Need You Now (20 page)

37

L
illy and I hoofed it from Puffy’s Tavern, through Chinatown, to Evan’s apartment. The restaurant on the first floor of the old brick building was gearing up for the dinner crowd. Even with the door closed and windows shut, the noise of a busy kitchen spilled into the alley, and enough heat radiated through the walls to melt away the snow along the building’s curtilage. The entrance to the back stairway was unlocked, and as we climbed to the second story, Lilly realized that she had actually eaten at the restaurant below.

“Dim Some Lose Some,” she said. “I love this place.”

The news from Evan—that he’d cracked the code—had us feeling upbeat. I led her past the small window at the top of the stairs, which looked out over the Dumpster. A light was on in the hallway, and the chain-link gate that Evan had installed for added security was unlocked. It was hard for me to imagine Evan—a guy with two peepholes on his front door—leaving anything unlocked. But he was expecting us. I pushed the gate open, and Lilly followed me to the end of the hallway, where I stopped and knocked firmly on the black metal door to his apartment.

“Evan, it’s me, Patrick,” I said.

No one answered.

“Maybe he went out for dim sum,” said Lilly.

“I’m pretty sure quants only eat millennium problems for lunch. More likely he’s in a trance, staring at his computer screen.” I knocked harder. “Evan, please open up.”

I waited, even put my ear to the door, but there was only silence.

Lilly asked, “Are you sure he was calling from his apartment?”

“Yes. I told him we were on our way.”

“Try the door.”

I did, expecting the knob not to turn. But it wasn’t locked. I paused, the knob still in my hand, but I hesitated to push the door open.

“Evan?” I called.

I gave him a moment, and when no response came, Lilly and I exchanged glances of concern. I pushed the door, this time expecting the deadbolt or chain to stop me. The door swung all the way open. I stood at the threshold and called into the dark apartment. “Evan, if this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.”

Silence.

“Let’s leave,” said Lilly.

“I just talked to him on the phone fifteen minutes ago. Something’s wrong.”

“Like I said: let’s leave.”

“He could be hurt.”

“We could be next.”

I took one step inside and flipped the wall switch. A ceiling light brightened the apartment, and our shadows stretched from one end of the room to the other. Lilly was peering around my shoulder. I’d told her about the flowcharts on Evan’s walls, but she still seemed taken aback.

“Don’t be alarmed. The place always looks like this.” I left the door open and entered the room. Lilly came with me, and we stopped in the middle of the room.

“He lives here?” she said. “How bizarre.”

My gaze swept the room, though my focus was not on the boxes, arrows, and photographs that had drawn Lilly’s attention to the 360-degree flowchart on the walls. There was no sign of Evan; however, the curtain that separated the main living area from the kitchenette was drawn shut. Lilly clung to my arm as I approached, and I feared the worst as I flung it open.

There was nothing askew, no body on the linoleum floor.

“Patrick, I really want to go,” she said.

“Let me check the bathroom real quick.”

“I don’t like this at all. Can’t you put in a call to the FBI agent you’ve been working with?”

I could have, I supposed. But if Evan had wanted the FBI to see his prize project, he would have shown it to them long before now. I crossed the room, peered into the bathroom, and switched on the light. The brightness against white tiles assaulted my eyes. But again, there was nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of Evan. I turned, took another survey of the room, and then stopped.

“His computer’s gone,” I said.

“What?”

I went to the center of the room, where Evan had kept his desktop computer, next to the television.

“It was right here,” I said. “Now it’s gone.”

“Is that the computer that had all the encrypted files on it?”

“Yes.”

“Would that include the BAQ file?” she asked, with even more trepidation.

“That would be correct,” I said, equally concerned. “Probably right along with whatever decryption algorithms he created.”

A shrill scream from the alley gave me a jolt. Lilly and I ran from the apartment, out the open door, and through the gate. I looked out the small window that was at the top of the stairs, down toward the alley below, where several people had gathered around the Dumpster. Earlier, when Lilly and I had arrived, the lid had been closed, but someone from the kitchen had flipped it open to dump the trash. Two men dressed like waiters were consoling the young woman who’d made the discovery. Inside the Dumpster, atop heaps of trash, a man’s body lay faceup.

Even from the top of the stairs, dusk settling in, I knew that orange dress shirt and Mickey Mouse tie.

I knew it was Evan Hunt.

38

B
y nightfall Evan’s apartment and most of the narrow alley behind Dim Sum Lose Some was a busy crime scene.

My first move had been to phone Andie Henning. I was able to answer her first question—“Are you sure he’s dead?”—simply by looking into the open Dumpster. The crimson hole between his eyes, where the bullet had entered Evan’s amazing brain, was confirmation enough. Andie had told me to touch nothing and to stay put until she got there, which had taken about ten minutes.

An hour later, Lilly and I were among the onlookers on the sidewalk, standing at the yellow police tape, beyond the outermost perimeter of crowd control. I counted eleven police officers, their uniforms transitioning from dark blue to shades of orange in the swirl of police lights. Portable vapor lights from NYPD turned the buzz of investigative work behind the restaurant into a glowing hive of activity. A second perimeter of yellow tape surrounded the Dumpster, where the medical examiner’s van waited to receive Evan’s body. Two male officers stood guard at the foot of the stairway that led up to the apartment. They looked formidable even from a distance. If ever they lost their jobs with the NYPD, they could easily have found work as bodyguards for rappers.

“What do you think will happen to Evan’s flowchart?” asked Lilly.

“Don’t know, but I wouldn’t count on those two dudes to tell us,” I said.

I spotted Andie coming down the stairs behind the restaurant. She spoke briefly to someone near the Dumpster, presumably a member of the forensic team, and then she started up the alley toward Lilly and me. A cold wind from the street funneled between the buildings and hit her squarely in the face as she approached. She cinched up her coat, ducked under the yellow tape, and told me to walk with her. I followed, and Lilly didn’t seem to know whether to stay or come with me. Andie made herself more clear.

“You, too,” she said.

Andie took us down Mott Street to a Chinese café called Tearrific. I’d heard of it before but had never gone. The name had always struck me as too gimmicky—like heading into Little Italy for real Italian and eating at the Ciao Hound or some such place. A waiter recommended a pot of bubble tea with sesame dumplings and then left us alone at a small table in the corner where we could talk.

“I’m very sorry about your friend,” said Andie.

I thanked her, then asked, “Who is going to tell my dad?”

“I spoke to him by phone already,” said Andie.

“How did he react?”

“Angry. Upset.”

“I meant, who does he think did this to Evan?”

“He doesn’t know.”

Andie poured herself a cup of tea, breaking eye contact, as if she knew the next question I was about to ask.

“Who do you think did it?”

Andie shrugged and tasted her tea.

Lilly had been quiet thus far, but she was suddenly annoyed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “How many more people have to get killed before you arrest Manu Robledo?”

“He’s definitely a person of interest,” said Andie.

“Of
interest
?” said Lilly, incredulous. “He was cloaked in bank secrecy, thanks to his numbered account, but we all know that it was Robledo who was giving me the anonymous orders to move his money through BOS/Singapore.”

“Actually, you’re the only one who has confirmed the voice recognition, Lilly.”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“I’m just saying: you’re the only one who heard the voice of the account holder on a daily basis, so there’s no way for me to verify whether you’re right or wrong.”

“It’s not just the voice. Who else but the account holder would have threatened to kill Patrick and me if we don’t find his money?”

“You’ve hit the problem on the head,” said Andie. “The entire case against Robledo is based on the allegation that he was the holder of numbered account 507.625 RR at BOS/Singapore. The Bank of Switzerland has never confirmed that it was, in fact, Robledo; and, according to my contacts at the Department of Justice, nothing short of a court order is going to make the bank budge. It takes time to pierce bank secrecy.”

“Can’t the FBI arrest him and hold him until the court order is issued?” asked Lilly.

“That’s not the way things work in this country.”

“But we were attacked,” said Lilly. “The bank should be required to release that information if its own bankers have had their lives threatened.”

“Swiss law does allow banks to cooperate with law enforcement where an account is being used to further criminal activity. Unfortunately, even if he threatened you, it’s not clear that we could convince a judge that Robledo is
using the account
to commit a crime. Even if we get over that legal hurdle, it’s like I told Patrick: Other than your say-so, there’s no evidence that those attacks ever took place.”

“Well, there’s plenty of evidence that Evan Hunt was attacked,” said Lilly.

“That doesn’t mean it was Robledo who did it.”

“Didn’t you see the walls inside his apartment?” said Lilly. “Evan Hunt knew more about the Cushman Ponzi scheme than Patrick and I could ever hope to know. Doesn’t it stand to reason that Robledo made the same threats against him—find my money, or end up like Gerry Collins?”

Andie paused. In my eight months of dealing with her, I’d seen virtually every facet of the bureau side of her personality, so I felt confident in concluding, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Lilly was not going to get a direct answer to her question.

“Lilly, how closely did you look at the writings on Evan’s walls?”

“Not very. I barely had time.”

“Do you remember seeing the name Manu Robledo anywhere on those walls?”

Lilly searched her memory, but I spared her the effort.

“It’s not there,” I said. “Evan knew a lot about Cushman, but it was clear to me that he didn’t know anything about Manu Robledo. That was one of his holes.”

Andie said, “And by the same token, Robledo had no reason to know about him. Don’t you agree, Patrick?”

“I suppose I do.”

Her gaze shifted toward Lilly. “Or could it be that there was some link between Evan Hunt and Manu Robledo. Something that might have put Evan Hunt in the kind of danger that could get a man killed. What do you think, Lilly?”

Her tone was more accusatory than inquisitive. Clearly, Henning was trying to push a button with Lilly, but I wasn’t getting it.

“What are you suggesting?” I asked.

“I’m suggesting that your girlfriend knows something you don’t know, and I’m counting on her to be honest with us. Lilly, you know how Manu Robledo got his hands on Evan Hunt’s analysis, don’t you.”

It was an accusation, not a question. “Hold on,” I said. “Lilly doesn’t know anything about Evan’s analysis, let alone whether Manu Robledo has it.”

Andie’s stare tightened on Lilly. “That’s not true, is it, Lilly. You know he got it from Patrick’s father.”

I was about to rise again to Lilly’s defense, but I quickly realized that the women at the table were way ahead of me. Andie pressed on, for my benefit, sharing the things she’d learned in the last twenty-four hours—that my father couldn’t comprehend why the SEC had shown no interest in Evan’s analysis, that in frustration he’d decided to use it against Gerry Collins.

“With a little help from a friend in the FBI, your father found a client on Gerry Collins’ roster who would show absolutely no mercy to a man who dared to cheat him. A true badass who would deliver a beating he would never forget. Or worse.”

“Are you saying that my dad hired Manu Robledo to kill Gerry Collins?”

“This was no murder for hire,” said Andie. “In fact, what your father did isn’t even remotely a crime. He simply gave Manu Robledo the truth and let him do with it as he may.”

“Fully expecting that it would not end well for Gerry Collins,” I said.

“That’s a fair statement,” said Andie. “Don’t you agree, Lilly?”

Lilly averted her eyes, looking at neither me nor Andie. I knew where this was headed, but I asked the question anyway.

“Lilly, you knew all this?”

The expression on her face was one of complete misery, but the truth was undeniable. She knew.

“You found this out how?” I asked.

There was pain on top of her misery, which was transforming into fear. “You know how,” she said.

It had been hard enough for her to tell me about her “source,” and it was plain as day that she wasn’t ready to talk about it in front of an FBI agent. Lilly pushed away from the table, ready to leave, but I stopped her.

“Lilly, you’ve got to tell Andie.”

“That’s not an option,” she said as she gathered her coat.

Andie leaned across the table, forcing Lilly to look her in the eye. “Lilly, if you have a source—”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“There’s no way for me to help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“Damn it, Patrick. Did you set this up?”

I hadn’t, but I could see how she would think otherwise. “No, but Andie’s right.”

Lilly rose, and so did Andie, blocking Lilly’s path to the door. “Sit for thirty seconds more,” said Andie, “and hear me out.”

Andie hadn’t presented it as an option, and Lilly backed down.

“Here’s the situation,” said Andie. “Take it as a given that Manu Robledo has in his possession a copy of Evan Hunt’s analysis of the Cushman Ponzi scheme. I can name three people who are alive today who could truthfully say that they saw the report in Robledo’s hands around the time he got it, three years ago. Robledo, obviously, is one. Tony Mandretti, who gave it to him, is another.”

“The third, I presume, is Evan,” I said.

“No. I said people who are alive today. I don’t think Evan knew anyway.”

“Then who’s the third?” I asked.

Andie hesitated, which underscored the importance of what she was about to say. “It’s a former government agent.”

“From the FBI?”

“No.”

“Who is he?”

“An undercover agent who introduced Manu Robledo to Gerry Collins. He was at a meeting in Miami three years ago, when Robledo confronted Gerry Collins with the analysis showing Cushman was a fraud. I can’t go into detail, but suffice it to say that things went terribly wrong. He was shot, but survived.”

This was entirely new territory to me, and a string of questions came to mind. “When you say he was an undercover agent, would I be on track if I were to guess that the government operation had something to do with the letters B-A-Q?”

“You’d be right on track,” said Andie.

“So he worked for the Treasury Department?”

“Slow down,” said Andie. “We can talk more about this, but only if I know both you and Lilly are on board.”

“On board what?” Lilly asked.

The color had drained from Lilly’s face, and I knew that we were sharing the same thought. I put it into words: “Are you saying that this former government agent is Lilly’s source?”

Andie leaned closer, tightening her figurative grip on Lilly. “You don’t want to mess with this man,” Andie said to her. “He’s ruthless and has his own agenda. Trust me, your safety and well-being are not high on his list of priorities.”

“I know that,” said Lilly, her voice flat. “It’s all very disturbing, the way he talks to me.”

“What does he say?” I asked.

“He uses very affectionate language, which is totally out of place. He tells me all the time that he is protecting me. He’ll call me ‘Love,’ or he’ll tell me how much I need him.”

“That’s a ruse,” said Andie. “I told you: he’s a former government agent. He understands how psychological profiling works in law enforcement. If he comes across as a lovesick puppy, it’s only to confuse us about his real motivations.”

“That would actually be a relief, if you’re right,” said Lilly.

“You should operate on the assumption that you can’t believe a thing he says,” Andie said.

“But that’s not exactly right, either,” said Lilly. “Apart from the lovesick stuff, just about everything he’s told me has been right on the money.”

“Like what?” asked Andie.

“He told me that it was Robledo who opened the numbered account at BOS/Singapore. That was true, whether the bank will admit it or not. He told me Patrick was really Tony Mandretti’s son. That was true. He told me—”

She stopped, which brought Andie and me to the edge of our seats.

“He told you what?” asked Andie, pressing. “I want to know everything he’s told you.”

“And he promised to kill me if I tell anyone.”

“That’s not a threat to be taken lightly, given the intelligence that’s been gathered on him. I can see what a toll this is taking on you, emotionally and physically. If you work with me, we can bring this nightmare to an end.”

Lilly glanced at Andie, then at me.

“What do you say, Lilly?” asked Andie.

“First, I need to talk to Patrick,” she said, “alone.”