Man in the Middle (7 page)

An understated skirt and open jacket moved in rhythm with the bob of her rounded shoulder. And something about freckles dotting a cockeyed smile made her seem familiar. But who
was
she? he asked himself.

Just before she introduced herself, a movie-clipped-memory projected itself. Her hair still hung long and thick with a chestnut shine, but she was no longer skinny, nor did she wear braces. When she said, “I’m Kate. Kate Ayers,” he had already guessed.

Fourteen years had passed since their families’ occasional dinners, but this was the grownup version of that girl. Peter could not suppress his delight, a response originating in his toes, flowing up his spine, and onto his face, culminating in a hearty smile. She had a warm aura, and an odd mix more cute than pretty, but better than both. When she grabbed his hand, Peter said, “Little Katie Ayers. Damn. This is quite a surprise.”

Ten minutes of catching up later, Peter asked, “You work here?”

“I’m embarrassed to say so, but yes. I just graduated from UCLA Law, and I’m working as a third-year legal associate for part of the summer. Naturally, I got the job on my merits . . .” She smiled, then laughed. “Okay, okay, Father had something to do with it. But I’m working for nothing. I didn’t want to take one of the spots away from another intern; I’m
pro bono
. I’ve got to head back to LA in mid-July, so I couldn’t commit to a full summer anyway.”

“You’re going back in July? How come?”

“I’m assisting one of my law professors on a textbook—on personal injury and tort law. Kind of a snooze, but it looks good on the old resumé. While I do that, I study for the bar exam.”

“That’s impressive. Are you going to concentrate on securities law?”

“Nope. Way too boring. I’m heading for criminal. That’s if I pass the exam.”

“You’ll pass. I can see the intensity in your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“They’re smart eyes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, though I can think of something a little more endearing.”

“I’m tongue-tied. Perhaps I should have said you’ve got a certain
je ne sais quoi
about you.” Kate curtsied, the tilt of her head hiding what Peter guessed was a smile. He continued, “By the way, I rode up in the elevator with a potential client.” The image of the tattooed man with the deep bruises still gave him the creeps. “I hope you find a better class of criminal once you take the plunge.”

“Even the guilty need counsel,” she quickly replied, half-serious. The remark kept the mood light but hinted at her principles. As she spoke, Peter recalled his mother’s comments about representing evil. “I’d like to start out in the Public Defender’s Office. I don’t know where I’ll go after that.”

“Mr. Neil,” the receptionist gently interrupted Kate. “Mr. Ayers is ready.”

Peter nodded. When he said, “I enjoyed seeing you again after all these years, Kate,” he meant the words. She eased the tension he’d felt all morning by drawing him back to a happier time in his life.

“It was fun,” she replied. “I don’t know if you remember, but you used to make fun of my freckles. The first time you did, I cried because I didn’t want you to think I was ugly. I had a crush on you.”

“I was too busy being a thirteen-year-old to notice. Long belated apologies. Anyway, you’ve blossomed—
blossomed
’s a dumb word—but you’ve . . . well, you get my point.”

A light blush accompanied an appreciative nod. “You want to get together?” she asked. “I’m free tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I’ll buy dinner.”

“You’ll have to,” Peter said. “I’m broke.”

“Good. I like my men beholden.” She laughed. “You can tell me if you take the job.”

“You know about the Stenman Partners position?”

“Of course I do. Father tells me everything. If I were you, I’d accept. If you’ve got what it takes, you’ll do very, very well there.”

“You know Morgan Stenman personally?” Peter asked.

“My godparent. Father’s been the partnership’s counsel for thirty years.”

“That’s a good recommendation—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Neil, but they’re waiting.” The receptionist stepped around her desk, ready to lead him away.

Peter and Kate agreed to meet, seven p.m., at Bully’s in Del Mar. As he made his way to Ayers’ office, he wondered if he’d heard correctly. Had the receptionist said “
they’re
waiting”?

If so, who besides Jason Ayers?

Kate’s words, “If I were you, I’d take the position,” bolstered him. He prayed he’d have the opportunity to take her advice. If so, he vowed to work ten times as hard as anyone else.

The overworked moonstone radiated friction-heat as Peter dropped it into his hip pocket. With a deep gulp, he knocked on the solid door. For the first time in weeks, he had a good feeling. He prayed it wasn’t a head fake.

“Come in,” Ayers said through the solid door.

Leaning forward, Peter obeyed.

 
A
GENT
O
LIVER
D
AWSON ROSE FROM HIS DESK AND STRAYED TO HIS
fourth floor window, grabbing a quick look at the Washington, D.C. scene. A June gloom hung over repugnant air spewing from the exhaust pipes of Fifth Street’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. He turned the latch and slid the window open, breaking cobwebs in the process. Immediately, the sounds of revving engines and horns in staccato blares filled the room. He stared at the sky, filtered through gauzy air. Squeezing a dent into the can, he clutched his fourth Diet Coke of the morning—a ritual that kept his head buzzing and his mind racing. Behind him, the inaugural photos of the last eight presidents hung in a row. “The rogues’ gallery,” Dawson called them. Ronald Reagan’s photo had his autograph scribbled across his chest. Dawson wished he had President Kennedy’s signature instead, but he was too young to have met JFK.

It had been a depressing few weeks, as unfulfilling as any time in his life. When he returned to Washington after the Cannodine and Drucker fiascoes, Dawson handled a small insider trading case. A CEO’s in-laws had traded shares of his company ahead of a takeover bid. Having settled this brief investigation with a paltry fine, he now had additional time to feed his frustrations. For the last fourteen of his thirty-nine years, the agent had dedicated himself to enforcing the nation’s securities laws. No matter how hard he tried or cared, it wasn’t enough. Tight budgets, sophisticated lawbreakers, the explosion of wealth around the world—all made his efforts less than the proverbial drop in a bucket.

It was like everything else in his life: one mountain to climb after another. He was always the smallest person in class, had shitty eyesight, no athletic coordination, was far from brilliant, and a social misfit. Only his dogged determination had kept Dawson from getting lost behind life’s eight-ball. He had persevered, gone to law school at night, and worked his way into this job.

Oblivious to the spent-petroleum smell in the air, he threaded his way through the maze of boxes, each of them containing sloppily labeled manila folders stuffed with pages from cases current, pending, or dismissed. It represented detritus that continued to build as the years wore on. The tiny office was made even smaller by protruding snap-on bookshelves that jutted from every wall. Dawson’s footsteps tapped against the chipped and dingy linoleum, over to a dog-eared cardboard box with
STAPLES The Office Superstore
printed across its red front. He bent down and removed a stack of clipped papers. Arching upright, he tossed a shock of bangs from his forehead and, with the pad of his palm, pushed his horn-rims up the bridge of his nose. Opening the folder, he held it outright as a parishioner might hold a hymnal. He read his own note:
no indication of source
.

No indication who had mailed him those pages from San Diego a month ago? How could that be?

Somebody with access to confidential records on both Cannodine and Drucker had found a conscience. Someone anonymously sent to his attention several photocopies of receipts with Cannodine’s signature, suspicious trade confirms from numbered foreign accounts, and evidence of funds transferred from the Cayman Islands. With what he had, Dawson confronted Jackson’s branch manager and suggested he might become the target of an SEC investigation.

“If you haven’t done anything illegal, Mr. Cannodine,” Dawson had said, “then you have nothing to fear.”

When Cannodine’s body flinched and his face took on the look of a dehydrated apple, Dawson became convinced the man knew plenty. By the third visit, a threatened subpoena seemingly in his future, Cannodine had asked about immunity. Immunity inquiries, anybody in law enforcement knew, often marked
the
big first step towards gaining cooperation.

But then, a day-trader’s rampage cut Dawson’s inquiry short.
Bullshit
. If Zerets, or whatever the hell his real name was, hadn’t blown himself up, nobody would have bought that idiotic story. Now, the agent remained alone in his lingering doubt. He didn’t believe for a minute Zerets committed suicide. Someone set the swine up—Dawson didn’t know how, but the murderer was just another disposable pawn.

Same with Stanley Drucker—a dimwit who couldn’t lead a barbell to gravity—yet somehow had managed to move hundreds of millions of dollars in and out of his managed accounts at a numbing velocity. And except for recent losses, he had made ungodly returns on his investments. Then, after an initial visit by Dawson, came his monumental suicide. And everything fell so damn conveniently into place: Drucker loses millions of dollars and is depressed. According to his ex-wife, he has a history of alcoholism and violence. A search of his house uncovers materials and instructions on bomb-making. Since not a molecule of Drucker remains, there is nothing more to pursue. The Director of Enforcement’s Special Assistant, Freeman Ranson, even suggests that Dawson had pushed too hard and set Drucker off.

And because of Ranson, the pressure on Dawson increased daily. Ranson took every opportunity to criticize—claimed Dawson felt bitter over having failed with the Treasury manipulation case he’d brought, and failed to make stick, against Stenman Partners a few years back. That he always pushed too hard and needed to back off and be less passionate. Some of what Ranson said was true. Dawson
was
bitter—damn bitter— but that had nothing to do with this case. People had committed crimes that dug deeply into the financial system, maybe deeply enough to stagger a few Wall Street institutions. Dawson felt the filth in the joints of his bones and it pained him. He cared about the law. To him, it mattered.

“You don’t listen to anyone and you’re dangerous, Dawson,” Ranson had said in front of the Director. “You’ve got a weak case and you go nuts, threatening people. Somebody needs to clip your wings.”

“Ranson’s an asshole,” Dawson now said as he clamped shut the file. “A flaming asshole.” The agent found himself wishing he stood six-foot, two inches and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, instead of five-six and one hundred and forty. If he had the size, he’d kick Ranson’s ass. Maybe not kick his ass, but threaten to kick his ass and scare the shit out of him.

“Mr. Dawson? Oliver?” Angela Newman, the secretary he shared with two other agents, stood at his door. “Did you need something?” she asked.