Shadow Account

by Stephen Frey

  She grinned smugly when she spotted two men in bathing suits standing beside a palm tree on the beach below, holding surfboards as they ogled her. She loved to manipulate men. Had since she was a teenager. Starting with her uncle, the pervert. He lived three trailers down. Until he’d drowned in his bathtub one night after drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. After coming on to her that morning.

  Men thought they were so strong, but they weren’t. Men were weak. So vulnerable to what a woman could offer.

  Most men, anyway. But not her benefactor. He was different. Cold to the core—which she admired.

  She gazed at a ship on the horizon. She loved the ocean, but she hated water. She couldn’t swim and she was terrified of boats. She loved the ocean because it was so different from the dusty part of west Texas she’d abandoned ten years ago. And there couldn’t be a more important reason than that.

  She glanced back down at the two young men and waved, watching with satisfaction as they elbowed each other like schoolboys when they realized she’d noticed them. Then she turned and moved back into the apartment, collapsing onto the bed. She’d worked late last night, earning almost eight hundred dollars. But she was sore from climbing up and sliding down that damn pole so many times. From manipulating her body in ways she knew turned them on.

  Eight hundred dollars in one night. A few years ago that would have been big money, but not now. Now it paled in comparison to what she was about to earn. And they were so close. It was all about to happen. He’d called last night to tell her that, and she’d heard the excitement in his voice. A tone she’d never heard before. She closed her eyes again as she thought of what it would be like to have tens of millions of dollars—the way she’d thought about it every day of her life since she’d understood the difference between poverty and prosperity.

  So many people had tried to tell her money wasn’t everything. That never having to worry about it simply meant there would be other problems that could turn out to be worse. She pulled the yellow comforter over her body, her eyelids growing heavy. Those people had never had the pleasure of rooting through a restaurant Dumpster for breakfast.

  Conner checked his watch as page after page of the Pharmaco valuation analysis emerged from the printer. Eight forty-five. The office network had come back up at seven, and he’d completed the valuation as though he hadn’t seen the letter from Pharmaco’s CEO. Completing the analysis was an exercise in futility at this point, but he couldn’t let on that he knew the real deal. He needed to keep playing the game.

  When all fifteen pages had printed out, Conner scrawled a quick note asking Gavin to review the data, then paper-clipped the note to the printout and hustled down the corridor to the old man’s office. He dropped the analysis on Gavin’s chair and hurried back to his office. Gavin still wasn’t in. But it wouldn’t be long before he got here, and Conner didn’t want to give the old man a chance to call him in for questions. Things Conner needed to follow up on had suddenly taken on incredible urgency. He grabbed his wallet and cell phone and headed for the elevators, leaving his jacket hanging from a hook on the back of the office door. He wanted Gavin to think he was around.

  As the elevator doors opened, Conner hurried toward the car—and almost ran into Paul Stone coming out of it. “Excuse me,” he muttered, stepping back.

  “Where are you going?” Stone demanded.

  “Downstairs to get something to eat. Want anything?”

  “Nah, I already ate. Hey, how are you coming on the Pharmaco analysis? This is going to be a huge fee for us. You should be turning that thing fast. Chop, chop.”

  The elevator doors closed behind Stone. Gavin would be arriving at any moment. He rarely got in later than nine, even when he’d spent the night in Easthampton. “I am, Paul,” Conner assured Stone, moving around him and pushing the “down” button. The numbers above the doors indicated that several cars were approaching.

  “What’s wrong?” Stone asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You seem a little edgy. You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Another elevator opened and Conner held his breath. Several people filed off, but Gavin wasn’t among them. Conner bolted toward the car, slipping his arm between the doors just as they closed. Prying them open as the next car reached the floor. “See you in a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder as he made it inside.

  “Conner, that car is going . . .”

  Conner didn’t hear the rest. He leaned against the back of the car and let out a long breath as it began to move. He’d spotted Gavin getting off the other elevator.

  He glanced around at the other people in the car. They were all staring at him wide-eyed. “Sorry folks,” he apologized. “Guess I shouldn’t have had that third espresso.”

  “Was that Conner?” Gavin asked, gesturing at the elevator doors that had just closed.

  Stone nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Thought so. Where’s he going in such a hurry?”

  “Downstairs to get something to eat. At least, that’s what he claimed.” Stone nodded at the still illuminated “down” button. “But the elevator he got on was going up.” Stone looked over at Gavin. “You think it’s anything to worry about?”

  “Nah,” Gavin said, shaking his head as he walked toward the Phenix front door. “I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

  Conner had been standing in a doorway across from the apartment building on Fifty-first for thirty minutes. Waiting for an opportunity to get past the doorman. But the guy hadn’t left his post once. He just kept standing on the sidewalk with his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back, not even reading a newspaper as he waited to open the door for people. Conner pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and checked the address again, then glanced at the numbers over the building’s entrance. This was definitely the address Art Meeks had mentioned. Liz Shaw’s address.

  Watching the doorman reminded Conner that he needed to call Eddie this afternoon. Eddie had promised to check the name on the lease of the apartment they had entered last night. Conner had spent fifteen minutes in there, going through the broken furniture. Looking for any clue that might help him figure out what had really happened last Wednesday night. But he’d found nothing and finally given in to Eddie’s urgent pleas to get the hell out.

  Why had Gavin lied about Pharmaco? That question kept racing through Conner’s mind. Maybe he was just trying to be reassuring about Phenix’s financial situation. Conner had pushed the old man hard about that twice, and the last time Gavin had gotten angry. Not just a run-of-the-mill temper tantrum, either. There had been something else in the steely expression and curt words, and it looked a lot like desperation. But Gavin had to realize that the Pharmaco deception wouldn’t have much of a shelf life. That Conner would figure out what had happened quickly. Which meant the Pharmaco lie was a delaying tactic for something else.

  His cell phone rang. It was Gavin calling from the office. The third time in the last forty-five minutes the old man had tried to reach him. Conner waited for the call to go to voice mail, then dialed another number, glancing up and down the sidewalk as he waited for an answer. Scanning the area for anyone who looked like they were watching him.

  “Good morning, Vic Hammond’s office.”

  “Patricia?”

  “Yes, this is Patricia.”

  Patricia was Hammond’s assistant. The young woman who had handed him his “lost” briefcase yesterday morning. And confirmed that a young person named Phil Reeves, nicknamed Rusty, worked at Baker Mahaffey for Vic.

  “Hi, it’s Conner Ashby. I was down there yesterday seeing Vic. You were very helpful finding my briefcase.” Leaving the briefcase in Hammond’s office had worked perfectly. Giving him an excuse to return to Baker Mahaffey and speak to Patricia without Vic there.

  “Oh, hello, Conner.”

  “Vic’s out today, right?”

  “Yes, he’s out the rest of the week.”

  “Could you give me his cell number?”
Conner wanted to confirm Hammond’s call to Gavin about Global Components. “It’s important that I speak to him as soon as possible about a transaction we discussed yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry, Conner. Vic doesn’t let me give out that number.”

  “Well, could you tell him I called? And have him call me on my cell phone?”

  “Of course. What’s your number?”

  Conner reeled off the digits. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is Rusty in?”

  “No, he’s with Vic.”

  “Is he out all week, too?”

  “I don’t know. If you can wait a sec, I’ll check with his assistant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Conner glanced up and down the sidewalk again, then across the street at the doorman. He was still there, hands clasped behind his back.

  Patricia came back on the line. “Conner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rusty should be in the office tomorrow afternoon.”

  “So he’s flying back from Minneapolis in the morning.”

  “Yes. He and Vic have a business dinner scheduled out there tonight.”

  “But I thought you said Vic was going to be out all week.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So he’s going down to Miami from Minneapolis.” It was a shot in the dark. Conner had no idea where Hammond was going. “I think he mentioned that to me yesterday during our meeting.”

  “That’s right,” Patricia confirmed. “Miami.”

  “Thanks for your help, and please ask Vic to call me.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” he spoke up quickly.

  “Yes?”

  “The woman you just spoke to. Rusty’s assistant.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Theresa.”

  “And her extension?”

  Conner jotted the number down. “Thanks a lot.”

  His next call was to Jackie.

  “Hello.”

  “Jo.”

  “Hi, Conner.”

  He smiled as he heard her voice perk up. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right,” Jackie said with a sigh. I’d be doing better if you were here. By the way, I have a couple of things to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  She started to explain, but Conner cut her off. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. Something just came up.” The doorman was ambling down the street toward a newsstand on the corner. “Tell you what, let’s meet at that coffee shop over on Thirty-sixth in an hour,” he suggested, moving out of the doorway. “The place where we had breakfast last month. Remember?”

  “Why don’t you come by my office?”

  “Just meet me at the coffee shop in an hour.” They could be everywhere now, he realized. Watching everyone he knew.

  “Conner, I—”

  Conner stepped up onto the curb in front of the apartment building and shut the cell phone, cutting off the call. He had to at least get to the mailboxes. Liz used AT&T Wireless for her cell phone service, just like Paul Stone. Stone’s monthly bill had come yesterday. Maybe Liz’s had, too.

  Conner had studied Stone’s bill on the way to the office this morning, checking the list of calls made in July. He hadn’t found anything suspicious. Most of the calls had been to or from Gavin’s many numbers. As well as to Stone’s extension at Phenix—Stone checking voice mail. But there were several numbers Conner didn’t recognize. Now he wanted to check Liz’s bill.

  He moved into the building and hurried toward the back of the lobby, spotting the mailboxes past the elevator banks. Rows and rows of small silver doors. He found K-5 quickly and reached into his pocket for a flathead screwdriver he’d bought on the way over. The locks on the mailboxes would be easy to snap if they were like the ones in his building.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” The doorman rushed toward him, a folded newspaper clutched in one hand.

  Conner squeezed his right hand into a fist. The doorman was small, no more than five five. He’d fall like a bag of potatoes with one good shot to the chin.

  But then a maintenance man appeared at a side door, poking his head out to see what was going on. “What’s wrong, Andy?” he called.

  Conner slowly unclenched his fist.

  “This guy snuck past me when I went to the corner to buy aPost ,” Andy explained, pointing at Conner.

  “I didn’tsneak past anybody,” Conner said. “I’m here to see a friend, and there wasn’t anyone at the front desk when I came in. It isn’t my fault you weren’t here.”

  “Who you here to see?”

  “Liz Shaw. She lives in K-5.”

  “There’s no one in K-5 named Liz Shaw,” Andy said suspiciously. “The woman in K-5 is named Tori, and she’s away on vacation right now.”

  Conner’s eyes narrowed.“Tori?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was a curveball. “When will she be back?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “When did she leave?”

  Andy thought for a moment. “Wednesday. She gave me the heads up that morning. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Who wants to know?” Andy asked defiantly.

  “You okay, Andy?” the maintenance guy called down the lobby.

  “Yeah, fine. I’ll yell if I need you.”

  The other man ducked back inside the doorway.

  Conner reached for his wallet and took out a twenty. “This is important,” he said, pressing the money into the other man’s palm.

  “Must not bethat important.”

  Conner handed him another twenty. “Now, what does Tori look like?”

  “In a word, gorgeous,” Andy said, slipping the cash into his shirt pocket. “Makes my day every time I see her.”

  “How tall is she?”

  “About five eight.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Blond.” Andy smiled lewdly. “She’s got a hell of a set of jugs on her, too,” he said. “Face out ofCosmo and a body out ofHustler . The kind of woman that makes nations go to war, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Conner agreed in a low voice, “I do.”

  Andy had just described Liz Shaw.

  Conner pointed to the rows of mailboxes. “What’s happening to Tori’s mail while she’s away? Is it just piling up in her box?”

  “Nope. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Gavin.”

  The old man looked up from hisNew York Times . Paul Stone stood in the office doorway. “What?”

  “Have you gotten your July cell phone bill?”

  Gavin nodded. “Lynn gave it to me yesterday. It’s in my briefcase. Why?”

  “I’m pretty sure Rebecca put mine in my in-box yesterday, too. But it’s not there now.” He turned to go, but Gavin called him back.

  “What happened to your office, Paul? It looked like a tornado hit.”

  Stone shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Lynn appeared in the doorway behind Stone. “Gavin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated.

  “What is it?” he pushed, putting down the newspaper.

  “I feel like a real snitch, but I think you should know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Conner was in here early this morning. He was going through your desk.”

  Conner called Jackie on her cell phone as he crouched beside a tire.

  “Hello.”

  “Jo?” he whispered.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Jo.”

  “Conner?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “I can barely hear you. This connection is terrible.”

  The fact that she could barely hear him had nothing to do with the connection, and everything to do with the fact that he didn’t want to give away his hiding place. He was keeping his voice very low.

  He raised up from behind a
Volvo sedan and checked the dimly lit area. He was on the sixth level of a parking garage near Grand Central Station. A few blocks from the apartment building on Fifty-first, he spotted the guy who chased him at Newark Airport yesterday morning. Recognized him on the sidewalk and ran like hell. Making a snap decision to enter the parking garage as he rounded a street corner. Running all the way up the stairwell from the ground level. His heart was still pounding.

  “I’m at the coffee shop,” Jackie said. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “What did you say? I can’t—”

  “I’m not going to be able to get there,” Conner said, raising his voice so she could hear. His words echoed loudly around the garage. “Something’s come up.” He thought he heard a door close in the distance. He was supposed to be at Merrill by noon to find out why Liz Shaw—or Tori—had left the firm.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he assured her, easing back down behind the Volvo. “What information do you have for me?”

  “Two things. Remember I told you about that person at Time Warner?”

  “Yes.”

  “He tracked down the AOL e-mail address.”

  “And?”

  “You want it now?”

  “Yes. Hold on.” Conner pulled out a pen and the piece of paper Liz’s address was written on. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “The Internet service is billed to an address in Queens.”

  Queens. Here was confirmation that Rusty hadn’t sent the e-mail on Wednesday night. At least, not the Rusty from Baker Mahaffey. Conner had started wondering about that as soon as Hammond had insisted on being called Vic. The e-mail had been addressed to Victor. Someone like Rusty, who worked with Hammond all the time, would have used Vic.

  “Queens?”

  “Yes. The street address is 662 Greenport Avenue.”

  Conner almost dropped his pen. “Really?”