The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  Joe stopped in the doorway, eyeing Darrow with mock astonishment. “Oh my God,” he said. “He’s b-a-a-ack.”

  Darrow emitted the appropriate laugh. “Just like Freddy Krueger.”

  Crossing the room, Joe gave him a quick embrace. “It’s terrific to find you in this office, man. Truly.” Turning to his companion, he said, “Mark, I’d like you to meet Greg Fox, financial bloodhound par excellence.”

  Darrow took in Fox, a small, neatly dressed man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair, black eyes, and a shrewd expression that suggested quiet confidence. Shaking his hand, Darrow said, “Thanks for coming. I hear you do terrific work.”

  Smiling, Fox took a chair beside Joe, enabling Darrow to take a closer look at his old friend. Joe looked youthful and healthy, his face virtually unlined, with modish swept-back hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a jovial demeanor somewhat at odds with his watchful eyes. He seemed the epitome of an East Coast financial adviser, sound as a pre–9/11 dollar, save that Darrow caught—or imagined—a glimmer of the uneasy college student beneath. “Is it true,” Darrow asked him in a parody of amazement, “that some misguided woman actually agreed to marry you?”

  It was not, Darrow realized at once, the most artful thing to say: for an instant Joe’s face darkened, as though Darrow were reopening old wounds. But he answered lightly enough. “Not only to marry, but to procreate. We have a boy and a girl—both blond-haired paradigms of brilliance. Clearly Katie’s kids. All I did was light the match.”

  Greg Fox, Mark noticed, took in this badinage with smiling but careful attention, as though listening for distant signals on a crystal set. “Congratulations,” Mark told Joe. “As Somerset Maugham once said, ‘Luck is a talent.’ ” He smiled again. “It’s really great to see you, Joe.”

  “Likewise,” Joe rejoined dryly. “As the spider said to the fly.”

  At once Darrow became serious. To both Joe and the accountant, Mark said, “Dealing with this embezzlement is critical. I’m grateful for all you’re doing.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though Darrow had rebuked him. “I’m just trying to help fix what I helped screw up. If I hadn’t been so trusting, Clark couldn’t have stolen close to a million bucks.”

  Glancing at Fox, Darrow shook his head. “I’d have trusted Durbin, Joe—certainly about money. But I’d still like your take on how it all happened.”

  “Stupidity,” Joe said with a grimace. “Greg can give you an outline. More, if you like.”

  Darrow shook his head. “For now the Cliffs Notes version’s fine.”

  Fox glanced from Joe to Darrow. “Okay,” he said briskly. “Caldwell’s board has a five-man investment committee. Including Joe, all the outside members—Ed Rardin, Paul Johns, and John Stewart—are well-off and financially sophisticated.” Fox’s midwestern twang sharpened. “The fifth member was Clark Durbin.

  “Each member of the committee had the authority to direct transactions under one million dollars—”

  “Obviously a mistake,” Darrow interjected.

  “Which we’re correcting,” Joe said swiftly. “Going forward, we’ll require the written authorization of three committee members, a majority.”

  “In any event,” Fox told Darrow, “we had nine hundred thousand dollars sitting at Joe’s firm, Buckeye Capital in Columbus. Durbin e-mailed Joe, directing that he transfer the proceeds to the Wayne County Bank, where Clark had opened an account in the name of Caldwell College. His signature is on all the papers.”

  “I sent an e-mail back to Clark,” Joe put in, “confirming his instructions and copying the bank. It all checked out.”

  Darrow nodded. “And from there, it appears, Durbin transferred the nine hundred thousand to an account in Switzerland. Cutting off our ability to get the cash back, or even find out where it went.”

  “Exactly,” Fox responded. “As I expect you also know, the only entity that can persuade the Swiss to lift their veil of secrecy is the U.S. government. In our case, Uncle Sam won’t even try. The money’s not enough to care about, and our government reserves its leverage for tracking transfers by known terrorists.”

  Joe shook his head in disgust. “Durbin turned out to be smarter than I’d ever have imagined.”

  “To a point,” Darrow said. “I gather our auditors tumbled to this soon enough.”

  “Routinely,” Fox confirmed, “and inevitably. They tried to verify the amount of the CDs at Joe’s firm and wound up tracing the money all the way to Switzerland. At which point they contacted the audit committee of the board.”

  Darrow considered this. “What’s so jarring is that Durbin was clever in the service of a stupid crime. Embezzlers always get caught; the only difference here is that most crooks steal money in small amounts, hoping to escape detection—at least for as long as possible. Stealing a larger amount of money, as Durbin did, exponentially accelerates the timetable for getting caught. Unless the embezzler disappears.”

  “He was desperate,” Joe said simply. “His kid was a junkie; his wife has Lou Gehrig’s disease; his own investments went south. Serial disasters caused Durbin to look into his character and find a thief.” Joe’s voice softened. “Then he looked at me and must have seen a fool.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Fox told both men in a mollifying tone. “At small schools like Caldwell, people know each other over long periods of time. So trust builds up. That explains the lax policy on transfers of money—which, I might add, was known to every member of the committee. The only reason Joe became the fall guy is that his investment firm served as advisers to the school. So Joe was sitting on the money Durbin wanted.”

  “At my suggestion,” Joe told Darrow hastily, “we’ve decided that no member of the committee should profit in any way from Caldwell’s investments.”

  “All good,” Darrow concurred. “By the time your work is through, I’m confident that what Durbin did would be impossible. What still troubles me is accepting that he did this in the first place.”

  Joe shook his head. “Why, Mark? It’s Occam’s razor—sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one.”

  Still unsatisfied, Darrow turned to Fox. “Up until a few weeks ago, my job was trying financial fraud cases. Mind if I have one of my old experts take a look at what happened here?”

  For an instant Fox looked mildly annoyed; then his expression eased. “Sure,” he answered. “As I always say, two heads are better than one. As long as they’re not on the same body.”

  Darrow smiled at this. “Then I won’t take more of your time.”

  Both men stood, Darrow shaking Fox’s hand. With a final thanks, Darrow walked Fox to the door, closing it behind him.

  Joe stood with his hands in his pockets. “Not that you weren’t gracious, Mark. But Greg’s top-flight, and you may have stepped on his pride a little. Sure you need to bring in your own expert?”

  Darrow nodded. “Maybe you’re right, Joe. I’ll ponder it.” He waved Joe to the couch, sitting companionably at the other end. “So tell me how you’ve been.”

  “Good.” Nodding in self-affirmation, Joe said, “Really good, actually. In college, I never thought marriage could be this great. As you’ll recall, my parents’ marriage sure as hell wasn’t.”

  “How is your mom?”

  “Good enough. In her mind, my dad’s become a saint. I guess it helps that he’s still dead.” A moment’s unease crossed Joe’s face. “About Lee, I don’t know what to say. I can’t even say that I know how you feel. Only that I feel for you.”

  Darrow mustered a smile. “That’s all anyone can say, Joe. In a very real sense, we all go through life alone. Although some days alone is lonely any way you slice it.”

  Joe nodded in commiseration. “So what’s it like for you, being back?”

  “A lot of different things—I guess you could say it’s complicated.” He looked at Joe more closely. “Yesterday I went to visit Steve.”

  Joe blinked. “In the pen? How was he?”


  “Different. Extremely buff, not to mention an eclectic reader. Also highly articulate.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Darrow shook his head. “Not at all. Steve’s a stellar example of what can happen if you take an inherently good mind and eliminate all distractions.”

  Joe looked away. After a moment, he said, “I guess you know about the trial.”

  “Of course.”

  Joe nodded to himself, eyes still averted. “Did my name come up?”

  Mark weighed his response. “It did. Steve has a point of view, and he’s had sixteen years to perfect it.” More quietly, he added, “Whatever you saw that night couldn’t be helped, Joe. No reasonable person could expect you to lie on the witness stand.”

  Joe looked up. “Did Steve talk about that?”

  “Only that he doesn’t remember being outside the dorm. But then he claims not to remember much about Angela, either. Including whether he strangled her.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Joe said with sudden harshness. “Either he killed her or he didn’t. But he sure as hell didn’t forget about it.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I think, too.”

  Joe seemed to ponder this. Then he stood, mustering a reasonable facsimile of the smile he had entered with. “It really is wonderful to see you, Mark. And even better that you’re doing this for the school.”

  Darrow shrugged. “I owe this place,” he answered. “I only hope I can give Caldwell what it deserves.”

  ALONE, DARROW CONSIDERED the last hour, then called Mike Riley, the forensic accountant he had used in Boston.

  “Mark,” Riley said in a jocular tone, “I thought you’d returned to the Poison Ivy League.”

  “Fucking Harvard snob,” Darrow said. “Though it pains me, I’d like a moment of your time. The halls of ivy are crawling with crooks.”

  “Explain, please.”

  Darrow summarized the meeting. “So what bothers you?” Riley asked. “That a gentleman and scholar can open up a Swiss account? Or steal that much money without any sensible exit strategy?”

  “Maybe both—I’m not quite sure yet. It’s more a feeling I have.”

  “You’ve had them before,” Riley answered. “Now and then you were even right. Problem is, I’m a little busy. Can’t this wait two, three weeks?”

  “Sure. The money’s gone.”

  Riley laughed. “Okay, then. I’ve always wanted to visit Wayne, Ohio.”

  Hanging up, Darrow glanced at his schedule. Thanks to Lionel Farr, for the rest of the day there was barely time to breathe, let alone think. Ruefully, he recalled that the Reverend Caldwell had believed in total immersion baptism.

  WHEN DARROW EMERGED from his office, his watch read seven o’clock, and he was running late for dinner with Taylor Farr. The evening was still light, the air muggy. Darrow put his top down, smiling at this gesture to his Porsche-less youth.

  The main drag of Wayne, Scioto Street, bisected the town’s commercial area. Downtown seemed much as it had been when Darrow left: two-story buildings that housed a hardware store, a haberdashery, a barbershop, and offices for real estate agents, accountants, lawyers, and insurance salesmen. Except for an outdoor café, a novelty, haute-bourgeois chic still seemed alien to Wayne. But the parking meters, Darrow noticed when he stopped, remained a bargain—four quarters bought two hours, ample time for dinner at the Carriage House.

  The restaurant was at the end of the block. Two cars away, a slender black man with thinning hair stood by a silver Mercedes, sticking quarters into the meter. Turning, he examined Darrow with cool but ostentatious interest. “Well,” he said in a silken voice, “Mark Darrow himself. And still the hero, seems like.”

  It took Darrow a moment to be certain. He glanced at the quarter between the man’s fingers. “And you’re still dealing in cash, seems like.”

  Carl Hall emitted a short laugh. Nodding toward Darrow’s Porsche, he said, “Nice ride.”

  “Yours, too. So what are you up to, Carl?”

  Hall gave him a complacent smile. “This and that. You know how it is.”

  “I certainly remember.” Darrow waited for a moment. “I remember a lot of things, in fact. Yesterday I went to see Steve Tillman.”

  Hall’s smile turned canine, more a show of teeth. “As they say, that’s mighty white of you.”

  Casually, Darrow propped his arm on a parking meter. “He still insists he didn’t kill her, Carl. That Angela told him she had to leave.”

  “Sure, at two in the morning. Must have had an appointment to get those white teeth cleaned.”

  Darrow repressed his visceral dislike. He waited for an elderly couple to pass them on the sidewalk, then asked in a tone of mild curiosity, “Did your sister have a relationship?”

  Hall scrutinized Darrow more closely. “A secret boyfriend, you mean?”

  “If you do.”

  “How would I know? The princess and I weren’t that close.”

  Scumbag, Darrow thought. “Funny,” he told Hall. “You had enough brotherly feeling to warn me off her at the party.”

  “That was about you,” Hall shot back. “I never minded taking money from white college boys. But I didn’t like you people fucking my black sisters, related or not.”

  Darrow stared at him. “Fucking’s not killing.”

  “Your buddy,” Hall said flatly, “was a racist. Ask any black kid who went to high school with him. Surprised you missed it, actually. Assuming you did.” He shook his head in weary scorn. “Stupid white men have been abusing black women since time began—that’s how Angela’s skin became that tawny shade you boys prefer. Tillman just took things one step further. So live with it, Mr. President.”

  Abruptly, Hall turned and walked away.

  4

  W

  ALKING INTO THE CARRIAGE HOUSE, DARROW ENTERED A time warp, a place unchanged since he was in college. The commodious bar had three shelves filled with wine, liquor bottles, and painted signs touting extinct beers; the two rows of wooden booths still featured Tiffany lampshades overhead and sports memorabilia decorating the walls—jerseys, pennants, pictures, and framed articles capturing athletic triumphs. The place was packed with couples, old and young, and families across the generations; one long table included a pregnant woman, her husband, three restless kids, and a weary but patient grandmother. A man Darrow did not know waved in recognition, as though he had watched Darrow play football a week before. Friendly and unpretentious, the atmosphere suggested ordinary people going about their lives, uninterested in the concerns of Darrow’s friends in Boston, who were so often focused on politics, travel, the arts, or vacation homes. Searching for Taylor, Darrow spotted Dave Farragher sitting with his wife and decided not to approach him.

  Taylor occupied a booth near the back of the room. She wore blue jeans and a red silk blouse, which, Darrow thought, suited her color well. Approaching, he saw that she sat beneath a picture of the young Mark Darrow, thrusting the ceremonial bronze axe from the steeple of the Spire. He sat across from Taylor, glancing at his own image. “I can’t seem to escape myself.”

  Taylor considered the photograph. “I remember that moment exactly—my parents and I were so excited for you. Looking at this picture now, I wish that were all I remembered.”

  “So do I.”

  She faced him, her expression pensive. “The owner meant well, seating us here. But you and I have a unique relationship to the Spire. For you, it’s Angela; for me, my mother. I wouldn’t mind crossing the campus someday and seeing that thing gone.”

  “No chance of that. There’d be an alumni revolt.” He resolved to lighten her mood. “Nice blouse, by the way.”

  Taylor smiled. “If you see me again, you’ll see it again. Part-time college instructors lack extensive wardrobes—the rewards of academic life are purer than that.” She raised her eyebrows. “How was your first day in academia?”

  “Terrific,” he answered dryly. “The faculty’s nervous; the alumni restive; a
nd my predecessor—so it appears—was a criminal. A less optimistic man would say Caldwell’s in trouble.”

  “So my father says. What will you do about it?”

  “What I’d like is to start an endowment drive. But I can’t just say to alumni, ‘The last guy stole your money, so give me some more.’ So I’m hitting the road, hoping to change the conversation from ‘How the hell did this happen?’ to ‘How can I invest in Caldwell and its dynamic new leader?’ ” Darrow glanced at a waitress, drawing her attention. “In the meanwhile,” he concluded, “I’ve hired a consultant to help me assess the priorities of the school. Before I try to raise a hundred million dollars, I need a fresh vision of what Caldwell can be.”

  The waitress, a wiry middle-aged blonde with a nice smile but tired eyes, took their drink orders. It gave Darrow time to absorb once more how attractive Taylor was. When the waitress left, Taylor said, “It sounds like a lot of work. Does Caldwell really mean that much to you?”

  Darrow considered his answer. Abruptly he decided to give this woman the truth as best he knew it. “When I left here,” he acknowledged, “I meant to leave this place behind. Not just Caldwell, but the town. My family life was miserable; I’d grown up wanting to escape but never believing that I would.” He paused, parsing his complex thoughts. “It’s strange. I walked in here tonight and remembered all that’s good about this town: that most people are friendly and straightforward; that they’re bonded by clubs or civic groups or church; that they connect with one another in a way lost to e-commuters and the residents of gated communities; that despite their blind spots—race being one—they tend to be generous to anyone they actually know. And yet I also had this spasm of fear: that somehow I’d reverted, and was coming back for good.

  “But the reason I left is the reason I returned. Caldwell—and your father—changed my life. If I’d turned him down, it would be like denying the central fact of my existence: the act of generosity that made me whoever I am now.”