Hex and the Single Girl (26 page)

elevator to the building’s underground garage.

Hoff gave a ticket to the attendant, who returned with a hell of a car—an iris Mercedes coupe.

“If we leave now, we can beat the traffic on the Merritt,” said Hoff. “It’ll take an hour and a half to get there. We’ll have a brief visit and then return to the city for a celebratory dinner. I haven’t driven the new company car yet. I’m really looking forward to this.”

Hoff held open the passenger side door for Emma. She climbed in and snuggled against the black leather seat. The interior was pristine. Still smelled new. Hoff adjusted the driver’s seat five different ways and checked the rear view mirrors.

“We’re going in style,” said Emma. “But where?”

“To the Glatting Correction Facility. I’ve scheduled us a fifteen-minute audience with Seymour Lankey,” said Hoff.

“I’ll have to insist you buckle your seat belt.”

“I’m the kind of girl you can take anywhere,” said Emma. “The opera. A park picnic.
A federal prison.
”

Hoff laughed, put the car in gear and stepped on the juice.

The Glatting Correctional Facility was a campus of three separate buildings connected with razor wire and a ten-foot-high fence. A uniformed guard sat in a tower with a machine gun on his hip.

To get inside the prison, Hoff had to state his name into a camera by a steel-plated sliding door. It opened with a metallic creak. A uniformed cop stepped forward and frisked them thoroughly. They were directed through a metal detector and X-ray machine. Then through two doors of bulletproof glass into another holding area. Several dozen other people were waiting there. Hoff and Emma took seats on red plastic chairs. Dreary but not dingy, the room’s yellow wallpaper was relatively clean. The linoleum floor wasn’t fatally scuffed. She stared at it, like everyone else in the room, until she and Hoff were called ten minutes later.

They were instructed to go through another set of metal detectors and into another room, this one set up with long wooden tables and chairs. Emma and Hoff were escorted to the last table in the back row and told, again, to wait.

Their visit with the most reviled man in modern corporate history was imminent.

Emma had been in a police station before (yesterday). But she’d never been in a prison. Granted, this institution was no Oz (as in, the HBO show). Nearly all the visitors were Caucasian, as were the handcuffed prisoners who’d just entered the room.

Hoff leaned over and whispered to Emma, “Glatting houses about 350 inmates. All of them white-collar criminals.”

So these crooks steal with a pencil instead of a gun. That tidbit didn’t quell her anxiety. Club Fed or not, Emma was rattled by the slam of metal doors, the bleach fumes, the too-vibrant orange jumpsuits on the prisoners. Her sensitive senses were starting to chafe. Emma leaned toward Hoff and asked, “Do we have a plan?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s called ’Seat of the Pants.’”

Emma nodded. “I was going to suggest ’Wing and a Prayer,’ but I like yours better.”

“I’ve been here once before,” said Hoff. “They brought out Lankey last.”

And that was where Emma found him—the last link on the chain gang. Lankey was shorter than she’d expected, but otherwise, he looked like his photos in
The New York Times.
A studied scowl, a double chin, bald on top with gray hair on the sides, pointy ears. His eyes were watery and blue. Old man eyes.

“
Smoke and Mirrors
comes out, officially, on Sunday,” said Hoff. “I brought a copy for him. He hasn’t seen the cover yet.”

He took a first-bound book out of his shoulder bag. The cover was a close-up of Lankey’s face. His expression was earnest, steady. “I hope he approves,” said the anxious editor. “He doesn’t like me very much.”

“How can you tell?”

“He once called me ’Fancy Pants.’”

“Do you think he’ll like me better?” she asked, wondering why he’d brought her along.

“I have no doubt,” said Hoff. “Emma, if you please, unbutton your sweater a bit. And take off your sunglasses. And let down your hair.”

“I could sit spread eagle on the table with my hand in my underwear,” she suggested.

“Shhh. Here he comes,” said Hoff, standing.

A guard—tall, beefy, brown crew cut with a goatee and a tattoo of a cougar on his neck—escorted America’s iconic corporate criminal to the table.

“Who is this?” Seymour Lankey asked the guard.

“Your four o’clock,” said the guard, grinning.

“This isn’t who I was expecting.”

The guard seemed disturbed. “Let me see what’s going on,” he said to Seymour. “Talk to these people in the

meantime.”

Seymour sat. He turned toward Hoff and Emma, confused and annoyed, but something else too. Emma sniffed for

clues. She thought she smelled worry.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked her.

“Nothing much,” she said out of habit.

But Seymour liked it. “You should see me in my formal jumpsuit, young lady.”

Hoff said, “Mr. Lankey. You may not remember me. I’m Hoffman Centry. Your editor at Ransom House.”

Seymour took a closer look at Hoff. “Yes, Mr. Centry. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. I was thrown by the black eye, missing tooth and gashed cheek.”

Hoff said, “Hazards of the job. I have a copy of
Smoke and Mirrors.
Hot off the presses. We release on November first. Day after tomorrow.”

The criminal received the book gratefully. He examined the cover photo and seemed pleased. “I like it. It looks just like me, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Emma. “Very flattering.”

“I want this photo plastered all over the world.”

“Well, we release in North American on the first, but we won’t put out foreign editions for another month,” corrected Hoff. “We’ve sold rights to most of Europe, Japan, Australia…”

“You could’ve just mailed the book,” said Seymour. “I appreciate your professionalism, Mr. Centry, coming all the way out here. And you—whoever you are—you have a stunningly beautiful face. God knows I appreciate that. But I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave. I’m expecting another guest, and they only let one party in at a time.”

He was dismissing them. And they’d come bearing gifts. Emma felt a salty and sour taste on her tongue. This man had stolen her money. And he was treating her like a nuisance. She thought about the nuisance of losing her apartment because of him.

Hoff said, “Before we go, I have one quick question…”

“No time, Fancy Pants. Door’s that way,” said Lankey.

And that was when Emma saw red. He could steal her money. He could be rude to her. But he couldn’t insult her friend. “Jeff Bragg isn’t coming,” she said with sadistic glee. “So you have a few minutes for us.”

Hoff blanched. Seymour said, “I don’t know anyone named Jeff Bragg.” Lankey was a good liar, but that was to be expected.

Emma said, “No? He told me you knew each other well. He’s sorry he can’t come today. He’s probably on the beach by now. Sitting in the sun, drinking a daiquiri. Grand Cayman is beautiful this time of year. Any time of year.”

Seymour ground his teeth. The motion of his jaw was so violent Emma felt the friction in her own mouth. He said,

“Phone. Now. Cell phone.”

Hoff said, “We were told not to give you any electronic…”

“Give me a fucking cell phone!” Seymour demanded, slamming his cuffed wrists on the table. The beefy tattooed guard had reentered the room and was watching them closely from the periphery.

Emma said, “He can’t stab us with a phone,” and gave Seymour hers. The convict dialed a number, fumbling in the cuffs. He finished and hit send.

Hoff’s briefcase, with Bragg’s phone inside it, started to ring.

Seymour pushed end. Hoff’s briefcase went silent. Seymour hit redial. Hoff’s briefcase rang again. He pushed end.

The poster boy of corporate greed returned the phone to Emma. Then he leaned across the table. His eyes weren’t quite so watery when he was royally pissed off. “Are you fucking with me, Centry?” he asked. “Because if you are, I’ll fuck you back so long and so hard, there’ll be nothing left but the painful memory.” He turned toward Emma. “You, too,”

he added.

Then he scooped up his copy of
Smoke and Mirrors
and yelled, “Watts!”

The tattooed guard rushed to his side. “Yes, sir?”

“Get me out of here.”

The guard whisked Seymour away. The two walked close enough for Seymour to whisper in his ear. Emma pricked up her super hearing and caught a few phrases. “Change of plans.” “A slight delay.”

She turned back toward Hoff. He was shaking, his skin drained of color, except for the purple bruises and the red cut.

Emma said, “He’s much shorter than I thought.”

“What do you think you were doing?” he asked, compulsively stroking his cashmere lapel.

“Seat of Pants?”

“Would you consider what he said to me an overt threat?” asked Hoff.

“I’d call it an idle threat,” said Emma.

Another guard told them their time was up. Emma was surprised that her legs were shaking when she stood. The two interlopers were led out of the visitation room. They retraced their steps and eventually escaped to freedom on the other side of the steel-plated sliding door.

Safely settled in the Mercedes, Emma let her shoulders relax. Hoff turned the ignition key. “He’s locked in prison for ten years,” she said. “What could he possibly do?”

“He could hire someone,” said Hoff.

“He’s broke,” she said. “Or, at the very least, he can’t access his money. That’s what Jeff Bragg was for.”

Hoff said, “In ten years, when he gets out, I’m moving to South America.” He negotiated the car out of the prison parking lot and back onto the Merritt. It was slow going. Friday afternoon traffic.

“If we can prove he stole the money, he’ll face new charges. He’ll never get out of jail,” said Emma. She put her head against the cushy rest and closed her eyes. She thought of her first close look at Jeff Bragg, at Bull on Water Street.

He’d seemed like a creep, but not a criminal. She’d sized him up as a harmless accountant. But his manner, his bravura, his suit were all parts of a perfect disguise—what he wore and how he acted to appear normal. To seem like a regular guy. No wonder Susan had been fooled. Jeff had a flawless anti-costume costume. And Emma knew costumes.

She was the Queen of Costumes.

Emma’s eyelids snapped up. She turned to Hoff, who was cursing the traffic.

“I know what ’the big day’ is,” she said.

Hoff kept his eyes on the road and said, “Go ahead.”

“It’s the day Seymour was to escape from prison.”

Hoff blurted, “That’s impossible!”

Emma said, “Seymour’s four o’clock was supposed to be Jeff Bragg. We know this. Jeff was supposed to come with proof that he’d arranged the wire transfer from Seymour’s offshore account to the other bank account number he’d given to you. But who gets the money—and why?”

“Lankey needed the money to escape?” asked Hoff. “A bribe? I did find it odd how chummy Lankey was with that

tattooed guard.”

“Tattoo takes a bribe and gets Lankey out of Glatting—and out of the country,” she said.

“To Mexico, for plastic surgery. The authorities will be hunting for the man
on the book cover,
” said Hoff, getting excited. “He specifically asked if the photo looked like him. The world would be searching for a face that no longer existed.”

“Without the wire transfer, Lankey can’t pay off the guard,” said Emma. “And now, he thinks Jeff Bragg has double crossed him and kept the money for himself.”

“Thanks to you,” said Hoff. “But we still don’t know the password.”

“Sure we do,” said Emma. “’The big day’ is the day of the planned prison escape.”

“Which is when?”

Emma said, “After the bribe…”

“Today,” said Hoff.

“…and before the book comes out…”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Which leaves one day in between. Tomorrow.”

“The password is ’tomorrow’?”

“No,” she said, frustrated. “What is tomorrow?”

“The day that never comes?” asked Hoff, philosophically.

“Tomorrow is
Halloween,
” said the Good Witch. “My favorite holiday. When ghouls, goblins, and corporate criminals are free to roam the Earth.”

Emma dialed her cell phone and waited for someone to pick up.

A man asked, “Hello. You’ve reached the Grand Cayman National Bank.”

“I’d like to check the balance of my account,” said Emma, her heart thundering in her ribs.

Chapter 25

“W
e’re calling the Feds,” said Susan, henceforth the Good Snitch, when Emma called her from the car.

“No way. They’ll trick and cheat.”

“Isn’t that, ’trick or treat’?” asked Hoff.

“Just watch the road,” said Emma. Into the phone, she said, “We are transferring this money into my checking account.

I’m the one who’s lost her life savings because of Seymour Lankey. I’m the one who solved the password mystery.

I’m taking control of this money. I need it. I deserve it. Some of it. A little tiny crumb of it. And that is final.”

Hoff said, “You can’t just wire six hundred million dollars into your checking account.”

“Why the hell not?” asked Emma. “And it’s not six hundred million. It’s $600,000,011.”

“It would be stealing,” said Hoff.

“I’m not going to keep it,” said Emma. “I just want to hold it.”

“Come to Verity before you do anything and we’ll talk more,” said Susan on the phone.

“We can talk all night,” said Emma. “But I’m not going to change my mind.”

An hour later, Emma and Hoff dropped off the car at Ransom House and took a taxi to the Verity Foundation

downtown. As soon as they opened the office door, government agents swarmed all over them. Emma was questioned for hours by various members of the FBI, IRS, and SEC. She steadfastly demanded an IOU for her share of the reward.

The federal agents were not amused.

Emma cursed Susan’s name. Repeatedly. She swore she’d never forgive her. But later that night, Susan brought her a roast turkey sandwich with chopped liver from the Second Avenue Deli and Emma forgave her anyway. The Good