Once a Killer (9 page)

Michael ignored the Marimba ring tone until it stopped.

Glass Eye looked at Bull Neck. “What do you think?”

“I say we kill the fucker now.”

Glass Eye nodded then turned to Michael. “Get out of the car. I don’t want blood on my upholstery.”

Michael’s heart pummeled the inside of his chest. Was this it? Was this how he was going to die? “Listen, I know I can get you what you need. Please, all I need is a little more time.”

“You heard him. Out of the fucking car,” shouted Bull Neck.

Michael opened the door and stepped onto the sandy ground. An icy sea wind hit him in the face, biting into his skin. They had to be on the marshes at the back of the Shorehaven Golf Club.
Christ!
Had these people chosen this deserted spot because they’d meant to kill him all along? Why else pick a place where no one could see them? And with the gale coming off the sea, no one would hear a gunshot out here.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Glass Eye slid along the back seat toward the open door. “Get on your knees.” His weapon was now held in his right hand and pointed at Michael.

Michael dropped to the wet ground. “Please. I just need more time to get you the information you want. I know I can get it.” He closed his eyes and braced himself for the shot.

Chapter 10

“Y
OU’RE
A V
ERY
L
UCKY
M
AN
,” said Glass Eye, returning the pistol to his holster. “We don’t have orders to kill you. Least, not today.”

Michael opened his eyes and watched Glass Eye’s every move.

“But make no mistake: Mr. Grannis wants his information.” Glass Eye threw Michael’s briefcase out of the car. “We’ll give you a week to come up with something. If we have to come back here to remind you again, one of your girls will pay the price.” He pulled the door closed and nodded to Bull Neck, who hit the gas.

Michael remained on his knees, trembling as the arctic gale off the sea conspired with the terror he felt inside. Half a mile away, the Escalade’s brake lights flashed as it stopped briefly before pulling out onto Old Saugatuck Road. They were gone.

Holding his head in his hands, Michael closed his eyes as it hit home how close he’d just come to being killed. In that moment, he knew he had no choice; no matter how risky it would be, he had to comply with Rondell’s demands. He’d been naive to think he could avoid him earlier today. And given what had just happened, there would be no second chances. The risk of being discovered by the authorities was very real, but it was nothing compared to losing one of his girls.

In his pocket, the cell phone rang again. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know it was Caroline calling. What could he say to her?

Think, Michael
.

It stopped ringing. If he called her back right now, when his mind was still whirring, he was bound to screw things up, say something he’d later regret. In the little time it would take to get home, he needed to come up with a story, something plausible. Standing up, he brushed the sand from his wet suit pants, pulled his overcoat tight around him, and then picked up his briefcase. The adrenaline was beginning to fade now, leaving him cold and exhausted.

The lights on Old Saugatuck Road acted as his beacon and, by using the poor moonlight, he could just about follow the tracks left by the SUV until he reached tarmac. The golf club had a pay phone inside the entrance, where he called a cab. Shivering as he waited outside for it to arrive, Michael ignored the curious looks from club members entering the building.

When he arrived back at the station, he sat in the Lexus for a few moments, trying to tidy himself up. His suit pants were soaked from the knees down, and his shoes and briefcase were plastered in wet sand. No wonder people had stared at him at the clubhouse; he looked a mess. How was he ever going to explain his appearance to Caroline? Whatever the story was, he’d need to come up with it quickly.

It was nine thirty five when he pulled up on the drive outside his home. Caroline came rushing out and met him climbing out of the car. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. When you called, you said you were on the usual train.”

His overcoat flapped open when he shut the car door, revealing his wet clothes underneath. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything inside.”

“You’re absolutely soaked. What happened to you?”

“I’ve just been attacked.”

“Oh my God.” She hugged him. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

Caroline took his briefcase, and they walked into the warmth of the house, where she made him a mug of hot chocolate with three sugars. “Drink this. The sugar will do you good. You look shocked.”

Michael removed his gloves and clasped his fingers around the warm mug while seated on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. Staring into the frothy drink, he shuddered.

“What happened?” Caroline said, holding onto his shoulder. “You’re soaked through. You can’t stay in these clothes.”

Michael was still wrestling with a credible story. “Do you mind if I get changed into something dry before I tell you about it?”

“I’m sorry. Let’s get you changed now and then go sit near the fire in the den.”

Minutes later, he was wearing a pair of thick tracksuit bottoms and a gray sweatshirt with Rhode Island emblazoned across the front. He sat on the floor next to Caroline in front of the log fire.

“Thank God I put the girls to bed. I’d hate for them to have seen you in this state.”

He forced a thin smile. “It was frightening.”

“Can you talk about it? I’d like to know what happened.”

Michael kept staring into the flames of the fire. “I was about to jump in the car at the station when two men held a gun at me.”

Caroline’s jaw dropped open. “Oh my…”

“They came out of nowhere. One of them punched me down to the ground while the other grabbed my briefcase. As they ran off, stupidly, I chased after them. If it hadn’t been for the shuttle bus turning up, they’d have gotten away with it, but when they saw all the people getting off the bus, they dropped my case and disappeared.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Of course.” Michael finished off the hot chocolate, still unable to look his wife in the eyes as he made up the next part. “That’s why I’m so late. I went down to the police station and gave them a statement.”

Caroline leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t imagine what you were thinking of chasing after them. They had a gun. You don’t know what they might have done.”

“I know. It was instinct. If I’d had time to think about it…”

She threw another log onto the fire and prodded about with it using the poker. “I tried calling you several times. I was worried.”

“I know. I saw you’d called when I left the police station, but I’d left my phone in the car. I didn’t call you back. I knew it would scare you unless you could see for yourself that I was okay. Besides, I just wanted to get home as soon as I could and see you and the girls.”

She grabbed his hand. “Just so long as you are in one piece.”

He nodded. “I’m okay. It’s wounded pride more than anything.”

“You’re not doing any work this weekend. I want you to rest.”

That night, Michael lay awake, staring into the dark bedroom, trying to work out what he found worse: having been held at gunpoint by Rondell’s henchmen, or having to lie about it to Caroline.

Thinking he could just ignore Rondell had been crazy. In his heart, he’d always known he was trapped. There had never really been a choice whether or not to cooperate with him. And if he was going to get any control over the situation, he had to start sharing deal information soon. It was the only way to avoid any harm coming to his family. In the end, that was all that mattered.

He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. By this time next week, he would have breached a whole raft of SEC rules and, worse still, committed securities fraud. Not exactly how he’d imagined spending the first few weeks of becoming an equity partner at Dudek’s. But it was still the right thing to do.

Chapter 11

R
UNNING
H
IS
F
INGERS
B
ACKWARD
through his hair had become second nature to Fabrizio Caravini. He didn’t even know he was doing it. It was only when he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink that he saw what he’d done.

“Shit,” he said, taking a comb out of his inside pocket.

He looked around the empty men’s room, then leaned over the sink and combed his thin blond hair forward to cover the receding hairline. In the last eighteen months, the hair loss had really begun to show. Many times, he’d thought about going to a male baldness clinic, just to find out if anything could be done. But so far, his pride and ego had stopped him. Why, at forty-two, did he have to put up with this indignity, when his father still had a thick mop, and he was now well into his seventies? He glanced at the door before taking out a small can of Consort Extra Hold from his attaché case and caking it onto his mane, locking it back it into place.

“Much better,” he mouthed at his reflection. Now all he had to do was resist running his fingers through it again.

After checking his teeth with a few practice smiles in the mirror, he straightened his tie, pulled his shoulders back, and power-strode out of the room. As he walked along the corridor toward the conference hall, the noise of the press pack grew louder. There was a slight twinge in his gut, but there was no time to return to the restroom; the press conference was about to start.

“Looking good, Fab,” said a woman, catching up with him from behind.

He turned, instinctively pulling in his stomach muscles, and flashed his expensive dental work when he recognized her as one of the friendly journalists from the New York Post.

“Thanks,” he said, opening the door for her. He didn’t need to be told, but it was nice to hear all the same.

Caravini dodged the flashing cameras as he sauntered up to the raised podium at the front and then patted his hands down through the air to quiet the audience. His eyes made a quick scan of the faces in front of him. All of the main newspapers and local TV channels were here. He cleared his throat and, hidden behind the base of the podium, rolled forward onto his toes, adding another two inches to his height.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here this afternoon,” he said in his barely disguised Brooklyn accent. He waited for the photographers to stop clicking away before continuing. “For those of you who do not know me, I am Assistant Director Fabrizio Caravini, responsible for the FBI’s financial crimes unit in New York City.” He stopped and took a sip of water, not to quench his thirst, but to make sure the journalists had enough time to capture an accurate record of his full name and position. Nothing irritated him more than when he saw his name in print and it was spelled incorrectly. Sometimes, he was convinced they did it deliberately to wind him up.

“As many of you will have heard by now, this morning, in the United States Southern District Court, Timothy Callahan, the former CEO of Parmadin Asset Management, was found guilty on nine counts of conspiracy and securities fraud. This follows an exhaustive two-year investigation by my team as part of our increased focus on insider trading, something I promised you when I took on this role five years ago.” He paused long enough to scan the room for any approving nods. There were none. What did he expect from a bunch of cynical journalists? “I expect more indictments to follow in the coming months as we escalate the resources we devote to this particularly pernicious crime. I am determined to maintain New York’s leading position in global financial markets by making it clear to corrupt money managers and other members of the criminal fraternity who think they can game the system that they will be caught and punished.” He stared right at the TV camera in the center of the room. If the skeptical hacks in the room didn’t appreciate him, he’d make sure the TV audience at home did. After all, they were the ones who really mattered. “Your greed and crooked practices have no place here in this great city. You will not be tolerated.”

The media conference lasted another half an hour, most of which was taken up by a question-and-answer session. How much money had Callahan made from insider trading? Would he be forced to give it back? How many other suspects did Caravini’s department have under investigation right now? When could they expect to see more criminals brought to book? Why was it that, in spite of countless securities laws and SEC rules, so many on Wall Street still believed they could cheat the system? Then the question he’d been waiting for: when was he going to announce his candidacy for mayor? The good people of New York needed a Rottweiler like him to clean up other areas of the city.

Afterward, Caravini returned to his twenty-third-floor office overlooking Federal Plaza.

“Another great performance,” said Abi, his leggy, blond personal assistant when she brought through his usual strong coffee. “I’ll make sure to watch it again on this evening’s news. I’m so proud of you.”