a sure thing, and not easy.

  But possible.

  78

  As Danny pulled out of Galvin’s estate, he gave a quick wave to the hired guards outside the gate. One of them waved back. The other stared at Danny’s car, as if inspecting the interior. Maybe looking to confirm there was no one else in the car besides the driver.

  About half a mile down the road he noticed, in his peripheral vision, a large black vehicle pull out of a turnout just behind him. It was a black Suburban. The only other car on the road. He glanced into his rearview mirror. No one he recognized. Some musclehead behind the wheel and another one in the passenger’s seat.

  When he entered the Mass Turnpike and the black Suburban was still behind him, he was fairly certain he was being followed. The Suburban stayed a car length or two behind, maintaining a consistent speed, never overtaking Danny’s car. When Danny exited at Copley Square, the Suburban did the same.

  The men in the Suburban had that vacant-faced, stolid crew cut blandness that Danny had always associated with federal agents, Secret Service or FBI or whatever.

  Then again, they could just as easily be private, though—working for, or with, Slocum and Yeager. If they were, it wasn’t clear what they were going to find out by tailing him. Galvin’s house and his Back Bay apartment were the two places he was sure to turn up. What was the point? Maybe nothing more than keeping the pressure on, letting him know that wherever he went, his movements were being observed.

  So let them follow him. He was keeping up the appearance of a normal, predictable routine.

  Because in less than an hour, he was going to depart from his routine. And make a trip someplace where it was vitally important he not be followed.

  He found a parking space on Marlborough Street, across the street from his apartment. The black Suburban had followed him, not bothering with subtlety. It kept going past his parking spot, half a block away, then stopped and double-parked, putting on its flashers. They were going to wait for him.

  Let them wait.

  Once inside his apartment building, he pulled out his apartment keys. He could hear Rex whining softly, scratching at the door, desperate to go out. His tail thumped against the hardwood floor.

  The bottom lock wasn’t locked.

  He’d locked both locks when he was there last. He was absolutely certain of it.

  Rex whimpered softly. “I’m taking you out now, boy,” he said.

  The overhead light in the foyer had been left on, and he knew he’d turned it off.

  They—probably Slocum and Yeager, the ex-DEA grifters, again—wanted him to know they were here.

  Rex whimpered some more and struggled to get up. “You poor guy, you’ve been so patient.” Danny reached down and attached collar to leash—a red grosgrain Lyman Academy dog leash Abby had talked him into buying, at a fund-raiser for a school that didn’t need funds—while Rex licked his hand in gratitude.

  As far as his observers could tell, Danny had driven in to the city to feed the dog.

  Just part of his regular routine.

  Rex hobbled the block or so to the Commonwealth Avenue Mall to relieve himself on the grass. While Rex circled to find a choice spot, Danny took out an index card on which he’d written down a few important numbers. He pulled out the disposable cell phone and punched out the phone number for Leon Chisholm, the Lyman Academy security guard.

  Leon was expecting his call.

  “You’re in luck,” Leon said in his low, smoky voice. “I still got friends on the job.”

  “Excellent. Boston Police, or—?”

  “Yep, BPD.”

  “How much advance notice will you need?”

  “The more, the better. But half an hour, forty-five minutes ought to do it.”

  “I’ll call you soon. You’re the best.”

  “And don’t forget it,” Leon said.

  Five minutes later he got back into his Honda. The black Suburban was now double-parked even closer, about twenty feet away.

  Waiting for him.

  It pulled into the street right behind him, as if it were part of a convoy. Or an escort. They expected him to return to Galvin’s house, the way he always went, taking the turnpike to exit 15. So that was exactly what he’d do. At the end of Newbury Street, he crossed Mass Ave and entered the turnpike, the Suburban following close, and conspicuously, behind.

  It was three thirty, half an hour before the start of rush hour, but the traffic was already heavy and grindingly slow. The old Accord had a fairly zippy pickup, so he was able to pass a few cars and leave the Suburban four c
ars back and one lane over. He wasn’t trying to lose his pursuers, not here. Just trying to show irritation. To let them believe he was annoyed, maybe a little spooked, which was the natural reaction.

  It took almost forty minutes of driving through sluggish traffic to reach the Weston exit, sixteen miles away, a drive that normally took half that time. As he approached exit 15, he put on his right-turn signal and glanced in the rearview. The Suburban was still following him, maintaining a steady distance, always a few cars behind.

  Instead of taking the exit for Weston and Galvin’s house, as he normally would, he pretzeled around onto Route 128 heading north.

  He wasn’t going to Weston.

  He had to get to Medford, a town not far from Boston. But without his followers knowing where he was going. That was critical. If they saw what he was doing, his entire plan would come crashing down.

  Only by getting to Medford and making the transaction without being seen did Danny have any chance of staying alive.

  As he sped north, he looked in the mirror again and saw the gold Chevrolet bow tie nameplate and its menacing front grille like the bared teeth of a wild animal. He caught a glimpse of the crew cut passenger.

  They were still there.

  He had to lose them or else scrap the meeting in Medford. Up ahead was the exit for Route 2. He signaled and took it, and the Suburban followed. Now he was heading east in the direction of Boston, and also Medford. The highway here was wide, four lanes each way divided by a steel guardrail. On one side was a sheer cliff face, the rock out of which the road had been blasted. On the other was a high concrete wall. Even though it was now rush hour, the traffic here was moving at a good clip, sixty to sixty-five miles per hour.

  The Suburban was two cars behind. When he slowed down, it slowed. He pulled into the right lane, and it moved over to the middle lane, always staying back, but always in view.

  There was nothing furtive about it: The guys in the Suburban wanted him to know he was being followed. They were doing the automotive equivalent of breathing down his neck. Anywhere Danny drove, he’d know they were on his tail.

  Up ahead was a sign for exit 60. It said LAKE STREET, EAST ARLINGTON, BELMONT. He signaled right, and the Suburban did the same. He took the exit, and the Suburban followed. The road veered around hard, doing a complete one-eighty, past a chain-link fence and some trees and all the way around to a traffic light.