Shattered Trust (10 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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She just nodded and watched her husband from a remote place in her mind, knowing full well that what had started his tirade had everything to do with his spent nervous system. It was their way; he processed information and discharged stress differently than she did. However, she was in lockstep with his thinking; this was some dangerous shit.
They rode the rest of the way in deep silence, without even the normal, complementary smooth jazz that they were accustomed to. On a mission, they kept their focus to the fast-moving white lines on the highway, each mentally absorbed in the hundreds of ways the scenario with an unknown variable, Sean, could play out.
James pulled the car into the Franklin Street garage, his eyes keened on the desolate environment. This late, downtown Baltimore was a ghost town. He casually pulled his leather shoulder holster out from under the seat and put it on, and then grabbed his bomber jacket before exiting the vehicle. Laura cut him a glance, but said nothing. He liked that about her. She was practical when it came to things like this.
His gaze sweeping, they walked a short half block to Cathedral Street, and then proceeded past massive four-story brownstones with elaborate architecture. From the street, the structures sported ten-foot windows that he knew contained ceilings twice as high. Marble steps sprawled past brick and ornate wrought iron. At the edge of the park, they turned down West Mount Vernon Place and visually scanned the mansions that lined the tree-ensconced promenade. This was definitely the high-rent district, if ever there was one. Laura took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever come what may.
James motioned with a nod. “This is it.”
They read the small, tasteful brass nameplate of the firm they were seeking and alighted the steps in unison, rang the bell twice, and waited. Before long, a slight, willowy built man seeming to be in his early thirties appeared at the door. He had on the requisite, conservative, Ivy-League navy Polo shirt and a pair of khakis, but his dark brown hair seemed a cross between urban chic mousse-spiked and punk. There was a subtle feral quality of repressed excitement in his eyes, shielded by thick, rimless glasses, and he gave James and Laura a quizzical look and then smiled. They gave each other a concerned sideline glance and then stepped over the threshold, trying not to gape at the sheer enormity of the elegance that surrounded them.
Highly polished woods met hand-plastered crown molding in twenty-two foot, expansive ceilings. Victorian sitting room furniture draped in ivory watermarked silk fabrics faced a huge fireplace. The fact that someone once lived here in such opulence had not escaped them.
“C'mon upstairs,” Sean urged, dashing for the wide staircase. “The elevator is too slow, and we need to get down to business.”
Staring up nearly produced vertigo as Laura glanced at the endless banister that terminated four long flights up with a stained glass skylight. Using only the dim illumination of security lights as a guide, they followed their eager host. At the top of the landing, the hallway was so large that there was another seating area, replete with two sofas, a Queen Anne chair and Chippendale coffee table that flanked another fireplace. By the time they'd made their way down the corridor behind Sean, and had been carefully sequestered in the back of the block-long building behind double-paned glass French doors, neither Laura nor James could hide their awe.
“Damn ... so this is how the other half lived, ” James muttered, looking around.
“Live,” Laura corrected. “And this was just an in-town property for most. The country houses put this to shame.”
“Right you are, that's why I don't mind doing a little Robin Hood action, for the cause,” Sean said merrily, firing up a computer and plopping down behind a cherry mahogany desk. “If it was earned from so-called honest money, I wouldn't have a problem with it,” he added, and then looked at James and Laura hard. “But you and I both know that's not how it went.”
Laura arched an eyebrow, but James's expression was impassive.
“Reparations now, sis,” Sean said with a droll chuckle, and then extended his fist for James to pound.
James just looked at the younger man for a moment, and begrudgingly complied.
“Don't let looks fool you. We have the same roots.”
Sean smiled when neither Laura nor James said a word.
“Oh, c'mon, guys,” Sean prodded. “Don'tcha wanna know how I got here, or how me and Megan know each other?”
“Well ...” Laura hedged.
“Cousins. My mother's side gives me my radical component,” he said, chuckling and working on a computer system. “My father gave me a white boy passport. Most people can't tell. So you add that to the Ivy background, and the passable last name, and you'd be surprised at the places I can get into, and the things that get said about us when nobody thinks there's one of us is around.”
“Deep,” James said, moving closer to Sean to peer over his shoulder.
“Very,” Sean said, triumphant. “You want to see the old boys' network, and nepotism taken to a whole new level, give me the digits and watch and learn. I see this shit all the time. Deals made on the yachts, at the country clubs, over golf, you name it.”
Laura offered a tense smile as she approached Sean. “I have a few numbers for you,” she said, not addressing the charge he'd made, but agreeing in principle without words. “Got a few names, too. Polanski, Devereaux, Townsend.”
Sean nodded, his intense brown eyes glued to the bright screen. “Devereaux and Townsend are old families—Mayflower types. D.C. connections.” His fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur. “Polanski is a newcomer. Watch for those, always, as they're usually more aggressive, have the higher-risk deals. The old-world boys are so thoroughly entrenched in the system that, they can work a deal clean without incident.”
“Makes sense,” Laura said, taking a perch on the corner of Sean's desk.
Sean's gaze traveled up her body with appreciation. “You're a new player, too. You obviously take a lotta risks, lady.”
“That's why she rolls with security,” James said, giving Sean a hard glare.
“My bad,” Sean chuckled, and returned his gaze to the screen. After awhile, he expelled a breath. “I see a Senator Scott in his filings, a Haines ... several real estate holdings that got transferred ... there were supposed to be land leases going to these guys from the Micholi Foundation, but they then transferred holdings to American Education First ...”
“Bulls eye,” Laura whispered. “What can you tell us about Micholi Foundation?”
“Might take me a while,” Sean said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “but it can be done. What types of relationships are you looking for?” He slumped in the high-back leather wing chair, suddenly seeming mentally exhausted as he waited for direction.
“How about something that would put dude in proximity of the kinds of connections that would be able to pull an old Black Ops favor—Russian variety, post-cold war era?” James had made the statement coolly without blinking, gaining a glance of concern from Laura.
“Oh ... shit,” Sean whispered. He stood and began pacing. “Not from here. You're talking a hack into State Department or CIA databases. If I go into Langley, they'd satellite track my ass down to the license plate and be able to have The-Men-In-Black-type roll up on me ... with this new Patriot Act crap, I could really disappear.”
“OK, OK,” Laura said, slipping off the edge of Sean's desk. “Let's be judicious and work it with less dramatic flair. Polanski is a name from the old Eastern bloc region, just like Micholi is. Maybe we research just the foundation, any ties to that, through traditional paper-trail, sped up by cyber peeks ... no heroics that could get somebody killed?”
James nodded; Sean ran his fingers through his hair and sat down.
“I want a common denominator. Someone who shows up wedded to everyone, in every new entity filing, transaction, or any contracts. Then, we research that individual ... their resume, where they worked, how they climbed the ranks from college onward. We find out their approximate age, what college they went to, when, and who might have been there with them. Cool?”
Sean blew out his breath hard. “The CSI stuff I can do, lady. Easy. All I need to do is build a little program that makes relational associations, and I'll run it against the searches ... of course, using my bosses' names for different searches on each would be client of the firm, that way, I cover my tracks.” He smiled. “I don't care if they have any forthcoming issues—they're all as dirty as sin. So, hey,” he said, shrugging, “all's fair in love and war.”
“How long will it take?” James asked, growing restless.
“I'm an artist, OK?” Sean snapped. “Gimme a cell number and I'll get back to you. This isn't something I can just do on a dime. I need to think about it, figure out—”
“All right, all right, I hear you,” James said, walking toward the door. “Let us know.”
“What's in it for you, though?” Laura said cautiously.
“Artistic expression. Creative inspiration?” Sean smiled at James's glare. “OK,” he finally said when he received no response. “Let's just say I have an old axe to grind, which I'd prefer not to mention.”
“Like?” James said, steadfast.
Sean sighed and met James's gaze with a hard glare of his own. “Like Donny and I were very good friends, first—before Alan. All right?”
James nodded. “I'm sorry things worked out like they did. You would have been better for him.”
Laura watched in sheer awe as the defensive tension left Sean's body. It was the last thing she'd expected James to have said, and the respectful tone he'd employed had no game within it at all.
Sean sat up a little taller in his chair. “Thank you,” he murmured, and then looked at the computer screen. “I'll get what you need. Count on it.”
For a moment, no one in the room spoke. It was as though they were all going to mental neutral corners and regrouping. But Laura's mind was still working the puzzle in a whir of fast-moving pieces. She needed to do something, anything, to flush the target out of hiding, so that extreme measures, like breaking into serious databases, weren't necessary.
“Before we go,” she said as gently as possible, “are there any events, any fund-raisers, anything we might be able to attend to sweat these guys a little?”
“I like how you're thinking,” James said, setting his jaw hard as he looked at Laura.
Sean's fingers went to the keyboard. “That's the easiest thing you've asked me all night. As system administrator, I can see the bosses' calendars, as well as anything their secretaries put on Outlook.” Seeming satisfied, he pushed away from the desk with flourish. “The Smithsonian. Black tie. Gulf Rebuilding Relief Gala. Everyone who is anyone will be there.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Micholi bought a table.”
Chapter 10
S
he watched tension thread itself through James as they left the ornate office building and walked the few blocks to the garage. Her husband methodically paid at the auto-attendant station, and he again kept his eyes roving for the slightest movement. If he was worried, she was worried. It was not like James to unnecessarily panic. When he stopped at the vehicle, checked under it, and then warily opened the door, she knew they were on the same page—but she didn't speak on it.
His circuitous route out of the city was just as unnerving. Rather than heading directly for the highway, he went down Franklin Street until the houses became small row homes in disrepair. Dilapidated streets marred by blowing trash and abandoned structures took over from the posh, downtown environs they'd just left. Unable to contain herself, she turned in her seat and studied James hard. The muscle in his jawline was pulsing. That was not a good sign.
“All right,” she finally said. “Tell me what's eating you.”
“Everything and nothing,” he replied, glancing up at the rearview mirror.
“Like?” she said, pressing him for an answer.
“A drive through the 'hood always puts things into perspective,” he said too calmly.
She glimpsed the car behind them and then sat back, her eyes straight ahead. “Are we being followed?”
“Call Sean, tell him to get out of the building, and to maybe spend the night at a friend's.”
Laura quickly dug into her purse, found her cell phone, and retrieved the number that Megan had punched into it. Sean picked up on the first ring. Her voice was brittle as she spoke and James blew through a red light. The car behind them sailed through the light behind them. “Get out of there. We may have been followed. Don't go home, go to a friend's and don't do anything else until we contact you again.”
“OK,” Sean said in a shaky voice. “But I'm scared. Where are you guys?”
“Drawing fire,” Laura said, and then clicked off the call.
“Put your seat belt on,” James ordered. “Tight.”
She complied without argument, and glanced over her shoulder again. James turned down a side street, and the sedan behind them did, too.
“What are we gonna do?” she whispered.
“There may be a drive-by shootout in the 'hood, which will go down as a suspected drug thing,” James muttered, pulling his gun from the holster and maneuvering the vehicle with one hand.
As soon as he'd sped through another light, the driver behind them became more aggressive. James went down a one-way street in the wrong direction, and the black sedan behind them followed suit, gunning the engine. Swerving to miss a light pole, James took their vehicle around the corner nearly on two wheels. She could see the panic in his eyes. They didn't know Baltimore well enough to know the street map by heart. In an all or nothing move, James hit the pavement and went down the sidewalk, spilling them out into oncoming traffic on 40-W again.
A hard thud made her almost chip a tooth as their vehicle landed, scraping metal to asphalt. Every conceivable fear raced through her as James topped speeds of eighty, headed for ninety miles an hour in a residential zone. Where were the cops? A collision with something was imminent, and she wondered which was worse, death by gunshot or gasoline fireball. Her cell phone rang.
“Answer it!” James shouted, driving like a maniac, sweat now evident on his brow.
She grappled with her bag, hands shaking, eyes darting at the blurred images of row homes. “Who is it?” she hollered into the phone.
“Megan!” a frightened voice yelled back into the receiver. “Slow down. I'm behind you!”
“Pull over,” Laura shouted. “It's Megan—she's behind us.”
James yanked the wheel hard, screeching brakes as the vehicle slid to a stop in the CVS lot. Breathing hard, he glanced at Laura and then the car that pulled up beside them. A pair of puffy, panic-stricken eyes greeted theirs.
“I needed some air to clear my head after you guys left. I walked down the block to go pick up some clove cigarettes, and I left the porch light on. It was out when I came back.... I was a block away and could see it wasn't on. I was only gone fifteen minutes. It was a new bulb.” Megan had gasped out her statement, and then leaned her head on the steering wheel. “I always walk with my cell phone on me. I backed down the street, ran all the way to 30
th
Street train station, hopped on the airport line, and went to the only place I knew I could rent a car all night long!” Tears filled her eyes as she spoke between gulps, thick mucous making her words slur. “I knew you were coming here and didn't know what else to do. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I should have gone into Sean's. I'm worried about him. I ...”
Megan's words trailed off with a sob. James and Laura were out of their car in seconds, going to Megan's side to extract the distraught woman from her vehicle.
“You did right,” Laura said, pulling her into a hug.
“Roll with us to BWI,” James said. “You got folks in the islands?”
Megan nodded. “My cousins and rest of Mom's folks are down there.”
“You got a passport you can get your hands on?”
Megan looked up at James. “I only had my wallet with regular ID, some credit cards, and a few bucks cash.”
“Give her one of yours,” James ordered. “Tie your hair up, we'll give you one of Laura's suits—”
“James, her driver's license won't match any passports I have in the trunk.”
Megan's stricken gaze shot between Laura and James.
“You know anybody in D.C. 'round the way that does this sort of work?” James ushered Megan to the back passenger's door and opened it for her to climb in.
“I don't know ... maybe. I might be able to get a new driver's license, or something, down in Southeast? But I don't have enough—”
“We've got the cash part covered,” Laura said, cutting her off as she climbed into the car. “You call your cousin, tell him to get his behind on the next thing smoking out of the states until this blows over. If you've got any old bogus ID vendors on tap in The District, that's where we're headed. From there, you sleep in the airport in a very populated area and wait on the next flight to Jamaica.”
Megan wiped her face with both hands and sniffed. “What about the rental?” she murmured, motioning to it as James began to pull off.
He glanced at Laura, put the gears in reverse, and backed into the side panel hard.
Stunned, Megan's mouth dropped open.
“Call it in as an accident. Tell them you were in a very unsavory area of the city, and got a cab to the train station, and will file a report later—but as a female, you're not trying to stay in this desolated area.”
“I like your style, Mr. Carter,” Laura said, her gaze fixed to the road ahead.
Megan just dialed, continuing to stare at them both.
 
 
It had been a long time since she'd cruised The District. Everything had changed, and yet, it was all still the same. Pockets of opulence and grandeur in the power seat of the nation were still framed by poverty. Re-gentrification was in full effect. Georgetown still had its exclusive charm, albeit she saw more yuppies and students than ever before. The community, as it was in Chocolate City, was on veritable lockdown. Skyrocketing prices, a police force that kept the have-nots at bay from the haves, was the order of the night.
“I've never directly dealt with these people,” Megan finally admitted, as they pulled up to a vacant-looking brownstone that had been sectioned into apartments. “I just heard from friends a long time ago that they used to come here to get phony ID so they could drink while in high school.”
“Bad plan,” James said, wiping fatigue from his face. “Got any good ideas?” He looked at Laura and she shut her eyes.
“No,” Laura said. “Not at the moment.” She sighed hard and glanced up at the building that had people slowly filing in and out. “If you ask me, this has crack house written all over it.”
“Like I said,” James grumbled. “Bad plan.”
“Think, think, think,” Laura muttered, dropping her forehead into her hands in exasperation. Then she suddenly sat up straight. “Take my driver's license and a matching passport.” She turned to Megan and leaned over the backseat. “You put on one of my suits; we get you out of here with light, carry-on luggage. I've got a couple of days before I have to jump a jet, and can get a matching license later.”
“Bad plan,” James said shaking his head and pulling away from the curb. “You're a target, she isn't. If someone is looking for you, they'll come for her.”
Megan had begun to hyperventilate in the backseat.
“Then, just give her a secondary one that doesn't have my name on it,” Laura said calmly. “One that doesn't show U.S. citizenship—that way, she wouldn't need a license to confirm it.” Again, she glanced at Megan and petted her arm over the backseat. “You're Lillian Braithwaite, citizen of Grand Cayman.”
 
 
They'd waited in the short-term airport parking lot until just after sunrise, half dozing. Megan's brief call confirmed she'd made her flight. Sean was right behind her. Again, their world was spinning out of control. But they had a gala to attend. James needed a tux; she needed a gown. They both needed VIP tickets. That wasn't a problem, they'd be on the list as guests of one of the Micholi Foundation's significant donors—courtesy of Sean's old firm.
 
 
“Good brother, B,” Akhan murmured, accepting an embrace from his old friend. He held Edgar Braithwaite away from him to stare into a pair of eyes that knew him well.
“Brother Akhan, long time, mon.” Braithwaite smiled and jauntily tilted his head to the side, which caused his large red, black, and green crocheted cap filled with silver locks to lean. “Dis your family?”
Akhan smiled, as Brother B surveyed Steve with suspicion. “It is a very complex arrangement,” he said quietly. “But, yes, this is my family. Two are still overseas.”
Brother B rubbed his scraggly, gray-streaked goatee, pinching his dark, gaunt features into a soft scowl. “I guess it's all good.”
Unable to operate on fumes any longer, James pulled their car up to the Florida Avenue Grille. “A brother's gotta eat,” he said through a yawn. “Then at least three hours to crash and burn, before we do this thing tonight.”
Laura was so bone-weary that she practically staggered out of the car, and once inside the small diner, she half feared she'd pass out if she ate a full plate of fried fish and grits. Coffee was calling her name, but soon the aroma of bacon, pancakes, sausages, and eggs, along with tender fried whiting made her stomach gurgle. James sat in a sleep depravation daze staring at the table, seeming to only be holding himself up on his elbows.
“This has gotta stop,” he finally said, once the waitress had taken their orders.
“I know,” she said quietly, sipping her coffee. “The circle of people caught up in the madness is getting too big.”
“Then there's only one option,” he muttered, slurping his coffee. He stared at Laura for a moment. “Bring 'em down, and bring 'em down hard—or go out in a blaze. I don't want anybody's death on our conscience.”
 
 
“You been following the news?” Brother B asked as he pulled his rusted-out, old Ford station wagon up to the small shanty in Kingston.
“Not since we left,” Akhan said, his eyes roving the streets he remembered from thirty years ago. He'd forgotten about the heat and congestion of Kingston and the economic decline. The three passengers in the back sat silently, as though holding their breaths.
“Was all over BBC News. They don't have crimes like that in Grand Cayman,” Brother B said, glancing at everyone in his car. He paused as his eyes met Akhan's. “Two officers shot dead by an unidentified white man, claimin' to be an insurance salesman ... but they said he was a terrorist, because he had bomb equipment in his briefcase. The policeman that shot him dead away couldn't make a statement until their investigation is over.” He stroked his beard, winced, and then looked at his house, seeming unsure. “You gwan need to go up in de hills, mon. In de bush country wit da Rastas.”

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