Once a Killer (6 page)

The warm train rocked gently from side to side, and Michael flirted with sleep, his mind drifting back to the last time he’d dealt with the police.

Police sirens rang out. Then, moments later, there were three loud bangs on the door of his mother’s apartment, followed by three more.

His mother opened it and then, seconds after, shouted, “Danny, come here now.”

He already knew who was at the door. He’d been waiting for them ever since he’d returned home earlier that evening. A few minutes later, he was sitting next to his mother in the back of a police car, desperate for her to hold his hand. Trembling, he looked out of the side window, through the baying crowds, to the other police car parked alongside and stared at Rondell, on his own on the back seat.

“What have you done, Danny?” asked his mother, her face full of rage.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom. I promise.”

“They said a man has been hurt. What has that got to do with you?”

“I didn’t do it.” He glared at Rondell as his police car drove in front of theirs. “I didn’t do it.”

There was a loud thump on the roof of the car. “If I ever see you again, I’m gonna kill you, you fuckin’ animal,” shouted one of the men crowding around their vehicle.

Danny flinched and then reached for his mother’s hand. She pulled her arm away and stared ahead as the police driver forced the patrol car through the seething mob.

An announcement echoed from the train’s speaker system, jolting Michael from his semi-conscious thoughts and hurtling him back into the present. He bolted upright, shivered, and then stared at his pale reflection in the window against the dark outside. As much as he despised the idea, he was going to have to go along with Rondell’s illegal trading scheme, at least until he could work out a way to stop him without exposing his background.

Resting his head against the window again, his mind returned to the meeting at Cedar Street and something Rondell had said about Michael’s voice. If only he’d not been so stupid, allowing his ego to get the better of him, Rondell would never have found him. Michael had always kept a low profile, even though his work involved some of the most important corporate deals handled on Wall Street. Why had he agreed to be interviewed on the TV that one time? It was his own fault. After all these years, he’d made the mistake of assuming his past was long dead and buried.

Idiot!

He sat upright and glanced at his watch. In a few moments, he’d be at Westport station. He grabbed his briefcase and made his way to the door. Ten minutes later, he pulled up on the drive of his white, colonial-style home on a quiet tree-lined road on the outskirts of town. Remaining seated in the car, he tried to collect his thoughts, knowing he could share none of his worries with Caroline. Whatever happened, he had to shield her and their daughters from all this. Anything else was unthinkable.

“You look tired,” said Caroline, kissing him when he walked into the house. There was a smell of cooked food in the hall. “I’ve made your favorite: eggplant Parmigiana.”

“I thought I recognized that smell. I’m starving.” In truth, eating was the last thing Michael felt like doing right now.

“Go get changed while I serve up.”

“Are the girls in bed?”

“Yes, but they’re waiting to say goodnight to you.”

Michael went upstairs to change, stopping to pop his head around the door of Emily’s bedroom. Their youngest was already asleep. He didn’t disturb her, as much as he wanted to pick her up and hold her close to him.

When he reached six-year-old Hannah’s bedroom, the lamp was still on. She was reading her Kindle, so he went over to kiss her goodnight.

“You look worried, Daddy,” she said, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I’m tired, that’s all.” He brushed back her hair with his fingers. “How was school today?”

“Hard work, but I didn’t mind. If I’m going to be a lawyer when I grow up, I need to get used to it.”

Michael kissed her on the cheek, choking up inside. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“Try to get some sleep now.” He took the Kindle and placed it on the bedside cabinet before turning off the lamp. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He walked through to the master bedroom, loosened his tie, and kicked off his shoes before sitting on the corner of the bed. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands. If keeping his family together meant having to break the law, then he was prepared to do it. Rondell would get his way. It would be a massive risk but, provided he was careful, no one would need find out he was leaking sensitive information about corporate takeovers to a small, backstreet hedge fund. As Rondell had said, there was no reason to link the two of them. No one knew they were connected. Why would they?

That night, again finding it difficult to sleep, Michael’s mind wandered. He thought about Chicago and his recent visit. He’d been stupid going back there after all this time. If he hadn’t attended his mother’s funeral, then Rondell’s men would never have been able to confirm it was him. Once they saw him turn up that day, they knew they had their man. But how had Rondell known about the funeral in the first place? While Michael had made it his regular business to check online for any mention of his family, Rondell would have had no reason to do so. Did he still have contacts back there? He couldn’t have. Michael assumed, like him, once he’d been released from prison as a young adult, Rondell would have been given a new identity and moved to a new city, such was the venom and hatred directed at the two child-killers where they grew up. Even Rondell would not dare show his face back there, surely?

A chill ran through his veins when the revolting thought entered his brain. He struggled to breathe and stared at the dark ceiling above him, unable to move. It was the most obvious explanation, after all. Rondell had to have known about his mother’s funeral because his men must have murdered her.

Oh my God
.

They had beaten an elderly woman to a pulp, making it look like an interrupted robbery in her own home. It was classic Rondell. He was the same evil monster he’d known as a child. He must have known there was a good chance her funeral would bring Michael back to Chicago. Her murder had been the bait. Once they’d set their trap, all Rondell’s henchmen needed to do was watch, and when they saw him turn up, they knew they had their man.

Chapter 6

O
CCUPYING
A
LMOST
A
N
E
NTIRE
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LOCK
on Liberty Street, the lower Manhattan head office building of investment banking giant, Corton Zander, always reminded Michael of an ugly glass cage, with its black windows and exposed steel framework. No doubt they’d paid one of New York’s finest architects millions of dollars to come up with the design, but it was lost on him. Of course, he’d never mention that to his best client.

The yellow cab dropped them outside the main entrance just as it began spitting with rain. While Michael and two of his senior associates filed into the polished marble reception area, Glen Towers, a young first-year associate fresh out of law school, heaved two large files from the trunk and paid the driver. After signing in, the Dudek team made its way to the forty-third floor, where Amanda Etling was waiting to greet them. Etling was in her mid-thirties, a stunning brunette with short, dark brown hair in a pixie haircut that reminded Michael of Anne Hathaway, the actress.

“Come on in,” she said, shaking Michael’s hand, but ignoring his associates.

That was something he could never understand; none of the senior staff at his investment bank clients ever acknowledged his junior team members. It was as if they didn’t exist. Had they forgotten they were once in their shoes?

“We’ve got a pile of work to get through.”

She led them into one of the larger meeting rooms, a soulless space with bare white walls and harsh overhead lighting. On top of the boardroom table were stacked at least twenty files, which almost hid Etling’s two male colleagues sitting at the far end and tapping away on their laptops. From the bags under their eyes and the shadows on their chins, they looked as though they’d been there all night. The smell of stale coffee pretty much confirmed it.

“Where do you want us?” Michael asked, slipping his jacket off.

“Over here.” Etling pointed to the seats opposite the one she was about to take.

Michael sat directly across from her, flanked by his two senior associates, both experienced lawyers, women who’d worked with him on many of Etling’s prior deals. Towers placed his heavy files on the table in front of him before taking his seat. He glanced at Michael, as though he was asking if he’d done the right thing. Michael nodded his approval and smiled.

Etling pointed to the two files in front of Towers. “Are those all you have?”

Towers looked like a terrified rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. Someone, a real client, had actually asked him a question.

“They’re just the ones we need today,” Michael said, coming to the rescue of his junior colleague. “You should see what we have back at the office. We didn’t want to strain Glen’s back.”

Towers made a nervous grin, but still didn’t risk saying anything.

“Okay, let’s get started.” Etling poured herself a fresh coffee from one of the flasks on the table. “Help yourselves,” she said, nodding at the others. She started reading her handwritten notes on the yellow legal pad next to her coffee cup. “It’s a tight timetable. We’ve got exactly four weeks before the deal’s scheduled to be announced to the market. That doesn’t leave us long.”

“We can handle it,” said Michael, while Towers began scribbling notes of the meeting on his pad. His other colleagues focused on Etling, their faces held as if they were fascinated by her every word.

Etling frowned. “Remember, this is a strategic deal for our client. The board of Spar Cellular wants to learn everything there is to know about Collar Telecom. They don’t want a repeat of the Vodafone Mannesmann deal, where there was a huge write-down after the acquisition, so they’re going to want to diligence this thing to death. We’ll take care of the commercial aspects with KPMG, but you guys are going to have your work cut out on the legal diligence. They’ve got subsidiaries in over thirty countries.” Etling talked in a machine-gun monotone, only surfacing for air when absolutely needed.

“I assume the four weeks is driven by price sensitivity.”

“Right.” Etling took a sip of coffee to lubricate her vocal chords before unloading another magazine of words. “Collar’s stock price today is $20.40. The acquisition is priced at thirty bucks a share. Spar wants that offer to still represent a healthy premium when the deal’s announced. It’s—”

“Right now, the price is $20.65,” said one of Etling’s colleagues, reading from his laptop without looking up.

Etling pulled a face, as if she had a sour taste in her mouth. “It’s been edging up ever since our client kicked off these discussions. They’re getting nervous, and that makes me nervous. We cannot afford to see this deal leaked. If it gets anywhere near to twenty-five bucks, Collar’s going to want to renegotiate the price. It’s already toppy, so we need complete confidentiality on this one.”

“There’ll be no leaks from our side.” Michael’s heart rate increased as he thought about the price-sensitive information he’d just received and what Rondell would expect him to do with it.