He was chuckling to himself when he came down the steps and obviously enjoyed her fear as he slithered toward her bed. “Your loving husband is scared shitless. He’s beggin’ me to take his money.” Mike leaned over her. “Guess he’s finally realized that he’s met his match.” He touched his fingers to her face. “Or maybe he’s not so sure how much he’ll be able to love you if I send you home with some of his favorite parts missing.”
His hand drifted slowly down her neck and then under to the top edge of the gown. “But maybe if you’re very nice to me … very nice … I’ll send ya back to him in one piece. He won’t mind havin’ seconds.” The sick smile curled into a corner of his mouth.
“Hey, Mike! You down there again?” It was Rita, shouting from the floor above.
“Yeah. Just checkin’ to make sure she’s not goin’ nowhere.”
He stood up straight, towering over Emily. “I’ll be back when she’s not around. In the meantime, you better be thinkin’ of how you’re goin’ to make me happy.”
Friday
WALTER PAUSED AT THE door of his inner office and set down his briefcase so that he could fit the key into the lock. Then he stumbled over the case as he pushed the door open. He was exhausted, his eyes still red and puffy from his sleepless night, a tiny speck of tissue stuck to the blood clot on his cheek, evidence of his effort at shaving. He picked up the briefcase and dropped it heavily into one of the chairs that flanked his desk. Then he went into his private washroom and tried to make to himself look presentable before his staff began arriving.
He was shocked at what he saw in the mirror. Not just the fatigue, which he had expected, but more the total emptiness in his eyes and expression. The week had taken its toll. In some higher court of justice, he was being fined heavily for his plan to put Emily aside.
Walter had never wanted her hurt. He could have stood before God and sworn that he wished her absolutely no ill. Oh, there would certainly be some embarrassment. Even though he expected her to tell their friends that he was a liar and a philanderer, and blame the breakup on his weakness, she would still feel humiliated that he had preferred another woman. Some resentment was inevitable. But Walter knew Emily to be a strong and practical woman. Deep down, she would be able to admit to herself that he had simply gone off into another orbit. She would know that she had no interest in traveling with him and that her happiness was located exactly where he was leaving her, in a gracious home, with her tennis and travel, in the love and occasional company of her children. His settlement would guarantee that she would never want for anything. It was not even unthinkable that she would find another man to take his place.
Instead, he had left her in the hands of a madman whose ambitions reached only to $50,000 and whose lust would be sated by cutting her to pieces. No matter what, regardless of what it might omen for his relationship with Angela or his future with the bank, he had to save her from the monstrous voice on the telephone. His own needs, important as they were, paled in comparison with her danger.
He held a wet washcloth over his eyes, letting the cold invigorate his dead face. He removed the tissue paper and carefully wiped away the spot of blood. He took his electric razor and completed the job that he had botched with a blade. He gargled with mouthwash to cleanse the paste from his tongue and ran a comb through his hair to cover the thin spots. Then he went to his desk and turned on his computer.
The first step was to check into the accounts in which he had stored the $100 million ransom. Once he had moved the few thousand that Andrew needed to set up his trap in Grand Cayman, he fully intended to follow with the full amount.
Next, he checked his own accounts in the bank’s executive compensation files. He had over $100,000 in treasury bills, accumulated from his incentive percentages and available to purchase approved securities. He could draw the $50,000 with a simple coded order that automatically posted the required tax and payroll deductions. His problem would be getting the funds in cash, specifically nonsequenced twenties. Cash was fast becoming a curiosity among money center banks and his request for compensation funds in twenty-dollar bills would certainly raise some eyebrows. The last thing he wanted to do now was call attention to himself. He was going to have to take a bank check for the funds and then go to another bank to cash the check. In fact, he would be better off taking several bank checks and cashing each at a different bank. This was the kind of thing that Andrew Hogan could arrange easily. But Emily’s safety depended on his keeping Hogan’s people away from the ransom.
He was startled when he heard Andrew’s voice. “What did you decide?” The security officer was speaking as he came through the door, acting as if they were still engaged in last night’s conversation.
Walter looked up, his expression registering his confusion.
“We agreed to sleep on it,” Andrew reminded him, as if there had been any chance of his finding restful sleep. Walter wanted to scream.
“I’ll tell you my thoughts,” Hogan said, settling into a chair, “but you’re not going to like them.” He took Walter’s silence as interest in his decision. “I think we ought to go together up to Hollcroft’s office and lay everything out for him. That’s probably what we should have done right off the bat. But there’s still time to get this off our backs.”
“Jack Hollcroft will call in the police and the FBI,” Walter said in despair.
“That’s the best move. We were wrong to try to handle this with our own resources.”
“And Emily. We just act as if she’s of no importance. As if her life isn’t worth anything?”
“That’s the bank’s policy, Walter.”
Childs’s lips curled in anger. He bit off his words. “Bank … policy … is that she’s … already dead.” They stared unblinking at each other. “You know she’s alive,” Walter went on. “You heard her voice. In fact, she might be free right now if you had let me pay the lousy fifty-thousand-dollar ransom.”
Hogan broke off their eye contact and glanced down at his hands. “That’s not fair. You know as well as I do that the fifty thousand was a side bet.”
“Well, the hundred million is for real, dammit,” Walter snapped back. “And that’s what I’ve decided. I don’t want to take any chances with Emily’s life. I want to pay the hundred million just as I’ve been ordered.”
“Maybe Hollcroft will see it that way …” Andrew tried.
“No, he won’t. He’ll see it exactly the way a bank president has to see it, because it’s not his wife. He’ll follow policy.” Walter sagged slowly as if the air were being let out of him. “If we go to Jack, he’ll summon the board. And that will be Emily’s death sentence.” He looked pleadingly across the desk. “Let me send the money. I take full responsibility.”
Hogan’s head shook so slowly that his gesture was nearly imperceptible. ”Security is my responsibility. I can’t let anyone give away a hundred million of the bank’s money. No matter what the reason.”
“Then you’re the one who’s going to kill her,” Walter said. Even though they were only the width of the desk apart, they each disappeared into separate worlds of gloom.
They were called back by Walter’s secretary, who brought in the usual morning coffee, setting cups before the two men. When she finished, Hogan took up the discussion. “We’ve gone in a complete circle and we’re back to where we were yesterday. There are a hundred things wrong with the trap we’ve got set up in the Caymans. But it’s the only play we have.”
Angela stood before the full-length mirror. Her hair was up, tucked under the soft canvas hat so that its color hardly showed. The floppy brim circled the sides of her face and the sunglasses provided the perfect mask. The poncho disguised her figure and the baggy pants even raised doubts about her sex. Even Walter, she thought, could pass her by without recognizing her.
The outfit itself was her biggest problem. Anyone looking for suspicious characters would be attracted to a costume that made someone impossible to recognize. But in George T
own, broad-brimmed hats and opaque sunglasses were de rigueur. And loose, cool cottons were the standard cover for the thongs and bikinis that were ubiquitous on the beaches and at the pools. In the streets and shops surrounding the bank, there would probably be a hundred costumes similar to what she was wearing. She would be as inconspicuous as Angela Hilliard was ever going to get.
Her laptop computer was open on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, its power cord plugged in above the toaster, and a phone cord stretching from its base to a telephone jack on the kitchen wall. Angela had simply dialed into the PC in her New York office and then connected that computer to the bank’s internal network.
Walter’s password, which he had often encouraged her to use, had put her computer online with his server. Anytime he downloaded a file, or connected to the network in order to move funds from one account to another, the information would write out on her screen just as it was appearing on his. As far as his computer dealings were concerned, she might just as well have been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.
She glanced at the screen as she stepped into the kitchen for still another cup of coffee. Keep sharp, she had warned herself, and alert. She couldn’t allow herself to settle into the relaxed mood of her surroundings.
There was nothing yet, which was hardly surprising. It was only 9:00 A.M. Angela guessed that he would probably wait until his colleagues were buried in the day’s work before he would key in the ransom transfer. His activities would go unnoticed until late in the day.
She could easily imagine die tension that was seizing Walter’s hands and the pressure that was building up inside his head. Walter, she knew, was highly driven and completely obsessive. The danger he was confronting would take possession of all his senses. He had collapsed into her arms only a few nights earlier when his moment of truth was still many hours off. Now that he was down to his final minutes, he was probably becoming a basket case. She could only hope that he wouldn’t crack. She was counting on his being able to face up to the dangers and make the only choice that was really left to him.
She took her coffee to the patio and looked up the length of the Seven Mile beach. Pure white sand was pasted on flat blue water to form a piece of impressionistic art. The first sun worshipers of the day were just beginning to migrate down to the water’s edge.
This was the kind of place where she would like to live; a paradise with none of the uncertainties of the seasons, reserved for the rich and powerful, and next door to discreet banks that would let her manage her money. When people thought of her as power hungry, they imagined that she enjoyed flexing her financial muscle over subordinates at the bank and clients around the country. But that certainly wasn’t high on her list of priorities. The power she needed was the power to command any service and to gratify any need. Money bestowed that kind of power and she planned to have a great deal of it.
But for all its practical attributes, Grand Cayman struck her as a bit too sterile. Its history, a brief tale of European powers that had tried to foist the islands on one another, could be written on the back of a clam shell. It’s only geopolitical importance was as a landing strip for resident seagulls and for the longer-range migrant birds. In truth, its real beauty was underwater, visible only to the divers who left its shores every morning.
Europe, she thought, would be more fitting. Perhaps a villa on the Riviera, or a white cement house above the harbor of one of the Greek isles. Or perhaps the Italian coast, south of Naples, where cities with centuries of history rose vertically from the sea.
She looked over her shoulder at the computer, its screen still blank. She could imagine Walter ringing his hands as he circled the machine next to his desk in New York. Come on, Walter, she thought. Let’s get on with it.
Walter was, indeed, circling his desk like a caged animal. But he had yet to give thought to the small transfer that he and Andrew Hogan had agreed upon. Instead, he was waiting anxiously for the five $10,000 checks that were coming up from the cashier’s office. He had called the appropriate officers at several of the other major banks that filled the blocks of east-side midtown. Each would be delighted to arrange for five hundred used twenties to be available for pickup. No problem whatsoever. “You going down to Atlantic City?” one of his business acquaintances had jibed. A closer friend had ventured that he would like to see the lady who was worth that much money.
He had already lied to his secretary, telling her about an opportunity to pick up a great-looking sailboat that he could put into charter service. “I hate to do this, but the guy is in the middle of a divorce and doesn’t want the money to show up in his checking account. Could you … ?”
Joanne had agreed to leave early on her lunch hour, bring his checks to neighboring banks, and have the cash back to him before 2:00 P.M.
The messenger arrived and Walter hurriedly endorsed the bank checks. Then he sent the secretary on her way and turned his attention to the small account he was about to deliver to the Caymans. It was a wasted exercise, he thought. No one was going to come calling for the small amount he was wiring. But he had to go through the motions just to satisfy Andrew Hogan. Once Andrew saw the $10,000 transfer and thought he was completely on top of the situation, Walter planned to move the $100 million from his storage accounts.
Angela heard the electronic ping from her laptop and strolled around the kitchen counter to see what Walter was up to. First came an InterBank account number, followed almost instantly by the international routing number that identified the Folonari Cayman branch. Next was the Folonari account number, the one where the ransom instructions had directed that the funds be deposited. She found herself smiling at how easy it was. No masks, no guns, no getaway cars. Just “hello” and “thank you very much.” Probably even a “pleasure doing business with you. I hope we can be of service again.” It would all be completely polite and civil. Why would anyone stoop to armed robbery?
Next came Walter’s authorization code. Somewhere in Milan, at Folonari’s headquarters, an old mainframe was checking the code against its file of authorized wire transaction depositors. The cursor on Angela’s screen blinked impatiently. It wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Then Folonari’s confirmation number printed across the screen. The branch could accept the funds with the same assurance, as if they were counting their way through a truckload of U.S. dollars. The sender had the money and had InterBank’s authorization to transfer any amount.
Angela looked eagerly for the $100 million figure. She was stunned when the computer wrote out the number $10,000. “What the hell … ?” she heard herself mumble dumbly. She hunched down close to the screen as if she suspected her eyes were deceiving her. There was no mistake. Walter was depositing only $10,000. She pulled away. Something was wrong. Someone was playing a game and it was a game in which she hadn’t anticipated the rules. What was Walter up to?
She ran through a list of possibilities. He was transferring the funds in small amounts. Smart, because it would be more likely to go undetected than one large transfer. But $10,000? At that rate, it would take all day and a good part of the weekend to complete the deposit.
He was trying to bluff the kidnapper. “Take it or leave it,” he might be saying. “I’ll let you walk with a few thousand and we’ll forget any of this ever happened. Just release my wife and get out of my life.” That was a possible ploy, Angela decided, but not for Walter. He simply didn’t have the guts for games of chicken, played at high speed.
Most probably this was simply a trial run. He had established the account and funded it out of the bank’s coffers. He was waiting to be sure that the transaction went unchallenged before he sent the bulk of the money.
She poured herself still another cup of coffee, set it next to the computer, and climbed up onto one of the stools that served the counter. There had to be more coming. She sat patiently, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
An hour dragged past and Walter’s server reported no action. Whateve
r he was doing, it didn’t involve accessing the bank’s internal accounts and records. Nor did it seem to involve any correspondence with outside banks. Something was terribly wrong.
She perked up when Walter’s machine went back online. Maybe this was what she had been waiting for. But he keyed in a routine transaction and then went immediately back into darkness. Angela jumped down from the stool and switched off the machine. There was nothing happening in New York. She had to find out if anything was happening at the Folonari Cayman branch.
She took her huge canvas bag, which served not only as a purse but also as a shopping bag, and locked the apartment door behind her. The sun was already high in the sky and its heat was radiating from the sidewalk and the black surface of the road. The beach, to her right, was dotted with cabanas and umbrellas and the oiled bodies of physically endowed vacationers. In the streets to her left, the day’s commerce was in full bloom.
It was a quaint little town, ugly in the dilapidation of its structures, but pretty in the colorful commerce it housed. The wide, double doors of shops were thrown open, with merchandise migrating out into the streets. Coffeehouses had no front facades, their business reaching out until the tables were threatening to topple over the curb. Automobiles, mostly European and Japanese compacts, were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk and a steady flow of cars through the narrow space left in the roads amounted almost to a traffic jam.
She strolled passed the front entrance of the bank and noticed a tall man, probably in his thirties, leaning casually against the wall, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His white complexion stood out among the native tans, his sports shirt was brand new, and his shoes weren’t typical island ware. Was he watching the entrance, she wondered as she drew close? Or was he waiting for a wife who was spending her day on a shopping spree? His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Angela thought she noticed his head turn to follow her as she passed. Had he spotted her? Or was he just bored enough to look at anyone?
The Trophy Wife Page 16
