He shot her a look that cut to the bone. “This is exactly the kind of shit I’m talking about. I have no interest in getting caught in the cross fire of nasty accusations flying back between you and Michael.”
“I just asked a simple question.”
“Go to hell, Mallory. If you want to ask questions, go ask your husband why he flipped his lid and shot Chuck Bell in the head.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s what everybody is saying. Do you think I want my picture on the front page of the Post when this shit unravels?”
Mallory collected herself, then said, “You’re married, aren’t you.”
“No,” he said, scoffing. “I’m too smart for that.”
She took that as a direct shot at her second failed marriage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, and then he rose from the booth. “Look, we all have to make our own choices. I choose not to be part of your mess. So let’s agree to do you, me, and your divorce lawyer a big favor: Keep me out of it.”
He left a ten-dollar bill on the table for his beer and walked away. Mallory didn’t watch him go. She stared at the money on the table and half laughed, half cried.
It was the first time Nathaniel had ever paid for anything.
33
I WAS IN JAIL. I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I WAS ACTUALLY BEHIND bars.
Before leaving Rockefeller Center, the arresting officers had patted me down, run a background check through their databases, and satisfied themselves that I wasn’t actually carrying a bomb. But that didn’t stop these men of the Midtown North Precinct from hauling me downtown. Technically speaking, it wasn’t jail. I was in a holding pen in the Manhattan Detention Complex, where prisoners were held for relatively short periods of time pending arraignment or some other court appearance. Not that this was a step up from jail. I was locked in the very same cell in which a seventeen-year-old boy had used his shirt to hang himself the summer before.
“Got two more bodies,” the guard announced.
The guards had a habit of calling us “bodies” when talking among themselves. It seemed kind of ghoulish, especially since the Manhattan Detention Complex was known as “the Tombs” to police, lawyers, criminals, judges, and anyone who had ever watched an episode of Law & Order. The nickname fit. Over the past two hours, I had climbed up and down several flights of stairs and in and out of three different holding pens. I had lost track of what floor I was on. I had been shackled, unshackled, and shackled again. The body search had been especially memorable, not so much for what actually had happened, but for fear of what might. On a sign on the wall, some joker had scribbled in the word “anal” between “Male” and “Search.” Fingerprinting took another hour. The state-of-the-art machine kept delivering error messages: rolling too fast, too slow, not a clear image, multiple fingers detected (odd, since my other fingers weren’t even on the screen), partial finger detected. At that point, I was willing to forgive the inaccuracy of one of my all-time favorite films, American Gangster, in which Denzel Washington’s character is shown leaving the Tombs-a temporary holding facility-after a fifteen-year stay.
This could actually take fifteen years.
The mug shot was the final indignity-a real beaut that I was sure would end up all over the Internet, if not in the tabloids. Finally, the guards brought me back to my cell and gave me dinner, though I passed on the soggy bologna-and-cheese sandwich. It smelled so awful that I was going to flush it down the toilet, which was in open view in the corner of the cell. Instead, my cell mate tore the sandwich into pieces, rolled them into balls, and one by one pitched them into the toilet from various positions behind the imaginary three-point line.
Around seven o’clock, the guard returned.
“It’s your lucky day, partner. You can go.”
He opened the cell door and led me down the hall. We passed a window that was open just a crack, and I was certain that I could smell spring rolls. We were that close to Chinatown-and I was that hungry.
At the end of the corridor the guard pushed a button, a buzzer sounded, and the iron door slid open. Kevin was on the other side of the chute waiting for me, a look of complete disbelief all over his face.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Michael?”
“Good to see you, too,” I said.
“You’re lucky I have friends in the D.A.’s office,” he said. “They’re not charging you.”
“They shouldn’t. I didn’t have a bomb.”
Kevin clearly had much more to say, but the guard was standing just a few feet away. We went downstairs to collect my belongings-including Papa’s old trench coat and Italy golf cap. When he saw what I’d been wearing, Kevin just shook his head and said, “We need to talk.”
The lobby of the station house was far from private. Uniformed police officers coming and going, two prostitutes in a territorial dispute, a drunk with a bloody nose, and a homeless guy with vomit all over his shoes sitting on the end of a long wooden bench. It was like something out of that show Hill Street Blues that Papa used to watch when I was a kid.
Kevin led me down the hall to a small room. I could see the stenciled words ATTORNEY CONFERENCE backward on the glass as he closed the door. It was a stark room with yellow walls of painted cinder block, a small wooden table, and two oak chairs. Kevin asked me to sit, but after two hours on the hard benches of the holding cell, I didn’t want to. We just stood on opposite sides of the table.
“You could have been in a heap of trouble,” he said. “Two witnesses said it was the homeless guy-you-who ran off with a college girl’s camera and started the whole panic by threatening to set off a bomb.”
“That’s not what happened. A woman shouted that I had a bomb. And then it was chaos.”
“Did you steal the camera?”
“No. I was taking a group picture for these girls and then I…I saw something, and I had to run.”
“What did you see?”
“I’m pretty sure I saw Ivy,” I said.
Kevin groaned, and then his expression turned serious. “I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
He took a breath, as if to calm himself. “I’m worried that it’s more than you-more than anyone-could handle. The divorce, the identity theft, the attack on Saxton Silvers, the pillaging of your financial accounts, the lack of sleep. You aren’t thinking clearly-dressing up like a homeless guy, setting off a panic attack in one of the most popular urban tourist areas in America, all this talk about seeing Ivy.”
“I know what I saw.”
“You didn’t see Ivy.”
“Could have been someone pretending to be Ivy.”
“Why would someone pretend to be Ivy?”
“I can’t think of a reason. That’s why I say it was her.”
He groaned even louder. I was undeterred.
“And I think she was literally running for her life when she took off and ran from that man who was chasing her.”
“Michael, you’re my brother, and I want to help you. But I’ve had just about enough.”
I could see he wasn’t kidding. It was time to change the subject. “Can we get something to eat?”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
I gathered up Papa’s trench coat and hat. Kevin yanked open the heavy entrance door and together we walked outside. We were at the base of the steps, and I was pulling on Papa’s old coat, when two men approached from behind a construction barrier on White Street.
“Mr. Cantella?”
Kevin and I stopped. I recognized one of the men as he flashed his shield.
“Malcolm Spear,” he said, “FBI.”
It was the same agent I’d met in Eric’s office with our general counsel. Spear had another agent with him, not the computer fraud specialist I’d met before. It was Agent Coleman, the one who had come to my building to investigate the elevator fire. I noticed a spot of duck sauce on his jacket, and I could almost smell it. We were still that clos
e to Chinatown, and I was still that hungry.
“Let me guess,” I said, “you found my money.”
Spear showed no reaction. “Heard you had a temporary change of address,” he said. “Wanted to come by and ask you a question.”
Kevin stepped between us. “He’s not talking to the FBI.”
“Who are you?” asked Spear.
“His lawyer.”
“No tricks here,” said Spear. “I just want to ask him about Chuck Bell.”
“Since when does the FBI investigate homicide?” said Kevin.
“We’re talking about a pattern of criminal activity that includes a number of federal offenses. It’s all our business.”
“Sorry, he’s not talking,” Kevin said.
“I simply want to know if your client can tell me where he was between twelve and one A.M. night before last, when Chuck Bell was shot.”
Instinct told me not to answer, but a flash of excitement came over me. “As a matter of fact, I can,” I said, reaching for my wallet.
“Hold it,” said Kevin as he grabbed me by the wrist. “For the last time: He’s not talking to the FBI.”
“But I want to answer,” I said.
“Don’t,” Kevin told me.
He was probably right, but as always, something about his tone made it impossible for me to heed his advice.
I showed Spear the ATM receipt-the one that read “nonsufficient funds”-and said, “I was at an ATM on Third Avenue trying to get money to pay my hotel bill.”
He checked the receipt, stroking his chin. “So, if we went to the bank and reviewed the tape from the security camera, we’d see that it was indeed you who conducted this transaction?”
“You sure would,” I said smugly.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Why is that interesting?”
Kevin was about to explode. “That’s enough,” he said. “You’ve got your answer, Agent Spear.”
“I just want to know why that’s interesting,” I said.
Spear narrowed his eyes. “About a year ago I investigated a racketeering case. Mob guy took great pains to make sure he was on camera at an ATM in Manhattan at the exact moment the trigger was pulled in Jersey. He wanted to be able to prove up an alibi.” He paused for effect. “We nailed him on murder for hire.”
My expression fell.
“May I keep this?” he asked.
“No,” I said, taking the receipt back. I gave it to Kevin. “I think my lawyer will want that.”
“Fine,” said Spear. “We’ll see you around, gentlemen.”
I watched as the two agents walked away. Then Kevin looked at me, glowering.
“Don’t ever do that to me again.”
There was that tone again. “I have an alibi,” I said.
“Not anymore you don’t. Now he knows the correct charge against you is not murder. It’s a murder-for-hire case. That’s why you never talk to law enforcement.”
My stomach was suddenly in knots. Maybe Kevin was right: This was more than anyone could handle. Too much had happened in too short a time, and if I didn’t get some food and sleep, I was well on my way to becoming my own worst enemy.
“Let’s go eat,” I said.
“No,” he said. “You go.”
“Don’t be like that.”
He took a breath, then paused to measure his words. He spoke in an even tone, but I could hear the anger behind it.
“I’m really trying, Michael. But you’re making this way too hard. So please, get something to eat, and get a good night’s sleep. Because if you’re still talking crazy in the morning, you’re going to need a new lawyer.”
He walked away. I started after him, then stopped.
Better to let him go, but as he rounded the corner, it suddenly occurred to me:
I had no idea where I was going to sleep.
34
FROM THE DETENTION CENTER I WENT TO MY CAR, THEN DROVE TO Long Island, when a thought popped into my mind. I didn’t call first; I knew Olivia would tell me not to come. By the time I pulled into her driveway my thoughts had gelled, and I was so pumped with adrenaline that I nearly flew up the sidewalk to ring the doorbell. It was getting dark, and in the shadows I must have looked like some lunatic on a home invasion. But that wasn’t the reason Olivia left the screen door closed between us.
“I thought I made myself clear earlier,” she said.
“You definitely put on a nice show,” I said.
“A show?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying.”
She leaned closer to the screen and glanced at my feet. “Are you sure you’re allowed all the way out here with an ankle bracelet?”
“Very funny. I’m not wearing one. But I am curious to know who told you I was arrested. Was it…Ivy?”
Had I been wrong, the question would have been cruel, and I wasn’t sure where the courage-or audacity-to take that risk had come from. My need to know was overwhelming, but the gradual realization that Ivy could still be alive had moved from the analytical to the emotional, and I had reached the breaking point.
Olivia took a half step back, as if offended, but she must have seen something in my eyes or demeanor that cut through Act II of her performance. I didn’t know exactly what was in her head, but I sensed an opening.
“You pushed too hard, Olivia.”
Her silence said it all.
“It was so out of the blue,” I said, my voice shaking, “the way you suddenly turned against me and accused me of murdering Ivy. It was as if you were trying too hard to convince me, the FBI, and the rest of the world that Ivy really was dead. My gut told me that you were hiding something-or protecting someone. And now that I’ve pieced things together, I know that the ‘someone’ is Ivy.”
More silence. I kept talking.
“When I saw you in the back of the courtroom today, I thought you were helping Mallory. I don’t think that anymore.”
“It’s a public proceeding,” she said. “Anyone’s allowed to watch.”
“That’s true. And after those e-mails were made public, it must have been pretty frightening for you to realize that anyone could know about my four o’clock meeting with JBU.”
“Why would that frighten me?”
I gave her an assessing look. “Your performance is getting much weaker.”
She averted her eyes, so I kept talking-faster and faster-giving her no chance to deny any of it. “You knew that Ivy wasn’t keeping a minute-by-minute tab on my divorce. She had no way of knowing that those e-mails had come out in open court. And it was entirely possible that the people who had forced Ivy to disappear four years ago did have those e-mails and knew all about the four o’clock meeting. That was a risk you couldn’t take. You went to the Rink Bar. When Ivy got up and ran, and when that man ran after her, you did the only thing you could think of to protect your daughter: You created chaos by screaming ‘That man has a bomb!’”
Finally she answered: “Actually, it was ‘That man in the trench coat has a bomb.’”
Her words chilled me. “Where is she, Olivia?”
She shook her head. “There are things you are better off not knowing.”
I stepped closer to the screen door. “Olivia, please. Where is she?”
“She’s dead, Michael. That’s all you need to know. Ivy is dead.”
I suddenly couldn’t speak.
Her expression turned deadly serious. “Don’t come back here again, or I will call the police.”
The door closed, and I heard the chain lock rattle. Olivia switched off the porch light from inside the house, leaving me alone in the dark.
35
TONY GIRELLI WENT FOR A RIDE. HE WAS SEATED IN THE PASSENGER seat of a new Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, and Jason Wald was driving 80 mph-cruising speed for 520 horsepower-across the Triborough Bridge. It seemed that every time Girelli saw Wald, the kid had a new set of extremely fast wheels. Business was obviously good at Ploutus Investments, and it never hur
t to be Kyle McVee’s favorite nephew-even if you were a sorry replacement for his dead son.
“Where we going?” asked Girelli. He had to shout over the rumble of the engine.
“Queens,” said Wald.
No shit, thought Girelli, but he didn’t press for specifics. Self-esteem for punks like Wald came from holding all details close to the vest-even the details they were too stupid to recognize as meaningless. Girelli figured they were headed to a debriefing about what had gone down at the Rink Bar. If information was power, Girelli held it for now. Only he knew that the chaos had all started when he’d used the name “Vanessa.”
“Nice car,” said Girelli.
“You want to drive it?”
“Sure.”
“Blow me.”
It was a familiar banter from better days between the two men, back when they used to hang out in Miami Beach and party with the skinny models on Ocean Drive who would give it up to any guy with money after two Red Bulls and vodka. That was during the subprime heyday, when Girelli was pulling down $125,000 per month and Wald was raking in ten times that much on thousands of mortgages he purchased from guys like Girelli and sold to Kent Frost and others on Wall Street. When the infamous e-mail from Saxton Silvers-As per Michael Cantella-had ended all that, Wald and Girelli vowed to nail that son of a bitch.
They got off the bridge. Wald steered the Lamborghini around the sharp corner and into an alley, pulling up to the rear entrance of a body shop. It was well after business hours, and all of the paint and body shops on the block were closed. The garage doors were shut, iron burglar bars covered the remaining doors and windows, and coils of razor wire ran like a giant, deadly Slinky along the top of a ten-foot chain-link fence. It wasn’t exactly the ideal neighborhood in which to park a $250,000 Italian sports car at night.
Wald tapped the horn, the garage door opened, and they pulled inside. He killed the engine, and with the push of a button the doors on either side opened at an upward angle like the wings of a butterfly. The two men climbed out of the car as the garage door closed behind them.
Money to Burn Page 17
