Stephen Frey (12 page)

The woman smiled uncertainly. “I'm Sara.”

“Bo.” He ran his finger around the rim of the glass. He hated to admit it, but Ramsey was right. It would be so damn easy to fall into the trap, and this was the first day back. “What are you doing in New York, Sara?” It was obvious that she wasn't from the city. From the accent, he was guessing the Midwest, probably Chicago.

“I'm here for a medical conference. I work at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.”

She was from halfway across the country, which more than complied with the eight-by-fifty rule. He took a long swallow, cursing silently. Ramsey's words again.

“Where are you from?” Sara asked.

“Around here.”

“The city?”

“Connecticut.”

“I see.” She finished her wine and nodded to the bartender, indicating that she wanted another. “I'm in this bar having a drink because I couldn't listen to one more bore-me-to-tears presentation about scalpels and surgical staples. What's your excuse?”

“I don't have one,” Bo admitted.

“Then why don't you take me to lunch and afterwards show me the sights? We could have fun. A lot more than we will alone.”

He shook his head. “I'm not big on the tourist thing.”

“I don't mean those sights.” She smiled provocatively and leaned closer to him.

Bo gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I can't.”

When he had made it through the door and into the raw mist outside, he stopped and leaned over, hands on his knees. “No more drinking,” he muttered to himself. “No more.” His expression turned grim as he headed toward Grand Central Station. He'd made that promise to himself so many times before.

R
eggie Duncan, an African American radio talk show host, beamed as he stood behind the podium, waving to a sea of well-wishers stretching out before him on the Harlem street as far as he could see. His unlikely grassroots campaign for president had picked up considerable momentum in the past few weeks, not only among his traditional minority listener base but also among suburban whites. He spoke the truth with a direct nononsense style that was playing well with more and more Americans. They were warming to his relaxed manner, his ability to poke fun at everyone, including himself, and his willingness to answer all questions with a straightforward response that had nothing to do with what he thought his audience wanted to hear.

With just a few months until the convention, Duncan was far behind the two leading candidates, Paul Hancock and Ronald Baker, in terms of polls and funding. However, with the help of the Internet and a small but determined volunteer staff, money was beginning to pour in and people were suddenly paying attention to his message.

As Duncan deftly entertained the mass of humanity stretching before him with a story about the punishment he had endured as a child for believing that he could fool his omniscient mother—who stood beside him now on the raised platform, smiling proudly—one face in the crowd did not smile along with her. A couple of nights before, this man had murdered a Hazeltine Security employee who had been watching Bo Hancock in Montana. Working with two accomplices, he had drowned him in the Kootenai River. Then he had pulled his gun and killed his accomplices, burying them in the same grave with the Hazeltine employee. You could never have more than one witness to a murder and expect to maintain secrecy. He knew that very well.

As he watched Duncan speak, the man marveled at the candidate's ability to connect with the crowd. And he marveled at Duncan's ability to lure whites—there were many in the crowd—from other parts of Manhattan into this mostly black neighborhood. Almost overnight, Reggie Duncan had become a force.

T
hree thousand miles away from the streets of Harlem, Ronald Baker sat high above the streets of Los Angeles in his huge office on the top floor of a glittering, glass-encased office building. Feet up on his desk, he was reviewing the information his chief of staff had just handed him. Baker was a West Coast businessman who had risen from meager beginnings to become a successful real estate investor, amassing a fifty-million-dollar fortune over the last six years.

“These numbers stink,” Baker complained to his aide, who sat on the other side of the desk, munching on a turkey sandwich. “Duncan is going to cost me the nomination.” He scanned up the page to Paul Hancock's figures, tapping the paper anxiously. “With most of the primaries over, I'm neck and neck with our fair-haired, silver-spoon boy from the East in terms of delegates. But the information here indicates that Paul Hancock will pick up Reggie Duncan's delegates when it becomes clear that Reggie can't win the nomination. How can that be?” Baker demanded. “How can a rich white boy like Paul Hancock be in a position to pick up the minority vote?”

“The Hancock machine is incredible,” the aide offered, after swallowing a mouthful of the sandwich. “They are well financed and well organized.”

“But that doesn't explain how they can get the black vote.” Baker tapped his chest. “I came from nothing and we've advertised that fact. Shouldn't minorities relate to me?”

The aide nodded. “Of course they should, but our information is that the Hancock people have made a deal with Duncan. Duncan will have a position high up in a Hancock administration.”

“We'll make the same deal,” Baker bellowed.

“There's something else,” the aide said. He put what remained of the sandwich down on a paper plate in his lap. “Through a series of discreet transactions, Duncan will become a wealthy man. The Hancocks will essentially buy him a network of radio stations so that he can get his message out twenty-four hours a day all across the country.”

Baker's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Yes.”

“How much will that cost them?” Baker asked quietly.

“Four hundred million, conservatively.” The aide shook his head, aware that four hundred million was eight times Baker's entire net worth, but a drop in the bucket to the Hancocks. “They'll arrange the whole transaction skillfully and quietly through one of their investment vehicles so that no one can ever scream conflict.”

Baker slammed his feet on the floor. “What you're telling me is that without something shaking up this campaign, I don't have a chance.”

The aide hesitated. Baker had always claimed that he wanted straight talk, not lies, but you never knew. People said a lot of things, but when confronted with the truth, they often shot the messenger. “That's exactly what I'm telling you.”

Baker was not a man who accepted defeat. He was a man who steadfastly believed he could always find a way to win at anything. “Then it's time to pull out all the stops.”

“What are you saying?” the aide asked hesitantly.

Baker grinned, thinking about the tidbit of information he had come upon through friends he still had on the seamier side of life. “It's time to start playing dirty.”

The aide grinned back. Up to this point, despite strong advice to the contrary, Baker had refused to run a negative campaign. “You mean—”

“Yeah, napalm.”

CHAPTER 8

“
W
hy did you want me to come to this meeting?” Tom Bristow asked. Manhattan had disappeared behind them fifteen minutes ago as Teddy's Porsche sped west into northern New Jersey. The terrain was becoming more rural by the mile and the change of scenery was making Tom uncomfortable. “Teddy.”

Teddy didn't answer. He was thinking about Jimmy Lee's death, and how much the stakes had been raised for him as a result. Paul had always been the dominant sibling. But suddenly, for the first time in their lives, Paul had become dependent on him. From what Jimmy Lee had told him, he was now the only link to those of influence working in the shadows. The potential rewards and the opportunity to consolidate power were immense, but the risks were immeasurably greater as well. Secrets he had been able to keep hidden might be revealed as the level of scrutiny intensified. As a result, the man in the passenger seat made him vulnerable. Very vulnerable.

“Teddy!” Tom said loudly.

“What?”

“Why am I going with you?” Tom repeated.

“I told you already,” Teddy answered, irritated at the interruption. “This meeting is with three senior officials of a large insurance company that is considering a significant investment in Warfield Capital, a loan of several billion dollars without any equity kickers. It's dirt-cheap money, and that is the kind we love.” He lifted his hand from the stick shift and patted Tom's arm reassuringly. “I wanted to have another senior Warfield person with me who can continue the meeting in case I'm overcome with grief.”

Tom Bristow had never considered himself a senior Warfield person. He'd always assumed that his money-desk job was simply a throwaway. One of the terms and conditions his father had negotiated in return for the hundred-million-dollar investment the family had made in Warfield years ago.

Perhaps Jimmy Lee's death was going to present an opportunity, Tom realized. Friends at the country club were beginning to ask when he would be moving up at Warfield. It didn't impress them anymore that he simply worked at the firm. “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about your father, Teddy,” Tom offered respectfully. “He was a great man.”

“Yes, he was.” Teddy took a deep breath, remembering the swirl of emotions he had experienced as Silwa had emerged from Jimmy Lee's hospital room a few hours ago to announce their father's passing. Sadness at the loss, and at the same time exhilaration at the opportunity to make his own mark on the Hancock empire. “Dad would have wanted me to keep this meeting,” he said quietly. “He was a businessman first, and we've been negotiating with these people for months. It would have been weeks before I could have rescheduled this thing.” Teddy darted into the left lane to pass a slow-moving truck. “How's Catherine?” he asked, changing the subject. Tom had just ended a short call with Catherine on his cell phone.

Tom flinched as the Porsche barely missed the truck's rear fender. “All right, I guess.”

“She was pretty broken up at the hospital.”

“Yeah, well.”

Teddy snickered and patted Tom's arm again. He sensed that Tom was feeling sorry for her. “Don't tell me you really give a rat's ass about Catherine?”

Tom put the cell phone back in his pocket and gazed out the passenger-side window at the housing subdivisions that had replaced the factories along the road as they traveled farther away from New York City. “She is my wife.”

“In name only. Your marriage was arranged by two money lords as a means of keeping an eye on each other,” Teddy sneered. “Nothing more. You and I have agreed on that many times.”

“Catherine and I have two children.”

“You had them for appearances only. My God, you haven't had sex with her in five years.”

Tom noted that patches of trees were beginning to separate the subdivisions and that the homes were moving farther back from the road. Teddy was right. It had been five years since he and Catherine had made love, and he didn't miss it at all.

“Better that she's with Paul if she's upset,” Teddy continued. Paul had agreed to stay with Catherine when Teddy asked Tom to accompany him to the meeting. “She's always turned to Paul in a crisis.”

“And to Bo,” Tom remarked.

“No,” Teddy said. “When we were growing up Catherine would run to Paul. She seems sweet and sincere, but when it comes down to crunch time she's drawn to power and influence. Like the rest of us,” he added with a chuckle.

“She wasn't as upset as she seemed in the hospital corridor this morning,” Tom said evenly.

Teddy took his eyes off the road for a moment. “Huh?”

“Catherine has always hated the fact that Jimmy Lee made her marry me.”

“You're giving her too much credit,” Teddy said. “She's not smart enough to figure out what was really going on there. Besides, she likes being told what to do.”

“You're wrong, Teddy. She detested Jimmy Lee for using her to gain financially. She knew exactly what was happening and she's never forgiven him for it.”

“Nah.”

“You don't know Catherine as well as you think you do.”

Teddy gunned the engine and accelerated to eighty-five. There were very few cars on the road now. “The hell with her,” he muttered. “She's useless.”

“She hasn't been sitting on the sidelines either.”

“What do you mean by that?” Teddy asked.

Tom removed his tortoiseshell glasses and cleaned them. “I'm convinced she's seeing someone.”

“No way. We would have been alerted by the Hazeltine people.”

“Are they watching her?”

“Yes.”

“Do they watch everyone all the time?”

Teddy shrugged. “I don't know. That was always Jimmy Lee's department. And Bruce Laird's,” he added.

Tom grimaced. “That guy Laird scares me. He's a cold man.”

“He serves his purpose.”

“Do the Hazeltine people keep files on the two of us?” Tom asked fearfully. “Do they know?”

Teddy shook his head. “No.”

“How can you be sure?” Tom asked, replacing the glasses on the bridge of his patrician nose.

“Certain people within the Hancock empire are exempt. Paul and I fall into that category.” Teddy paused. “I put you on the exempt list as well, but we've always watched Catherine.”

“Why?”

“She's stupid, and Paul and I have never trusted her. Stupid and untrustworthy is a bad combination.”

“My God,” Tom exclaimed under his breath. “You have your own sister watched.”

“So you can understand now why I don't think she's been seeing anyone.” Teddy chose to ignore Tom's quiet remark. It made no difference now what Tom thought.

“Have you noticed that Catherine has been sporting a new hairstyle lately?” Tom asked. “That she's been wearing a new perfume? And that she's dropped ten pounds by hiring a personal trainer?”

“You think she's doing the trainer?”

“No, Catherine doesn't care about sex for sex's sake. She needs to be mentally stimulated as well. I met her trainer once out at the estate. I said hello to him and he was stumped for an answer. I guarantee you that she isn't seeing him.”

“Who, then?”

“I don't know.”

Teddy made a mental note to call Bruce Laird. He was certain Tom was wrong, but it never hurt to check out a hunch, especially at such a critical time. You never knew who might be using Catherine to get to the fortune.

“How do you feel about Bo coming back from Montana?” Tom asked.

“It doesn't matter how I feel because he won't be staying long.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Tom wiped condensation from the window with his palm. “I never understood why you all sent him away. He's a good man.”

“I don't know why you'd care. He always said we could have hired a chimp to do your job at Warfield.”

“I know.” Tom glanced down into his lap. “But he worked his ass off.”

“He's a drunk.”

“Come on, you and I both know that isn't true. He went on benders every once in a while, but he's different from you and Paul. It was terrible the way you guys kicked him out—”

“Hey, whose side are you on?”

“Not Frank Ramsey's. I understand he engineered Bo's ouster by lying to your father about Bo.”

“That isn't true,” Teddy said quietly. “Besides, Bo does chase women every chance he gets.”

“I don't know about that, Teddy. I think a lot of that is crap. I do know that Frank Ramsey is a slimy prick.”

“He serves his purpose, just like Laird.”

They drove in silence for a while. Finally Tom smiled and put his hand on Teddy's. “I realize Jimmy Lee's death has been difficult for you, but it should make things easier for us. We won't have to sneak around so much anymore.”

The touch of the other man's hand surged through Teddy's body, igniting desires he had tried to ignore as a younger man but to which he had ultimately yielded. He cursed silently. It would have been so much safer to use hustlers all these years. He moved his hand from the stick shift to the steering wheel so that Tom's hand fell away.

“Why didn't you bring Frank Ramsey?” Tom asked, wondering why Teddy was being so cold. “Wouldn't he have been a more appropriate Warfield repesentative?”

“Frank had another meeting he had to attend,” Teddy answered gruffly, slowing to sixty. He had no wish to attract police attention. “Besides, Paul and I want you to become more involved in high-level decisions at Warfield. We're impressed with your results on the money desk. We also want you to get your father to work more closely with the people on Paul's campaign staff. We believe he could be very helpful to Paul in Massachusetts.”

“I'm sure my father would be glad to help Paul in any way he can with the campaign. He's very close to the governor and several senior state senators.”

“And to be honest, Tom, Paul and I aren't that impressed with Frank Ramsey,” Teddy continued. “We agree with you that he isn't always forthright. We are thinking about making some changes at Warfield. You will be part of those changes. We're planning to give you added responsibility and take some of Frank's power away.”

“Really?” Tom asked excitedly. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation. After all, he had made the money desk extremely profitable, even if it had been with minimal effort. He started to ask another question, then hesitated. He knew he should let the sleeping dog lie, that his suspicions were probably way off base, but a little alarm in his brain wouldn't stop ringing. “What's the name of the insurance company we're visiting today? I know you mentioned it to me earlier, but I can't remember now.”

Teddy tapped his thigh, annoyed at Tom's persistence. “Cambridge Assurance, or something.”

“Right, Cambridge.” Tom paused. “You know, I checked that name Cambridge in Best's directory of insurance companies before we left, but there wasn't a company listed by that name in northern New Jersey.”

“It must be under another name then,” Teddy answered nonchalantly. “It's probably listed under a holding company or something.”

“I just figured that since you said you'd been talking to them for several months you'd remember their name.”

“It's difficult to keep everything straight on a day like today, you know? I'm just distracted.”

“Sure you are.” Tom waited a moment. “So what is it then?”

“What's what?”

“The insurance company's name. What is it?”

“I'm embarrassed,” Teddy answered, keeping his anger in check. “I simply can't remember. I'm only forty-eight and already I'm suffering from Alzheimer's.” He groaned, trying to make light of the situation. “Everything is in my briefcase. The file on the company and all my notes. We can look at the stuff right before we go into the meeting.”

“Can I review the file now?” Tom asked, checking the backseat.

“It's in the trunk,” Teddy said, “and I don't want to stop. We're late as it is.”

“I need to at least do a little prep work before I go into a meeting with senior executives.”

“You'll be fine,” Teddy said calmly. “This is one of those highlevel things where the dogs just want to sniff each others' asses before signing on the dotted line. There won't be any specifics discussed. But, like I told you, you can look at the information before we go in if you really feel the need.”

“But you said we were late. How will I have time to review any information if we're late?”

“Give me a break, will you!” Teddy exploded, checking the mileage marker on the side of the road as they zipped past it.

Tom noticed that there was nothing but an unbroken line of trees on either side of the road now. “How do you know where you're going?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can't remember the name of the company, but you know exactly where you're going?”

“I've been out here several times,” Teddy answered. “I told you, we've been negotiating this deal for months.”

“It seems strange that the company would have their headquarters way out here in the country.”

“The CEO has a home out here. The headquarters is in Newark.”

“But you said—”

“Christ, will you shut up!”

Teddy swallowed hard. “I need to take a leak,” he spoke up, suddenly panic-stricken. “I could get your briefcase and the file out of the trunk when we stop.”

“It would take too long,” Teddy said. “We'd have to pull off at an exit and find a gas station or something. That would really put us back time-wise.”

“Just pull over here,” Tom suggested.

“On the side of the road?”

“I've got to go real bad.”

“Hold it in,” Teddy ordered as another mile marker flashed by.