Money to Burn

43

MY HANDS WERE SHAKING AS I RODE UP IN THE ELEVATOR TO PAPA’S hotel room.

The phone call from Ivy had left me somewhere between total confusion and panic. Could I possibly call the police and say that my first wife-for whom we’d held a memorial service four years ago-may have just been shot? They’d think I was nuts.

And what was that about Mallory and a man two weeks ago-in a gay bar?

Probably just having a drink with one of her old dance pals from Juilliard.

The elevator opened. I went to Papa’s room and delivered a firm knock on the door. He answered, dressed in pajamas-or at least as much of the pajamas that he ever wore. When I was little, it seemed odd the way Papa would never wear pajama bottoms to bed-just the top and some boxer shorts. The mystery was finally solved when my great uncle once spent the night at our house and came to the breakfast table wearing an undershirt and-what else?-pajama bottoms. It was then that I learned that Papa had grown up in a family that could afford only one pair of pajamas for the boys. Big brother got the bottoms; little brother, the top. Old habits die hard.

“Hey, Michael,” he said with a smile, even though I’d clearly woken him.

I entered quickly and locked the door as Papa pulled on a robe.

“Papa, I don’t want you to worry, but it’s important for you and Nana to leave New York.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Go back to Florida tonight?”

“No, don’t go back home. I want you to go on vacation.”

“Michael, you’re talking crazy. This is our vacation.”

“I’ve already bought the plane tickets,” I said, which was sort of true. I was still having credit card trouble, so I’d redeemed some of my many frequent-flier miles. “There’s a twelve-thirty A.M. flight to Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles? Don’t they have earthquakes out there?”

It wasn’t his fault, but I had no time for this. “Papa, listen to me carefully. There’s a limo and a driver waiting downstairs. His name is Nick. A good guy-Italian-you’ll like him. I’ve used him many times. You and Nana are going to get in Nick’s limo, go to the airport, and fly to Los Angeles. I wrote out your flight information,” I said, handing him the paper, “and your hotel reservation. It’s all paid for.”

His eyes clouded with concern. “Does this have to do with that man named Rumsey that the FBI was asking about-the guy who got killed in the Bahamas?”

Rumsey. I’d almost forgotten about that part of the puzzle. “I don’t know.”

I could have elaborated, but it wouldn’t have helped. Papa seemed to understand.

“You be careful,” he said as he gave me a hug. Then he gave me another look of concern. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

I hesitated, reluctant to tell him that I hadn’t figured that out yet.

“You might as well use this room,” he said. “It’s paid for.” He got the key for me, then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I left as quickly as I’d come and hurried to the elevator. Papa knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t have comprehended the magnitude of it even if I’d tried to explain. My personal net worth: gone. My wife: divorcing me. My firm: worth $75 billion a week ago, now hours away from bankruptcy. Chuck Bell, the man who had cast me as the scumbag who’d short-sold his own firm down the river: dead. Ivy had returned for a moment, and now she might be dead. Again. Or not.

Run! That had been her only advice to me. Run, or end up like Chuck Bell. But where was I supposed to go? My cell rang as I crossed the hotel lobby. It was my brother-my lawyer. Ex-lawyer. Soon-to-be-ex-law-Whatever.

I didn’t answer, mindful of Ivy’s warning that “they”-whoever they might be-were eavesdropping on my cell. We had security seminars on that kind of thing at Saxton Silvers-how anyone with ninety-nine bucks and no fear of jail could purchase spyware on the Internet, target even the most sophisticated wireless devices, and listen to your phone conversations from across the city. I stepped outside the hotel but couldn’t find a pay phone anywhere on the sidewalk. A college-aged tourist with a backpack was texting on his phone.

“Twenty bucks if I can use your cell for two minutes,” I said.

He seemed skeptical, but Andrew Jackson’s face was staring straight at him. “Sure,” he said, handing it over.

I dialed Kevin, who immediately launched into the bad news.

“I just got a courtesy call from the D.A.,” he said. “She’s giving you the option of surrendering to authorities rather than having the police come out to arrest you in the morning.”

“Arrest?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. You’re being charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with Chuck Bell’s shooting.”

“That’s crazy.”

“The D.A. won’t tip her hand as to the entire case, but I did find out that Bell sent an e-mail to the FNN in-house counsel just before he was shot. Said he was on his way to the studio in New Jersey to meet a ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. The D.A. is linking that message to the meeting you had earlier with Bell in the lobby of his building to say that the ‘higher source’ was you.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near the studio when he was shot. I showed you and Agent Spear the receipt that proves I was at an ATM on Third Avenue.”

“That’s why it’s murder for hire. I’m sure the FBI gave the D.A. a heads-up to bring a conspiracy charge instead of indictment for first-degree murder.”

“But if it’s conspiracy, they still have to connect me to the shooter, right?”

“Apparently the police executed a search warrant at your apartment tonight and found some way to make that connection.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s the shooter?”

“Some guy named Tony Girelli.”

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Small-time thug with mob connections. That’s all I know.”

The tourist wearing the backpack was suddenly hovering over me. “It’s been more than two minutes,” he said.

I waved him off, focusing on Kevin. “It’s clear somebody is trying to frame me for Bell’s murder the same way they framed me for the ‘murder’ of Saxton Silvers. You have to find this Girelli,” I said, “and make sure he tells the police that it wasn’t me who hired him.”

“Where are you now?” asked Kevin.

“I’m…unavailable.”

“Don’t play games with me, Michael. You need a lawyer, and-well, I can’t leave you hanging now. I guess I’m it.”

“I thank you,” I said.

“And as your lawyer, my first piece of advice is to surrender peacefully tomorrow. Don’t make the police cuff you and haul you in. But if I call the D.A. tonight and tell her that we’ve got a deal, you can’t go back on it. I want you in my office at nine A.M. and we’ll go from there. You good with that?”

I paused, then said, “I think so.”

“No,” he said sharply. “No ‘I think so.’ A deal is a deal. Tell me now if you’re turning yourself in. Because if you’re not, they’re coming for you in squad cars.”

“If I do turn myself in, will I get bail?”

“I’d say yes. But it won’t be cheap.”

“How much?”

“You’re a rich Wall Street player. Could be a million.”

“What?”

“Easy, Michael. If we bond it out with collateral, you have to come up with only ten percent.”

“My life savings are gone, my wife’s divorcing me, and I can’t even get my credit cards to work. How am I going to bond out a million dollars?”

“It might take a few days, but we’ll work it out.”

It was unfathomable-me sitting in jail while Ivy was on the run in New York. But this way I could at least keep the cops at bay for the next twelve hours.

“All right,” I said. “Call the D.A. and tell her I’ll turn myself in.”

“Good decision. I’ll see you in my office at nine.”

“See you,” I said.

The kid snatched his cell from my hand as soon as I hung up, and he was gone before I could thank him. Several lanes of light traffic cruised north on Eighth Avenue. I honestly had no idea where to go. I had the key to Papa’s hotel room, but going there wasn’t exactly in keeping with Ivy’s advice-Run! Ivy was at the top of my list of concerns, but convincing anyone that she was in trouble wasn’t going to be easy, especially after a murder arrest. I had to make someone believe that I wasn’t crazy, and Kevin was my only choice-I had to get some face time with him while I still could.

I crossed Forty-ninth Street on my way to the subway station. I had the green light, but a delivery van came flying out of the twenty-four-hour parking garage on the corner. It barreled down on me like a heat-seeking missile, as if determined to T-bone me in the crosswalk. The van cut me off, then screeched to a halt, stopping half in and half out of the crosswalk. I was about to cuss out the maniac driver when the rear doors flew open. Two men jumped out and grabbed me. I tried to resist, but these thugs were amazingly strong, and they had me. They threw me in the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.

“Don’t move,” the man with the gun said.

I tried not to panic as the van sped away.