The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (26 page)

There was still one important thing that needed my attention: the case against Hackett. It had been weeks since I last held a party at the Silver Cross. In part, I felt that it would be disloyal to Regan to return there, as we both knew all too well the sorts of activities that went on behind closed doors. I also, frankly, had lost interest. Although my primary motivation in attending the club had always been to wring information from Hackett, I would be a liar if I claimed that I didn’t enjoy being showered with attention by half-naked women. Although I had never availed myself of the club’s more exclusive services, the idea that I
could
had been titillating in and of itself.

But now, with Regan, my sexual needs were more than fulfilled, and the thought of watching the dancers rub against Hackett seemed vaguely distasteful. I couldn’t delay it forever, though. My contact at the FBI had called me a few days ago, requesting an update, and I’d been forced to admit my complete lack of progress. It was time to hold another party.

I called Germaine and reserved a room for Thursday evening, and had Nancy call a dozen or so men to extend invitations. The goal of the parties was to put Hackett at ease, lower his inhibitions, and it was important to have enough attendees that he wouldn’t feel singled out. Fortunately, I had enough social cachet, and the club enough mystique, that I never had difficulty attracting guests, even with notice that would otherwise be considered inappropriately short.

That night, as Regan and I rode back to my apartment after dinner, I said, “I’ll be throwing a party at the club later this week.”

“Oh?” she said, looking at me expectantly, her expression one of polite interest.

Cautiously pressing onward, I said, “I still haven’t caught Hackett doing anything incriminating, but it’s important to keep trying. You aren’t bothered?”

“No,” she said, “why would I be? I used to work there, you know.”

“Yes, exactly,” I said. “So you know precisely what sort of debauchery goes on.”

She smiled at me. “Am I supposed to be concerned? Are you planning to take one of the dancers into a back room and have your way with her?”

“Of course not,” I said, mildly offended that she would even consider the possibility.

“Then why would I worry?” she asked. “I trust you.”

She said it so simply, as though she had no idea what those words meant to me. I supposed it was possible that she didn’t. I had decided to trust her, to let her back into my life; and to have that trust returned to me, to have her look at me with those big eyes and tell me that she wasn’t worried, made me feel like the universe was giving me a sign that everything would work out for the best.

My conversation with Carolina was fresh in my mind, but this wasn’t the right time. Instead of saying what was in my heart, I leaned over and kissed Regan deeply, one hand cupping the back of her head, and she returned my kiss so sweetly, my perfect girl, the best of all my angels.

* * *

O
n Thursday evening, I arrived at the club half an hour before my party was scheduled to begin. I needed time to ascertain that all of the hidden microphones were working. That was the reason I always held my parties in room 4—not, as Regan once suggested to me, as a consequence of any sexual obsession with the number 4. I wore a wire under my shirt as well, but the redundancy ensured that nothing Hackett said would go unrecorded.

I didn’t expect him to say anything of interest, though. I had essentially given up on the idea that this investigation would bear fruit. Perhaps it was time to tender my resignation to the FBI. Although I was initially happy to provide whatever assistance I could, the shine wore off as the months wore on with no results, and I didn’t want to spend the next decade of my life visiting the Silver Cross on a regular basis and hoping that Hackett would give me a few crumbs of information.

It was different when I was still single, but now, with Regan, I wanted to spend my evenings with her, not watching grown men embarrass themselves over women who were paid to feign interest.

Standing on a chair on tiptoes to check a mic in the ceiling, I decided: I would go through with tonight’s party, but that was it. No more. I would call my contact and tell him I’d had enough.

But first, to survive the evening.

All of the mics were in place, and still working properly. With ten minutes to go, I went out to the bar and fetched the server Germaine had assigned to me. She was a new girl, one I didn’t recognize—Regan’s replacement, maybe—but pretty enough, and conservatively dressed, which would keep her safe from any wandering hands. If she knew who I was, she gave no indication. I asked her to bring a few bottles of Scotch, and she set out glasses and pitchers of water, and fluffed all of the cushions on the couches.

Exactly at 7:00, the first guest arrived: an older man named Johnson, who seemed to find the club amusing, and never stayed for more than an hour and a few drinks. He worked for an investment bank, and I suspected that he attended my parties primarily as a way to sniff out my latest investment strategy. I appreciated his mercenary approach, and greeted him warmly.

Sure enough, he said, “Evening, Sutton. I’m hoping you’ll give me your opinion about an investment I’m considering.”

“I’d be happy to,” I said, entertained by his predictability, and by the time the next guest arrived, we were already deep in a conversation about the relative merits of REITs.

Hackett showed up late, but not exceptionally so—half an hour, more or less. He was often late; for all his faults, he had an impressive work ethic, and had never fully abandoned the long hours he must have kept as a first-year analyst. I gave him a friendly nod as he settled on the couch across from me, but immediately returned to my conversation with Johnson. It was a delicate balance: show interest, but not too much; keep him interested, but don’t spook him. Even though I intended to jump ship after tonight, I had no desire to ruin the investigation.

Shortly after Hackett arrived, the dancers came in: three of them, wearing seductive scraps of clothing that they quickly shed as they moved among the guests, shimmying and seducing, sitting on laps and then sliding off again, elusive as snakes. I sipped my Scotch and watched as Hackett lured one of the dancers toward him and began kissing her neck and groping her breasts, her nipples hardening between his fingers. Good: he wouldn’t be leaving soon.

The evening dragged on interminably. If I had been at home, I would be curled on the sofa with Regan, eating ice cream and laughing at one of the terrible reality shows she was so addicted to; and then going to bed early to take my time with her, exploring her body, pretending that neither of us had to work the next day, that the world outside my apartment had ceased to exist, that nothing was more important than the way we fit together beneath the sheets.

That was what I wanted. Not to be here, feigning interest in the dancers and the conversations taking place around me: wives, mistresses, ungrateful children, mortgages, car leases, all the mundane parts of life that felt as far away from me as Jupiter. What did I care about mortgage refinancing? I was in love.

I wanted to tell her. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to go outside and call her, listen to her voice on the other end of the line, and tell her that I loved her and never wanted to be apart.

Christ. I had to get my head on straight. I wasn’t here to daydream about Regan like a schoolgirl.

I excused myself and headed for the restroom, intending give myself a stern talking-to in the mirror, maybe splash a bit of water on my face. The club was relatively quiet, and the restroom was mercifully empty. I took a seat on one of the incongruous velvet couches just inside the entrance and checked my email on my phone. Nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning. I sent a quick text to Regan:
Dull night at the club, wish you were here.

She replied immediately, which made me suspect she’d had her phone at her side, waiting to hear from me. The thought pleased me more than it should have.
Mister are you propositioning me?

I grinned, and was halfway through my reply when the door opened.

I looked up. It was Hackett.

“Good, I hoped I’d find you here,” he said. “Can we talk?”

I put my phone away, keeping my expression carefully neutral. “Here?”

“Yeah,” he said. He sat down on the other couch, hunched over, hands dangling between his knees. “Too many people in that room. It’s... this is sort of delicate. Confidential, you know?”

Somewhere in my head, a siren went off, blaring loudly:
This is it
. I tried to silence it. Hackett had faked me out before, made me think he was about to spill everything and instead unburdened himself of some type of marital distress that he evidently thought would be beneficial to share with me. I didn’t want to get too excited over nothing.

“Confidential, sure,” I said, voice light. “Something on your mind? Problems at work?”

“You could say that,” he said. He was, I realized, sweating profusely. He raised one hand to wipe across his forehead. “I’m—look, Sutton, this could ruin me if it gets out, okay? But your dad was like family to me, and I trust you. You wouldn’t betray something told to you in confidence, would you?” He gave me a sharp look.

“Of course not,” I said, lying through my teeth and hating myself for it. Hackett was slime, but I prided myself on being a man who kept his word. “But I can’t imagine it’s that bad, Richard—”

“Oh, it is,” he said. “Look, it was all a big mistake, okay? I was desperate, and the investment seemed too good to be true, and by the time I woke up and realized it
was
too good to be true, it was too late. And then I thought, why stop now? I’m already fucked, so why not run with it? So I did, and now—
Christ.
I think I’ve got the feds after me, Carter. I think they’re tapping my phone.”

“You’ve said that before,” I said. Careful, careful. “Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know, Mission Impossible? I’m not saying you’re imagining things, but maybe the stress—”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, wiping his face again, but then he shook his head. “No. I’m not going crazy. There’s been a white van parked outside my house for the last two months, and another one outside the office. What are they doing there, listening for signals from UFOs? Somebody’s following me.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I said again. “Look, why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Thanks, Sutton,” he said, with an expression of such naked gratitude that I had to look away. I couldn’t believe he was so naive, but desperation had made people do far more foolish things than this. He was a frightened, hunted man, and he had turned to me because he didn’t know where else to go.

We sat there in the restroom of the Silver Cross while he told me everything: the insider trading, the Mafia connections. I listened, and nodded when appropriate, and prayed that my wire was picking it up.

His torrent of words ended finally, and he sat there and stared at the floor, empty, a ruined man.

“Let me make some calls tomorrow,” I said. “I can’t make any promises, but...” I trailed off, letting my silence make the false promise for me.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Anything you can do. I’ll be—I’ll owe you.” He looked up, and as our eyes met, I saw in his the knowledge of how little his gratitude meant to me. What benefit could I gain from having him in my debt? He was grateful, yes, but he also hated me for it, for the fact that he had cause to be grateful.

I looked away. The entire situation made me feel dirty. I wanted to go home and call the FBI and wash my hands of all of it.

The party dragged on for several hours more, until finally even the most die-hard of partiers realized it was after midnight on a work night, and packed it in for home. Alone, I gathered my things, settled my bill with Germaine, and left the club—possibly for the last time.

Well. Goodbye to all that.

“W
e got it,” Hernandez said, sounding giddy. “Everything.”

“Everything?” I asked, not quite believing my ears.

“Everything,” he repeated. “The whole confession. This is the last piece we need to put him away. He’s going to jail for a
long
time. The Bureau is your debt, Sutton.”

Too many people were indebted to me. I didn’t want any of it. “My duty as a patriot,” I said, trying to keep things light.

“We may need you to testify at some point,” Hernandez said. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“I would prefer not to, but I will if it’s necessary,” I said. Hackett was no idiot; he would put two and two together and figure out that I had betrayed him—and I didn’t want to face him in a courtroom and see his hatred shining from his eyes.

“Of course,” Hernandez said. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Thanks again. We’ll be in touch.”

We hung up, and I rubbed my hands over my face and exhaled noisily. That was it. A year of work, and it was all over.

I had expected to feel proud or victorious. Instead, I merely felt empty.

I stood up from my desk and walked over to the window, gazing down at the sidewalks far below, bustling with people, all of whom had their own lives, their own stories. I had interrupted Hackett’s. Every line he wrote, from now on, would be guided by the hand of my treachery.

I couldn’t think of it like that. I had done the country a service. Hackett broke many laws, and destroyed many people’s dreams for a secure retirement, and he deserved whatever punishment was deemed suitable to fit his crime.

The words rang hollow even to me. I sighed and turned away from the view of the city. I was becoming melodramatic in my old age. My conscience would forgive me, surely, given enough time.

It was 4:30: time enough to accomplish some decent work before the end of the day, but I didn’t feel like working anymore. I firmly told myself that I had been putting in 60-hour weeks for years, and it was okay to play hooky on the occasional Friday afternoon. Regan was still at work, of course, but I called her anyway.