The Trust (22 page)

Bong shot out of his seat, tape in hand. He lunged at JoJo, squeezing between the two cars, and tackled her hard. Drove her face into the oyster-shell driveway. Pinned her fast, his knee pushing against the flat of her back, his hands controlling her arms, dominating her. Endorphins surged through his body with the most glorious tingle of skin.

JoJo tried to scream. Bong was too fast, too powerful, awash in a sea of adrenaline. The veins under his spider-sun tattoo bulged as he wrapped the blue duct tape around and around JoJo’s head, gagging her mouth, muffling her cries for help.

Bong coiled her wrists in blue. JoJo kicked and writhed. She lost her flats in the commotion, the Manolo Blahnik snakeskins skidding into the bush. The Atlantic Ocean roared, drowning their noise.

Holly charged to JoJo’s defense. Fifteen pounds soaking wet, the tiny dachshund was all grit and gristle—the life-support system of bared teeth. She barked and circled, then darted forward. Bong swung his anvil fist. Holly ducked and fanged his wrist. Blood spurted everywhere.

“Pakshet!” he screamed in Tagalog, his native language from the Philippines. The word almost means “fucking shit,” but not quite.

Bong loosed his grip on JoJo. In a flash of blind anger, oblivious to the bite, he snatched the dog’s throat and squeezed hard. She yelped. Bong squeezed harder. The yelps turned to dog whimpers, Holly’s stubby legs twisting, her hot-dog body wriggling.

With his free arm, Bong grabbed JoJo’s waist and picked her off the ground like a rag doll. He threw her over his shoulder, Holly still whimpering in the other hand. He marched, all powerful, to the trunk and dumped JoJo inside with a thud. Holly too. He slammed down the trunk and jumped into his car.

Bong flicked off the brights, backed up, and headed west away from the beach. Total time elapsed: thirty seconds. He caught his breath. And as he drove away, considering the delicious surprises awaiting the very rich Mrs. Palmer Kincaid, Bong realized the most curious thing:

He felt great.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BOARD MEETING
TUESDAY

“Where is she?”

The four of us were sitting in the conference room. Claire wore a light gray sweater, the soft cashmere at odds with her angry words. She drummed her fingers on the ancient table, knotty and gnarled. She checked her watch at 10:04
A.M.
, 10:05
A.M.
, and so on.

Father Ricardo wore his black suit and white clerical collar, heavy on the starch. He was commanding in a priestly way, confident that his chain of command trumped all others. But his eyes were hostile. And I could tell he was annoyed.

Biscuit loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His clothes were a mass of wrinkles, not that he avoided the cleaners. His girth tugged and tested the fibers, stretching them this way and that.

We had tried small talk, which didn’t work. And I kept the requisite introduction vague on purpose. “Biscuit’s here to discuss my findings.”

Now our eyes darted back and forth, all of us uncomfortable. Claire tried JoJo on her cell phone but reached voice mail as we waited. Whereupon Father Ricardo placed his own mobile on the table. Biscuit said nothing.

At 10:17
A.M.
, Claire said, “Let’s get started.”

“I’ve never known JoJo to be late.” Father Ricardo was sitting at the head of the table again.

“Let’s get started anyway,” said Claire, taking control, assuming Palmer’s role.

“Is there a problem?” Father Ricardo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He was reserved. No smile, the air toxic—he sensed what was coming. His innate priest senses had kicked into gear.

“Frankly, Grove’s findings are a surprise.” Claire spoke in her CNN anchor voice, the inflection weighty and ominous.

I glanced in her direction, grateful for the support. Disappointment flashed across Father Ricardo’s face. But no more than a hint. He waited and said nothing.

“Grove, tell Father Ricardo what you learned.”

All eyes focused on me.

As a kid, Henry Kissinger wanted to be a weatherman. I wanted to be him. I know how to broker peace. But for all my diplomatic prowess—the occasional “Fuck you” notwithstanding—I had never interrogated a priest. And my words proved a struggle.

“Father, I know you had an understanding with Palmer. And it probably feels like we’re reinventing the wheel. When we parted last week, I fully expected to wire funds today. But I have questions now. Serious questions about activities that don’t fit our mission.”

“You need to be comfortable.” Father Ricardo registered zero stress. His voice soothing, his smile wan—he spoke with the reassuring manner of a man from the pulpit. “But you’re right. Palmer and I reached a deal. We shook hands. The holdup is, well, it’s troubling.”

“Let’s start with Highly Intimate Pleasures.”

Father Ricardo looked at Biscuit, who said, “Liberty Point Plantations is my client.”

“Who?”

“A subdivision off exit 55. Military people for the most part. All of them churchgoers.”

“They’re unhappy?” the reverend asked Biscuit.

“It’s the view from their backyards. There’s a massive billboard promoting vibrators around the corner. How would you feel?”

Father Ricardo turned to Claire. “That store, however offensive to Liberty Point, has nothing to do with my money.” His mobile vibrated on the pad of paper. He studied the caller ID before switching off the phone.

“That’s true,” I said, searching for the right words. “But Maryknoll doesn’t know who you are. Which makes the Catholic Fund’s investment much more troubling.”

“I told you they’d disavow any knowledge.”

“I’m sorry, Father. But I need a better explanation.”

“You’re a stockbroker. You, of all people, should know the importance of discretion. Palmer did.”

“Did he know about Highly Intimate Pleasures?”

Claire and Biscuit watched us like tennis fans, their heads turning back and forth every time someone took a swipe.

“Would you accept money from the Kennedy family?” asked Father Ricardo. He was calm, but his voice was growing more and more assertive.

“Huh?”

“A donation.”

“I don’t see the relevance, Father.”

“Just answer the question. Would the Palmetto Foundation take money from the Kennedy family?”

“I suppose so.”

“And given the chance, you’d manage the family’s money, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Here’s what I don’t get.” Father Ricardo’s voice betrayed his exasperation.

“Okay?”

“Joe Kennedy broke the law. He ran illegal whiskey. And yet you’re willing to give the family a pass. Highly Intimate Pleasures was a gift from a wealthy donor—”

“That’s what the accountant said,” Biscuit interrupted.

“And I’d like to remind you,” Father Ricardo continued, “it is a completely legitimate business.”

I said nothing.

“Did we violate any building codes, Biscuit?” The father’s eyes, intense and determined, locked on mine even as he questioned the lawyer.

“No. But—”

“Has the bar ever been found guilty of serving minors, Biscuit?”

“No.”

“Has any female employee ever filed harassment charges, Biscuit?”

“No.”

“In fact, women are running the show at HIP. Right, Biscuit?”

“Yes.”

“And, Grove, you work on Wall Street, home of the glass ceiling. Can you name one woman CEO of an investment bank?”

“No.”

“And you need a better explanation? Even though our charity owns a legitimate business that’s never violated the law and, if anything, is a good community citizen, given its progressive hiring practices. What am I missing?”

“How do you raise money, Father?”

“We covered that last week.” He sounded less like a priest and more like a guy out $40 million. “My seller is declaring bankruptcy any second now—”

“But we wired twenty-five million.”

“Wasn’t enough, Grove.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I’m about to lose my chance to make a difference because you’re dragging your feet with our money.”

“There’s no way,” I replied, forcing myself to remain cool, “you’re raising big dollars from your websites. Not with the traffic you get.”

“How do you get clients?”

“Referrals, word of mouth.”

“Right,” he said, again steepling his fingers. “And how do you close them?”

“I visit them.”

“Right. So you should be the last person to question me. I visit donors. I make presentations. And when all is said and done, I ask for the order from really wealthy people. You know what that means, right?”

Snide or not, Father Ricardo had a point. Big money requires in-person meetings. But his explanation still troubled me. “Then why did you emphasize the websites?”

“They’re placeholders. I see rich people. We talk. We smile. We shake hands, and when I’m gone, they Google me. That’s what you did. Websites legitimize the Catholic Fund, and they cost nothing to maintain.”

As quickly as I was raising objections, Father Ricardo was knocking them back. “There’s one more thing, Father. I hope this question doesn’t offend you.”

“Why stop now?”

Claire’s eyes widened. Biscuit nodded at me. His expression said, “Go for it.”

“The Manila Society for Children at Risk invested in HIP. Why’s the cash going around in circles?”

The room went silent. Claire, Biscuit, and I stared at the reverend. After a considerable pause, he said, “Sweat equity.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My kids sew the clothes that HIP sells. They get paid. And just so there are no conflicts of interest, the orphanage owns a piece of the store.”

“Like a sweatshop?”

“Knock it off!” snapped Claire. “You’re badgering him, Grove.”

“I’ll pretend you never said that.” Father Ricardo’s tone chilled me. “Do you know what it’s like for my kids? The lucky ones are missing an arm or a leg. Some lose their eyes. How easy do you think it is for them to get jobs?”

I sat stone-faced.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“My kids will never worry about meals. We teach them skills and give them dignity.”

I was about to speak, Father Ricardo about to continue. Claire had said enough, and I suspected Biscuit might weigh in somewhere. That’s when the intercom buzzed, and Jill said, “I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s a delivery guy here, and he’s pretty insistent about giving you a package.”

“Just sign for it,” Claire instructed.

“He won’t leave unless I put it in your hands myself.”

All four of us shrugged our shoulders.

Claire punched the intercom. “Bring it up.”

*   *   *

Jill handed Claire a manila parcel and left the room.

It was a book mailer, bubble wrap inside, approximately nine inches by eleven. The contents bowed at the center. The item inside was neither big nor heavy. It was chunky and irregular. It bulged with what could have been a cell phone for all I knew.

“Are you expecting something?” Father Ricardo glanced at his watch.

“No.” Claire pushed the bangs from her forehead.

Biscuit watched.

There was no return address. There were no stamps. There were no labels from one of the major delivery services. The package simply read: “Claire Kincaid. Grove O’Rourke. Open Immediately.”

“You think it’s from JoJo?” I ventured.

“Not her handwriting.” Claire tore the mailer at its edges. She struggled with the tape and glanced around the conference room for scissors.

“Let me help,” Biscuit volunteered, his expression cautious. Father Ricardo, Claire, and I were more curious than circumspect.

The big man ripped open the top of the package and glanced inside, his quick peek imperceptible. But I could almost hear his thoughts as he handed it back to Claire:

Easy.

She pulled out a standard envelope, the kind used for business correspondence. It was flat. I assumed there was a letter inside. It contained the same message as before, written in block letters with a black Sharpie: “Claire Kincaid. Grove O’Rourke. Open Immediately.”

A second envelope dropped onto the conference table. It was small, but there was something thick and chunky inside. There was no message. Only layers and layers of tape. The second envelope had been mummified.

Claire pulled a letter from the first, white copy paper, same neat black letters as the addressee.

Biscuit mumbled, “This isn’t good.”

“What’s it say?” The suspense was killing me.

She scanned the letter. A look of horror engulfed her features.

“Tell us,” demanded Father Ricardo. For the moment, he had forgotten his $40 million. He had forgotten the property in the Philippines. He was consumed by Claire’s angst. We all were. The three of us stared, every second an eternity.

Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes brimmed with tears. When she read, every word proved arduous, every sentence a Herculean task to complete.

“‘We have JoJo Kincaid. You will do exactly as we say. If you don’t, the woman dies. If you contact authorities, the woman dies. If you look for us, the woman dies. If you alarm us in any way, the woman dies. And know one thing. Everything makes us nervous.’”

“Good lord.” Biscuit swept a meaty hand through his thick mop of hair.

“‘Wire two hundred million dollars to the address below.’” Her face ashen, Claire did not read the wiring instructions.

“Is there more?” Father Ricardo’s face was aging before our eyes.

“Yes.” She nodded, her expression grave. “‘We know you have the money. Our deadline is tomorrow, five
P.M.
Don’t miss it. Don’t ask for more time. We will send body parts, a different limb every day you are late. Unwrap the envelope, and you will see. We are the judge, jury, and executioner. You fuck up, and the woman dies.’”

Claire dropped the letter as though it were toxic. She backed farther and farther away from the table, distancing herself from the second envelope, which was layered in tape and still unopened. Biscuit wrapped his bear of an arm around her, instinctively comforting her. Father Ricardo followed the big man’s lead, flanking her from the other side.