I started toward the door, but he stopped me.
“Have a seat,” he said. “This is why I invited you over. I want you to hear this.”
I was confused, but I obliged by taking a chair by the fire-place as Eric answered the phone.
“Agent Spear,” Eric said into his headset, “what can I do for you?”
I did a double take. Spear was the lead FBI agent who had interrogated me in Eric’s office.
Eric pushed a button on the phone that allowed him to use the headset without Spear knowing that the call was on speaker-or that I was in the room.
“Thanks for making time to talk with me tonight,” said Spear. “I know you have a million things going on.”
“A million and one now,” said Eric.
“I’ll make this quick. I just have some follow-up on Michael Cantella. We subpoenaed his cell phone records for the night Chuck Bell was shot.”
My chest tightened. It was intimidating to feel the power of the federal government in action.
Eric was unfazed. “And?”
“Interestingly enough,” said Spear, “Michael and you had a phone conversation just after midnight, not too long before the shooting.”
The last few days had become a blur, and I had to think a moment before recalling that I’d spoken to Eric on my way back to the Hotel Mildew from the ATM.
Eric said, “Michael and I have been in very close contact lately.”
“Did you talk about Chuck Bell in that conversation?”
“Could have.”
“Did Michael say anything about Bell?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Do you remember anything at all about the conversation?”
“Not really.”
“All right,” said Spear. “Just wanted to plant the seed. When the dust settles with Saxton Silvers, we can talk more.”
“You got it. Good night,” said Eric. He pushed the red button to end the call, then tossed his headset aside.
I had a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball. “You lied,” I said.
He stepped away from the desk and sat on the edge of the chair, facing me. “Like a rug,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I have a very specific memory of what you said that night. And it bothered me very much.”
“What did I say?”
“You were furious at Bell for suggesting on the air that you were his source. And you told me, ‘One way or another, I’m going to get a retraction out of that son of a bitch.’”
“I didn’t mean violence. And I definitely didn’t mean I was going to kill him.”
“Did you know that Bell had been subpoenaed before he was shot?”
“Subpoenaed for what?”
“To reveal the identity of his source.”
“I wasn’t his source, Eric.”
“I’m simply telling you what I’ve gathered from my conversations with the FBI. That’s what this latest follow-up was all about-and that’s why I wanted you to hear it with your own ears. Spear is convinced that you knew Bell had been subpoenaed. He thinks you wanted to stop him from revealing his source. One way or another.”
It was a less-than-subtle underscoring of how well my own words fit with the FBI’s theory. “What are you really telling me, Eric?”
He walked over from his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “Two things,” he said. “One: That phone conversation you and I had is between us. No one-especially not the FBI-is going to know about it.”
“You don’t have to protect me from anything,” I said.
“Two,” he said, letting his promise stand. “Make no mistake: There is one thing far worse than being accused of killing Chuck Bell.”
“What?”
“Being the accused killer of Saxton Silvers. A few people will make money when this firm goes down. A lot more will lose money. A lot of money. Shareholders, creditors, employees-they all get wiped out in bankruptcy. One thing you can be sure of. Somewhere in that long line of losers is someone mad and crazy enough to blow you away-if they get the opportunity. You understand what I’m telling you?”
I nodded, but he said it anyway, his expression deadly serious.
“Don’t give them the opportunity.”
39
IVY LAYTON WAS ON THE RUN. THAT WAS NOTHING NEW.
Running from one hiding place to another had become a way of life. What made tonight so different was the level of fear-a fear she hadn’t experienced since those terrifying days and nights in the Bahamas following the happiest day of her life. They had found her.
Again.
A bit of dust fell from the twilled linen cloth as Ivy climbed out from under it. The marble floor felt cold on her hands and knees.
Ivy had spent two of the last four years in Italy, where there seemed to be a Catholic church on every corner. Confessionals had become her go-to hiding spots. Tonight, it was just her luck that she’d darted into an Episcopal church-no confessionals in the Anglican tradition. A beautiful damask that covered the altar inside the chantry chapel had served her needs in a pinch.
St. Thomas Church is at Fifty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, a few blocks north of its more famous Catholic neighbor, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Ivy recognized the French High Gothic style, and everything but the length appeared to be of cathedral proportions. Her first thought had been to conceal herself behind the high altar, which was front and center in the traditional design. Halfway down the nave she found the chantry chapel in its own alcove. It would have been perfect for a small wedding-and the hollow space beneath the small altar was an excellent hiding spot.
Ivy stepped cautiously from the chapel, her gaze sweeping across fifty rows of empty wooden pews in the church nave. Two hours earlier, when she’d rushed inside in a panic, the entrance doors had been unlocked and the chandeliers had been on. The vast interior was now dark, save for the indirect lighting on the sculptured stone wall behind the high altar. Hopefully lights off didn’t mean doors locked-as in Ivy spending the night.
She turned away from the lighted altar and walked slowly toward the narthex, trying not to let her heels click on the inlaid marble floors as she passed by the World War II memorial. Just thinking about the close call at the Rink Bar made her pulse quicken. If not for the bomb scare, it would have been the end of the line. She probably could have been in Canada by now if she had just kept running, but she had taken enough risks for one night. Her next move, she decided, would be just a few blocks to the west. Her friend Phillip would give her something to eat and a place to sleep. He’d helped her more than any man since Michael, but the relationship was completely platonic. Phillip was gay, a bartender at Therapy. Michael’s new wife wasn’t the only one who thought a gay bar was a good place for a woman to hide.
Lucky for Ivy that she had recognized Mallory before Mallory had recognized her.
Or maybe not.
Ivy pushed against the carved Archangel Gabriel on the heavy church door-the same door through which she’d run earlier. It was locked. She tried the one next to it, carved with the Archangel Michael-hoping that the name alone would bring good fortune. Locked, too. She put her shoulder into it, more out of frustration than an actual attempt at escape, only to discover the hard way that these old doors were made to last a millennium.
Wonderful.
The back of her neck tingled with goose bumps. That gut-wrenching fear was returning-not for herself, but for Michael. Now that she’d tipped her hand and they knew for certain that she was alive, she was not the only one in danger.
Ivy returned to the cavernous nave of the church, her gaze drifting toward the dimly lit high altar. There had to be a way out, and she knew she would find it. Somehow she’d always managed to stay one step ahead of them.
Her only worries were for Michael.
She drew a deep breath, and since she was in a church, she figured a quick prayer couldn’t hurt. Then she reached for her cell and dialed Michael’s number.
&nbs
p; 40
“MICHAEL, IT’S ME.”
I thought I was emotionally up to speed with the fact that Ivy was alive, but hearing her voice on the phone blew me away. People sometimes describe these moments in their lives as “time standing still,” but that must have happened only in movies from Papa’s generation. The feeling was the complete opposite for me. It was hard to fathom how so much of our past could be resurrected in a split second. Just those few words-Michael, it’s me-triggered a flood of memories, instantly bringing back all the things I had feared I was forgetting. Her laugh. Her touch. Her kiss. Even the smallest details of our first phone conversation, our first date, our first naked adventure were compressed into that nanosecond of joy, scores of emotional threads unraveling at warp speed and on parallel tracks that led straight to my heart.
But the sense of urgency in her voice was unlike any I had ever heard.
“Where are you?” I asked. I didn’t know what else to say.
“I can’t tell you.”
I was in my car driving back to Manhattan and was ready to go wherever she was.
“Just listen, please,” she said. “We are in so much danger now that they know I’m alive. They might torture or even kill you to lure me out.”
“Who are they?”
“Just run!”
“Wait! I need to see you.”
“Michael, please!”
An eighteen-wheeler flew past me in the next lane and nearly took the ragtop of my Mini Cooper with it. Tiny cars and the Cross Bronx Expressway were not a happy marriage.
“If you won’t see me, then why did you come back?”
“You know why. I told you.”
Her response caught me by surprise. “When? How?”
“My first warning.”
“I never got any warning.”
She hesitated, and I sensed her fear.
“Michael, the first text message. Two weeks ago, right after I saw Mallory in that gay bar with another man.”
“What?”
“Are you saying you didn’t get the message that said ‘beware the naked bears’?”
Naked bears? “I didn’t get anything like that.”
“Shit!” she said, her tone even more urgent. “Then they must be intercepting your messages. They might even be listening right now! Michael, you have to run.”
“I have to see you!”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Ivy, don’t do this to me!”
“Don’t let yourself end up like Chuck Bell. Run!”
“Ivy, please-”
A loud crack on the line stopped me cold. It sounded like a gunshot.
“Ivy?”
The line was dead. My heart was in my throat.
My God, Ivy!
41
MALLORY POURED HERSELF ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE, EMPTYING THE bottle. She needed a shoulder to lean on-even cry on a little-and she found it in her friend Andrea.
“Let’s open another,” said Andrea.
Mallory grabbed a key from a hook on the wall. “Here,” she said, sliding it down the bartop to Andrea. “Michael’s personal stash is locked up in the cellar.”
“No offense, but do you really want to drink the good stuff in your condition?”
“Yesh,” Mallory said, slurring. “And the bottles we don’t drink we can pour down the drain. Bottom’s up, Michael.”
Andrea walked inside the climate-controlled cellar behind the bar, came out much too soon to have made an intelligent choice, and placed her selection on the bar.
Mallory made a face. “Damn, girl. You picked the twenty-dollar bottle of Italian toilet water that Michael’s grandfather gave us for our first anniversary.”
Mallory started to get up, but the effects of too much wine rushed to her head. She lowered herself back onto the bar stool, suddenly guilt-ridden. “Sorry, Papa. I shouldn’t take this out on you.”
“You’re sloshed,” said Andrea.
“I had a few glasses before you got here.”
Andrea smiled as she came around the bar and cozied up. “Good. Now I get to hear all the secrets.”
“You want to know a big one?”
Andrea leaned in closer, her eyes eager. “How big?”
“Huge,” said Mallory. “Get this: I think Michael’s first wife is still alive.”
“Ivy what’s her name? I thought you said she was eaten by a shark.”
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
“Have you lost your marbles?”
“I’m totally serious,” said Mallory.
“Okay, I’ll bite, no pun intended. What makes you think Ivy has literally risen from the depths?”
Mallory attempted to cross her legs, and Andrea grabbed her just in time to keep her from falling off the stool. Mallory gathered herself, speaking with the forced precision of a drunk trying to sound sober.
“Do you have any idea what it feels like when your husband sleeps around?”
“I’ve never been married, but it can’t be good.”
“It’s horrible. When I caught Don-asshole number one-with his second girlfriend, I said, ‘Never again. I am never going to let a man make me feel like this again.’”
“But you said Michael wasn’t cheating on you.”
“He wasn’t. But I was getting that same horrible feeling. Like I wasn’t his one and only. That was when I started sleeping with Nathaniel.”
“What does that have to do with Ivy being alive?”
Mallory blinked hard, fighting through the alcohol to get back on track. “Ah, excellent question. I was paranoid that someone would find out about Nathaniel and tell Michael. So every night when Michael went to sleep, I crawled out of bed and checked his voice mails, his text messages, his e-mails-just to see if anyone snitched on me. Sure enough, he got one two weeks ago. A text.”
“He got a message you were cheating?”
“Yeah, but I deleted it. He never saw it.”
“What did it say?”
“Something like ‘Mallory is cheating on you,’ and then ‘beware the naked bears.’” She drank more wine, then continued. “I’ve never heard anyone call someone’s lover a ‘naked bear,’ have you?”
“No,” said Andrea. “Definitely not.”
“I Googled it, and all I found were old gay men with hairy bodies. Gross.”
Andrea’s glass was empty, so she took a sip from Mallory’s. “Focus, Mal: How does any of that make you think Ivy is alive?”
Mallory walked around the bar, hanging on to the rail as she came to Andrea’s side.
“Because it was signed ‘Just Between Us.’ And I happen to know that the song ‘Just Between Us’ had special meaning to Michael and Ivy.”
“You know what their song was?”
The way Andrea had said it made Mallory feel pathetic. People just didn’t understand. “You think I’m sick, don’t you?”
“No, not at all,” said Andrea.
“You’ve never seen Ivy’s picture. She was beautiful. Smart, too.”
“So are you, Mallory.”
“But I didn’t use my brain to build a successful career in Michael’s world. I quit teaching dance and spent all my energy on something much more difficult: trying to make him want me.” She shook her head. “What a mistake.”
“Don’t go there,” said Andrea. “You sound jealous of Ivy.”
“I wasn’t jealous. I just needed to understand. So I snooped through Michael’s stuff. I read every card and every letter Ivy ever sent him. That’s how I discovered the special meaning of ‘Just Between Us.’”
“So the message was signed ‘Just Between Us,’ and you knew it was from Ivy.”
“Mmm…no. At the time, I figured it was someone Michael was friends with when he and Ivy were together. Someone who didn’t want to get involved but who was trying to tell him that his new wife was no Ivy Layton. It just set me off.”
“What did you do?”
“I could have kept it to myself, bott
led it up like I always do. But this time I was so pissed that I used it in a special birthday e-mail I sent him.”
“Used it how?”
Mallory did her best in her state to effect the posture of a vintage-1960s sex symbol. “Nathaniel filmed me singing like Marilyn Monroe.”
“How funny.”
“It wasn’t just a joke. In the subject line of the e-mail I wrote ‘Just Between Us.’”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Mallory, but she had trouble rising from her bar stool. Andrea told her to stay put and answered it.
“Hey, Mallory?” Andrea called out from the foyer.
“Yeah?”
“It’s the police,” said Andrea, sounding worried. “They have a search warrant.”
42
JASON WALD WAS DIPPING INTO PLOUTUS INVESTMENTS’ PETTY CASH. The thick envelope atop the small, round cocktail table contained ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.
Boy toys like Nathaniel didn’t take credit cards.
The two men were in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, seated at a table near the plate-glass window overlooking Grand Army Plaza, away from the marble stairway that led to a noisy nightclub on the second floor. For Wald’s money, the Plaza just wasn’t the same since the condo conversion, and he had agreed to meet there only because Nathaniel had “other business” upstairs: cheering up a new resident who had a slightly less-than-perfect view of Central Park from the multimillion-dollar suite that her Russian husband had foolishly bought for her, sight unseen.
Such punks Wald had to deal with-important work, to be sure, all of it totally underappreciated by his uncle Kyle. No nephew could fill the void of a lost son, especially when the old man had elevated him to sainthood in death. His uncle seemed to forget that he’d never even set foot in Marcus’ lower schools when the boy lived at home, never visited him at Andover when he went away in ninth grade, never took his son on a family vacation that wasn’t for all practical purposes a summer office for Ploutus in the Hamptons or the south of France.
“Does this payday come with a Wall Street bonus?” asked Nathaniel.
Money to Burn Page 19
