Mortal Bonds

by Michael Sears

  He understood nothing of what I said, but he shook my hand anyway. They drove off and I went back inside. There was one more problem to take care of.

  Everett was still sitting on the floor where he had been counting the bonds. His face was pasty white, sweaty and bloated, as though he were about to vomit or have a heart attack. Gibbons was sitting up, but not looking much better. I could hear Virgil and Livy talking in the office next door, but it took a moment for me to realize they were not talking to each other. Virgil was engaged in a telephone conversation, speaking quietly and calmly, very much in control. Livy was on another phone trying to bully the weekend skeleton staff at the governor’s office into giving her his private cell-phone number.

  “He will take my call, young lady. Arthur always takes my call!” she boomed.

  I went to the little bar on wheels and fixed myself a short vodka on the rocks. I’d earned it.

  “How could you let them get away?” Everett sounded both harsh and faint.

  “Don’t worry about it, Everett. The police will get them.”

  “But you let them get away with the bonds. You were hired to find them. Now they’re gone again.”

  Gibbons groaned.

  “Everett, make yourself useful. Get this guy some ice for his head.”

  Virgil walked back into the library, his mother trailing and still booming.

  “She’ll take a message. I practically bought that man his position and she has the nerve to tell me that she will take a message!” And without a pause, “I would like a short cocktail, please.”

  Virgil came over to the drinks cart and fixed her a vodka on the rocks—a tall one—and handed it to her. I raised my glass in a polite silent toast, but I wasn’t quick enough. Livy’s drink disappeared in one swallow. I set my still nearly full glass down on the cart. I couldn’t compete in that kind of company.

  “I called for an ambulance,” Virgil said, “but it seems there was already one on the way.”

  “I spoke to my FBI friend.”

  “Very good.”

  “Your FBI friend?” Everett squawked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The police are right down the road. It was a setup, Everett. By now Blake and party are in handcuffs and the cops will be coming down the drive any minute.” I was disgusted with him. “What was the plan, Ev? Gibbons walks out with the bonds and you two meet up later. Fifty-fifty?”

  “Wh-wh-wh-wh?” he stuttered.

  “What a pair of dopes. Trying to play both ends against the middle. And neither one of you had a clue. Gibbons at least has a set of balls.”

  “Elucidate,” Virgil said, moving forward and taking up his initial position, back to the window. Livy fixed herself another. She went easier on the ice than Virgil had.

  “Everett has been running his own little sideshow, trying to grab the bonds,” I said. “He brought me in to find the damn money, but he never meant for you to get it. The plan was always to let me find it, then make a grab for it either when I got close or just before you turned it in. He’s been passing every bit of information I gave him over to his partner here. They got nervous when it looked like I was working for Castillo. Gibbons tried to warn me off with the same phony badge. Gibbons is no longer employed by the SEC—they canned him months ago. These two met when Gibbons ran the two audits on your father’s funds—clearing them both times, a feat of either criminal stupidity or stupidly criminal. But even the SEC knows when to say ‘Enough.’ He got the ax, but only after the funds blew up and your father was in jail. But Everett stayed in touch. He knew he had found a soul mate. Gibbons didn’t just show up here and he didn’t follow me. He was here in the house already. Everett must have called him after he spoke to me last night.”

  “Is this true?” Virgil directed the question down at Everett.

  Everett didn’t answer. Gibbons groaned again.

  “I can’t prove a thing, Virgil, but if I’m going to be your fraud consultant, my first piece of advice is to can this son of a bitch immediately. I don’t know why someone as brilliant as your father kept him around, but it’s time to cut him loose.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Virgil. The man has been jealous of my career for years.”

  “Shut up, Everett,” I said. “No one’s buying.” I heard a commotion at the front door. Brady had finally arrived.

  “The fucked-up thing is that I don’t think there’s anything to charge him with. What did he actually do besides screw things up? In the end, all it did was get his buddy conked on the head.”

  “The ambulance is on its way,” Brady said, entering the library with a rare smile on his face.

  “Who is this?” Livy was even louder, if possible.

  Brady showed his ID. “FBI, ma’am.”

  “Did Arthur send you?”

  Brady looked to me for clarification.

  I shook my head. “Any trouble?” I said.

  “Nobody’s hurt, if that’s what you’re asking. The only problem I see is which one wins the race to cut a deal and put the blame on the rest.”

  “My sister?” Virgil spoke quietly, but with both concern and authority.

  “We’ll give her a head start, Mr. Von Becker. Meanwhile, get her a good lawyer.”

  I found myself smiling. “If you’d like a good recommendation, this is a subject I know something about.”

  | 42 |

  I had another manila envelope in my pocket.

  Brady drove. He was full of energy. He’d had a big day for a lawman. I tried keeping him company, but found my eyes kept refusing to stay open. It was late and the sun long set when we came across the Triborough Bridge. Now the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. Another bit of change that I would never get used to.

  “Do you mind getting a cab? I’m on my way back to the office downtown, and a trip to the West Side . . .” He let the sentence dangle.

  “No problem. I’ve got a stop to make anyway. Leave me off on Second Avenue and you can cut over and get right back on the FDR.”

  He pulled over to the curb and I reached for the door handle.

  “Just one question,” he said.

  If he asked about Tom, I would just walk away. It was late, and I was not in the mood to start lying.

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “The lawyer in Zurich. Who did him? It’s not my case, but I’m curious. Who do you think did it?”

  “Blake. Had to be. He was either there, or he sent two of those goons to handle it. Morgan was supposed to be the messenger—Virgil told me she was the only one who visited the old man—and when she saw her chance, she grabbed it. When the father figured out that she’d switched her allegiances, he took the easy way out. He hung himself.”

  Brady stared out at Second Avenue. “I don’t see any way to prove it.”

  “Morgan will talk. One night in a cell at MCC and she’ll give up her lover gift-wrapped. Hell, she gave up her father for money, she’ll give up Blake for freedom. You’ll see.”

  “And on that cheery note,” he said, offering his hand.

  I shook it. “Good night, Brady.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  Hours after sunset and the temperature on the sidewalk was still in the nineties, and so was the humidity. I wanted to climb into my own bed and let the hum of the AC blot out the world for just one night. Just one. I’d take up my life again in the morning, I promised.

  No deal.

  LaGuardia Airport shuts down at midnight, and starting around eleven or so, cabbies stop bothering to wait and come back into Manhattan looking for a late fare. They come in over the Triborough. I put my hand up and had a taxi in under a minute.

  • • •

  THE BODYGUARDS WERE GONE—Tom must have gotten the word to them. Mistletoe answered the door in a floor-length orange and yellow dashiki that made her look like an explosion.
Her hair was wet and hanging straight, as though she had just come from the shower. She’d been crying.

  “Come in,” she said, turning and fading away from me, her body slumped in defeat. She whispered, “I didn’t think you would be coming to visit anymore.”

  “I can’t stay,” I said, walking into the living room. “I’ve been up since four this morning and I’m dying on my feet. I just wanted to check on you. When did the men leave?”

  The cats peeked out from various hiding places—beneath the couch, behind the draperies, from the top of the kitchen cabinets.

  “I don’t know. I slept late and when I woke up they were gone.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you frightened?”

  “No.”

  She wasn’t—but whether from courage or despair I couldn’t say.

  “I brought you something. Something from Willie.” I opened the envelope. “I was going through some of Willie’s private papers and I came upon these.” I pulled out the top document and handed it to her.

  She looked at the official German writing. “I can’t read this,” she said.

  “No, neither can I,” I said. “But I know what it says. These are annuities. Swiss insurance company annuities. I know because I own some myself.”

  She blinked her eyes as though I had begun speaking in Urdu.

  “How much did Willie take from you?”

  She blushed. “I don’t talk about that.”

  “Around forty million U.S., I would guess, judging by what’s here.”

  She gave a short intake of breath—not quite a gasp, but a startled response. “It was my aunt’s money, not mine.”

  “Oh, it’s yours all right. You see, Willie didn’t really take it. I mean he took it, but he didn’t dump it in with other customers’ money. He kept it separate and put it into Swiss-franc-denominated annuities. They don’t pay much interest, but they are about the safest investment on the planet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He protected you, Mistletoe. These are untraceable tax-exempt securities. Contracts, really. And thanks to the dollar crapping out, they’re worth about twelve percent more than they were when he bought them two years ago. You are a wealthy woman again.”

  She nodded slowly, but I still wasn’t sure she got it.

  “The interest accrues, but you can have it put in your bank account instead. My accountant can help you with it. You’ll like him—he’s a little older than I am. The next three years will be a little tight, living on the interest, but you can begin cashing them in any time after that.”

  She sank into the couch and the cats began to creep in and settle around her. I could see in her eyes that she was starting to understand.

  “I think Willie cared for you, Mistletoe. He watched out for you—even against himself.”

  “Do you have any Kleenex?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She wiped her nose with the draping sleeve of the dashiki.

  “One more thing. You were wrong about Mrs. Von Becker. She didn’t have Willie killed. Willie killed himself.”

  “She hated him.”

  “Maybe. She married a man she considered beneath her, because he was the only one who asked her. Or was ever going to ask her. It wasn’t a bargain she made happily. And he cheated on her and stole from all her friends and then he did the unforgivable. He got caught. But she didn’t kill him.”

  “He wouldn’t kill himself. I know my Willie.”

  Enough people had already lost their illusions—or delusions. I didn’t want to add to her pain.

  “I can’t say he was a good man, but I do think he loved you.”

  The cats felt the change in her and all three snuggled into her lap. She stared down at them so long that I thought she might have forgotten I was there.

  “I’m going to go now,” I said.

  “But you will come back?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not going to be taking Willie’s place. And you need to get out. Start making friends.” It wasn’t impossible. People can change. I had changed. “Best of luck.”

  She didn’t look up.

  I left her surrounded by the cats.

  | 43 |

  Monday—the Kid was dressed all in blue. We waded along, side by side, through security at Penn Station—an experience slightly less onerous than at the airport. I had the Kid plugged into my iPod—he was obsessing his way through the early Beatles years. The music tuned out the unintelligible overhead announcements and allowed him to focus on placing one foot in front of the other through the line and onto the escalator.

  We made it to the platform level without incident, but the gap between platform and train loomed just ahead. I steeled myself for the tantrum and played my wild card.

  “Whoa!” I said looking up. “Did you see that?”

  The Kid looked up but refused to acknowledge me. I could hear “Love Me Do” leaking from out of the earbuds.

  “You missed it?” I said.

  We stepped over the gap and into the train. The Kid scowled at me and removed the little white speakers.

  “What?”

  “The dweebus? I can’t believe you missed it. They’re very rare, you know.”

  He turned away and walked down the aisle ahead of me.

  I found two empty seats, stopped him, and let him take the window. He took a book out of his backpack, flipped down the tray like an experienced rail commuter, and dropped the book on it. It was one of his old ones. Ten Automobiles That Challenged Detroit. He scowled again.

  “What’s a”—he paused as though wary of the word—“a dweebus?”

  “A bird. It’s rainbow-colored. Very easy to identify. They live in train stations, but like I said, they’re rare.”

  He knew I was making it up, but he couldn’t figure out why, so he merely scowled some more. I could handle scowls. Scowls were cake compared with screams.

  “When we get out in Washington, you keep your eyes peeled.”

  He gave a look of great distaste.

  “Sorry. Don’t peel your eyes. Watch for dweebuses. Actually, dweebi. One dweebus. Two dweebi. Look for them when we get out in Washington. There are always more dweebi in Washington.”

  He began flipping pages, losing interest. “Why?”

  “That’s a very good question for Skeli. You may ask her when we get there.”

  He plugged back into the music. “P.S. I Love You.” The train pulled out.

  • • •

  LATE THE NIGHT BEFORE, Tino had finally returned my calls. He was flying up Thursday to pick up the body. I offered him a bed for the night, but he wasn’t staying over. There was to be a wake Friday night at the Benoit Funeral Home in Beauville and a Mass the next morning. I was not invited.

  “Mamma has taken this hard and I’m afraid she needs someone to blame,” Tino said.

  Life is neither fair nor logical.

  “I understand. I’ll send flowers.”

  “You will be vilified for doing so, but of course, you would be vilified if you did not. On balance, I believe sending an impressive display is the wiser course. Victor’s here in Lafayette do a nice job and they know me.”

  “I’d like to bring the Kid down for a visit sometime. He lost a mother; I’d hate for him to lose a grandmother, too.”

  “Give her time. She’ll come around. Loving is the one thing she has always been good at.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  • • •

  THE KID AND I would have two days in D.C. with Skeli. Not a lot of time, but I was ready to make every minute count.

  I reminded myself to call Heather, wondering how the Kid and I could possibly survive if she would not come back.

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything else that I was sure I had forgott
en. Clothes for the next few days. In all appropriate colors. Cars? Plenty. Toothbrush? Yes. It was always a problem, breaking in a new toothbrush. The Kid had to see me take it out of the plastic wrapper and immediately douse it with mouthwash—a substance, I had managed to convince him, which would kill any germ. He often requested a splash on his cuts and scrapes. Had I forgotten lunch? I bent over and checked my bag. Lunch was there. Two sandwiches. American cheese on white bread, and smoked turkey, roasted pepper, and mustard on seeded rye. We would each think the other was devouring an abomination.

  The Kid was reading out loud, this time in my father’s voice. He was reading loud enough to hear himself over John Lennon screaming “Twist and Shout.” A tie-less, blue-suited Washington corridor commuter, obviously trying to read something on his e-reader, gave me an annoyed look over his wire spectacles. I smiled back. Let him complain. I had intentionally chosen a train car that was not a “quiet car” on the likely chance that the Kid would not make the three-hour trip in monk-like silence.

  The Kid turned the page and his voice changed.

  “The Tucker 48 Sedan, initially called the Torpedo, was a car well ahead of its time. Many of the automotive safety innovations of the second half of the twentieth century were designed into the Torpedo.”

  It was Angie’s voice.

  • • •

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An author is often like a single parent, trying to raise and nurture a creation inspired in a moment of great passion. A creation that sometimes behaves in a most ungrateful, nearly spiteful manner, causing endless headaches and feelings of anger, remorse, helplessness, and depression. And sometimes joy.

  And like a parent, the author depends upon a network of helpers—mentors, doctors, comforters, and commiserators—to remain relatively sane while completing the task of seeing this child out into the world. I wish to thank all those in my network: Jennifer Belle and the Muses, who make my Wednesdays heaven or hell; my lovely wife, Barbara Segal, aka Ruby, and the Pawley’s readers, whose feedback and support are essential; Richard Fiske, Chris Gaun, Jesse Leo, Effie-Marie Smith, Tim O’Rourke, Melissa Mourges, and Robert LaRussa, all of whom gave invaluable advice and corrected so many of my mistakes (any remaining ones are entirely my own); my incomparable agents, Judith Weber and Nat Sobel, who inspire me to be “even better,” and their team who magically solve all of my problems; Neil Nyren and the whole Putnam crew, without whose guidance I would be floundering in an industry that so rarely makes any sense to me; and to all of my readers, for this act of creation is not complete until the reader has shared in the experience.