Man in the Middle (36 page)

“I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that.” Her words echoed off the ceiling and through her brain.

She began to pace around her father’s office, thinking and glancing at the books crammed into the built-in shelves. The thick volumes closed in, causing her scattered thoughts to migrate. How many books were there? Thousands—each crammed with legal cases, precedents, statutes that one day might be used to acquit one of her father’s clients—guilty or not—that might be used to get a case, like the famous Stenman Treasury auction case, dismissed. Other books addressed courtroom presentation, comportment, and the alchemy needed to create reasonable doubt where none existed.

The practice of law, she thought, was like a chess game, using strategy and attack to gain victory. Get the black pawn to the end of the board, freeing him to become an attacking queen, but only if the black pawn was made of the right material—gold, silver, or better yet, cold, hard cash.

All of this contemplation came to her because of one thing Peter had said: “Sarah Guzman is the widow of Enriqué Guzman.”

Her father had spoken of Sarah Guzman on several occasions over the years. He had arranged Sarah’s defense, twenty years ago, at the request of Morgan Stenman.
The charge
: premeditated murder. She killed her father. Not just killed, but stabbed him thirty or more times with a six-inch blade. Back then she was Sarah Brigston, debutante daughter of one of the most visible money managers in New York. Her father had been one of Morgan Stenman’s earliest investors. Justifiable homicide was the defense. The father had molested the daughter—sexually and repeatedly—from the age of seven until she moved out of the house with her mother and brother at the age of fourteen. On Sarah’s eighteenth birthday—as if she
wanted
to be tried as an adult—she snuck into his Upper East Side cooperative, used the key she had kept all those years, and punctured him until he resembled human Swiss cheese. She didn’t try to hide, and didn’t deny her handiwork. In court, to everyone’s surprise, she insisted on taking the witness stand.

“Her look beguiled the jury,” Kate’s father had said years later. “Her words wove a kind of horrific magic over that courtroom. She didn’t need an attorney after that. It took the jury less than an hour to return: Not Guilty.”

Kate was seven or eight at the time, but later, when she learned details of the case, she remembered thinking it was a just verdict. Over the years, Sarah’s name occasionally came up in conversation, and Kate always paid attention. She knew Sarah Brigston had married a successful businessman and now lived in Mexico. Even the name Guzman was familiar. But when Peter mentioned Enriqué Guzman, all the awful pieces fell into place. She knew of the Mexican cartels and the Guzman empire, but Kate had never put Sarah Guzman into that family mix. Now, if what Peter said was correct, she managed a money laundering operation tied directly to Morgan Stenman.

Sadly, it all made sense. Her father was secretive about his business trips, yet Kate learned at work this past summer that he often went to Mexico, Switzerland, the Cayman’s, and Mauritius—off the coast of Africa.

Kate now sat at her father’s desk, surveying the neat, checkerboard stacks of papers. She retrieved the lengthy User I. D. from her wallet—the one she had copied the day her father was too drunk to remember that he’d left his PC on—then recalled the password: hannahannekate. This time around, her interest had nothing to do with Stenman’s payroll policy.

She typed in the User I. D. and waited, her hands trembling. A moment later she had broken in. The cursor drew her gaze to the request for a file name. Not knowing where to start, she began a file-search. She started with
Guzman
but turned up nothing. She tried:
Sarah, Sarah Guzman, Ensenada, Ensenada Partners
, also to no avail. What should she look for? Something to do with money. She typed in
Bank Accounts
. Nothing. Then,
Fund Transfer
. She got a single response:
Biometric Fund Transfer
.

She double-clicked and began to read. After ten minutes, she understood that these operations had nothing to do with legitimately managing money. The sophistication and secrecy involved went beyond anything she had ever seen or heard of. She then read through an agreement granting her father power-of-attorney for Morgan Stenman in the transfer of funds between accounts within Stenman’s family of funds. And such an arrangement meant he understood the operation’s inner-workings. It also meant that if illegal activity was being undertaken—and that was her guess—he was an insider.

“Oh my God!” the voice boomed.

Kate spun. She hadn’t heard him enter, nor had she noticed him step up close enough to see the computer screen and read the text. His features distorted and grew ugly. His face became that of a stranger. He looked nothing like the man she had loved unwaveringly her entire life. Her father had never struck her, but he looked close to doing so now.

“What have you done?” Ayers asked. “How did you get access? First Hannah, now this.”

“Hannah? What do you mean?” New suspicions jammed her mind.

“Nothing. This file you violated is just standard securities law—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Father. Peter told me—”

“Not Peter . . .”

“Yes. He was here,” she said. “I’ve decided to give him legal advice, if I can.”

“What a fool.” Ayers picked up the phone and punched four numbers—the first four digits of his employer’s private phone—before hanging up. The attorney trembled, and indecision forced his shoulders to drop and his face to sag. “This is such a damned mess. And what makes you think Peter needs representation? He hasn’t done anything.”

“Somebody’s spying on him, and he’s seeking answers I think might land him in trouble.”

“He’ll find trouble all right, but that’s all he’ll find. Nothing exists that . . .”

“You choking on your words? Nothing except maybe Hannah Neil’s registered mail?”

“He told you of Hannah’s activities?”

“That she sent information to an Agent Dawson at the SEC? That there’s more incriminating information in cold storage? Yes and yes, Father. Either you tell me exactly what is going on, or I investigate on my own.”

“You can’t. They killed . . .”

“They killed who?” Kate demanded. “Hannah?”

Ayers gave no answer, but a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Tell me, Father.”

“This is Pandora’s Box. If you want to do Peter a favor, tell him to destroy what he has. His information won’t amount to much anyway. It might cause some dislocations, embarrassment for a few people, but in the end, the significant damage will be to him. If I say anything, they’ll do things to you, to your mother, to me. You can’t begin to imagine what unspeakable things they’re capable of. You getting the picture, Kate?”

She smelled her own fear. “Cooperate with us, Father.”

“No. I cannot. You know names. That’s it. I’ll destroy these records— not that they’d do anybody any good. Offshore accounts are legal. Peter loves his job, and is set to make millions over the next few years. I don’t think he’ll jeopardize that. If he does . . .”

Ayers went to the keyboard and pressed a series of buttons. The files disappeared.

“I never thought I’d say this to you—I love you, Father—but you will never set eyes on me again if you refuse to help.”

“Goodbye, then. I won’t permit you to be harmed.”

He turned, exited the library, and slammed the door.

Kate realized she had nothing concrete, but she also knew that Peter faced serious danger and had to be warned. After she left the house, she stopped at a gas station to use the payphone. She dialed Drew Franklin’s mailbox and left a message:

Agent Dawson told you the truth about everything. Be careful. Do not phone my father. Meet me where we had our first date. Tonight, at seven. Do not let anyone follow you
.

By the time she hung up the phone, she had forgotten about promising to drive up to Los Angeles to spend the evening with her fiancé. In fact, in her current intense state, she forgot she even had a fiancé.

 
H
AVING PASSED THE
C
ORONADO
N
AVAL
B
ASE AND THE
H
OTEL
D
EL
Coronado, Peter and Drew cruised along Central Beach, where condominiums and mansions boasted semi-private beaches. Sailboats, docked a dozen yards from the exclusive boardwalk along Beachcomber Estates, forested their view. Attached in a row were units 1242, 1244, and 1246, each with cantilevered balconies suspended over white sand. Across from this row of dwellings, on the opposite, non-beach side of Sunshine Avenue, were the odd numbered units. Former Detective Sean Ellis’ address was 1246, which meant he had direct ocean access. Being at the end of the block, Ellis—more blessed than his neighbors—enjoyed 180 degree vistas of the harbor, ocean, and two-man volleyball.

“A three-story condo,” said Drew. “This is an unbelievable spot. Over there.” He pointed. “Guy with a flat top, aviator glasses, drinking beer. Probably has a gun under the towel on that table. Looks like the stereotypical steroid cop.”

“Yeah. Hope this doesn’t get into a wrestling match,” Peter said. “I’ll approach along his blind side.”

“Damn,” Drew said. “Must have been
some
inheritance.”

“Or he sold influence and told a ton of lies over the years. That’s what I need to find out.” Peter scanned the street. It was deserted, as if the residents knew enough to stay indoors and out of harm’s way.

“What if he did lie about Hannah’s accident?” Drew slowed the car, then parked at the end of the dead-end street, half a football field’s distance from Ellis’ unit.

“If this guy’s dirty, then I have to conclude that some of what Dawson said is true. How much, I still won’t know for sure.”

“You think it’ll indicate foul play in Hannah’s death?” Drew asked.

“Probably. If so, I nail whoever’s responsible.”

“Maybe I should take to the beach, like I’m sightseeing. Shuffle in the sand and watch. I’ll be near enough to react.”

“Just don’t do anything until necessary,” Peter said, nodding. “I prefer to get answers without a confrontation. If possible.”

Peter planned his strategy as he veered towards the co-op. Politeness sure as hell wouldn’t work. He decided to try tough. He’d draw on all the vile language he’d learned in the trading room. Drew strode through the dry portion of sand as Peter reached the building’s edge. On this protected section of beach, the water lapped rather than broke along the shore, and the breeze smelled sweet, without the briny scent of seaweed. The calm felt eerie, as if the mighty Pacific were powerless.

Peter waited for Drew to make his way to the section of beach off Ellis’ porch. Once his friend had positioned himself within striking distance, Peter turned the corner and approached his target. Screwing on a sour face, he flipped his baseball cap, wearing it backwards. “You Ellis?” Peter said, feigning arrogance.

The man rotated his twisted steel-like torso. The motion caused his neck to knot and his shirtless chest to flex. His shoulders rolled into two enormous balls. Evenly tanned pecs, biceps, and triceps danced in readiness.

A furrowed brow indicated to Peter he had the right man. “I got some questions for you,” Peter continued.

“I got a question for
you
: get outta here.” Ellis had unsparingly vicious eyes and an overmuscled face to go along with the rest of his physique.

“Sorry, Asswipe, but that’s not a question,” Peter said as he attempted a swagger.

“You wanna be shot, or have your pencil neck broken?”

“Now, at least that’s a question. An interrogative, don’t ya know, ends in a question mark. A statement is adorned with a period. Maybe you’re not dumber than a post, after all.” Through peripheral vision, Peter saw Drew wag his head as Ellis reached for a towel. Peter prepared to duck bullets.

“You got a smart mouth,” Ellis said, mopping his damp hair, continuing to examine Peter as if at an autopsy. “You’ve also got too much brass to be a run-of-the-mill jerkoff. So who sent you?”