Man in the Middle (40 page)

Kate heard a noise at the kitchen door. She turned. Standing in the doorframe, looking old and defeated, was the forgotten woman.

“M . . . other,” Kate stuttered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right, Kathryn.” Anne Ayers, her chin trembling, looked at her husband of over thirty years. “Answer your daughter, Jason. Do you still love Hannah and her memory? I do—and I forgave both of you long ago... Answer Kate: what happened between you and Matthew Neil?”

“Anne. I’ll be with you in a minute—”

“Do not put me off,” she said. “I’m tired. Tired of deceiving myself. Tired of your weak and worn explanations. I’ve known for too long that your firm works for dangerous people. Is it drug money, Jason? I’ve told myself it isn’t, but that’s a lie. Isn’t it?”

An awkward silence filled the kitchen.

Anne raised her index finger and aimed. “Goddammit, Jason! Answer me. Instead of getting drunk, say something.”

“You don’t understand, Anne. This is beyond—”

“Beyond your ability to do anything? Is that your cellophane explanation for everything? I’m sick of being your wife. I know I’m too old and worn-out to ever find another husband. I don’t care. I’ll live alone before I live another day with the man you’ve become. Thank God our daughter knows right from wrong.”

“Please, Anne.”

“Curtis overdosed on drugs,” Anne said. “He was fourteen. Have you forgotten that? You are partially responsible for his death.”

“No! I loved our son.”

“You knowingly set up the legal defenses and bank accounts for killers. You are no better than they are.” Anne Ayers turned. Three steps later, she stopped. Without looking back, she said, “In fifteen minutes I leave, unless you begin doing what’s right. When I’m gone, it’ll be forever.”

“Don’t.”

“Then tell Kate and Peter what’s happening. If it’s still possible, help them.”

Ayers took his half-full drink to the sink and poured it down the drain. Kate thought her father looked relieved. Maybe he wouldn’t need to spend the rest of his life trying to hide the truth. They had all buried too many secrets, and this one, at least, might no longer eat away at him.

“Kate,” he said. “I’ll meet Peter in the guesthouse. Tell him to use Furlong Street—it’s secluded. I’ll leave the rear gate unlocked. But I warn you: no matter what Peter thinks, there’s nothing left to do. This has gone too far.”

“I want to be there, Father,” Kate said.

“No. I have things I need to share with Peter. Alone.”

Kate began to protest, but her mother shook her head. “This is between your father and Peter.”

“But, Mother—”

“Come, dear. Make your call. Set up the meeting.” With a hand on Kate’s shoulder, Anne Ayers led her daughter away.

An hour later, Peter ducked through Ayers’ back gate. He wondered why the man had changed his mind about cooperating, but what mattered most was Kate’s conviction that her father could be trusted.

Peter scanned the yard, dotted by fruit and shade trees. The sky was clear and birds were chirping, perhaps warning one another that a stranger lurked nearby. He knew the feeling. Tall hedges ran around the perimeter of the multi-acre backyard, ensuring privacy. Peter bent down and picked up a stray lemon. He sniffed the fruit, aimed at a tree, and tossed the yellow oval. It hit the target, a Eucalyptus trunk, and bounced sharply right before rolling down a gentle slope towards a row of roses.

Crickets, birds, a distant dog, and a fountain—all combined to produce a natural symphony. Ayers’ home felt peaceful. Peter knew it wasn’t.

A cottage sat back from the main house. That was where Kate had told Peter to meet her father. The structure looked small next to the mansion, but was at least two thousand square feet—or about the size of a middle-class suburban house. The wood shingle exterior was weathered, and the roof was peaked. A red brick chimney, entwined with thick ivy, ran up the near side. Without knocking, Peter entered as a rush of wind blew past him, disturbing a line of dust motes that vanished once he shut the front door behind him.

Inside the guesthouse, Peter glanced at the back of Ayers’ gray, motionless head, rising above a leather recliner. Across the surface of a mahogany table, Ayers had fanned out photographs, passing from one time, or year, or season, to another. Faces young and fresh grew heavy and lined. A stack of scrapbooks had fallen to the floor off to one side. They lay in a disheveled mound, pages open, slips of yellowed paper—press clippings it looked like—hanging out, bent and tired.

The room smelled musty. Dusty sheets covered most pieces of furniture. Drawn shutters, the slats closed, blocked out any hope of sunlight. The sole source of illumination came from a standup reading lamp, reflecting off the faces in the aged photographs.

Jason Ayers turned and weakly greeted Peter. As if weighing an extra hundred pounds, the attorney struggled to push himself up with the flats of his hands. He had red-rimmed eyes, strained, Peter suspected, from staring at the thousands of memories scattered across the room.

“I have so . . . many . . .” Ayers looked away. He tugged at a fleshy earlobe and took a half-step, stumbled, then tried again. His arms hung long and limp as if they had been de-boned. Wasting no time, Ayers began unloading four decades of pain. “I didn’t do anything to help your mother . . . but not just her. Your father. I killed him.”

Ayers turned in on himself as he laid out the story of Matthew and Hannah Neil and his role in bending their lives.

“The university investigated your father, because of me. It was done quietly . . .” Ayers spoke haltingly, and at length, and Peter listened without interrupting.

Later, when Ayers paused to drink a cup of water, Peter whispered, “So that’s what we’ve avoided all these years.”

Ayers heard Peter’s words and shook his head. “There’s more.”

It took Ayers another half-hour to explain how he and Peter’s father came to be estranged. Then, as if that weren’t enough, Hannah’s story followed. “She was murdered because she couldn’t sit back and ignore wrongdoing.”

Peter had already deduced most of that story. As the tale came to an end, Peter felt no rancor. Rather, he felt pity for everyone, including Ayers. Including himself. Once Ayers’ revelations settled in, Peter’s brain whirred with thoughts of how to proceed.

Ayers’ voice lifted Peter from his concentration. “I want to help,” he said, “but you cannot win. Guzman, Stenman, Carlos Nuñoz—none of them places any value on human life. I don’t think they intend for you to make it to trial. Kate thinks you’ll get bail. She’s wrong. They found the murder weapon in your condominium. With all the evidence against you, there will be no bail. Furthermore, your alibi doesn’t hold. You were officially never at Stenman’s.”

“People saw me.”

“Who? The guards? Muller? Ambulance personnel you paid to forget? This isn’t an American Airlines flight where a couple hundred passengers see you board, take a seat, and order cocktails. This is a secure location with dedicated, highly paid people who long ago sold their consciences to this particular bidder. In addition, Goodman’s murder may have been earlier than your Muller visit. I told you—they’re thorough. The message machine at your apartment? No message from Howard Muller exists. It was erased or stolen.”

“But I’m innocent.”

“Remember Cannodine and that Russian who murdered him along with all those innocent people? The man blew himself up. Or did he? Drucker? Did he really go berserk? I don’t know how they managed any of it, but nothing is as it seems. Neither will your death, when it happens. Planning and power—they’ve got more of each than you can imagine.”

“What would you do if you were me?” Peter asked.

“Run, maybe. You might buy some time.”

“No.” Peter’s gaze fixed on the photographs. “My father was a good man.”

“Yes,” Ayers agreed. “The best person I ever knew.”

“Courageous and principled?”

Ayers nodded, resignedly.

“Kate said you had power-of-attorney over Stenman’s funds. Is that true?”

“If you’re thinking I can strip assets, you’re wrong. I can only transfer money from one fund to another. I can’t take a dime out of the financial empire.”

“How’s the money moved?”

“Why do you—”

“How?” Peter demanded.

“Half the accounts use biometrics. Voice recognition. We’re working on setting them all up that way.”

Peter considered what he’d learned about the relationships between the players. Their priorities. How they dealt with treachery. “I have the seed of a plan,” he said. “Can you help me set up an offshore bank account?”

Ayers gave a wary nod. “Yes. But why?”

Peter flagged a hand, signaling he wasn’t ready to answer questions. “Are you involved in setting up accounts for Ensenada Partners?”

“With the new technology, yes.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do . . .”

When Peter finished, he said, “I’ll explain in more detail later. Most of what happens next depends on Agent Dawson, Morgan Stenman, and Sarah Guzman.”

“Stenman and Guzman?”

“I plan to sell them information. Five million sounds good to me.”

“Are you insane, Peter? Once they’ve got Hannah’s papers, you’re dead.”

“Maybe, maybe not. In a few days, I’ll need you to set up a meeting with Morgan.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ayers said. “You realize you can’t turn yourself in to the DA if you intend to meet with Stenman.”

“You’ll have to explain to Kate. She’s going to be in deep shit when I don’t show up.”

“She’ll understand,” Ayers said. “In the meantime, you’ll need a car. A block away, south of the rear entrance, you’ll find a green Taurus.” Ayers handed Peter a set of keys. “Don’t use credit cards or cash machines. If you need money, use the twenties you took from Stenman, not the hundreds or thousands—somebody might get suspicious. Don’t forget, when you don’t show up at the DA’s, there’ll be an all-points bulletin issued for your arrest.”

“Understood. And thanks.”

“Peter. If you need to, you can stay here at night. Use the back entrance and the side streets. Nobody will suspect I’m hiding you.”

Ayers clutched Peter’s hand. For the first time, Ayers’ fingers felt possessed of warmth as a sliver of hope crossed Ayers’ ragged face.

“My parents loved you,” Peter said, reading Ayers’ need. “We’ve all made mistakes.” He understood the need for redemption. They all did.

After Ayers left the cottage, Peter mulled over his plan. He had used a trader’s discipline in formulating his strategy, balancing the risk and reward of every option.

Committed to a course of action, Peter realized that time, more than anything else, was of the essence. He quickly showered, then took off.

It would be a busy Sunday.

Ayers leaned into his desk and reviewed what Peter had asked him to do. He didn’t understand, but made the calls anyway. The first was overseas. He set up an account in the name of Peter Neil at Mauritius Trust Bank. Once he got the ten-digit account number, he began the process of opening seven accounts for Sarah Guzman at the same bank. On the last of these accounts, he requested and received a special number.

Why, he wondered, had Peter wanted Sarah Guzman to have an account number identical to his, but with two digits inverted? Before hanging up with the branch manager, Ayers asked, “You can connect Ms. Guzman’s new accounts to the voice recognition system?”