by Meg Gardiner
The FBI. My brain, which had been moving all day with the torpor of a salted slug, finally sat up. I remembered what Cousin Taylor had said at the bridal shower.
‘‘Dale Van Heusen is with the FBI’s money-laundering unit.’’
‘‘Damn.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘He’s been angling at i-heist all along. He must suspect that they’ve been moving money through Mako.’’
‘‘And he thinks that you and Isaac were part of their laundering operation from way back. That’s why he thinks he can threaten you with seizure of your assets.’’
And it came back to me, Van Heusen’s seemingly nonsensical remark.
‘‘Smurfing,’’ I said.
‘‘What about it?’’
His computer was open on the table. I sat down and logged on to Google.
I said, ‘‘Van Heusen used that term. Clearly he wanted to pique our interest.’’
‘‘But it’s a denial-of-service attack.’’
‘‘And it’s a blue cartoon character. Maybe it’s something else as well.’’
I typed in a search request: smurfing + money laundering . It was the most basic way I could think of to come up with a connection, maybe the connection I was missing. Let the search engine do the work.
The results popped up in less than a second. I heard Jesse groan out a breath. This was it.
From the Royal Canadian Mounted Police: Smurfing is possibly the most commonly used money-laundering method. It involves many individuals who deposit cash or buy bank drafts in amounts under $10,000.
From the U.S. Department of Justice: The Financial Crimes Enforcement Network defines smurfing as a money-laundering technique in which the launderer divides large cash deposits into smaller amounts and attempts thereby to avoid CTR reporting requirements.
‘‘CTR?’’ I said.
‘‘Currency Transaction Reports. Banks have to file them whenever a customer deposits ten thousand or more dollars in cash.’’
He came close to the computer and clicked on another search hit.
For criminals who want to move only a few million dollars a year, ‘‘smurfing’’ can be the easiest way to launder their cash. They have various people deposit random amounts less than $10,000 in various bank accounts, or less than $5,000 if they want to take the extra step of avoiding a ‘‘Suspicious Activity Report.’’
I looked at him. ‘‘So what’s the implication here? Does Van Heusen think you’re a smurf?’’
He stared at the screen. ‘‘Maybe.’’
I couldn’t tell if he was petrified or unconcerned. He looked frozen.
‘‘Maybe?’’ I said. ‘‘Maybe the FBI thinks you launder dirty money for a hacker gang?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘The month before the crash. That whole summer. What was going on? Think.’’
‘‘Evan, thinking about this is all I do.’’
‘‘But back to that summer.’’
He closed his eyes. ‘‘Can we let this rest? I don’t mean to be a jerk. I’m just fried.’’
He pushed himself up to his feet and made his way into the kitchen for a drink. I watched him, thinking, Spoil the fun. . . . Brand had nearly killed him, left him so badly hurt that he’d never be able to get a drink of water without planning ahead how to balance himself at the sink, and Yago was playing the jolly jokester about it all.
Shoot. Yago had sent a message from LAX. To you, babe. You’ll enjoy it. Turning back to the computer, I logged on to my e-mail account.
Cyberwar? It has nothing on the power of words to break the heart. I opened Yago’s message, and things fell apart.
Jesse has been a busy boy.
There were photos. I had to scroll down to see them. One at a time.
We warned him. We told him he should behave. He is a bad boy.
At first I thought it was another archive photo. They were available online through the News-Press, Sports Illustrated , or Swimming World. Jesse’s face was younger, and he was standing up, tan and shirtless, and as I scrolled down I saw palm trees and a bright blue pool in the background. And the picture kept scrolling.
He turned around at the sink. ‘‘No.’’
The photo scrolled, and I saw that he was standing in front of a woman who was stretched out on a chaise. His hands were on her shoulders. Her hands were on his swimsuit, fingers curling beneath the waistband, pulling it down, no question about it.
For a moment I thought this was another doctored picture, like the phony stag-night shot. But Jesse clattered to sit down next to me and reached for the keyboard.
‘‘Ev, stop, don’t,’’ he said.
I pushed his hand aside.
The woman in the photo had her back to the camera, and now that I looked at it, the photo was taken with a telephoto lens, a long shot into a private garden, where they thought they were unobserved. Scrolling, seeing her legs and freckled shoulders, her face obscured. But I couldn’t mistake the hair, all that lustrous silver.
It was Harley.
‘‘Please, Evan, stop,’’ Jesse said.
My skin felt tight, my vision constricted. I felt his hand on my wrist, trying to keep me from scrolling down. I resisted. The next photo, taken a couple of minutes later, clarified things for me.
‘‘Let me explain,’’ he said.
‘‘No, this is self-explanatory, believe me.’’
‘‘I meant to tell you. I should have.’’
I stood up. ‘‘Told me what, that Harley’s bi? Experienced-at-it bi. Athletically, enthusiastically, goddamned wild-for-it bi.’’
I wavered across the room to the doors, where the ocean shone the color of tin. Feeling caged, feeling rage, fighting to keep back tears.
‘‘When?’’ I said. ‘‘How long ago?’’
‘‘It was in college,’’ he said.
And I understood. The rumors, Harley’s hints, even the snide remarks directed at me by Kenny Rudenski: Harley had affairs with students.
Jesse was her student.
I felt an inchoate and inflating sense of jealousy, irrational and unstoppable. This happened before I even met him, and I felt like killing Harley. The liar—all these years telling me she was a lesbian, when she plainly loved a good straight romp. With my fiancé.
‘‘It was a fling,’’ he said. ‘‘I never expected it to come back and haunt me.’’
‘‘Just stop talking,’’ I said.
I went back to the computer. Forcing myself to look at the photos again, I saw that they were dated. Not photostore dated, but with the photographer’s handwriting in white grease pencil.
I felt as if a match had been put to my head. ‘‘The date. The date’s wrong.’’
It was more recent than college. It would have been when he was in law school.
‘‘How long did it go on?’’ I said. ‘‘Where were these photos taken, at UCLA? A fling? You were living in Los Angeles. Who drives a hundred miles for a fling, Jesse?’’
‘‘Evan, don’t make me talk about this.’’
I heard something in his voice I’d never heard before: fear.
‘‘How long?’’ I said.
‘‘Ev, please understand. I know it’s my fault, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. And the longer I didn’t tell you, the more I thought it would upset you if you ever knew. I should have told you up front, I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’’
I couldn’t look at him. I stared at the computer screen.
‘‘Don’t look at it anymore. Please delete it,’’ he said.
‘‘Not yet.’’ I hadn’t even scrolled halfway through the message. ‘‘Is this what Mickey Yago has been threatening to reveal?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Anything else? You’d damn well better say no. Or tell me, right this minute.’’
I forced myself to look at his face. He was pale, hunched, abject.
‘‘Evan, Harley’s your friend. To have all this come out now, right before the wedd
ing . . . I couldn’t handle it. I don’t know, I panicked. I’m massively stupid. Please forgive me.’’
And I almost believed him. But then I scrolled down into the e-mail message. There was more than just photography on display. There was a credit card bill from Jesse’s account. For dinner, gifts. They were dated the summer we met.
‘‘You were seeing her then? You were doing us both?’’
‘‘No, I broke it off with her. I’m telling you the truth. That summer I broke it off.’’
Things were becoming clear to me. Things I knew, things I should have understood. I remembered when we first got together, my feeling that he had been let down by a college sweetheart. I was right, and wrong. He was the college sweetheart. He had just broken up with Harley when we met.
‘‘I was a rebound? I was a consolation prize?’’
‘‘Never.’’
I felt a crushing in my chest. ‘‘Are you still seeing her?’’
‘‘No.’’
I slammed the screen down on the computer, just missing his hand, and stood up. Grabbed my car keys and started for the door.
‘‘Wait,’’ he said.
I kept going. I heard the crutches banging against the table as he got up. Still I didn’t stop, and even then I felt the first squirm of shame at the bald fact that I could outrun him.
‘‘Stop, please, Evan.’’
I opened the front door.
‘‘Don’t do this,’’ he said. ‘‘You always do this.’’
Now I turned on him. ‘‘Do what?’’
‘‘Walk out when you get mad.’’
‘‘Sticking around would not be good for your health, cowboy.’’
He walked toward me. ‘‘I don’t care. I love you.’’
‘‘Save it,’’ I said, and headed for my car.
I left him standing in the driveway, watching me spin the tires as I drove away.
25
‘‘Evan, give me a chance to talk about this.’’
I ignored the phone message, the frailty in Jesse’s voice on the answering machine. I felt unable to speak to him.
Four thirty in the morning, staring out the window at unknown stars, I felt my charbroiled heart, hardened and hurting. It was illogical. Jealousy, that’s what it was, this possessive and hateful feeling.
Before he met me, Jesse had a girlfriend. I couldn’t begrudge him that. And yet I couldn’t stop seeing the photo, Harley pulling him down on top of her. . . .
She had tried to tell me. This incestuous town. The sexual metaphor was a message to me. Everybody doing it to one another. Now I knew why Harley was concerned about Jesse’s dreams. She worried that he might mention her name in his sleep.
I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. In the living room I turned on the television and huddled on the sofa in the dark, watching MTV. An *NSYNC retrospective; I was in a bad state. Things made sense now, and that scared me.
Kenny Rudenski making snide intimations about the affair? How did he know? He was too tuned in for comfort. How close was he to Harley?
And the photos. Who took them? Why?
Jesse and Harley. My stomach turned. I changed the channel. Evan, you’re being a baby.
The photos. No, there was only one reason that made sense. Blackmail—i-heist was blackmailing Harley. And they were forcing her to launder money for them. She was indeed one of their portals.
I got up and phoned Jesse.
No answer.
The sun came up, summer light turning the grass outside my doors emerald, the hibiscus exploding, red, bloody mouths. I felt like a husk. I didn’t call Jesse again. He could listen to the message I’d left earlier. If he was there.
I sure as hell didn’t call Harley.
I worked all day and then drove over to Santa Barbara High and ran intervals on the track. A pyramid workout: two hundred, four hundred, six hundred, and back down. It felt purifying, like hitting myself on the foot with a hammer over and over. On the way home I stopped at a flower stand and bought a bouquet for Nikki, to thank her for hosting the bridal shower. I was raising my hand to knock on her door when she pulled it open.
‘‘Perfect timing,’’ she said. Thea was bouncing on her hip.
I handed her the flowers and thanked her.
‘‘You’re more than welcome, sweetie. It’s an experience I wouldn’t repeat if you promised me eternal youth, but I was happy to do it in your honor. Here, trade.’’
She gave me the baby. I followed her into the kitchen.
‘‘We should be back by ten. The Brahms is thunderous, but not long.’’ She handed me a diaper bag. ‘‘It’s loaded. Pampers, wipes, snacks, the full arsenal.’’
I stopped still. Thea patted my arm, saying, ‘‘Een.’’ What was Nikki talking about?
‘‘She didn’t nap this afternoon, so she may go to sleep early. Thanks for watching her. You’re a pal.’’
From the front hallway, Carl said, ‘‘Let’s go.’’ Nikki chucked Thea under the chin and trotted away. I scratched my head.
Back at my house, I set Thea on the rug. If I’d forgotten about babysitting, what else had I forgotten? I checked my desk calendar.
Seven p.m.—organist/wedding music.
I groaned. It was five after.
Part of me, the nail-his-privates-to-the-deck-of-a-sinking-ship part, said, Blow it off. But the rest of me wasn’t ready to do that yet. I grabbed Thea and my car keys. Remembered I didn’t have a baby car seat in my Explorer. I found Thea’s stroller on the back porch at the Vincents’ house, piled her into it, and started chugging up the street to the church.
Thea looked up at me. ‘‘Ma,’’ she said. ‘‘Doon.’’
She squirmed, shut her eyes against the evening sun, and put her thumb in her mouth. The walk was uphill, toward mountains burnished green by the light. When we got there I was sweating. The parking lot was empty, the willows swaying in the shadow of the church. I didn’t see anybody around. Had the organist given up and left?
I reached for Thea. ‘‘Come on, girl.’’
She was tucked into a corner of the stroller, asleep. I hoisted her out, resting her head on my shoulder.
The stairs to the choir loft were in the south bell tower, long flights that corkscrewed up the walls. I hurried up, pressing Thea to my chest. My footsteps echoed on the concrete. Two flights up, a landing led into the loft. Nobody was there, but the organ console was open and a cup of coffee sat on the top. The power was on too—I could hear air blowing through the organ pipes.
I peered over the wooden railing. The floor of the church below was sinking into dusk. It looked empty, but I heard heels clicking on the stone.
‘‘Hello, Miss Gould?’’ I called. ‘‘I’m up here.’’
The footsteps stopped. The person was out of sight beneath the loft. I heard scuffing below, heels on stone. Two sets of shoes, from the sound. And voices murmuring, the undertones of a male voice.
Worry needled me. Seemingly without anchor to anything, but I stepped back from the railing, listening. Thea stirred and settled again, nestling her soft face against my chest.
It wasn’t the organist. Perhaps it was tourists, or parishioners come to pray in solitude. I held still, listening, and heard the footsteps heading in the direction of the stairs to the loft. For a second I stood wondering if I was being paranoid. And I thought: You aren’t paranoid if they’re really out to get you.
It was time to go home.
I was on the landing when I heard feet starting up the stairs below, and two voices whispering. Then a new, brisk set of heels came clicking, and a woman said brightly, ‘‘Can I help you?’’
No response.
The bright voice said, ‘‘I’m the organist. I’m sorry, but the choir loft isn’t open to the public.’’
And then came a frightening sound: a stunned, animal groan. I heard a thud and a clatter, as if a person had fallen and dropped an armful of books. I pulled back from the stairway.
In
the gloom below me, a man muttered, ‘‘It’s not her.’’
‘‘Shit.’’ A woman.
‘‘You idiot. She told you she was the organist. What did you zap her for?’’
‘‘Get off my case. Delaney has to be in the loft.’’
It was Win Utley and Cherry Lopez. Their footsteps came fast now up the staircase, almost as fast as my heart was beating. They were coming after me. Yago’s twenty-four hour deadline had expired and they were going to make me pay. . . . I turned back toward the choir loft. There was no place to hide in there, just that low railing and a long drop to the stone floor below. With Nikki’s little girl asleep in my arms.
Utley, out of breath, said, ‘‘How long does that thing take to recharge?’’
‘‘It’s ready to go. Come on; you’re slowing down.’’
I looked around, frantic. What could I do? Could I brazen it out—charge down the stairs and make it past them? With Cherry jamming her shock baton and maybe hitting Thea? No.
I had to surrender. I’d beg them to let me put Thea in the stroller, take her home, and then they could have at me.
Utley said, ‘‘How many volts you say that thing delivers? ’’
‘‘Three hundred thousand.’’
‘‘It makes a Chihuahua flip like a jumping bean; what do you think it’d do to a baby?’’ he said. And he giggled.
I squeezed Thea to my chest, my body needling with panic. I couldn’t go down, had to get away. Where? The bell tower kept going up, and so did the stairs, narrow and steep. I heard heavy breathing below me. In a second they’d turn the corner and climb high enough to see me here. I had nowhere else to go.
Pressing Thea close, I hurried up, past the bells hanging in open arches. The stairs turned. The setting sun caught my eyes. I saw hundred-year-old palm trees at eye level, felt the wind whining through the arches. They were screened, but I still felt exposed.
Listening, I heard them under me, paralleling my progress. I told myself to hold it together. If I could keep going at the same pace as them, they couldn’t see me directly above them. They would be expecting me one floor down. They would go into the loft, and when they did I would run back down the stairs, past them, and get away.
