Man in the Middle (45 page)

A short while later, Peter sat in the back of a taxi, trying to ignore the cabby’s constant chatter. Outside his window, he watched a boy kick a soccer ball up and down like popping corn.

“Whatcha got going on downtown?” the driver asked. “You’re not dressed like a business guy, but that’s all that ever goes to this Leeman, Johnston law place. Suits and briefcase guys. Y’know the type, stuck up, snooty big deals. Never took a regular guy there before. Y’know, dressed like he’s going to a workout instead of—”

Peter reached into his wallet and drew out a ten. “I need to think. Mind if I just ride in silence?”

“Sure. Didn’t mean to yap yer head off. Just trying to pass the time.”

Peter tossed the ten over the front seat. “Shhhh,” he reminded the driver. “Unless you see someone tailing us, I’d prefer your north and south lips stayed glued.”

The ten bucks worked. The driver nervously scanned for a tail as the creaking yellow proceeded south on Interstate 5.

Peter spent the time mentally reviewing every detail of his plan. He realized that if Stenman wanted him dead, he’d have a bullet in the back of his head before he entered the law-office front door. The thought made his skin tingle, as if he had a bull’s-eye hung on his back. The enticement of recovering his mother’s papers, Peter hoped, was important enough to keep him alive for at least one more day.

Once they reached Front Street and turned towards Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers’ offices, Peter decided to have the driver circle the block before departing. He then asked to be dropped off a block away. Heading down the crowded sidewalk, he tried not to look concerned. At the building entrance, he resisted the temptation to duck and run. Instead, he paced to the elevator, waited for the double-ding of opening doors, and stepped into the lift. No gunshots meant he had survived hurdle one.

Peter carried a canvas bag filled with the bills he’d taken from Muller’s safe, appreciating for the first time how light a couple of million dollars felt. When he entered the law offices, the receptionist presented a pleasant face. “Good morning, Mr. Neil. I see you’ve changed your haircut and color. It looks good.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. “I’m here to see—”

“Mr. Ayers and Ms. Stenman are waiting. You are to go back immediately.”

“Thank you.”

“Your voice,” she said before he departed. “It sounds deeper. Sexy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Peter nodded. Crushed vocal chords, he decided, were an absolute aphrodisiac.

A moment later, he knocked on Ayers’ heavy door and dove in.

Jason Ayers greeted Peter. Behind him, leaning on her aluminum cane—an extension of her brittle arms—Morgan Stenman had an almost pleasant expression that unnerved Peter. When Ayers winked, indicating that preliminary discussions had gone smoothly, Peter relaxed.

Peter endured a few informalities before saying, “Here’s your money, less a few thousand for expenses.” He dropped the bag on the floor next to Ayers’ desk.

“I will tell poor Howard you returned the funds,” Stenman said. “He will be pleased. But then this money had limited utility for you, didn’t it? Cash leaves incriminating footprints when not handled properly. It is satisfying to me that you have learned at least that much while in my employ.”

Peter ignored her words. “I want five million. Wired to this account.” He held a piece of paper with his Mauritius account information. “I get my money, you get the registered envelopes, unopened, dated before my mother’s death.”

Stenman showed no emotion. After asking Ayers to bring in some good strong coffee from a shop in the building, not the “crap you make in pots up here,” Stenman, like a savvy interviewer, deliberately paused. Peter read the tactic and wasn’t fooled—she had already decided what to say, but she wanted to let him hang, maybe get him to reveal something strategic. He didn’t bite. He would not initiate nervous chit-chat, as he’d seen others do in her presence. Nor would he offer new, diluted terms while wallowing in anxiety. In a minor inspiration, Peter asked Ayers if he might have a non-fat latté since they were waiting for a caffeine fix anyway. “And a biscotti, if that’s not too much trouble.” When the attorney cocked his head, Peter understood that his cool had impressed him.

Ayers sent a secretary down to the ground floor to fill everyone’s order. While they waited for coffee service, the older man made small talk about how this was the best solution for everyone and five million dollars was not a large amount of money. Then, somehow managing to keep a straight face, he went on to say that when this was over, they could all just get on with their lives, as if Peter’s life was worth a drop of toilet water at game’s end. Ignoring her attorney, Stenman lit a cigarette that, Peter thought, couldn’t have been half as hot as her stare.

When the tray with three coffees and one cookie finally arrived, Peter sipped his latté and chomped on the thick, Amaretto-laced cookie. He did-n’t like the taste of either but enjoyed Stenman’s self-inflicted impatience. He drank delicately and chewed slowly.

A minute into the beverage charade, Stenman finally stated her position. “The price is agreeable, but do not take me for a fool, Peter.” Granite-faced, she shoved her full cup of coffee to the side. “I will not send you five million dollars of
my
money in the hopes you will then honor your commitment.” She crushed the tip of her cigarette into a crystal ashtray and flung the remains, filter and all, onto the carpet. The grand show had no effect on Peter. He crossed his legs and waited, looking like a bored businessman listening to a salesman’s tired pitch.

“Jason,” continued Stenman, “has suggested and already set up a joint account, triggered by voice recognition. He deposited your five million dollars this morning. Tomorrow, after the delivery of papers to me, I will call the bank, then you
and
I will read back the account information, activating a voice transfer of those funds to your account.”

Peter popped the last morsel of cookie into his mouth. He counted to five, then took a sip of latté to wash it down. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “If I give you the papers, how do I know you’ll honor
your
commitment?”

“What do you suggest, Peter?” Ayers asked, on cue.

“We do this in stages,” Peter said. He took his index finger and mopped up a few crumbs of cookie from his napkin. He delicately licked his fingertip and squinted with pretended thought. Sagely stroking his palm across his chin and mouth, he said, “And we use Sarah Guzman in such a manner as to make certain I can keep an eye on her. I know she was the one who set me up and had Ellen Goodman murdered.”

“If that were the case,” Stenman said, not bothering to hide her impatience, “it was because you disappeared and confronted a certain police detective, asking imprudent questions. Then this unfortunate incident with my ex-CIO Howard Muller. So foolish and unnecessary.”

“All tough breaks,” Peter said without inflection. “I have an idea about how I can watch her while we complete the trade.”

Peter outlined his scheme. Stenman, Peter, and Ayers would meet tomorrow, in a place of Peter’s choosing. “Some place that’ll make sure I don’t get ambushed,” he said. “Guzman will then receive the first of the two envelopes.”

Peter explained that Guzman would open and verify the contents. “With the first delivery, we transfer my five million,” Peter said. “After that, I arrange for the second packet to be delivered. If I don’t live up to my end of the bargain, you’re welcome to have someone put a bullet through my head.” Peter then agreed to remain hostage—at their meeting place—until Stenman verified she had the documents she wanted.

Ayers nodded. “The plan has enough safeguards, I think. Do you agree, Morgan?”

Stenman nodded while drawing so hard on her filter tip that teeth outlined against her cheeks.

“Once you arrive at my designated meeting place,” Peter continued, “you’ll want to check for bugs, mikes, whatever. Check me out too, if that makes you happy.”

“When will you notify us of the meeting time and place?” Ayers asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon.” Peter turned to Stenman. “At twelve forty-five, you’ll be in your limo, heading north from your office.”

“In my limo? This is madness.” Stenman studied Peter’s face.

“I want you moving in the right direction, but I don’t want you knowing the final destination. That’s for my protection and to make certain there are as few delays as possible. Jason, I’ll phone you. You’ll then phone Morgan’s driver with the information. As far as Sarah Guzman goes . . .” Peter handed Ayers a slip of paper. “Until you call with her instructions, I want her at this location at noon tomorrow.”

Ayers took the slip and studied the address. “This is a diner in Oceanside. That’s twenty miles north of downtown. What’s going on, Peter?”

“I want everyone in a different location, moving towards this meeting. Bodies in coordinated motion.”

Puppets, Peter hoped, coordinated by a puppeteer.

Ayers shook his head. It was a prearranged protest. “Sarah Guzman will never agree to be a sitting duck.”

“She doesn’t agree,” Peter said, “then we have no deal.”

“No deal?” Stenman nearly shouted. “No deal means I initiate some ugly retribution. Somebody better find a goddamn answer.”

“Okay,” Peter said, rubbing his chin as if he had thought up the solution for the first time. “You,” he faced Ayers, “tell her everything will take place in a public place. She’s welcome to have Nuñoz accompany her. I’m here to get paid, then disappear. Period. That should do the trick, don’t you think?”

This time Peter faced Morgan. He understood she had to agree. She needed to settle this matter, and Peter’s asking price was so small as to be stupid. She would have paid several multiples of what he demanded.

“You are a careful man, Peter,” Stenman said, just before agreeing to his terms. “But do not get cute with me.” She might as well have added:
or you will suffer like no man has ever suffered before.

After Stenman left the law offices, Ayers guided Peter to a sophisticated recorder. Peter read a series of numbers and a page of nonsense into a microphone with a wire-mesh pop-filter designed to reduce the effects of breath blasts and air currents. The voice recordings, Ayers said, were of a professional quality.

“How does this thing work?” Peter asked.

“In simple terms, we create a voiceprint,” Ayers said. “Most systems require a password of choice, plus three or four words for authorization. Our system requires thousands of samples. That’s why you had to read all this text. The recording you just made consists of a comprehensive combination of sounds that the computer will recognize and match to your voice. Every word and number in the instructions you give over the phone will be scrutinized.”

“And we’ll be able to set this up in time?”

“A bank official is ready to input all of the data as soon as we’re finished here today. After that, you and Morgan will have an account in which neither of you can withdraw the money without the other’s verbal authorization. I will arrange for each of you to read precise instructions when the time comes.”

Once they finished, Peter left, opting for the stairs. He exited through a rear door and began to run. He took a route through alleys and around buildings until he arrived at a bus stop, more than a mile from the office. He rode one bus north, then a second east. A short cab ride followed another mile of circuitous running. A sudden cab-stop in mid-block preceded more running and then a second cab. Ten minutes later, Peter picked up his rental car from an outdoor parking lot.

Peter drove the Celica several miles in the wrong direction, intending to lose the tail he was certain had tried to keep pace with him from Ayers’ office. An hour later, he reached Carlsbad and removed the registered mail. He took the first envelope to Speedy Delivery Service in Fallbrook, twenty-five miles north and east of where he planned to meet Stenman and Ayers tomorrow. He gave the man delivery instructions: “Tomorrow. Exactly one forty-five p.m. You approach from the beaches north . . .”

He took the second package to Always Reliable Delivery Service in El Cajon, twenty miles south and east of tomorrow’s rendezvous. He told them: “Tomorrow. Exactly two p.m. Through the men’s locker room . . .”

From there, Peter went back to his hotel room, turned on the television, and tried to relax, but couldn’t. Beginning at dawn, he would either take the first step on the road to salvation, or the last step to perdition. At this stage of the game, he wouldn’t have wanted to make book on which.

At nine, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.