Man in the Middle (26 page)

The seduction of Jason Ayers had been both methodical and incremental. First, he defended Stenman and her funds from prosecution—that was his job. Next, he helped shelter certain activities by setting up offshore havens, thus avoiding future prosecution. Done with civility, these activities amounted to rule-bending rather than law-breaking—at least until the Russian Syndicate—the
Mafiya
—and the South American cartel monies came in and raised the stakes. With this current crop of client, things had grown beyond dangerous. Amoral operatives dealt in drugs, carbines, submachine guns, missiles, uranium, biological weaponry, and everything else deadly and illegal that brought in big money. With their billion-dollar-a-week cash flows, these criminal financiers needed to launder funds, and thought nothing of eliminating life to protect their interests: Hannah Neil, Erik Cannodine, Stanley Drucker, and hundreds of others. Each elimination sent a message to others:
Don’t fuck with us
. Ayers knew they owned him, now and forever. They held his family as leverage. Everybody’s family was leverage. Even if he wanted to, he would never find a way out.

He clamped shut his briefcase, stood, put his eyeglasses on, buttoned his coat, smoothed his hair. A legal robot, programmed to do whatever the hell they told him to do. He and his partners were automatons, at the beck and call of Morgan Stenman and, more recently, Sarah Guzman. Soulless machines, they all pretended to be above the fray, but actually operated in a world of legal nihilism.

The phone rang, stabbing his eardrums. Ayers hated evening calls. He had phoned Hannah repeatedly the night she’d died, never reaching her. Since then, death and murder hung in the air each and every night, permeating his brain with the stench of ether.

Ring. Ring. Ring
. He picked up but gave no greeting.

“Father?”

Thank God
. It was Kate.

“Daddy? Are you there?”

His heart melted. She hadn’t called him “Daddy” since childhood.

“Hello, Sweetheart,” he said. “I was just on my way out. A meeting. Is everything okay?”

“I passed the Bar. I’m a lawyer.”

Ayers collapsed into a leather-bound chair. “That is wonderful news. I am . . . what am I? More than happy. I am speechless. What are your plans?”

“I’ve been offered a position with the Los Angeles Public Defender’s office. I plan to accept.”

“Are you sure? You could go into private practice. With your grades—”

“I have no interest—you already know that. I have other news.”

Ayers also knew not to argue with her. “News? I hope it’s good.”

“I’m engaged. I’ll be getting married in January.”

“Married?” The suddenness of the announcement and her intonation troubled him. He tried to disguise his suspicions. “This is a surprise, Kathryn. Who’s the lucky man?”

“The professor I worked with on the textbook—you haven’t met him. Frederick Drammonds.”

The name Frederick sounded ancient. “How old is he?”

“Not that it matters, but he’s forty-two.”

“That’s sixteen years older than you . . .” Ayers regretted his words.

“Please, Father. Let’s not get into it.”

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, not sounding happy. “I’m engaged to a steady man. He’s kind, he knows what he wants, and he wants me.”

“Dear?”

“Yes,” Kate said laconically.

“I’m pleased, of course. And . . .”

“And what, Father?”

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you. That I told you to quit seeing Peter.”

“I forgave you a long time ago. You were right. He turned out to be . . .”

Silence. Seconds passed. Ayers thought Kate might be holding her breath. His heart wrenched against his breastbone.

“I, uh, I need to call Mom. Tell her.”

Kate hung up.

Ayers thought he understood some things about Peter Neil that had escaped Kate’s notice. Peter had lost everyone he ever cared for. That made commitment for him especially difficult. He nearly imparted this information to Kate, hoping to make her feel better. He was glad he hadn’t. Peter was a topic better avoided.

Clutching his briefcase as if it were a life preserver, Ayers plunged into the endless darkness. Half an hour later, he methodically explained speech recognition—and how it worked—to the three people in his life who frightened him more than death itself.

Peter arrived home at six-thirty, still unsettled over what had happened in Stenman’s office.

Dawson, Dawson, Dawson.

The name stuck in his head like gum on a shoe.

What an asshole
.

His anxiety made sense. If they happened to find out that the agent— the man with a compulsive desire to tear them down—was in town, poking around, they’d naturally get someone to follow him. Tailing Dawson resulted in that picture of their meeting at the sports-bar. Thankfully, whoever trailed Dawson that night never made it to Sammy’s Restaurant. If they had pictures of that meeting, Peter could never explain why he’d run down a railroad track to meet the pain in the ass.

As he entered the kitchen, the message machine strobed. He hit play: “Peter, it’s Ellen Goodman. Please call. You’re a sweetheart.”

“What the hell?” He erased the message. Things were getting worse rather than better.

He hadn’t been sweet. He hadn’t been anything. They hadn’t even talked since the day of their breakup. And the nicest thing Ellen had said that day was that he was a born loser and would regret what he was doing.

After ordering in a pizza, he hesitated, then dialed Ellen’s number. Might as well get to the bottom of this now, he decided.

“Hello.” Her voice sang.

“Peter. Returning your call.”

“I love the cat.”

“What cat?”

“The calico. He looks like a young Henry.”

Peter glanced at Henry, the furry, fifteen-year-old ball of shedding, gray fur now ensconced in a corner of the living room sofa. “You have a cat?” he asked.

“Of course, Peter. And I’m sorry for having said what I said. We got along most of the time, didn’t we?”

“No, Ellen, we hardly ever got along.”

“Stop being funny. I hear you’re doing really well at your new job. Gosh, Peter, I was a fool to let you get away. I’m glad you—”

In the background, Peter heard a faint purring and interrupted Ellen. “What did you mean when you said I was sweet?”

“Giving me the cat. I named him Peter, after you.”

“I didn’t give you a cat.”

“Of course you did. Are you’re trying to be mean?”

“No. Someone else gave you that animal. Try Craig Hinton.”

He’d hit a raw nerve, knew Ellen was combusting—he’d heard her huffing before—and promptly hung up.

“Sorry, Ellen,” he said to himself, “but I’m not going to get re-involved. No way.”

The phone rang. Peter lifted the receiver, then put it back down. He lifted a second time and left the handset uncradled on the coffee table. He took a cushion from the sofa and softened the beeping sounds meant to alert him that his phone was off the hook. When the line went dead, he reassembled his sofa, leaving his phone inoperable.

Two hours later, Peter and Henry dragged themselves to bed. The anvil that was Peter’s head hit the pillow, hard. In half a minute—as if on anesthesia—he went under.

The following morning, the radio woke Peter to an upbeat oldies tune. He punched the off button. “G’morning, Henry,” he said. The cat felt heavy on his feet. “Time to rise and shine. I feel marvelous.” He sung the words as he slid his feet into his slippers, pushed himself to his feet, and stretched.

“I love going to work, Henry. I love you, Henry.” He ruffled the animal’s head-hair. Henry slid off the bed.

As the two shuffled towards the bathroom for inspection, Peter said, “Hope there aren’t any ill effects from the tête-a-tête with the boss yesterday. They seemed satisfied, even happy, with me.”

At that moment, Peter felt a throb against the base of his skull.

“Nothing prophetic,” he told himself.

Peter decided Stuart was right. About everything.

For a week, Muller needled and bullied Peter—did everything he could to rattle him. Howard Muller hated him, and that hatred became supernatural in its intensity. At the beginning of the following week, after several companies confirmed what Peter had already uncovered through research, PC stocks soared. Including what he saved Stenman Partners on Muller’s short position, the firm’s profit tallied over three hundred million.

On Friday of that week, Howard Muller summoned Peter into his Civil War museum.

“You have made a big mistake, Neil,” Muller began.

“I’m sorry, but I tried to talk to you first—”

Muller stood. “Your job was to make a convincing argument to me, not Stenman. You never usurp my authority. That is insubordination.”

Peter wondered if Muller actually believed such tripe.

“You will regret this,” Muller continued. “Thinking you’re so damn brilliant, above it all. Watching your back won’t do a damn bit of good, either, you miserable nothing.”

“Listen, Howard, I didn’t mean—”

“Go to hell, Neil.”

Peter almost smiled. This was a game he had never played before, but one in which he suddenly felt comfortable. He had four-of-a-kind, and no matter how much bluff and bluster Fat-Head chose to display, four-of-a-friggin’-kind was a three-hundred million-dollar winner.

“Get out,” Muller continued.

Peter obliged without further comment.

On the following Tuesday, Stenman phoned Peter. “At nine tonight,” she said, “you will assist me. Do not be late.”

The rest of the day, Peter’s head swam in roiled waters. He tried to figure out the implications. First, he hoped he had nothing more to fear from the Dawson incident. More importantly, everyone knew Stenman handpicked only a few traders to work directly with her. He hoped tonight was a first step towards bigger things. If so, the timing was perfect. In less than two months, bonuses would be paid. How much would be in his check? A few hundred thousand? A half million? A million?

“Hey, dude,” Stuart whispered in the middle of Peter’s financial whatif’s. “You and I have a small problem that’s got to be taken care of, today.”

“Huh? Whatta you mean?” Peter asked, the spell broken. He looked at his quote machine and tried to figure out if any of his positions were under water.