by Trust Fund
Bo shook his head in disbelief. “But remember the new partnership agreement you had put in place. Ashley and I could always—”
Mendoza held up a hand. “Don’t push me, Bo.”
Bo fell silent, understanding the not-so-veiled threat. “When did you and Catherine become close?” he asked.
“I have always admired Catherine,” Mendoza answered, “ever since she was young. When I found out about Teddy and Tom, I informed her. I discovered then that she had always hated Jimmy Lee as much as I did,” he said, his expression turning steely.
“Jimmy Lee gave you everything,” Bo said incredulously. “How could you have hated him?”
“Your mother gave me everything,” Mendoza retorted. “Ida was the one who rescued me from the orphanage after I escaped from Cuba. Ida was the one who invited me to spend time at the estate when I was young. As you’ve said yourself, Jimmy Lee was quite a bigot. In the early years he referred to me in private as ‘the little spic welfare case.’ He didn’t think I knew about that. I loved your mother, Bo, but I hated Jimmy Lee.” Mendoza leaned forward and poured Bo a drink. “Here, you look like you need it.”
Bo glanced down at the glass. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly.
“Jimmy Lee used me the same way he used Catherine. When he figured out that I was intelligent and that people gravitated toward me, then he took an interest in me. He paid for the finest education money could buy, then he bought my way into the Senate, just as he bought Paul’s way into the Connecticut governor’s office. When I became a senator, he used me. It was no coincidence that Jimmy Lee knew about major Senate decisions before they were announced. Before anyone else knew about them. He made incredible amounts of money using the information I fed him.” Mendoza’s expression turned grim. “When I asked Jimmy Lee to help me run for president, he turned his back on me.” His voice intensified. “I’m eminently more qualified to run this country than Paul, but your father put the kiss of death on my chances by calling his high-powered friends and telling them lies about me. He never knew that I’d found out about what he had done.”
“So in return you destroyed Paul’s campaign.”
“Yes!” Mendoza snarled. “I arranged for that break-in at Reggie Duncan’s campaign headquarters. I arranged for Ron Baker’s destruction and for Baker to throw his support to Duncan.” He laughed aloud. “Baker still has no idea who really fucked him.” Mendoza’s voice turned calm again. “I’m glad to see a black man on the doorstep of the White House. He’s a much better man than Paul Hancock.”
“I agree,” Bo said quietly, picking the glass of scotch up off the desk. He took a small sip, savoring the taste and the warm feeling that coursed through him instantly. “Who took the pictures of Paul’s hands around Melissa’s neck?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“I did,” Mendoza replied. “I hated Paul then as much as you did. Almost as much as I do now. He’s a worthless bastard, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bo took a longer swallow of the scotch. “Yes.”
“My only regret is that he didn’t kill himself the night before last right here in this room,” Mendoza said ruefully, glancing up at the hole in the ceiling where the slug had buried itself. “But he’s only a shadow of his former self now. Without Jimmy Lee and Teddy to support him, you and I will be able to manipulate him any way we choose.”
“You’re right.” Bo guzzled down what remained of the scotch. “So you saw Paul kill Melissa that night?” he asked quietly.
Mendoza leaned forward and refilled the glass, then filled the second one on the desk. “No, Bo. I killed her,” he admitted finally, his lip twitching slightly as he said the words. “I hate Paul more than even you can imagine. And she was so very expendable.”
For a long time they were silent. Then Mendoza picked up his glass, rose to his feet and nodded for Bo to stand as well. “To Warfield,” he said, touching Bo’s glass.
“Yes.”
“To RANSACK as well.”
Bo hesitated. “To RANSACK,” he finally said, pressing the glass to his lips and drinking, exhilarated by the taste. He had missed the feeling of intoxication so badly.
EPILOGUE
When you dump two hundred billion dollars’ worth of anything into a marketplace, you don’t get full price. You don’t have to be a Nobel Prize–winning economist to figure that out. When it’s the federal government doing the dumping and the product is financial securities, you don’t even get wholesale. At first the feds tried to sell off Warfield’s assets quietly, but financial vultures have a better scent for blood than great white sharks and the thing quickly turned into a chaotic auction. From what I read, they got a hundred and forty billion for everything, but it was probably even less than that. The Hancock fortune was reduced to smoldering ruins and several huge financial institutions—Warfield lenders—came close to bankruptcy. Global Media and AFG were sold off piecemeal.
I played along with Michael Mendoza’s proposal to run the family empire for almost three months. I’m not much on patience, but in this instance I realized I had to be very careful about what I was doing. I knew that if I rolled over on Michael, my case would have to be airtight, and that even the Justice Department wouldn’t be able to protect me afterward, though they’d tell me they could.
It wasn’t an easy decision, let me tell you. I knew I’d be destroying the Hancock name, as well as the lives of family members, Warfield employees, and friends who’d had nothing to do with RANSACK. But I knew if I didn’t go to Justice, I’d be destroying much more than that.
One thing I regret is that I’ve never had a chance to talk to Ashley about what I did. Two weeks after the funerals she returned to Europe to resume her life. We talked every day by telephone after she left, right up until the day I went to the Justice Department. I never talked to her about my plan because I couldn’t risk a wiretap, or risk putting her in danger by letting her know what I was going to do. I hope she supports me. I think she does. Someday, when everything calms down and it’s safe, I’ll go see her in Europe. Until then I’ll feel good about the ten million dollars I got her before I detonated Warfield. I miss her every day.
What you have to understand is that I always trusted Michael Mendoza. Really trusted him. He’d always been the big brother that neither Paul nor Teddy had been. I can’t emphasize that enough. Michael and I were that close.
Over the years we had talked so many times into the early morning hours over a good bottle of port about the pros and cons of democracy. About how criminals seemed to get away with things more often than they got caught. About how ridiculously bad the legal system had become. And about how bleeding-heart elements had no idea what they were doing when they championed liberal causes. But in the end, I knew where RANSACK could lead, and it frightened the hell out of me.
I realized that evening in my father’s study that somewhere along the way—I’m not sure where—Michael had truly lost his perspective, and his mind. It isn’t easy when you make that call about someone, especially a person you’re as close to as I was to Michael. It leaves you feeling the way you do after waking up in the middle of the night from a really awful nightmare. And at first you aren’t certain you’re accurate in your assessment, or right in what you’re doing. Maybe it’s you that isn’t all there, not the other guy.
But in the weeks that followed, I came to find out that I was absolutely correct. Michael hadn’t seized on an opportunity, he’d created one. Turns out, Dr. Silwa had actually poisoned my father after being blackmailed by RANSACK. We confirmed that when we exhumed Jimmy Lee’s body under cover of darkness and performed a second autopsy. I had this strange feeling about the whole thing and I was dead on. When we confronted Silwa with the test results, he crumpled in front of our eyes. It was almost like he was relieved that he didn’t have to sneak around anymore wondering what they’d order him to do next.
Frank Ramsey turned up dead one day outside a small Oklahoma town. He joined Teddy, Harold Shaw, Richard Ra
ndolph, the Hazeltine employee who had been watching me in Montana, Dale Stephenson, and Tom Bristow as RANSACK victims. I’m sure Tiffany ended up dead too, but I never heard.
The Ramsey thing scared me. If they could find him in Oklahoma, no one was safe anywhere.
“Anything to drink, sir?”
The man behind the bar seems friendly enough, but I don’t trust anybody these days. “Diet Coke.”
I haven’t had liquor since that night in Jimmy Lee’s study. It’s been six months now. This time I think I’ve licked the thing, but you never know for sure.
God, I love New Orleans. You can really get lost here. They had offered me the Witness Protection Program, but I knew that was a joke. I’m sure the Justice boys meant well, but they didn’t know who they were dealing with. Mendoza would have ripped the WPP computer apart with his capabilities like a chain saw going through microwaved butter, and located me in a New York second. No thanks.
So I went out on my own. I stashed ten million bucks around the country in fifty different banks, something in every state in case I stopped by. Mendoza will look because he knows I would have taken care of myself, but he won’t find anything. I learned a thing or two along the way as well. I also took a bunch of diamonds with me. They’re the best if you’re ever on the run. They’re lightweight, untraceable, and readily marketable. A little free advice for you.
As promised, Michael made certain Meg saw all of the pictures of Tiffany and me in the Libby motel after I disappeared. She filed for divorce immediately. I’m sure Michael was happy about that.
The woman is very pretty and I notice her right away at the far end of the bar. We have an instant attraction. Maybe she likes my ruggedness or the short ponytail coming down from under the white skimmer hat I’ve taken to wearing these days. Whatever it is, she comes and sits down next to me. Sort of sidles around nervously for a while, but pretty soon she’s on the stool next to mine. She has short, dark hair beneath a baseball cap pulled low over sexy eyes, but it isn’t her physical beauty to which I’m so instantly attracted. It’s this aura. This vulnerability that turns on my urge to protect like a switch on the wall.
“Hi, Bo.”
“Hello, Meg.”
I haven’t seen her since the night before I rolled over on Michael. I told her everything that night, even showed her the picture of Tiffany and me that Michael had given me out in Wyoming. It didn’t faze her one bit. She believed me right away when I told her I had been set up, and was fully prepared when fifty-seven more showed up in her mailbox after I left. I told her I was adopted that night too and that didn’t faze her either. She said she’d always known and not because I looked different from Teddy and Paul. She said it was because I was such a different person than those bastards. She actually used the word “bastards,” which I liked.
I told her to wait three months before she came to this dive in the French Quarter. I knew Michael would be watching and listening. We haven’t spoken since that night, but I had no doubt she would be as punctual as always. We have a bond no one can understand.
“I’m scared, Bo,” she says, taking a sip of my Diet Coke.
“Don’t worry, nothing can happen to us now,” I say, gazing at the woman I’ve missed so deeply. I kind of like this new look of hers—the cropped brunet hair.
“I did it with a pair of scissors at the airport,” she says, touching my leg.
“It looks good.”
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you too.”
I know Michael will never figure out how I could throw it all away. He thought I couldn’t live without the money and the luxury, but he never really knew me, as close as we were, because ultimately his mind didn’t work like mine. I’m a pretty simple guy when it comes down to it. All I really need is Meg, and now I have her back again.
I heard years later that people speculated I had destroyed the family and our fortune because I had some deep-seated bitterness over being adopted, but that wasn’t it.
It was a matter of honor. And that was all.
ALSO BY STEPHEN FREY
The Takeover
The Vulture Fund
The Inner Sanctum
The Legacy
The Insider
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © by 2001 Stephen Frey
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/BB/
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Frey, Stephen W.
Trust fund / Stephen Frey.—1st Ballantine Books ed.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3556.R4477 T78 2001
813'.54—dc21
00-046811
eISBN: 978-0-345-44714-2
v3.0
