"Hooray, you get an A plus." He picked up the bag containing the doll and the sweatshirt. "Oh, and by the way, somebody'll be watching you. Every minute. You do believe me? No need to answer. See ya." And he was gone.
CHAPTER 10
10:30 A.M., SATURDAY
45 MINUTES EARLIER
LIGHT BORE DOWN ON the foursome in Central Park. Stark light, painful.
Putting away his NYPD gold shield, Naresh Surani glanced at Daniel Reardon, ignored him and asked Gabriela, "Have you heard from Charles Prescott today?" Even the brilliant sun couldn't warm the detective's gray complexion.
"My boss? No. My God, is he all right?" Her eyes eased toward Daniel. The other detective, Brad Kepler, had noted him too but was ignoring him as efficiently as his partner was.
"When was the last time you saw him?" tanned Brad Kepler asked.
"Yesterday, at work. In the morning. Then I went to a meeting and was out all day. Has there been an accident? Please. You have to tell me!"
They were regarding her with what seemed to be suspicion. Surani offered, "Mr. Prescott has disappeared... with, it seems, a lot of his clients' money."
Gabriela barked a laugh. "No, that's impossible. There's a mix-up."
"I'm afraid not. Detective Surani and I are with the Financial Crimes Division of the police department. Mr. Prescott's been under investigation for the past two months."
"A different Charles Prescott. It has to be a different one."
Surani had taken to doing most of the talking and he continued now, "The SEC and the FBI were investigating cash flow into and out of suspicious stock trading accounts here and abroad. Some of those accounts were set up by Mr. Prescott and it appears they were for the benefit of various clients. There were New York connections so we got involved. It's been going on for months."
"It can't have!"
Surani continued, "We were going to raid the office and arrest him at home this morning, but he must've gotten word about the investigation and fled late yesterday. There're teams going through the office and his houses now. He's vanished, cleaned out a half-dozen accounts in the U.S. and transferred the money into untraceable accounts overseas."
She looked down. They were standing at a water main access panel in the sidewalk. The ironwork was from somewhere other than New York. It wasn't even American. She told them, "He did say he was going to work late yesterday. I told you--I was at a meeting out of the office most of the day. I saw him for about an hour in the morning. We hardly said a dozen words. I assumed he worked late and then went home."
"He didn't go home. We had it under surveillance."
"He left? Oh, God."
Kepler asked Daniel, "You a friend of Ms. McKenzie's?"
"That's right."
"Do you know Charles Prescott?"
"No," Gabriela said. "He doesn't."
Daniel explained, "We just met last night. Gabriela and I."
They lost interest in him, as if thinking it had been a pickup, a night of sex and breakfast this morning. Daniel didn't seem to care about their impression of him.
She continued, "This just has to be a mistake. First of all Charles would never do anything illegal. It's not conceivable." Her voice quivered. She cleared her throat. "If he left unexpectedly, I'm sure it was an emergency. One of his clients had a problem. Charles's that way. He's more than an investment adviser. He's a friend--"
"A problem, yeah. A federal indictment." Kepler added, "Really, Ms. McKenzie, there's no mistake." He was unemotional, but you could also hear a fragment of irritation in his voice.
She was blurting now: "I'm the office manager. How could he possibly do anything like that without my knowing? How could that be?"
Daniel stirred, his meaning probably: That might not be the wisest thing to say, suggesting she was complicit. She fell silent. Surani blinked through his none-too-effective shades and said, "We don't have any evidence you were involved in the scheme."
His tone, however, added the word "yet" onto the end of that sentence.
"Who're the clients you were mentioning?" Gabriela demanded.
"We don't have any names. A fair number were from the Far East, South America and the Middle East, according to the FBI. They've been tracing the cash and stock purchases."
Gabriela laughed, albeit a bit hysterically. "It is a mistake! I've never heard of any clients there. And I know all of them."
Surani countered, "Well, our information is that he did have clients there. Thirty-two, apparently. And he was shuttling money into these accounts. Who knows why? Money laundering most likely. But we aren't sure."
"My God." A dismayed whisper. "Thirty-two clients?"
"That was as of two days ago."
Gabriela opened her mouth and then slowly pressed her lips together as if words failed her completely.
Surani: "Ms. McKenzie, you have to understand, Mr. Prescott caught us by surprise. We knew he had a one-way ticket to Zurich on Columbus Day weekend, so we thought he'd be in the country until then."
"One way?" Gabriela said. "No. I make all his travel arrangements. He didn't have any plans to leave. Surely not one way."
"Well, he did," Kepler barked.
His partner continued, "Prescott must've gotten word about the investigation and skipped early. But not to Switzerland. We don't know where. So we need to get the names and addresses of those thirty-two clients."
"You didn't find anything at the office?"
Surani explained, "We know he flew to St. Maarten yesterday about six p.m. He disappeared after that. The authorities down there can't find him. Now we're hoping you'll cooperate. We need to know where he went."
"Tell us what you know," Kepler said emphatically, dark eyes narrow.
"I don't know anything!"
"You probably do, Gabriela," Kepler said with a sardonic tone. "For instance, did you know he had a house in Miami?"
"His beach house. Of course."
"There! See? You did know something. And yet you didn't volunteer it. Let's keep going. How about other houses--overseas is what we're particularly interested in. Or any friends or romantic partners he might be staying with."
She was looking down at the sharp shadows on the sidewalk, the sunlight falling stridently on leaves.
"Ms. McKenzie?"
She looked up. "What?"
Kepler asked more bluntly, "Does Prescott have any homes outside the country? Does he visit anyone in particular in any foreign countries?"
"He... no, not that I've ever heard of. He goes to the Caribbean a lot. I mean, he has clients there."
The look on the cops' faces said, We know he does.
Some of them among the infamous Thirty-Two, of course.
"Come on, Gabriela, keep going. You're on a roll!"
Daniel said, "Why don't you lighten up? You just delivered some pretty tough news. And I don't think you handled it very well."
The cops ignored him yet again. It was Surani, the easier-going one, who continued, "Think back, Ms. McKenzie. Any references to trips he'd taken? People he was going to see?"
"Ah, ah," Kepler said, "looks like you're thinking of something. Share. Come on."
Daniel glared at him. But the cop kept his eyes fixed on Gabriela's face.
She said, "You mentioned St. Maarten. When he was down there he sometimes flew to St. Thomas. I don't know who he met with--maybe one of those thirty-two special clients you mentioned. All I know is that this man was from Europe and he lived in St. Thomas nine months out of the year. And he had a big yacht, a huge one. I think 'Island' or 'Islands' was in the name of the boat."
The cops looked at each other, as if they were intrigued by these crumbs.
"Okay, we'll check that out," Surani said.
Kepler nodded. "Good job, Gabriela. I knew you had it in you."
Daniel seemed to want to slap the smirk off the detective's face.
She asked Surani, "Have you talked to Elena Rodriguez? Charles's other assistant?"
"Yes
, an hour ago," Kepler answered. "She wasn't any more helpful than you were."
Surani handed her his card. "If you can think of anything else, give us a call."
She took it but then her hand dipped. And her face revealed yet more dismay. She stared at the policemen. "But, my God. I just realized... I mean, my job? What am I going to do for money? My salary... And my retirement funds?"
Surani glanced at Kepler, who at last showed a facade of sympathy. "I'm sorry to say, but Prescott cleaned out all the company accounts late last night. Payroll and retirement too. He moved close to twenty-five million into a bank in the Caymans and then it vanished. There's nothing left. Not a penny."
CHAPTER 9
10:00 A.M., SATURDAY
30 MINUTES EARLIER
THE TWO MADE THEIR WAY PAST the Sheep Meadow in Central Park and under the boughs of trees lit by unfiltered sun. The leaves still clung to branches and the configuration of tissue and vein was as busy and colorful as a Jackson Pollock painting, changing shade and glow constantly; the wind was persistent.
Her purse over her shoulder, Gabriela carried in one hand the Tiffany bag that Daniel had brought her, and in the other a paper sack containing a walnut cream cheese bagel for her daughter.
"Let's go that way," she said, nodding.
Soon they were at the reservoir, walking wide of the path to stay clear of the many manic runners. A serious race walker, with his camel gait, overtook many of those jogging.
The conversation had turned substantive, typically morning-after-meeting, and Daniel asked about her history with Prescott Investments. She added with some passion, "I love the work. I mean, really love it. I was one of those people who got good grades, graduated with honors, all that. But I didn't want to do anything practical. I was Ms. Creative. That's what was important to me: writing, drawing, design, photography mostly. A headhunter sent me to Charles Prescott. He needed a freelancer to take some photos for a brochure."
Gabriela smiled. "He was asking me about using Photoshop and some other software and right in the middle of the interview he stopped me. He said, 'Forget it.' I thought I was going to cry; I really needed the job. But he laughed and said, 'I've seen your portfolio. The photos're great. You're an artist. But I can tell by talking to you your real talents are analysis and organization. Business.'
"Of course, I thought he was just telling me to get lost, but then he offered me the job on the spot: office manager. Full-time, benefits, everything. At first I was insulted; I mean, I knew I was going to be a famous artist. But then I admitted maybe I didn't want that."
Gabriela regarded Daniel with a smile. "So have you learned not to ask me any questions? You get a whole Google-search of information. You going to flee?"
"Not yet. So far, this isn't the disaster last night turned out to be." Then Daniel angled his head in that charming way of his and added with just the right amount of serious, "But you didn't give up your photography."
"Right. In fact, it was funny. I got more productive. Working full-time was liberating. I didn't have to worry about making a living with the pictures or designing, art, writing. I could take the images that moved me. And, it turned out, Charles was right. I had a head for business. Running the office, negotiating equipment leases, planning meetings, bookkeeping... everything. Meeting Charles saved my life. I was going through the divorce and I needed some direction, some validation, you know. He became my mentor... And guess what?"
"He never hit on you."
"Not once. Always a gentleman. Kind, funny. Just a wonderful man. In a business where there are a lot of people who aren't so wonderful."
"I know that all too well."
They walked slowly over the pocked sidewalk. Their shoulders brushed several times. She felt an electric charge each time that happened. "Funny, once or twice in your life you meet somebody who's a good person and it changes you forever. That's Charles."
"And I assume," Daniel said, "that he knows the business. He makes money."
"Oh, yeah. Charles's a genius. We've done well."
"Maybe I'll give him a call. I'm always looking for outfits to do business with. Something to think about. And does he handle your investments? Your 401(k) or annuity?"
"He's put me in a couple good positions..." The words braked to a halt as she blinked, her mouth open.
Daniel was clearly struggling to keep a detached expression. Then he gave up and coughed a laugh.
"Shit," she said, chuckling as well. "He suggested some investment strategies. I won't become a millionaire, but when Sarah's ready for college there'll be money for that."
"Does your ex contribute?"
Interesting change of tack, she observed. She kept her voice neutral as she said, "Tim's trying to find himself. I used to joke--to myself--he should look under a rock. But he's doing the best he can, I think. It's just, if you have children, they're your priority. If you're not happy at your job, suck it up until they graduate. If you're depressed, deal with it for their sake. If the last thing in the world you feel like is another ballet recital, shut up and go." Gabriela clicked her tongue. "Okay. Nothing more from me on my ex. Now, tell me about your... kids."
He laughed at the pregnant pause. "Okay, Bryce and Steven. Fifteen and seventeen." He described two handsome, all-American sorts of boys. He added that they were smart and never did anything worse than sneak a beer or get home an hour or so late. "No drugs, no fights."
Daniel explained that he had plans for them to go to good colleges but not Ivy League. He wanted them to get solid educations but at big, diverse schools.
"Finance? Business?"
"I wouldn't mind it. Capitalism's been good to me. It's exciting. I love it. But whatever they're happy with is the main thing. That's the only way to be a success. Who knows? Maybe they'll be artists, writers or photographers... Anyway, does anybody really know what they want to do until they're thirty?"
Not far away an elegant horse, ridden by an attractive young brunette in full gear, cantered along the bridle path.
He asked, "You have your camera? You could take a picture for Sarah."
"No, I don't carry it around generally. Besides, I've taken lots of horse pictures."
They watched the beautiful creature disappear north, striding toward Harlem.
She was silent. Daniel frowned and glanced up the sidewalk.
"What?"
"Just thought I saw somebody looking our way." The light grew fierce and he pulled on Ray-Bans.
She looked. "I don't see anybody."
"Imagination, maybe. Some man, I thought. In a dark overcoat."
They continued their stroll to her apartment, looking over some of the vendor carts. Used books, CDs, food, of course. Always food.
Then Gabriela sensed Daniel's body language shift. He said, "That complication you were telling me about at the restaurant? How much of a complication is he?" He glanced back once more, to the spot where he thought someone had been watching them.
"Frank Walsh isn't going to be following me."
"No? Are you sure? Wait, is he bigger than me?"
She sized up Daniel's athletic shoulders, arms and chest. "If it comes down to a fight, I think you'll win."
He exhaled. "Then I'll relax."
"Seriously," she said. "Frank is a nice guy. He's dependable. He's... sweet."
Daniel began to laugh hard at the telling word.
"I'm there." She pointed to a nondescript building up a cross street, affordable only because of the bizarre but kind rent laws in New York City.
Daniel began to say something but at that moment two men in suits, which didn't fit particularly well, approached with obvious intent.
They didn't come from the place in the park where Daniel had believed he'd spotted their follower, Gabriela noted.
One of the men, Anglo and tanned, wore aviator shades; the other, of Indian--South Asian--extraction, wore those glasses that dimmed automatically in the sun. Gabriela blinked, looking down at their NYPD badges and ID
cards.
"You're Gabriela McKenzie."
"Yes. I... Yes, I am. Who are you?"
The one with the aviator sunglasses said briskly, "I'm Detective Kepler, this is Detective Surani. Could we talk to you for a moment?"
CHAPTER 8
9:00 A.M., SATURDAY
1 HOUR EARLIER
THEY SAT ACROSS FROM EACH OTHER in the spattered window of Irving's Deli, Upper West Side.
The restaurant, a mash of linoleum, dinged chrome and worn wood, was chaotic. The smells were of garlic, fish, bagel steam, toast, coffee. Mismatched perfume and aftershave, too, sprayed on in lieu of a shower; on Saturday, why preen?
The day was beautiful, a bright weekend in September, and people were swarming. Many locals were at tables and in the queues, but many "interlopers," too, as Gabriela said.
"You mean from my 'hood," Daniel called over the ocean-roar of the patrons. "TriBeCa?"
"We're thinking of requiring passports for you people to cross Fourteenth Street," she said.
"That's profiling," Daniel said.
They returned to their food.
She thought it curious that Daniel wore a suit on the weekend--gray like yesterday, though a different cut--and a dress shirt of blush pink. No tie. Had he planned to attend a meeting later? Or was he simply more comfortable not wearing casual clothes? Gabriela was in tan stretch pants, a burgundy sweater, pearls too. Ankle boots. He'd looked at her figure once--when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The sweater was tight.
The table was small and she adjusted the distinctive turquoise Tiffany bag on the corner. "Thanks again for this."
"The least I could do."
Daniel asked where exactly she lived, relative to the deli, which was on Broadway, near 75th.
Gabriela grimaced. "About four blocks away. I come here way too often. The hips I have, I have Irving's to thank for." Her eyes swept around the counter, piled high with every imaginable taste. "Kosher, I've learned, does not mean low calories." She paused, frowning. "I'm waiting."
Daniel tapped his forehead with a palm. "What hips?"
"Too little, too late."
"But obviously you work out."
"I'll give you a few points for that," she said.
Daniel looked philosophical. "You notice when men say to women, 'Oh, you work out,' it's a come-on line. When women ask it, they want to know if he's going to cuddle in bed on Sunday mornings or get up at dawn for a date with his Adidas."
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