The Body of David Hayes

TWENTY-THREE

BOLDT WORKED THE CASE LIKE a fire juggler with too many torches in the air. He had recused himself from direct participation in Liz’s surveillance, surprising no one by declining an offer to take a seat in the Special Ops steam-cleaning van, electing instead to drive himself around and listen in on the radio. Riz warned him politely but directly that he didn’t need “any rogue operatives” during his effort to keep Liz safe, and Boldt lied, assuring Riz that he would keep his distance.

He took up a position, parking across the street from the bank building’s north entrance, a place that included a view of one of the two entrance/exits to the high-rise’s private underground parking facility. His biggest concern remained Svengrad and men like Alekseevich. Into the mix he threw Foreman, whom he knew to be operating solo but whose motives remained unclear, and therefore his danger to Liz difficult to assess. Somewhere out there, Boldt believed Olson and Organized Crime were keeping watch now that Alekseevich’s status remained so closely tied to this case and Boldt’s decision making.

His job was to trick Special Ops into sitting on a decoy-Daphne Matthews or one of the several dozen other nuns in attendance at the movie-while LaMoia smuggled Liz out of the theater and put her in play. Svengrad had made it perfectly clear that no substitutions were to take place, and as yet, Boldt felt unwilling to challenge the man. The second part of his job was to allow Liz to transfer the money without Danny Foreman messing things up or getting selfish. Ultimately, he had plans beyond this, but early into the chicanery, his focus remained his wife’s safe transfer, slipping her past the watchful eyes of Special Ops’ “B”-as in “bank”-post, a group of three technicians who currently occupied a Seattle Post-Intelligencer panel truck conveniently parked over an open manhole with unseen video trunk lines running into the bank through the floor of the truck. From that truck the three could monitor every surveillance camera in the building, could directly communicate with bank security, and could even listen in over the public address system’s microphone during tonight’s reception. He knew his one advantage was that unbeknownst to anyone but him and a trusted few, he was working directly with his nemesis, David Hayes. Hayes was the wild card he intended to play to its fullest. As much as Boldt was loath to admit it, Hayes could run circles around all of them.

“Yo!” Boldt heard in his ear after answering his mobile phone. LaMoia informed him that Liz had received a call just after the start of intermission. A synthesized voice again, short and to the point. Foreman, Boldt thought, finally beginning to sort out the various roles being played. Assuring Boldt that he and Liz had slipped away successfully, LaMoia concluded by saying, “We’re happening.” Translation: They were about to cross the street to the WestCorp Bank Center.

Call-waiting chirped in the phone and Boldt signed off with LaMoia, accepting a call that turned out to be from Heiman at the On-Sat navigation offices. Foreman’s Escalade was on the move, heading downtown.

“Interesting timing,” Boldt muttered. This too fit into an expected pattern.

He called Gaynes into action. Posing as a waitress, she would now join the reception, a stopgap and final line of defense known only to him. Hayes was to be guarded by Milner, one of LaMoia’s trustworthy soldiers. Boldt ended the call, expecting to see his wife at any moment, wondering if his plan could get her into the bank without her being seen or detected and identified by the elaborate electronic surveillance already in place.

He counted on David Hayes to help him, if indirectly. In fact, Liz’s survival now depended on him.

In the midst of a light drizzle and traces of ground fog that swirled between the high-rises like smoke from a fire, a darkened figure stalked through the rain toward the west pedestrian entrance to the WestCorp Bank Center shopping complex, a lower-level mall that sat below the bank.

Police radios, quiet for the past several minutes, drew attention to this visitor. The mall stores had all closed at 6 P.M., though access to parking and the tower elevators remained open. Not one pedestrian had entered the shopping complex in the past half hour, raising suspicions as this figure approached.

The “B” unit commander, Dennis Cretchkie, jockeyed his team, directing an undercover wheelchaired officer to enter the facility behind this visitor. Cretchkie called for reports. Off Fifth on University, the Town Car set jammed the Olympic Hotel’s U-shaped driveway, the hotel doorman blowing his whistle for taxis stacked along the curb. A small group of white seagulls flashed in the black sky and shrieked noisily overhead. A homeless woman pushed a supermarket cart laden with soggy blankets and aluminum cans uphill, leaning into her effort. A street-cleaning machine lumbered slowly up University, brushes spinning, eliciting the complaint of car horns as it hindered traffic.

The undercover officer in the wheelchair reported that the unidentified pedestrian was a woman carrying an umbrella that obscured her face. As this unidentified subject-“unsub”-approached the west entrance of the underground mall, the cop in the wheelchair worked furiously to intercept her, hoping she might hold the door for him and thereby give him a good look at her face. His effort failed.

Monitoring surveillance activities over the police radio, Boldt sat forward in the front seat of the Crown Vic, the steering wheel pressing into his chest. Every action, every move by Special Ops was crucial to the success or failure of his plan. Boldt was parked with a view of the north side of the block-square complex, with no view of the unidentified woman who had just entered WestCorp Center. With the announcement of her entering the mall, Pahwan Riz, one block east, with a view of the 5th Avenue Theatre, pressured his detectives and operatives in the audience for the exact location of “the mark.” Liz.

“I want a positive ID,” Riz said, “and I want it now.”

Damn him, Boldt thought. Riz had always been one of the smarter ones. Boldt phoned Daphne Matthews to warn her that Riz’s team was inspecting the patrons more closely in order to obtain a positive ID.

A moment later Matthews said, “I see them. It’s Brandy and Klinderhoff, each coming down an aisle.” Judging by her suddenly muffled voice, he pictured that she’d bent forward, head to the theater floor. “But it’s crazy in here.”

“I need at least ten to twenty minutes, Daffy.”

He heard a loud cheer and music in the background.

“The purse!” Boldt shouted. “Make sure they see the purse.” He knew how a cop’s mind worked. The purse would convince either Brandy Schaeffer or Howie Klinderhoff as easily as if either saw Liz’s face.

Daphne disconnected the call, and Boldt was left with indelible melodies swimming in his head. He saw a WSDOT Metro bus pull to its stop on Fifth Avenue. The arrival of the bus won the attention of Cretchkie and his “B” unit because it briefly and effectively blocked Cretchkie’s view of the complex. An undercover officer was dispatched, though too late. Cretchkie shouted across the radio, “Get the fucking buses off Fourth and Fifth Avenues. All eyes on anyone and everyone coming off that bus!”

Riz cut in, demanding once again that Liz be identified in the film audience.

The umbrella woman entered an elevator and rode it one floor to ground level, where she had to switch elevators in order to continue into the office tower. The wheelchair officer followed on the next elevator car, reporting every few minutes.

The bus pulled away, scattering pedestrians, most of whom stayed on the WestCorp block, requiring Cretchkie to account for them.

In all of the commotion, little if any attention was paid to the homeless woman’s abandoned supermarket shopping cart, now canted into the wall just outside the entrance to the bank’s underground parking garage.

Boldt fixed upon that shopping cart. A smile crept slowly across his face.

Liz was inside.

Liz struggled to clear her head. During the walk with LaMoia at intermission he directed her across the street and down into a sunken courtyard plaza that fronted a Japanese restaurant. There, she jettisoned Maria’s frock, covering her little black dress with a street urchin’s Salvation Army wardrobe.

LaMoia indicated a street person’s shopping cart packed with aluminum cans and some other junk. It had been secreted into some bushes in the courtyard.

He then smeared her face with some brown base, making her look street dirty. “There’s a damp towel in the cart. Use it to clean this off.” Lou had planned all this carefully in advance. She found it difficult to hold up under the pressure.

David Hayes had put her here, and the level of her resentment briefly stole all thought and clarity. Despite her usual Christian thinking, she vowed to have some kind of revenge against him. Ultimately, recovering the money would be the revenge, and she steeled herself to make it through the next hour of her life and to put things straight.

When the bus pulled up, at the very minute LaMoia had told her it would, she pushed the junk-laden supermarket cart against the concrete wall and slipped into the shadows of the underground garage, already planning her metamorphosis. She kept only the damp rag. Fatigue took a physical toll on her, leaving her feeling spent-despite the clamor of her heart in her chest.

She headed directly to the glassed-in area that contained the elevators and stairs. It was from this garage that she had first sneaked away to a rendezvous with David Hayes, from this garage that she had left on maternity leave.

As she heard the distant hiss of the bus brakes releasing, she reached into the waiting elevator and tripped the button for the ground floor, then jumped back out of the car. As she pulled open the heavy door to the fire stairs, immediately adjacent to the elevators, she heard the elevator doors slide shut behind her. She stepped inside the stairs and began to undress immediately. She cleaned her face in the reflection of a fire extinguisher box.

Lou believed her sending the elevator up might distract the minimum-wage security team, whose job it was to monitor television screens in a darkened room somewhere in the building. Dressed now in her black cocktail dress, Liz climbed the stairs. The garage stairs deposited her into the main lobby. She still had to pass through security in order to reach the main bank of elevators.

Liz said hello to Dilly, the portly security man with whom she was friends. As she did so, she used Tony LaRossa’s ID card on the turnstile in front of the metal detector through which she would pass. Lou had no doubt that Pahwan Riz had cued security’s computers to watch for Liz’s entrance to the office building. It was even possible the security computer had been set for a special notification when Liz’s ID card entered the system. Lou’s gamble that Riz would not have given the same consideration to Tony LaRossa’s card paid off. The light turned green, the turnstile moved, and Liz passed her purse to Dilly while she stepped through the metal detector.

Dilly looked shell-shocked to see her. She stepped up to him, physically closer to the man than she’d ever been, and whispered clearly into his ear. “I know you’re supposed to report my arrival, Dilly. Believe me, I know all about it. And that’s a decision you will have to make. But if you do, what happened to Tony LaRossa will happen to me.” She kissed him on the cheek, took her purse, and walked away, not looking back.

The elevator typically required the use of an ID card to reach the restricted floors, including the twenty-fifth floor and I.T.’s data processing. For the sake of the reception, that requirement had been overcome by stationing a security guard as an elevator operator to shuttle guests. This came as an unexpected complication. Liz’s way around being seen by this security guard was to use the stairs once again, for one reached the stairs before the bank of elevators. She climbed twenty-five floors in less than ten minutes, her heart and lungs burning, her calves aching. Using Tony’s security card, she entered the floor at the end of a hall that had been taken over by the caterers. The roar of conversation and the smell of chicken satay greeted her. A moment later she was just another little black dress in a reception with dozens of invited guests.

Lou had taken it on faith that Hayes’s software would reach her. She felt less inclined to believe this, knowing David was under watch and believing that without his direct participation the transfer would not happen. But it was Lou’s show, and she played her role as directed. In her head an imaginary clock continued counting down the minutes to the corporate switchover.

Boldt called Gaynes on her cell phone and asked her location.

“Heading into the lobby from the shopping area.”

“They saw you enter. They put guys on it.”

“The mark?” Gaynes asked, meaning Liz.

“She’s in.”

“Oops,” Gaynes said. “Gotta go. Looks like I’m about to be caught.”

She disconnected the call before Boldt could remind her that if her cover as a staff waitress for the caterer failed, she should use her police credentials against the bank’s rent-a-cops, and that if confronted by Cretchkie or Riz she should pass blame back onto him, Boldt, who in turn would argue that it was his wife, and if he wanted to slip his detective inside the bank then it was his prerogative. It was in fact not his prerogative, but he could live with a brief dressing-down from Riz if it came to that.

He encouraged his cell phone to ring, awaiting confirmation that Liz had reached the twenty-fifth floor. Even if the empty-elevator ploy got security’s attention, Boldt expected no drastic action to be taken by the bank. No one in his right mind was going to shut down this merger reception as the couple approached their wedding bed.

Boldt put his head back against the headrest, understanding but not quite accepting that he had to wait it out like a director in the wings watching a play.

Then, when the phone did ring, it was only Heiman, reporting from On-Sat. “The Escalade’s moving south,” the voice said. “Heading through Fremont at the moment. If I had to guess,” Heiman said, “I’d say he’s still heading downtown.”

Having tended once again to her hair and lipstick, centering the strand of pearls she wore around her neck, Liz rounded the corner into the open area of the twenty-fifth floor and immediately spotted Phillip Crenshaw’s gray-white mane across the crowded room. She elected to steer clear for the time being. Phillip had been carefully briefed on all aspects of the embezzlement case, by Liz, the police, BCI, and the prosecuting attorney’s office. Liz didn’t want him seeing her and then making phone calls to check up on her. If they crossed paths, fine; she would tell him in private that she’d been run through what now appeared to be a ruse, but still had not taken possession of the software, nor had she been given the account number-all true.

It surprised her how well the data center transformed for the event. Her staff had done a terrific job. Several transit posters announcing the merger had been placed strategically to hide unsightly workstations. Helium balloons grouped in threes livened up the place. Champagne flowed as waiters and waitresses circulated. It appeared that most if not all of the forty to fifty invitees had shown up. Finger-food-sized crab cakes and cheesy hors d’oeuvres laced the air and enticed Liz’s empty stomach. She recognized any number of faces and said short hellos to various groups as she passed, making her way to the registration table manned by several of her staff. The overall mood was festive: canned jazz playing and champagne lifting voices into peals of laughter. A lot of money was being made off this merger, not the least of which went to the attorneys, a cabal of suits who hovered near the wine bar like a school of barracuda.

“Charlotte.” Liz smiled at the attractive young woman behind the welcome desk.

“There you are!” Charlotte bent over and reached below the table. She handed Liz a name tag that bore a small blue ribbon, a touch that Liz didn’t care for but something Phillip had insisted upon. The ribbon identified Liz as “co-hostess” and made her feel cheap, as if she were throwing a Pampered Chef party instead of a reception for a multibillion-dollar merger. “This came for you.”

Charlotte gave her a plain manila envelope. A plain white label bore her name and nothing more. It was the right size and shape and thickness for a computer disk.

“How’d you get this?”

“It was messengered to the lobby desk. Dilly sent it up.”

“When was this?”

Charlotte heard the concern in Liz’s voice and reflected it. “Just before we got going. A few minutes before eight. Why?”

Liz backpedaled, sorry she’d suggested there was any problem. “Oh, no reason.” She forced her face to soften. “It’s just in time. Thanks.” She glanced to her right, where the end of the room was sectioned off by polished steel beams and thick, unbreakable glass, and looked right at one of the twin AS/400s, a black, solid block of computer the size of a washing machine. Behind the server and out of view was a small desk holding a large flat-panel screen and a keyboard. The placement of this workstation intentionally screened the operator in order to prevent any eavesdropping or spying from without. The machine’s twin sister sat to the right in a small office of its own. This more private room was where most of the heavy lifting was done by programmers and maintenance. This was Liz’s destination. To reach it, she would have to pass through a palm-scanner, as well as an ID reader. She would be under the glare of the overhead lighting, visible to all. She would stick out, given that there was no activity at that far end of the large room. Her entrance to the space would alert security and, in turn, the surveillance team.

The cake had been Lou’s idea, his solution to part of this dilemma, and only then did she think to follow up with it, asking Charlotte about its readiness.

“It’s here,” Charlotte replied. “But we’re saving it for after the switchover, right?”

That had been Liz’s original instruction, but now that had to change for the sake of timing. She could feel Special Ops close on her heels. “The switchover is actually just ceremonial. Phillip… Mr. Crenshaw, will throw a switch, yes. But the final exchange of data won’t occur until after midnight. Then our servers are off-line for good.”

“Right… ” Charlotte clearly wondered why Liz would explain what she already knew.

“So what can it possibly matter when we serve the cake? The point being that once the switch is thrown, the party peaks, and maybe folks don’t stick around for the cake.”

“Just admit it, Mrs. Boldt,” Charlotte said, nearly stopping Liz’s heart. “I know your real reason for changing plans.”

Liz felt the color drain out of her face and her hands go cold.

“Choc-o-holic, anyone?” Charlotte cracked up. “Confess your sins, Mrs. Boldt!”

Liz felt nervous laughter escape from her throat. “Caught!” she said, her knees weak and actually trembling. “Me and chocolate! You got me. Let them eat cake.”

“How soon?”

“Let’s give the hors d’oeuvres another few minutes, and then surprise everyone.” Liz kept one eye on the end of the room, and the brightly lit secure office. “And don’t forget the candles and the room lights. Phillip wants this to be dramatic.”

Charlotte beamed. “I’ll tell the caterers.”

“I’ll do it,” Liz said, wanting both the excuse and the opportunity to avoid circulating as much as possible. “If anybody’s getting an advance taste of that cake, it’s me.”

Charlotte grinned, and Liz left before her mouth got her in real trouble. She’d never been a good liar, even through the months of the affair with David. Had Lou not been so consumed at the time, he would have caught on sooner.

The caterers from Wild Ginger had usurped both the galley kitchen and a small conference room across from it, down a hall near the stairs that Liz had climbed only minutes before. Asian odors of pickled ginger and plum and cinnamon thickened with her approach. It took her a minute to locate the woman in charge, a woman with whom she’d had dealings. Their meeting in person was cordial and businesslike. Liz asked that the cake be brought out earlier than originally planned, and the caterer saw no problem with that, asking for five to ten minutes to clear the hors d’oeuvres and to orchestrate the change. Liz said Charlotte would dim the lights when signaled, knowing full well there was no dimming the overhead fluorescents. The entire floor would be briefly dark, the guests’ attention fixed on the candles and the cake. This would be the moment Liz needed.

Halfway back down the hall, she stepped into an empty office and pulled out her cell phone. Lou answered right away.

“I’m in. Watch for the lights. Five minutes, maybe ten.”

“They’re searching the theater. Riz is going to have this figured out soon if he doesn’t already. They’ll think you were pressured into this, but they’ll still expect one of those two passwords from you.” Miles6. Sarah4. She didn’t intend to use either; there would be no alerting Pahwan Riz to the actual transfer. “I’ve got Bobbie inside as a waitress,” Lou continued. “When you’re done in there, you need to call me.”

He’d stressed this need to call him about a dozen times and it annoyed her that he’d repeat it yet again. “I got that, Lou.” She regretted the tone, not knowing herself, hoping that whatever woman she’d become over the past few weeks would not stick.

“Okay.” Boldt ended the call.

Liz slipped the mobile phone back into Daphne’s purse and spun in the chair, preparing to leave.

“I thought that was you.” A deep male voice she recognized before looking up. Danny Foreman blocked the doorway.

“Wouldn’t miss my own party,” she said.

“Who were you talking to just now?” he asked. “Lou?”

How much did he hear? She couldn’t remember what she’d said on her end of the conversation. The manila envelope that contained a disk remained inside the purse. How much does he know? “I don’t remember your name being on the invitation list,” she said.

“Half of Special Ops is looking for you in a movie theater at this very moment.”

“Not you.”

“Not me. I wanted to make sure we still had our understanding. Protect the state’s investment in this investigation.”

If the money went anywhere but the Svengrad account, her children weren’t safe. She thought that by now Danny Foreman probably understood this as well. She said, “I wonder what Pahwan Riz would think of your being up here. Lou, for that matter. Couldn’t just your presence here blow this?”

“I’m here to make sure you get out safely.”

That gave her chills. Lou had warned her no one would want her remembering the account numbers. Her thoughts poured out of her before she could stop her mouth. “It’s not a government account, is it, Danny? Never was. This is about Darlene for you. Injustice. This is something between you and David and this guy Svengrad.”

“You’re at serious risk once this transfer is made.”

“From whom? What’s your plan, Danny? How safe am I?”

“You’re mistaken, Liz. Horribly mistaken. It is a government account. I told you before: We need that money as evidence if we’re going to get a conviction. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple?” she asked. “Can you actually say that?” She didn’t know how to read him. Half in shadow, Danny Foreman wore an intractable expression. “Should I call Lou or Special Ops and thank them for sending you? Should I ask security to call someone to let them know you’re here at the reception? How do you want to play this?” She felt the seconds passing by, and her chance to sneak inside the AS/ 400 room escaping along with it.

“I’m going in with you,” he said. “I’ll input the account number myself. We wouldn’t want your nerves causing you to mistype a number.”

This was completely unplanned for. “Wiring the funds requires an account number, an ABA routing number, and a name for the account. It’s foolproof, Danny. I won’t mistype it.”

“I’m going in with you. Look at it this way: In the event of a trial it will protect us all if I witness your actions.”

“I’ll be lucky to get in there myself, alone. Two of us? No offense, Danny, you’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.” Of the guests assembled in the room not twenty feet away, half wore tuxedos. Foreman looked as if he’d slept in his clothes for the past week.

“I’m going in there with you.”

She looked for some way to circumvent him. It dawned on her then-a possible way to lose Foreman, but she would need a head start. She would also need an alternate plan, the answer to which lay with Lou-Lou, and Bobbie Gaynes, a wild card whose presence here remained unknown to Foreman because it remained unknown to Special Ops as well. “Okay,” she said, “you win.”

Foreman first looked surprised, then satisfied with himself, until she spoke again.

“Do you know how to tie a bow tie, Danny?”

He frowned, then caught on to the suggestion.

“We’ve got to get you looking right,” she said. “Let me see what I can work out with the caterer. I’m the one who hired her in the first place.” She had him cornered and they both knew it.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

She wanted to object but didn’t feel confident lying to him, fearing he’d see through the lie. She nodded acceptance, her mind working to see a way out of this, Danny Foreman an albatross she could ill afford.

Thinking more clearly than she, he said, “I’ll take your cell phone.”

She reached into her purse and took hold of the phone, offering it but not yet passing it to him. “Will you? And what will you say to Svengrad when he calls? You need his wire information or you don’t have a case against him. Isn’t that right?”

“You must have that information by now.”

“I do not,” she told him, wondering as his face tightened further if she’d given him too much information. This was Lou’s world, Danny Foreman’s world, not hers. She started her phone back toward her purse but Foreman took it from her.

“All the more reason you need me,” he said, pocketing it.

She needed the phone. Special Ops would be watching all calls from and to the bank’s phones; she didn’t want to be “caught” dialing Lou’s cell phone number. She also still expected the call from Svengrad. Not to mention Lou.

“There are security cameras inside this room with the servers,” Foreman said. “Riz has cameras aimed at both keyboards in case the key-tracking software fails.”

Liz realized he was just talking this through. He was right; she’d been briefed on the locations of these cameras as well.

“Lou worked it out, didn’t he?” She waited to see what he was getting at.

“LaRossa gave Hayes a way to monitor your security cameras,” he said, theorizing. “Svengrad hasn’t called you because he knows you’re not in the restricted room yet. He’s waiting for your move.” He paused. “You did or did not use your own ID when you entered tonight?”

Liz had thought her use of Tony LaRossa’s ID had been to hide her from Special Ops, not from Svengrad. Only now did she sense that Lou had this second motive in mind as well. She clutched her purse, as Foreman reached for it. She felt an urgent need to protect Lou’s plan, whatever it was. “There is a security camera in this hall. I do know that. You’ll be on camera if you come with me. This may take me a minute.” She tore herself free from Foreman’s grip.

She turned and stepped out, and Foreman followed. Together they walked down the hall to its dead-end fire-stairs door. Liz’s mind raced to find a way around this. Foreman remained a half step behind her and to her left. She couldn’t turn and outrun him. She needed a break, a way to put even a few seconds between them, seconds in which he would not miss her.

At the galley she introduced Foreman to the caterer as “a law enforcement officer.” Liz explained he needed a cover, and that she’d thought of his taking the place of one of the waiters for just a few minutes.

“He’d need a white shirt and tie,” the woman replied.

“I’m aware of that,” Liz said. “That’s why we’re speaking to you.”

The woman sized up Foreman like a fashion designer. She said, “Let me talk to Michael. He’s about your size.”

A few agonizing minutes later Foreman faced a young man carrying a white shirt and bow tie. “We’ll use the office,” Foreman said, indicating the door down the hall. “Wait here,” he said to Liz.

Foreman and the waiter moved down the hall and entered the office to exchange shirts and let Foreman tie the tie. He left the office door ajar to prevent her from slipping past.

Liz winced a smile. The mouse had walked willingly into the trap, all of his own accord.

Liz drew the caterer close and whispered, “When he asks, you tell him you had your back turned and didn’t see which way I went.”

Before surprise had a chance to fade from the caterer’s expression, Liz gently pushed against the stairway door’s panic bar, then threw her hip into pushing it open and slipped out. Cool air slapped her face. Her limbs and chest went feverish with adrenaline. At the bottom of these stairs was freedom, and for a moment that temptation weighed on her like gravity.

Before she reached the first landing, she heard a flurry of footsteps from below. Someone-security, probably-was coming up. Coincidence? she wondered. A random security check? Or had LaRossa’s ID triggered a full-scale search? If a search, they wouldn’t be busting through the front doors of a formal party but using the stairs, as she now heard so clearly. She debated returning to the relative safety of the twenty-fifth floor behind her. The footfalls continued to climb toward her, and at a pace that indicated someone in shape, reinforcing her belief it was a security guard. At last, with nowhere to turn, she stiffened her posture, took hold of the railing, and descended-walked-one hand on the rail. She was one of the five most powerful people at WestCorp, and this building belonged to WestCorp-at least for a few more minutes.

Bobbie Gaynes rounded the landing in the black-and-white uniform of the caterers. “Mrs. B.,” she said, clearly surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“Danny Foreman’s up there.” She explained her predicament and what she needed from Gaynes, speaking quickly and in a hushed voice.

“Okay then,” Gaynes said, when Liz had finished.

“You can’t get onto twenty-five without an ID card-from this side, the stairs. It’s restricted access.”

“So I’ll pound until someone opens up,” Gaynes said.

“If that doesn’t work…” Liz fished into Daphne’s purse and passed Gaynes the LaRossa ID, telling her to use it, “But only if no one opens the door for you. And if Danny asks if you saw me… ”

“Foreman doesn’t know me. I’ll just be a waitress who sneaked out for a smoke and got locked out.” She added, “Hopefully the caterer goes along with that.”

The women reached out and grabbed each other’s forearm at the same time. It seemed an awkward gesture to Liz, somewhere between a handshake and a hug, but she was grateful for the contact. “Five minutes, tops,” Liz reminded.

“Got it.” Gaynes bounded up the stairs effortlessly.

Liz turned and hurried down to twenty-four, believing she still had a chance to accomplish the transfer on time. Floor twenty-four lacked the security of the data department immediately above. Liz passed into a darkened corridor, switching on the lights and running through the maze of hallways. Inside, the pounding of her heart counted the passing seconds; the lighting of the cake and the darkening of the room were only minutes away.

When Boldt saw the first set of lights appear in the windows on the twenty-fourth floor, his first thought was housecleaning. But then another string, and a third string illuminated, and the short time between them suggested someone in a hurry, and his blood rushed to his face. It looked as if security were chasing someone. He thought of Gaynes and Liz.

At that same moment, the police-band radio sang with exchanges between the command van and Special Ops officers who had failed to locate Liz inside the theater, frustrated and limited in their effort by the darkness and the audience’s penchant for jumping to its feet in spontaneous song. Judging by the growing agitation in Riz’s voice, he sensed he’d lost his mark and feared his surveillance had failed, which in turn reflected directly on him and his ability to lead. Riz was a smart, capable cop. Soon he’d be checking with his people already in the bank, those assigned to watch the security monitors. How much longer until Liz was spotted, and what would the repercussions be?

The string of lights now stretched entirely across the twenty-fourth floor. Boldt craned his neck and put his face to the windshield to see.

Unable to tolerate another minute of this, and understanding the need for someone to distract Riz’s people from seeing Liz on a security camera, Boldt left his Crown Vic and marched through a light drizzle toward WestCorp Center, well aware that as he did so, he became a target of his own surveillance.

Liz reached the elevator bank on twenty-four and called an elevator, the wait excruciating. She knew that by now Foreman would be frantically searching for her, probably dressed as a waiter and moving through the guests, tray in hand.

Use of the elevator meant risking identification by the security guard operating the car. Her hope, that the car might arrive filled with smokers or late arrivals, that she might meld into the mix, proved too optimistic. The doors opened and she boarded an otherwise empty car-she and the guard. He stared at her, well briefed.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said, once the doors had closed. The one floor ride would be over quickly.

“I thought so,” he said.

“They probably didn’t tell you about this part,” she said.

He said nothing.

“Don’t blow it by saying something,” she said, just as the doors came open. She walked out, glancing directly at him once more to show him the strength of her conviction.

As the doors shut behind her, she had no idea if her ruse had worked, but she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. By the time the guard reported her and the announcement went up the chain, she needed to be sitting in front of the AS/400 making the transfer.

Liz moved through the main door, Charlotte at the table to her right, looking for a tall, African American waiter, so she could steer clear of him.

“Elizabeth Boldt?” a heavily accented voice asked from her left.

She turned to see a big man with a beard and dark, piercing eyes. She lowered her sight to the name tag stuck to his lapel, his name written in a casual cursive, not the calligraphy that her staff had arranged and paid for.

“Yasmani Svengrad,” the man introduced himself, extending his hand.

She found herself rooted, frozen in place. She did not offer to shake his hand, and a moment later he lowered his own.

“S &G Imports. We’re a private banking customer,” he said, naming WestCorp’s elite customer program that required seven-figure net worth. Phillip’s staff, not hers, had handled the invitations to the private banking customers. “Eight ounces,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“We donated some caviar to tonight’s event. Very last-minute. Eight ounces of Beluga. Another eight of Osetra.”

This explained his receiving an invitation.

This man who had watched her children, who had threatened to expose the videotape, said, “We have interests in common, you and I.” He had yet to take his eyes off her, holding her with that steady stare.

She felt weak, almost faint. Whatever Lou, Foreman, and Riz had thought, none had prepared for this moment. Rather than show her weakness, she fought against the urge to step back, stepping forward instead, nearly touching him. “I share nothing in common with you,” she said while looking him squarely in the eye.

A grin parted the graying beard and mustache. Svengrad was amused by her, nothing more. “A few minutes of your time is all, Elizabeth.” He lowered his head to where she felt his voice as it warmed her neck. “I love how you look in satin,” he said. Standing erect again, he regained that confident smile. He raised his voice. “Yes, I’d love a tour. Please, lead the way.”

Liz caught a signal from Charlotte, who was no longer at the reception desk but standing in the doorway that led back to the hallway where she’d just been with Foreman and the caterer. Charlotte moved her fingers to signal she was about to kill the lights, and Liz nodded, holding up a single finger-one minute-knowing her moment had come.

She walked away and Svengrad followed. They passed through a few knots of conversation until Liz heard her name shouted out. She processed it as Phillip’s voice-a summons from the boss. She turned, waved, and quickly pointed toward Charlotte, then tapped her wrist indicating “time.” To her relief, this proved enough to stop the man. In her peripheral vision, she picked up Danny Foreman, an empty tray held high and carried in front of him. Without making eye contact, she hurried on, Svengrad following. She imagined that behind her Foreman was now plowing through the cocktail party to catch up.

With thirty seconds to go, she navigated past a group of workstations, reaching the glass barrier that contained the first of the AS/400s.

She turned in time to see Foreman in his waiter’s garb, his bow tie crooked on his long neck, hurrying toward them. Liz’s left hand hesitated above the green screen of the palm reader, a book-sized device mounted by the door to the glass room, her own ID card ready in her right. She slipped the edge of the ID card into the card reader.

The lights went out. The guests cooed and turned to face the candle-bright cake that appeared in the doorway at the opposite end of the room. Liz pressed her hand to the screen and watched a small red light turn to green. She heard the click of the electronic latch. Svengrad was now pressed up against her, physically contacting her.

“Wait!” Foreman called, still a few steps off.

The room was all ghostly shadows and cutout silhouettes, the only light from EXIT SIGNS and the distant glow of the cake visible in the reflection off the door’s security glass. A smaller image appeared behind Foreman’s tall silhouette. “Agent Foreman,” the female voice said, “Detective Gaynes, SPD. You’re interfering with a surveillance op.”

Liz used the distraction to pop open the door and slip inside, but with Svengrad immediately behind her and coming through as well. She turned quickly and bumped the man out of the way and hurried to push the door shut. A satisfying click rang out just as Foreman turned from Gaynes and lunged for the door. The thick glass muted whatever Foreman said to the detective, but even in the limited light, Liz saw his fury.

Liz hurried to the door of the neighboring server room, got it open, and turned to pull Svengrad through behind her just as the overhead lights switched back on. A dull electric hum filled the room. The server was a brushed, dark gray. It looked much bigger close up than she remembered. She went to work immediately, having no idea how much fuss Danny Foreman might make, how much trouble he might cause her. She dropped the manila envelope on the floor, slipping the optical disk it contained into the server, grateful that such operations required little of the operator. The disk auto-loaded. A few small lights on the server flashed, and Liz intently watched the screen, awaiting its instruction to input the wire information.

INPUT

USER ID:

PASSWORD:

This was her moment. Without her, the server would not permit access. Lou had been clear about how to play this moment, and she rose to what she considered the most important performance of her lifetime.

“Without me, this doesn’t happen,” she told Svengrad.

“You didn’t go to all this trouble just to change your mind.”

“The video.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Yes, I will,” she said. “And you will have your company back and your passport reauthorized when I do.”

“What’s this?”

“From my husband. Quid pro quo. You understand Latin, Mr. Svengrad? He said to tell you that he talked the government into releasing your product. But he also had INS make your passport invalid for travel outside the country. It all depends on the return of the tape.”

“Enter your password,” he said.

Lou had stepped her through this carefully, believing the conversation would take place over the phone. In person, she found it much more difficult to say it with conviction.

“Your company and your freedom for that tape,” she said. “Your word on it.”

“My word,” he said. She didn’t believe him.

Lou had insisted she bargain with Svengrad, despite her repeated arguments that he held all the cards. “It’s complicated,” had been Lou’s reply, who went on to say he couldn’t tell her everything that was in play.

She typed in her user ID, and then her password, which appeared as a series of asterisks.

Svengrad pushed her out of the way and sat down in the chair, and Liz did not attempt to fight him. She told him, “I was going to use whatever account information you gave me. You could have trusted that.”

Svengrad watched the screen as various commands were announced and small graphs, indicating loading time, moved like the mercury in a thermometer, marking progress. He said only, “This is better.”

One of the loading instructions caught her eye-an account number she recognized-and for the first time she understood what David had done to hide the money. Brilliant, she almost said aloud.

Finally the screen they had both awaited presented itself, a preprogrammed menu offering wire transfer options. Svengrad instructed her to stand back from him. He slipped out a piece of paper, pulled the keyboard into his lap, leaning over it, and carefully input the information into the machine. She wondered if he knew about the camera looking down from above, or if his instincts were nothing more than blind luck. Either way, she thought he’d probably used Hayes’s know-how to cut off the surveillance. The entire process passed quickly. Liz marveled that all these weeks of agony had culminated in a few keystrokes and no more than a couple minutes of time.

Svengrad hit the ENTER key. The screen hesitated, then delivered a graphic announcing the transfer was complete. “Done,” he said, looking at Liz with a triumphant look.

Lou had fed her several lines, making her repeat them carefully, on the off chance Svengrad left the phone line open as he gave her wiring instructions. She said them now. “Yes, well… I, for one, never trust David when it comes to his programming.” Svengrad’s triumph suffered a momentary twitch of concern. “You and I saw that money get wired. For your sake, I hope it goes where you think it’s going.”

“David Hayes knows better than to cross me.”

“Yes,” Liz said. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

The screen indicated the drive was “REFORMATTING.” David had programmed the disk to erase itself and all traces of the transaction after the wire transfer was complete.

“Looks like he thought of everything,” Liz said, moving to the door ahead of Svengrad, who took a moment too long to come out of the chair. She pushed through to the sister server room and quickly out the secure door back into the office area, Svengrad now right behind her.

Danny Foreman and Gaynes watched them, Danny fuming, but to Liz’s surprise, he stepped aside and allowed room for them to pass. Gaynes, who held Danny by the elbow, never took her eyes off Foreman. Lou had explained to Liz that Danny’s motivations were in question, and it seemed possible that in these few minutes, Gaynes had given him a choice of options.

Liz had nothing to say to Danny Foreman. She wanted her children back home and, at the very least, the semblance of an ordinary life returned. She wanted out of this party, out of this building, and nothing more than to be home in bed, though she knew it could not possibly be that simple for her.

Gaynes said, “Whatever you did in there… Security crashed. Special Ops is on their way up. Foreman and I are going to try the stairs. You, Mr. Svengrad, I would suggest should return to the party. You try to leave now, they’ll question you. Mrs. B., it’s you they’re after, I’m afraid. It helps us all if you can delay them a little.”

Liz nodded. The group broke up as Phillip approached.

“Mr. Svengrad,” the CEO said in his best host voice. He didn’t look comfortable all of a sudden. “I see you’ve met Elizabeth!”

“Yes,” Svengrad said. “She was just explaining some of the complications of the switchover to me,” he said, eyeing Liz. “Quite impressive.”

Phillip eyed Liz and looked into the server room. There was no telling what might become of her when suspicions and the inevitable interviews began. Phillip stepped closer to Liz, throwing an arm around her. “Hell of a party, Liz. Well done.” He looked at Svengrad. “You have any more questions, Mr. Svengrad, why don’t you address them to me.”

At that moment, four undercover detectives rushed from an elevator, turning the heads of many in attendance.

Liz felt choked with emotion when she saw Lou among them, his eyes searching the room and finding her. He then registered Svengrad’s presence as well and a triumphant look overcame him. Proud. Defiant.

“What’s this?” Phillip asked, looking suspiciously at Liz.

“This…,” Liz said. “This is my husband.”