Shattered Trust (12 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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For the first time that evening, James offered her a genuine, sly smile. “I've been known to play a good game of poker in my day.”
“Touché. I stand corrected,” she murmured as they slipped into a group of men standing near Polanski.
“Forgive me,” she said to the unknown men around Polanski. “But I just had to say hello to an old friend.” Using the feminine prerogative, she stepped around them, inserted herself into their midst, and extended her hand while James hung back and watched her work.
“Mike, we'll leave you to this lovely friend,” one of the men said, and moved away to another group of guests with the others.
The floor had cleared around Polanski, which let her know that those men previously standing close had been ready to bolt from the conversation that they'd been having. An instant distancing meant only one thing—whatever Polanski was lobbying them for wasn't being heard, and there was resistance to whatever he'd proposed. Good. That left him isolated with thinning allegiances.
“Laura,” Mike said, trying to sound upbeat as his eyes flitted between her and the men who'd vacated his presence. “Long time.” He looked at James as he walked up. “I don't believe I've formally met your escort.” By rote, Polanski extended his hand and shook James's. “Mike Polanski.”
“James Carter,” James shot back, shaking the man's hand in a vice grip.
Laura smiled. “My husband.” She watched the color drain from Polanski's face.
“Congratulations, and, uh, forgive me if I'm too bold ... but haven't I seen you somewhere before?” Polanski's eyes studied James for a moment.
“I guess I just have one of those memorable faces,” James said evenly, and then took a sip of wine. He let the comment hang, and enjoyed how Polanski twisted in the brief, uncomfortable silence, knowing how he'd process the unspoken reference to all black men looking alike.
Laura glanced between both men without elaborating and also allowed the comment to dangle a bit for theatrical effect. He was pleased that she'd followed his lead on this one. They were on the same page in throwing a key target off balance.
“No, I'm sure of it,” Mike Polanski said, pressing the issue and raking his fingers through his thinning hair. “In Philadelphia ... but I just can't ...”
“Maybe in the newspapers?” Laura said, mischief tugging at her mouth.
Polanski tilted his head for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “The Paxton case.”
James smiled. “I don't like to talk about it. Not every day you have to take a man's life.”
Polanski's and James's eyes locked, until Polanski glanced away and sipped his wine.
“I don't suppose so, Detective,” Polanski said, giving James a respectful nod. With that, he turned his attention to Laura. “Well, married, back home from the Caymans, what's next for you, Laura?”
She and James shared a glimpse at each other from the corners of their eyes. She hadn't told Polanski they were in the Caymans or that she was back in Philadelphia, plus Devereaux and Townsend hadn't crossed the room yet. OK. Time to play. He was in it.
“Real estate,” Laura said with a threat in her smile. She didn't bother to inform Polanski of the fact that James had retired, either.
“Really?” Polanski said, nervously twirling the stem of his wineglass.
“Really,” Laura said in a flat tone. “I have access to old program properties via very trusted friends in the grassroots community, but ... it is becoming somewhat of an overhead burden for them, given the recent change in funding priorities. We may consider just purchasing it from the state outright, or whoever was ultimately granted that property—since the nonprofits are beginning to fall behind on their lease payments.”
She watched Polanski's mannerly smile fade to a tight line of concern. They both knew the state no longer owned that property, and that Akhan, her uncle, did. But it was a delicate game of unmentionable knowledge.
“In fact,” she added, throwing gasoline on the fire that quietly raged within Polanski's eyes, “James and I may manage those leases and buildings ourselves to take the tax incentives, or recommend that they donate a good portion of it away to a larger, worthy foundation, if I can be assured that the paperwork will be handled properly.” Laura allowed the tender offer to dangle as a negotiating ploy.
Polanski nodded fervently. “I'm sure Micholi Foundation can help you with that. Our general counsel is excellent.”
“Alan Moyer is renowned for his meticulous handling of such affairs,” Laura said to let him know she was well aware of his foundation's power structure, and then took a cool sip of wine.
“Moyer will work with you,” Polanski said in an unnaturally quiet voice.
“Can you set up a meeting between us?” she asked, now toying with her wineglass. She waited and glanced at James as Polanski took his time responding.
“I'm sure I can,” Polanski finally said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. “I just need to let Alan know a general framework ... what we're talking about.”
Polanski had to be out of his mind if he thought she'd give back lands deeded to Akhan's personal neighborhood nonprofit—the one he'd founded and ran practically alone as executive director, and that now held several newly renovated buildings, courtesy of Haines and also housed several huge, new economic development non profits. The revenues off the leases alone were worth a mint, and the land itself represented ridiculous, primo, urban real estate that they'd definitely have to kill her and Akhan to acquire.
Laura smiled and pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. Yeah, she heard him and fully understood why she and Akhan had been a target. If her uncle died, the lands were then under her control as cofounder, and the board and bylaws were stacked to elect her as the next executive director to run everything. With the two of them gone, the board would have no focus and could be persuaded into anything, and the little caveat in the bylaws about original founders controlling land would be moot.
“I think, given the current executive director's age and health issues, and my new marriage,” she finally said beaming at James, “most, if not all, of it could be transferred to a larger institution that has the resources and wherewithal to deal with the constant problems of building maintenance, upkeep, late lease payments, security ... all of that is so daunting.”
Polanski rubbed his palm along the edge of his jaw. Cool, repressed excitement glittered in his beady, gray eyes. “Well, then, Laura, I'm sure Alan would love to meet with you as soon as humanly possible.”
Something indefinable tugged at her gut. Polanski was obviously just a middleman. She and James needed to know who had called for the hits and sanctioned them, and then she had to be sure to keep an ace up her sleeve that would guarantee their lives if any so-called transfer was made.
“Isn't Alan here tonight?” she asked in her most innocent tone.
Polanski shifted nervously where he stood. “Uh, I'm sure he'll be here shortly, but I haven't seen him yet.”
Interesting. Moyer was arriving with the senior VIPs and keynote, time-wise?
Very
interesting. She glanced at James, who hadn't said a word since the conversation began. She monitored her husband's tension as James carefully set his empty glass down on a passing server's tray and kept a steely grit on Polanski.
“Is there a number where he can reach you, Laura?” Polanski said quickly, noticing the way she and James had fallen silent. There was urgency in his voice, as though he were trying to keep the deal on the table and from unraveling before Moyer had a chance to weigh in.
“How about if I call him, to save him the long distance call to the Caymans,” she said, offering the thinly veiled excuse. They both knew a call there was nothing for Moyer to pay for, but it also indirectly said that she wasn't giving him a definitive stateside location or a cell number, which added pressure to Polanski's hope of holding on to the deal.
Reading her signal, James took her by the elbow. “You know, Laura, maybe we should have this conversation with several of the other major foundations and nonprofits. The Red Cross, for example, and The Salvation Army, both could use the properties as semipermanent housing and facilities for all those good people displaced in the Gulf ... and I bet there will be new nonprofits, or even older, more established ones, getting into the post-hurricane relief and family settlement business. That land and the subsequent buildings on it could be leased to a variety of worthy causes, to take the burden off of Akhan's smaller organization. So, honey, why don't we think about this some more?”
She kissed James's cheek, but spoke to Polanski without glancing at him. “Do you see why I married this man? He helps me to sleep at night.”
“In all due respect, Laura,” Polanski said, clearing his throat in agitation. “You and the Micholi Foundation go a long way back, and have very positive history—based upon your relationship with Donald Haines. I think first right of refusal is in order, don't you? So let's not be hasty. I'll find Alan, and we'll set up a meeting quickly.”
“In Philadelphia? Say tomorrow?” she cooed.
“For you, Laura,” Polanski said, dabbing his brow with a nervous smile, “I'm sure Alan will clear his calendar.”
Chapter 12
H
e didn't like it. They were supposed to get out of there before the serious VIPs arrived, and while the waiting media rush to mob them was in full effect. The way Laura was lingering was messing with his mind. But he knew she had to do it, had to see who came in with Moyer. He also knew his wife well enough to know that she was creating a strategy on the fly. So he waited, chilled, and kept his gaze scanning the guest-filled room.
She hated this shit. Once playing the political wine-and-cheese circuit had been her forte, but more than a solid year away from it had her wondering how she'd ever hung in there with it so long. As she looked at her husband's nervous system drawn wire-taut, and at the feigned smiles and coy glances, the position-jockeying that was going on amid the exhibits, she knew. Never again. No more Rainmaker's, Inc. No more galas for whatever reason or cause. She was out—just as soon as this was over. If anything, she'd become a radical philanthropist. Maybe she'd fund kids like Megan and Sean to become cyber-pirates and help watchdog agencies ... but these people ... never!
“I can't stand it,” she said to James through her teeth, brandishing a tight smile that bordered on a snarl.
“I hear you,” he said after a moment, but held her gaze as though worried she might snap.
“Just look at them,” she whispered in a hiss, turning away from the crowd to compose herself by only staring at him. “People died like dogs in the streets, were denied food and water and shelter and human decency while these fat cats sat around with their thumbs up their privileged tight asses, and now they have the gall and audacity to host a fund-raiser as a media photo op to show their concern!”
Laura drew a shaky breath and smoothed her hair as James stepped in closer to her to shield her expression and her words from others.
“You've got insurance lobbyists in here, James, pleading their cases for why they shouldn't be financially impacted by all those tax-paying homeowners down in the Gulf who paid them hard-earned wages, believing that ...”
“I know, baby. But you have to keep focused—”
“You've got other nonprofits in here trying to ensure their taps don't get turned off while funds get diverted to New Orleans, Mississippi, and Alabama, because donor fatigue has set in, and the little people, the American public, just gave up a cool billion from hardworking households to help.” She could feel hot tears rising in her eyes. “All this happened while we were away. Did you hear the conversations as we passed by the chic huddles? Private corporations are in here lobbying to get a chunk of the rebuilding, the cleanup, waste removal, you name it, while you've got politicians in here using this tragedy as election platform fodder. People died because they were poor. Any trust I had in any aspect of the so-called system has been shattered, James. Shattered fucking trust, is what I have now.” She briefly covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath and then summarily straightened.
“Laura—”
“I'm all right,” she said quickly. “But this is why I used to do what I did.”
“That's why I used to do what I did, too,” he said quietly, his steady gaze holding hers. His eyes only left hers to scan the filling room. “Justice always meant just us po' folk going to the pen while larger, more serious crimes that impacted masses of people went unchecked ... so I was trying to make a difference at the street level. You were real good at it, Laura, like me.” He smiled at her sadly. “We did this thing before as straight-up vigilantes.”
She nodded and caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Haines entering by the door. “Well, I'll just be damned,” Laura whispered. “Two o'clock. Mommy dearest Haines.”
“Your take?” James casually glanced over his shoulder and then back to Laura.
“One of two things,” Laura said, her gaze on Elizabeth becoming lethal. “Either she's a part of this, which I wouldn't put past her, or she's trying to keep her son out of it, given they might take him as a proverbial hostage.”
James shook his head. “No, baby. You're allowing rage to cloud your judgment. You've gotta detach and think about this like a cop. Donny isn't on any papers, and wields no power. There's no way for her to get to anything Haines left to Akhan; I'm too sure the old boy had a legal electric fence around his estranged wife to keep her from getting her claws into any assets he didn't want her to have. Think.” He stared at Laura, took the glass from her, and set it down before it cracked in her hand from her too-tight grip.
“She's being groomed for succession. Perfect fit. The wife of their dead colleague, Donald Haines, Sr. That would be politically correct as well as media salable. On the surface, honorable. Old Liz would be easy to manage, because then they could take Donny Jr. as a hostage; if she doesn't play the game as their pawn, something tragic could happen to her boy ... whether violence, or a media rape.”
James nodded and blew out a slow, controlled breath. Laura let hers out in an exasperated rush.
“That's my baby. Dead on target,” he said. “Now tell me, who did she walk in with and is her expression media-friendly, or tight?”
Laura reached for another glass of wine, just to position her body and James for a full frontal view of the door. “I'm not sure who she walked in with,” Laura admitted, “but Moyer just graced the door right after the ex-director of Homeland Security, who used to be the governor of Pennsylvania.” Her voice trailed off in an awed whisper. “Check out who's in the little party by the door ... the ex–FEMA Director, two big Philly real estate developers, and a coupla guys in suits I don't know.”
She took a quick sip of wine. “Now we study the crowd to see which way the big fish move. They may have come together, or not—that I'm not sure of, and neither is anyone else in the room. Moyer could have timed his and Elizabeth's entrance with theirs as a power ploy, something the pros do all the time to give the illusion of connections that don't really exist, and those guys could be uninvolved. That's just the thing, James. Ya never know.”
James moved her slowly through the room toward the gala entrance. “Polanski just went over to Moyer.”
 
 
“Alan,” Mike Polanski said calmly, fawning as he moved to where Alan Moyer stood with Elizabeth Haines. “May I steal him for a moment, dear?” Polanski's eyes begged for her understanding and a private audience.
“No problem,” Elizabeth said with a weak smile, and slipped away to talk to his colleagues, James Devereaux and George Townsend.
Once she had removed herself from their conversation, Polanski launched right in on his urgent point. “Laura Caldwell is here with that cop, Carter. She married him.”
Alan Moyer declined a passing tray of wine, his small, intense hazel eyes set deep in his puffed face. He stared up at the gaunt man before him with disdain. “I saw. So she married him. Why am I not surprised?”
“She wants a meeting. Tomorrow, in Philadelphia,” Polanski said, his eyes nervously darting around the crowd as he spoke. “She's ready for a truce. She said she'd confer all the land back to Micholi, the way it was before Haines—”
Moyer held up his hand to stop Polanski's excited flurry of words. Polanski watched a slow red tinge of fury overtake Moyer's face and creep along the gleaming bald surface of his scalp between the perfectly barbered wisps of his silvery white hair, although his expression remained impassive.
“It has already gone too far,” Moyer said calmly. “A meeting at this juncture is unnecessary. It's out of my hands.”
Polanski leaned in closer, against his better judgment, and pressed the issue, panicked. “He's
a cop
. A detective. If anything happens to his wife, the guy will be relentless, and if anything happens to him, they'll investigate this until they can nail someone to the cross. That's how
the equipment
left in North Central near Akhan's landed at Philadelphia Police Headquarters,” he added in a choked whisper. “Who knows who they know? Haines always had his finger on the black pulse, so did Scott, but we don't have anyone with such insight anymore. We need to back off, consider her offer. The Devereaux family is well-connected in New Orleans, and we could just cut our losses in Phila—”
“I see some people I need to speak with,” Moyer said, dismissing him. “You worry too much, Polanski, and that can be bad for your health. I suggest you let it go and meditate on serene subjects.”
 
 
Laura watched the two power brokers from the Micholi Foundation confer, and also saw Devereaux and Townsend hang back. When Polanski left Moyer's side, his expression seemed haunted. Moyer looked in her direction briefly, his old jowls set tight and his eyes burning with hatred. It was the same expression on his face when he'd appeared in court for his son's trial.... Oh, shit.
“We need to leave, now,” she said in a tense whisper.
“I thought you wanted to pick Elizabeth's brain and find out if Moyer's gonna agree to a meeting.”
“There won't be a meeting,” she said quickly, threading her arm through James's to move him to the door. “The decision has been made. Liz got the lucky pick. Me and Akhan are in the way—”
“But that's so sloppy. It doesn't make sense, if they can get what they want through a clean transfer.”
“It makes all the sense in the world, because it's personal.”
She didn't have to say another word to James, and she was glad that there was enough trust between them for him to take what she'd told him at face value. James murmured to the door attendant that his wife had a brewing migraine, and then grabbed his cell phone to hail the limo. Her phone was out in seconds as they went to the front steps and waited. She deftly punching Megan's number on speed dial.
“Tell Sean to dig up anything he can on Moyer, asap. I wanna know how and when he got into bed with the Micholi foundation people, if his people are Old Russian extraction, anything you got on the man.” She closed her phone without a good-bye, and almost ran down the wide, cement front steps with James to greet the limo when it pulled around the corner.
The driver got out and opened the door. He seemed confused, but asked no questions. Laura almost ducked into the vehicle, but hesitated.
“I don't feel so good, James,” she said loud enough for the driver to hear. She stared at the driver and then her husband. “Give me a moment,” she told the driver. “I'm pregnant, and don't want to upchuck in the vehicle. Can you wait here while my husband walks me inside to the ladies' room?”
The driver nodded. James's grip tightened on her arm as he hustled her back into the gala.
“The driver's a blond, and we had an Italian jobber drop us off,” Laura said quickly, almost not stopping at the door greeter.
“Is everything all right, ma'am?” the greeter asked, seeming concerned.
“I'm just a little nauseous from the headache. Can you tell me where the ladies' room is?”
The greeter pointed them in the right direction, and James was practically welded to her hip.
“You got good eyes, Laura,” he muttered, hustling her along.
“I'm sure security is gonna be a nightmare, getting out of the back door impossible,” she said, panting as she hurried down a long corridor to the restroom.
“Plan?”
They stared at each other.
“I'll go in, slap my face, spill water down my front, and come out with a towel, blotting my front. I'll claim VIP humiliation, and refuse to walk out the front—and you beg mercy not to have your wife's dignity assailed by having her go through a gala with vomit on her dress. Cool?”
“Done. Meanwhile, I could use a little assist from the boys. Lemme make two calls. Hurry.”
Without delay, she dipped into the ladies' room, slapped her face hard twice to make it look flushed, ruffled her hair, and splashed water down the front of her gown. She was out of the restroom by the time James had closed his cellular.
“I told Steve that Caluzo might need to have someone check on his boy, who no doubt ain't breathing any more. Got a squad car on the way to detain our problem out front by giving the limo driver a hassle. Let's go find a brother working security. Now would be a good time for tears.”
They slipped behind velvet stand turns that had been placed to keep guests from straying to sections of the museum beyond the gala. Within moments they were hailed by two security guards.
“Hey, hey, hey, sir, ma'am, this is a restricted—”
Laura heaved and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my God. I never thought pregnancy could be so vile, or I would have never let them do the fertility process on me, James. Get me out of here!”
“Ma'am, the front exit is—”
“I can't go that way,” she shrieked, looking truly crazy, and lowering the paper towel away from her breasts.

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