The Lazarus Trap (19 page)

Jack was back to watching him intently. “Not Terrance's own father?”

“The very same. A careful investigation will show that Arthur d'Arcy was siphoning off funds from his own division's pension fund. Draining it dry, in fact.”

Jack's face registered sudden shock. “Hastings. Now I remember. That's the plant—”

“We're scheduling for closure. Still very hush-hush.”

“This was Terrance's idea as well?”

“It makes sense as a cost-cutting measure. But, yeah, he managed the study.”

“So with the British pension fund raided . . .”

“The laid-off workers won't get a dime. And it'll all be Arthur d'Arcy's fault. He'll spend the rest of his days in prison. A guest of Her Majesty's government, is what they call it. With his good name in tatters.” Don let that sink in a moment. “Whatever it takes, Jack. That's what we can expect for our boy to do out there in the field. Whatever it takes.”

WALLY RODE WITH TERRANCE TO THE ROCKEFELLER CENTER BUT declined to accompany him further. Her presence at a meeting with the police would accomplish nothing. She slipped into the crowd and vanished with a professional's ease. Terrance told the driver to find someplace to wait, smoothed his jacket, and entered the fray.

The combined pressure of events coming together worked to Terrance's advantage. He was clearly exhausted, harried, and needing to be elsewhere. Which was what everyone would have expected. And they were watching. He could already feel the spotlight swiveling his way. He had played many roles up to now. But none so critically scrutinized as this one.

Terrance slipped through the army of reporters and photographers and gawkers bound behind the yellow tape. Rockefeller Center was a series of nine buildings covering two city blocks. The blast was high enough for Terrance to spy the gaping hole in the easternmost pinnacle. He heard footsteps approaching, but remained as he was, reviewing the role ahead. He was the executive in to make a cursory visit, do his best for his company, and worried sick over what was happening.

“Mr. d'Arcy?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Detective Harris, homicide.” He gestured to the grey-suited man hanging two steps back. “This is Agent Frost, FBI. We're expecting an investigator from the SEC, but she's hung up in traffic. She's bringing one of the bank execs with her.”

“Fine. Can we go on up?”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I want to know about our people.” Terrance was already moving.

The detective hastened to keep up. “We've talked to your security chief about this. What was her name?”

“Suzanne Walton.”

“Right. Like I told her, there's nothing to go on.”

“I want to see.”

“Okay. Sure.” They followed him toward the entrance. “Your security chief, she's ex-cop?”

“I believe that's correct.”

“I made a couple of calls. Walton left Baltimore under something of a cloud.”

Terrance pushed through the doors. “If you know all this, why are you asking?”

Harris flashed his badge at the security guard. “We have three people missing and presumed murdered, Mr. d'Arcy. It's my business to ask. So this Walton, how did you manage to find her?”

“You'd have to ask our executive vice president, Don Winslow.”

The elevator pinged and they stepped inside. The FBI agent tracked Terrance's movements like a grey wraith. Harris asked, “Where is he?”

“Keeping his finger in the dike down in Orlando. Don is also chief in-house counsel.”

“We have to get off two floors below and walk up the rest of the way. We're lucky the bank occupied the top-most floors. The rest of the building appears intact. The blast was directed up and out.” Harris punched the button for the fifty-second floor. “So there's nothing you can tell me about Walton?”

“That's not what you asked me, Detective. You asked how she was hired. If you want information about her current status, you need to inquire more specifically.” Terrance rubbed his forehead, pleased to see his hand shook. His senses were on hyperdrive. Every second was sliced into microscopic bits, so fine he could be utterly involved in the moment and yet able to expend his awareness out in a thousand different directions. He wondered if this was how it felt to be on stage. “Two years ago, Insignia acquired six hotels that were going under. In my first inspection of the books, I uncovered evidence that the hotels were being ripped off in a highly organized fashion.”

“You hired an ex-cop to hunt down some missing towels?”

Terrance cut him a single look. “I said organized, Detective. Initial estimates put the losses at a quarter of a million dollars annually. Per hotel.”

The FBI agent spoke up for the first time. “That's a lot of little soaps.”

“We found evidence of rooms being rented and showing no revenue.”

“How'd you do that?”

“I measured the outflow of laundry, bed linen, food, everything. I compared it with other hotels in similar categories. We were using between a quarter and a third more resources than the billable rooms and restaurant takings required.”

The doors opened. Terrance followed the detective into the lobby of an empty law firm. A chandelier had fallen from the ceiling, leaving a hole now covered by cardboard. Two recessed fluorescents had shattered and not yet been replaced. One part of the ceiling and the Persian carpet below it were both badly stained. The left-hand wall of glass bricks bore a sizable crack.

The detective led him to a steel door flagged with yellow police tape. The stairwell smelled of water and oily smoke. There was noise from below. Nothing came from above them except a thickening of the air with each step. Terrance went on, “I discussed the hotel problem with Don, my boss. I needed someone who could identify the thieves without alerting the guests or the press. This needed to go away quietly. Suzanne Walton did an excellent job. Within three months of her hiring, the problem vanished.”

There was no door. Terrance halted on the landing because there was nowhere further to go. The blast had wrecked the steel and concrete structure overhead. He stared out across a blackened expanse. Plastic sheeting replaced the former floor-to-ceiling windows. They billowed slightly in the evening breeze.

Harris pointed at the plastic sheeting. “The engineers tell us that's why the building didn't suffer any real structural damage.”

“The blast focused upwards, like you said.”

“Right. But it pretty much destroyed everything on these two floors, as you can see. We figure it for eight charges, all timed for just after half-past six. Which suggests they aimed to take out your people, Mr. d'Arcy.”

“Or the banker they were here meeting,” Terrance said.

“What do you know about the banker?”

“Nothing except the name. Which we lifted from Val Haines's calendar.”

“How well did you know the victims?”

“Val Haines I thought I knew well. Marjorie Copeland less so. She was an employee of long standing in our pensions department.” Terrance shook his head, apparently distracted by the chaos. “What a calamity.”

“And Val? That's his real name?”

“Valentine Richard Haines. He was previously in my own department.”

“So you've known him for how long?”

“Five years, almost six.”

“And you guys were friends. He never mentioned any anger at the company, any desire to—”

“You misunderstand me, Detective. Val and I were not friends. Far from it. You're going to find out sooner or later. Val Haines hated me.”

“Why is that?”

“First because I won a promotion he thought was his.” Terrance grimaced. “Then he and his wife divorced. I was named in the suit as his wife's lover.”

“Yeah, I'd say he had probable cause. What about you?”

Terrance turned from the ruin. “Me?”

“I'd say you had reason to hate this guy. Want to see him destroyed.”

“Most certainly,” Terrance replied. “Only there's one thing missing from the equation, Detective. With Val and Marjorie gone, we have no chance now of recouping our losses. Or, for that matter, bringing them to justice.”

“What about . . .” The detective halted at sounds rising through the stairwell.

They were joined by a wiry accountant-inspector from the SEC and the U.S. director of Syntec Bank. The bank director looked as if he had been hollowed by the incomprehensible. His corporate world stretched out before him, utterly destroyed.

Terrance suffered through a second series of questions, many of which returned to the same ground all over again. He answered with the same weary strain he saw in the banker's features.

Terrance had spent his entire life assigned a part that was not his. Forced into a role meant for someone else, stuffed into a cheaper set of costumes because his father had refused to do his duty. His own father, the man he should have always been able to rely on, had shown all the backbone of a jellyfish. That was how his mother had described Arthur d'Arcy on the day she had told her son the news. There had been a great deal for a nine-year-old boy to take in. How his own grandfather had willed everything to a floozy and her illegitimate offspring— his mother's words again. How Terrance's father, her husband, had refused to fight the decision. How they had been left with nothing. How Eleanor was divorcing her husband. How Terrance was never to mention his father's name again. Eleanor had cried as she had told him, the only time Terrance had ever seen his mother weep. He had promised her in as manly a voice as he could manage that he would take care of her. She had smiled through her tears and called him her little king. But Terrance had known even then that the title did not fit. From that moment, as he danced his multiple roles upon stages on the wrong side of the Atlantic, he had known that someday he would return and claim what was rightfully his.

All his life he had been preparing for the big role. Life was, after all, just theater. Nothing more. Most people thought actors were remarkably adept at impersonations. This was ludicrous. The champions of stage and screen were people who had learned one simple truth.

All life was false. There was nothing at the core of existence save death and despair and an endless unfillable void. Most people spent their entire lives running from this inescapable reality. Actors were unique in that they had
embraced
this. They utilized the fear and pain by
confronting
the void. By
mastering
the power of their sorrow and anguish. Just as Terrance had.

Either people got the big roles or they didn't. Terrance was born to be a star. Anyone who stood in his way became dust and fond memories. As his wretched father soon would discover.

But Val Haines was more than just another unfortunate. Terrance had savored taking Val down in stages. When Terrance was ensconced in his Bermuda palace or his Belgravia townhouse, sated from a lovely meal, watching his daughter play with his lovely wife by his side, he would look back on Val's demise as one of life's sweetest triumphs.

Terrance decided to dine in his suite. He loved the Plaza's dining room, with its palatial surroundings and impeccable service. But he felt drained, as exhausted as he had ever been in his life. The previous day's work, the travel, the visit with Stefanie, meeting Wally, confronting the counterfeiter, the cops, the shattered bank. He needed time alone to unwind.

And the news about Insignia was breaking. Terrance dined on rack of lamb au jus with a rosemary and Dijon mustard topping. He had the waiter set up the table where he could eat and watch the television. MSNBC was giving Insignia the lead position. Between the on-site reporter and Insignia's building, Terrance counted eleven other television vans. And these were only the ones he could see.

He waited until he had poured his second cup of coffee to call Don. “How was your day?”

“Brutal. Where are you?”