Ransom (18 page)

“Don't be silly, Ash. He's an old friend. You're disgusting.” Ashley had said in no uncertain terms that Jack Waterman had the hots for her.

“Does he, Mom?” Sam had looked up from a stack of pancakes with interest.

“No, he doesn't. He was a friend of Daddy's.” As though that made all the difference. But Daddy was gone now.

“So? What difference does that make?” Ashley commented, as she took a bite of Sam's pancakes, and he swatted her with his napkin.

“Are you going to marry him, Mom?” Sam looked at her sadly. He liked having her to himself. He was still sleeping in her bed most of the time. He missed his dad, but he had grown even closer to his mother, and he wasn't anxious to share her.

“Of course not,” Fernanda said, looking flustered. “I'm not going to marry anyone. I still love Daddy.”

“Good,” Sam said, looking satisfied, as he stuffed a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, and dripped syrup down his T-shirt.

On the last week in June Fernanda hardly left the house. She was too busy packing. She had Will's lacrosse gear to organize and pack, and everything Ashley was taking to Tahoe. It was endless. It seemed like every time she packed something, one of them took it out of the bag again, and wore it. By the end of the week, everything was dirty, and she had to start over. Ashley had tried on everything she owned, and borrowed half of her mother's clothes. And Sam suddenly announced that he didn't want to go to day camp.

“Come on, Sam, you'll love it,” she encouraged him as she did a load of laundry, just as Ashley breezed through the laundry room wearing her mother's high heels, and one of her sweaters.

“Take those off,” she scolded her, as Sam wandered off, and Will walked in, to ask her if she'd packed his cleats, because he needed them for practice.

“If either of you touch the bags I've packed again, I'm warning you both, I'm going to kill you.” Ashley looked at her as though she was weird, and Will rushed back upstairs to find his own shoes.

Their mother had been testy all morning. In fact, she was sad to see them both going. She counted on them now, more than she ever had, for company and distraction, and it was going to be lonely with only Sam home. She suspected that he was feeling it too, which was why he had balked at camp. She reminded him then of the Fourth of July picnic they were going to in Napa. She thought it would be fun for him, and he even looked unenthusiastic about that. He was going to miss his sister and brother. Will was leaving for three weeks, and Ashley for two. It seemed like an eternity to both Sam and Fernanda.

“They'll be back before you know it,” Fernanda reassured him. But she said it as much to comfort herself, as him. And outside, Peter was doing some mourning of his own. In six days they were going to make their move, and his part in her life would be over. Maybe they would meet somewhere one day, and with luck, she would never know the part he had played in the horror that was about to strike her. He had fantasies about running into her, or following her again, just so he could see her. He had been following her for over a month now. And she had never for a single second sensed it. Nor had the children. He had been careful and wise, as had Carl Waters on the weekends. Waters was far less enchanted with her than he was. He thought her life incredibly mundane and boring, and wondered how she stood it. She hardly went anywhere, and wherever she did go, she took her children. It was precisely that that Peter loved about her.

“She ought to thank us for taking those kids off her hands for a week or two,” Waters had commented to Peter one Saturday. “Christ, the woman never goes anywhere without them.”

“You have to admire her for that,” Peter said quietly. He did certainly, but Carl Waters didn't.

“No wonder her husband died. The poor bastard must have died of boredom,” Carl muttered. He thought tailing her had been the dullest part of the assignment, unlike Peter, who loved it.

“Maybe she went out more before she was widowed,” Peter commented, and Waters shrugged, as he turned the car over to Peter, and headed for the bus station to go back to Modesto. He was glad the surveillance was almost over and they could get on with it. He was anxious to get his hands on the money. Addison had proved to be true to his word. He, Stark, and Free had each received their one hundred thousand dollars. It was locked in suitcases, in lockers at the bus terminal in Modesto, where they'd put it for safekeeping. They were going to take it with them when they left for Tahoe. Everything was ready. And the clock was ticking.

All had gone on schedule so far, and Peter had assured Addison it would continue to do so. He anticipated no glitches, on their end at least. The first problem they encountered unexpectedly emanated not from them, but from Addison. He was sitting at his desk, dictating to his secretary, when two men walked in, holding their badges up to him, and informed him that he was under arrest. The secretary ran out of the room, crying, and no one stopped her, as Phillip looked at them and didn't so much as blink.

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” he said calmly, with a wry look on his face. He thought the visit had something to do with his crystal meth laboratories; if so, it was the first time his underworld life had crossed over into his serious business. The men still holding out their badges were wearing plaid shirts and blue jeans. One was Hispanic, and the other was African American, and he had no idea what they wanted. As far as he knew, his drug business was running smoothly. Nothing was traceable to him, and the people running it were totally efficient.

“You're under arrest, Addison,” the Hispanic man repeated, and Phillip Addison started laughing.

“You must be joking. What in God's name for?” He looked anything but worried.

“Apparently, there's been a little funny business with transfers of monies. You've been running cash across state lines in large amounts. It looks like you've been laundering money,” the agent explained, feeling slightly ridiculous himself. The two agents had been doing some undercover work on another case that morning, and hadn't had time to change before they were sent to Addison's office. Given his casual reception of them, they felt a little foolish, and as though they should have looked more official, in order to intimidate him, or at least impress him. Addison just sat there and smiled at them, as though they were badly behaved children.

“I'm sure my attorneys can handle this, without your having to arrest me. Would either of you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” the black agent said politely. They were both young agents. And the special agent in charge of the investigation had told them not to underestimate Addison. There was more to him than met the eye, which both of the younger agents had assumed meant he might be armed and dangerous, which obviously he wasn't.

The young Hispanic agent read him his rights, as Phillip realized they weren't cops, they were FBI, which he found slightly more disturbing, although he didn't show it. In fact, the arrest was a stretch, but their superiors were hoping more would come out in the investigation. They'd been keeping an eye on him for a long time. They knew something was wrong, but they weren't entirely sure what, and they were using what they had.

“I'm sure there must be some mistake here, Officer… er…I mean, Special Agent.” Even the title sounded foolish to him, and very cops-and-robbers.

“Maybe there is, but we still have to take you to the office. You're under arrest, Mr. Addison. Shall we cuff you, or will you come with us under your own steam?” Phillip had no intention of being dragged out of his office in handcuffs, and he stood up, looking angry, and no longer amused. However youthful they looked, the two agents apparently meant business.

“Do you have any idea what you're doing? Do you realize the lawsuit I could slap you with, for false arrest and defamation of character?” Phillip was suddenly in a white fury. As far as he knew, they had absolutely no reason to arrest him. Or surely none that they knew of.

“We're just doing our job, sir,” the black agent, Special Agent Price, said politely. “Will you come with us now, sir?”

“As soon as I call my attorney.” He dialed his lawyer's phone number, while the two agents stood on the other side of his desk and waited. Phillip told him what had happened. He promised to meet Phillip in the FBI office in half an hour, and advised him to go with the two agents. It was going to take Phillip at least a half hour to get from San Mateo to the city. The warrant for Phillip's arrest had been filed by the U.S. Attorney, and there was mention of tax evasion in the complaint, for some ridiculous amount. This was the last thing Phillip wanted. “I'm leaving for Europe in three days,” he said, looking outraged as they escorted him out of his office. His secretary had vanished, but he could tell from the looks on people's faces as they watched him leave that she had told everyone what had happened. He was livid.

When he got to the FBI office and was greeted by Special Agent Rick Holmquist, the agent in charge, he was more so. He was under investigation for tax evasion, tax fraud, and transporting funds illegally across state lines. This was no small matter, nor were they prepared to make light of it. And when his attorney arrived, he advised Phillip to cooperate fully. He was being formally charged by the U.S. Attorney, and the FBI had been assigned to handle the investigation. He was asked to step into a locked room with his attorney and Special Agent Holmquist, who did not look in the least amused, nor cowed by Phillip's grandeur. And his claims of innocence and outrage didn't impress him either. In fact, there was absolutely nothing about Phillip Addison that Special Agent Holmquist liked, not the least of which was the condescending way he had treated his agents.

Special Agent Holmquist allowed attorney and client to confer, and after that he spent three hours interrogating Phillip, and wasn't satisfied by any means with Phillip's answers. Holmquist had signed an order for the search of his offices, which was already under way while they were speaking. A federal judge had signed the search warrant requested by the U.S. Attorney. They had some serious questions in their minds about the legitimacy of Addison's business, and suspected that he might be laundering money, maybe even by the millions. As usual, a paid informant had tipped them off, but this one at an interestingly high level. And Phillip nearly burst an artery when he heard that at that exact moment, half a dozen FBI agents were searching his office.

“Can't you do something about this? This is an outrage!” he shouted at his lawyer, who shook his head, and explained to him that if the search warrant was in order, which it was apparently, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

“I'm leaving for Europe on Friday,” he told them, as though he expected them to put their investigation on hold while he left on vacation.

“That remains to be seen, Mr. Addison,” Holmquist said politely. He had dealt with men like him before, and always thought them extremely unpleasant. In fact, he enjoyed playing with them whenever possible. And he had every intention of tormenting Phillip, after they booked him of course. He knew that whatever bail they set for him, given the size of his net worth, he would be out in minutes. But until bail was set, he had all the opportunity he wanted to question Phillip.

Holmquist spent the rest of the afternoon interrogating him. After which, he was formally booked, and informed that it was too late in the day for a federal judge to set bail. He would have to cool his heels in jail for the night, and could only be released after a hearing to set bail at nine o'clock the next morning. Phillip Addison was beyond outraged, and there was nothing his lawyer could do to help him. Addison was still unclear about what had set the investigation off in the first place. It appeared to be a matter of irregular debits and deposits and money disappearing over state lines, notably to a bank where he had an account under another name in Nevada, and the government wanted to know why, what he was doing with it, and where the money came from. He knew by now it had nothing to do with his crystal meth labs. All the money he used to run those came from an account he kept in Mexico City under another name, and the proceeds went into several numbered Swiss accounts. This current situation truly appeared to be a matter of tax evasion. Agent Holmquist said that over eleven million dollars had come in and out of the Nevada account in the past several months, and mostly out, and from what they'd been told, he had never paid taxes on any of it, nor on the interest. Phillip continued to look unconcerned as they took him away to a cell for the night, although he gave a look of fury to both Holmquist and his attorney.

Holmquist met with the agents who had searched his offices after that, and nothing much had turned up. They had gone through computers and files, which would be used as evidence against him. They had brought boxloads of them back to the office. They had also unlocked his desk, and found a loaded handgun in it, a number of personal files, and four hundred thousand dollars in cash, which Holmquist found interesting. That was a lot of cash for the average businessman to keep in his desk drawer, and they said he had no permit for the gun. They had two boxes with everything they'd found in Phillip's desk, and one of the agents handed them to Holmquist.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Rick looked at them, and the agent who had handed it to him said he thought he'd want to go through it. Rick was going to tell them to put the boxes with the rest of the evidence, and at the last minute thought better of it, and carried them into his office.

The gun had been put in a plastic evidence bag, and there were several plastic envelopes with small scraps of paper in them, and for no reason in particular, he started to read through them. There were notes with names and phone numbers on them, and he noticed that two of them had the name Peter Morgan on them, but the phone numbers were different. He was halfway through the second box when he found the file on Allan Barnes, which spanned three years of his career, and was as thick as the San Francisco phone book. It seemed like an odd file for him to keep, Holmquist thought to himself, and set it aside. He wanted to ask Addison about it. There were several photographs of Barnes from old magazine and newspaper articles, and there was even one of Barnes with his wife and children. It was almost as though Addison were obsessed with him, or even jealous. The rest of what Rick found in the boxes was meaningless to him. But might mean something to the U.S. Attorney's office. They had used master keys to open all his desk drawers, and the special agents who'd gone through them assured Rick that when they left Addison's office, his desk was empty. They had brought everything back with them, and seized it all as evidence, even his cell phone, which he had forgotten to take with him.