Shattered Trust (17 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“He won't be fully conscious for several hours,” the doctor said, his worried gaze going to Detective Hayward and then to Laura and James.
Hayward signaled to his men. “You both stay armed, in his room, and when the bastard comes to, you call me.”
“I guess that's a pass for a flight to the States,” Laura said, trying to keep victory out of her tone.
“I'll call the captain,” Hayward snapped, looking at both Laura and James with fury. “You just make sure that your media friends get the story right. An incident like this during Carnival will have a bad effect on tourism for us.”
“Too close for comfort,” James said, rolling the tension away from his shoulders as they sat in the airport under heavy, plainclothes authority guard. “Any bright ideas for the move when we get back to Philly?”
“No ‘thank you, baby'? No ‘that was brilliant, sweetheart'?” she said under her breath. “No ‘not bad for thinking on your feet'?”
“No ‘you were right, James'?” he muttered under his breath. “No ‘glad a bullet missed the kiss, darling'?”
He didn't answer her. She didn't press her point. They had work to do.
 
 
“All right, gentlemen,” Laura said quickly as several FBI agents met them at the gates. “You've been briefed, I take it.”
They nodded without words.
“I'm gonna need a blue business suit, a wire. James is gonna need a car that can move.” She glanced at them. “Can you guys get into my old house on Pennsylvania Avenue, and sweep my Jag to make sure it's not booby-trapped?”
“We'll send somebody over there,” one of the suits said. “We'll put the wire on you both down at headquarters—we've got a coupla cots down there you both can sleep on. Better stay with us, have several conversations, then we can discuss the plan in depth.”
 
 
“That's a crazy bold move,” Captain Bennett said, adding his two cents into the discussion as FBI officials took weary seats around the war room. “Maybe we should just send in a team to arrest the bastard.”
“On what charges?” James argued, fatigue making him irritable as he sipped his fifth cup of bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup and rubbed his eyes. He wondered how he'd ever been able to hang as long as he had on the force. The fluorescent beam was creating a throbbing tension headache. Laura looked washed out and exhausted, too.
“Cap, be serious, ” James said, pressing his point. “If this guy is involved, we still don't know exactly why someone as well-connected as him, with as much to lose, would start this level of bullshit. Besides, last I heard, being in a silent partnership wasn't exactly a felony. It might represent a significant conflict of interest, but if you go after this guy, you've gotta nail him with something that will stick. We're still not even sure if he's the big fish, or just a mid-level player, like Townsend. So, you've gotta let her go in with a wire to see if she can draw him out in conversation, then we wait to see if anything jumps off whack, after that.”
Captain Bennett peered at the assembled group, his nerves on open display. “Listen, I just don't like sending her into a downtown highrise building all alone to waltz into his office and directly confront him.”
“We'll have undercover men in the building, several, who will appear to just be office workers, cleaning staff, you name it,” an FBI agent assured Bennett.
“I have to go in, cocky, like I have a bargaining ace up my sleeve and rattle his cage,” Laura protested. “If I go in there with James, he'll immediately know I'm not just fishing, but have an army outside. He could panic, like Sutherland did ...
then
, it could get ugly. But the man isn't crazy, just ruthless, and isn't about to have an incident go down at One Liberty Place near his place of employ.” She glanced at James for support. “The one thing he seems to have been very good at is keeping on the periphery in a defense of total deniability.”
“I'm not worried about One Liberty Place,” James said flatly, turning his line of vision on Bennett, and then the others in the room. “My concern is after I pick Laura up, and we supposedly go back to her place to chill and wait for his phone call.
That's
where it could get intense, just like before.”
“We've got agents in the house already sweeping it for any listening devices, explosives, with snipers concealed. No one will be able to get in or out without our guys spotting 'em,” another FBI agent said in an authoritative tone.
Bennett looked at James and Laura hard. “Yeah, well, we all know that even in the best of circumstances, one slipup, one blink, and a pro can breach a line, do a hit, and slip out clean—no offense, gentlemen. Not to mention, there are so many quiet partners in bed with this guy, from other elected officials to people with serious financial juice that who knows if this guy is even our man, truthfully?”
“That's the problem, sir,” Laura said raking her fingers through her hair. “We don't know. But there's only one way to find out.”
“Lean and lean hard, make him place a call, make a move, meet someone and get a quiet photo op,” James said, standing to pace. “That's the only way, at this point.”
Chapter 17
L
aura took a deep breath, smoothed the front of her Ellen Tracy suit, lifted her chin, and glimpsed her reflection as she passed through the chrome and glass doors of One Liberty Place. Pearls, white blouse, low-heeled Prada pumps, Coach bag, light dusting of makeup, she looked like any attorney or businesswoman going to work on a Monday morning.
She signed in with the security desk without even looking at the guard, confident, like she belonged there, and rode up to the fifteenth floor, keeping her eyes on the ascending numbers in the crowded elevator. Without stopping to glance around, she walked right up to the wide, double-pane glass doors, pushed her way in, and impatiently waited at the receptionist's desk.
“May I help you?” a pleasant-looking, older woman with a tasteful silver chignon asked.
“Alan Moyer,” Laura said, glancing at her watch as though she had somewhere else more important to be. The woman buzzed the inner office, giving Laura the once-over. “May I have your name?”
“Laura Caldwell,” she replied, not batting an eye. “If he's not in, do let him know I was here.”
“One moment,” the receptionist said, seeming confused. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” Laura snapped. “A standing one.”
The receptionist spoke in a low, confused tone to the executive assistant behind the rows and rows of partitions and walnut décor. “Uhmmm ... he's not expecting you, and has a full calendar this morning,” she replied after a moment. “Would you like to make an appointment?”
“Please tell his assistant that he can either make time for me this morning, or he can explain to his boss why I bypassed his office and went to speak to the FBI.” Laura batted her eyes, smiled tensely, and leaned on the desk peering down at the woman to help her decide.
“I think you may want to come out here and have a conversation with Mr. Moyer's client, Joanne,” the receptionist whispered in a tight voice. “Something about the FBI?”
Within moments, a very efficient-looking, middle-aged blonde rounded the corner. Her hazel eyes smoldered with indignation as she peered at Laura over her gold-rimmed glasses that draped pink and black crystal beads behind her ears.
“I'm Joanne McLaughlin, Mr. Moyer's executive assistant. May we help you?” Joanne said, clearly peeved. She swept her hand down the front of her pink knit cardigan set and fumbled with a message pad and pen, as though about to take Laura's information.
“Alan Moyer would want to have a conversation with me before I get nervous and go to the police about his various holdings and conflict of interest at Micholi Foundation,” Laura said in a low, civil tone that contained a warning. “Or, he can blow me off until his schedule frees up later in the week, and by then, it will be a media travesty.” She gave Joanne a wink. “Ask him that for me, would you? Then, check his calendar and see if something opened up. I'll wait.”
If looks could kill, Laura would have been taken from the building in a body bag. Joanne hurried away from her to the inner offices, while the receptionist kept her eyes on Laura as though waiting for some signal to call security.
“Would you like a seat?” the receptionist finally asked.
“No, I'll stand,” Laura said, her tone frosty.
She hated the whole charade. What she really wanted to do was go into Alan Moyer's office and bitch slap him. It didn't matter if he actually called for the hits or not. He was as guilty as sin and involved somehow; she could feel that through her skin. The problem was what it had always been, there were so many well-shielded players, who knew where to begin.
Micholi had been cross-pollinated with so many others, boards were overlaid with boards, good old boys from the same elite high schools, boarding schools, same country clubs and golf circuits, old alma maters, and shared past-present-future CEO or corporate merger tycoon status ... how did one unravel the thread, pull one string and hang them all—or at least the ones who were directly fucking with her and James? In that moment she realized again just how much she missed her old sparring buddy, Donald Haines. Yes, he was a thief, like the rest of them, but at least he was genteel in the sport of being a robber baron.
Laura jerked her attention away from the large picture window that gave one an impressive view of City Hall when Joanne hastily reentered the lobby.
“Mr. Moyer said you can steal a few,
unscheduled
moments of his time. But he can only spare a few moments without wreaking havoc to his other appointments that had been scheduled well in advance.”
Joanne McLaughlin could kiss her natural behind. “Yeah, whatever,” Laura said, straightening her spine to stand even taller. “You can tell the boss I won't steal anything more from him than he's been trying to steal from me. Lead the way.”
Entitled fury filled Joanne's eyes, but rather than respond to Laura, she pursed her lips, spun on her penny loafer flat heels, lifted her chin, and strode down a corridor. “Follow me.”
Joanne turned abruptly as they came to a halt before a massive set of double walnut doors. She glared at Laura again, knocked gently, and turned the brass handle. “Ms. Laura Caldwell, sir,” she announced. “Would you like me to stay and take notes?”
A man in his late sixties looked over his half-moon horn-rimmed glasses, and leaned his elbows on his highly polished mahogany desk. His eyes burned with a mixture of intensity and curiosity as he studied Laura for a moment. Bright sunlight gleamed off his scalp, making his silvery white tufts of hair sparkle. His thick jowls moved ever so slightly as he laced his fingers together and made a tent with his hands in front of his mouth. “That won't be necessary, Joanne. Our conversation will be brief, I'm sure.”
Nodding, but keeping a lethal gaze on Laura, Joanne stepped back, allowed Laura entry, and then quietly shut the door behind her.
“Well, and so we finally meet again,” Laura said, her gaze sweeping his office. “Impressive. I like the digs,” she said calmly. “When did we see each other last? Was it Haines's funeral, or your son's trial? I can't remember.”
“You have a lot of gall coming here, Ms. Caldwell,” the senior attorney said, watching her move around his office and not take a seat.
“Or, a lot of balls,” she said, pruning a plant for him by the window that was already in immaculate condition. “And, by the way, it's Caldwell-Carter, these days.”
“Get to the point,” he snapped.
“Fine,” she said, turning to calmly face him. “My point is this. I hear through the grapevine that it's too late to try to rectify things the civil way ... with a donation made to Micholi, one that would heal old wounds.”
He smiled. “I'm afraid too many balls have been set in motion. I'm sorry you wasted your time returning to Philadelphia to discuss a moot point.”
She smiled. “Then I guess I'll have to turn over the records that some friends at the State Department accidentally e-mailed me.”
His smile faded and he just stared at her.
“Isn't it a conflict of interest to be the attorney of record for a large foundation that has millions in assets, but to own those assets ... by way of power of attorney for a son that is now incarcerated on felony charges ... and to also invest, quietly through silent partnerships, in the holdings of the foundation's larger clients? Hmmm, donors and clients, all in the same bed?” She pressed her hand to her chest and tilted her head. “I'm no attorney, and don't know the fine points of things like this, so I'm just seeking legal advice. Your expert opinion on said matters.”
His gaze hardened. “Get out of my office,” he said quietly.
“All right,” she said with a sly smile. “I wouldn't want you to call security. The Russians are so messy ... have been botching assignments from here to Grand Cayman and back. Shame they hit the wrong limo driver, though.”
Moyer leaned forward, but didn't speak. Damn, she was counting on the fact that he'd say something, anything, to give her a clue. But the old man had blue-ice water in his veins, not blue blood.
“The one thing I see that you haven't invested in is the casinos, though. Shame. That's a tip I learned a looong time ago,” she cooed, moving toward the door. “I've passed on the hot stock advice to some of my best friends down there that they might want to invest in the privately held prison corporations on the NASDAQ.”
“Are you threatening my son,” Moyer said in a low, dangerous tone, “after all you've done to him?”
“Would never dream of it,” Laura said, absently studying her manicure. “I'm just saying that a man in your position might want to divest in ventures that could pose conflicts of interest, and you might want to spread your portfolio a little more ... that way, you wouldn't have all your eggs in one basket.” She looked up and smiled, but her eyes were hard. “I did a tour of duty on Wall Street years ago. I'm retired, but it's just some free advice.”
“If anything happens to Alan in prison, like it did Dr. Sutherland, I'll have you and your Italian goons arrested on murder one,” he said, standing slowly behind his desk and leaning forward.
His voice had escalated, and his face had become beet red, even though he'd said nothing incriminating that would help her case or make the wire she was wearing any more comfortable. In fact, what he did say only incriminated her and possibly Joey Scapolini. But, she had gotten a rise out of him.
“Nobody is going to attempt to go near Alan Jr.,” she said, feeding Moyer more to enrage him and possibly make him sloppy. “
He's
our man. The one already shown capable of murder. The one already known to have a serious axe to grind, and already locked up with people who could get the word on the outside to people who could do a payback job ... and he clearly has the financial wherewithal to pay.”
Laura stopped, pursed her lips with her forefinger against them for a moment. She'd been yanking the old man's chain, but as she went down the slippery slope of logic, the more it made sense.
The epiphany hit her like a ton of bricks as she watched Moyer's eyes and his expression become pale. Oh shit, they'd been tracking a bunch of dirty old men on the outside that hovered around polite society and stood to gain, but never went behind bars to the young Turk who might actually be pulling the strings. Junior was already serving time and out of the way. His elders would benefit in the short term, and with power of attorney could move money in his behalf as directed, make payoffs, make high-level connections, and cover his tracks for him, and then find a way to get him an early parole and ankle bracelet to work from home, given all the judges and parole boards they owned.
If anything went down shaky, they could pin it on the man who was already serving time. If they slipped through undetected, then they could all get rich and party—they'd be dead from natural causes; Alan Moyer, Jr., would still be a fairly young man and set for life when he got out. It made so much sense, she shivered. Power never ceded to anything but power and old money didn't let itself get lent outside of the circles it had been born in. Deep.
“You are playing a very dangerous game with me, Laura,” the old man said, and rounded the desk. He'd spoken between his teeth. “Get out.”
“Have a nice day, too,” she said. “I'll be sure to send Alan a note of thanks to brighten his days in the joint.”
Laura slipped out of the office, passed Joanne McLaughlin, and headed for the elevators, not even looking back at the receptionist. Her palms were moist; the wire taped to her body was itching. She could feel eyes watching her everywhere. No wonder Scapolini had stayed close to home with his message—a hit on Sutherland, Alan's old partner in another facility.
The mob boys had to have known the orders to engage the Russians came from inside. They just hit the wrong one, or maybe that was their intent all along, to hit the one inside that would cause them the least collateral damage to their contracts and relationships. Either way, they broke a loose link in the chain on the inside as a warning, and now she understood why. From there, the drama had escalated.
Now
, she
totally
understood why.
Pacing down Market Street to Sixteenth, she rounded the corner and headed toward Chestnut to the lot a few blocks away where James would be waiting in her Jag. Even though it was a spring day and still cool, by the time she power-walked, half dashing, half jogging to her destination, her silk blouse was drenched. She glanced at James and climbed into the white florists' van that sat double-parked at the mouth of the garage. Federal agents helped strip the wire as James's voice boomed through the two-way system they'd rigged.
“I'll be damned,” James said.
“We got it,” an agent said, glancing at Captain Bennett.
“The time bomb is ticking,” James said, wishing his old partner Steve was there to ride shotgun with him.
“We know. She didn't get enough to fully incriminate the old bastard, but at least we have a warm trail to pick up on.”

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