by Ken Morris
“He didn’t kill that woman. If you’d only—”
“For God’s sake, Kate, wake up to what’s happening. Stenman’s guards deny seeing Peter last night. According to arson investigators, a cigar, left burning, started the fire. Morgan denies the theft of any money. Howard Muller is vacationing in the south of Mexico as we speak. The ambulance drivers claim they drove somebody, but whoever it was forced them to stop. And they don’t recognize Peter as that person. Even if he was there— and I’m not saying he was—he still could have murdered the woman. The time of death may have been mid-afternoon. Even this Drew fellow told police he left Peter before two.”
“The initial DNA tests will be ready tomorrow or early the next day,” Kate said. “They’ll prove he’s innocent.”
“You’re not doing him any favors by pretending to be his attorney. You’re smart, but you have no experience. He needs a real lawyer.”
“He needs a . . . a friend. You can’t be this cold-blooded. Somebody murdered Hannah Neil. You as much as said so yesterday. Peter confirmed that with Ellis.”
“He went to see Detective Ellis? No wonder . . .”
“No wonder someone set him up?”
“I didn’t say that.” Ayers went to the cabinet near the sink. He reached for and retrieved a bottle of Jameson. He filled a six-ounce tumbler.
“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Kate said, her voice a knife’s edge. “You’re killing yourself, and rather than do something noble to ease your mind, you wallow, morning, noon, and night. Come on, Father. Did you love Hannah? What happened between you and Matthew Neil that caused best friends to quit being friends? Why do you turn your back on their only son? He needs your help.”
Kate heard a noise at the kitchen door. She turned. Standing in the doorframe, looking old and defeated, was the forgotten woman.
“M . . . other,” Kate stuttered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s all right, Kathryn.” Anne Ayers, her chin trembling, looked at her husband of over thirty years. “Answer your daughter, Jason. Do you still love Hannah and her memory? I do—and I forgave both of you long ago... Answer Kate: what happened between you and Matthew Neil?”
“Anne. I’ll be with you in a minute—”
“Do not put me off,” she said. “I’m tired. Tired of deceiving myself. Tired of your weak and worn explanations. I’ve known for too long that your firm works for dangerous people. Is it drug money, Jason? I’ve told myself it isn’t, but that’s a lie. Isn’t it?”
An awkward silence filled the kitchen.
Anne raised her index finger and aimed. “Goddammit, Jason! Answer me. Instead of getting drunk, say something.”
“You don’t understand, Anne. This is beyond—”
“Beyond your ability to do anything? Is that your cellophane explanation for everything? I’m sick of being your wife. I know I’m too old and worn-out to ever find another husband. I don’t care. I’ll live alone before I live another day with the man you’ve become. Thank God our daughter knows right from wrong.”
“Please, Anne.”
“Curtis overdosed on drugs,” Anne said. “He was fourteen. Have you forgotten that? You are partially responsible for his death.”
“No! I loved our son.”
“You knowingly set up the legal defenses and bank accounts for killers. You are no better than they are.” Anne Ayers turned. Three steps later, she stopped. Without looking back, she said, “In fifteen minutes I leave, unless you begin doing what’s right. When I’m gone, it’ll be forever.”
“Don’t.”
“Then tell Kate and Peter what’s happening. If it’s still possible, help them.”
Ayers took his half-full drink to the sink and poured it down the drain. Kate thought her father looked relieved. Maybe he wouldn’t need to spend the rest of his life trying to hide the truth. They had all buried too many secrets, and this one, at least, might no longer eat away at him.
“Kate,” he said. “I’ll meet Peter in the guesthouse. Tell him to use Furlong Street—it’s secluded. I’ll leave the rear gate unlocked. But I warn you: no matter what Peter thinks, there’s nothing left to do. This has gone too far.”
“I want to be there, Father,” Kate said.
“No. I have things I need to share with Peter. Alone.”
Kate began to protest, but her mother shook her head. “This is between your father and Peter.”
“But, Mother—”
“Come, dear. Make your call. Set up the meeting.” With a hand on Kate’s shoulder, Anne Ayers led her daughter away.
An hour later, Peter ducked through Ayers’ back gate. He wondered why the man had changed his mind about cooperating, but what mattered most was Kate’s conviction that her father could be trusted.
Peter scanned the yard, dotted by fruit and shade trees. The sky was clear and birds were chirping, perhaps warning one another that a stranger lurked nearby. He knew the feeling. Tall hedges ran around the perimeter of the multi-acre backyard, ensuring privacy. Peter bent down and picked up a stray lemon. He sniffed the fruit, aimed at a tree, and tossed the yellow oval. It hit the target, a Eucalyptus trunk, and bounced sharply right before rolling down a gentle slope towards a row of roses.
Crickets, birds, a distant dog, and a fountain—all combined to produce a natural symphony. Ayers’ home felt peaceful. Peter knew it wasn’t.
A cottage sat back from the main house. That was where Kate had told Peter to meet her father. The structure looked small next to the mansion, but was at least two thousand square feet—or about the size of a middle-class suburban house. The wood shingle exterior was weathered, and the roof was peaked. A red brick chimney, entwined with thick ivy, ran up the near side. Without knocking, Peter entered as a rush of wind blew past him, disturbing a line of dust motes that vanished once he shut the front door behind him.
Inside the guesthouse, Peter glanced at the back of Ayers’ gray, motionless head, rising above a leather recliner. Across the surface of a mahogany table, Ayers had fanned out photographs, passing from one time, or year, or season, to another. Faces young and fresh grew heavy and lined. A stack of scrapbooks had fallen to the floor off to one side. They lay in a disheveled mound, pages open, slips of yellowed paper—press clippings it looked like—hanging out, bent and tired.
The room smelled musty. Dusty sheets covered most pieces of furniture. Drawn shutters, the slats closed, blocked out any hope of sunlight. The sole source of illumination came from a standup reading lamp, reflecting off the faces in the aged photographs.
Jason Ayers turned and weakly greeted Peter. As if weighing an extra hundred pounds, the attorney struggled to push himself up with the flats of his hands. He had red-rimmed eyes, strained, Peter suspected, from staring at the thousands of memories scattered across the room.
“I have so . . . many . . .” Ayers looked away. He tugged at a fleshy earlobe and took a half-step, stumbled, then tried again. His arms hung long and limp as if they had been de-boned. Wasting no time, Ayers began unloading four decades of pain. “I didn’t do anything to help your mother . . . but not just her. Your father. I killed him.”
Ayers turned in on himself as he laid out the story of Matthew and Hannah Neil and his role in bending their lives.
“The university investigated your father, because of me. It was done quietly . . .” Ayers spoke haltingly, and at length, and Peter listened without interrupting.
Later, when Ayers paused to drink a cup of water, Peter whispered, “So that’s what we’ve avoided all these years.”
Ayers heard Peter’s words and shook his head. “There’s more.”
It took Ayers another half-hour to explain how he and Peter’s father came to be estranged. Then, as if that weren’t enough, Hannah’s story followed. “She was murdered because she couldn’t sit back and ignore wrongdoing.”
Peter had already deduced most of that story. As the tale came to an end, Peter felt no rancor. Rather, he felt
pity for everyone, including Ayers. Including himself. Once Ayers’ revelations settled in, Peter’s brain whirred with thoughts of how to proceed.
Ayers’ voice lifted Peter from his concentration. “I want to help,” he said, “but you cannot win. Guzman, Stenman, Carlos Nuñoz—none of them places any value on human life. I don’t think they intend for you to make it to trial. Kate thinks you’ll get bail. She’s wrong. They found the murder weapon in your condominium. With all the evidence against you, there will be no bail. Furthermore, your alibi doesn’t hold. You were officially never at Stenman’s.”
“People saw me.”
“Who? The guards? Muller? Ambulance personnel you paid to forget? This isn’t an American Airlines flight where a couple hundred passengers see you board, take a seat, and order cocktails. This is a secure location with dedicated, highly paid people who long ago sold their consciences to this particular bidder. In addition, Goodman’s murder may have been earlier than your Muller visit. I told you—they’re thorough. The message machine at your apartment? No message from Howard Muller exists. It was erased or stolen.”
“But I’m innocent.”
“Remember Cannodine and that Russian who murdered him along with all those innocent people? The man blew himself up. Or did he? Drucker? Did he really go berserk? I don’t know how they managed any of it, but nothing is as it seems. Neither will your death, when it happens. Planning and power—they’ve got more of each than you can imagine.”
“What would you do if you were me?” Peter asked.
“Run, maybe. You might buy some time.”
“No.” Peter’s gaze fixed on the photographs. “My father was a good man.”
“Yes,” Ayers agreed. “The best person I ever knew.”
“Courageous and principled?”
Ayers nodded, resignedly.
“Kate said you had power-of-attorney over Stenman’s funds. Is that true?”
“If you’re thinking I can strip assets, you’re wrong. I can only transfer money from one fund to another. I can’t take a dime out of the financial empire.”
“How’s the money moved?”
“Why do you—”
“How?” Peter demanded.
“Half the accounts use biometrics. Voice recognition. We’re working on setting them all up that way.”
Peter considered what he’d learned about the relationships between the players. Their priorities. How they dealt with treachery. “I have the seed of a plan,” he said. “Can you help me set up an offshore bank account?”
Ayers gave a wary nod. “Yes. But why?”
Peter flagged a hand, signaling he wasn’t ready to answer questions. “Are you involved in setting up accounts for Ensenada Partners?”
“With the new technology, yes.”
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do . . .”
When Peter finished, he said, “I’ll explain in more detail later. Most of what happens next depends on Agent Dawson, Morgan Stenman, and Sarah Guzman.”
“Stenman and Guzman?”
“I plan to sell them information. Five million sounds good to me.”
“Are you insane, Peter? Once they’ve got Hannah’s papers, you’re dead.”
“Maybe, maybe not. In a few days, I’ll need you to set up a meeting with Morgan.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ayers said. “You realize you can’t turn yourself in to the DA if you intend to meet with Stenman.”
“You’ll have to explain to Kate. She’s going to be in deep shit when I don’t show up.”
“She’ll understand,” Ayers said. “In the meantime, you’ll need a car. A block away, south of the rear entrance, you’ll find a green Taurus.” Ayers handed Peter a set of keys. “Don’t use credit cards or cash machines. If you need money, use the twenties you took from Stenman, not the hundreds or thousands—somebody might get suspicious. Don’t forget, when you don’t show up at the DA’s, there’ll be an all-points bulletin issued for your arrest.”
“Understood. And thanks.”
“Peter. If you need to, you can stay here at night. Use the back entrance and the side streets. Nobody will suspect I’m hiding you.”
Ayers clutched Peter’s hand. For the first time, Ayers’ fingers felt possessed of warmth as a sliver of hope crossed Ayers’ ragged face.
“My parents loved you,” Peter said, reading Ayers’ need. “We’ve all made mistakes.” He understood the need for redemption. They all did.
After Ayers left the cottage, Peter mulled over his plan. He had used a trader’s discipline in formulating his strategy, balancing the risk and reward of every option.
Committed to a course of action, Peter realized that time, more than anything else, was of the essence. He quickly showered, then took off.
It would be a busy Sunday.
Ayers leaned into his desk and reviewed what Peter had asked him to do. He didn’t understand, but made the calls anyway. The first was overseas. He set up an account in the name of Peter Neil at Mauritius Trust Bank. Once he got the ten-digit account number, he began the process of opening seven accounts for Sarah Guzman at the same bank. On the last of these accounts, he requested and received a special number.
Why, he wondered, had Peter wanted Sarah Guzman to have an account number identical to his, but with two digits inverted? Before hanging up with the branch manager, Ayers asked, “You can connect Ms. Guzman’s new accounts to the voice recognition system?”
“Yes,” the deep voice informed him. “The equipment you delivered last month is in place. You will, of course, have her phone us to authorize instructions before we activate.”
“Of course. Hopefully today. You can be reached if necessary?”
“For you and your employer, we are on duty twenty-four/seven.”
Finished with that task, Ayers next phoned Stenman. When he got through, he said, “We should consider speeding up our account transfers. With all this confusion, I’m nervous . . .”
Stenman agreed.
“I’ve already undertaken some of the paperwork for Ensenada Partners,” Ayers continued. “We need to set up final authorization.”
Stenman informed him that Sarah Guzman was in town on “other security matters.” Ayers played dumb, pretending he had no idea what those other matters might be. They agreed to meet in Stenman’s office later that afternoon. Ayers cradled the receiver and considered pouring himself a drink. Instead, he went upstairs. He needed to spend time with Anne, let her know he was sorry. That he loved her. That he had always loved her.
If necessary, he would say goodbye.
The loaner car was a godsend. Biking hadn’t been a problem before because the distances were relatively short, but from here on out, Peter planned on traveling long, convoluted routes. And he had a long, long list of places to go.
First up, he needed to go shopping. He chose establishments miles away from his co-op—no use inviting trouble. From a discount clothing store, he purchased pullover shirts, another pair of running shoes, and sweats, all off-brand and, except for the shoes, a size too big.
Next stop: a drug store. He entered through the automatic doors, hiding his features from the shoplifting camera by hunching down. Scanning the “Personal Care” aisle, he squinted at the kaleidoscope of colored boxes until he spotted something called Natural Instincts for Men. He chose: Lightest Brown. On the way to checkout, he passed a sunglass stand and snatched a pair of clunky dark shades. Thinking through his intentions, he also purchased a hair dryer, hairbrush, and pair of binoculars. Per Ayers’ advice, he paid for everything with nothing larger than twenties.
Once inside his car, Peter removed the dark lenses from the sunglasses and put the thick, lenseless frames over his face. From there, he drove three blocks before locating a barbershop open on Sundays. After getting a cut, he found a public restroom in an indoor mall. He used wads of paper to block and fill the sink. He read the instructions:
Put on plastic gloves and protect your c
lothing with a smock or towel. Pull tab and lift off the tip on Developer bottle . . .
Peter improvised his way to a wet head of hair, squeezed the mixture onto his scalp, then streaked a trace of the chemicals across his eyebrows. Once the dye worked in, he camped in a stall for the required ten minutes. Two rinses later, he had a new look. His short hair looked to be at least three shades lighter than before. Peter used the new hair dryer and brush to finish the makeover.
Wearing a heavy coat with the collar upturned against the cool air, Peter passed a picture window on the way to the parked Taurus. He approved. “I hardly recognize you,” he whispered. With a two-day growth of beard, glasses, and the change in hair-coloring, he had altered his appearance enough that anyone viewing his image in a newspaper or on television might not recognize him. At least not immediately.
From the Carlsbad Pier parking lot, Peter watched Agent Oliver Dawson enter the Surfside Bar. Shortly afterward, the agent exited, stood at the curb, and waited. When a taxi arrived, Dawson said something to the driver and climbed in. Peter took off towards a specific bus stop five miles south in Leucadia.
Dawson’s cab arrived a minute after Peter did. The agent tossed some bills at the driver and slammed the door. He looked around, the scowl visible through Peter’s binoculars. With a handful of change, Dawson fidgeted on the bus-bench and waited. He bent over and rubbed his bare arms with the palms of his hands.
As Peter watched, Dawson suddenly bolted upright and locked his sight onto a twenty year-old male shuffling in his direction. The boy, sucking the life from a cigarette, looked innocent enough, with a pierced ear, nose rings, and an orange swatch of hair hanging to one side. But Dawson appeared ready to react, as if this kid might pose some kind of threat. Peter took that as a good sign—the agent was on his guard, distrustful, and ultra-careful. That made two of them. Only after the youth’s baggy pants turned a corner did Dawson resume shivering.
A block away, coming from the north, a train rumbled past. Peter had seen enough. If anyone had followed Dawson, he couldn’t tell. He released the parking brake and lurched forward. A moment later, he pulled up to the bus stop. With his window already down, he said, “You look cold. Need a lift?”
