Man in the Middle (35 page)

“Okay, now that we’ve determined it’s insanity, keep talking. When you get to the part about aliens inhabiting bodies, I’ll call a good shrink I know.”

“Please, Kate. You don’t have to believe me—I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t—but don’t make fun of me. This is serious. I may not be a good boyfriend—or even a good run-of-the-mill friend—but this isn’t a joke.”

Kate pulled the door wide open. “Fine, Peter. I won’t make fun of you. And I’ll even listen for a while, at least until Father comes back. But when he does, I’ll let him take over. I’m sure he’ll be able to set the record straight and sort out whatever mess you think you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Peter mumbled a thank-you and stumbled in. Later that day, trying to visualize the home’s palatial interior, he would draw a blank. He didn’t notice the marble floor, the spiral staircase, the million-foot ceiling hovering over the entrance hallway, or the chandelier dripping crystal daggers and refracting light. A French provincial sofa and an inlaid mahogany sideboard could have been vegetable crates for all the notice he paid them. A mantel clock echoed off Spanish tile, but Peter’s thoughts drowned out the sound. He saw and heard nothing, or whatever he saw and heard never passed into long-term memory. Passionate Kate blanketed his senses, even overshadowing some of his fears.

“I
did
intend to call,” he said as he trailed her into the main part of the house. “I wanted to see you. I don’t have a good reason for not phoning. I don’t even have a made-up bad reason.” He restrained a desire to reach out and touch her. “I missed you.”

“You’ve missed me?” Kate violently spun around, driving an exclamation point to her incredulity. “We sleep together, though I engineered that. But then you say nice, sweet things, like all that blather about us seeing where our relationship goes. We exchange a couple of emails, then you stop writing. I call, invite you to some parties. You’re too busy with work. Okay, I think to myself, that happens. You still
sound
interested. But that’s only because you’re too much of a coward to tell me to butt-out—”

“No. That’s—”

“Then, I call. The phone might just as well have been a gun, put to my head. Bang. Then bang, bang, bang. I keep firing, only I’m not a good enough marksman to hit my teeny-tiny brain. I leave messages. You know how many messages?”

Peter didn’t make a move.

“No, of course you don’t. Ten. I left ten messages. At first I worried you’d been hurt. Then, foolishly, I asked myself: why would a nice guy, with manners and charm, who seemed to like me, not return a simple phone call? I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t have an answer now. Maybe it’s because I was wrong, and you aren’t a nice guy. There. That’s my summation, Peter.”

“I’m a fool.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said, heading towards her father’s library. Peter followed.

Speaking to her back, he said, “When I heard you’d gotten engaged, it hit me. I didn’t realize how dumb I was.”

“Why are you trying to hurt me?”

“I’m not. And maybe you should marry this professor-book person. I’m in no position to offer an opinion. But I’ve learned one thing from all this.”

“And what’s that?” she asked.

“That sometimes the heart is the last to learn. I realize I’ve done something really, really stupid.”

Kate turned and her face softened, but for only a fraction of a fraction of a second. “Stop it, Peter. I don’t want to hear any of this. I’m going to marry a kind man.”

“I understand. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

“Let’s skip my problems. Do you need an attorney?”

“You volunteering?”

“Maybe. Let’s hear.”

Peter hoped the reference to her “problems” meant she had second thoughts about marriage, and he filed the thought away. “I realize this sounds idiotic,” said Peter, “but your dad knows things that might help me understand how deep I’m in.”

For the next hour, Peter replayed events. He mentioned photos from the sports bar, the intimation that his mother’s death may not have been an accident, her letter to him, and the registered envelopes.

Kate fit her attorney cap over her emotions and pretended to be detached, interested in the plight of a potential client-in-need. She listened and then explained that “registered mail is the poor man’s copyright. The date of delivery and the seal prove that a document is original. If someone, after that date, claims a document as their own—that is, tries to steal someone’s intellectual property—the registered envelope proves the creator’s prior claim.”

“That’s what Mom meant then—that leaving the envelopes unopened should prove I hadn’t seen or copied the contents.”

“What’s in those envelopes?”

“Don’t know and don’t want to know.”

“What else can you tell me?”

Peter highlighted recent trading activities—those he participated in and those he knew of secondhand. He recounted the meeting with her father the other day and the surprise confrontation with Agent Oliver Dawson. When he finished, Kate stopped for a long minute. Finally, she said, “My father warned you not to rock the boat? What do you think he meant?”

“At work, to just do my job.”

“Was he suggesting you break any securities laws?”

“No. In fact, he said I should be careful not to. But in the same breath, he tried to explain away all those other situations. Breaking the Indonesian bank. Brazil. Even how paying for information in certain cultures or countries is a necessity. I already told you how we use non-public information to make easy money. You think I’ve broken any laws?”

“Probably. But it sounds rampant.”

“Why does Dawson need me then? With so much illegal activity, why not just come in and clean house?”

“Even if what you say is true, it’s nearly impossible to prove. What and when someone knew something, as well as their intentions, are difficult or impossible to prove without internal, corroborating testimony. The fact-patterns you’ve detailed are easily explained away. It sounds as if my father did an effective job explaining away most of these situations the other day.”

“You’re right,” agreed Peter. “His arguments did sound convincing.”

“And records. Obtaining records is impossible if the accounts are domiciled in the right sovereignties. Having said all that, though, did you ever consider that what my father said may be true? That this is nothing more than aggressive risk-taking? After all, you’re not a lawyer.”

“I hoped that
was
the case. But if it’s all so innocent, why am I under such close scrutiny all of a sudden? I open my fat mouth about finding a letter and some sealed papers, and I’ve got the world’s biggest shadow following me everywhere I go. And then there’s backtrading? I don’t believe it has anything to do with correcting errors. I believe Stuart Grimes told me straight. This is about moving money. Big money.”

“For who? You think this Dawson guy was serious about cartel money? Come on, Peter. Not Father. Not Morgan. I’ve known her my entire life. She’s my godmother. No, there’s got to be something else. They may well be protecting their interests against Dawson, but who can blame them? He’s already fired one shot and failed with the Treasury thing. Now this.”

Peter halfheartedly agreed he had blown things out of proportion. But then, as an afterthought, he mentioned Sarah Guzman and her husband Enriqué. When he finished, Kate’s face darkened, as if she had made a hidden connection. Peter didn’t know how to interpret her look, but he knew the names struck some kind of chord.

“You’ll keep everything I’ve told you to yourself?” he asked.

“Attorney-client privilege. That sounds strange for me to say, since I’ve never had a client before.” She stared into Peter’s eyes, then laughed. Although strained, it was the perfect antidote. “I told you,” she continued, trying to make it sound light, “I like my men beholden. Not that you’re my man or anything . . . it’s merely a figure of speech.” Trying not to, she laughed a second time.

“I gotta go,” Peter said, grabbing her hand, afraid this small gesture of forgiveness might evaporate. “I don’t think I’ll stick around to talk to Jason. I, uh, need to think things over. You’ve been a big help. Thanks. And . . .”

“And what?”

“Do . . . do think we can go back to being friends? This time, when I say I’ll call, I’ll call.”

She nodded in slow motion. “I once told you: my feelings for people never change. Friends? Yeah. We’re back to being friends.”

“Thanks, Kate. That means a lot to me.”

“You’ll come to my wedding—maybe wear a blue dress and be a bridesmaid.”

“I’d be flattered,” he said, batting his eyes. Peter looked at his watch. Drew would be waiting. “Time for me to go.”

“Where now?” she asked.

“Coronado Island with Drew.”

“Why?”

“Gotta see a man about an accident.”

“The ex-cop Agent Dawson spoke of?” she asked. “Ellis?”

Peter backed up as he nodded. The impulse to grab her swept over him like a desert flood. “I’ll let you know what I discover.”

“Be careful,” she said. “I’ll see what I can learn from my end. Any way to leave you a message?”

He gave her Drew’s mailbox information. “If I have something to relay, counselor, I’ll leave it there.”

Was Kate warming to him, yet struggling to keep her own emotions in check? Peter silently asked himself the question as he stole as many final glances at Kate as he dared. He knew that
he
was light years beyond warm, and that
he
had no ability to hold his own emotions in check. Not wanting his imagination to get the better of him, he left before he did something really stupid—like reaching out to hold her.

Ten minutes later, he neared the parking lot of the nursery rendezvous with Drew. He tried to believe that no matter what, he and Kate
could
be friends. He felt better, then worse. It would hurt seeing her, knowing she had married someone else. Why had he always talked himself out of calling? He couldn’t figure it out, but he now guessed that somewhere in his misdirected heart was an assumption that they would eventually come together, when
he
was ready.

“What an idiot,” he whispered.

A moment later, he saw Drew waiting outside his car, the window down so his friend could listen to the radio. They waved as Peter coasted in on the backs of his heels.

“You look like you’ve run a marathon, White Bread,” Drew said.

“I feel worse than that.”

“Where to?” Drew asked.

“You mind driving me someplace, backing me up if necessary?”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Could be, I guess,” Peter said, not knowing whether this was a wild goose chase or a dangerous undercover mission.

Thirty-five minutes later, they turned right, having driven the two-mile length of the Coronado Bridge crossing over San Diego Bay. Peter looked at the map and directed Drew towards an expensive vacation home owned by an ex-cop who had a story to tell about a woman, a car, and a crash.

Chemistry, left over from childhood, had attacked Kate the moment her father first mentioned Peter’s name. That was the day he came looking for a job. Then, when she saw him stride into the law office—tentative and nervous like a little lost boy—a tidal wave of emotion had nearly knocked her over. And today, despite her anger, her resolve had melted. She now fought to interpret all they had just shared, while trying to recompose herself, a task that wasn’t coming easily. When he spoke of the heart being the last to learn, she had wanted to believe him. Was he sincere? Did he care for her half as much as she cared for him?

“Stop it, Kate.” She reminded herself that Peter had said lovely things in the past and never made good. He had stretched her heartstrings tight enough to break them.

She closed her eyes. A familiar image tarnished her mind. She fantasized about having an automobile accident on the way to her wedding. In this dream, she arrived at the church late and Frederick, in a fit of anger, stormed out of the church, tired of waiting, assuming he’d been stood-up. With that, the engagement ended, then and there. Not her fault, but nevertheless over.

Why, she wondered, did she have such inane thoughts? A shrink would tell her it was because she didn’t love Frederick Drammonds—that she dreaded being his wife.