Stephen Frey (20 page)

“If it ever came out, I'd pin it on you, Bo!” Paul roared. “The press would believe you were responsible before they'd believe I was.”

“But it would be more satisfying for them to take you down.”

“Bo, I swear to God I'll—”

“You wanted me, Paul?” Bruce Laird entered the study, followed closely by Catherine.

“Yes,” Paul answered without taking his eyes from Bo's. “Warfield Capital's executive committee is about to take a very important vote, and I want you to record it officially.”

“All right.”

“Point of order. Three is a quorum, correct, Counselor?” Paul asked, returning to his seat behind Jimmy Lee's desk.

“Yes.”

“Catherine, Bo, and I represent that quorum.”

“Yes,” Laird confirmed.

“And a vote taken here is final. It cannot be revisited.”

Bo's eyes flashed to Laird. “Is that true, Counselor?”

“Yes,” Laird answered quietly.

“Then the vote is on the table,” Paul said. “Catherine and I are permanently expelling you from the executive committee.” He glanced at Catherine. “All in favor of Bolling Hancock being removed from the executive committee signify their agreement by raising their right hand and saying ‘for.' ” He raised his right hand quickly. “For,” he said firmly. “Catherine?”

Bo glanced at her. “Don't do this,” he urged.

“Catherine,” Paul pushed, “vote.”

“It isn't right, Catherine. Frank Ramsey will destroy Warfield. Paul doesn't understand that. You must. Please, Catherine.”

“Catherine!” Paul shouted.

She glanced at Laird, then away.

“Catherine!”

“For,” she murmured, raising the trembling fingers of her right hand and shutting her eyes tightly.

“How can you do this to me?” Bo whispered.

“Recorded, Counselor?” Paul asked loudly.

“So recorded.”

“All opposed signify by saying ‘against.' All opposed?”

It was happening again, Bo thought. In the same room at the hands of the same man. “Counselor, I need time to—”

“Opposed?”

“Counselor—”

“Let the minutes show that there is only one vote opposed to the motion. The motion is passed.” Paul slammed his hand on the desk. “Bo, you are officially—”

“Not yet he isn't.”

Bo, Paul, Bruce, and Catherine looked quickly toward the study door. For several seconds they were silent, wondering if the figure standing before them was real. It had been so long since anyone had seen her.

“Ashley,” Bo finally uttered, his voice hushed.

She crossed the study to stand beside Bo. Then she raised her hand and looked directly at Paul. “Against,” she said, her voice strong and sure.

C
atherine removed her high heels and stepped into a pair of old sneakers she had left by the basement door, then slipped from the mansion and raced for the woods, praying that no one at the reception would notice her. When she reached the tree line, she stopped to catch her breath, observing the mansion from behind a large oak. There were still many people crowded on a side porch, but none of them was looking in her direction. Dusk had obscured her sprint across open ground.

She moved deeper into the woods, then pulled a flashlight from her jacket, turned it on, and found the path she had used so often as a child to get from her parents' mansion to the playhouse. Then she was off again, running through the darkness, guided by the flashlight.

He was exactly where she had instructed him to be, waiting by the lake down the hill from the playhouse's back veranda. He pulled her against him as soon as they found each other and kissed her savagely, grasping her hair tightly and roaming her body with his hands. She leaned back and allowed him to kiss and gently bite her neck, the touch of his teeth, lips, and tongue on her skin driving her wild. It had been so long since she'd been touched this way. Though she had not been intimate with Tom Bristow in years, she had never strayed until tonight. Tom had been doting in public, but he had paid no attention to her in private. Now Tom was out of the way and she was finally free to do as she pleased. Jimmy Lee was gone too, and there would be no consequences.

“It feels so good,” Catherine moaned as he pulled open her dress and teased one of her nipples with his mouth.

“You hated Tom, didn't you?”

“Don't say his name,” she gasped, sexual excitement coursing through her body.

“Jimmy Lee too.”

“Yes,” she moaned. Jimmy Lee was an evil man. Now she was exacting her revenge. “It feels so good. I've wanted you so badly.”

“You just buried your husband, Catherine.” The man paused momentarily, aroused by her wickedness. “How can you do this?”

“You said it didn't bother you. Don't stop what you were doing.” She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him deeply.

“Yes, but—”

“I hated him. Are you happy now? I hated him.” Catherine's eyes filled with tears. “And my father didn't care.” She ripped open his shirt and tugged at his belt. “Take me,” she ordered. “Come on.”

He stripped her clothes off. Then, as they lay on the ground, he moved between her legs, taking her nipple in his mouth again and touching her briefly before lifting her legs over his shoulders and pushing himself inside.

“Oh, God,” Catherine moaned, looking up at the man as he labored over her. She discovered that she could manipulate his movements with just the slightest movement of her own. Awed by how he was so completely under her control, enjoying the power, she felt an authority she had no idea she had missed so badly. It had to be in the blood, she thought as she toyed with him like a cat playing with an injured mouse. A part of her brain told her this was the feeling of control Jimmy Lee had lived for, and now she understood why.

“You feel so good, Catherine. I've wanted you for so long.”

“Good,” she said, wrapping her arms and legs around his body tightly and thrusting up against him.

“Sweet Jesus.” He arched his back and gazed ahead into the darkness.

Suddenly she rolled him onto his back and took him in her mouth. She felt his member swell slightly and knew that he was ready. She straddled him, momentarily holding him at her opening, then forced herself down on him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth at the same moment he entered her again. When he turned his head to the side and began to grind his teeth, she sucked hard on his neck.

“I can't stop, Catherine,” he groaned.

She felt the veins in his neck bulging against her tongue, felt his entire body tensing beneath her. “It's what I want,” she whispered.

When he was finished and she had collapsed beside him on the blanket, he held her tightly in his arms and began to murmur in her ear. But instead of the words of love she expected, her blood ran cold as he said, “You had Tom and Teddy killed, didn't you? Do you really think you'll get away with it?”

CHAPTER 13

B
o slowed the dark green Explorer to a stop in front of his mansion, eased his hard-soled shoes down onto the smooth stone driveway, and stretched, reaching high above his head and groaning loudly as he slid out of the vehicle. Every muscle in his body ached and his feet were killing him. It was after two in the morning and he was dead tired. The last few guests had left the funeral reception only a few minutes ago, and he had stayed to the end. He had driven Meg back here at midnight despite her protests that she wanted to remain with him at the reception. As it was, she could barely keep her eyes open on the short ride home.

He had parked the Explorer in the circular driveway in front of the mansion's main entrance. From where he stood he caught a glimpse of the lit parking lights of a vehicle sitting around a corner of the building in front of his four-car garage. He could hear the motor idling and for a moment considered investigating, then decided it was more important to check on Meg first. He hurried up the walk toward the sprawling home constructed in the middle of the woods two miles from the playhouse. Jimmy Lee had built the twenty-thousand-square-foot monolith for them fifteen years ago as a wedding present. They never used most of it, Bo thought to himself as he opened the front door. The house was a perfect symbol of how little Jimmy Lee had understood Bo and Meg's life.

“Hi, Bo.”

Michael Mendoza stood in the spacious foyer. Meg was on the first step of the wide staircase, leaning against its oak banister, dressed in a sheer robe. Bo had the impression that Mendoza had been standing near Meg, then had backed off quickly as the door opened. And Meg seemed distracted. “What are you doing here, Michael?” Bo asked suspiciously.

“I wanted to say goodbye before I left. I have to be back in Washington by noon for a meeting.”

“Today is Sunday.”

“Days of the week don't matter in Washington. You know that.”

Bo shut the door. “Where have you been for the last hour? I tried to find you at Jimmy Lee's place but no one had seen you.”

“I ended up having a long conversation with Paul,” Mendoza explained.

That sounded reasonable. No one had seen Paul either.

“I thought I'd try to act as mediator between the two of you,” Mendoza continued, “now that you are officially Warfield's chief executive officer. You and Paul will have to develop a working relationship whether you and he like it or not, and I wanted to help him understand that.” He paused. “Congratulations on your victory this evening. Ashley's timing was impeccable.”

“What was Paul's reaction to your suggestion?”

Mendoza sighed. “Unfortunately, his attitude toward your return continues to be a work in progress.”

“It doesn't matter,” Bo muttered. “Paul and Frank Ramsey will have to deal with me now whether they like it or not.”

“I'm going to bed,” Meg announced, moving across the foyer to where Bo stood. “Don't be long, sweetheart,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Please get Michael out of here,” she whispered into his ear as she hugged him tightly. She pulled back and smiled politely at Mendoza. “Good night, Michael.”

“Good night.” Mendoza watched Meg ascend the steps gracefully. “She's a wonderful woman, Bo,” he commented when she had turned the corner at the top of the long staircase.

“Yes, she is.” Bo dropped the Explorer keys in an ashtray on a table by the door. “Where did you meet with Paul?”

“In that small room off of your father's study.”

“And when you were finished you came here?”

“Yes. Jimmy Lee's place was pretty empty when Paul and I were done. I figured you had come home.” He motioned toward the stairs. “I'm sorry to have awakened Meg, but I really wanted to see you.”

“It's all right. She can sleep late tomorrow.”

Mendoza tilted his head to one side and gave Bo a quizzical expression. “What's the matter?”

“What are you talking about?”

Mendoza wagged a finger at Bo. “I've known you too long, Bolling. I know when something isn't right. You weren't your usual self with me when I first saw you at the reception this afternoon.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Meg too, although I've become accustomed to her keeping me at arm's length since Ginny died. I know she didn't approve of my need for companionship.”

“She and Ginny were close, and Meg's just being loyal to an old friend. You shouldn't worry about her attitude.”

“I don't,” Mendoza said, “but I do worry about yours. There was a tension between us this afternoon that I've never sensed before.”

Bo started to say something, then stopped.

“What is it, Bo? If there's something bothering you, let me know,” Mendoza urged. “We've always been able to talk things through.”

That was true, Bo thought. He couldn't lose sight of how often Michael had been there for him when no one in the family had. “When we were out in Wyoming,” Bo began, “you mentioned that Jimmy Lee had called while you were on the plane waiting to take off from Reagan National.”

A troubled expression came to Mendoza's face. “So?”

“That was how you knew what my Jeep looked like. Jimmy Lee gave you the license plate number during the telephone call, right?”

“Yes,” Mendoza said slowly, trying to anticipate where the inquiry was leading.

“But I checked the long distance account for Jimmy Lee's office telephone,” Bo went on, “and there was no record of him placing a call to you on that date. He never owned a cell phone, and you and I both know that in the last few years of his life he rarely left the estate. If he called you that day, it was from his office phone.”

Mendoza's mouth fell open slightly. “
If
he called me?”

“As I said, there's no record.”

“Then I must have called him. We spoke on many occasions over the past few months, and excuse me if I'm confused on who called whom on exactly which day,” Mendoza replied testily. “I'll be happy to provide you with records for my phone, but I'm not certain I see the significance,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes.” Bo reached into his jacket and produced the memo from Mendoza to Jimmy Lee about forming the Warfield Executive Committee in case of the elder Hancock's death. A structure essentially freezing Bo out of Warfield. “Here,” he said, thrusting the paper at Mendoza.

“What's this?”

“It's a memo I found shoved in a box on the third floor of Jimmy Lee's place. It proposes a new executive committee structure to be implemented at Warfield Capital in the event of my father's death. The exact structure that was implemented. The structure that almost kept me out of Warfield for good.” Bo hesitated. “The memo was written by you.”

Mendoza glanced up from the page. “You think I wanted to keep you out of Warfield?” he asked incredulously. “Why would I want that?”

Bo shrugged. That was the problem. He couldn't figure out a motive either. “I don't know.”

Mendoza scanned the memo once more, then handed it back to Bo. “I've never seen this memo before in my life.”

Bo took the paper and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “You know nothing about it?” he asked hesitantly.

“Nothing.” Mendoza pointed at Bo's pocket. “The entire memo is typed. Anyone could have written it. Paul could have written that to keep you off balance, then put it someplace he knew you'd look.” Mendoza moved to where Bo stood and firmly clasped the younger man's shoulder. “The most difficult thing in life is figuring out who your true friends are, Bolling, because it's a real rat-fuck out there,” he said. “Most people in the world are out for themselves and if you get in their way, they'll screw you. But there are those who really care about you and you should never question their loyalty. I am one of those people.” Mendoza patted Bo on the back. “I forgive you for this episode. Now walk me to my car because I have to leave.”

Bo nodded respectfully, already regretting his decision to confront Michael about the telephone calls and the memo. Life had been turned upside down over the past few days, and he was suddenly worried that the awful series of events had affected his judgment. Michael had always been a true friend and here he was accusing him of treason without a motive.

When they reached the corner of the mansion near the garage, they stopped beneath the arc of a floodlight. Mendoza's Lincoln Town Car—the vehicle Bo had spotted on his way in—was parked fifty feet away. Bo could see the faint outline of Mendoza's driver reading a newspaper by a map light. “I appreciate your speaking to Paul,” Bo said, his voice low. “I mean that.”

“You're welcome.” Mendoza shook his head. “I fear Paul is at a crossroads in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a noticeable scent of perfume in the room off the study when I first went in there with him this evening.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” The floodlights glinted off Mendoza's silver hair. “I couldn't place it until now.”

“The perfume?”

“Yes, it was the perfume that woman who was with Evan Reese was wearing tonight. Reese's date. What was her name?”

“Alecia.”

“Right.” Mendoza hesitated. “Paul better watch out,” he warned. “Proof of infidelity can still be a problem in a presidential campaign. The American public still sets a high standard on that issue.”

“He knows that,” Bo answered, shaking his head. “He just can't seem to help himself.”

“The idiot,” Mendoza muttered. “The road to the White House is so clear for Paul. All he has to do is keep himself out of trouble and he'll win. People would die for that opportunity.”

“That's always been the challenge for our family. We always seem to be battling our own demons, not others'. We should be supporting each other, not tearing each other apart.”

“I agree,” Mendoza answered curtly, still annoyed at the third degree he had faced in the foyer. “Oh, by the way, I have spoken to my friends at the Bureau about the picture we found in that motel in Libby, Montana. They're following up. They will keep their investigation very quiet.”

“Thanks, Michael,” Bo said hoarsely, embarrassed at how he had cross-examined his old friend.

Mendoza started to gesture to his driver, then stopped. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What?”

“When we met at the Waldorf the other day, you said you were concerned about the market exacting revenge on Warfield now that Jimmy Lee is gone. I believe you called it a market attack.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Any indication of that this past week?”

Bo shook his head. “Nothing yet, but it's still early. People are sizing us up. I can feel it. In fact, I saw a guy named Nick Kaplan at the reception today who'd love nothing more than to see us feel pain. It's just a damn good thing I won that vote tonight. A good thing Ashley came home when she did.”

“But you didn't find anything in the portfolio this past week that would lead you to believe there could be a serious problem.”

“Nothing yet.” Bo hadn't found anything alarming, but it would take time to be thorough. Warfield's private equity portfolio was massive and there were many ways Ramsey could mask what was really going on. “There was one odd thing.”

“What?” Mendoza asked quickly.

“Frank Ramsey changed our auditors while I was in Montana. We were using PricewaterhouseCoopers, one of the Big Five accounting firms. Now we're using some no-name firm out of California.”

“Perhaps you should check them out.”

“I am.” Allen Taylor was already working on it.

Mendoza thought for a moment. “Say there is a problem in the portfolio. What could happen? What are you most afraid of?”

“That Frank Ramsey bought a lot of something that isn't worth very much because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing.” Bo gritted his teeth. “I'm worried that Ramsey has hidden the fact that he's bought the stuff and buried it so deeply that I won't find it until it's too late.”

“Just how leveraged is Warfield?” Mendoza asked.

“If I can believe the reports I've been reviewing, almost fifteen to one,” Bo answered. “For each dollar of equity we have, we've borrowed almost fifteen dollars. When I left, our asset level was a hundred billion. Now it's two hundred billion and we've added only a small amount of equity relative to our capital base.”

“So if the value of Warfield's assets drops ten percent, then—”

“Then we're underwater,” Bo finished the thought. “And that's where the problem lies. If we can't settle a transaction quickly because of liquidity problems, the market will find out and go ballistic. The result will be swift and terrible.”

Mendoza glanced into the darkness. “If there's ever a problem,” he said, his voice dropping, “call me at this number.” He reached into his pocket and produced a card. “If for some reason you can't get me, you can speak to my aide, Angela Burns. She is at this number. Describe the problem and tell her who you are. She will be able to help in case I'm not around.”

“What exactly are you talking about?” Bo asked, wanting to make certain he understood the details of what Mendoza was offering.

“If that scenario plays out and you need money to keep Warfield propped up, I can be of help.”

“You mean you could find emergency funds for me.”

“Exactly.”

“We could be talking a couple of hundred million dollars, maybe even a billion, Michael.”

“I don't care,” Mendoza said firmly.

“How could you do this?” Bo asked.

“One of my best friends on the Hill is Senator Pittman from Texas, chairman of the Finance Committee.”

“So?”

Mendoza took a deep breath. “Senator Pittman is very worried about the status of the largest hedge funds in this country. He believes that major ones need to be monitored more rigorously because of what we were just discussing, the leverage factor inherent in these types of investment vehicles. Not many Americans know how close our financial system came to collapsing last year when that huge hedge fund, Long Term Capital, almost went down. So many large banks had lent LTC money that when the fund's assets suddenly lost value and the firm couldn't pay up, we almost had a meltdown. Only a last-minute rescue package organized by some people at the highest levels of America's financial circles and the federal government saved this country from a very nasty situation. Senator Pittman is willing to take extraordinary measures to prevent that from happening again.” Mendoza looked into the darkness again. “As I said, Pittman can make accommodations in case you run into trouble. I mean, lending Warfield money is ultimately much cheaper than facing a market meltdown, right?”