Dissonance (7 page)

“Yes?” he snapped, not caring if the entire universe knew what a foul mood he was in.

“Cameron, this is Jim Stanton.”

He’d expected it to be Duncan. “Jim. What did you hear?”

“I thought you should know,” Jim said in a voice that seemed a bit more businesslike than usual.

“What should I know?” Cam tapped his foot against the leg of the table.

“The FBI wants to speak directly with you.”

“About what? The same bullshit?” Oh, this was fucking
perfect
!

“They won’t say,” Jim explained, “except that there are discrepancies in the banking documents. Something about an offshore account?”

“Offshore?” Cam shook his head and rubbed his mouth with his free hand. “You mean Sherrington Holdings accounts?”

“The account isn’t in the UK, Cameron.”

Why did lawyers always speak to him as though he was stupid?

“This one’s in the Caymans.”

“The Caymans?” Cam repeated. “Raice doesn’t have any accounts in the Caymans.” He’d studied Raice’s books before he’d recommended purchasing the company.

“I wasn’t aware of any either,” Jim admitted. “But they seem pretty hot to speak with you. They want you to come in to their office on Monday.”

“Monday?”

“I’ll go with you, of course.”

“That bad?” Cam asked. “That I need representation?”

“Just a precaution.” Jim didn’t sound all that convincing.
Or convinced.
“I’ll contact the British consulate in the meantime. Let them know what’s happening.”

Cam tapped his foot faster. “And what if I refuse to speak to them?”

“They could take you in for questioning. They might even arrest you if you refuse to cooperate.” Jim sighed audibly, then said, “Cameron. Listen, I understand that this is all very uncomfortable. I promise I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s as painless as possible.”

As painless as possible? And then there was the little question of his uncle’s sudden lack of availability. There was more going on here than anyone was telling him, and until he figured it out, he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“No.”

“Cameron?” He heard a mixture of exasperation and frustration in Jim’s voice.

Twat.
He’d always treated Cam like a twelve-year-old in need of constant supervision. Maybe he
was
that, but he wasn’t stupid either.

“Fine. Get it arranged.” He disconnected the call, stalked over to the window, and gazed out at the darkening sky. The days were growing shorter. The clock was ticking, and his time was running out.

“T
HIS
SHOULDN
’
T
take long,” Richard Johns, one of the FBI agents, had said when he escorted Cam through the building four hours before. Now, emerging from the small windowless conference room, followed by Jim Stanton, Cam had a splitting headache and enough new information that his first order of business was to head to the men’s room and vomit.

Another Monday. More bollocks.

“We’d like you to stay in New York for the foreseeable future,” another of the men told him as they left. “We may need to bring you back in again.” Cam took this to mean that the next thing to happen was that he’d end up in custody, and Jim didn’t dismiss the notion out of hand.

“Money laundering? What the fuck gave them that idea?”

“I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” Jim said before they went their separate ways a few minutes later. “If you ask me, it’s just bluster. They’ve got something, and they’re fishing for more.”

“What should I do?” Cam asked as he shoved his shaking hands in his jacket pockets.

“Nothing for now. Stay put. I’ll make a few phone calls and we’ll regroup tomorrow.”

Cam watched Jim’s taxi speed down the avenue. He’d call Duncan. He needed to get back home—at least there he wouldn’t be looking at a jail cell in his immediate future. Not that the Americans couldn’t have him extradited, but that would take time.

He still felt sick. Maybe Luisa had been right. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Coming down with a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.
This entire situation—the investigation, the allegations, all of it—felt surreal. As though he’d stepped into someone else’s life.

Cam’s calls to Duncan continued to go unanswered. The niggle had become a full-blown voice screaming in his head. Was Duncan’s silence the sign of something more insidious?

No. Duncan has no reason to hang me out to dry.
Duncan was paid handsomely for his work as Sherrington’s CEO, and he owned nearly a third of the company’s stock. But Duncan had never ignored his calls, even though he’d often complained that Cam was interrupting his work.

You’re becoming paranoid
.
Just be patient. It’ll all work out.

He spent the rest of the day reviewing Raice’s recent financial reports and trying to check some of the business accounts online, with little to show for it. He also tried calling the accounting department at Raice again, but Dan Bryce was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck!” Cam shouted as he slammed the phone down on the table after calling Duncan’s home and mobile again. By then he’d given up on contacting the office, since they’d closed hours before. He thought about Duncan again—went over things in his mind—then dismissed the thoughts. He really
was
being paranoid. Things would be fine.

He needed to get out of the apartment. Worrying about what might be happening was wearing a path in the carpet from his pacing. He grabbed the six hundred dollars he had stashed in his dresser drawer and shoved it into his pocket. His
last
six hundred dollars. Next he called Riley, who asked him how he was doing. He did wonderful work lying to her and getting to the point of his call. “I’m trying to reach Larry,” he told her. “The actor I met at your little soiree the other night?”

“Is something wrong?” she asked after she’d given him Larry’s number. “It’s not like you to cancel on me.”

“I’m fine,” he said dismissively. “Something came up, that’s all.”

Money and a title clearly went far to smooth ruffled feathers, because Larry was over the moon to hear from Cam. They met at a small bar near Larry’s apartment, where Cam made up for what he hadn’t had to drink on his birthday. Afterward, Cam wobbled back to Larry’s and they spent what was left of the night—morning, really—fucking. Between the alcohol and the sex, Cam managed to forget most everything. They finally fell asleep at the crack of dawn.

Cam awoke with a start, heart racing. A nightmare. He’d dreamed about something. Something chasing him. Something cold. He glanced around the unfamiliar room and tried to slow his breathing. His mind began to clear.
That’s right. Larry.
The bedside clock read 1:00 p.m.

Bugger
. Afternoon already? He rolled out of bed, showered, and dressed. He was out the door before Larry woke.

He stopped at the nearest coffee shop and downed several cups of coffee at the counter. The fog of the alcohol and the dream lifted, if only momentarily, because the next thing he did was turn on his mobile and listen to the messages.

“Cameron,” Jim Stanton said, “call me as soon as you get this message.”

The next message was time-stamped about an hour later. “Cameron.” Jim again. “I really need to speak to you.”

This message was immediately followed by a message from his mother. “Cameron. Your uncle says the American authorities are trying to contact you. He wasn’t specific, but he said you might have gotten in a bit over your head. I know it’s been difficult for you, but you should turn yourself in. Explain why you did whatever it is—” He deleted the message.
What a lot of fucking bollocks.
Of course she’d assume he’d done something wrong. She’d never minced her words with him when it came to her opinions of his worth as a man or as her son.

Then, around noon, this message: “Cameron, Special Agent Johns from the FBI just called me. They’ve confirmed they have a warrant for your arrest. I realize this looks bad, but I’m sure we’ll be able to get your bail posted.”

Fuck!
Cam stared down at the omelet the server had just set in front of him, and knew he couldn’t eat a bite of it. He struggled to keep down the coffee, knowing he was going to need it.

They’ve found something.
What had he missed? He’d been through Raice’s accounting records several times now and had seen nothing. His hand shook as he tried Duncan again at his office. And again on his cellular.

The server handed him back his change. $1.92. He stared at it for a few minutes, then dialed Jim. “What did they find?” he demanded before Jim could do more than answer the phone.

“Cameron. I’m glad you called.” The same bollocks as always. Acting as if Cam’s world wasn’t crashing down around him.

“What did they find?” Cam fought the urge to slam the phone onto the counter.

“A Cayman account with your name on it,” Jim said. “All off the books.”

“My name on it?” Cam’s hands went numb and he began to sweat.

“Your name on it, and twelve million in it.”

T
HE
WIND
had begun to blow by the time Cam rounded the corner back to his building. The scattered clouds had given way to a gray, overcast sky and the temperature had dropped. He vaguely remembered what he’d heard on the telly at the diner—there was a chance of sleet in the forecast. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and raised the collar on his leather jacket. When he looked once more, he saw several large cars parked in the no-parking zone in front of the building. Black. Identical models.

Fuck!
He needed to think. Twelve million dollars in an offshore account with his name on it and no record of how he’d come by it except that the transfers had been made from another Cayman account in amounts just under the legal limit for reporting? No wonder the Americans were interested in him! He knew enough about money laundering to know that the shit piling up was now waist deep. And what could he tell the FBI? “I have no idea where the money in that account came from”? Oh,
that
would be helpful! Already he felt the walls of the cell closing in on him.

He thought of trying Duncan again, but this time—for the
first
time—he realized he didn’t trust Duncan not to turn him in. Things just didn’t add up. The way Duncan had reassured him that nothing was wrong. The accounts in Cam’s name linked to the company he’d insisted Duncan purchase. How Duncan fought him tooth and nail against the Raice purchase, then suddenly relented with no good reason. The way Duncan had avoided his calls from the beginning.

It would be easier to get rid of me.
And what a fucking splendid way to do it! Who would believe he was innocent? The FBI probably already knew about his empty trust account and the board’s scrutiny of his living expenses.

He turned around, his heart beating a steady tattoo against his ribs. He still had four hundred dollars in his wallet. That would get him a hotel room somewhere, wouldn’t it? His phone buzzed and he tried to catch his breath. He’d seen movies where they’d tracked people down by their phones. He shut the phone off without answering. He’d keep it off. Even if they couldn’t track him with it, he’d save the battery in case he needed it. He walked quickly to the nearest subway station and lost himself amidst the crowd.

T
WO
DAYS
later Cam had used up nearly all his money and he’d risked a call to David Somers. He’d left the hotel that morning and spent most of the day walking around Central Park, trying to figure out what to do other than call Jim and turn himself in. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen—of what
would
happen when he couldn’t make bail.

He wasn’t sure what he’d even tell David when he reached him, but David was the first person he thought of. David was always calm in the wake of a storm. Maybe he’d know what to do. “I’m sorry I can’t take your call,” David’s recorded voice said. “I’ll be traveling in the Far East the next few days. Please leave me a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I’m able.” Cam didn’t leave a message. David was half a world away. What could he possibly do to help?