Mortal Bonds (29 page)

The driver got out, came around to the back, and took both suitcases while the beardless Latino with the gun pulled his charge out of the backseat. Sanchez staggered for a moment as his feet hit the ground, his hands still bound behind him. The young gunman, briefly shaken out of his assigned role, reached out and steadied him with the kind of concern reserved for a despotic superior. It didn’t matter. Events had their own momentum.

Black-uniformed men, wearing helmets and carrying clear shields and shotguns, appeared from those doorways and alleyways and began running toward us. The gate on the abandoned paint shop swung open, and a handful of black windbreaker-clad men came out bearing automatic rifles. Two large black SUVs pulled across the intersection at 126th Street, a long yellow bus and another pair of SUVs blocked the other corner. No helicopter. It was a low-key operation.

A voice blared from a bullhorn ordering us all to drop to our knees and place our hands on our heads. I did what I was told.

Castillo whirled and glared accusingly at me. I glared back.

The driver proved to have more brains than I had given him credit for. He dropped the two suitcases, sank to his knees, and placed both hands on top of his head. Youngblood didn’t take it so calmly. He pushed Sanchez to the ground and stood in front of him, protecting him to the last.

“You!” a shield-bearing officer with three stripes on his sleeve yelled. “Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon. On your knees. Down!”

Castillo was still looking around. He was the only other one standing, making him as good a target as the boy. He fell to his knees and assumed the position. But the boy wasn’t getting it. I couldn’t make myself stop watching. He swung the gun up toward the shielded officer, like he must have seen some actor do it on-screen once upon a time. His face was blank. He wasn’t angry or afraid. If he knew it was hopeless, he gave no sign. Five hundred years of exploitation had brought him here. He was bred for dying. And there were lots more at home waiting for their chance. He was just making room for the next one.

They didn’t let him fire the gun. Three or four rifles cracked as one and he was dead standing up.

It was over.

FBI Agent Marcus Brady came striding across the street toward us, leading a phalanx of black-uniformed men. They rushed us, handcuffing the driver, Sanchez, and me. The whole operation had taken seconds. A ring of uniforms, weapons at the ready, formed around the body of the boy. The man with the bullhorn arrived, still bellowing out instructions. No one was paying attention. We were all caught already.

Brady walked directly over to Castillo, helped him to his feet, and brushed imaginary dirt off the knees of his trousers.

“Muchas gracias, Señor Castillo. Bueno. Bueno.”
Brady’s Spanish accent was worse than mine, but it made for grand theater. “Nice work. Now, let’s get you out of here, shall we?”

Castillo was both horrified and too confused to protest. Brady walked him away, an arm around his shoulder as though they were old friends, and helped him into the backseat of one of the waiting cars. Two agents in suits joined him. The driver and Sanchez saw it all and I could see the gears working behind their eyes.

Then the cops wrestled the three of us into waiting vehicles. I stumbled along, two cops holding me up by the arms, my feet barely touching the ground. They tossed me into the backseat of a black car and forced my head down. The doors slammed and the car bounced away over the broken pavement.

We lurched along for about two blocks, took a sharp left onto a smoother road and raced down another block or two. I was staring at the floor, my head was reeling.

The car slammed to a stop and the rear door opened. Brady reached in and pulled me up onto the seat.

“You okay?”

“Damn! One of those guys almost broke my nose throwing me in here.”

Brady turned me around and removed the handcuffs. I flopped onto the seat and pulled myself up.

“Did that boy have to die?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“You said there’d be no shooting,” I said.

“No. I said that you didn’t have to worry about shooting. And you didn’t.”

“He was a kid.”

“The cop he was going to shoot is a father. Just like you.”

“Castillo knows he was played.”

Brady was chuckling. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already a dead man if he doesn’t cooperate with us, and he knows it. Possession of ten kilos of heroin, one million dollars in cash that is probably covered in cocaine dust, and one hundred million in bearer bonds that we have a good chance of proving are part of a money-laundering conspiracy. He deals or he goes down. And after what the two cholos just saw, he won’t last a long weekend in detention. I’m happy. Are you happy?”

I leaned back. “You think they bought into it? If they didn’t, I’m prime for witness protection. And you know I don’t want that.”

“You didn’t see the driver’s face when I walked Castillo out of there? No? Beautiful. He looked like he would have bitten off Castillo’s leg if we’d let him go.”

“What about Sanchez?”

“I’d like to turn him, but it’s not gonna happen. He’ll do serious time, where he will be treated like visiting royalty, and when he’s a lot older than he is now, he will be given a one-way ticket back to Honduras.”

“Lean on the driver,” I said. “He knows more than you’d think.”

“I don’t know. I think he will dummy up and take his chances. Unless Castillo gives us something else on the guy, his lawyer will plead him out. He’ll do short time, get deported, and go home a minor celebrity.”

“You owe me a million dollars, you know.”

“I’m dying to hear how you make sense out of that.”

“That was my finder’s fee for their hundred mil. I’ll put in a claim against it.”

“And I wish you all the best with that, Jason. Really, I do.”

“Sarcasm does not become you.”

F
rench toast. Sunday morning. The bells at Saint Fidelis had rung and rung again while I sat and answered questions for Brady and his team. They finally let me leave—we all had more pressing business that day.

I could smell breakfast cooking as I came up the stairs. Tom and Ivan were no longer waiting in the hall. The danger was past. My son was safe. So was I.

The Kid was up, sitting at the kitchen table with his bodyguards, all three huddled over a board game. Roger was at the stove.

“You’re up early,” I said.

Roger gave the Kid an evil glance. “His majesty ordered breakfast.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Ha!”

“Okay, I owe you another one. Put it on my tab.”

None of the players had looked up.

“Pop still asleep?”

Roger nodded. “Any glitches?”

One dead juvenile. I didn’t want to think about it. “No. No glitches.” I was too exhausted and disgusted to explain.

Ivan suddenly leaned back and threw his hands in the air. He said one word. I didn’t need a translation. The Kid glowered. He didn’t need a translation, either. Playing a cooperative game was enough of an effort for him, playing with a sore loser was painful.

Tom harangued Ivan. Ivan pointed to the board, demonstrating his frustration. As near as I could understand, this was the third time he had landed on the broken window and slid twenty spaces back down the chute to empty his piggy bank. Tom slapped himself in the forehead, the universal gesture for “What? Are you stupid?” Ivan tried to repeat his complaint, but Tom wasn’t having it.

“Has it been this exciting all along?” I asked.

“Ivan’s the John McEnroe of Chutes and Ladders,” Roger said. He flipped the French toast. Golden brown. Perfect.

“Where did you find the game?”

“Your Pop’s girlfriend brought it over last night. I went through the pile of stuff in your old closet. Two chess sets? Oh, and I thought we’d leave Risk and Scrabble for another time. What’s Star Conqueror, by the way? I saw that in there, too.”

Star Conqueror was a four-dimensional war game that takes place across galaxies. It was in four dimensions because time travel was possible. Players needed to do trigonometric and geometric calculations in their head. Using a calculator was legal, but then you’d be giving away your strategy. I had been very good at it, but it hadn’t always been easy finding someone to play with.

“I don’t know. I forget.”

“You were kind of a geek as a kid, weren’t you?”

“You’re just figuring this out?” I said.

It was Tom’s turn. He spun the needle, got a five, and landed on the girl writing with crayon on the wall. He slid back down to 73—two spaces in back of Ivan. More hand gestures and unintelligible words. “See! You baby! Quit your crying. You’re still ahead of me.”

“How come the Kid is the little blue-haired girl?”

“Because he chose it. The FBI didn’t ask about your buddy here? The gunslinger?”

“The subject never came up. I’m sure Brady knows he’s here, but it’s not his case and he’s comfortable looking the other way on this. For the moment.”

“So we can all go home now?”

The Kid spun a two. He wanted a one. He advanced past the ladder at 71. He was still in third place. He didn’t throw up his hands and curse in Albanian. I was very proud of him.

“You can, if you want,” I said. “This is Pop’s day off, so he can take the Kid. I’ll be back to pick him up tomorrow.”

“And these two?”

“I want them to ride up to Newport with me today.”

Rogers eyes popped wide. “You think you’ll need them?”

“Not really. But I’d hate to get up there alone and discover I should have brought backup. At this point, the only person outside of this apartment that I really trust is Skeli.”

Roger slid the French toast onto a plate.

“He likes it cut on the diagonal,” I said. “Like they do it at the Greek coffee shop.”

Roger nodded. “Got that. Butter? Or just syrup.”

“Corn syrup,” I said.

Roger gave me a skeptical stare. “Corn?”

“Pop keeps a bottle for the Kid.” I found it at the front of the cabinet over the stove. “Pour it on the side. He dips.”

“You’re killing me.”

“I find that life is so much less stressful when I just button it and do things his way.”

Roger put the plate down next to the Kid. “You ever notice something? This game? The worst thing you can do is raid the cookie jar. Lookit. You ride your bike with no hands, you go back four. You pull the cat’s tail, for the love of Mike, and you only go back twenty. But raid the damn cookie jar? It’ll cost you sixty-something.”

“Sixty-three. It teaches that life is neither fair nor logical.”

“Yeah, I can see where little kids need to learn that early.” He gestured with a jerk of his head. “Should I cut this?”

“I’ll get it.” I cut a piece of the French toast, dipped it in the clear syrup, and put the fork in my son’s hand. The bread disappeared. I repeated the process.

Fortunes had shifted. Tom and Ivan were neck and neck at 89 and 90, preparing to make the clubhouse turn. The Kid was back at 79, seemingly out of the picture.

Chutes and Ladders is a simple game, with a limited probability tree—it’s a Markov chain. The odds of the game running more than forty turns per player drop off dramatically. The formula was straightforward, and as the probability of spinning any given number was always constant and uniform, I could do the math in my head. Math soothed me, took away the tensions. Math was orderly, unencumbered with emotions, stress, or violence.

The Kid’s turn. His only chance at a win—barring both Tom and Ivan sliding back down again on one of the three chutes in the top row—was to climb the ladder at 80 into the winner’s box. He needed a one. We all needed for him to have a one. He spun the needle.

One. Roger whooped. I yelled, “Hey!” Tom slapped the table and grinned. Even Ivan looked happy. The Kid covered his ears and scowled. He did not like sudden loud noises. We all quieted down.

The Kid moved his piece up the ladder onto the 100 square.

“You won, son,” I said quietly.

He was busy absorbing the moment. Then he burst into laughter, maniacal, ruler-of-the-world, B-movie laughter. He beat both fists onto the table and the board jumped, pieces flying.

“Whoa, there, half-pint,” Roger said.

The Kid jumped up and began to dance in his usual way—lock-kneed, stiff-hipped, and as coordinated as a moose on ice skates—but he was dancing. And laughing.

T
om drove. I slept.

Ivan reached around from the front seat and shook my knee as we pulled off the Newport Bridge at the Jamestown exit.

“That was quick,” I said, sitting up and wiping my eyes awake. In three hours I had almost caught up on three days of fractured, minimal, anxiety-ridden sleep. I felt ready to face the Von Beckers. Even the mother.

We passed through the town and saw that there were plenty of homes that had neither helipad nor deepwater dock. South of town, the houses just disappeared behind a curtain of old-growth forest.

“Take the next left,” I said. “And watch for a break in the trees.” Everett had given me directions the night before.

A few minutes later we saw the driveway. It wasn’t much bigger than a path. There were two small signs sticking out of the ground. One read
CHILTON
. The other read,
RJC SECURITY PROTECTS THESE PREMISES. YOU ARE ALREADY ON CAMERA
. A few car lengths into the woods, the path turned into a white-graveled drive and we passed through a stone-and-wrought-iron gate twenty feet high. The black iron filigree over the entrance formed the words
CHILTON
and beneath
FAMILIA ANTE OMNES
. Family before all others. Brush and trees had been cleared back from a massive stone wall that stretched away into the woods in both directions.

Through the gate, the vista opened up. The driveway led through a long green lawn, broken by stone benches, marble flower islands, small groves of birch. Towering over the scene was the house, a monstrous stone structure that would not have looked out of place next door to the Ansonia. It had towers, crenellations, and a front entrance that appeared to have been copied—or purchased—from an early Renaissance cathedral.

Ivan turned to Tom and mumbled something. Tom laughed shortly.

“What did he say?” I said.

Tom said, “He say, ‘Down town Abbey.’”

“Exactly. Or Brideshead.”

Tom gave me a quizzical look in the rearview mirror.

“Before your time.”

Tom stopped the car in the turnaround in front of the towering black oak doors.

Blake and four of his gray-suited henchmen appeared from the side of the building and surrounded the car. Blake was smiling, but the threat was there. He opened the back door and held it for me.

“Greetings, Mr. Stafford. Welcome back. May I take your bag?”

“No. I’ll keep it.” I looked around at the rest of the welcoming committee. There was one man in front, one in back, and a man at each of the two front doors, blocking Tom and Ivan from getting out. “We’d all like to go in and see Virgil now,” I said.

“These two can wait here.”

“No, they come with me.”

“I’m afraid that after your experience on the street the other day, the family has decided to take stronger security measures.”

“At your suggestion, I’m sure.”

He smiled agreeably.

“Well, then. Give them my regards. Virgil knows how to reach me.” I grabbed the door handle and pulled. There was a brief tug-of-war as he resisted, then the door closed with a sharp bang. “Home, James.”

Tom didn’t get the reference, but he didn’t need to. He fired up the engine and waited for the bald-headed mountain in front to move out of the way. If being outnumbered two to one caused Tom or Ivan any concern, they did not show it. He put the car in drive and inched forward.

Blake rapped on the window. “Let’s talk.”

I opened the window a crack. “Rethinking your security measures yet?”

“I can’t let you leave.”

“It’ll get ugly if you try to make me stay.”

He thought for a moment. “Are either of these men wanted in connection with that shooting?”

Since the police had no idea who had done the shooting, the answer was an easy one. “No. Do we get to come in now?”

He tried humor. “It’s not exactly friendly to bring hired gunmen to a meeting with your employer.”

“It’s been that kind of a week.” If Blake could separate me from Tom, I would never see my son again.

He was still thinking it over when the front doors opened and Everett came down the steps, wading right in to the deep end.

“Jason! The family is waiting. What’s going on?”

Blake gave him a quick synopsis of our conversation—remarkably balanced, I thought.

“Well, of course they can’t come in,” Everett said.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Virgil’s number. I heard the click as the office phone automatically forwarded the call, and two rings later he answered.

“Virgil,” he said.

“I’m out front. I brought two friends. There seems to be a problem.”

He hung up without responding. Less than a minute later, he came storming out the front door. “What in hell is this about, Everett?”

Everett gave his version of events—one-sided and argumentative.

Virgil looked into the car and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of my two companions. But he recovered quickly.

“Mr. Blake, please have your men step back. Everett, escort Mr. Stafford and his friends to the library.” And without another look at any of us, he turned and strode back into the house.

I gripped the tote bag as though it were worth a billion dollars and followed Everett—Tom and Ivan just behind me. Blake and two of his men brought up the rear.

We marched, maintaining parade order, through an entry hall that could have held a basketball court—if anyone had ever thought of covering the walls of a basketball court in pink-veined white marble. The next two rooms seemed to have been designed for the purpose of holding uncomfortable-looking antique furniture and displaying dark landscape paintings by some of the lesser members of the Hudson River School. The rugs were deeply worn where we walked, and faded three or four shades lighter by the windows. It appeared that someone in the last two or three years must have decided to save the rugs by not washing the windows. There was an aroma of dust and age mixed with a touch of mildew. The place wasn’t about to fall down, but no one was spending much on routine maintenance.

The library, therefore, was a surprise. The bookshelves and writing table were well over a hundred years old, but everything else in the room was considerably more modern—and comfortable. There were plenty of leather-bound tomes, but also shelves of bestsellers—both fiction and nonfiction—two desktop computers with large flat-screen monitors, and mounted on a pedestal in the middle of the room, a well-thumbed single-volume
OED
. There was also a glass and chrome drinks cart—no modern library should be without one. The couches and chairs were all covered in an eye-soothing neutral gray fabric that matched the drapes around a great bay window that looked out on the west lawn and a boxwood maze garden shaped in a series of interlocking chevrons. The whole effect was of a working, living room devoted to knowledge and literature, rather than a museum or repository for books that no one would ever read. The room encouraged putting your feet up and settling in under one of the score of reading lamps. Some other day.

Virgil was standing to one side, back to the window. I did a quick check around the room—there was no seat that did not leave him framed in light—and elected to stand. Morgan was seated on a short couch, still dressed in mourning—as was Virgil—but she had applied a few touches of makeup. It made a vast difference. Her pale gray eyes now had a hint of mystery—her lips appeared to be fuller, making her mouth softer. Blake went over and sat with her. Whether or not it was a conscious statement, it was blatant. Everett sat on the opposing couch. The guards—both mine and theirs—spread out along the walls.

The tote bag felt very heavy. I was more than ready to pass it on, but there was one more act to play out.

“Mission accomplished,” I said.

“Shall I have Everett inspect the documents?” Virgil said. He was being polite, but it was an order. Virgil was changing. When I’d met him a month earlier, he was still reeling from his father’s betrayal and the skiing-through-an-avalanche feeling of trying to run a firm that was supposedly in its death throes. A second son thrown unwilling into the spotlight. Now he was a CEO, Chairman of the Board. Win or lose, he was in charge.

I looked to Everett. “Have you ever seen a bearer bond before?” I was betting that he had not.

“I know what to look for,” he said almost petulantly, but not answering the question.

I shrugged the bag off my shoulder and dropped it on the floor in front of him.

Only Tom and Ivan managed not to stare as Everett unzipped the bag and began removing stacks of heavy parchment.

“I went through them,” I said. “They’re sorted by denomination to make it easier to add.”

Everett nodded absently as he broke the stacks into manageable sizes on the floor and began to count.

“Virgil. While he’s busy, could we have a private word?”

Morgan frowned up at him. She didn’t like it. Virgil opted not to notice.

He looked at the array of hired muscle in the room. “I imagine it would be safe to step out for a minute. This way.”

I followed him through a doorway on the far side of the room leading into a well-used office.

“My mother’s seat of power,” he said, gesturing around the room. It was not a feminine space. It was Spartan, unadorned, utilitarian, and like the library, it did not fit with the rest of the house. It did, however, reflect the owner.

“She’s not here?”

Virgil gave a flick of his wrist, which could have meant anything.

“Do I detect a shift in the power structure?” I said with a smile.

He gave me a half-smile back. It could have meant anything, too.

There was a desk with a multi-line phone and a sleeping laptop, two comfortable chairs facing it, cut low enough so that the average-height sitter would feel like a penitent to whoever was behind the desk. Beyond it was a bay window with a view of Newport Harbor.

“Please. Take a seat,” he said.

We sat in the two low chairs. The shift in the power structure was still incomplete.

“Where do we begin?” he asked.

“Virgil, I need to throw you a curve. Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you been having me followed?”

He took it the wrong way. For a moment, he looked stormy. “To what end? I gave you an assignment. Was I supposed to be watching over your shoulder?”

I held up both hands in surrender. “My apologies. I had to ask. Do you mind if I ask you another question?”

“If you are worried about the money, please don’t. Your bonus is secure. One million a year, for as long as I can keep the firm running.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what I was going to ask. Do you trust Blake?”

That stopped him. He thought for a minute and replied cautiously. “Morgan brought him in. They’ve worked together for years.”

“Hmm,” I said. “How long have they been . . .” I stopped and searched for the word or phrase that would not piss off an older brother, yet still make my point. “An item?”

He hadn’t known. The guy was floored. His sister had been boffing the help. But he was the product of umpteen generations of New England blue bloods—on his mother’s side. He was polite. Correct. “My sister does not discuss her romances with me. Nor I with her. Is there some reason for your question? I assume that you are not looking to provide the
Post
with another headline about the family.”

“No. I really am on your side. But the family is coming apart at the seams, Virgil. Where’s Binks?”

“He had a call and left early this morning.”

“You remember me asking about a man named Castillo?”

“And I told you that I had never met the man.”

“He was arrested this morning. Right now he is with the FBI, naming names. One of the names he will certainly give up is one James Von Becker, your big brother and the main conduit between your father’s money-laundering business and Castillo and the Central American drug cartels. Sorry.” I was rocking the guy’s world. He was a good man, and I felt bad about it. Besides, he was paying me a fortune.

Virgil was sinking into the chair—melting. I couldn’t let him. I needed him fighting.

“Do you have his cell? Call him. Tell him to check himself into rehab. Between the doctors and your lawyers, the Feds won’t be able to get to him for a while. Do you need some recommendations about where he should go?”

“No,” Virgil sighed. “Thank you for the offer. It will not be Binks’ first time in rehab. He may be there already. He has a survivor’s nose for this kind of thing.”

“I see.” You meet plenty of junkies in prison. They are the world’s preeminent whiners and manipulators. They all die before their time, but they all see it coming a thousand times over.

“Yes.” He knew what I was thinking. Enough said. “I’ll make the call.” He picked up a phone and hit a button on the speed dialer.

The conversation was brief and in shorthand. Both brothers had spoken similar words before.

“What about your sister?” I said when Virgil was done.

“Eh?”

“What happens when I take my two gunslingers and leave? Any thoughts?”

“What happens?”

“Before I’m out the driveway Blake and his crew will take the bonds, kill you and Everett, and try to make it look like I did it. Or Tom and his sidekick. Then he and Morgan disappear. Or they wait and watch. Either way, you won’t be here to see it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Did you get my message when I was in Zurich?”

“Morgan said something about you needing another day.”

“Did she say what flight I was going to be on? I told her.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Someone knew. Someone knew what time I was getting in. They were waiting for me. I think they paid my limo driver to set me up. But all they got was my briefcase, which, by the way, you owe me for. I will expense it.”

“And you think that was Blake?”

“What does his security force use for transportation?”

“I don’t know. Some big thing. White. Chevy? Ford? I don’t pay attention. They have three or four of them.”

“There were only two people who knew what flight I was going to be on. My kid’s babysitter and your sister. Which one do you think told Blake?”