Shadow Account (21 page)

“I still don’t want to—”

“I can get you and your dad those Yankee tickets.” Gavin could get tickets to any major event in New York City with twenty-four hours’ notice. And not for nosebleed seats. He got the best in the house. He was that connected. “The ones I got for you in the spring.”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Right behind the dugout?”

“Yup. I might even be able to get you into the clubhouse after the game.”

The opportunity to rub elbows with the Yankees was too much for Eddie. “Let me talk to Charles,” he said quickly, nodding at the other doorman.

“Okay.”

“Go wait by the elevators,” Eddie ordered, sauntering toward the other man. A few moments later he was back with a set of keys. “All right, let’s go. Charles says he’s never laid eyes on anybody in 7G either. He says it’s weird.”

The elevator rose quickly to seven. The doors parted, and they headed down the hallway, Eddie in the lead. When he reached 7G, he hesitated, glancing around, then knocked several times. When no one answered, Eddie slid the master key into the lock and pushed.

“Jesus,” Conner whispered, flipping on the lights.

“Damn,” Eddie murmured.

It was exactly as Conner had suspected. What had hit him as he’d stared into Rebecca’s eyes. There was nothing in 7G but the broken remains of his original furniture. Whoever was responsible for what had happened in his apartment last Wednesday night had used 7G as a staging area. A place to keep the identical furniture that would be swapped out with the smashed articles in his apartment—and a place to store the broken goods until they could be removed without drawing any attention.

Conner spotted a bucket in one corner of the living room. A long mop handle rose from it, propped against the bare wall. He hustled across the parquet floor, freezing when he reached the corner. Paralyzed as he stared down at the liquid. It was bloodred.

Jackie Rivera handed the taxi driver a twenty-dollar bill, and he took off without even asking if she wanted change. When the taillights disappeared around the corner, she glanced up and down the deserted, tree-lined street, then up at the four-story West Side brownstone. It was two o’clock in the morning.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance and she hurried toward the basement entrance. It was beneath the steps leading up to the brownstone’s main entrance on the second floor. She lived in the garden apartment, behind the thick black bars of a protective outer door.

She moaned as she moved carefully down the narrow slate path beside the front steps. The bulb outside the protective door was out and it was pitch black. She rooted through her purse, finally finding her keys. Glancing back over her shoulder when she heard something.

She tried to guide what she thought was the right key into the lock, but it wasn’t going in. Her hands shook as she tried the next one, but now she couldn’t find the keyhole.

Jackie screamed as a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder, dropping her purse as she turned to fight the attacker.

“Jo, it’s me.”

She brought her hands to her mouth, then threw her arms around Conner. “You scared me to death!”

“Sorry. I tried to call you a couple of times today, but I couldn’t get through.”

“I’ve been with my sister, and I turned my cell phone off,” she explained, trying to calm down. Still shaking badly.

“How is she?”

Jackie was silent.

“Jo?”

“Not good,” she said, her eyes tearing up. “Oh, Conner, it’s just . . . It’s just so hard.”

Conner pulled her close. “I’m sorry, Jo. I’m so sorry.”

16

It was early Tuesday morning. So early, the sun’s rays hadn’t begun to filter down through the humidity that had drifted back over the mid Atlantic yesterday afternoon, enveloping Washington in a gray haze. But they soon would, and he needed to be long gone before they shed any real light on the matter.

Lucas stood in a grove of trees near the Lincoln Memorial, gazing at the faint images of stars rippling in the reflecting pool—a man-made pond that stretched out several hundred yards in front of the steps leading up to the massive statue of the sixteenth president sitting in his great chair. Lucas lifted a cigarette slowly to his lips and inhaled deeply. He smoked only when he was under pressure. It had been that way ever since the night at Northwestern when Brenda had left him. The night she’d figured out how much better she could do. But tobacco did the trick. Moments ago, his fingers had been shaking so hard, he’d barely been able to light the match. Now they were dead calm. He leaned around a tree and peered into the gloom, but there was still no sign.

He put his head back and exhaled, blowing smoke up into the low-hanging branches. Make the move or not? That question had dogged him for the last forty-eight hours like a far-off drumbeat, gradually growing louder and louder. The problem was that he didn’t have all the information.

He had a lot of it. He knew for certain that Alan Bryson had received 550,000 in-the-money options from Global Components. While he was a member of the company’s board of directors—specifically, chairman of the audit committee. Fifty thousand directly to him and five hundred thousand to him via the AB Trust. Cheetah had confirmed through forensic accounting and several well-placed calls to friends in financial institutions around the world that Bryson ultimately controlled the trust. Those options were now worth over $35 million. But the real issue was that they had been worth almost $20 million
the day Bryson had received them
. Lucas also knew that Bryson had received the options the same year Global Components had hired a new auditor—Baker Mahaffey—which Cheetah believed was a huge red flag. And Bryson had motive for his fraud: paying off a huge sexual harassment suit.

Lucas had determined that Alan Bryson was not as close with the Beltway Boys as they were with each other. Bryson wasn’t actually as much of an insider as the press portrayed. Bryson was close to the president, but not to the jewels. In fact, Franklin Bennett, with his close connections to Sheldon Gray and Walter Deagan, was actually more of a Beltway Boy than Bryson. Lucas had learned this Sunday from a woman he knew at the Pentagon. Sometimes it was an advantage to seem meek.

Finally, Lucas knew that the president had very publicly made Alan Bryson his second in command on Project Trust. And told the nation that he was a man of unquestionable character in a speech only a few nights ago.

But Lucas couldn’t yet
prove
that Bryson had received all those options as the result of a quid pro quo. He couldn’t prove Cheetah’s theory about Bryson agreeing to look the other way while the new accountants from Baker Mahaffey performed black magic on Global’s financial statements. If he could, Bryson had a problem. Then, so would the president.

Lucas couldn’t prove the quid pro quo yet. But he had a pretty good idea of how and where to start.

Another thing Lucas needed more information about were the specifics of what the president had planned for corporate America, Wall Street, and the accounting world. There were rumors that what was coming was catastrophic, but that might just be a bunch of bullshit. The speech the president had promised—detailing his plans to stop the pirating of 401Ks and IRAs and restore trust to the financial system—might be a huge disappointment.

Make the move or not?
Be a man or not?
That was the real question. And he’d need to swallow a heavy dose of courage before he could answer in the affirmative.

He grimaced and looked down. He might need a dose of that courage before he had dinner tonight, too. He was meeting Brenda at a nice place downtown. She had suggested it on the voice mail she’d left at his apartment the other day—he was allowed to check his machine once a day. He’d finally called her back this afternoon to accept—after starting to call at least six times, then hanging up.

Lucas took a long drag from the cigarette. So many years and so much pain. He was proud of himself for calling her back. It was something he probably wouldn’t have done a couple of weeks ago.

After placing that ten of diamonds in the mailbox, Lucas had met Sunday afternoon with one of Franklin Bennett’s lieutenants at the Vietnam Memorial, after having lunch with his friend from the Pentagon. But he hadn’t told the low-level West Winger anything important. All he’d communicated was that he needed to meet directly with Bennett.

Now that meeting was scheduled. It would be tomorrow. Adrenaline surged through Lucas at the thought of confronting the president’s chief of staff, and he quickly brought the cigarette to his lips again. The plan could backfire so easily. Which was why he was standing in a grove of trees near the Lincoln Memorial at four in the morning. He had to gather as much data as possible before facing Bennett.

In the dim light, Lucas spotted someone walking alongside the reflecting pond. Though he could make out no specific physical features, he recognized Harry Kaplan’s distinctive limp.

Lucas moved out of the trees, careful to avoid the exposed roots snaking across the ground. “Harry,” he called softly as he broke the tree line and stepped onto the sidewalk beside the water.

Kaplan squinted into the darkness. “Oh, hello,” he said, extending his arm as they came together.

Lucas flicked the butt of his cigarette into the reflecting pond, and they shook hands. Harry Kaplan wasn’t just another speechwriter on the deputy chief’s staff. Not one of the people who opened a can from a closet and touched up a few words here and there for an early November VFW rally. Roscoe Burns used Kaplan to draft original speeches that mattered. State of the Union and direct-from-the-Oval-Office communications to the entire country. Like the one last Friday night introducing Project Trust. Because of that, Kaplan had inside information. Information that could help Lucas find his courage.

“Thanks for coming, Harry.”

Kaplan nodded. “How was your weekend? Did your friends from Illinois enjoy Washington?”

“Huh?”

“Your friends. The people that were coming to see you for the weekend.”

“Oh,
oh right
.” Lucas suddenly remembered what he’d told Kaplan in Georgetown on Friday afternoon. “Yes, they had a great time. Thanks for asking.”

“Sure.”

“Look, I know this may seem a little strange,” Lucas said with a self-conscious grin. “Meeting out here at four in the morning and all.”

“A little,” Kaplan agreed warily, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

But he’d come anyway, and Lucas was pleased with himself for knowing that the other man would do so without asking questions—at least beforehand. Kaplan loved mystery, manifested in the way he played chess. He was constantly trying to use deception to mask his true attack. He just wasn’t very good at it.

Kaplan was a wizard with words, but that was all he was used for at the West Wing. He often complained that if the deputy chief of staff would just give him more information and give it to him sooner, he’d be able to write even better speeches. But Roscoe Burns didn’t let him in on the most essential data until the very end. Which Kaplan resented. Another reason he’d agreed to meet under mysterious circumstances, Lucas knew. After two years in the West Wing, Kaplan wanted to feel he was more of an insider—as everyone in Washington wanted to feel. But he wasn’t getting that from the deputy chief.

“It had to be this way,” Lucas began ominously.

“Why?”

Lucas glanced back at the grove where he’d waited for Kaplan. Dawn was breaking over the trees. He needed to make this quick. “You have to promise me you won’t say a word to anybody at home.”

“I promise.”

“I’m working on a project directly for Franklin Bennett,” Lucas explained. “It’s top secret.”

Kaplan’s eyes widened. “Really? I had no idea you were close to Bennett. You never told me that.”

“I couldn’t,” Lucas answered, using a self-important tone to enforce the false perception. “Franklin doesn’t want anyone to suspect something is going on. But he’s given me permission to talk to you, and
only
you.” Which was a complete lie. Bennett would have a heart attack if he knew this meeting was taking place. But the hell with him.

“Wow. What’s going on?”

“The deputy chief might confront you at some point to see if you have been approached. If he does, you cannot admit that our meeting took place. You must keep our communication to yourself.”

“I swear to you, Lucas. I won’t tell anybody.”

Lucas suppressed a smile. It had been so easy to hook Kaplan. As easy as it was to beat him on the chessboard. “Here’s the deal. Bennett’s concerned that the deputy chief of staff, your boss, may not be giving him complete information on a certain issue. That Burns may be holding back on some very important data. Or worse, that Burns may be a loose cannon.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Kaplan agreed. “He’s cocky, and he hates Bennett. But what kind of information are we talking about? What’s the issue?”

“Project Trust,” Lucas replied. “I need to know exactly what’s going into the president’s speech that will detail Project Trust. I need to know what the president is going to propose.”

Kaplan didn’t answer right away.

Lucas stared at the other man through the feeble light, trying to assess the hesitation. “Has the deputy chief conveyed these things to you yet?” That could be the problem. Kaplan might not know specifics yet. “Harry?”

“He’s told me certain things,” Kaplan confirmed quietly.

“Well?” Lucas prodded. “What?”

“This is strange.”

“What is?”

“Roscoe Burns told me that all information concerning Project Trust is highly confidential. He told me I couldn’t say anything to anyone.” Kaplan paused. “Even to Franklin Bennett. He mentioned Bennett by name, and he’s never done that before, Lucas.”

A shiver charged up Lucas’s spine. Roscoe Burns should never be telling
anyone
on his staff to keep
anything
from Franklin Bennett. The directive had to have come directly from the president himself. Suddenly Cheetah’s speculation didn’t seem so crazy.

“The president is really going to come down hard on these people,” Kaplan spoke up. “
Really
hard.”

Lucas nodded. “Specifics, Harry. Come on.”

“Next week, the president is going to announce sweeping regulatory changes for Wall Street,” Kaplan began. “And intense oversight of corporate boards and specific requirements for the way public accounting firms conduct audits,” he continued. “It’s armageddon for corporate America, and the president is completely committed to it. According to Burns, the president is willing to go nuclear on this. And you know what? He’s got the votes on the Hill to do it.”

It was exactly as Cheetah had speculated. Or was it really speculation, Lucas wondered. Maybe Cheetah knew more than he was letting on. Maybe he and Bennett had planned this. Lucas had to be so careful. He was walking through a nest of vipers, and the key to taking advantage of the situation would be to anticipate the strikes, just as he did in chess. Or maybe he’d have to turn into a snake himself and become the smartest viper in the pit. “Tell me about the new Wall Street regulations.”

Kaplan chuckled. “When the president gets through with all this, and I’m quoting Roscoe Burns now,” Kaplan said, interrupting himself, “investment bankers will be trading in their white collars for blue ones because they’ll be lucky to earn minimum wage.”

“How’s he going to make that happen?”

“The president is going to propose a pricing grid for
everything
Wall Street does. From mergers and acquisition deals to initial public offerings to selling shares to your grandmother. It’s effectively going to chop fees the suspender-set can charge to a bare minimum. A government oversight board will be created to enforce the grid and will have the right to review any transaction it wants. If the oversight board finds that an investment bank charged more than what the grid allows, or if the institution can’t provide the information concerning a transaction the board has requested details on immediately—probably within twenty-four hours of the board’s request—heavy fines and sanctions will be levied. It’s going to be worse than a public utility commission, for Christ’s sake. Of course, the real reason to implement this whole thing is so that the government can look at everything Wall Street does. To make transparent an industry that’s operated in the shadows for a hundred years. In the process, the president will slash investment banking compensation to the bone. The days of kids just out of business school making millions are over, and it will be even worse for the top guys.” Kaplan smiled. “Personally, I love it. I’m tired of hearing about these big shots making ten to twenty million dollars a year to press a few palms and play eighteen holes three times a week.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “But listen to this. This is the kicker. The president is going to propose raising the top marginal income tax rate for individuals to
seventy-five percent
.”

Lucas caught his breath. “Seventy-five percent?”

“Seventy-five percent,” Kaplan confirmed excitedly. “Most people don’t remember, but it was that high before. Back when Nixon was in office. But yeah—seventy-five percent. That rate will apply to all income over a million dollars. Plus he’s going to wipe out deductions for those people. No exceptions. At the same time, he’s going to lower rates on the middle and lower class. And like I said, he’s got the votes to do it.”

Before Kaplan had finished the sentence, Lucas was off, sprinting down the sidewalk beside the reflecting pool.

“Hey!” Kaplan called. “Where are you going?”

Lucas didn’t answer. There wasn’t much time.