Shadow Account (17 page)

“You aren’t going to lose me.”

“You don’t know that.” She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. A powerful sob racked her body.

“Yes, I do. Nobody’s going to get me.”

“I hate you,” she said softly.

“Thanks a lot.”

“You know I don’t mean that. I just . . . I just don’t want to lose another person I care about.”

The words hung in the stillness of the office. “You’re going through a difficult time, Jo. This doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Conner, you must know I have feelings for you,” she whispered.

“You’re upset about Maria.”

“That night you walked me home from dinner, last winter. When we almost kissed. Do you remember?”

Conner nodded. “Of course.”

“Would you have kissed me if I hadn’t turned away?”

“Jo, I don’t think now is a good time for us to talk about—”

“Tell me,” she demanded, staring deeply into his eyes. He looked away, but she put her hands to his face and made him look at her. “Tell me.”

. . .

Several of the analysts were still at work, and Lucas didn’t want them seeing Cheetah again, so they couldn’t meet in Rockville. In fact, he wasn’t going to allow anyone other than the analysts into the Rockville facility from now on. He’d decided that at six this morning while he was driving his rusting ’95 Accord around the Capital Beltway toward the I-270 spur. A few of the analysts wanted to get started early this morning, so he’d had to go in and unlock the space at the crack of dawn. Easy money was a strong incentive.

Which was the thing that bothered Lucas about Cheetah’s reaction yesterday. The man stood to make a quarter of a million dollars if he just kept his mouth shut and played along. Instead, he’d suggested an incredible explanation for Franklin Bennett’s true motivation in setting up the operation. But why? The only answer seemed to be that these men really did have the power to permanently ruin someone’s life—or worse. A shiver raced through his body. It was August, but for a moment it had felt like February standing out here.

They were meeting in the Union Station parking garage; Cheetah had come back from New York City by train. On the top deck of the structure. Lucas was in the southwest corner of it, gazing up at the stars. The Sunday night sky over Washington was crystal clear and the light show above him was spectacular. His eyes flickered down to another spectacular sight—the lighted dome of the Capitol.

“Hello, Mr. Reed.”

Lucas’s eyes raced toward the sound of the voice. Cheetah stood a few feet away. He’d never heard the man coming. “How was your trip?”

“More fuel for the fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“People are definitely worried about what the president is doing. Project Trust is getting a lot of attention behind the scenes. But nobody can get specifics on what he’s going to announce. He’s got it covered up very well.”

“Well, we’ve got our own problems.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cheetah.

“One of the analysts found something yesterday.”

“What?”

Lucas hesitated. “It appears that Secretary Bryson may have an issue. I want you to check into a company board seat he held before joining the administration.”

“What company?”

“Global Components Incorporated.”

“Global Components?” Cheetah whispered. “You’re kidding.”

Even through the gloom Lucas could see the shock on the other man’s face. “No, I’m not,” he said. “Why? What is it?”

Cheetah glanced at the Capitol, then back at Lucas. “I was with a contact of mine today in New York. A man I’ve known for a long time who used to be in the FBI. He’s in the private sector now, but he has just one client. Seems that client is also very interested in Global Components.”

13

Conner hoisted the briefcase strap to his shoulder as the elevator doors parted, then stepped into the deserted lobby of Gavin’s building, the clicking of his hard-soled shoes on the black-and-white tiles echoing loudly. The ceiling was fifteen feet high, bordered by intricate moldings, and the walls were covered with beautiful paintings. Classic statues, nice furniture, and large plants decorated the area, too. There was even a small waterfall in one corner, bubbling soothingly. The monthly maintenance on this building had to be more than the entire rent on Conner’s apartment. He’d always assumed Gavin could easily afford this lifestyle—the apartment, the mansion in East Hampton, and, now that he knew about it, the place in Miami. But the red ink on that stack of bills in the kitchen drawer was making him wonder.

“Have a nice trip, sir.” The uniformed doorman held the door open.

Conner pressed a five-dollar bill into his white-gloved hand and moved down the steps to Park Avenue. “Thanks for getting the cab.”

“My pleasure.”

Conner hesitated at the bottom step, checking up and down the darkened avenue, then hurried toward a waiting taxi. “Port Authority,” he ordered, dropping onto the backseat and slamming the door. “And step on it.”

“Easy on the hardware, buddy,” the cabbie said gruffly, flicking on his blinker and moving slowly out toward the middle lanes.

Conner pivoted in the seat, peering through the rear window. Even at four in the morning there was traffic in Manhattan. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go.”

“Relax, kid. We’ll get there when we get there. If you’re late, you should have left more time. As I always tell my daughter: Leave early. But, of course, she’s like you. Constantly rush-rush. That’s what’s wrong with your generation. You’re all trying to jam too many activities into too little time. You’ve got to stop and smell the roses . . .”

Conner wasn’t listening. He was studying a pair of headlights that had pulled away from the curb up the street from Gavin’s building along with the cab. He’d noticed the sedan before getting into the taxi, but figured there wasn’t anyone in it.

“You got to appreciate life, kid,” the cabbie continued. “You only go around once.”

“Right.”

“Because the thing is . . . you never know.”

Conner turned halfway around, taking his eyes off the headlights for a moment. “What did you say?”

“You never know, kid. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in sixty-two years on earth, it’s that very sobering fact. You just never know.”

Conner sank down onto the seat. Jackie had said the same thing to him last night while they were standing at her apartment door. He’d taken her to dinner after leaving her office, then walked her home. She invited him in, but he politely refused. They had shared a bottle of wine during dinner, and he’d almost accepted the invitation, tempted to explore his feelings for her. He was certain he’d done the right thing by leaving, but now he was having second thoughts. He realized how much he cared for her, and, realistically,
you never did know.
There might never be a second chance.

“You think you know,” the cabbie muttered. “You think you can anticipate everything, or at least be ready for it.” He frowned. “But you can’t. And it’s exactly when you think you’re ready for anything that you get shocked. It always happens that way.”

Conner nodded. That was true.

“Listen to what I’m telling you, kid.”

Conner pictured Jackie’s face, regretting for a moment what he hadn’t done. Then he shook his head. No. That had been the right decision. The timing was all wrong.

He took a deep breath, pulling himself back into the present, then checked for the headlights again. Still there. “Pull over here,” he directed, making a snap decision. The traffic light ahead had just turned red. “Right now,” he said, shoving a wad of ones into the slot.

“All right, all right.”

They were still several blocks from the Port Authority, but this was his opportunity. The red light would block the sedan for a few seconds. If whoever was inside wanted to keep up, they’d have to get out and follow on foot. He’d know in a few seconds what the deal was.

Conner darted from the cab and ran down Eighth, checking over his shoulder every few steps until he reached the Port Authority, hurrying inside and hustling up two long flights of steps. This early in the morning the place was deserted. When he stopped at the top of the second flight to see if he’d been followed, there wasn’t anyone in sight.

Conner headed toward the door leading to the bus bays. Most of which were empty, still awaiting the inbound rush from the suburbs. But there were a few buses in the lot, engines idling, running lights on. He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. There weren’t that many buses, but the carbon monoxide was still thick. He glanced around, then headed toward the ramp to the street.

“Hey!”

Conner looked back as he reached the top of the ramp. A Port Authority police officer was loping after him.

“You can’t go down there! It’s
way
too dangerous. That’s only for bus traffic. Stop!”

Conner ignored the man and sprinted onto the spiraling ramp. Halfway to the street he heard the roar of an engine and was momentarily blinded by powerful high beams as a large bus swung into view. He rushed to the side of the ramp, a waist-high retaining wall, and pressed his legs against it. Holding his breath and gazing over the side at the street, twenty-five dizzying feet below. He shut his eyes as the shiny silver bus roared alongside, just inches away.

Then the bus was past him in a burst of wind, and he was still in one piece. He sprinted the rest of the way down to the street, reaching Ninth Avenue just as another bus roared onto the ramp. He leaned over to catch his breath for a few seconds, then took off. Running past delis and shops just opening up.

At Thirty-seventh Street he turned right and slowed to a jog. A friend from Merrill Lynch—the same guy he’d asked to help him find out more about Liz’s resignation—was to have left him a rented white Taurus on the north side of the street between Ninth and Tenth. Keys hidden beneath the left front fender. Conner spotted a white Taurus at the far end of the block, sprinted to it, knelt down, and ran his hand along the underside of the fender. There. He grabbed the keys. Moments later he was behind the steering wheel and headed toward the Lincoln Tunnel and New Jersey, his eyes flashing back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Thinking about Amy Richards and what had happened Saturday in the park.

He was certain the dark blue baseball cap with the red emblem that had fallen out of her backpack in Central Park was the same hat he’d seen the blond woman wearing outside Merrill Lynch. Which meant that the woman he had seen was Amy. Too much of a stretch to think that another tall blonde wearing the exact same cap had appeared out of nowhere. Plus, he’d run into Amy on Wednesday night, then again Friday afternoon in the Diamond District.

Three times in less than a week. Way too often to be coincidence.

Saturday afternoon, when they’d said good-bye at Grand Central Station where she’d caught the Number 7 train back to Queens, he made another date with her. For tomorrow night, Tuesday night. He was going to try to figure out what she was doing. Just like he was going to try to figure out what had happened to Liz by going to D.C. today. He had to beat Art Meeks to the cops, or at least have an explanation when they confronted him.

Conner’s eyes narrowed as he guided the car into the tunnel entrance. It was all too slick, he kept thinking. Remove all traces of the e-mail. Then all traces of the break-in. But why?

“Dammit!” There was something here he was missing. Something staring him in the face. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. He could feel it.

The sun was beginning to break through broken clouds when the Taurus emerged from the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel. It was beginning to warm up, too. As the weathermen had predicted, heat and humidity had returned to the East Coast during the night. Conner flipped on the air conditioner. As he did, he glanced into the rearview mirror and noticed a black sedan with tinted windows coming out of the tunnel behind him. As he sped around the wide, sweeping U-turn in front of the entrance, the sedan seemed to be pacing him. The same way the car in Manhattan had paced him from Gavin’s apartment to the Port Authority. Maybe it was the same car. He’d never gotten a good look at that vehicle. It had been too dark.

“Let’s see what this guy wants to do,” Conner muttered, punching the Taurus’s accelerator and speeding west, the panoramic view of Manhattan’s skyline sinking below the horizon.

The black sedan stayed with him, several hundred yards back, moving out of the lane he was traveling in only to pass through a different gate at the tollbooth to the New Jersey Turnpike. When Conner had made it through the toll, the sedan fell in behind him again.

A few miles down the Turnpike, he turned off at the Newark Airport exit, quickly paying the toll, then heading for the airport entrance and daily parking. The lot was packed, but he finally found an open spot well away from the three terminals. When he’d swung the car into the spot, he reached into the backseat, grabbed his briefcase, and headed toward terminal B, the middle terminal. Jogging along a narrow sidewalk leading to the massive building.

Halfway to it Conner spotted a man on his left. Thirty yards away, not carrying a bag. Trying too hard to seem inconspicuous. As he picked up the pace, so did the man.

Conner sprinted across several access lanes and into the airport. He walked quickly past idle baggage carousels, then up a set of steps to the terminal’s main level. Most of the ticket counters were still dark, and he moved past them to the far end of the terminal. Then back downstairs, racing out the door to the first taxi stand.

“Where you headed?” the taxi master wanted to know, opening the back door of the first cab.

“Terminal C,” Conner replied, breathing hard. “I screwed up. Came to the wrong one.”

“Happens all the time,” the man said, scribbling something on a yellow ticket and handing it to the driver through the passenger window of the front seat. “No problem.”

Conner ducked into the cab, then held a hundred-dollar bill out the window. “There’s going to be a guy here in a few seconds. He’s going to ask you where I’m going. Tell him exactly what I just told you, but hold his cab here for thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds. Will you do that for me?”

The smile disappeared from the taxi master’s face, but he snatched the money and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” Conner leaned over the front seat as the cab driver pulled slowly away. “We’re not going to Terminal C,” he said. “We’re going to Amtrak’s Penn Station in Newark. And we’re going there fast.”

“I can’t do that,” the cabbie protested. “That’s against policy. You told the man you were going to Terminal C, and now I got to go there.”

Conner pulled another hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and held it up so the driver could see it. “What did you say?”

The driver’s eyes widened. “I said I can get you to Newark in about seven minutes.” He gunned the cab’s engine. “I hope that’ll be fast enough.”

Conner looked back at the taxi stand. “That’ll be fine.” He smiled as he watched the man who’d been chasing him duck into the next cab in line, then saw the taxi master amble slowly around in front of the cab to the driver side, squat down, and begin talking. Then Conner was past Terminal C on his way to Newark. “Just fine,” he murmured, settling into the seat.

Thirty minutes later, Conner was on a train headed for Washington and his eleven o’clock appointment with Victor Hammond. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after six. He thought about calling Jackie, but it was still too early. He didn’t want to wake her up.

He picked up the
USA Today
he’d purchased at the Newark train station, going straight to the Sports section. Then he chuckled, put it down, and picked up the Life section, taking a pen from his shirt pocket and turning to the crossword puzzle. It was the first time he had ever tried one.

All right, Jo,
he thought to himself, humming “Blue Suede Shoes.” Let’s see about this new perspective.

“They lost him at Newark Airport.”

“
Newark
Airport?”

“Yeah.”

“He should have been leaving from
LaGuardia
. The shuttle to Washington leaves from LaGuardia Airport. Are there any flights from Newark to Washington?”

“Not many. Besides, they lost him on his way to Terminal C. There aren’t
any
flights from Terminal C to Washington.”

“How could they have lost him?”

“He ran. He must have realized he was being followed.”

“Christ!”

“Which means he suspects something.”

“Thanks, Einstein.” There was a long pause. “Where’s he going?”

“No idea.”

Another pause. “Are there any flights to Minneapolis from that terminal?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check.”

“Lucas?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Cheetah. I got news.”

Lucas glanced at the towel on the floor. He hadn’t bothered to cover the crack at the bottom of the door. “Hold on.” He moved quickly to the door, and put the towel in place. “What did you find out?” he asked, picking up the telephone again.

“The AB Trust is definitely controlled by Alan Bryson. The financial tracks run through a bunch of offshore corporations and several limited partnerships. Accounts at fourteen financial institutions in all, but Bryson is sitting squarely at the end of the trail.”

Lucas winced. He’d been praying all night that Cheetah would tell him something different. But he’d had a bad feeling about the AB Trust ever since the young woman had found it Saturday morning. “Anything else?”

“Yes, and this is important. The year Bryson and the AB Trust got all those options, Global Components switched accounting firms. They fired Deloitte and Touche and hired another firm named Baker Mahaffey.”

Lucas hesitated. “Why is that important?”