Chasing the Wind (37 page)

At five o'clock Raymond's secretary pushed through the conference room door with a cart for the leftover food, and Robert came in behind her. Amalise looked up, and he caught her eye. He stood just inside the door, unsmiling, and crooked his finger. When she didn't move, he jerked his head in the direction of the small conference room and said he'd like to see her down the hall. Before she could catch her breath, he was gone.

"What was that about?" Rebecca asked her with a quizzical look. No one else had seemed to notice.

Amalise's limbs turned liquid. Muscles tightened in her shoulders and the back of her neck.
They knew
. She placed her hands on the table and pushed up, feeling unsteady. "I don't know," she said, surprised to hear that her voice was steady. She looked about, wondering if this was indeed the end. Had she really been complaining to herself about the disheveled room and the heat and the smoke a few minutes ago? In that moment she hated Robert Black.

Rebecca's tone was caustic. "Now we know where Richard Murray learned his social skills."

"If I'm not back in ten minutes, call the cops." Amalise smoothed the front of her skirt while seconds turned into a minute, and then, tucking her hair back behind her ear, she headed for the door.

"Amalise," Raymond called out, "where are those certificates from Cayman? I've looked everywhere."

Glad for the momentary reprieve, she picked them up from the table. "Right here," she said, handing him the certificates that bore ornate gold seals verifying Lone Ranger's business status in Cayman. As she handed them to Raymond, she wondered if this was the last time she'd be allowed inside this conference room.

Possibilities raced through her mind as she walked out the door, but she could think of no answer to the question.
How could they know?

She stood outside the door of the small conference room looking at it. Then she took a deep breath and pushed it open. Robert Black was sitting in a chair on the other side of the oblong table, facing the door, hands in his lap, angled slightly away from the table so that she could see his legs were crossed.

Pulling out a chair, she sat without saying anything.

Robert turned his wrist, checked his watch.

She still said nothing.

He looked at her as a moray eel might watch its prey from a cave on the ocean floor. After a moment he shifted the chair and slowly lifted his hands to the table. He observed his hands for a moment, then lifted his chin and smiled. "You've been a busy girl," he said in that cold, dispassionate tone.

She waited in silence as he rubbed his thumbnail.

"I took a look at your new house yesterday." He nodded. "Very nice."

She shivered but held steady. "Thank you."

"New, I understand. You just closed on it, what, a few days ago?"

"No. One month."

He looked up, brows arched. "Not that one. The other one. The one on Kerlerec Street."

Her heart swooped, and her stomach plunged. She sat very still.

His eyes roamed past her and beyond. "I asked myself why you would buy a second home, a young associate like you. What do you need with two houses, I wondered." His hands stilled. "The one on Broadway's nice. Only one bath though. That's a handicap."

She leaned forward. "How do you know that?"

He smiled. "I know much more than that, Miss Catoir." In the pause the air around him seemed to hiss. "For instance, I know how much you care about that family living in the house you bought on Kerlerec. And the Asian boy." He pursed his lips. "Nice-looking kid. Unique. A kid you'd spot in a crowd."

At times when Phillip had been at his worst, her hands would tremble, and then the trembling would move up into her arms, into her shoulders, into her jaw so that it was difficult to even talk. The same trembling began now. It started in her fingers and ran up her arms. She sat there silent, gripping the chair. Watching him and waiting.

"And I know how dangerous those old houses can be. Fire hazards, all of them." He shook his head sadly. "Lucky thing the ones in Marigny are coming down. You take an old frame house like that, drafty, with that dried-out wood, and you add one of those space heaters?" His eyes flicked to her, and she fought to veil her thoughts. Had she seen space heaters in the house? Probably.

"And those gas pipes running under the floors." He cocked his head. "Yeah, we looked. They're liable to crack without warning on a cold night." He jabbed out his lower lip. "Fumes hit a space heater, and the whole place goes up in flames. Two-story house?" He spread his hands. "No time to get out."

"Is that a threat?" She half rose from the chair, knees bent, hands on the table to steady her. "How dare you?"

He waved his hand in an airy manner. "Sit down, Miss Catoir. This is a conversation, not a threat." He propped his elbows on the table and linked his hands. Resting his chin on his hands, he studied her for an instant. "But you might want to give some thought to listening, given your attachment to the boy."

Eyes riveted on his, she lowered herself into the chair again.

"Now, I'm just wondering out loud here. Expressing legitimate concerns." He gazed at her, his eyes half closed. "Your house on Broadway's got the same problem. Just like the one on Kerlerec. You've bought yourself a pair of firetraps—they don't seem like good investments to me." His lips stretched across his teeth in a tight smile.

She willed the trembling to stop. Set her jaw, held her eyes on him, and stood. She spoke slowly, carefully. "If you touch so much as a hair on that child's head, or anyone in that family, you'll regret it."

His eyes widened, and then he laughed. She watched him laughing, observing him as if from a distance. As if she were someone else, someplace else. What kind of man was this?

"If anything happens to their house or mine, I'll see you spend the rest of your life in jail." Fury rose through her like the fire he'd described. "I'm a lawyer, and justice is my profession. You'll regret every word you've just said here."

Robert's smile disappeared. He leaned back in the chair and looked at her with no expression, although his voice still held a hint of amusement. "You won't be a lawyer for long if you don't pay attention, Miss Catoir. Let's get this straight. We've both got better things to do." He dipped his chin and watched her under half-closed lids. "Here's the message, plain and simple: If anything happens to delay the Black Diamond closing on Wednesday, or if there's trouble afterward—an uprising of protesters, anything that looks like it's got your hand in it—or if you mention this conversation of ours to anyone, including Bingham Murdoch, if you mention any of this, anytime, you will pay. And that kid will pay."

She stared.

He struck the table with his forefinger. "We'll see you lose this job, for starters. We'll have you fired and file a complaint with the state bar, as well. We'll see you never work again, not in the practice of law."

There was a long pause, a silence that filled the room, and then he added, "And that kid," his eyes held hers, "he looks a little fragile, easily broken. Like that dead bird in the park."

She wrenched her gaze from his and turned her back, moving toward the door, thinking this couldn't be happening. They had been following her. Tiny pinpricks of fear lifted on the back of her neck.

"Miss Catoir."

She halted without turning, staring at the closed door.

"We get this thing closed on time and the demolition completed without any trouble, then you've got nothing to worry about. For that family or the kid."

Regardless, she knew, he'd see that she lost her job. He'd have his revenge. That was in his nature.

Without a word, she yanked the door open and let it close behind her. She wished that Jude was here, not for advice or protection, but just to be with him.

Walking back down the hallway to the conference room, she worked up a smile and held it. She walked with her back straight and her head up, even while she balanced on the edge of a deep, deep crevice.

Bingham sat at the desk in
his suite at the Roosevelt, looking out over the tops of buildings and houses stretching through the city toward Lake Pontchartrain. He couldn't see that pleasant expanse of water, but he remembered the peaceful little boats and the double white ribbons of causeway stretching twenty-three miles from New Orleans to the north shore. The endless blue sky had seemed to melt into the water at the horizon, giving the lake a hazy, silvery sheen on that day he'd descended toward the Lakefront airport six weeks ago.

Now it was Tuesday morning, the day before the closing. He took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide, then slapped his chest with both hands, thinking of it all. Then he picked up the wire transfer memorandum he'd received yesterday afternoon, the one Amalise Catoir had prepared for the closing. He'd provided the details for the investors' funds to Rebecca himself, the matrix of transfers between Tom and his investors in New York and on the coast, culminating in a twenty-million-dollar deposit into the Lone Ranger subsidiary account in Grand Cayman. Those wires had been initiated by Tom and Robert yesterday. The money should be there by now, earning interest and waiting for the closing.

He read through the complex memorandum, feeling pleased. The bank lenders had also provided details for their side of the funding into First Merchant Bank on the closing day. These included five smaller transfers totaling seven million, each to be wired tomorrow—after the conference call with Banc Franck in Cayman—into Lone Ranger's account here in New Orleans, while the twenty million remained held offshore.

The call with Banc Franck in Cayman would commence at 9:00 tomorrow morning so that the wire transfers could be started early. The day before a holiday was usually rushed, and wires would close early. Banc Franck's confirmation that the investor funds were on deposit would trigger the syndicate's wiring of funds. The banks would have finished, or almost finished, signing the documents by then. It was a tight squeeze, he knew, but banks on the West Coast were two hours behind and they'd hold things up otherwise.

Further, the memo provided that Banc Franck would transfer the entire twenty million to Lone Ranger's First Merchant Bank account upon notice in the early afternoon that all syndicate bank funds had been received.

Bingham smiled and thumped the page. He scratched his initials on the bottom right-hand corner of each page of the memo, indicating his approval, glad that Rebecca had taken his suggestion. Had the solution come from him, the banks would have studied it for days before agreeing that it was fair—time he didn't have. He set the memorandum down on the desk beside him. Whatever else Miss Catoir was up to, she'd done a good job on the document.

Picking up the phone, he asked for an international operator. He gave her the phone number for his account officer's direct line at Banc Franck in Grand Cayman, and then began the wait. Balancing the receiver between his chin and shoulder, he gazed out over the city, humming.

The call was picked up on the first ring. Benjamin Salter had been waiting to hear from him. Salter had been recommended by Banc Franck in Zurich, with whom he enjoyed a longtime relationship. He'd lunched with Salter in Cayman last year when he'd first opened the account, and they had got along fine.

"Bingham Murdoch here, Ben."

"How do you do, Bingham?" The banker was all business today, unlike at their luncheon. "I was expecting your call."

"You've received the instructions dated November 1, 1977?"

"Yes, we have."

"Right then. Per the standing instructions, please confirm the current balance of the account." He gave the account number.

"Your security code, please."

Bingham gave it to him.

"Just one moment."

Bingham waited. If he tilted his head in just a certain way, he could almost hear the ocean rolling in toward the Cayman shoreline. He wished he were there.

"Thank you for waiting." The banker confirmed the account number and the various deposits of the investors' funds received on Monday. On current account, twenty million and two hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency. That included Bingham's initial deposit from a year ago.

"Thank you," Bingham said. "At nine o'clock Central time, ten o'clock your time tomorrow morning, November 23, I will call you from the offices of Mangen & Morris in New Orleans. As per the instructions, you will confirm on that call the current balance on account. Representatives of the banks in the company's loan syndicate will be on the call, as well as various parties in the conference room." He paused. "I believe I sent you the list of participants."

"I have it. I'll be expecting your call."

Bingham hung up the phone. Whistling, he slid open the desk drawer and pulled out an eight-by-ten brown envelope in which he placed the wire transfer memorandum. He slipped his copy of the standing instructions into the drawer and closed it. Then he looked about for his jacket. He needed to get over to the conference room. Got a late start this morning, things being as they were.