Need You Now

by James Grippando

I positively knew it was a lie. A complete, bald-faced lie.

  I thanked the warden for his condolences, grabbed my bag, and headed for the parking lot-before he could ask how I had known Tony Martin, or why I had come to see him.

  9

  T wo minutes after my return flight from Raleigh to Newark hit the runway, I powered on my BlackBerry. The usual flood of messages crammed my in-box. One was not so usual. Opening it required the use of a decryption algorithm to unravel the cipher. Even then, the message would have meant nothing to anyone but me: “They know. Meet me at Position Three. 4:30.”

  Sunset was near as I crossed Fifth Avenue at Seventy-second Street and entered Central Park, and less than a half hour of daylight remained by the time I followed the long concrete crescent of sidewalk around the west side of the Conservatory Water and up to “Position Three.”

  The Alice in Wonderland sculpture is one of the park’s most popular destinations. True to an original John Tenniel illustration from the first edition of Lewis Carroll’s classic, the work depicts Alice perched on a giant mushroom reaching toward a pocket watch held by the March Hare. Peering over her shoulder is the Cheshire Cat, surrounded by the Dormouse and the Mad Hatter, and finally the White Rabbit. It is an unusual bronze, not just because of the magical subject matter, but also because the artist intended for children to play on it. Thousands have answered the call, their busy hands and feet polishing parts of the statue’s patina surface smooth. This was a place I had visited as a child, in one of the handful of trips my family made into Manhattan from Queens. Burned into my memory was the look on my father’s face as he approached the granite circle surrounding the sculpture and read the engraved line from “The Jabberwocky,” a poem by Lewis Carroll: “ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” Then he put his hands on his hips, faced my mother, and said exactly what you’d expect a native New Yawker to say: “What the fuck language is that supposed to be in?” It had sent a team of nannies from the Upper East Side hightailing it over to the carousel.

  Years later, when I was asked to create a list of public sites in Manhattan to serve as potential emergency meeting places-“Position One” through “Position Five”-Alice made the cut.

  The list was for FBI agent Andie Henning.

  “I got your message,” I said, my breath steaming in the chilly air.

  Henning turned at the sound of my voice. She was seated on the same bench that, years earlier, my mother had nearly fallen from in embarrassment. I sat at the opposite end. She was looking out toward the sculpture, her hands buried in her pockets, her leather jacket too short and stylish to be of much good in the long, cold shadows of a late afternoon in January. It was hard to tell in the twilight, but I would have bet that her lips were turning purple.

  “Next time we meet at the zoo,” she said, fighting off shivers, “in the nice, balmy rain forest. Let’s make this quick.”

  “Fine by me. Which they were you talking about in your message? And what exactly do ‘they know’?”

  “BOS Corporate Security. They know you haven’t always been Patrick Lloyd.”

  I froze. That was my biggest fear since I’d agreed to this assignment.

  It wasn’t a job I had gone looking for. Eight months earlier, Henning had contacted me on the premise that an inside view of BOS/Singapore could uncover millions-perhaps billions-for the victims of Cushman’s Ponzi scheme. That was a serious upside. The downside was obvious. Get fired. Get blacklisted in the industry. But there were even bigger risks.

  “How do you know they’re onto me?”

  “The assistant director of BOS security called one of our field agents in New York. They have some kind of relationship that goes back a few years. Our agent didn’t give up anything, but he was able to string out the conversation long enough to figure out that BOS is determined to find out who Patrick Lloyd really is.”

  My head rolled back, and the winter sky suddenly seemed even darker. “Shit,” was all I could say. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Stick to our agreement.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “So long as BOS hasn’t fired you, I want you to stay put.”

  “What happens when I’m called up to the executive suite to answer questions like ‘Who is Patrick Lloyd’?”

  “You can’t tell them about me; you can’t tell them why you went to Singapore; you can’t tell them anything about our agreement.”

  “So that’s your position-I’m on my own?”

  “We have too many positives working for us to bail out now. We know that Lilly is in New York. She followed you from Singapore, just as I predicted she would. It shows that she’s desperate, and that she trusts you. Expect her to make contact with you anytime now.”

  “She already has.”

  “Good. How did that go?”

  I hesitated a little too long.

  Andie groaned. “Don’t tell me…”

  “She spent the night.”

  “Men are so weak.”

  “Yes, but I’m all you’ve got. And even though we don’t see eye to eye on Lilly, I do have something useful to pass along to you.”

  “Talk to me.”

  I tugged at the collar of my sweater to reveal the powder burn on my neck.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  I wasn’t convinced of her ignorance, but I indulged her for a moment, telling her about the SUV in Times Square and the threats that had come with powder burns.

  “You should have told me about this immediately.”

  “I got a little distracted. That’s right when Lilly showed up.”

  “That’s no excuse. Forensics could have gathered gunpowder, other trace evidence. You’ve washed it all away.”

  “Yes, I’m doing fine, thank you. Very kind of you to ask.”

  “Sorry. What happened to you was unnerving, I’m sure.”

  “Lilly got the same threats in Singapore. And more.”

  “ ‘More’ in what way?”

  I essentially parroted Lilly’s description of the Treasury Department memo that the same thug had shoved in front of her face to refute her professed ignorance about Cushman. “Apparently someone inside Treasury has determined that the most promising lead on the location of the proceeds from the Cushman fraud is Lilly’s connection to Gerry Collins.”

  “Who in Treasury?”

  “I don’t have a name. Surely the memo isn’t news to you.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  I had expected the leak to surprise her; I had not expected any show of surprise as to the memo’s existence. “I find that hard to believe,” I said.

  “Why would I lie?”

  It was a question with many answers, but this wasn’t the first time I’d heard her complain about the lack of interagency cooperation. Still, I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “Let’s talk logistics for a minute,” I said. “Lilly and I have gotten death threats, and now the bank has its eye on me. This changes the game.”

  “You’re in the business of making deals, Patrick. Changes in the game don’t change the deal.”

  “Deals are rewritten all the time.”

  “I’m not particularly motivated to rewrite this one.”

  That was a fair point, but I didn’t belong on Wall Street if I couldn’t find some incentive. Fortunately, I had a few cards to play.

  “I went to Central Prison this morning,” I said.

  She glanced my way and folded her arms tightly. It was getting colder by the minute, and so was her tone. “That is a complete violation of our agreement. Tony Martin is off limits.”

  “Technically, you’re right. But as of yesterday I got tired of playing by your rules.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to hop on an airplane and visit Tony Martin in violation of our agreement. Unless you have my direct authorization, anytime you contact anyone who had anything to do with Abe Cushman and Gerry Collins, you compromise the as
signment. For obvious reasons, Tony Martin is absolutely out of bounds.”

  I ignored the reprimand. “The warden told me that he passed away last night. My money says he’s still alive.”

  “I can’t discuss that, Patrick.”

  “You relocated him for protection, didn’t you? Created a phony death certificate for Tony Martin, may he rest in peace, and gave him another name?”

  “Like I said: I can’t discuss it.”

  “We need to talk about it,” I said. “I went to Raleigh because I’m more convinced than ever that the wrong man is sitting in jail for the murder of Gerry Collins.”

  “Who put that idea in your head? Lilly?”

  “I have a right to know the truth.”

  “Your job is to investigate Lilly Scanlon. So far, she has managed to take you completely off your assignment, first by sleeping with you, and now by putting ideas in your head that the wrong man is sitting in jail.”

  “What you just said is so inaccurate that you should have Tweeted it. My decision to go to Raleigh was my own.”

  Her legs were shaking up and down-anything to stay warm-and watching her was enough to make me shiver.

  “Okay,” she said, “I can’t discuss this with you, so we’re not discussing it. But if Tony Martin was innocent, then why did he plead guilty?”

  “False confessions are more common than you folks in law enforcement like to admit.”

  “Sure, it happens,” said Andie, “but in every case of false confession that I’m aware of, the prisoner later recanted his confession. Tony has never recanted his. In fact, if you were to ask him today, he’d tell you he killed Gerry Collins. Why do you suppose that is, Patrick?”

  “I don’t know. But if you’re not willing to help me find out, maybe Lilly will.”

  “Stop thinking of her as your ally. And stop playing homicide detective. Your theory makes no sense anyway. He pleaded guilty to murder and accepted a life sentence. How is that better than having it exposed that his name is really Tony Mandretti?”

  “Being Tony Mandretti is a ticket to a slow, painful death. Especially when you have cancer and don’t have the energy to run. Spending the rest of your life in prison as Tony Martin and getting decent health care in your dying days is much preferable.”

  “Tony Martin killed Gerry Collins. He lost his entire life savings in the Cushman fraud. His fingerprints were found in Gerry Collins’ car. He confessed to the crime. That’s why he copped a plea.”

  “If the killer had simply pumped a bullet into the back of Collins’ head, your basic mob-style execution, maybe I’d be less skeptical. But Gerry Collins was murdered in a pretty unusual way, wouldn’t you say? Wire saw. Cuts through flesh and bone like they’re cardboard.”

  “I’d call it mob-style strangulation with an exclamation point.”

  “I call it an extremely personal killing. Lots of anger toward the victim. Not a clean hit.”

  Her expression tightened. “I believe this non-discussion has gone far enough.”

  I wasn’t completely convinced that Lilly was right, but it seemed worthwhile to test her theory. “A guy told me I’d end up like Gerry Collins if he didn’t get his money. Why would he do that, unless he killed Collins?”

  “What happened to you is nothing like the murder of Gerry Collins. A gun to the back of the head is not this killer’s style.”

  “And why would you be talking about a ‘style,’ unless the killer has the ability to strike again?”

  “You’re fishing,” she said.

  “Sometimes fishermen actually catch fish. The fact remains that my attacker threatened that I would end up like Collins.”

  “Copycats are everywhere.”

  “Maybe. But let me put it to you this way: suppose I report this incident to the police.”

  “You’ve reported it to me. That’s enough. You know you can’t go to the police.”

  I smiled thinly, knowing that I’d found her motivation to renegotiate our deal. “A full police report would surely trigger leaks to the press about the bank’s possible link to Abe Cushman. Leaks to the press would mean that my work inside BOS would be over. Very bad for you and the FBI, no?”

  “Yes. That would be bad.”

  “I’m so glad we’ve agreed to renegotiate.”

  She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t seem too resentful of the angle I’d worked. She may have even respected it. “What are you proposing?”

  “I’ll stay on mission. But I want more protection. And I want protection for Lilly, too.”

  She scoffed so hard her breath steamed. “Lilly’s the target.”

  “It’s time to change the target. Collins used her. She’s a pawn in this.”

  “You fell into bed with her. If you were an undercover FBI agent, you would have been fired long ago.”

  “We’ve already covered that ground, and I believe the bottom line is that I’m all you’ve got. Which puts me in the driver’s seat. So here’s the deal: I’ll do what I can to help you and the FBI save face. One thing we know for certain is that Treasury isn’t copying you on its internal memos. Assuming I don’t get fired, I’ll stay at BOS and help you gain back whatever ground the FBI has lost to Treasury in the great interagency race to unravel Cushman’s scheme and be the first ‘on the money,’ so to speak.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Stop. I’m only going to say this once. I’ll also keep quiet about the threat I got in Times Square so that you and I don’t have to waste all our time avoiding calls from the media.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “I want two things. One: I want the FBI to help figure out who threatened me.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t mean some abstract promise that law enforcement is doing everything it can. I want to be kept informed by you , personally.”

  “I’ll see what-”

  “No, there’s no ‘I’ll see.’ That’s the deal. Second, I want protection for me-and for Lilly. Even more for Lilly.”

  Our eyes locked. She could have turned me down flat. But if she accepted, it would mean that Treasury’s focus on Lilly and BOS/Singapore really had come as a surprise to her, and that my hunch was correct. For some reason, the FBI was out of sync with its sister agency, and Agent Henning needed me to stay involved if she was going to figure out what the heck was really going on.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll check with the bureau to see what kind of protection I can get.”

  “Thank you. And when this is over, remember that I was the one who told you that whoever wrote that Treasury Department memo is dead wrong: Lilly had nothing to do with Cushman.”

  “Sooner rather than later, you are going to have to open your eyes and help me see the real Lilly Scanlon.”

  I wasn’t blind, and of course there was a corner of my mind that wondered if Treasury was right-that Lilly really did know something. But I wasn’t going to share that with Henning. I felt guilty enough as it was for having spied on Lilly.

  My gaze returned to Alice and her friends on the giant mushroom. “Sure thing,” I said, “I love chasing down rabbit holes.”

  10

  T he subway took me down to TriBeca, and on the short walk to my apartment I stopped at the corner deli for takeaway. A couple of slices of pizza for me, a dinner salad for Lilly. I probably should have called to ask what she wanted, but I knew the chicken Caesar would be a winner. More to the point, I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet, not even about something as mundane as, What do you want for dinner? Agent Henning’s warning about “the real Lilly Scanlon” was playing on my mind.

  My relationship with Agent Henning was complicated. Sometimes she felt like an adversary. Other times she seemed like someone I could trust. My first impression had been highly favorable, but only because I found it intriguing that such an attractive woman on the other side of the coffee bar seemed incapable of taking her amazing green eyes off of me. The second impression had been not so fav
orable. Getting cornered by an FBI agent is not exactly a banner day for a Wall Street banker. It was soon clear, however, that I was not suspected of any wrongdoing. The target was one Lilly Scanlon at BOS/Singapore. My immediate reaction had been that the FBI was overlooking an obvious point, which I’d laid right on the table.

  “I work in New York.”

  “We have cooperation from an insider. She’ll get you transferred.”

  “But I have no interest in going to Singapore.”

  “It will only be for a few months.”

  “That’s a few months too long.”

  “We could be talking about billions of dollars for Cushman’s victims.”

  “It’s not that I don’t care. But if this thing blows up and it comes out that I was a mole working for the FBI, my career is over.”

  “It won’t blow up.”

  “Easy for you to say. Look, I don’t mean to sound mercenary, but you’re asking me to take a huge risk. I understand the point about helping Cushman’s victims, but…”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Back up even further. Why me? With eight thousand financial advisors at BOS, why are you sitting here in New York asking me, Patrick Lloyd, to help you?”

  “Because I know you’re not Patrick Lloyd.”

  The answer had hit me like ice water, but Henning was just getting started.

  “Here’s the deal… Peter.”

  Her invocation of my real name had done its job. Naturally, what had followed was the proverbial offer I couldn’t refuse.

  “Yo, dude,” said the guy behind the counter. “You want the dressing on the salad or on the side?” He seemed annoyed, as if it was the third or fourth time he’d asked. I’d zoned out.

  “On the side,” I said.

  A cold wind was blowing in from the river as I walked home. With no gloves, my right hand was glad for the steaming pizza in the paper sack I was clutching. My left was not so happy toting my overnight bag. I hurried down the sidewalk, passing a few pedestrians, then stopped short in front of my building. It was dark, I had things on my mind, and I was in a rush to get home-but I could have sworn that the man in the overcoat who’d just walked past me was the guy from Puffy’s Tavern.