The Job (47 page)

“That sounds promising….”

“How fast can you get back here?”

“I’ve got two more days’ worth of courier duties. Then-” “Have you seen this morning’s New York Times?”

“Not yet.”

“Ted Peterson’s house was broken into again.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Was anything taken?”

“Nothing major-though, according to the story, it was really torn apart.”

My mind began to race. Finally I said, “Jerry’s people didn’t find what they wanted, right?”

“That’s how it looks to me. Which means either Mrs. Peterson has stashed whatever evidence they’re after somewhere else. Or maybe ..

.”

Bingo.

“Peterson himself stashed it somewhere safe,” I said, finishing her sentence.

“Safe and offshore, perhaps?” she asked.

“Perhaps, indeed,” I said.

At the nearest newspaper stand I bought a New York Times. Then I ran for my plane. Two hours later I walked into the Bahamian Bank of Commerce.

“You know, you really have become our best customer,” Mr. MacGuire said, peering into the briefcase I placed on his desk.

“What can I say? Business is very satisfactory.”

“Four point two million dollars’ worth of deposits in just under two weeks is more than satisfactory. Especially if, like Mr. Schubert, you’re getting a twenty percent commission.”

“Yeah-he must have close to a cool million in his account by now.”

“Are you envious?”

“He deserves it,” I said frostily.

“I’m sure he does,” Mr. MacGuire added, arching his eyebrows.

“So how much do you have for me today?”

“One hundred and forty-one thousand.”

“Modest, by your standards.”

Yeah, well-the “investor” in question (Bill Pearle, a big-time scrap merchant in Denver) is probably just a minor-league racketeer.

The money was whisked off by Muriel for counting. I tossed the New York Times on MacGuire’s desk.

“Turn to section two, page five,” I said.

“You mean, the story about the second breakin at Mr. Peterson’s house?”

“You’re way ahead of me.”

“Shocking business, isn’t it? What on earth do you think they’re looking for?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Why should I know?”

“Because you were his offshore banker. And because not only did he maintain an account with you, but a safety deposit box as well.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I’d stake a large sum of money on its existence. If I had any money in the first place…”

“Mr. Allen, you know that, if such a box existed, I couldn’t reveal its existence to you.”

“But you could reveal its existence to Mr. Peterson’s widow, couldn’t you?”

“Provided she supplied me with certain documentation, yes, I could.”

“So the box does exist.”

He let out a sigh, then peered at me with amused annoyance.

“Remind me never to play poker with you, Mr. Allen.”

“What documents would she need?”

“Their marriage certificate, his death certificate, and his probated last will and testament, showing that he has left all his financial assets to her.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes… but we would appreciate it if, at your convenience, you would return the stamp and the deposit book that you ‘borrowed’ from us.”

“Give me a few more days,” I said.

“You’re lucky you’re such a good customer.”

I missed my connection in Miami that night, so I had to overnight in the airport hotel. I called my office number and checked my messages. There was only one.

“Detective Flynn here from the Greenwich P.D. Could you please call me as soon as possible-either at my office or at home. My numbers are

…”

I glanced at my watch. It was just 9:15.1 punched in the detective’s home number.

“Hey, thanks for calling, Mr. Allen. You in New York?”

“Miami.”

“When are you back in town, sir?”

“Not for another week,” I lied.

“You can’t get back here before then?”

“Not unless I want to lose my job.”

“Well, I’m going to be blunt with you-we need to see you.”

“Why?”

“We want you to take part in a lineup.”

“A lineup?” I said, the word catching in my throat.

“But I thought you had eliminated me from-” “We had. Then we managed to get hold of some photographs taken at the SOFT US reception. It seems there was a photographer, hired by SOFT US who was roaming the room to take public relations shots of all the guests-photos which, I gather, they were going to use in their trade magazine. As it turns out, there were several shots of you in ‘discussion’ with Mr. Peterson. They are, it must be said, slightly blurred. Still, earlier today, we showed the entire set of reception photographs to Mr. Martin Algar, the maitre d’ at the Hyatt Regency, in the long-shot hope that he might spot the individual who left the restaurant with Peterson. Now I must inform you, Mr. Allen, that he pointed to your picture and said that he thought you might be the man.”

I wanted to run out of the room. Instead I took a very deep breath and tried to sound calm.

“But that’s absurd. I was in Miami. I showed you proof that I was there.”

“I am aware of that. Just as I am also aware that the photo was slightly blurred, and that Mr. Algar said he simply ‘thought’ you were the man he saw with Peterson. And, of course, the fact that you called me at home tonight also shows your willingness to cooperate with our investigation.”

“I am definitely not the man you’re looking for.”

“I am glad to hear that, sir. But given that Mr. Algar has, in effect, given us some reason to question your assertion of innocence, we’re going to have to ask you to come in and take part in a lineup. It’ll get the whole business over with once and for all. And if he doesn’t identify you as the guy with Peterson, then you’ll never hear from us again. So when can you get back here?”

Stall for time, stall for time.

“Tuesday,” I said.

“No way, Mr. Allen-that’s almost a week from now.”

“Like I said, I’ve got meetings set up all around the country this week….”

“And I’ve got a murder investigation to run-an investigation in which you are now a figure of considerable interest to us. I mean, if Algar had given us a positive I.D.” I’d have a warrant out for your arrest right now. But, under the circumstances, I can give you forty-eight hours from tomorrow morning to present yourself at my office. And if you’re not there at nine A.M. Friday morning, then a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Is that clear?”

“Yes. It’s very clear.”

“One last thing-you might want legal counsel present at the lineup. Just in case.”

He hung up. I fell backward on the hotel bed, terrified. Then I jumped up again and grabbed the phone, ready to call directory assistance for Old Greenwich, Connecticut, and ask for the home number of an Edward Peterson on Shore Road. But then I thought, If Jerry has had his stooges break into his house on two occasions, desperately searching for evidence, then there’s every good chance he’s also tapped the phone. And, with just forty-eight hours to go, I was only going to have one shot at getting this right, so … I called Lizzie instead. As soon as she answered I said, “Lizzie, I am in the biggest trouble..

..”

“Oh, I see….” She sounded very distracted.

“You okay?”

“Uh, sure. But… I can’t really talk right now.”

“What do you mean, you ‘can’t talk’? This is a crisis.”

“I mean,” she whispered.

“I can’t talk.”

My stomach did a somersault.

“Oh, Jesus…. ,” I muttered.

“I’ve got to go….”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Jerry is there, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Great.”

“Trust me,” she whispered. And hung up.

It was on the dawn flight out of Miami. Before boarding I turned off my phone. For the next twenty-four hours I needed to be unreachable, untraceable.

At La Guardia I made two return reservations to Nassau (via Miami) for that afternoon, then rented a car. I hit Old Greenwich by ten. Driving down its central drag, Sound Beach Avenue, I kept my head down, just in case Detective Flynn might be in town … or if Martin Algar of Hyatt Regency renown happened to be crossing the main street.

Ten o’clock. If the insane plan I had concocted was going to work, Meg Peterson would have to be home now. And if she wouldn’t buy my story, then I would have no choice but to go on the run. Because if I did show up at the lineup, I was heading nowhere but jail.

I turned right at Shore Road. Halfway to the Peterson house a Ford Explorer passed me, heading toward town. It took a moment to register, then the realization hit: Meg Peterson had been behind the wheel of that car. Slamming on the brakes, I did an instant U-turn.

For one brief terrible moment, I thought I had lost the Explorer. But then I saw it turn right down a side street. I ran a stop sign and managed to catch up with it as it cruised down a residential road called Park Avenue. Then it crossed a narrow street and entered a parking lot behind a bank. I pulled in just as Meg Peterson got out of her vehicle. She looked world-weary, deprived of sleep. I screeched to a halt and iumoed out of my car.

“Mrs. Peterson?” I shouted.

She turned around and regarded me with contempt.

“If you’re from the press, I don’t want to talk to you,” she said angrily.

I approached her, both hands held up, trying to appear conciliatory.

“Trust me, Mrs. Peterson-I am not from the press.”

“Yeah, well that’s what that bastard from the Post told me.”

“We’ve met before.”

“I’ve never laid eyes on you in my life.”

“Last December in the driveway of your house, remember? I’m Ned Allen. I used to work for a magazine called CompuWorld, and you found me camped out behind the wheel of my car… .”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Ted said you were chasing him for some advertising spread… and that he decided to help you out when it turned out your job depended on this deal.”

“That’s right. Your husband really did a great thing by-” “Bullshit. Ted never did a decent thing for anybody. It was against his religion. Now if you will excuse me…”

“I really need to talk to you.”

“Well, I really don’t need to talk to you. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks talking to the cops, the press, the lawyers, and most especially to my very confused and distressed children. So I am truly sick and tired of talking….”

She leaned against a parked car and tried to stifle a sob.

“Mrs. Peterson, please.”

I made the mistake of putting a steadying hand on her arm.

“Don’t you touch me….”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” “Get out of here, or I’ll call the cops.”

“Mrs. Peterson, just listen.”

“Get out!”

A few passersby in the parking lot stopped and stared. I had one final shot at this meeting. I had to gamble.

“I know who killed your husband,” I said in a near whisper.

At first, she didn’t take it in.

“You… what?”

I kept my voice low.

“I know who killed your husband.”

She studied me carefully, and with total distrust.

“And how do you know that?” she asked.

“Because I was there.”

She stared at the ground.

“Listen,” I said, “can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Go away,” she said softly.

“I don’t want to know….”

“I’ll just take ten minutes of your time, no more.”

“How do I know …”

“What?”

“.. . you’re not them.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“The men who ransacked my house. Twice.”

“Because … I work for them. And because they’re trying to pin your husband’s murder on me.”

She shuddered.

I said, “Ten minutes-that’s all I’m asking. You name the place.”

She looked away-and I could see she was desperately trying to make up her mind.

“I’m going into the bank now,” she said and started walking away from me. After taking five steps, however, she turned back and said, “There’s a coffee shop on Sound Beach. Be there in five minutes.”

Thank God, the coffee shop was empty. I settled into a booth right in the back. Ten minutes came and went. I thought, She’ll be showing up here with a cop in tow.

But five minutes later, she walked in. Alone.

“There were long lines at the bank….,” she said, sitting down.

“I really appreciate-” “Mister, I don’t know who the fuck you are-and after what I’ve been through, I certainly don’t trust you or anyone else on this planet, with the exception of my kids. So you get to the point. Now.”

I started to talk. Step by step, I took her through the entire story. I spared her no details. The crisis over the CompuWorld advertising spread. The way Ted panicked when I played the Cayman Islands card-but how he turned vindictive when he realized all I had on him was a hushed-up case of attempted rape (her face visibly tightened when I detailed the Joan Glaston incident). I explained how he cost me the Computer America job. How he helped spark Ivan’s suicide. How I hit bottom and was rescued by my old pal Jerry Schubert, who just happened to work for Jack Ballantine, and for whom her husband also happened to working.

She interrupted me.

“Jack Ballantine?” she said in a whisper.

“The Jack Ballantine?”

I took her through the Excalibur Fund scam. How I discovered it was bogus. How it was being used as a front for some sort of elaborate, illegal scheme involving hefty amounts of dubious cash. How Ted was somehow involved-and how Jerry set up our confrontation at the SOFT US reception, followed by an alleged reconcilia tory dinner at the Hyatt Regency, after which…

She kept her head bowed during my description of the murder. She said nothing when I explained how Jerry set me up as the fall guy, and threatened to turn me in if I didn’t transform myself into the bag man. And how, in the course of carting all that highly suspect money to an offshore Bahamian bank, I discovered that a certain Ted Peterson had opened an account there. And how he also had a safe deposit box in the same bank. And how I was certain that this box contained whatever the thugs who ransacked her house were looking for. And how I was due to take part in a lineup at the Greenwich Police Station in just under forty-eight hours, and was certain to be put away unless…