No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (35 page)

Andie shook her head.

“
The K-man knows that you love him. And the K-man knows that he loves you. And I think, as a matter of mathematical fact, that such an equation equals you giving the guy twenty-four hours.”

Andie leaned back in her chair. A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away, but others came.

She closed her eyes, processing, and then finally a nod.

“
You’ll wait?”

Andie nodded, again.

“Twenty-four hours.”

Kermit started to get up, but Andie raised her hand before Kermit hung up the receiver. He stopped.

“What is it?”

“
Tell Michael that I love him.” She rubbed her nose, and wiped the tears away. “Tell him that.” She nodded, becoming more sure of herself. “He should know that, but tell him anyway.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Snow had piled up eight inches, and wind snapped each new flake against Michael’s exposed and reddened face. He ducked inside the church. The large, heavy wood door closed behind him, exchanging the outside fury for the peace of the empty sanctuary.

Michael looked up at the rows of stained glass windows that lined the outside walls, each told a story of faith, punishment, and redemption. That’s all religion was, Michael thought, regardless of denomination. A universal truth that promised heaven in some form to everyone, provided they had faith in something, anything.

He walked down the center aisle to the front of the church. The pulpit was adorned with purple vestiges, three cuts of fabric hung down between intricately carved square columns of dark wood. Michael raised his hand up and down, and then over in the sign of the cross as he walked to the side.

Twelve rows of twelve candles were lined below the marble statue of Saint Thomas the Compassionate. Saint Thomas was one of the few disciples whose biography of Jesus couldn’t actually be found in the Bible, because the scribes thought it revealed a Jesus Christ that was too human, too filled with doubt to be lifted up as the actual word of God. The masses needed a world of right and wrong, rules and punishment. The true words of salvation, according to Saint Thomas, offered none of that.

Michael picked up a long wooden match and lit it.

He picked up one of the small, red glasses containing a candle. He held the lit match near its wick and waited for a flicker. A flame appeared, and Michael put the candle back down in its place, saying a prayer and asking for a blessing.

He walked over to the confessional, pulled back the heavy, black cloth, and sat down inside.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

“
How long since last confession?”

The sound of Father Stiles’ voice comforted Michael, and gave him even more clarity about what he needed to do for both Andie and himself.

“
Too long.” Michael bowed his head. “It’s been too long since my last confession.” Then he told his story to Father Stiles for the first time. It was unedited and uncompromised, from the moment he was shot to that morning with Frank Vatch. Everything.

“
Forgive me.”

“
God forgives,” said Father Stiles, “and I forgive, but do you forgive yourself?”

Michael thought about the question.

“No.”

“
Then that’s the place start.”

“
I need your help,” Michael said, “in more concrete ways.”

“
I can’t do that.”

“
I need to clear Andie’s name. To do that, I need to prove that Lowell set her up. I need to show that somebody out there had a motive and resources to do it.”

“
And the motive is you?”

“
Lowell faked a settlement and has been shifting money from one escrow account to another for the past two years, figuring out a way to bring me back. Duckstein says that the bank statements and financials are in Lowell’s office. The statements will show the transfer of money, at least that’s what Rhonda told her. And I don’t have much doubt that the logs and security video for Andie are up there too.”

“
Michael, that’s not my role,” Father Stiles said. “I’ve already crossed the line with you.” He paused, shaking his head. “Too often, I’m afraid, I’ve crossed that line. I can’t risk this church and my work for this. Testifying in front of the grand jury shone a light on that.”

“
I’m not asking you to go with me.” Michael looked at Father Stiles through the fine privacy screen of the confessional. “If I get these financials, I can prove that I didn’t steal Krane’s money and write a cashier’s check, myself, to settle the
Maltow
case. That’s what they’re all saying I did. That’s the motive. That I got the money, and faked the settlement to cover up my mistake. But, if the books don’t add up, if it shows that the firm is $300 million in the hole and Lowell Moore has been transferring the money from one account to another, I can move on and Lowell becomes the focus.”

“
And the assault charges related to that federal agent?”

“
They’ll be pled away in exchange for my testimony against Lowell,” Michael said. “I’ve thought this through. I can move on.”

“
You know that’s not true,” Father Stiles said. “You may have proven you didn’t fake the settlement, but you still took the – ”

Michael cut him off, he couldn’t hear those words.

“I need your help. Rhonda Kirchner’s funeral is tonight. I’m just asking that you go to the funeral, and call me when Lowell Moore arrives and when he leaves.”

“
Michael, I can’t….I can’t be an accomplice to this.”

“
An accomplice to freeing an innocent woman and helping a friend? You can’t be an accomplice to that?”

Michael watched the silhouette of Father Stiles. Father Stiles ran his hands through his hair. His head down, then he raised it up slowly, and then back down, again. There was anguish and conflict in his movements.

Michael was ready to take back his request when Father Stiles mumbled a brief prayer. Then, Father Stiles turned toward him.

“What phone number do you want me to call?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

The windows of Café Krolle were fogged three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling as the coffee shop’s antique roaster hummed and crackled in the corner. The roaster’s arm swept the pan in a circle, turning the toasted beans and filling the small and crowded room with a distinct smell of espresso and dark bittersweet chocolate.

Michael adjusted his tie. It was the first time he had worn a suit since Andie’s hearing. It didn’t feel right. He took off the jacket and laid it on the stool next to his, then Michael rolled up his sleeves.

Setting his recently reclaimed briefcase down on the counter next to the computer, Michael sat down. The counter ran along the café’s large window that overlooked the street. On the other side of that street, there was Hopper Tower and the offices of Wabash, Kramer & Moore. Michael glanced up at the clock: 6:55 p.m. Rhonda Kirchner’s funeral service was scheduled to begin at 7:30 p.m.

Lowell Moore wouldn’t attend the visitation, but he was obligated to attend the service. His obligation wouldn’t be rooted in guilt, but appearance. Lowell understood that his absence might prompt questions, and he didn’t want questions. Not when he was this close.

Michael opened his briefcase and removed the photograph of his revolutionary namesake. He propped it up next to the keyboard. It was an effort to get some inspiration.

Michael clicked the web browser, and after the menu came up, he punched in the bank’s website address. He typed in his code and transferred money from one account to another. Then, he logged on to his private e-mail account. This was not Hotmail or Yahoo, nor was it free. In fact, Michael’s private e-mail account wasn’t advertised at all. The host offered very private, very confidential, encrypted communication services to a select number of clients. The manager of Hoa Bahn’s had arranged for it shortly after Joshua Krane was murdered and Michael was released from the hospital.

He typed in another series of passcodes and usernames, and then finally Michael was able to access his messages. He clicked through each, most were financial account summaries. Then, Michael typed in the e-mail address of his banker and attorney in Switzerland.

Michael confirmed to the banker that he was authorized to make the offer to purchase the Sunset Resort & Hostel. The offer was to be made in the name of a newly incorporated company, and his identity was to be kept private. If the offer was not accepted and Michael did not respond within ten days, the money was to be sent via cashier’s check with instructions to Bayer’s Banc of Playa del Carmen, the bank that holds Andie Larone’s mortgage. Michael typed, “Just pay off the debt, give her the money.”

He logged out of the email program, and pulled up the website for British Airways. He clicked through a few screens, checked his watch, and then booked a direct flight to Amsterdam that departed JFK in two hours for Kermit Guillardo.

Michael confirmed the flight information and the seat in first class, and then searched for another flight. He chose a direct flight to Switzerland that departed in three hours, entered the billing information, and then moved on. Mexico City in four. Hamburg in five. Paris in six. Cape Town in seven. Montreal in eight.

He then logged off the British Airways website, and chose flights on Northwest out of LaGuardia and United out of JFK.

Every hour Michael had provided Kermit Guillardo at least three options that, hopefully, he wouldn’t need. As for Michael, he had made the decision to stop running. He wasn’t going to be a runner any more. Michael had decided to get into Lowell’s office and stay there until he found what he was looking for, and, if he didn’t find it, he would keep looking until he was caught or killed, whatever came first.

Michael printed out the confirmations for Kermit, and stuck them in his briefcase just as his phone rang. Michael picked it up.

“Hello,” he said.

It was Father Stiles. Lowell had just arrived. The start of the funeral service was going to be delayed because of the weather, but everything was moving forward.

“
Okay.” Michael looked through the window at the Hopper Tower across the street. “I’m going.”

He hung up the phone, glanced up at the clock, and then logged out of the computer. He put the photograph of his namesake back in his briefcase, and then called Kermit.

“We’re ready.” Michael slipped on his jacket with the phone still pressed against his ear. “I’ll meet you in the alley.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

The snow fell even harder than before. The few cars and trucks that tried to drive in front of the Hopper Tower slid and slipped, and ultimately left deep tracks behind. Michael put on a brown felt fedora and his red glasses, a silly disguise, but the best he could do. Then he crossed the street and ducked into the alley where delivery trucks loaded and unloaded office supplies, furniture, and paper to the Hopper Tower’s tenants.

The baby-blue Camry was stopped halfway down the alley. Its lights were on and smoke billowed from its tailpipe.

Michael rapped on the window, and Kermit rolled it down.

“You know what to do?”

“
Using these peepers to peep the perps.” Kermit pointed at his eyes, and then grinned. “I’ll circle the block and call you if I see any cops or our arch nemesis enter the compound.”

“
Right.” Michael turned his cell phone to vibrate. “Let’s do this,” he said, more to himself than to Kermit, while reaching into his briefcase.

Michael removed the printed airline confirmation sheets.

“These are for you.” He handed the papers to Kermit. “You see anything, call me, and then get the hell away. I don’t want to see you thrown in jail.”

Kermit took the printouts from Michael, and set them in the seat behind him. Then, he put the car into park and suddenly got out of the car.

“Love you, dude.” Kermit grabbed Michael and put him into a massive bear hug. “You and Andie are like the sun and moon, and I’m like that stuff that’s, like, secondary to those things. You know?”

“
I know.” Michael patted him on the back. “Love you, too. Now put me down.”    

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

“
Cold out there tonight.” Michael brushed snow off of his long, felt trench coat, and offered the security guard a confident smile. As Michael walked up to the desk, he held his head high, confidence was going to be the key to pulling this off.

He reached into his back pocket and removed a gray security pass card for the Hopper Tower’s elevators, and silently prayed that the tech support hadn’t gotten around to canceling his access to the building. Surely Lowell would have submitted the request to cancel immediately, but tech support at Wabash, Kramer & Moore wasn’t unlike the tech support in every other business in America. They operated with a different perspective of both time and urgency.