The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  The agent she was addressing stood with his arms folded, and occasionally picked at his teeth with his thumbnail. He was listening, because others were listening, but I could tell he’d already made up his mind to ignore Harper.

  “We’ve got proof of life, Harper. Now, either you get in on this or you get the hell out,” said the male agent.

  “Lynch, you’re wrong about this. I know it. The drop is all messed up,” said Harper.

  “I’m the SAC here. Have you forgotten that?” he said.

  Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them. I noticed Harper almost dancing on the balls of her feet. Her lips were set tightly, ready to blow out whatever she didn’t want to put into words in front of the rest of the team. SAC stood for Special Agent in Charge, which meant Lynch outranked Harper. The air around these two seemed to bristle with more than a mere professional disagreement. I couldn’t be sure but I guessed there was personal history there.

  Given what I knew, it was easy to tell who was smarter; Harper for all her volatility was the one with the sharpest tools in the box. She knew the rail station was somehow off.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “I know exactly who you are.”

  Lynch put his hands on his hips and stuck his chin toward the ceiling so he could look down his nose at Harper. She looked at him like he’d just pulled down his pants and taken a dump on the front lawn. That look remained on her face as she walked away.

  That’s when Lynch noticed me.

  I nodded a greeting. It was his turn to look disgusted, and he joined a group of agents who were examining a digital plan of the Rochelle rail station on the big screen TV affixed to the wall. All the entrances and exits were marked with blue dots. There were small red dots marked on the plan, with letters and numbers beside them. I guessed the letters and numbers represented surveillance operatives, scattered around the station at various points to cover all the possible angles of view. A green dot on the map sat beside the rows of benches. This dot had a name – “Lynch.” I guessed this denoted the agent who would deliver the money.

  “What are you looking at?” said a voice.

  I turned and saw SAC Lynch behind me. I’d been so engrossed in looking at the plans that I hadn’t noticed him peeling off from the group of agents and cops.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You’re the lawyer, Flynn, right?” he said.

  “That’s me, good to meet you,” I said, extending a hand.

  He ignored the gesture and said, “I heard you had a run-in with Agent Harper. That right?”

  “We met,” I said, standing. I didn’t like the idea of Lynch towering over me. As I got to my feet I saw, in the corner of my eye, Harper standing at the edge of the lounge. She must’ve heard somebody using her name. I turned my back to her so I could address Lynch.

  “From what I’ve heard it was more than that. It’s been reported to me that Agent Harper was extremely physical with you; pushing your head into the roof of a car? If that’s correct then I’d like to hear it from you. The Bureau doesn’t stand for that kind of behavior from our agents.”

  “You must’ve heard wrong. Agent Harper was courtesy personified.”

  “I find that very difficult to believe,” he said.

  “Ask Agent Washington if you don’t believe me. I’m sure he’ll verify my account,” I said.

  He was getting nowhere with me, and decided to cut his losses. As he walked away he said, “I’m sure we’ll talk again, Mr Flynn.”

  He almost bumped into McAuley. The two men eyed each other and Lynch went back into the lounge.

  “Agent Harper,” said Lynch. “We’ve had a complaint in relation to your conduct with a representative of the family. You’re off the property effective immediately. Go back to the field office and write out a statement in relation to your encounter with Mr Flynn. I’ll expect it on my desk in the morning.”

  I tried to interject, but Harper held up a hand. She’d heard me denying it. She lifted the shoulder strap of her laptop bag off the back of a chair and walked out of the room with all eyes on her.

  McAuley handed me a black leather roll-aboard trolley case and said, “Your retainer, Mr Flynn.” I extended the handle and wheeled the case behind me as I walked through the lounge, flanked by McAuley. The case bumped into a table, almost knocking it over. I swore, then switched hands and felt another tug when the wheels got stuck on the edge of a thick carpet.

  When I was satisfied I’d attracted enough attention with the case, I left the lounge. In the hallway that led to the front door, I saw Washington waiting with his hands clasped together in front of him.

  As Harper strode toward the front door Washington held out his right hand. They shook hands and she stepped out of the house into the dark.

  I wondered if anyone but me had noticed the slim black device that Washington had palmed to Harper in the handshake. Probably not, I thought.

  Then I wondered if anyone had figured that the case I dragged behind me carried two million dollars. Again, probably not.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I stood on the porch and watched Harper get into a car which I guessed was her personal vehicle. A red Dodge Charger with a black racing stripe over the hood. She spun the wheels and sent a shower of gravel over the lawn as the torque bit down. The rear lights disappeared into the distance, down the single lane that led to the street.

  McAuley and Howell joined me. They didn’t speak, just put their gaze to the stars while the SWAT team clambered into the back of their van. The feds came next. And soon the half dozen cars in the gravel drive were all warming up.

  “Mr Howell, can I speak to you for a moment,” said a voice behind us. It was Lynch.

  “Of course,” said Howell.

  Lynch crunched through the driveway, then stopped when he noticed that Howell hadn’t walked with him. He wanted a quiet word away from McAuley and me.

  “You can say anything you like in front of these gentlemen,” said Howell.

  Reluctantly, Lynch dragged his feet back to the stone porch and said, “Very well. We’d like you to reconsider our advice, Mr Howell. It really would be better if you stayed here with your wife. We know you’re a professional, but we can handle this. The last thing your daughter needs is a conflicted father rushing the drop and …”

  “Getting her killed? Is that what you were going to say?” said Howell.

  The FBI agent’s eyes found his feet.

  “I was going to say we didn’t want any surprises, Mr Howell. With the greatest of respect we’d like you to think on this matter again. And stay here. If you’re worried about the two million—”

  “Look, I hear you. It’s not the money. It’s Caroline. I’d be giving the same advice if I was in your shoes. And at the same time I would understand the father’s insistence on being present at the exchange. I’ll think about what you’ve said, agent.”

  “If it comes to it, Mr Howell, my men may have to put you into protective custody. We don’t want to jeopardize the transaction.”

  And with that, he left and got into the front passenger seat of a Ford and started making calls. It had been Howell’s idea to pretend he was going to the Rochelle drop. It would be what the feds expected him to do. Howell was going to allow them to persuade him otherwise, eventually.

  Headlights in the distance. Coming this way. A finger tapped at my wrist; McAuley telling me this was the car we’d been waiting for.

  I hefted the suitcase and let my eyes roam the driveway and the half acre of lawn in front of me. For the next ten minutes I decided to assume that there were still cops and feds out there in the dark – watching my every move. The headlights arced to the right and came around to stop in front of the house. The vehicle was a security van, and two armed men in uniform got out. They opened the rear of the van and a third man in a light-blue suit leapt down onto the stones. He carried a large briefcase identical to the one I carried. According to Howell, the insurance company bought th
ese cases in bulk. They were light, tough, and looked exactly like the case at my side. Only difference was the case was attached to the man’s wrist with a pair of steel handcuffs. In his other hand he held an iPad.

  Howell made his way down the steps, greeted the man in the suit and guided him back toward the house. Agent Lynch got out of the Ford. He’d been waiting for the ransom in the vehicle. I saw him introducing himself to the man in the suit with the briefcase.

  “Let’s go into the office,” said McAuley.

  As Howell, Lynch and the man with the case walked up the steps toward the house, I saw McAuley knock on a door in the hall. Susan Howell came out, her face streaked with tears.

  Fake tears.

  Her job was to collapse as the three men came into the hall. She would fall into Lynch’s arms and break into hysterics. When Lynch calmed her down, she would insist on speaking to him about the drop. She would tell him she needed reassurance. We needed Lynch out of our way.

  McAuley’s best guess was this would take around five to six minutes. More than enough time for Howell to take the insurance agent in the nice suit in back, complete the paperwork for the handover of the money and get him the hell out of there before the FBI asked questions about how much was in the case. By the time Lynch made it out of Susan’s clutches, he would be handed the identical roll-aboard suitcase in my hand with two million dollars inside.

  On no account could the law realize there were two separate ransoms. Caroline’s life depended on it.

  I watched Susan Howell as she wiped her face, smearing her make up even more, then she strode up the hall. She had a drink in her hand, probably more gin. The ice fell over her lips as she put her head back and drained the glass before placing it on a table. She stood at the end of the hall, waiting on her mark.

  The three men came through the door in silence. Howell was flanked by Lynch on the left, and the insurance bondsman on his right. They walked past McAuley and me, headed for the study.

  I felt an escalating unease the closer the three men got to Susan Howell. She swayed a little, pressed her fingertips into her forehead. I got the impression that either this was all too much for Susan Howell, or that there were problems in her marriage that the kidnapping brought to the fore. Howell must have spotted Susan’s demeanor too, because he slowed his pace.

  “Shit. I hope she doesn’t choke,” said McAuley.

  Susan Howell shook her head, covered her mouth with her palm and walked away.

  McAuley and I exchanged a look, and he said, “I knew she couldn’t do it. She’s taken too much of the hard stuff.”

  The party ahead of us turned the corner, and McAuley and I broke into a run.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  McAuley and I stepped inside Howell’s office before he could close the door. I could sense the panic in Howell.

  I whispered to him as I walked past.

  “We can still do this. Follow my lead,” I said. Agent Lynch hung back, putting an elbow on a bookcase in the far corner of the study. The man with the briefcase stood beside Howell at the desk. McAuley and I stood on the opposite side of the desk.

  Howell handled the introductions.

  “Gentlemen, this is Valter Bergstedt from Dahlquist Equities. Dahlquist’s hold my family’s K & R insurance and Valter here has the ransom. Valter, you’ve met Special Agent Lynch, and this is my lawyer, Eddie Flynn. You already know McAuley.”

  The bag man from the insurance company looked like a guy who enjoyed his money. The suit was tailored, tight fitting, and set off his well-groomed beard and immaculate hair. He was courteous and said hello, but didn’t shake hands. One hand still held the iPad and the other was still handcuffed to ten-million dollars of bearer bonds. I guessed the ransom was so large because bonds could not be moved and so easily converted into cash as they used to be. Likely the kidnapper would get seventy-five cents on the dollar.

  “I would like my lawyer to witness the handover signatures if that’s all right,” said Howell.

  “Of course,” said Valter. His pronunciation was perfect but he couldn’t shake the Swedish accent.

  I came around the large desk to stand on Howell’s right. Valter was on his left and Lynch came forward to stand beside McAuley on the opposite side of the wide, mahogany desk.

  With one hand, Valter placed the iPad on the desk and brought the device to life. He flicked his hand across the screen and I collapsed the handle of my trolley case. After a few seconds he brought up what looked like an agreement on the screen.

  I touched Howell’s hand. He looked down and I discreetly pointed to the floor, letting him get a view of me toeing my suitcase under the table. The cases were hand-cut Italian leather, from the same company that made seats for Ferrari. All of the cases had combination locks, a trolley handle and wheels. They smelled like money and each could probably hold forty or fifty hardback books – or ten mil in bearer bonds.

  My idea was simple. Just like three-card monte. It’s the oldest con in the book. And Howell had taught me well. The three cards can be anything, but normally it’s a queen and two low numbered cards placed side by side, face down on a small table. The only card that matters is the queen and you have to find it. The dealer starts every game with the cards in his hands, face down, cradling the edges of the cards with his fingers. Two in one hand, the queen on the bottom and the ten above it and a single five of diamonds in the other hand. He then throws down the queen, face down, and throws the other cards around it. It’s easy to spot where the queen has landed and follow it as he moves them around. A buddy of the dealer will bet on where the queen is, and get it wrong. The mark thinks he’s got it all figured out and places a bet. This time, with money on the table, the dealer throws the top card down first, the ten, keeping the queen till last. The switch gets them every time.

  We were playing two-card monte. Only we weren’t switching cards, we were switching cases. But this time we had to do it with an audience member in the shape of SAC Lynch.

  Howell nodded. McAuley too. They got the message.

  All Howell had to do was put the damn case he got from the Swede under the desk after he signed for it. Then he’d pick up the two million case and give it to Lynch, and I’d pick up the ten million.

  Couldn’t be easier. No hostages. No guns. And a better chance for Howell to escape a jail sentence when the feds found out what really happened.

  Everything would work out fine as long as the insurance agent didn’t mention the sum of money in the case, and Howell got the case off him and under the desk. Howell seemed pretty sure Valter wouldn’t mention the cash figure. He said Valter would consider that “impolite.”

  Valter flicked his thumbs over the number lock on the case, and opened it. Howell took a quick glance inside then closed it and said, “I’m sure it’s all there, where do I sign?”

  “Digital and hard signature, if you please. You’ll find the lock is programed with Caroline’s date of birth,” said Valter, placing a document on the table. He flipped open his iPad, unlocked it, removed a digital pen from the case and laid it on the screen. Valter then spun the numbers on the case to lock it.

  I watched Howell squint at the screen and then the page. Without reading it he picked up the e-pen and ran it across the screen in what looked like a quick signature.

  “You can keep the handcuffs by the way, I’ve got my own,” said Howell.

  A droplet of sweat hit the screen. He dropped the e-pen, wiped his brow, picked up the ink pen and scrawled another shaky signature on the page.

  The only sound was Howell’s quick breath and a dull crunch from McAuley grinding his teeth. His jaw muscles were working overtime and his eyes never left the case cuffed to Valter’s wrist.

  I was ready. Soon as Howell put the ten mil on the floor and shuffled it toward me with his feet, I was out of that room.

  I heard the jingle from the long silver chain as Valter placed the case on the desk, then unlocked the cuff on his wrist. I held my breath as Howell
reached out to take the handle of the case. Before Howell could react Valter lifted the case off the desk, strode over to the bookcase, put the case on the ground, grabbed hold of Lynch’s left arm and slapped the cuffs onto his wrist.

  “What the hell is this, Valter?” said Howell. The blood drained from his face.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. We’ve made concessions already. No hostage committee – you want the ransom paid and that’s good enough for the old men in Zurich. But you’re too close to this. My direct instructions were to place the ransom into FBI custody on your behalf. You’ve just signed your agreement to reflect this. I take it you have no difficulty with this, Agent Lynch?”

  The fed shook his head and was about to say something when Howell interrupted.

  “No way, the money stays with me. I won’t hand over a cent until I see her alive. Valter, you can’t do this,” said Howell.

  The bagman’s features softened as he approached Howell. “It is already done. I am deeply sorry, Leonard,” he said, placing a hand on Howell’s shoulder.

  He shrugged it off and stared at McAuley. Both of them looked like startled goldfish – mouths slightly open, shock and disbelief in their eyes. And I could see the bubble of fear about to explode inside of Howell. Sweat soaked his face and he wiped at his forehead with his sleeve.

  Special Agent Lynch was about to ensure that Caroline Howell never made it out of that dark hole alive.

  “This is not happening …” said Howell, the rage and denial gilding every syllable. His right hand dropped and slowly made its way behind his back. This man was as desperate as any I’d ever met. He knew Lynch was about to walk away with the only chance he had of getting his daughter back and Howell couldn’t let it happen – he was going for the Goddamn Beretta tucked into his waistband. My plan was falling apart. This would end in a gun battle if I didn’t think fast.