The Spire (34 page)

Darrow tried to make his smile less equivocal. 'I'd have missed that,' he said.

THE THOUGHT OF separation, Darrow realized, brought new sensuality to their lovemaking, the sweet but sad awareness that, next month or the month after, they would be unable to reach for each other in the middle of the night. Though he told himself it was childish, he could not help but feel cheated. They had really just begun.

Lying beside her, he pondered this deep into the night. 'What are you thinking'' she whispered.

He turned his face to her. 'How did you know I was awake''

'Because you breathe more deeply when you're sleeping.'

She slept less well than he did, Darrow was learning, often restless until early morning. 'I was thinking about you,' he said. 'Hoping this job prospect turns out however it's supposed to.'

That seemed to make her thoughtful. Softly, she said, 'I'll miss you, too.'

They remained quiet until Darrow drifted off. As he did, he remembered Lee saying that most men were like Norsemen'they could eat well, make love with gusto, then fall into a dreamless sleep, untroubled by their own stirrings.

Suddenly, Darrow started awake.

It took a moment to orient himself. Then he realized that Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, her face in her hands. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he felt her flinch, heard a stifled sob.

'Taylor,' he said with quiet urgency. 'What is it''

For a long time, she did not answer. 'The same dream,' she murmured. 'Ever since I was twelve.'

'What happens''

She did not turn. 'I find my mother dead. I try to get her to talk to me, and she can't.'

He rested his chin on her shoulder, his face against hers. 'Is that how it happened''

'I don't think so'not the talking part. But I've had the dream so long I don't even know what's real.' She paused, then said with muted despair, 'I thought I'd finally outrun it.'

'How do you mean''

She turned sideways, staring out into the darkness. 'The last year, at NYU, it seemed to have gone away. Returning to Wayne revived it.' Her voice held a note of self-contempt. 'It's just so arrested. It's like I'm twelve again, stuck in the worst part of my life.'

'Did you ever go to a therapist''

'At twelve' I wouldn't have known how to ask, and then I went to prep school.' She turned, speaking softly. 'What's there to explain, really' I lost my mother in adolescence, when I had no equipment for dealing with it, no one I could bring myself to talk with. Instead I ran away to Trumble, trying to shut off all my feelings. But they just migrated to my dream life. Living in the house where I found her body is bringing it all back.'

She sounded close to devastated. 'Be kind to yourself,' Darrow said. 'You lost the parent you loved most at the time you were least prepared. If you need help, Taylor, why not get some''

She said nothing. But afterward, neither slept.

The next morning, over breakfast in his kitchen, Taylor remained silent. She did not finish her cereal, or even seem to know he was there. It was as if she were walled off.

She has a tendency toward melancholy
, Farr had told him. Darrow did not know quite what to do.

Gazing at the table, Taylor said tonelessly, 'I still have an interview, don't I.'

MIKE R ILEY'S OFFICE was jammed with manila folders in stacks, tomes on finance, and manuals on forensic accounting. Small, dark, fidgety, and often amused, Riley defied Darrow's image of a certified public accountant. He was also brilliant.

Sitting in front of Riley's cluttered desk, Darrow inquired, 'Where's your pocket protector''

'Lame,' Riley replied. 'Especially from a recovering lawyer who needs my help.'

'So you believe what everyone else does'' Darrow said. 'That Durbin is a crook''

'He may be,' Riley answered. 'Just not indubitably.'

'Explain.'

'First, the facts inculpating Durbin look pretty persuasive. He was on the investment committee, his e-mail address is on the directive to Joe Betts, and what appears to be his signature is on the bank account where the proceeds went. As well as on the second account that received fifty thousand dollars wired from a Swiss bank.'

Darrow took a swallow of black coffee. 'What else''

'There are still some holes.' Riley spoke more slowly now. 'The missing piece in the chain of evidence is that we don't know who controls the Swiss account. Obviously, the Swiss will never tell us. A new piece, also unexplained, is why over six hundred thousand came back to Carl Hall from another bank in Switzerland, and what, if anything, that has to do with Caldwell College. Given that the transfers to Hall happened
after
the embezzlement may suggest that the same person transferred money from one Swiss bank to the other. But that leaves us to wonder why Durbin would siphon money to Hall.' He gave Darrow an arid smile. 'That Carl died from a shitload of heroin is also inconvenient.'

'Which brings us to my alternate theory,' Darrow rejoined. 'Blackmail, with the embezzler using Caldwell's money to pay off Hall.'

Riley took out the schedule of transfers that Garrison had given Darrow. 'What's interesting about these transfers is that they suggest a certain level of sophistication. Whoever moved the money understood that individual transfers of over ten thousand to or from a Swiss bank would trigger a federal inquiry.'

Darrow looked at him keenly. 'Anyone in the financial services industry would know that. Certainly anyone on Caldwell's investment committee. Except, perhaps, Clark Durbin.'

Picking up a pen, Riley held it to his lips. 'And so, you ask, could someone like Betts have framed Durbin''

Darrow nodded. 'You know the problem, Mike. Who else but Durbin would have access to his computer and e-mail account, plus the ability to 'forge' Durbin's name' No one believes Clark when he says it wasn't him.'

'I don't believe him,' Riley said flatly. 'Or disbelieve him. Ever hear of 'spoofing'''

'No.'

'Not many people have. In brief, it's a very clever technique through which, by changing the settings on your PC, you can send an e-mail using someone else's address.' Riley looked at Darrow keenly. 'Someone
could
have done that to Durbin.'

'What about Betts's reply' I've seen the e-mail trail; Joe e-mailed Durbin in response.'

'Sure. But the sender of the original e-mail, by rigging his computer, can ensure that the reply goes to his PC. In my scenario, Durbin would never receive it.' His eyes were bright with interest. 'That would work particularly well, I suppose, if Betts were replying to himself.'

Darrow reflected. 'But anyone with inside knowledge could have done it''

Riley grinned. 'Anyone in central Ohio,' he corrected. 'I had my IT guy take a look at this. He tells me that's where Durbin's e-mail to Betts originated. Aside from Durbin, who on the investment committee lives in central Ohio''

Darrow felt his instincts quicken. 'Betts,' he answered promptly. 'And Ed Rardin. But our investigators obtained access to the PCs of everyone on the committee.'

Riley waved a dismissive hand. 'Of course they did. But that proves nothing if a member of the committee used a separate computer with a false account. Which is exactly what he would have done.'

'What about Durbin's signatures''

'I showed the copies you sent me to a handwriting expert.' Riley gave a fatalistic shrug. 'Inconclusive, he says. If someone forged Durbin's name, he varied the script enough that he must have been working from multiple examples of Durbin's real signature'no one signs his name the same way twice. But my expert also thought the pen tracks appeared heavier than Durbin's normal script, creating the possibility that someone was imitating Durbin's signature with painstaking deliberation. Bottom line, he isn't sure.'

Pensive, Darrow eyed the Harvard coffee mug where Riley kept his pens and pencils. 'So where are we''

'Limbo. I can't tell you that any of this happened. I'm just saying it
could
have.' He flashed a brief but jaunty smile. 'Bring your laptop with you''

'Sure.'

'When you get home, open up your e-mail. Check out what pops up.'

'I'll do that,' Darrow said, and left.

WHEN HE ARRIVED home, the house was quiet, and Taylor had not returned.

Restless, he went upstairs to his office and opened his e-mail. Amid the cluster from Caldwell was one from Mike Riley. Opening it, he found a separate e-mail to Riley from Darrow's own address. 'Mike,' it began, 'this will explain how I stole Caldwell's money. Being a lawyer, theft comes easy. I first learned by sending bills to clients.'

Caught between amusement and unease, Darrow replied, 'Lawyers also sue people. Please look up 'libel' in the dictionary.'

Which, if Joe Betts knew what Darrow was doing, Joe might also suggest.

WHEN T AYLOR CAME through the door, Darrow was dressed for the Red Sox game. Though she looked tired, she seemed to have recovered her aplomb. 'So'' he asked.

'So I'm sorry for the morning's s'ance.'

'I liked the quiet,' he said lightly. 'How was your second interview''

'Depends on your point of view.' Taylor's smile was tentative. 'They offered me the position, Mark. For better or worse, no one's making this decision for me.'

Despite himself, Darrow was surprised. 'This is major,' he said. 'Shall we skip the game and talk this over''

Taylor shook her head. 'I'd really like to go'we can always talk between innings. After all, I've got a whole week to decide.'

They drove to Fenway Park, Taylor describing the offer and her impression of the curator. 'It all sounds good,' Darrow said as they arrived.

'If I let this go,' Taylor responded, 'I may regret it. But I also regret that it comes too soon. As they say, I'm torn.'

The night was balmy, perfect for baseball. They sat between home and first base, three rows back, gazing in a direct line at the pitcher's mound and, beyond that, the left-field wall known as the Green Monster. 'I love baseball,' Taylor said. 'The people, the smell of beer and hot dogs . . .'

'What about the game''

'Especially the game,' Taylor said. 'It's performance art'there's a beautiful geometry to how it's played, the lines and angles. Every game is a creation, different than whatever came before. But there's a wonderful history, passed through generations.' She smiled a little. 'I never saw Ted Williams play. But my father could describe his swing so perfectly, I felt as if I had.'

Once again, Darrow had the sad sense of potential lost'a father and daughter who, their lives altered by the same event, were unable to transcend it. 'I have no memories like that,' he said. 'My father and I never played a game, or went to one. He just disappeared one day, leaving nothing behind. I don't even know if he's alive.' And when his mother died, Darrow thought but did not say, all he had felt was emptiness.

Taylor glanced at him. Judging from his expression, she realized that he had said this less from personal sadness than to make a modest point about Farr. She chose to focus on the game.

It was unusually well played, a pitcher's battle between Josh Beckett and C. C. Sabathia in which, with the game tied 1'1 in the eighth inning, both pitchers finally yielded to the bullpen. 'Why don't we do this,' Darrow proposed. 'If the Red Sox win, you take the job and never look back.'

Taylor smiled. 'That would be a relief, actually. Let the gods of baseball decide.'

In the ninth, Alex Rodriguez put the Yankees ahead with a shot over the Green Monster. Taylor bit her lip. 'Guess they want me in New York.'

'Give Boston a chance,' Darrow said.

The Red Sox got through the rest of the top of the ninth with no further damage. With one out in the bottom of the ninth, Dustin Pedroia singled. Then, with two outs, David Ortiz hit a towering home run off Mariano Rivera that won the game for Boston. Amid the tumult, Darrow gave Taylor a hug. 'Seems like they're excited for you.'

Taylor leaned back, her smile uncertain. 'Want the decision back'' Darrow asked.

'No.' Taylor kissed him. 'It's a perfect job for me. I'm just thinking how much I'll miss you.'

T

HERE WERE CERTAIN MORNINGS, D ARROW THOUGHT, WHEN the world at first light seemed as fresh and new and awesome as creation.

This Monday morning was one. Walking from the President's House to his appointment with Lionel Farr, he crossed the gentle hillock between two older red-brick dormitories, taking in the scent of flowers, the deep greenness of oak trees, the seeming closeness of an unsullied blue sky, the glistening wet remnants on the grass from an overnight thunderstorm that, with the stiff breezes that followed, seemed to have purified nature. Light and landscape had always affected Darrow's moods: dank, dark enclosures depressed him; a mountain vista or a pristine beach or even a bright morning like this could exhilarate him. He had learned to savor such moments. And so, instead of meeting in his office, he had suggested to Farr that they walk there together.

Farr was waiting outside his house. Casually dressed for summer in slacks and a polo shirt, at first sighting the provost looked much younger than he was, his gray-blond hair still thick, his stomach flat, his profile clean. Even at a closer range that revealed the deep lines on his skin, the angles of his face seemed hewn from granite, the light blue eyes penetrating and clear. Lionel Farr would not slide gently into his dotage; he would fight against old age until he exhausted his last resources. But today the sight of him, usually welcome, jolted Darrow from his reveries. The conversation he intended would be difficult, its outcome unclear. Darrow had no script for this.

They headed toward College Hall, two men of roughly the same height and build, walking with the same easy rhythm. 'How was Boston'' Farr inquired.

'Fine. What does Taylor say''

Farr gave him a brief, sideways look. 'Taylor,' he said carefully, 'can be a woman of shifting moods, somewhat difficult to read. At least for me. But she seemed a bit preoccupied, I thought.' He paused, then added with an undertone of regret, 'I'm in the odd position of asking Caldwell's president how my daughter's doing.'