The Lazarus Trap (7 page)

The counsel cleared his throat. But the obstruction was not dislodged. “None of it.”

“What?”

“As I stated, all of the funds were channeled through the Syntec Investment Bank.”

“And?”

“The bank is
gone
. Their entire records department was shredded by the explosion.”

The SEC chief was shouting now. “What about backup!”

“That too. We have spoken at length with the Jersey head office. This was a quasi-independent arm.” The counsel was visibly sweating. “Syntec operated like many small banks. Their home office maintained no detailed duplication—”

“A full investigatory team will be arriving on your doorstep tomorrow morning!” His rage had a scalding effect. “Heads are going to roll!”

Terrance stood in the boardroom doorway, watching Consuela usher out their guests. The auditors and outside counsel clustered like an anxious flock by the elevators. Their faces wore uniform expressions of sickly dread. They knew the score. A hit this big would strike their careers with the effect of wrecking balls.

“Shut the door, will you?” Don's attention was focused on Jack Budrow. The CEO had his head in his hands.

When the three of them were alone, Don walked to the front of the boardroom table and bent over. “Think, Jack.”

“It's all I can do.”

Don held his fingers a fraction apart and said, “We are
this
close to being rich for the rest of our lives. And we are
this
close to losing everything. Including our freedom.”

Jack straightened. “Yes. All right. I see.”

“You sure, Jack?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Don straightened slowly, watching the CEO very carefully. “You've got to pull your weight from now on. Terrance and I are looking at dance cards that are full to the brim.”

Jack nodded once, his pallor easing. “So what should I do?”

“You have contacts at the
Wall Street Journal
, right?”

“Of course. I partnered with the vice-chairman at last year's Bermuda golf tournament.”

“Swell. Call the guy. Give it to him just like we've done with the SEC.” Don's gaze was jury-taut. “Can you remember your lines, Jack?”

“Certainly.”

“He'll most likely hear you out, then have a reporter join him and tape a second round. They'll listen to that tape about a hundred thousand times. If you leave a thread dangling, they'll pull it and they'll unravel it and they'll hang us with it.” Don inspected their chairman. “Maybe we better let Terrance make the call.”

“No.” Jack Budrow rose to his feet. “I'll do it.”

“Do it right, then.”

Jack was at the door leading from the boardroom to the trophy hall and his office when he quietly observed, “I see the torch has already passed from my hands.”

VAL HAINES ATE AT A NEARBY DINER. THE SUNSET WAS SHROUDED by city shadows and the diner's grimy front window. He sat on a stool at the counter, one of a dozen faces staring at nothing. He kept his gaze aimed at the
Times
laid out on the counter beside his plate. He forked the food into his mouth and tasted nothing. His actions were a calm lie. His mind remained as frenetic as the traffic racing beyond the diner's window.

Another memory had assaulted him just as his meal had arrived. In this one, he held a sleeping infant. The most beautiful baby girl in all the universe rested on his shoulder. Her breath came in tiny puffs he could feel on the nape of his neck. One hand grasped his finger. Val pulled out the hand far enough to look at the perfectly formed little fingers and even tinier nails. Her beauty was so complete he wanted to weep. Like all the other memory pulses, this one arrived with a ton of baggage.

It was the only time Val had ever held his child.

“You need anything else there, hon?”

“What?” Val jerked up. The waitress stood with one hand cocked upon her hip, the other holding a smoldering pot. “Oh. No, thank you. Just the check.”

“Sure, hon.” She set down her pot and scribbled on her pad. “Everything all right?”

Val pushed away the paper he had not really seen. The waitress observed him with the dull concern of one not able to offer anything to anybody. He dropped bills he could not see onto the counter and said, “Memories are a terrible thing.”

The soft edges of another dusk gradually vanished, joining all the other pasts lost to him. He walked a street of New York nighttime energy. People hurried past and refused to meet his eye. Traffic shoved and blared. Vendors shouted back. Val turned away from his hotel, not headed anywhere in particular. Just walking. Caught up in the pressure of other people's lives.

Val was no longer certain how much he wanted to know. Uncertainty over what might strike next made his past feel very distant. He stopped before a shopfront window and stared at the stranger captured by the night. Maybe this was why he had gone into that bar in the first place. Just looking for a little distance.

Then he realized what he was looking at.

Val pushed through the door and entered the cyber café. It was empty save for the woman behind the counter. The woman had pink hair, two nose rings, and a wary gaze. The two side walls were segmented into semiprivate spaces, with scarred desks holding keyboards and flat-screen monitors. Hip-hop blared. Val approached her. “Can I use a terminal?”

“Why we're here. You want anything to drink?”

“Coffee. Black.”

“I need a deposit. You got some plastic?”

“No. I left it . . .” He waved away the lie. “How about a twenty?”

“Works for me.” She rang it up and pointed him midway up the left-hand wall. “Take number three.”

The chair wobbled. The keyboard was filmed with other people's stress. But that was not why Val sat and stared at the monitor. He knew the computer was part of his former life. He based that on no specific memory, just an awareness that here before him was something vital. The question was, how much more did he want to discover? How much more could he take?

The woman called over, “That thing not working again?”

“No. No, it's fine.” He sat and sipped his coffee. Passing headlights etched his silhouette into the monitor's surface.

The woman said loud enough to be heard over the hip-hop, “I got to charge you long as you're tying up the computer, whether you're using it or not.”

Val waved without looking over. He sipped his coffee. He set down his cup and pulled out the two wads of cash, one from either pocket. Using the desk as cover, he counted it out. The money clip held eight hundred and sixty dollars. The roll bound by rubber bands was tight as a fist and held another fifty-four hundred-dollar bills. Six thousand two hundred and eighty dollars. What kind of person carried that much cash around with him for a night on the town?

He slipped the money back into his pockets. Everything he knew about himself suggested that he was not happy. A happy man did not go into the sort of bar where he would be drugged and arrested. A happy man did not rely on a false ID to mask whatever it was Val had been doing two nights back. So far his returning memories had been hazardous as grenades.

The young woman left her security behind the bar and walked over. “More coffee?”

He looked up. If he could ignore hair the color of cotton candy and the nose jewelry, she was actually very attractive, in a knowing New York sort of way. “No thanks. I'm good.”

She stared at the blank screen. “Everything okay here?”

“Yes.” He could tell she was making herself available. The smile was there in her eyes, just waiting for an excuse to break out. Was this part of what he didn't remember, a way with strange ladies? “I'm just trying to work up the nerve.”

She wanted to ask more, but something in his face kept her silent. She picked up his cup and retreated.

Val pulled the keyboard closer. He had to know. He drew up the Google search engine and typed in two words: Valentine Haines. He put his name in quotes, so the engine would treat it as a single concept and not flood him with offers for romantic getaways. Then he hit Search.

The retrieval didn't take long.

Recovery from the shock, however, did.

Val realized the young woman had returned and spoken to him. He stared up at her. “Excuse me?”

“I was just wondering . . .” She seemed uncertain whether to stay or flee. “You went all white there.”

He turned back to the screen. The blue headline across the top of the screen screamed so loudly at him he could no longer even hear the music.

“Right. Sure. Whatever.” She went back to the counter.

Val clenched and unclenched his hand. He gripped the mouse and slid the pointer over to rest upon the first blue line. The arrow became stuck on the headline's last word.

Dead.

TERRANCE HAD PURPOSEFULLY KEPT THE AFTERNOON AND evening clear, a rarity. He normally liked to surround himself with chattering faces. He found wry pleasure in observing the human zoo at feeding time. Terrance considered himself a species apart. All proper Brits did, in his opinion, whether they admitted it or not. Attitude and power went hand in glove. The British Empire had not been lost to armies but rather to a generation lacking the will to rule. His own father was the perfect example of modern British spinelessness.

Though the sky was fiery with a patented Florida sunset, Terrance kept the top up. He wanted neither to see nor be seen. His Lexus sportster bored a hole through the violet dusk like a polished bullet, seeking only the target ahead.

His home was a palace of creamy brick set on the ninth tee at Isleworth. It had originally been built for an Orlando Magic star forward, who had been traded to Los Angeles just as the contractor was polishing the granite master bath. The property was actually two houses connected by an ornate indoor-outdoor pool. Apparently the Magic player had wanted his entourage close at hand, but not actually sharing his home. Terrance parked the Lexus beside his weekend toy, a classic Mercedes gull wing he had bought at auction after winning his latest promotion. He entered his house and listened to his footsteps echo off the atrium's forty-foot ceiling. Daily maid service left the place gleaming with a sterile air.