The Lazarus Trap (14 page)

Of course his mother had approved of Stefanie. They were so much alike. With one crucial difference, of course. Terrance's mother was unapproachable on any terms but her own. Stefanie, however, would soon be his to possess.

She seated herself on the curve of the sectional sofa, so that she could both be beside him and look at him. She never let go of his hand. “You didn't come just to see Melissa.”

“No, Stef. Of course not.” The walls were decorated with the oils taken from Val's home. There were seven of them. Four here, one in the third bedroom she had turned into a private space, two in her own bedroom. The oils were all late Renaissance and worth more than the townhouse. They had been left to her by her grandfather, also a surgeon and a Beacon Hill Brahman. Which is from where Stefanie received her bearing and her poise. Her looks and the soft Southern lilt to her vowels came from her mother, an Atlanta socialite. Terrance knew all these things because he had made it his business to know. He knew a great deal about this woman and her life. Information was a vital part of tracking any quarry.

“No, Stef,” he repeated. “I came to see you as well.”

“I know that.”

“I look forward so much to these visits.”

“I know you do.” She stared at him. “You are the most patient man I have ever known.”

“I have great reason to be.”

“I wish . . .”

He let it sit there between them. The air was charged with all the silent desires. “What do you wish?”

“Nothing.”

“If you don't tell me, Stef, I can't give it to you.”

She smiled at that. “You would, wouldn't you? Give me what I ask?”

“Anything and everything,” he replied.

“Why do you put up with me and my mess?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“It's not just Melissa.”

“It never was.”

“No. I know that also. I keep thinking if I just sit here long enough and take care of my daughter and get on with my work, I'll heal. Life is such a dreadful mess.” She paused, then added more quietly still, “And lonely.”

“Only because you insist upon it being so.”

“I'm not seeing anyone. I tried. But it didn't work. So I stopped.”

He knew that too. She had gone out twice, once with the curator of a local museum and once with a University of Miami professor. Terrance continued to receive regular reports.

“I keep hoping one day I'll just wake up and things will be back to normal and I can start making a new life.” She looked at him. Not saying the words out loud. But the message was clear in her eyes.
A
new life with you.

Terrance wanted to force her to speak the words. The desire was so fierce it must have blazed in his eyes, because Stefanie released his hand and rose from the sofa. She walked to the porch's sliding glass doors and stood there, her back to him and the room, hugging herself. “He was here.”

The shock was a fist straight to his heart. “Val?”

“Last week. I came out of my front door and there he was. Standing across the road by the water. He looked awful.”

Terrance did not recognize his own voice. “What did he want?”

Stefanie remained turned from him, hugging herself, silent.

Terrance clenched his entire body in the effort to keep himself from exploding. “You didn't. Stefanie, please tell me you—”

“He begged to hold her. Just for a moment. It caught me completely off guard.”

He could not speak. To utter a single word would have been to unleash the beast. He envisioned a rage that left the entire room in shambles.

“Val wanted children so bad. You should have seen his face. He slipped Melissa from my arms before I could think of anything to say. The look he gave me, it was like he was being tortured.” She stared out over the water, her back trembling as though sensing the emotion Terrance refused to let loose. “I took her back. He didn't object. He just walked away. I've never seen anybody look so totally destroyed.”

The antique mantel clock struck the half hour. Terrance took a dozen slow breaths, forcing himself back to calm control. The so-called investigators he was paying a small fortune would reap the whirlwind. “Stef, please come over and sit down.”

She relinquished her position very slowly. “What is it?”

“I have some rather dreadful news. And nothing's confirmed. I've spent two sleepless nights wondering whether it would be best to be the one—”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Sit down. Please.” He snagged both her hands. “I fear Val is dead.”

“What?”

“Nothing is confirmed. But it has been so long now, and the police . . .” He paused, released a hand, took a slug of cold coffee. “I can only tell you what I know. It appears that Val has been stealing from the company.”

“That's impossible!”

“I know, it goes against the grain. But the evidence is rather compelling. A large amount of money has gone missing. The SEC has been called in. There is going to be a huge scandal.”

Her mouth worked. “Val?”

“He, another Insignia employee, and a senior New York banker were apparently involved in perpetuating a massive fraud. The authorities think the bank might have bilked several major customers. Insignia among them. The bank was destroyed by a bomb. Val has not been heard from since.”

There were tears, of course. Terrance held her and repeated the details, fleshing out the story. Being the bearer of bad tidings, the martyr. As he stroked her hair, he observed. He knew she retained some connection to Val, a few stubborn tendrils of affection. How exquisite it was to personally demolish them. Finally making room for her new future. Her destiny.

She gathered herself and asked the question he had known would come. “Why are you telling me this?”

“News about Val being lost in the bomb blast broke this morning in the local Orlando papers. Tomorrow word is bound to get out about the scandal. At that point it will be national news. This may not be as big as Enron, but it is by far the largest scandal to hit a Florida company.”

“That's why you came?”

“In part. I didn't want this to catch you totally unaware. I had to do it in person. And it's like I said on the phone. I won't be available for a week or so. Perhaps longer.”

“That's why you're going to New York?”

“Damage control.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, my dear, I really must fly.”

She rose with him. “I can't believe this. Val.”

“Of all people. I agree.”

“He hated you.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“You must be pleased.” Her words crumbled wetly.

Terrance dropped his voice an octave. “I do not deserve that.”

“I suppose not.” But she was unconvinced.

“In all the time we have been together, I have never spoken a word against Val Haines. Not once.” He made as to turn for the door.

“I shall not start now.”

“No, wait. That's not—”

“I know you're deeply upset. You have every right to be. I knew also I took the risk of being painted as a culprit by bringing you this news. But I had to prepare you, Stefanie. Even if it meant wounding myself. I had no choice.”

“Don't go like this. I didn't . . .”

“You see, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. That is why I came. And why I must now go.” He bent over and kissed her tear-stained cheek. “Adieu, my dear.”

He shut the door firmly behind him and hurried over to where the chauffeur was opening the door. He seated himself and kept his face pointed straight ahead. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Stefanie open the sliding glass door and call down to him. He gave no sign of having noticed. The car pulled away. He could hear her call faintly through the closed window.

He smiled. That really had gone rather well.

WHERE THE TAXI LEFT VAL OFF, THE SKYSCRAPERS FORMED A steel-and-concrete noose. He was the only pedestrian who bothered to look upwards, searching out a glimpse of the dull grey sky. Val crossed the street and entered Grand Central Station. From where he stood on the upper veranda, the space looked larger than the outdoors that he had just left behind. The four-faced brass clock rising from the central information booth said he was five minutes late. He crossed beneath the distant ceiling's mythical star chart and asked directions from the hostess at the Michael Jordan Steakhouse above track thirty. He took the side passage to the western balcony and spotted the entrance to the Campbell Apartment. There he stopped.

“See, that's why I like this place for the meet-and-greet.” A voice by his elbow said, “The first-timers, they come in here and do their gawk, and you know them straight off. You tell me you look like this or that, it doesn't matter. You need directions to this place, you know the fellow is going to come in here and freeze.”

The man's hair was dyed a ridiculous orange. He had a crooner's voice. Everything else about him was mummified. He scarcely reached Val's shoulder. “You have also kept me waiting.”

“Sorry.”

“It's going to cost you.” He pointed Val to a table opposite the bar. “The drinks in here are horrendously expensive.”

The room belonged in a European palace, not a New York train station. The galleried hall was perhaps seventy feet long with a gothic fireplace dominating the far wall. The ceiling was thirty feet high and ribbed by hand-painted beams.

“Campbell was a man with power and an ego to match. He took this space because it was the city's largest ground-floor office. When he moved in, it was a barracks. He copied the salon of a thirteenth-century Florentine manor. He installed a pipe organ, a piano, and over a million dollars in antiques. That was back in the twenties, when a million dollars meant something.” He held out his hand. “Let's have your ID.”

“Excuse me?”

He gave a mirthless smile. “My, but we are new to this game, aren't we. The only ID that matters. Guess what that might be.”

Val glanced around the room. No one seemed to be watching.

“Don't worry about them. This is New York, remember? Land of the professionally blind.” He snapped his fingers. “The clock is ticking.”

Val dipped into his pocket and pulled out his roll.

“Fan the pages just enough to show me this isn't a pack of ones I'm seeing. Okay.” The man drained his glass. “You're after what, social security card, plastic, birth certificate, total makeover?”

“Just a passport.”

“Expensive. What about the name you aim on using. Is it clean?”

“Yes.”

“It better be. On account of the authorities, these days they do a computer search every time you pass through the border.”

“It's clean.”

“Sorry, I need a little more assurance than just your say-so.” The scars where his face had been cut and surgically stretched ran from above his ears to his turtleneck. “See, if you're lying to me, they'll ask you where you bought your paper. They'll ask you very hard.”

“I was arrested two nights ago. The police ran me through the national system. The name came up clean.”

“Vince will vouch for that too?”

“Call him and see.”

He tapped his finger on the glass, studying Val hard. “Nah. Like the man said, you got an honest face. So where did you buy your new tag?”

“My . . . I don't remember.”

The surgical scars refused to move when he smiled. They formed two flat creases down each side of his face. Which was perhaps why his smiles came and went so swiftly. “Look there, you're learning. Okay, let's see what you got.”

Val passed over his driver's license.

The guy pulled a set of reading glasses from a pewter case and lifted the card up to where it reflected the neighboring lamp's light. “This is good work. Almost as good as mine.” He slipped off the spectacles. “Five thousand.”

Val snagged the driver's license and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Four.”

The man flashed his false smile. “Aren't we cute. Look, this is not bargain basement land. You want, you pay.”

“All right. Five.”

“My studio is just around the corner. Not nearly as nice as here, I'm afraid. The lighting's too strong and it smells like a lab. But you'll be in and out in no time. Me, I'm still looking for my ticket to paradise.” The man rose to his feet. “Where did you say you were headed?”

“I didn't.”

“No, silly me. Of course not.” He pointed Val toward the bartender. “I should have said, five plus tip. Pay the man and let's do business.”