The Last Hedge (26 page)

“Maybe you did,” Kane said, dryly.

“Good one!” Dylan said, using two fingers to make a peace sign at Kane. “You had me for a moment!”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Howard added, as he placed his foot inside the apartment. “We need to talk.”

Dylan looked down at his watch.

“I’m on my way to dinner. Am I under arrest?”

“No, but I’d change my reservations if I were you.”

“I take it you can’t join me?”

“Where you headed.”

“I’m meeting a friend at
Le Cirque
.”

“It’s not in our budget. You want to go to Burger King instead?”

“Not on my diet.”

“I guess we’ll make a rain check. What is this about, exactly? Who are you?”

“We’re from finCEN: Financial Crime Enforcement Network; a branch of the Treasury.”

“Look us up on Wikipedia,” Kane added dryly.

“I try not to rely on Wikipedia,” Dylan added in return.

“That’s why we’d like to talk. To explain things.”

“Okay, let me get dressed. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Dylan went to his bedroom closet and put on slacks and a white shirt. When he returned to the living room, Howard was admiring his artwork.

“Nice apartment you got here.”

“I like it. Maybe I’ll invite you over to dinner. We can bake some cookies.”

They were dressed almost identically in dark blue suits, white shirts and navy ties. The major difference between the two men was that Kane was white, and Howard was black. Howard had a thick mustache and a shaved head. Kane was younger and athletic looking, probably still in his twenties.

“You,” Howard said, “you were the last person to see Ray Corbin alive.”

“Technically speaking, I found him.”

“Okay. You’re perhaps one of the last people.” Howard had a deep, rich baritone voice, like an actor. He intonated clearly as he spoke each word. “That makes you a clear person of interest to us.”

“But Treasury? I don’t understand how that’s your jurisdiction. What was Ray Corbin involved in?” The two men looked at each other.

“The Treasury has been very busy this year. We’ve been inundated with white-collar criminals and fraud.”

“Okay, but why are you standing in my apartment?”

Kane took a step back before he answered. “I can’t give you too much detail, but Ray Corbin is a person of interest to us.”

“I understand that. But what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, your prints are all over Corbin’s house. You were snooping around. What were you looking for?”

“My friend is missing. I thought that Ray knew something about it.”

“Even if he did, you had to go to his house to ask him about it?” Kane paused for dramatic effect.

“It is what it is,” Dylan said. “I spoke to the detectives. My story held up.”

“I understand that. We have reason to believe that you were looking at some of the Corbin Brothers financial data. Is that accurate?”

“Somewhat.”

“What do you mean by somewhat?”

“We saw some discrepancies in their chains of accounts. Binky went in and saw that they were running two sets of books. We never could figure out why.”

“Did you confront Corbin about this?”

“Duh, I never got the chance. As you say, I was the last person to see him alive, or barely alive.”

“What else can you tell us?”

“Can you help me find my friend?”

“That’s not under our jurisdiction.”

“Then may I ask a question? Why is Ray Corbin a person of interest to you?”

“I already told you,” Kane said, “We cannot discuss that with you.”

“Then how did you find out about me?”

“We understand that you’ve been in communication with the FBI.”

“Do you know Tim or Vanessa?”

“Yes, we spoke to them,” Howard said.

“Do they know you’re here?”

Howard laughed. “Mr. Cash, let me remind you that this is not a game of twenty questions.”

“I think,” Kane said, “it would be best if you came downtown and had a conversation with us.”

“Do I get to see a lawyer?”

“At the appropriate time, yes.”

“Then sure,” Dylan said. “Why not?” Kane stood up, and Howard did the same.

You ready to go?”

“I think so,” Dylan said. “Let me grab my jacket.” Dylan went into the bedroom and removed a sports jacket from the closet. He picked up his BlackBerry and sent a text message to Vanessa asking her if she had heard of either Kane or Howard. He placed the phone on vibrate, and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. He returned to returned to the living room where Kane and Howard were waiting.

“Let’s go,” Dylan said. They exited the apartment. The men summoned the elevator while Dylan locked the door.

They took the elevator down to the lobby of his building. Dylan glanced at his doorman who was silent as the three men exited the building.

“How far are we going?”

“Not far at all, Midtown.”

“I ride with you?” Dylan asked.

“Yes. You ride with us.”

Wilber was driving, and Kane was sitting next to him. A light rain had started to fall and the men drove carefully through the city streets. A call came in on Kane’s bluetooth headseat, and he muttered a few muffled responses. Dylan noticed the direction they were driving in. They were heading downtown.

“Where are we going?”

“A little change of plans. We’re going downtown.”

“Any reason why?”

“The Federal Detention Center.”

Dylan had heard of the place; a roach motel where people had a nasty habit of entering and never leaving. Since 9/11, the Feds had used it as a staging area for would-be terrorists and high-profile criminals. He couldn’t imagine why he was being taken there. The phone in his pocket was vibrating, and Dylan removed it quickly and placed it in his lap.

The text message was from Vanessa. She had heard of neither Kane nor Howard, and had no idea that the Secret Service was involved.

“I was serious about the food, gentlemen. I really hadn’t eaten.”

“Okay, okay,” Kane said. “We heard you already.”

There’s a place over there,” Dylan said. “It will take two minutes.”

Dylan pointed towards a bodega on the corner with a twenty-four hour sign. It was called Tony’s. He often stopped there after late nights of drinking when he had the late night munchies. Of all the greasy spoons he had frequented over the years, Tony’s Deli was one of the best.

Howard pulled over to the car and parked illegally at the curb. He and Kane both surveyed the place.

“You think it’s alright?” Kane asked.

“Looks okay,” Howard said.

“You go with him. I’ll stay with the car. ” Wilber shook his head as he exited the vehicle. Dylan got out of the backseat and quickly headed into the deli

The deli was a typical city joint: It was a run down and dirty, with extortion level prices. A hot foods area was off to the side, complete with a grill stacked high with half-cooked bacon. Dylan recognized the man behind the grill by the frayed Yankees cap on his head. It was Sammed, dressed in his dirty white apron, greasy smock, and five-year-old baseball cap.

Samed was from Lebanon, and was a fanatical Yankees fan since he had first come to America. Dylan had spent many a post-Bacchanalian evening ordering a sandwich and talking baseball.

“Sammed, how are the Yankees going to make the playoffs? No pitching!”

“Tell me about it,” Sammed said with a smile. “I could put on a uniform and pitch better than he could.” Dylan laughed.

“My Mets aren’t doing much either.”

“The Mets suck,” Sammed said. “What can you expect from a team that plays in Queens.” Dylan slapped the counter with his hand. Wilber looked at him, then glanced at his watch.

“So what are you having?” Sammed asked.

“Chicken salad on rye,” Dylan looked at Howard. “You want anything?”

He shook his head. “I’m just having coffee.” Sammed handed Howard a cup of coffee. Howard removed his wallet to pay, and Sammed said to him, “Pay at the front.” Howard took the cup of coffee and headed to the register.

A loud bar was located next door to the deli, and many of its patrons also had got the munchies. There were several people at the register in front of him, and Howard waited patiently as the cashiers work slowed to a crawl. Wilber stood rigidly as the revelers in front of him paid for their grub in a loud and jocular fashion. Wilber took out a dollar to pay for the coffee, and then decided he would pay for Dylan’s sandwich also. When he turned to look at the deli section, leaning his head gently around the produce section, Wilbur realized that Dylan was gone.

Dylan arrived in the rain outside of the Greenwich Village building where Vanessa lived. He had called her from the subway station and she had given him directions to her place. There was no one else to call. He walked the three blocks in the blinding rain and arrived at her building absolutely soaked.

Her apartment was in a five-story townhouse that had been chopped into one-bedroom condos. There was no elevator, and he hiked up four flights of stairs to get to her floor. Vanessa opened the door after viewing him through the chain of the doorway. She was dressed in a Princeton T-shirt and an orange pair of sweats. When he stepped into her apartment, she looked as if she had seen a ghost.

“What happened to you?”

“I’ll explain. But first, thank you, I hate to come here like this, but after what happened to Binky, and then Luke, and Adam, I didn’t know who else to call. I guess, I was …” Dylan’s voice trailed off, and Vanessa could see the fear in his eyes, like an animal caught in a trap. She tried to be as compassionate as possible.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Let me get you a towel.”

Dylan stood there dripping while she left the room. She returned in a moment with a towel in her hand.

“Have a seat. I’ll make you tea.”

“You have anything harder than tea?”

“I have Scotch.”

“I’ll take it.”

Dylan did his best to dry off and then wrapped the towel around his dripping clothes. He then took a seat on the small chair in Vanessa’s living room. Her apartment was tidy but cramped with Ikea-like furniture holding walls of book’s and CDs. Vanessa was a photo buff. One wall of her living room was lined with photos, tracing the arc of her life through her pictures: grad school, family, then high school and college. Many of the photos were of her playing tennis. A black and white cat poked its head out from behind the curtain. When Dylan reached out his hand to pet it, the cat jumped back behind the sofa. Vanessa entered the room with two cups of tea on a platter.

“Don’t mind her,” Vanessa said. “She’s very shy.”

“What’s her name?”

“Little Kitty.”

“That’s the cat’s name?”

“When I first got her, she fit in the palm of my hand. So I called her Little Kitty. And that became her name.”

Dylan smiled as Vanessa handed him the glass. She took a seat on a chair across from him. She had poured herself a Scotch also. Dylan downed his drink before they had even taken a sip.

“So what the hell happened to you?”

Dylan explained to her everything that had happened, from the time the Secret Service agents picked him up, until he had to run. Vanessa nodded silently while she drank her tea. After Dylan finished, she put her tea down on the coffee table in front of them.

“So why did you run?”

“Something didn’t feel right. I mean, two Treasury agents come to my apartment; then they skirt around Ray Corbin and want to talk about what Binky had found out. When they said they were taking me downtown, I felt like I was about to disappear into some black bag.”

“Did they show you I.D.?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know they were really Treasury?”

“I guess I don’t. I panicked.”

“Dylan, if they were Treasury, you may have made things worse.”

“Can’t you call someone?”

“I’ll beep Tim.”

Vanessa picked up her phone and dialed Conroy’s number. No one answered. After a second attempt, she placed the phone down on the table.

“No luck. I’m not sure why his phone is off the hook. You want another drink?”

“Yes. I do.”

“No problem.”

They both had another Scotch, and then one more. Vanessa had turned her stereo receiver onto a jazz station, and the music hummed softly throughout the room.

“I guess I panicked,” Dylan said. “I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“It’s natural, I guess. How some people react under pressure.”

“With your job, you ever think about dying?”

“Not really, no. I mean, no more than anyone else. You prepare, you put the work in, and you handle whatever situation arises. Do you think about it a lot?”

“All the time. I have this dream that that I’m falling; sometimes from a plane, sometime from the roof of my building. Sometimes I have a parachute; sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I have a rope; sometimes I don’t. Usually, I don’t. And then I fall.”

“What happens to you?”

“I always wake up. Did you know that the longest dreams last less than ten seconds? They’ve measure peoples rapid eye movements.”

“That’s pretty wild.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s amazing. You work with a gun, I work with a spreadsheet, and I’m the one who is obsessed with death.”

“That’s good,” Vanessa said. “I like vulnerability in a man.” Dylan leaned over and kissed her. She did not resist.

“Okay, but what should I do? I can’t go home.”

“No, you can’t. Why don’t you spend the night here.”

“Here? You mean, with you?”

“Yes,” Vanessa said. “I won’t bite, and the couch is very comfortable.” Just then, Vanessa’s cat leaped into Dylan’s lap. “See, even Little Kitty likes you. That’s a good sign.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dylan said, as the cat began to lick his face.

Vanessa Remerling proved to be the perfect host. She had everything from a spare pair of sweatpants that fit him to an extra toothbrush. Her apartment, though cramped, was homey and cozy, unlike the sterile elegance of his apartment. When Dylan emerged from the bathroom, he could see her in her bedroom brushing her long hair while she looked into the mirror. When she saw him she looked up.