Shadow Account (23 page)

“Good morning, Vic Hammond’s office.”

“Patricia?”

“Yes, this is Patricia.”

Patricia was Hammond’s assistant. The young woman who had handed him his “lost” briefcase yesterday morning. And confirmed that a young person named Phil Reeves, nicknamed Rusty, worked at Baker Mahaffey for Vic.

“Hi, it’s Conner Ashby. I was down there yesterday seeing Vic. You were very helpful finding my briefcase.” Leaving the briefcase in Hammond’s office had worked perfectly. Giving him an excuse to return to Baker Mahaffey and speak to Patricia without Vic there.

“Oh, hello, Conner.”

“Vic’s out today, right?”

“Yes, he’s out the rest of the week.”

“Could you give me his cell number?” Conner wanted to confirm Hammond’s call to Gavin about Global Components. “It’s important that I speak to him as soon as possible about a transaction we discussed yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, Conner. Vic doesn’t let me give out that number.”

“Well, could you tell him I called? And have him call me on my cell phone?”

“Of course. What’s your number?”

Conner reeled off the digits. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Is Rusty in?”

“No, he’s with Vic.”

“Is he out all week, too?”

“I don’t know. If you can wait a sec, I’ll check with his assistant.”

“Thanks.”

Conner glanced up and down the sidewalk again, then across the street at the doorman. He was still there, hands clasped behind his back.

Patricia came back on the line. “Conner?”

“Yes.”

“Rusty should be in the office tomorrow afternoon.”

“So he’s flying back from Minneapolis in the morning.”

“Yes. He and Vic have a business dinner scheduled out there tonight.”

“But I thought you said Vic was going to be out all week.”

“That’s right.”

“So he’s going down to Miami from Minneapolis.” It was a shot in the dark. Conner had no idea where Hammond was going. “I think he mentioned that to me yesterday during our meeting.”

“That’s right,” Patricia confirmed. “Miami.”

“Thanks for your help, and please ask Vic to call me.”

“I will.”

“Oh, one more thing,” he spoke up quickly.

“Yes?”

“The woman you just spoke to. Rusty’s assistant.”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s her name?”

“Theresa.”

“And her extension?”

Conner jotted the number down. “Thanks a lot.”

His next call was to Jackie.

“Hello.”

“Jo.”

“Hi, Conner.”

He smiled as he heard her voice perk up. “You okay?”

“I’m all right,” Jackie said with a sigh. I’d be doing better if you were here. By the way, I have a couple of things to tell you.”

“Oh?”

She started to explain, but Conner cut her off. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. Something just came up.” The doorman was ambling down the street toward a newsstand on the corner. “Tell you what, let’s meet at that coffee shop over on Thirty-sixth in an hour,” he suggested, moving out of the doorway. “The place where we had breakfast last month. Remember?”

“Why don’t you come by my office?”

“Just meet me at the coffee shop in an hour.” They could be everywhere now, he realized. Watching everyone he knew.

“Conner, I—”

Conner stepped up onto the curb in front of the apartment building and shut the cell phone, cutting off the call. He had to at least get to the mailboxes. Liz used AT&T Wireless for her cell phone service, just like Paul Stone. Stone’s monthly bill had come yesterday. Maybe Liz’s had, too.

Conner had studied Stone’s bill on the way to the office this morning, checking the list of calls made in July. He hadn’t found anything suspicious. Most of the calls had been to or from Gavin’s many numbers. As well as to Stone’s extension at Phenix—Stone checking voice mail. But there were several numbers Conner didn’t recognize. Now he wanted to check Liz’s bill.

He moved into the building and hurried toward the back of the lobby, spotting the mailboxes past the elevator banks. Rows and rows of small silver doors. He found K-5 quickly and reached into his pocket for a flathead screwdriver he’d bought on the way over. The locks on the mailboxes would be easy to snap if they were like the ones in his building.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The doorman rushed toward him, a folded newspaper clutched in one hand.

Conner squeezed his right hand into a fist. The doorman was small, no more than five five. He’d fall like a bag of potatoes with one good shot to the chin.

But then a maintenance man appeared at a side door, poking his head out to see what was going on. “What’s wrong, Andy?” he called.

Conner slowly unclenched his fist.

“This guy snuck past me when I went to the corner to buy a
Post
,” Andy explained, pointing at Conner.

“I didn’t
sneak
past anybody,” Conner said. “I’m here to see a friend, and there wasn’t anyone at the front desk when I came in. It isn’t my fault you weren’t here.”

“Who you here to see?”

“Liz Shaw. She lives in K-5.”

“There’s no one in K-5 named Liz Shaw,” Andy said suspiciously. “The woman in K-5 is named Tori, and she’s away on vacation right now.”

Conner’s eyes narrowed.
“Tori?”

“Yeah.”

That was a curveball. “When will she be back?”

“She didn’t say.”

“When did she leave?”

Andy thought for a moment. “Wednesday. She gave me the heads up that morning. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What does she look like?”

“Who wants to know?” Andy asked defiantly.

“You okay, Andy?” the maintenance guy called down the lobby.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll yell if I need you.”

The other man ducked back inside the doorway.

Conner reached for his wallet and took out a twenty. “This is important,” he said, pressing the money into the other man’s palm.

“Must not be
that
important.”

Conner handed him another twenty. “
Now
, what does Tori look like?”

“In a word, gorgeous,” Andy said, slipping the cash into his shirt pocket. “Makes my day every time I see her.”

“How tall is she?”

“About five eight.”

“Hair color?”

“Blond.” Andy smiled lewdly. “She’s got a hell of a set of jugs on her, too,” he said. “Face out of
Cosmo
and a body out of
Hustler
. The kind of woman that makes nations go to war, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Conner agreed in a low voice, “I do.”

Andy had just described Liz Shaw.

Conner pointed to the rows of mailboxes. “What’s happening to Tori’s mail while she’s away? Is it just piling up in her box?”

“Nope. I’m taking care of it.”

“Gavin.”

The old man looked up from his
New York Times
. Paul Stone stood in the office doorway. “What?”

“Have you gotten your July cell phone bill?”

Gavin nodded. “Lynn gave it to me yesterday. It’s in my briefcase. Why?”

“I’m pretty sure Rebecca put mine in my in-box yesterday, too. But it’s not there now.” He turned to go, but Gavin called him back.

“What happened to your office, Paul? It looked like a tornado hit.”

Stone shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Lynn appeared in the doorway behind Stone. “Gavin?”

“Yes?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated.

“What is it?” he pushed, putting down the newspaper.

“I feel like a real snitch, but I think you should know.”

“Know what?”

“Conner was in here early this morning. He was going through your desk.”

Conner called Jackie on her cell phone as he crouched beside a tire.

“Hello.”

“Jo?” he whispered.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Jo.”

“Conner?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I can barely hear you. This connection is terrible.”

The fact that she could barely hear him had nothing to do with the connection, and everything to do with the fact that he didn’t want to give away his hiding place. He was keeping his voice very low.

He raised up from behind a Volvo sedan and checked the dimly lit area. He was on the sixth level of a parking garage near Grand Central Station. A few blocks from the apartment building on Fifty-first, he spotted the guy who chased him at Newark Airport yesterday morning. Recognized him on the sidewalk and ran like hell. Making a snap decision to enter the parking garage as he rounded a street corner. Running all the way up the stairwell from the ground level. His heart was still pounding.

“I’m at the coffee shop,” Jackie said. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What did you say? I can’t—”

“I’m not going to be able to get there,” Conner said, raising his voice so she could hear. His words echoed loudly around the garage. “Something’s come up.” He thought he heard a door close in the distance. He was supposed to be at Merrill by noon to find out why Liz Shaw—or Tori—had left the firm.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” he assured her, easing back down behind the Volvo. “What information do you have for me?”

“Two things. Remember I told you about that person at Time Warner?”

“Yes.”

“He tracked down the AOL e-mail address.”

“And?”

“You want it now?”

“Yes. Hold on.” Conner pulled out a pen and the piece of paper Liz’s address was written on. “Okay, go ahead.”

“The Internet service is billed to an address in Queens.”

Queens. Here was confirmation that Rusty hadn’t sent the e-mail on Wednesday night. At least, not the Rusty from Baker Mahaffey. Conner had started wondering about that as soon as Hammond had insisted on being called Vic. The e-mail had been addressed to Victor. Someone like Rusty, who worked with Hammond all the time, would have used Vic.

“Queens?”

“Yes. The street address is 662 Greenport Avenue.”

Conner almost dropped his pen. “Really?”

“Does that address mean something to you?”

“Maybe.” Not maybe, definitely.

“What, Conner?” she pressed. “What does it mean?”

“I’ll tell you later. What was the other piece of information?”

“Conner!”

“Please, Jo!”

She paused. “I called my contact at the SEC.”

“Jo, you swore you wouldn’t do that! I told you I needed to take care of this myself. I can’t have the authorities involved.”

“I didn’t tell him anything about you,” Jackie snapped. “I told you I wouldn’t do that, Conner. I keep my promises.”

“I’m sorry,” he said soothingly, taking a deep breath. The pressure was starting to get to him.

She was silent for a few moments.

“Come on, Jo,” Conner pleaded. “I don’t have much time. What else were you going to tell me?”

“I shouldn’t tell you now,” she said, pouting.

“Please. I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but that’s no excuse. It’s nothing compared to what you’re dealing with.”

She sighed. “All right, all right. Earlier this year, Paul Stone was under investigation for insider trading.”

Conner pressed the cell phone tightly to his ear.

“It seems Stone found out something negative about a public company from an insider,” she continued. “From a senior executive at the company. Something the market wasn’t aware of. So he bought a bunch of put options on the company’s stock, knowing the price would dive once the market heard the bad news. Then he released what he knew on the company’s chat board. It had to do with a product liability lawsuit that was only days away from being filed. Stone thought he was doing everything anonymously, but the Feds tracked down the information release on the chat board to his computer. Then they studied Stone’s trading activity and figured out what had happened.” Jackie hesitated. “It didn’t involve a whole lot of money, but here’s the wild part. My contact said that suddenly the investigation was kicked upstairs, and he never heard anything more about it.”

Conner eased back against the garage wall. “Why did your contact at the SEC
happen
to tell you this?” he asked suspiciously.

“I swear I didn’t mention your name, Conner. I asked him to check out the senior people at Phenix for me. Smith and Stone. I want to help you, Conner. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Why did you use that tone of voice?
Happen
to tell me. How can you possibly think I would do anything to hurt you?”

Because I can’t trust anyone at this point, he wanted to say.

“You need to leave Phenix immediately,” Jackie said. “Please, Conner. Gavin Smith and Paul Stone are bad people.”

Conner took a deep breath. “What’s the good word for today, Jo?”

Jackie was silent for a few moments. “Figure out who your friends are, Conner. It could save your life.”

He could hear the emotion in her voice. “Jo.”

“Yes?”

“I love you, sweetheart.” It was the first time he’d ever said those words to anyone. He could almost hear her smile.

“You better,” she murmured.

18

Jerry Mitchell was a Merrill Lynch bond trader Conner had met through a friend of a friend at a bar one night. He was light-haired and big-boned, chronically disheveled, and constantly stuffing his face with something fatty. Conner saw Jerry every few weeks for a beer, and they’d become good friends.

“Hey, man,” Jerry called as he barged into the lobby from the trading floor. Jerry said
man
as much as Gavin said
pal
.

“Hi.” Conner heard people yelling and shouting behind the door Mitchell had just come through.

“Sorry to make you hoof it all the way down here from Midtown,” Jerry said apologetically, guiding Conner to a far corner of the room, “but I couldn’t tell you this stuff over the phone. They tape all calls on the trading floor. And I don’t want to get sideways with Human Resources for telling you all this juice, you know?”

“Sure. By the way, thanks for getting me that rental car.”

“No problem.” Jerry winked. “Maybe next time we get a beer you’ll tell me why you wanted it parked over by the Port Authority.”

“Oh, it was just that I—”

“So, why do you want to know what happened with this chick?” Jerry interrupted impatiently “You dating her or something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Well, what is it?”

“She applied for a job at Phenix,” Conner explained, using the same story he had with Ted Davenport.

Jerry’s grin widened. “I’d definitely hire her then.”

“Why? What’s the deal?”

“She’s a stripper.”

“You’re kidding.”
Conner saw the receptionist glance over at them.

“She must be hot, right?”

A stripper. Liz Shaw was a stripper. He couldn’t believe it. “How do you—?”

“Here’s what the HR guy told me,” Jerry said, “and this is strictly on the QT, man.”

“Sure, sure,” Conner agreed, still stunned.

“Last year a couple guys in our mergers and acquisitions group were doing a deal for a company in Miami.”

Conner felt his heart skip a beat. Miami again.

“It was a nice deal,” Mitchell continued. “When it was done and the checks cleared, our guys hosted a big closing dinner for everybody at some five-star joint on the waterfront downtown. Merrill made a ton of money selling this business to a
Fortune
500 company, and our guys wanted to show their appreciation for being picked to do the job over Morgan Sayers and Harper Manning.”

Which was typical. Investment banks always hosted swanky dinners after closing a big deal. “And?”

“There was a lot of booze. By the time dinner was over, people were up for anything. A couple of the guys suggested going to a strip club, so they all piled in a limousine and headed to a place called the Executive Suite. I talked to a trader at a brokerage firm down in Miami yesterday, and I found out it’s a pretty exclusive spot. Like five hundred bucks a head just to get in the door. But the chicks are supposed to be awesome and pretty much anything goes once you’re inside. One of the selling shareholders at the closing dinner knew about the place, and it was his idea to go over there.” Jerry chuckled. “I guess there were some pretty interesting stories that came out of that evening.”

Conner bit his lip. Probably involving Liz. Which was why Jerry had asked if he was dating her. And why she would
never
have wanted to be on the street. Someone might have recognized her because you never knew who you were going to run into in Manhattan. Then she’d have had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

“Did one of the Merrill M and A guys identify Liz Shaw?” Conner asked, his voice shaking. He’d been played the whole time.

“Not exactly,” Jerry answered. “After the transaction, the selling shareholders had a pile of cash to invest and our high net worth people convinced them to stick a bunch of it with us here in New York. In Ted Davenport’s group. A couple of weeks ago one of the sellers was up here from Miami to check on his money, and he saw Liz Shaw walk past Ted’s office. Turns out she was one of the strippers from the night of the closing dinner. I guess he had one of those interesting stories and Liz Shaw was involved. Anyway, the guy jumps out of his chair and goes after her. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. She recognizes him right away and takes off. They can’t find her for a few hours, but when she finally shows up again, the HR people call her in. They’d contacted the club in Miami and confirmed everything after the guy ratted her out. He told Davenport how he knew her. He’d divorced his wife after selling the company and getting all the money, so he didn’t care.” Jerry laughed as he finished the explanation. “It’s the old six degrees of separation.”

“What?” Conner was barely listening. He was thinking of Liz. How everything she’d told him had been a lie.

“You know, how we’re all separated by six degrees, at most. How you can connect yourself to everyone else through six other people. Six at most. It’s usually three or four.”

Conner glanced up. “It seems strange to me that Liz Shaw would use the same name in New York as she did as a stripper in Miami.”

“She didn’t,” Jerry replied. “Her stage name at the Executive Suite was Tori. But the physical description fit, and she had this tiny little tattoo of a lady bug right here,” he said, pointing at his hip. He laughed harshly. “The guy who was visiting Davenport knew all about that tattoo. I guess he’d gotten a close-up look at it that night after the closing dinner.”

Liz had a scar in that spot about the size of a dime, Conner remembered. She’d claimed it was the result of an injury as a teenager, but that had been just another lie. Just like her name. Just like everything.

Lucas almost stopped breathing when Brenda Miller stepped through the restaurant door. He felt himself getting dizzy, and he had to consciously inhale and exhale for a few moments to get his breath back as he watched her approach the maître d’ stand. As he watched the maître d’ nod and lead her down the aisle toward the table where he was sitting. He’d gazed at that old picture of her at least once a day for the last twelve years, and suddenly here she was. Back in his life.

Lucas had craved a cigarette on the walk over from his apartment to J. Paul’s—the restaurant Harry Kaplan had been looking for Friday afternoon—but he’d forced himself not to pull the pack out. He’d spent a lot of money on cologne, and he didn’t want the smell of tobacco smoke ruining it.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stood up. They were shaking like saplings in a thunderstorm. She was fifteen minutes late, and he’d convinced himself that she had decided at the last minute to abandon him. Like she had at Northwestern.

“Lucas!” she cried, spotting him.

A smile Lucas couldn’t help ran across his face. He’d wanted to stay calm during their first few moments, almost aloof. To make her believe he hadn’t missed her so much. But, as she pushed past the maître d’ and ran toward him, he couldn’t control his emotions.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” she gushed, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. “I was so glad you called.”

Lucas saw the maître d’ give Brenda a snobby look at her public display of affection, but he couldn’t have cared less. “It’s nice to see you, too,” he murmured. Was his voice calm? He couldn’t tell.

“You smell good.” She kissed his cheek, then ran her nose lightly along his neck.

The sensation brought goose bumps to his skin.

Brenda reached down and pulled her chair close to his, then sat, taking his arm and pulling him down beside her. “Wow.”

“What?” he asked, another grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. As he eased into the chair, she placed her hand on the inside of his thigh, and it had an electric effect.

“I get the feeling you’re a very different person from the one I knew in Chicago.”

“I am,” Lucas said firmly. “What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping away the tear that had suddenly appeared on her cheek. “What is it, Brenda?”

She shut her eyes tightly. “I treated you so badly, Lucas,” she whispered. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Amy Richards’s mother stood in the doorway of the Queens row house, scowling at Conner. “Hello,” she finally said in a scratchy voice. “Come in. Amy’s almost ready.”

“Thank you.” Conner followed her into the living room of the modest home at 662 Greenport Avenue.

“Stay here. I’ll tell her you’re waiting.”

“Thank you.”

Conner wanted to search the house and find the computer the e-mail had come from. The one from Rusty to Victor. He wanted to go through the “Sent Items” file and see it for himself. He slipped into the living room as Amy’s mother walked slowly toward the kitchen. But Amy had probably deleted the e-mail completely from her computer moments after sending it. She would have been instructed to do so.

When Jackie had told him the billing address this morning, Conner couldn’t believe it. The address was Amy’s. He recalled it right away from the night he’d taken a cab out here to pick her up on their first date—she’d made a big deal out of the fact that he hadn’t made her get herself into Manhattan like other guys did. And she’d confirmed her address this afternoon when he’d called to make arrangements for the date they’d agreed to last Saturday in Central Park. She’d offered to meet him in the city, but he’d refused, reminding her how she’d been so impressed with his chivalry on their first date. But this time he didn’t really care if she was impressed.

When Amy’s mother disappeared into the kitchen, Conner moved quickly to the small fireplace and began checking each of the family photographs lining the mantel. He was searching for one in particular. A picture of Amy holding her son he remembered from one of the times he’d come to pick her up. Amy’s mother had shown him the photographs while Amy was still upstairs, getting ready.

He moved along the mantel, scanning each picture. He could hear Amy’s mother calling, then Amy’s footsteps on the stairs. He came to the end of the line, but couldn’t find the photo he was looking for. The one that looked most like her now.

As he heard Amy reach the bottom of the steps, he glanced over at a table beside a chair in a corner of the room. Bingo. There it was. He hustled to the table, picked up the picture, and slipped it into his jacket pocket—just as Amy came around the corner.

“Hello, there.” She moved to where he was and leaned forward to slip her arms around him and give him a kiss.

But he caught her hands as their lips met. He didn’t want her feeling the picture in his pocket. That would be tough to explain.

“What is it, Lucas?”

Cheetah smiled as they stood in the same corner of the Union Station parking garage they had last Sunday night. The dome of the Capitol so close it seemed to Lucas he could reach out and touch it. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

“You got a little shit-eating grin on your face. And, if I’m not mistaken, I smell cologne. What’s that all about?”

“It’s not about anything.”

Thirty minutes ago, he’d said good-bye to Brenda after a three-hour dinner. She’d been so impressed with everything about him. The fact that he worked in the West Wing of the
White House
. The fact that he knew the president’s chief of staff so well. And how he was working on a highly confidential project directly for Franklin Bennett. He’d probably told her more than he should have, but nothing too sensitive. Nothing that would get him in trouble.

It was as if it had been only twelve days since he’d seen her, not twelve years. She’d apologized several times during dinner for how immature she’d been in college, and given him a nice kiss just before getting in the cab. They’d made another date for Saturday night, and suddenly he remembered what it was like as a child to anticipate Christmas. How the minutes seemed to pass like hours.

“Come on, Lucas,” Cheetah urged. “What are you wearing?”

“Why did you want to see me tonight?” Lucas demanded, tempted to tell Cheetah about Brenda and what he was anticipating on Saturday. To let Cheetah know exactly what kind of man Lucas Avery was.

“Okay, okay.” Cheetah’s expression turned serious. “There’s weird shit going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke to another person in New York today.”

“Not the friend with the special client?”

“No. Someone in the Justice Department up there.”

Lucas looked up from the cigarette he was lighting.
“Justice?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you talking to somebody at Justice?”

“Because a couple of people there have an interest in Global Components, too.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No.”

“What’s their interest?”

“Do you recognize the name Gavin Smith?”

Lucas took a puff from the cigarette. “Vaguely. Not sure exactly—”

“Smith was a big wheel on Wall Street a couple of years ago. Now he’s started his own little investment banking firm in Manhattan. It’s called Phenix Capital.”

“So?”

“So somebody at Justice has a hard-on for him.”

“Why?”

“Seems this somebody use to work at Harper Manning, one of the big investment banks in Manhattan. Before he went to the Justice Department. The same place Gavin Smith worked before he started Phenix.”

“And?” Lucas asked impatiently.

“The reason the guy went to Justice was because Gavin Smith fired him,” Cheetah explained. “It was real bullshit, too. Smith had made some big mistake, so he fired this guy to cover himself. Now the guy wants to stick it to Smith real bad. He’s trying to hang an insider trading charge on Smith’s neck. And using some kid named Conner Ashby to do it. Ashby has no idea what’s really going on, but he did visit a man named Glen Frolling yesterday.”

“The treasurer of Global Components?” Over the last several days Lucas had reviewed everything he could get his hands on concerning Global Components.

“And the secretary to Global’s board of directors.”

“Why did Ashby go down there?” Lucas asked excitedly, taking a long puff from the cigarette. “What does that have to do with an insider trading charge?”

“I couldn’t find out much, but my friend told me Ashby’s ultimate objective may have a great deal in common with yours.”