The Trophy Wife (7 page)

Andrew had resigned, ready for a retirement to the trout streams upstate. But his reputation as a skilled and squeaky-clean policeman was immensely valuable to any institution that existed on public trust. Brokerage firms, banks, consulting partnerships, and even law firms had gotten into a bidding war for his services. InterBank came out on top with an offer of half a million a year.

“Andrew!” Walter was on his feet as soon as the security officer appeared in his still-empty outer office. Hogan was a slight man with silvery gray hair, who looked as fit as he actually was. There were many small-time toughs about the city who had mistaken his small stature for weakness and still had limited movement in their limbs as a result. Walter Childs charged out to greet him, shook his hand affectionately, and then led him into the carpeted quarter acre that was his private office.

Hogan's guard was immediately up. He wasn't used to warm, enthusiastic receptions from the bank's top officers and rarely was he invited to the senior executive floor, much less into one of the private offices. As he had learned, the top bankers with their Ivy League diplomas and graduate degrees didn't think much of City College. Nor did those used to winning in the private sector have much use for men who had made their careers in public service. The former police commissioner of New York made a very impressive entry in the bank's annual report, but he didn't make a very desirable luncheon companion.

“Sit down, please.” Walter pulled a comfortable chair up to his desk and then ran around to his own massive swivel chair. Andrew Hogan's radar locked on. Walter Childs, he guessed, had a security problem, and one that he didn't want publicized.

“Andrew, the security scenarios your people come up with are always fascinating. It's hard to believe that there are so
many ways to attack a bank.” Hogan had built a team of experts who were challenged to break the bank's security systems. It included not only a half dozen computer hackers who spent their days trying to break into bank records, but also second-story men who tried to get around InterBank's surveillance and alarm systems. Whenever one succeeded, Hogan developed an antidote.

“I remember one case you had based on extortion. I think you compromised a branch manager and then got him to deposit into a fictitious account.”

Hogan nodded. “That's right. We called him Mr. X because it was a classic case of entrapment. It wouldn't have been right to turn him in.”

“That's the one,” Walter agreed. “I was trying to remember the steps that were taken to protect against such a thing.”

“We guarantee complete confidentiality to anyone who reports the attempt within twenty-four hours. After that, the person is on his own.”

“That's all?” Walter wondered.

“We also have key employee surveillance,” Hogan said. “It's limited, of course. We don't want our people living in a police state. And, as you know, none of this applies to the senior vice presidents, president, or directors.”

“I see … I see …” Walter mumbled. “Now, after someone does report an attempt … at compromising him … what action do you take?”

Hogan's eyes remained unsuspecting. It was a trick of his trade that his face should never reveal what he was thinking. “We turn the matter over to the appropriate authorities. Police, federals, bank examiners, anyone who ought to be involved. We give them a John Doe for the bank employee in order to assure he's not identified.”

Walter was nodding gravely. “But you never deal directly …”

“Directly with whom?”

“With the perpetrator. You never try to handle the issue … confidentially.”

“No,” Andrew assured him. “Bank policy doesn't let us.
We want to make it completely clear that no one has anything to gain by threatening a bank employee.”

Walter was fumbling for his next question. Andrew Hogan decided that they had spent enough time playing games.

“This would be a lot easier, Mr. Childs, if you'd tell me what concerns you.”

“Oh, nothing directly. Just curious …”

Hogan stood. “It's seven in the morning and you called me into your office to satisfy your curiosity?”

Walter tried to look offended.

“When you decide to tell me who's trying to get to you,” Hogan went on, “then we'll see what we can do for you. But I should tell you. These things always get worse with time.” He turned and started out.

“Mr. Hogan.” Walter's words stopped the security officer, who turned back. “Is this office bugged?”

Andrew had to fight back the smile. Walter Childs was one of the senior executives who had exempted themselves from all security measures. “No, Mr. Childs. We have no bugs on this floor. And we sweep every couple of days just to be certain that no one else does.”

Walter gestured Hogan back into the chair. “Please, call me Walter.”

Oh, he's in very deep shit, Hogan thought, as he settled back down.

“My wife's been kidnapped,” Walter began. “She was taken out of my house sometime yesterday. Probably late morning after her tennis match. When I got home, I found a man sitting in my living room with a gun pointed at me.”

Andrew Hogan's expression never changed as he listened to the events of the previous night. He interrupted only once, to confirm that Walter's visitor had claimed not to know who had arranged for him to deliver the message. “A recorded voice?” he asked. Walter explained that the messenger couldn't even be sure whether his contact was a man or a woman.

When Walter finished, he took the envelope out of his suit coat pocket, opened it, and pushed it across the desk. He felt
foolish when Andrew used his handkerchief to handle the document.

“A hundred million,” Hogan remarked when he reached the instructions concerning the money transfer. He whistled softly. When he finished the second page, he turned the pages over, held them up to the light, and then tipped them to a sharp angle. “Computer printer on office store stationery,” he said. “Could have come from anywhere,”

He set the pages down and looked up at Childs, “Is all this possible?” he asked. “Could you really transfer that much money to an unnamed account?”

Walter nodded. “At
that
bank I can. Very few of the accounts at Folionari's Cayman branch have names.” He could see that the security officer didn't understand. “It's a central bank for the drug trade. It pays no interest and makes a fortune on service charges. All it does is change money and launder accounts.”

“InterBank deals regularly with such an institution?” the detective questioned.

“When we have to. We work as agents for central banks. The drug dealers have more monetary assets than the central banks of many countries. So, when we have to buy or sell currencies, they become critical partners.”

“So someone could simply set up a numbered account, deposit an InterBank loan into it, and then walk off with the cash?” Andrew concluded, realizing his security precautions hadn't taken into account the peculiar practices of Folonari's Cayman branch.

“In just about any currency they wanted. Francs. Lira. Dollars. Or even corporate securities that the Cayman branch owns or stores. It has a healthy supply of everything.”

Hogan pursed his lips as he thought through the scenario that Walter had just posed, “This certainly fits under the bank's antiterrorist policy,” he concluded. “The only thing we can do is inform Mr. Hollcroft and have him notify the board”

“We're not talking about terrorists, dammit! We're talking about my wife.”

Hogan raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It comes under the same policy guidelines. We won't negotiate with these people.” He picked up the ransom document again and glanced through it quickly. “Not that they seem interested in negotiation. This is pretty much take it or leave it.”

“We can't simply regard my wife as
already dead,
” Walter said, hitting each word with its own cadence. “She's alive, and she'll stay alive at least for another day if I make that lunch date.”

“And on Friday?” the security officer asked, “When you don't transfer the funds?”

“Maybe we can learn something by Friday. I've got to try to save my wife.”

Hogan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. “We've already learned quite a bit …”

“What?” Andrew was shocked that the detective could know anything beyond what he had been told. “What do you know?”

“First,” Hogan began, “we know that we're dealing with someone connected with the bank. Someone who knows what you do and how you do it. These people don't just know about financial operations. They know the extent of your authority. Your relationship with the Cayman bank. Where you're apt to eat lunch. Where you live. It seems that they even know what your wife's daily schedule is like.”

“You think it's someone I know personally?”

“Maybe. But more likely it's someone who knows you personally but who you don't generally think of as a friend. Your secretary, for example …”

“Miss Carey! That's ridiculous. Why she's …”

“I said ‘for example.' My point is that if I asked you to list your close friends, your Miss Carey probably wouldn't make the list. You probably don't even think of her as a business associate. Yet she knows your business activities intimately. Has probably spoken directly with the people at this Cayman bank, as well as the top people at every bank you deal with. And I'll bet she knows your wife's schedule better than you do.”

Walter looked chastened. “You're absolutely right,” he admitted. “There are probably a lot of people around the bank who understand my job. But … a kidnapper?”

Hogan again touched the document. “As I read this, the people behind it aren't doing any kidnapping. They seem to have hired the people who took your wife away and hired the people who are holding her. They even hired the guy who brought you the ransom note. And they've arranged it so that none of them knows either of the others. So this could be someone who has never done a violent deed in his life. Just a skillful manager with a few violent friends. Or with contacts among the underworld types who would do these things.”

Walter was nodding. “So where do we start?”

“We don't,” Hogan said. “We follow procedure and take this to the chairman as soon as he comes in.”

“And Emily gets buried in a cellar!” Walter flared. “For Christ's sake, we can't do that. Not while there's any chance.”

Hogan sat quietly for a moment. “You know what this could cost me. I'm paid to enforce security procedures.
Your
security procedures.”

“It can't cost you your life,” Walter came back. “We've got to at least try. Please, Andrew. I'm asking you as a friend.”

Despite his years of training, Hogan couldn't hide his disgust. “A friend …” he said slowly, weighing the irony.

Walter had to turn his eyes away. “We're not the most cordial people,” he allowed. “I suppose none of us has … seemed … particularly friendly. We just don't know many police officials …”

“I'm a cop,” Andrew interrupted, “and proud of it. I've gotten my hands dirty. All of you have made it pretty clear that you don't want me cleaning up in the executive washroom.”

“It wasn't that …” Walter was about to say,
that you weren't good enough for us.
But he knew it was exactly that. Andrew had no reason to think of him as a friend. He had every right to leave him and his fellow senior executives hanging on their own self-righteous policies. “I'm sorry.
Truly sorry,” was the best Walter could manage. “I'm begging for your help.”

Hogan rose slowly, lifting the ransom pages carefully and folding them into the envelope. “I'll take these. And I'll need the keys to your house. There are some lab people who owe me a favor and chances are that your messenger left prints all over the place.”

“You'll help me?” Walter was gushing with gratitude.

“Yeah. Some of the people who dirtied my hands know what's happening around town. We may just get lucky. In the meantime, you go have lunch in Casper's window.”

“What about my children?” Walter asked. “I have a son and a daughter. They're close to their mother. I'll have to tell them something.”

“This is just until Friday,” Hogan reminded him. “On Friday, we go to the chairman with whatever we have. That's when you can talk to your kids.”

Walter nodded. “I'll think of some way to stall them. Even if we have to go beyond Friday, I can probably come up with a plausible story …”

“Friday!” Hogan cut him off. “There's no way I can let you send that money.”

“Of course. Of course,” Walter agreed. “Just so long as we
try
to do something.”

Andrew Hogan found himself wondering why Walter made saving his wife sound like window dressing rather than a matter of life and death. But still, he was enjoying the moment. It was wonderful to see one of these privileged citizens begging for a cop.

Helen Restivo had once been Andrew Hogan's lover. She had been valedictorian in her class from the John Jay School of Criminal Justice at the same ceremony where then-Captain Hogan had been the guest speaker. Hogan had made police work sound so important that Helen had changed her career plans right on the spot, withdrawing her application for a position in social work and entering the police academy. With more than a little self-interest in mind, she had told Hogan
how he had influenced her choice when he came to visit the academy. Later, when Hogan looked her up on her first patrolman's assignment, they had both felt a magnetic attraction.

At first, neither of them worried that she might be bestowing favors on a man who could influence her career and that he might be taking terrible advantage of a woman who couldn't afford to incur his displeasure. They were simply two people in love. But then, their relative positions became an embarrassment. Hogan knew he was jeopardizing everything in his fondness for a woman twenty years younger than he. And Helen knew that she had little future in the department if word got out that she was bedding down with a very senior officer. It was easy for each of them to wonder if the other might be on the make. Maybe they could have overcome the difficulties, but they slipped apart rather than address the problem.