The Capitol Game

14

Morgan took an anxious step out of the cab and onto the curb at the corner of 10th Avenue and 53rd Street. He checked his watch-7:20 p.m. right on time. Charles had been abrupt and very demanding on the phone. Arrive by taxi, Morgan was told in a tone that brooked no objections. Don’t be a minute late. Come alone; no trailers, no wires, no funny business.

If Charles so much as suspected his instructions weren’t being obeyed to the letter, Morgan could stand on the street corner till the cocks crowed. Charles swore he would disappear, not to be heard from again.

Rivers and Nickels, the TFAC reinforcements, had landed as scheduled on the four o’clock shuttle at LaGuardia. They arrived hauling a briefcase stuffed with cash as well as a stern reminder from O’Neal not to screw this up. Martinelli and Tanner, the two snoops who had spent the past three weeks trolling the Wall Street firms, were also ordered to assist.

Five men. Four highly trained former government agents to back up Morgan, four hardened pros to make sure they learned a little more about Charles and his fabulous claims.

Morgan drew up the plan. It was well thought out. There were no objections from the other four. The idea was to trail Charles after the meeting, or, barring that, get a usable fingerprint, or at the very least a few good photos. Somehow, whatever it took, they needed to learn his real identity and the nature of his relationship to Jack.

The four backups were littered around the surrounding streets in a variety of poses and disguises. They arrived an hour early and picked out their positions with exacting care. Martinelli and Tanner were parked in separate cars, idling nearby, waiting to punch the gas and follow; Rivers and Nickels would trail on foot, wherever Charles led them.

Despite the hard warning from Charles, Morgan was wired and ready to broadcast.

For two full minutes Morgan stood on the corner alone, trying to appear relaxed and guileless as he pretended to watch the traffic. Out of the blue, he felt a light tap on his back, and when he turned around Charles was there, grinning. Morgan quickly put two and two together-evidently Charles had been waiting in a nearby store, marking time and watching until Morgan showed.

“Did you come alone?” Charles asked predictably.

“Yes, just me,” he lied.

“Are you wired?”

“No, I swear.”

“You’re lying.”

“Check me if you like,” Morgan offered with a smug smirk as he held out his arms and spun around. I mean it, go ahead, search as long and hard as you like, he said to himself. The bug was state of the art, very tiny, encased in a button in his coat; it wouldn’t activate until he squeezed it. The newest thing, totally dormant and undetectable by a wand or any known electronic detector until he chose to turn it on. That would come later.

“Doesn’t matter,” Charles said with a nonchalant shrug. “Come on. Walk beside me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I have the money, Charles.” He held up the case for inspection. “It’s all here, fifty thou in cash.”

“Good for you. Now we have something to talk about.” Charles was already walking, so Morgan took off after him.

“Well, I’m here, so why don’t you start talking now?” Morgan asked, very sociably. It was an old ploy, one taught to all the scrubs in the Agency school in Virginia-divert the prey’s mind and get his attention away from the environment and the trackers. They were side by side now, moving slowly, a casual stroll. A cripple could follow them at this pace.

“Relax, Morgan. It’s worth the wait, I promise you.”

“I’m just wondering why you’re so paranoid.”

“I have my reasons. Believe me, they’re good ones.”

“All this secrecy and clandestine crap, why can’t we talk without all this cloak-and-dagger?”

This question seemed to get on his nerves. “Maybe you don’t know Jack as well as you think you do.”

They turned right and headed toward the narrower streets of the theater district. The crowds were growing thicker but Charles hadn’t tried any funny business yet. Morgan wore a yellow windbreaker so loud it virtually glowed in the dark, another trick he’d learned in his years as a spook. In the densest mob, in the dead of night, he’d be impossible to misplace. “Jack’s harmless,” Morgan insisted after a long moment. “We’ve seen nothing to indicate any problems.”

“You checked his Army record?” Charles asked with an amused grin.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Uh-huh. What did it say?”

“Clean as a whistle. War hero, loved by his troops, admired by one and all.”

For some reason this brought a condescending chuckle from Charles and a nasty side glance. “You guys aren’t as good as I thought.”

“Look, pal, we got his official record.”

“No, you got his unclassified file,” Charles said sharply. “There’s another record, the real one. The Army calls it a classified fiche.”

Through his CIA service Morgan was familiar with them. “What was he, a special ops cowboy or something?”

“In fact Jack was Delta. Everything’s smoke and mirrors with those people.”

Morgan had no idea whether this was true. “Can you prove that?”

“I know it, okay? Point is, Jack can kill you with a toothpick. He can get into and out of Baghdad, in wartime, without being detected. He did that, you know.”

“Uh, no, we-”

“And check his record from Panama. He hunted down Noriega. It was Jack who kept him from escaping, chased him into the Vatican embassy.”

They walked and talked a little more before Morgan asked, “You got a copy of this file?”

“You’re kidding, right? You asked why I’m afraid of Jack and I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want him carrying a grudge against me.”

“That all you’ve got?”

“That’s barely an appetizer, Morgan,” Charles said, picking up his pace a bit. “Now shut up.”

Martinelli was about thirty yards behind the two men, squeezing the steering wheel as he weathered a symphony of honks and angry gestures. New Yorkers! He remembered the old joke about the tourist totally lost in the city and he stops and asks a native for directions, saying, “Aside from ‘get screwed,’ could you please tell me the way to the Empire State Building?”

He cursed and wished Morgan and Charles would pick up the pace. The taxi driver directly on his rear was nearly leaning on his horn. A quick glance in the rearview mirror-the driver wore a turban and had a thick Sikh beard. Amazing how quickly even foreigners dropped their hospitable native manners and adopted the surly rudeness of this city.

To his left and right, he could see Rivers and Nickels following on foot, both on opposite sidewalks, blending in quite nicely.

Then without warning, Morgan and Charles hung a right onto a one-way street with traffic going the wrong way. Martinelli started to follow before a fusillade of horns reminded him it was one-way.

He uttered another loud curse, backed up, and began driving to the next block to try and pick them up again at the far end of the street. The Sikh was leaning outside the car window, howling obscenities, his middle finger stuck in the air.

They were on West 45th, passing theaters now. The best Morgan could tell, Charles never once glanced back, or even looked around to check if they were being tailed. Never once gazed at reflections in storefront windows, never bent down to tie his shoes and steal a furtive peek. Could he have overestimated this guy?

Morgan pressed his coat button, activated the mike, and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

“I just want to know.”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

They took ten more steps when, without warning, Charles grabbed his arm and yanked him into the covered entrance of a theater. Morgan hadn’t been paying attention to the overhead billboards; he hadn’t a clue which theater, or which play. He kept his mouth shut as Charles smoothly handed two tickets to the doorman, and they were inside.

They had apparently arrived right on time for the start of the show. Only a few stragglers were still milling around the lobby, exchanging gossip or whatever. He saw that they were in the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, and according to the large poster on a stand-up easel, the night’s entertainment was A Chorus Line. “What are we doing here?” he demanded.

For the first time Charles faced him. “You look pale, Morgan. Don’t tell me you’ve seen Chorus Line before?”

“Well… no, I haven’t.”

“Good. It’s sold out. I paid a fortune for these tickets. Thought you’d be more appreciative.”

Morgan was pleased that he had lured Charles into naming the play before it struck him what Charles had done and why. Who cared if the trailers knew where they were? It was sold out, so they couldn’t get inside. Such a simple, obvious ploy, why had nobody thought of it?

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Worried about your friends out on the sidewalk?”

“I told you I came alone,” Morgan insisted without the barest hint of conviction.

The final curtain bell was ringing and the last loiterers in the lobby began a mad hustle for their seats. Charles didn’t budge. “Are we going in to watch the show or not?” Morgan asked, speaking loudly so the boys out on the street could hear.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The men’s room.”

“Why? You want me to hold it for you?”

Charles didn’t smile or in any way reply to the infantile wisecrack, just began walking quickly to the men’s room. They could hear the orchestra blaring the opening notes of the theme song. The restroom was empty when they entered. Charles moved toward a urinal, reached down to his front, then spun around with a.38 caliber in his right hand. “Now, we’re gonna do this my way, Morgan. Don’t get nervous. I won’t shoot you unless you make me.”

Morgan’s mouth gaped open in shock. “A gun,” he gasped loudly.

“I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.”

Morgan balanced his feet and tightened his grip on the briefcase. “What’s this? A two-bit holdup?”

Charles studied Morgan’s face a moment. “I told you to come alone, and you’ve turned this into a street orgy. I warned you not to wear a wire, and you’re a walking DJ. You’re making me nervous, Morgan. This”-he began shaking the gun-“is to make sure you don’t break any more rules.”

Morgan adjusted his expression to one of resignation. “Hey, pal, I have no intention of getting myself clipped, not over fifty grand. Hell, it’s not even mine. Here,” he said, taking a step closer and jamming the briefcase in Charles’s direction-another five feet and he’d be all over him. A quick kick in his groin, a chop across the forearm, then he’d make him eat that gun.

Charles immediately stepped backward and the gun popped into Morgan’s face. “Don’t. That would be very stupid.” The sound of the hammer being cocked was loud and ominous.

“All right.”

“Step back.”

Morgan stepped back.

“Put down that case.”

Morgan placed the case on the floor. Whatever the man with the gun wanted.

“Good boy. Now take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“The clothes, Morgan. Remove them.”

“Forget it. No. That’s just not going to happen.”

Charles leaned his back against the wall. “Listen to me. I offered you a deal, and I intend to honor it. But on my terms, not yours.”

When Morgan did nothing, Charles leaned toward him and announced very loudly, “Listen up, fellas. Your friend Morgan is about to blow this deal. Because of his silly modesty, you’re not going to learn things about Wiley you couldn’t imagine. It’ll cost you fifty thousand to get nothing.”

“Who are you talking to?” Morgan asked. This time, not only was he not convincing, it sounded asinine.

“Jack has a nasty scandal in his past, Morgan. Very nasty. It’s everything you’ve been hunting for, and then some. But you’ll never find it without me.”

Well, what the hell, Morgan thought. Charles had already made a fool of him-twice-so what was a little more mortification? Only one thing was worse than this: after all this time, effort, and money to come back empty-handed. With a great show of reluctance he removed his jacket and tossed it to Charles. Then his shirt, his shoes, and his trousers, until he was naked but for his socks and underpants. He couldn’t remember a more humiliating moment. “Get into that stall,” Charles ordered, waving the gun at the far one along the wall.

Looking very aggravated, Morgan dutifully entered the stall, and Charles closed the door behind him. He could hear Charles walk around, then the sounds of him entering the adjoining stall and sitting down. “What next?” Morgan asked, wondering how it came to this.

Twenty-five years in the CIA. He had survived so many dangerous encounters, outsmarted so many bad guys, and this amateur, Charles, had the money, and he had the gun, with Morgan stripped down to his undershorts in a public bathroom. He cursed himself for turning on the mike. The entire episode had been broadcast to the boys out on the street. He knew the ribbing was going to be absolutely horrible, and he was right. “What are you doing?” he asked, after a long moment with no answer.

“Counting my money, Morgan. Since you lied, I want to be sure you haven’t cheated me. Now, shut up.”

“It’s there, all of it,” Morgan insisted with as much force as he could muster, given the circumstances. “You can trust me.”

“Twenty thousand, one hundred. Twenty thousand, two hundred…”

The trail crew heard every word until the instant Morgan, confronting a gun, disrobed to his skivvies. They knew which theater they were in, knew it was A Chorus Line, they heard the request to enter the bathroom, and they heard the gun come out.

Then, silence.

After a frantic, whispered huddle, Nickels took the first shot and scrambled to the ticket window. “Please, just listen,” he said to the pale, wrinkled old man smiling back from behind the thick glass divider. “I flew out all the way from Oregon.”

“Oregon? That right?”

“Yes.”

“Long flight. Pretty state, I hear. Never been out there myself.”

“This is my life’s dream.”

“Yeah, good choice. Great show.”

“Yes, and, well, I have to fly back tomorrow.” Nickels shrugged his shoulders and produced a tragic frown. “My assistant was supposed to order tickets. The useless cow screwed it up.” He held up his arms and looked perfectly crestfallen.

“No kiddin’?” the old man grunted. “Know what?”

“What?”

The old man tapped a skinny finger on the SOLD OUT sign.

“Aw, come on. You and I know you’ve got extra tickets back there. A few set aside for cast members, maybe, or there’s always a few no-shows. Always. One is all I need, just one,” he pleaded, pressing a trio of hundred-dollar bills against the window. “Nobody will know,” he whispered with a sly wink. “Not a soul.”

The old man took his eyes off the money and stared at Nickels. “Look up,” he said.

With a befuddled expression, Nickels’s eyes moved up. “That,” the old man announced, pointing at the lens, “is a camera. Reason it’s there is to keep jerkoffs like you from corruptin’ a sweet old man like me.”

Nickels looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of the words.

The old man pressed his hands on the counter and bent forward. “Why don’t you smile for the nice man inside before you take a hike, pal?”

Nickels had struck out, and he edged away, then walked halfway down the block, where Rivers was waiting. “Take your best shot.” He added, “Be careful of the old man. A real wise guy.”

Rivers nodded, then walked briskly to the window. He tapped the nightstick softly against his left leg as he walked, and with the other hand reached up and straightened his NYPD cap.

The old man looked up and offered a nice smile. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

Rivers straightened his husky shoulders. “The precinct just got a call from someone inside the theater.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About a robbery taking place inside.”

The old man leaned forward on his elbows. “A stickup?”

“With a gun and everything. Go figure. I was told to check it out.”

“So what? You want I should let you in?”

“What do you think? Yeah, and make it quick.”

“Where’s your partner?” The old man’s eyes narrowed and shifted left and right. “Don’t you got any backup?”

“Handling another call. Busy night.” An officious-looking but slightly impatient smile. “Listen, Gramps, you gonna let me in or not?”

“Hey, I’m not givin’ you no trouble. Hell, two of my kids are NYPD. The Hannigan boys, Danny and Joey. Maybe you know ’em.”

“I, uh, might have heard the name. Quit gabbing. I’m in a hurry here.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he replied, shaking his head. “Hey, what precinct you with?” the old man asked, maintaining the same unhurried, casual air.

Rivers had to pause a moment. “The Fifteenth.”

“Then why’s that badge you’re wearin’ say you’re with the Seventh?”

“I was just transferred. What do you care? Do I need to call the precinct? A life could be at stake.”

“Reason I’m askin’ is, the theater district’s covered by Midtown North.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Reason I know that is ’cause this little button I just pushed, it connects me directly to the precinct house. Usually takes those boys about two beats to get here.”

Rivers stared back, obviously startled. “You did what?”

“You heard me. So either you can wait here and tell ’em why yer impersonatin’ an officer, or you can beat it, you jerk.”

Rivers pondered the situation for about half a second, then wisely chose to bolt. The old man cackled and shook as he watched him scramble down the street. He loved his job.

Charles finished counting the money, at last. “Congratulations, Morgan, it’s all here,” he announced.

“Told you it was.”

“Yes, but you lied about so many other things, I wanted to be sure.”

“It’s cold in here,” Morgan whined, slapping his arms for effect. “Could I have my jacket back?”

Charles laughed. “That was clumsy, Morgan. I was wondering where the bug is.”

“All right. Just get on with it.”

“One question before I start.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“No. Who are you working for?”

“None of your business.”

“Then tell me this. Do these people intend to hurt Jack?”

Morgan weighed the question before he answered. What did Charles want? Wiley hurt, or just smeared? He took a gamble and said, “They intend to mess him up good.”

“Damn, that’s great. Just what I was hoping,” Charles said. Morgan could almost hear the smile on Charles’s lips.

A notebook and pencil slid under the separation panel. “It’s a long story and you might want to take notes,” Charles suggested. “As you know, Jack got out of the Army in 1992, a decorated war hero, hungry to get rich. After he got his business degree, a classmate from Princeton arranged an introduction for Jack at Primo Investments. Let’s, uh, let’s say this guy’s name was Ted.”

“Ted what?”

“Just Ted,” Charles replied coldly. “So Ted told Primo’s CEO that our boy Jack was a stand-up guy, an all-American boy-Primo would be lucky to get him, he said. So Jack got a few interviews, and, naturally, our boy impressed everybody. The CEO started him as an associate, at 120 grand a year. He placed him in portfolio analysis, doing dreary back-office work, but a perfect place to break in a novice, to learn the nuts and bolts. And, naturally, Jack attacked his work with a vengeance and continued to make a grand impression.”

“We already know about his history at Primo,” Morgan interrupted.

After a brief pause, Charles asked, “And what did they tell you, Morgan? No, let me guess. They loved Jack.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“That’s true. They did love Jack, in the beginning. After only six months he got a big promotion and another bump in salary. Better yet, they switched him into client accounts in the wealth management section. Understand, Morgan, that for a firm like Primo, only the best and brightest work with clients. Geeks and antisocials are hidden, kept in the back rooms. See, Primo won’t touch you as a client unless you have at least a hundred million to invest and people with that kind of money aren’t easily impressed. But of course Jack is a master at good impressions. In no time, he was managing about four big accounts, and he began bagging new ones. He brought in three that first year. Three! Jack, you see, was a natural…” Charles petered off, having made his point.

“You’re wasting my time,” Morgan interrupted again. “I told you, Primo said the guy was a stud.”

“I know you did.”

“They even threw a one million bonus in his lap the day he left. That’s what I call love.”

They heard the bathroom door open, the sound of footsteps, then the noises of a man emptying his bladder and humming a show tune to himself, followed by a noisy, high-powered flush. They stayed quiet until the door closed again.

“About the bonus, we’ll talk about it later,” Charles promised, sounding mysterious. “Anyway, in the winter of 1994, Jack was out in the Hamptons dining with a client when Edith Warbinger joined their table. Edith was eighty-three, a very pleasant but doddering old widow. Jack’s client thought he was doing her a favor introducing her to Jack. She said she had no children, no close relatives, nobody to turn to. Her husband had been an early investor in IBM. His father had left him a few thousand shares, dating back to the twenties. The son was a department store manager, without a clue how the market worked, so he did the easy thing and adopted Pop’s investing habit. A lifelong skinflint, he plowed in everything he had, every spare nickel and penny, and without selling a share, rode it all to the top. When he finally cashed out, even after a whopping tax bill, he was worth over three hundred million.”

“We should all be so lucky.”

“And like all the nouveau riche, he went on a giddy splurge. He promptly bought a big house in the Hamptons, a bigger yacht, a fleet of Mercedes, all the trappings of long-denied wealth.” Charles paused for a moment then chuckled. “Two months later, an aneurysm struck, and he was dead.”

“The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away,” Morgan couldn’t resist saying.

“But he doesn’t really look after fools and idiots. See, poor old Edith didn’t understand squat about money. The hubby had handled everything. A controlling bastard, he kept her on a leash, gave her a stingy budget and watched how she spent every penny. Now suddenly the hubbie’s dead and she’s rolling in dough, three hundred million without a clue how to handle it, and along comes Jack. Smiling, confident Jack. Don’t worry, he tells her, he’ll take care of everything. Edith, naturally, succumbed to his charms and turned over her whole fortune to him.”

“Spell Warbinger,” was all Morgan said.

Charles did, then picked up where he left off. “So Jack sets up the standard arrangement in such cases, a paying trust. Jack oversaw the investments and handled the monthly disbursements. Edith got a monthly allowance of three hundred thou to do whatever her heart desired. The rest of the earnings, which were considerable, were plowed into more investments. Even that proved too much for her to handle. Turns out poor Edith had Parkinson’s and it was progressing fast. Soon all her bills and fiduciary responsibilities were transferred to Jack.”

“She handed him the keys to the kingdom.”

“That’s right, Morgan. There was no lawyer, no executor, no skeptical husband or greedy children worried about their inheritances watching over his shoulder.” Charles paused for a long moment. “Only Jack.”

“How much did he take?” Morgan asked.

“Wrong question,” Charles replied, chuckling.

“Then what’s the right one?” He was taking notes as fast as his hand could scribble. The dates and names were written down in his pinched style. He was relying on his memory for the larger narrative.

“You have to understand, Morgan, a firm like Primo has airtight controls and unrelenting oversight. The firm was known for large partner paychecks, but the associates made dirt. The temptations were unbelievable and the firm knew it. Take Jack. By then he was making two hundred grand a year, a pittance in Manhattan. And he’s managing several large fortunes that each number in the hundreds of millions. He drives out to their gaudy mansions in the Hamptons and Greenwich, plays golf with their brazenly spoiled kids, ogles their toys, then drives back into the city, back to his rotten little one-bedroom apartment.”

Charles paused for a moment, then remarked, “Imagine how that feels, Morgan. Can you picture it?”

“Must be tough.”

“And of course, he knows firsthand that they are too stupid and incompetent to manage their own fortunes.”

“I got it. It was irresistible. Now tell me how much he stole.”

Charles ignored his query and said, “Now here’s the sweet part. All her life, Edith dreamed of a worldwide cruise. Through all those miserable decades, married to a penny-pinching prick, she dreamed of getting away, of climbing onto a boat and seeing the world. Life had passed her by. Now she was eighty-three and degrading fast. There wouldn’t be another chance.”

“So Jack tells her to go for it.”

“Of course he does. He puts her house and cars and the yacht up for sale. He finds this lavish cruise ship, a floating barge overflowing with luxuries and extravagances. It’s a great bargain, Jack tells her, but you have to buy a stateroom. For five million, it’s all yours. Yours to live in, yours to enjoy, yours to sell after you’re bored with the seven seas. A stately topside birth, all the gourmet meals you can eat, three years bouncing through exotic ports from Asia to South America. Know the best part? It was a Greek shipping line. It never touches a U.S. port. Can you see it now, Morgan?”

“Sure, but keep going.” No, he didn’t see it.

“Only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Edith’s Parkinson’s. At the rate she was deteriorating, odds are she’d be a total loon long before the end of the cruise. And by law, of course they have to disclose any serious health concerns to the shipping line. The ship has a doctor but he’s not inclined to spend all his time administering to some drooling old broad with the shakes who can’t remember to take her meds.” Charles paused to allow Morgan to think about the ravages of such a cruel disease, then said, “Still, the shipping line wants Edith’s millions, Edith wants to hit the high seas, and eventually a solution is found.”

“Money cures all ills.”

“Not a cure, it offers a manageable solution, though. A private nurse is found. For another million bucks, Edith can rent a small, less expensive room for her far belowdecks.”

“Go on.”

“So on April 2, 1995, Edith begins her new life. She flies to Copenhagen and checks into the Hotel d’ Angleterre. Presumably she spends the next five days roaming the city, tiptoeing into her adventures as a wanderer. On April 7 she checks out, signs onto the ship, and a few hours later she embarks on the dream of her life. This much was confirmed later,” Charles explained.

“Mind if I get up and stretch? My ass is falling asleep.”

“If I’m boring you, we can stop now.”

“My ass, not my ears. I want the full fifty thousand treatment, pal.”

Charles chuckled, then continued. “Jack and Edith decided beforehand to forgo the complications of credit cards. The ship has a bank so every month Jack wires half a million into her account. It’s so much easier. And every few days, like clockwork, money is withdrawn. Sometimes small amounts, sometimes large. With port calls every three or four days, this raises no suspicions. Presumably Edith is going ashore, indulging her every wish and passion. Perhaps the spending was lavish, even wildly excessive, but it was hers to waste, right?”

The door opened again. The conversation stopped until they heard the sound of it closing again. “What then?” Morgan asked, clearly engrossed in the story.

“Then, Morgan, is three long years later.”

“End of the cruise, right?”

“And the beginning of the mystery. Here’s what’s known. On April 18, 1998, the ship docked in Piraeus. After three years at sea, it needed a dose of maintenance and refitting. Also, if Edith wished to continue playing Sinbad, she needed to ante up another two million, the nautical equivalent of a condo fee. On the evening of the eighteenth, she disembarked from the ship-just hobbled down the plank into town and jumped into a cab. That’s the last they saw of her. When, two days later, she failed to return, the shipping line contacted Jack.”

“And what did Jack do?” Morgan asked, collapsing back onto the toilet.

“Booted it upstairs.”

“She just disappeared?” It was getting chilly in the bathroom, and he began rubbing his arms. He desperately wanted to ask Charles for his clothes, but he already knew the answer.

Charles continued. “And by now, her fortune had grown to 450 million. The stock market was roaring. You could throw darts at it and double your money, and Jack had managed her investments brilliantly.”

“And it was all there, in her account?”

“All but the money Edith had gotten from the ship’s bank. No suspicion of foul play at this point. An old lady afflicted by Parkinson’s walked off a ship and vanished. She was eighty-six, probably half brainless, and who knows what other health issues she had. The possibilities were endless. A heart attack or stroke couldn’t be ruled out. A mugging or kidnapping were both possibilities. Or maybe she was out there, in a Parkinson’s haze, wandering around Greece, unable to remember how she got there, or even her own name.”

“So what did they do?”

“At Jack’s insistence, the CEO and CFO at Primo convened a confidential meeting to consider the situation. It presented an unusual quandary, to say the least. People with that kind of money don’t just disappear without a trace. The in-house legal counsel told them Edith’s fate wasn’t their responsibility; she was a client, that’s all. The firm wasn’t her family. On the other hand, nearly half a billion of her money was in their hands.”

“So?”

“It presented what you might call a heartbreaking dilemma for the firm.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You see, Morgan, Edith left no will. No known survivors, nobody who cared about her. She was a legal orphan. But her fees to Primo by this time exceeded ten million a year.” As if Morgan missed the significance, Charles pointed out, “Ten million pays a lot of partner bonuses.”

“And where does Wiley come into this?”

“Well, no decision was made. Not then. The CEO and CFO said they wanted to wait a reasonable period to see if Edith showed up. As week after week passed, Jack was running around the firm loudly telling everybody how concerned he was about poor old Edith. He wanted her disappearance reported to the State Department, wanted the firm to hire a team of PIs to launch a hunt for her. The bigger the nuisance he made of himself, the more his CEO tried to ignore him.”

“Why?”

“Because, legally, Morgan, a person has to be missing three years before you get a presumption of death. Then, absent a will or any known heirs, the disposition of Edith’s fortune conveys to the government.”

“So Jack and the partners had a little difference of opinion.”

“Hardly ‘little,’ Morgan. Three years of billings meant thirty million, at a minimum. Throw in a little creative bookkeeping-after all, the client wasn’t paying attention-and it was a license to take a lot more. Why shouldn’t Primo squeeze a hundred million, or even two, out of the arrangement? Skim a bit off the top and call it a performance bonus. Who would ever know? Nobody would miss it. It was all going to disappear into the black hole of government coffers, after all.”

“Doesn’t sound like Jack did anything wrong.”

“You’re right, he looked like a perfect angel.”

It took a moment for it to settle in before Morgan said, “He was supposed to, wasn’t he?”

It wasn’t really a question.

Charles continued. “After a month, the CEO and CFO brought Jack back into the boardroom for another confidential chat. Just shut up, they told him-come in to work every day, send Edith her monthly allowance, invest the rest of the money, pretend everything’s normal. It would be well worth his while, they promised. An early partnership was a sure bet. They offered him an incredible bump in salary, as well as a piece of what they were already calling the Edith bonus.” Charles paused, then added, “In their minds, they were already spending Edith’s millions.”

“And he said yes, right? After all, Jack’s a smart boy.” By now, Morgan was hanging on every word. This was better than he had ever expected, so much more than he had ever imagined. Nothing like a tale of wickedness, graft, and avarice among the rich and powerful to brighten the day. It was worth sitting half naked in a cold men’s room listening to Charles drone on.

“He turned them down cold,” Charles said. “They were infuriated. In the moments after he left, they talked about reassigning him, or simply firing him. Picture it, Morgan. All that stood between them and Edith’s fortune was Jack.”

Morgan asked, “Then why didn’t they fire him?”

“Did I fail to mention the inconvenient stipulation in Edith’s contract?”

“I think you did.”

“Jack was her adviser and investment manager.” He emphasized, “Not the firm, just Jack. To move a dime of Edith’s money, his personal signature was required.”

“Sounds like Wiley had them by the short hairs.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. He could’ve held them up for millions.”

“You know what? The CEO and CFO thought so, too, and wondered why Jack didn’t do just that. It was a sure thing. Better yet, on the face of it, it broke no laws. It may have blurred every ethical boundary, but in theory at least, it would appear legal.”

“So why didn’t he?” Morgan asked.

After a moment, Charles asked, “What do you think?”

“He didn’t need it.”

“Okay, why not?”

“A good chunk of her money was already in his pocket.”

“You’re getting warmer.”

Morgan thought about it a moment longer. “No, that still doesn’t make sense.”

“Great. Why not?”

“Because they were offering him more money. More is always better.”

“Think harder, Morgan. Why not score a few more million? Better yet, why not join a scam that also incriminated his bosses?”

“Yeah, I see that. Even if they found out Jack was already stealing cookies from the jar, they couldn’t rat him out, because he would rat back on them, right?”

“It would be beautiful.”

“Then I don’t know.” After a moment he growled, “And I’m tired of playing this game.”

“You’re still not thinking like a thief. Put yourself in Jack’s shoes.”

“Because Jack had persuaded the old lady, Edith, to leave everything to him,” Morgan guessed.

Charles chuckled. “Jack wasn’t that charming.”

A long pause as Morgan considered more possibilities. The option that Jack was simply too moral and upright to engage in such unethical behavior had already been discarded. Why would he walk away from more millions? Then it hit him and Morgan almost squealed, “Wow.”

“That’s right, Morgan. Jack had a much more serious crime to worry about.”

“Murder.”

“Yes, murder. A much more dreadful secret to conceal. In fact, Edith never set foot on the boat. The real Edith disappeared three years earlier.”

Morgan began smiling to himself. “The nurse, right?”

“Definitely her,” Charles said very softly. “Before the cruise, you see, nobody on the ship had ever seen Edith in person. The business transactions had all been handled by Jack. They knew only what he told them. Edith was old, ill, wealthy, a widow. The nurse also happened to be quite old, white-haired, moderately educated. Any skilled forger could easily prepare the necessary documents, a passport, driver’s license, social security card. Lord knows, it was a simple impersonation to pull off. So, for three years the nurse doddered around the boat, pretended to be mildly senile, withdrew money by the armful, and lived the life.”

“Then one day she walked off the boat and skipped with almost twenty million in cash.”

“So it appeared.”

“Quite the scheme.”

“Yes, it was brilliant,” Charles said, sounding awed by the cleverness of it all. “A foolproof way to get around the firm’s very thorough safeguards.”

“So what did the firm do?”

“They had no choice. Jack was calling the shots.”

“What’s that mean?”

“They notified the American embassy about Edith’s disappearance and hired a Greek private detective agency to look into the situation.”

Charles paused for a moment to allow Morgan to catch up. It was a lot to absorb and he could almost hear Morgan’s circuits whirring.

“Know what I don’t get?” Morgan eventually said. “Why would Wiley want it looked into?”

“Think about it. It had to be done that way. She had to disappear and it had to look real. Then, by insisting on the investigation, Jack looked pure.”

“Yeah, that’s smart.”

“Too smart, in fact. He overlooked one thing. His partners got greedy.”

“They didn’t believe him, did they?”

“Nope, because they thought like crooks,” Charles said in an amused tone. “They found it impossible to believe anyone could be so saintly. How’s that for irony?”

“So what did they do?”

“Behind Jack’s back, they told the Greek PIs it smelled like an inside job. Based on that tip, the PIs worked backward. The plan only worked as long as everybody assumed it was Edith on that boat, Edith withdrawing the cash, Edith disappearing.”

“And somebody had to create that assumption.”

“And the author had to be Jack.”

“What happened to Edith?”

“Who knows. She was never found. Her corpse was never found, either. The PIs scoured Piraeus and Copenhagen. They checked morgue records, talked with the police, turned over every rock, and got nothing. Their guess was that she was cremated, then her ashes were dumped at sea.”

“Yeah, that’s how I’d do it.”

“Only one problem. Nobody could prove how the nurse got hired. Jack claimed he didn’t know-maybe the shipping line arranged it, maybe Edith found her on her own. The shipping line said it had no record or memory of it, but it’s not the kind of thing they typically do. They considered it doubtful.”

“And Edith, of course, wasn’t around to speak.”

“As they say, sometimes the best witness is a dead one.”

“What about the nurse? Surely they had a photo of her.”

“After a lot of work, they found an old couple a few suites away with a picture of her seated at their table for dinner. It was a waste of time. She looked identical to a billion other old grandmothers on the planet.”

“Fingerprints?”

“A few were collected from the suite.”

“And?”

“Could’ve been hers, or any of the countless maids who cleaned the suite over the years. The crews on those boats turn over as regularly as fast-food joints. The prints weren’t on record, anyway. Another dead end.”

“Probably one of the qualifications for the job,” Morgan gamely concluded.

“Probably so. Here’s how the PIs figured it. Jack and the nurse, they opened up one or two Swiss accounts before the cruise. Over the years, she withdrew from Edith’s account, went ashore, and dumped it into theirs.”

“How much did Jack get?”

“If it was fifty-fifty, Jack cleared about ten million.”

“Yeah, but odds are, Jack being the mastermind and all, he bagged more.”

“I’d say that’s a good guess. Probably at least fifteen million, tax-free, salted away in a Swiss vault,” Charles said.

Morgan now was into the second-guessing game, and he suggested the obvious. “But nobody could prove it, could they?”

“Nothing could be proved. Nobody could prove Edith was dead. Nobody could prove the nurse was hired by Jack. Nobody knew where the money went. I told you, it was brilliant.”

“What did they do?”

“Understand that the last thing Primo wanted was for this to go public. The firm’s reputation would be ruined. Rich people don’t entrust their millions to crooks, or to investment firms too incompetent to protect against internal corruption.”

“But they fired him, right?”

Charles laughed. “Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“They had a suspicion, Morgan, nothing more.”

“Yeah, but it was pretty damned-”

“And Jack could always sue them. Plus the CEO and CFO had that filthy little discussion with Jack they now wished to keep under the rug-the one about ripping off more of Edith’s fortune. Jack, you see, had them by the balls.”

“It’s hard not to admire it,” Morgan said, almost smacking his lips. Regardless how immoral it was, Jack had pulled off a stunningly beautiful swindle, and Morgan spent a moment contemplating its elegance. It was the scam of a lifetime. Jack was a very talented boy. “So what’d they do?” he asked.

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“I’m beginning to believe anything about this guy.”

“They paid Jack one million to go away. A bonus, they called it, and both sides signed mutual nondisclosure agreements. One million and neither party could ever whisper a word about the other.”

“A bribe to keep his mouth shut.”

“Welcome to Wall Street. It’s a long, hallowed tradition.”

Morgan could hear Charles stand, then shuffle his feet for a moment. “Wait a minute,” Morgan yelled.

“That’s more than fifty thousand worth,” Charles replied. “Admit it, Morgan. I didn’t cheat you.”

“No, you’re forgetting something. Proof.”

“Find it yourself, Morgan. It’s out there, if you look hard enough.” The stall door opened and Charles stepped out. “Follow the trails and you’ll find it.”

“No, wait,” Morgan yelled, and the noise bounced around the walls but nobody answered. He pushed open the stall door, leaned out, and peered into the men’s room. Empty.

He stepped out, then opened the door to the stall so recently occupied by Charles. The metal briefcase that contained the money sat on the floor. Morgan lurched forward and opened it-also empty except for a small note: “Keep the case and the locating beacon tucked inside. Once again, Morgan, nice try.”

Then a fresh thought struck Morgan. He began a mad scramble around the men’s room, a desperate hunt for his clothes. They weren’t in any of the stalls. Not in the big trash can, not in any of the nooks or corners.

He cursed, kicked over the trash can, then made a mad dash for the door.

He emerged just in time to meet the crush of theatergoers pouring into the lobby for the intermission.