Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  Danny smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, no, it won’t be anything that obvious. I’ll be sick for a while. Then I’ll be way behind on a deadline, and I’ll make excuses. After a couple of months, he’ll give up. Relationship’s over. That’s all it takes.”

  “And your daughter?” Yeager asked.

  Anger flared up in him suddenly, a lighted match tossed into gasoline. Calmly, he replied, “My daughter has no idea what’s going on. Her relationship with Galvin’s daughter is innocent, and no one’s going to think different.”

  Their waitress swooped in. “He’s the only one eating today? You boys aren’t hungry?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “I’d love the workingman’s special,” Slocum said.

  “I’m sorry, honey, that’s only available till nine. Something else?”

  “Then I think that crème brûlée French toast has my name on it.”

  The waitress beamed.

  “Danny,” Yeager said when she had left. “Who else do you think is going to protect you and your daughter?”

  Danny felt his cheeks go hot. “What kind of protection are you talking about? Like those murderers are going to give you advance warning?”

  “It’s highly unusual for them to target the DEA. They don’t want to go there.”

  “But they do, don’t they? I’ve read about—”

  “It has happened,” Yeager admitted. “But it’s rare, and the Sinaloa boys, well, they may be brutal, but they’re also smart enough to know not to take out DEA agents. They do, they’re in a world of shit.”

  Danny stared at him with incredulity. “They thought Esteban was working for you guys.”

  Yeager said calmly, “They executed the driver because he was a Mexican, Daniel. They thought one of their countrymen was a traitor, so they had to send a message. But they hardly ever do that sort of thing to us or to our people.”

  “So what happens if I’m caught next time? How are you going to protect me then?”

  “We’ll get you out of there. You and your daughter.”

  “Like, the witness protection program?”

  Yeager nodded once.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to live that way. I’m not going to ruin my daughter’s life.”

  “That’s the worst-case scenario, Daniel. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Can you guarantee that?”

  Yeager and Slocum were both looking at him now, but neither said a word.

  “Right,” Danny said. “Look, I’m the only parent my daughter has. I’m not going to orphan her, you understand? You want to prosecute me for money laundering or whatever bullshit crime you come up with, go for it. Have at it. The fact that your little device got discovered, that’s not on me. That’s your screwup. I did exactly what you asked me to do. I acted in good faith. I cooperated.”

  “Exactly,” Slocum said. “You cooperated.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t realize the position you’re in, do you?” Slocum said. “You don’t seem to get what we have on you, Danny boy.”

  “What you have on me . . . ?”

  “You’re not pulling out now, my friend,” Slocum said. “Like the bank says, ‘substantial penalty for early withdrawal.’”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “Sometimes the DEA leaks,” Slocum said. He took a long swallow of coffee. “I really hope that doesn’t happen in your case.”

  And suddenly Danny understood what kind of position he was in. They would rather tip the Sinaloa cartel off that he was a DEA informant than let him get away.

  He stood up.

  “Daniel, please,” Yeager said.

  Slocum put down his coffee cup. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out two crisp new hundred-dollar bills. “Here,” he said. “Take Galvin up on that squash game. And buy yourself a decent squash racquet.”

  26

  The executive conference room of Harmonics Global, Inc., looked like a thousand other executive conference rooms in corporations around the world. Since the headquarters of Harmonics Global was located in San Diego, though, it had a kind of California feel. There was blond wood and large windows, a lot of glass and steel and copious light. A large Cisco TelePresence screen took up most of one wall. On the opposite end was a projection screen that retracted with a touch of a button. Twenty high-backed leather chairs ringed a gleaming elongated oval table made from African mahogany with purpleheart border inlay.

  Harmonics Global was a large private portfolio company whose holdings included fourteen separate companies, ranging from auto parts to contract food services to insurance to freight.

  Very few people knew who really owned Harmonics Global.

  At the head of the table sat the CEO of Harmonics, a formidable woman named Laurie Hornbeck. Laurie knew that most people didn’t consider her a warm person. She was often called no-nonsense. Her division chiefs were afraid of her. Her blond hair was cut in a short, efficient bob that her detractors called mannish. She wore one of her habitual brightly colored suits over a white silk shell. Today’s color was sapphire blue. The only jewelry she wore was gold stud earrings and an onyx choker.

  But Laurie Hornbeck was not running the meeting. That was the job of the chief financial officer, Allen Hartley, because the agenda this morning was the budget. It didn’t help that Hartley spoke in a monotone. His presentation, Laurie thought, was verbal chloroform. He talked about “optimized distribution networks” and “improved supply chain visibility.” He talked about an “end-to-end ROI-driven solution.” He talked about “deliverables” and “dollarizing” approaches and taking a “deep dive” into the data. Al Hartley droned as he went through his charts and graphs, and the directors of each division took notes on their laptops, and Laurie Hornbeck furtively checked her BlackBerry.

  The rule at the monthly budget meeting was that all participants had to switch off their cell phones. Laurie Hornbeck, being the CEO, was exempt.

  About halfway through the meeting, Laurie’s BlackBerry buzzed. She put on reading glasses and looked down at the text message that appeared. She cleared her throat and looked up. “Tony, Karen, Barry—in my office right now, please. My apologies, Al. I need fifteen minutes.”

  She rose from the table.

  • • •

  Laurie Hornbeck’s office was flooded with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific. Her office was as efficient and as spare as her hairstyle. Her desktop was empty except for a few photos of her son, her laptop, and two phones, one of them secure. A clean desk meant an orderly mind. In one corner of the room was her bag of golf clubs. On the walls hung several paintings of Taos, New Mexico, by Helmuth Naumer, vivid pastels of pueblos and canyons. Laurie was from New Mexico and kept a vacation house in Taos and got back there whenever she could.

  She kept her face calm, because a good leader must stay calm and confident. But she was acutely aware of the acid splashing the back of her throat. Of how violently her heart was pounding. This whole nightmarish development was all she’d been able to think about for days.

  Two weeks chilling in Belize, she thought glumly. And now, back in the office just a few days, it was as if she’d never gone.

  “It’s Omaha. We’ve sprung a leak,” she said. She kept her expression neutral, but she fidgeted with her onyx choker.

  “What do you mean, a leak?” said a thin, dark-haired woman with a mournful look. She was the controller of Omaha Logistics, one of Harmonics Global’s top holdings. It provided freight-forwarding services to an array of corporate clients, transporting truckload freight in containers and trailers by land, sea, and air.

  To almost everyone outside this room—occupied by the top three officers of Omaha Logistics—it looked like a
legitimate company.

  “One of our cargo jets was seized yesterday in Fresno.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Omaha’s chief operating officer, a pasty-faced, chipmunk-cheeked man with a potbelly. “Fully loaded?”

  Laurie nodded. “Then yesterday a banker in the San Francisco office of Pacific Commerce Bank disappeared.”

  “Mother of God,” the controller said quietly, her face growing ever more mournful. “It’s Toth.”

  “What do you mean, disappeared?” asked the chipmunk-cheeked COO.

  “He didn’t show up for work,” Laurie said. “He’s not at home. We pinged him and he hasn’t replied.”

  “Do you think he’s in the wind?” asked Omaha’s chief financial officer, a handsome Latino-looking man with a light brown complexion and thick black hair combed straight back.

  “Look, maybe he’ll turn up on a beach in Playa del Carmen with a nose bag full of coke and a bevy of barely legal hookers. But I doubt it. That’s not his speed.”

  “But do we have any reason to believe he’s been arrested?” the Latino CFO asked with alarm.

  Laurie shrugged. “We sure as hell better hope not. I don’t even want to think about that possibility. Because if he has . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her stomach roiled with acid. She needed a Tums. Lately she’d been chewing them like candy.

  A breach, a leak—that was the nightmare scenario they all dreaded. If the truth were ever to come out about Omaha, they’d all go to prison.

  Or—given who their true employers were—worse.

  “We have to find the banker at once,” the CFO said. “Before he spills anything.” In times of stress like this, his Mexican accent became more prominent.

  “Obviously,” said Laurie. “But by far the more important matter is the leak. We need to find out where it’s coming from. Or who it’s coming from. And then it has to be plugged. By whatever means necessary.”

  “Toth has to be found and prevented from talking,” the controller said, her voice rising sharply. “Can we get to him? Stop him?”

  Laurie looked at Omaha’s CFO but said nothing. She wanted this to come from him.

  He picked up on her cue. “If we act right away, we can contain the damage. We have a contractor.”

  The other three corporate officers fell silent. The chipmunk-cheeked COO shifted in his chair.

  “This can’t be traced back to us,” the controller said.

  “Obviously,” the CFO said. “He is reliable and discreet. This is a job that requires a great deal of finesse. He is in fact a surgeon.”

  “Are we all in agreement?” Laurie asked.

  Everyone but the CFO seemed to be avoiding her eyes.

  “This is not going forward unless we’re unanimous,” she said. She waited. A course of action as fraught with danger as this, she wanted everyone’s sign-off.

  “Yes,” said the controller at last.

  “All right,” said the COO.

  Laurie Hornbeck turned to the CFO. “Then make the call,” she said.

  27

  Riding the T from Broadway to Park Street, he texted Abby: pick up @ 3? He never called her at school, of course. Nor did he send e-mails; e-mails were for old people, she insisted. Abby texted throughout the day, between classes and even during some classes. She texted with the speed of a court reporter. She used abbreviations and jargon he didn’t understand.

  She replied within two minutes: Thanks but going over to Jenna’s, OK?

  No, not okay. No way. Danny texted back: Not today. I want you at home.

  The train went through a tunnel, and cell service was unavailable, and by the time he reached the Park Street stop, he had a voice mail. From Abby. He didn’t even bother listening to the message. He knew she’d be pleading or squawking, or some combination. Only desperation would cause her to resort to the spoken word.

  As he crossed the platform to board the Green Line train to Arlington Street, he called her back.

  “Daddy,” she answered, voice taut. “Jenna and I are going to study precalc, I swear. I promise we’ll be working.” In the background a girl squealed.

  “You can do that at home,” he said.

  “But we’re studying together. I mean, like, why do I have to be at home when we’re just going to be on chat?”

  “I’d like you to be at home today.”

  The DEA guys were right: He couldn’t abruptly pull out of Galvin’s orbit without raising all kinds of suspicion. But Abby was a different story. She was the connective tissue. If she stopped hanging out with Jenna, then he could part ways with Galvin naturally, no questions asked.

  He felt like he’d pulled the pin from a grenade and hadn’t yet tossed it.

  “I mean,” she said, her voice getting high, “I could ask the driver to take me home at, like, seven, so we can have dinner, okay?”

  He could see Esteban’s mutilated head, and he felt nauseated.

  “I’ll pick you up at three,” Danny said with finality, and pressed END.

  Then he called Tom Galvin at his office. “You still free for a game of squash?”

  28

  Danny had walked past the grand old brownstone hundreds of times and had always wondered what was inside. It was a federal-style mansion with a white granite façade, on the steep stretch of Beacon Street facing the Public Garden. The building was wider than its neighbors, with a double bow front.

  Its porticoed entrance was unmarked. Just a burnished oak door with a polished brass knob and brass mail slot. Most of the buildings on this block were private residences; Danny had always assumed it was one of those mansions that had been in some Boston Brahmin family since the days of Oliver Wendell Holmes.

  It turned out to be the Plympton Club, Boston’s oldest social and athletic club. He’d heard about it but didn’t know anyone who belonged. Until now.

  Inside, the creaky floors were covered with oriental rugs, the walls covered with oil paintings of boats and birds. A couple of racks of deer antlers were mounted on the wall. Display cases held yellowed antique squash racquets and sepia photographs of players from early in the last century. According to a piece in Boston magazine he’d read online, the Plympton Club had six squash courts, a saline pool, and a court-tennis court, known by racquet snobs as a real tennis court. There was a library and an ornate dining room.

  He waited on a hard sofa, gym bag on the floor, and tried to act nonchalant.

  His discomfort at being in the Plympton Club was nothing, however, compared to his fear of the device in his gym bag being discovered. And how the hell was he going to get five minutes with Galvin’s BlackBerry? It never seemed to leave his hands.

  And if he got caught . . . ?

  What happened to Esteban could just as easily happen to him.

  Danny found it hard to believe that Tom Galvin, who seemed an affable, genial type, was in any way involved in the unspeakable murder-torture of his own driver. Maybe he didn’t even know about it.

  But the people Galvin worked for were brutal and cold-blooded and terrifying. They wouldn’t hesitate to do to Danny what they’d done to Esteban.

  If he were caught.

  He had to be extremely careful. If there was the slightest chance of being caught, he had to back out of it.

  The young blond woman behind the reception desk smiled at him and resumed stamping forms or something with an old-fashioned date stamp. A couple of middle-aged business types came in, laughing heartily about a “triple bogey.” They both wore blue blazers with brass buttons. One wore green pants with whales on them. The other wore khakis. They greeted the woman behind the desk, and she waved them through a doorway.

  “I kept you waiting,” Galvin called out as he entered from the street.

  Danny flinched, startled by Galvin’s voice. “Hardly,” he said, though it had been fifteen minutes. />
  The twangy guitar riff from “Sweet Home Alabama” played suddenly. Galvin fished his BlackBerry out of the breast pocket of his charcoal chalk-stripe suit.

  “Marge, let’s push that up an hour,” he said loudly into his phone. “What? Hold on, the reception here sucks . . . exactly.” He ended the call and shook his head. The young woman behind the desk seemed to give him an annoyed look. “Sorry about that. Just one of those days. You got your gear?”

  Danny lifted the gym bag by way of reply. “Everything I need. What’s with the ringtone, by the way? Some Alabama connection or something?”

  He shrugged. “I like Lynyrd Skynyrd. ‘Gimme Three Steps’? ‘Free Bird’?”

  Danny smiled. “Sure.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to play guitar in a rock ’n’ roll band?”

  “Sure, who hasn’t?”

  They rode a small elevator down.

  “Cell phone use is officially frowned on here,” Galvin muttered, sounding chastened. “It’s not done.” He affected the lockjaw used by Thurston Howell III in Gilligan’s Island.

  “Impressive place,” Danny said.

  “I prefer to use the word insufferable,” Galvin said. “But it’s convenient to my office.”

  “My gym doesn’t have antlers on the wall.”

  “Well, this place doesn’t have blacks, Jews, or women. Or Italians or Irish. With the glaring exception of me. Man, having me as a member is such a hair up their ass.” He beamed.

  “Whose?”

  “The stiffs who run this mausoleum.”

  “They let you in.”

  “They had no choice. They had to.”

  Danny looked at him. The elevator descended sluggishly, juddering.

  “You know, you can’t even apply for membership here. You get ‘tapped.’ You get nominated, and then they sound you out, then they interview you. You have to have dinner with the whole damned governing board, one at a time. Like an endless goddamned colonoscopy.”

  “I guess you charmed them.”

  “Charmed them? I saved their butts. This place was going under. The roof was literally caving in, but they didn’t have any funds in reserve to repair it, and the old boys refused to increase membership fees. They were talking about selling off part of the building or even shuttering the club altogether. So I stepped in and bailed them out. Made a long-term loan on generous terms.”