by Stephen Frey
SILENT PARTNER
* * *
STEPHEN FREY
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Other Books by Stephen Frey
Copyright
To my daughters, Christina and Ashley.
I love you both so much.
You’re growing up too fast.
And to my wife, Lil. I love you too.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks to all the folks at Ballantine for their continued support, but especially Mark Tavani, Gina Centrello, and Kim Hovey.
A special thanks to my agent, Cynthia Manson.
A special thanks to Matthew Lee, who was tremendously helpful in terms of research and guidance on this book.
And to the others who have consistently supported my efforts: Stephen Watson, Matt Malone, Peter Borland, Jim and Anmarie Galowski, Bob Wieczorek, Kevin “Big Sky” Erdman, Chris Tesoriero, Baron Stewart, Barbara Fertig, Bart Begley, Walter Frey, Scott Andrews, Marvin Bush, and Mike Pocalyko.
PROLOGUE
APRIL 1994
Angela Day and Sally Chambers had been inseparable for as long as either of them could remember. They’d grown up together in the same trailer park ten miles outside of Asheville, North Carolina. Attended the same public high school. And both had been accepted to the state university where they’d been roommates all four years. Both were strikingly attractive, intelligent, and self-assured despite their modest pedigrees. In fact, there was only one major difference between them. Angela was white, and Sally was black.
Now, only a few weeks from graduation, they realized that the constant closeness they had taken for granted for so many years was almost over. Angela had been accepted to Duke’s graduate business school in Durham, and Sally was going home to Asheville—far away from Duke in the western part of North Carolina. She was needed there to care for her ailing mother.
Both assumed they would keep in touch by telephone after graduation, and they would certainly make a point of seeing each other at holidays. But they knew that sooner or later the phone conversations would become less frequent, trips to Asheville would become less appealing to Angela, and, as a result, their lives would probably drift apart. Neither had mentioned the approaching inevitability. They had simply kept to their routine, quietly determined to enjoy their last few weeks together.
“This is it,” said Angela, pulling Sally to a stop and pointing up at the large fraternity house looming over them in the darkness of the spring evening. Music blared from inside over muffled shouts and screams. “Tau Kappa Rho.”
Sally stepped back. “You didn’t tell me we were coming to Tau Kappa.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“These guys are animals. Aren’t they the ones who painted Klan slogans on the freshman dorms last fall?”
“That was just a rumor.”
“Well, I heard these guys were responsible. I don’t want to go in there,” Sally said flatly.
“Oh, come on,” Angela pleaded. “It’ll be fine. Craig’s a member.”
“Craig who?”
“He’s in our economics class. The one I pointed out to you last week.”
“So that’s what tonight’s hike is all about.”
“We’ve been making eye contact all semester. After class the other day he asked me to stop by the party.”
“I’m not going in.”
“Oh, please. We’ll only stay for a little while. Just long enough for me to find him and say hi.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to go in by myself. I’ll look pathetic.”
“No.”
Angela shook her head. “This isn’t like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never known you to back down from anything. I’ve never known you to be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Sally said, crossing her arms defiantly.
“Then let’s go.” Angela grabbed Sally’s hand and began pulling her up the cobblestone walkway leading to the fraternity house. “What could happen?”
They climbed the front steps together, moving past several young men tapping a keg in one corner of the raised brick porch that spanned the house’s facade. Angela pushed the door open, and, as they slipped into the dimly lit room and a sea of young people, they were hit by rock music blaring from two huge speakers along the far wall. They dodged several couples pretzeling wildly, and skirted small pockets of young men chugging beers.
“This is wild!” Sally shouted, jostled by a woman who had been twisted so recklessly by her dance partner she had lost her grip on his hand and stumbled backward through the crowd.
“This way!” Angela yelled over her shoulder, leading Sally deeper into the house. “It looks quieter over there.”
After pushing their way through the bodies, they made it to another room where things were less chaotic. Around a large table people were playing a game involving cards, dice, and clear plastic cups full of foamy beer. Several of the bleary-eyed participants seemed ready to pass out, swaying as they watched the game and waited for their turn.
“Please, let’s leave,” Sally begged. “You’ll never find the guy in here. This is insane.”
“Just a few more minutes. He promised he’d be here.”
“He’s probably already gone or—”
“Angela!”
They turned at the sound of the voice, and in front of them stood Craig Smythe. He was tall and blond, and he leaned down and gave Angela a quick kiss on the cheek.
Angela smiled at him. “I didn’t think I was going to find you!”
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. Glad you could make it.”
“This is my friend Sally Chambers,” Angela said, pointing.
Craig shook Sally’s hand, then leaned down and put his lips to Angela’s ear. “Follow me,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her out of the room.
Angela glanced back at Sally, who was doing her best to keep up. A few moments later they reached another room that was less crowded, and far enough away from the bedlam of the dance floor that they didn’t have to yell to hear each other.
“This room is off-limits to underclassmen unless they’ve been given specific permission by a senior to come in,” Craig explained.
“This place is out of control,” Angela exclaimed.
Craig chuckled. “This is nothing. Just one more Saturday night. Now, what would you two like to drink? How about a little punch?” he suggested. Before either of them could answer, he had motioned to an underclassman loitering outside the room.
The underclassman trotted over to where they stood. “Yes, sir?”
“Go upstairs and get us some grain punch,” Craig ordered. “It’s in one of the back bedrooms. Tell the guys guarding the tub that I sent you. Use the large cups.”
“I can’t carry three large cups at once,” the underclassman complained.
“That’s all right with me,” Sally answered. “I don’t like that stuff anyway. It’s too strong.”
Angela managed to catch Sally’s eye, and shot her
a desperate plea-for-privacy look.
“Oh, all right.” Sally sighed, turning to follow the underclassman toward a stairway. “I’ll help you,” she called to him.
“Sally’ll be all right, won’t she?” Angela asked, irritated at herself for being so selfish.
“Oh, sure.” Craig smiled down at her. “You know, you have incredible eyes,” he said, leaning forward. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
Guys told her that constantly, but she never tired of hearing it.A woman has to be aware of her most outstanding features and never be afraid to use them to her advantage, her mother had told her many times. She stared at her green eyes in the mirror every morning, trying to understand what they saw. She didn’t get it. But they did.Which, her mother had counseled her,is all that matters.
“I mean it,” Craig said. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Thanks.”
Several minutes later the underclassman returned carrying two large cups full of something that looked like Hawaiian Punch. He handed them to Craig and Angela.
“Where’s Sally?” Angela asked, taking a sip. Instantly, she closed her eyes and coughed. The alcohol was overpowering.
“Upstairs talking basketball with some guy.”
That made sense. Sally had been a star on the girls’ basketball team in high school. Though not talented enough to play on the university’s intercollegiate team, she excelled in the intramural program.
“So she’s okay?” She was still breathless from the grain alcohol.
The young man nodded. “Oh, yeah. She’s fine. She seemed to be having a good time showing the guy that she knew more about basketball than he did.”
That made sense too. Sally wasn’t shy about putting an overconfident male in his place.
“All right, goat,” Craig announced, “that’s enough. Get out of here. You’ve served your purpose.”
The young man slunk from the room.
“What’s a goat?” Angela wanted to know.
“A freshman. The lowest form of life.”
Angela rolled her eyes.Boys would be boys, she thought.
“Let’s dance,” Craig suggested, placing their cups aside and whisking Angela toward the dance floor.
When they’d had enough loud music and flying bodies, they retreated once again to the quieter room reserved for seniors.
“That was great,” Craig said. “You really know how to move.”
“Thanks.”
“Here’s your drink.” He grabbed her cup off the shelf and held it out to her.
“No,” she said, looking around for Sally. She hadn’t shown up on the dance floor, and Angela had expected her to be waiting here when they returned.
Another young man stumbled up to Craig, clearly drunk. “Hey, Brother Smythe,” he said, laughing obnoxiously as he rested his elbow on Craig’s shoulder to steady himself. “You should see what’s going on up in the launching pad.”
“What’s the launching pad?” Angela asked.
“A party room on the top floor.”
“It’s so great,” the guy leaning on Craig’s shoulder slurred.
“What is?”
Slowly the intoxicated boy looked up, eyes glazed. “They’ve got some nigger bitch tied to a chair up there. They’re forcing her to chug.”
For several moments it seemed to Angela that the room had gone deathly silent, and that all things were moving in slow motion. She seemed unable to breathe or move or even think. Then the music was blaring in her ears again and she was racing for the stairway with Craig right behind her.
“Where’s the launching pad?” she screamed when they had reached the second floor.
“This way!”
Craig flashed past, and she sprinted after him, up another, steeper flight of steps, then down a long hallway to a closed door. “Open up!” he shouted, banging on the door with both fists. “Open the Goddamn door!”
From inside, Angela could hear whistling and loud voices, and she began to beat on the door too.
“Look out.”
Angela darted out of Craig’s way as he launched himself at the door, lowering his shoulder and hurling himself against it. It cracked but didn’t break. He took three steps back and lunged at it again. This time the lock snapped, the door flew open, and he stumbled into the room.
Sally lay sprawled on a large leather chair in a far corner of the crowded, smoky room, her wrists bound to the arms of the chair. A man was holding her head down so tightly that the veins in her neck rose grotesquely from her skin, and he was pinching her nostrils together so that she had to open her mouth wide to gasp for air.
A second young man stood beside Sally, clenching her chin and sloppily pouring the cherry-colored punch into her mouth so it splashed all over her face and ran down onto her blouse, staining the white cotton a bright red. Sally was struggling, trying to avoid the liquid, but the bindings and the hands were too strong. She tried spitting out the liquid, but they kept pouring, and she was forced to gulp it down in order to breathe.
“That’s right. Drink,” one of the young men yelled angrily. “Drink it all. Every damn drop.”
“Yeah, all of it!” the one holding her head yelled, pulling on her ponytail so hard she screamed in pain.
“Sally!” Angela started toward the chair, but two young men at the edge of the group intercepted her. Through the bodies huddled around Sally, Angela saw her slowly stop struggling, saw her body go limp as the men continued forcing alcohol down her throat.
Craig rushed past Angela, surging into the circle of drunken fraternity brothers. Shouting at them furiously to get away, he reached down and wrenched open the knots binding Sally to the chair. When she was free, he pulled her to her feet and yelled for her to get out.
For a split second Angela locked eyes with Sally across the chaos of the room, and in that instant saw the anguish on her best friend’s face. Then Angela was distracted by a fist slamming into Craig’s chin. He went down, tumbling backward until he came to rest against a wall, unconscious.
Angela started for Sally again, but the two young men who had intercepted her before easily kept her back. She watched in horror as the young man who had been holding Sally’s head while she was tied to the chair shoved her roughly against the wall beside a curtainless window.
“Let me go!” Angela shouted, fighting frantically to free herself. “My God, you can’t stand here and let this go on.”
“We can do whatever we want,” one of them retorted smugly. “And if you aren’t careful, you’ll be next.”
Over his shoulder Angela watched Sally desperately try to break free, scratching and clawing at the face and arms of her attacker. Then he grabbed her by the neck with both hands, choking her and slamming her against the wall over and over. Moving her along the wall until the back of her head hit the wall beside the window, then the molding, then the glass. And then Sally was gone, and the window was smashed, and the young man who had been choking her was staring down into the darkness, his hands outstretched.
For a moment Angela gazed at the smashed window, horror-stricken. Then she raced away, down the hall and the first set of steps, then down the second set of steps and back through the party to the front door. She burst through the door and onto the brick porch, scanning the area to her left. Sally lay there, motionless, one leg pointing away from her body at a horrible, unnatural angle; the bone had snapped like a brittle twig just below the knee.
She rushed to Sally’s side and knelt down, cradling Sally’s head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Angela sobbed, caressing Sally’s hair and wiping away blood from her mouth and nose. “You’re going to be all right, sweetheart. I promise. You’re going to be all right.”
CHAPTER ONE
FEBRUARY 2003
Risk versus return. What can be lost versus what can be gained. The essence ofevery critical decision.
Invest in those dependable Treasury bonds yielding a slim but certain return, or throw caution to the wind and snap up shares of
the high-tech start-up that could become next week’s billion-dollar headline—or, just as easily, a bankrupt memory. Marry the safe, stable person your parents adore, or run away with the lover who ignites body and soul with a single glance—but lives only in the moment. Risk versus return. A simple concept that often imposes difficult choices. And, sometimes, terrible consequences.
Angela Day had chosen well in her business career. It was in her personal life where accepting the risks had proven catastrophic.
Until a few minutes ago the four-hour flight from Virginia had been silky smooth. Zero chop in the dark winter sky, which came as a relief because Angela hated to fly. So many times she’d heard the catchy stat about planes being safer than cars—usually from amused colleagues sitting beside her when she made the sign of the cross over her heart as the aircraft began to roll forward on takeoff. But as the Gulfstream V banked hard left on its final approach into Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and hurtled through a nasty air pocket, the statistical crutch disintegrated—just as it always did.
“Get this thing on the ground,” she whispered, her fingernails digging into the arms of the plush leather seat, her stomach starting to churn. “Now.”
On the way west a uniformed steward had attended to her every want, serving a delicious crab imperial dinner an hour into the flight and constantly topping off her crystal glass with a dry Chardonnay. She was accustomed to commercial aircraft and economy class, accustomed to flat Coke in plastic cups, stale pretzels, and uncomfortable seats beside infants who screamed at any change in air pressure. So, being the only passenger on a private jet as lavish as a five-star hotel suite was a welcome change, even if the luxury was a one-time-only offer made available for some as-yet-unexplained reason by a reclusive billionaire she’d only read about in the press.
But the pleasurable experience had been ruined somewhere over South Dakota, when one of the pilots had sauntered back to let her know in his gravelly, Chuck Yeager monotone that the landing might get a little dicey. A winter storm had blown in to northwest Wyoming a few hours ahead of schedule, and he wanted to make certain she was buckled in securely. He chuckled at her suggestion that he make a U-turn and beeline it back to the East Coast, then told her he’d see her on the ground.Hopefully in one piece, she thought. She tried to convince herself that “a little dicey” wasn’t pilot-speak for “imminent disaster.” Suddenly she missed economy class and its screaming infants. She glanced out the small window beside her into total darkness.Probably the side of some mountain we’re about to slam into, she figured grimly.
