The Trust (36 page)

“You do now.”

“What’s the point?”

“Just get going. It’s not what you think.”

For the briefest of seconds, I wondered whether she would wire the money. What I would do in her shoes. I was not family after all, and it was $200 million. But if I ever doubted Claire Kincaid, I was wrong.

“Yes, yes. We’ll do it.” She was choking up, but there was no hesitation in her voice. Not even for an instant.

Ricardo pumped his fist.

“Thank you.” Claire’s generosity humbled me.

“I’ll lean on the bank to speed things along.” She was trying to be helpful.

No. Not that.

Sure, I was afraid. Ricardo had done his part of the deal. It was time we did ours. But I doubted the two goons would release me. The sooner they got the $200 million, the sooner they’d kill me and hide from the authorities.

“Where’s JoJo?” Claire asked. “May we see her?”

Ricardo made the same slicing motion across his neck.

“She’s safe.”

“But where?”

“Away from Ricardo’s people.”

“But where?” Claire echoed, this time louder than before. It wasn’t like her to press so hard. She was stressed.

“I’m a dead man if I tell you. Just wire the money.”

“I’m on it.”

Ricardo drew a loop in the air with his index finger, signaling me to wrap up.

“Gotta go.”

All we could do was wait and suffer, Ricardo and Jake from greed, and me from my bleak prospects.

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

Claire punched off the speakerphone, and Torres took charge. “What’s the name of your father’s lawyer?”

“Huitt Young.”

“And his firm?”

“Young and Scrantom. They’re on Meeting Street.”

Torres dialed Von Maur, who had been listening from the FBI surveillance van. “Did you get that?”

“I’m turning onto Meeting Street now.” He clicked off.

“I don’t know if Huitt’s in the office,” advised Claire. “He likes to work from home.”

Torres dialed the agent back. “Did you get that?”

“Young’s behind closed doors with a client.”

“I don’t feel like waiting,” she snapped.

“You won’t.”

Claire waited for Torres to hang up before protesting. “What if Huitt won’t come?”

“Von Maur’s a persuasive guy.”

“So is Huitt.” Wired and Napoleonic, the Charleston lawyer could be a cantankerous old bastard. Claire pushed the bangs from her face. They fell right back.

Torres paused long enough for the silence to turn uncomfortable. “You want to help Grove?”

“You know I do.”

“Then do exactly as I say. No pushback. No argument. Okay?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Call your bank, and tell them to wire the money.”

“It’s not that easy.” Claire glanced at Biscuit, her uninvited guest, for support.

The big man shrugged with an unspoken expression that said, “Do as she says.”

Claire turned back to Torres. “I need to fax the instructions first. Then I need to find somebody way up the food chain. And they may be out to lunch.”

“I don’t need the details.”

“But it’s two hundred million dollars.” Claire turned icicle white, frozen from stating the number aloud. Her father’s fortune was gone. Generations of Kincaid prominence were shot. And at the moment, it seemed like Palmer was Grove’s thousandth man. Not the other way around.

“You’re not gone yet?” snapped Torres.

Claire shook her head in dismay. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.” The FBI agent turned to Biscuit. “You’re on deck. When Young gets over here, I want you to ask him what you asked me.”

“And what was that?” Claire, standing at the door of the conference room, was still bristling from the dismissal.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now get out of here so I can call the Financial Crimes Unit.”

“Washington, D.C.?” Biscuit couldn’t keep from asking.

“Turks and Caicos.”

*   *   *

“What happened to you?”

“Car accident,” said JoJo.

She was standing in the lobby of the East Cooper Medical Center. Her hand was swathed in crisp white bandages. Her face was swollen, puffy eyes the size of tangerines. Her skin, once a stunning blend of gold and mocha, looked like a Goth line drawing. There were blacks, blues, and dark shades of purple spreading everywhere.

Even worse, she was standing face-to-face with Dottie Blanchard, the biggest gossip south of Broad. And before Dottie, JoJo had run into Katie DuBois. Those two could more than hold their own on the SOB grapevine. The hospital lobby had turned into a convention of busybodies. Which was a problem, because Grove and Bong had instructed her to keep out of sight.

“Oh my. Are you okay?” asked Dottie.

“I’ll be fine.” JoJo squeezed Dottie’s arm with her good hand and headed outside, where she found a taxi. Per all the instructions, she needed to hide—and fast.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked. But he spied Holly and reconsidered. “Hey, I don’t want your dog in my car.”

“She tips well. Just get us out of here.”

“You got it.”

They pushed into the backseat as JoJo considered her destination. Too soon to go home. That would blow everything. Nor could she drive anywhere. Her car was still at the beach. And lunch downtown was absolutely, unequivocally out of the question. That left one option.

“Charleston Marina.”

Twenty minutes later JoJo slipped into the teak lounge below
Bounder
’s deck, her dachshund waddling behind. She pulled off her skirt, blouse, and all the lace underneath. Her clothes had been ridden hard over the past two days. She rifled through her locker and found underwear and a sports bra. She pulled on fresh capris and a thick blue jersey with white horizontal stripes.

For a moment, JoJo was tempted to don shades and a black baseball cap and head upstairs. Too risky. Instead, she headed over to Palmer’s bar and rooted around for the Grey Goose and vermouth. There was plenty of ice in the freezer, enough to shake at least ten batches of martinis. For now, one would do.

JoJo carved the perfect lemon twist and placed her martini glass on a folding tray. She loaded some chips into a bowl and double-checked the date on a jar of salsa. Anything post-Jurassic. Finally, she filled a dish with dog food. Holly savaged every bite in less than a minute.

That left one thing. JoJo headed back to the locker and found her stash, the one Palmer had never seen. Nor anyone else in Charleston. She flicked out one cigarette from the pack and lit up.

Sinking deep into a deck chair, JoJo drew in as much smoke as her lungs could hold and savored the glorious hit of nicotine. After a while, she balanced the cigarette on the ashtray and turned to the martini. She sucked on shards of ice, the vodka burning down her throat and into her stomach. The pain, first from her face and then the left hand, steadily dissipated into the cloudy mixture.

Now all JoJo could do was wait. And wait she did—her elbow cocked, wrist bent, a parade of cigarettes hanging between index and third fingers on the right hand. The chips disappeared. So did the salsa. In the background Bob Dylan sang “Forever Young.” And the martinis grew sweet, one after another, promising that everything would be okay.

*   *   *

Smoke should have filled the Palmetto Foundation’s conference room, single-helix tracers rising from cigarettes and gathering at the ceiling in great clouds of spent tobacco. The four faces were tense, thin lips stretched tighter than piano wire. Angst billowed through the air, and the only thing missing were the Joe Camels.

“What the hell is going on?”

Huitt Young was agitated, annoyed by the FBI agent who had dragooned him over to the Palmetto Foundation in broad daylight. He stood up and circled the conference room. He sat down, unable to make up his mind. His friends often teased that he had been a Jack Russell in a previous life.

“JoJo’s safe.” Claire labored to sound strong and factual. But the traces of CNN anchor were gone from her voice. And making matters worse, she started in the middle of the story. “Now they have Grove.”

Huitt knew nothing about the events since Tuesday. Less than fifteen minutes ago, the guy named Von Maur had flashed Federal Bureau of Idiocy credentials and whisked him out the office, around the corner, and upstairs to the conference room of the Palmetto Foundation.

“What are you talking about?”

Torres smiled. Word had not leaked out about the kidnappings. It was better that way, easier to do her job. “Let me bring you up to speed, Mr. Young.”

Huitt sat, his left leg pumping under the conference room table. He listened, his ears cocked. He took in every word, digesting what had befallen his client. When Torres finally finished, Huitt sprang from his chair and started to yap.

“Let me get this straight. Following your recommendation, the Palmetto Foundation wired two hundred million dollars to the Turks and Caicos. To some thug who cut off JoJo’s finger, launders money for a South American drug lord, and runs around Charleston disguised as a Maryknoll missionary. Tell me how this transfer is a good thing.”

Torres remembered why she’d left the practice of law. “We didn’t invite you over for play-by-play.”

“No, but Palmer was my friend.” Huitt sat down. He drummed his fingers. He stood up, his kinetic impulses taking control. “And the Palmetto Foundation is my client.”

Then Biscuit stood up, unrolling his formidable girth in slow motion, filling the room with complete self-assurance. “We don’t have time for you to second-guess the FBI, Mr. Young.”

Huitt eyed the big man across the table and sat down.

Biscuit sat down.

Claire watched, suffering more than the others. She found the conference room grim and forbidding. The walls were closing in fast, suffocating her. She had no idea how the world had gone so wrong, how her father had become a complete stranger.

“We control the bank account in the Turks and Caicos.” Torres clicked through her explanation at a breezy clip, her delivery staccato, the attitude saying, “We’ve done this before.”

“What do you mean?” Huitt eyed Biscuit uneasily.

“Our friends on the island,” explained Torres, “are freezing all transactions as we speak. We’ll get the money back. But I wish you’d stop playing lawyer and start answering my questions.”

She thought about adding, “Your fees are safe.” But she decided her previous comments had already been too inflammatory.

“Why am I here?” Huitt pulled a pen from his coat pocket and rolled it around and around with both hands. He desperately wanted to stand.

“We need your help finding Mrs. Kincaid. Any guesses where she is?”

The explanation puzzled Huitt. “I thought you said she’s safe.”

“According to Grove,” Torres replied. “He traded himself to secure Mrs. Kincaid’s release.”

“But JoJo hasn’t contacted any of you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t know.” All eyes were riveted on Torres as she spoke. “Maybe she’s afraid that something will happen to Grove. Or maybe it’s something else.”

“What do you mean?” Huitt riffled his shock of silver hair.

Torres addressed Biscuit. “Why don’t you try your theory on Mr. Young.”

All eyes turned to the big man.

“I’ve got five sisters.” Biscuit spoke in his trademark speed: molasses slow.

Young tapped his foot and drummed his fingers, when he wasn’t fidgeting with his pen. He rolled his eyes.

“They all have kids,” the big man continued. “Couldn’t wait to get started. It’s different for guys, don’t you think?”

Huitt looked like he might explode.

“The thing I don’t understand,” Biscuit continued, “is why JoJo Kincaid never had kids. She was twenty-nine when she met Palmer, right?”

Huitt eyed his friend’s daughter before fixing on the other lawyer. “I’m not sure what you want, Mr. Hughes. Or why JoJo Kincaid’s maternal inclinations are relevant. Or any of your business, for that matter.”

Claire caught Huitt’s look and leaned into the conversation. “It’s okay. I want to know.”

“It’s awkward.” Huitt pushed back from the table like a dog straining against its leash.

“I don’t care.” She pushed the bangs from her face.

“It wasn’t possible.” The short, feisty lawyer shook his head with clear disappointment.

“What wasn’t possible?” pressed Biscuit.

Torres rolled her index finger, this time signaling Huitt to speed up.

“Palmer couldn’t have kids.”

“Excuse me.” Claire’s eyes gleamed like sapphires.

“I advised him to get a prenup.”

“He was the one,” agreed Claire, “sounding air-raid sirens about my love life.”

“Palmer refused.” Huitt almost whispered his words.

“So he got a poor man’s prenup,” observed Biscuit, anticipating what Huitt would say next.

“Yes.”

“Is that what I think?” Claire suddenly understood.

“Snip, snip,” confirmed Torres.

Biscuit rubbed his massive hands. “Did he tell Mrs. Kincaid about his vasectomy before they were married?”

Huitt’s face was growing more and more gray. He said nothing.

“Answer the question.” Claire Kincaid was not about to be denied. She wanted to know, and she wanted to know now.

“No.” Huitt shook his head.

“What happened when she found out?” Biscuit glanced at Claire. He was checking for her support.

“What do you think? You’re the one with all the sisters.”

“She was pissed?”

“I’m not sure ‘pissed’ gets the half of it.”

Torres shot Biscuit a knowing look.

“Okay,” the big man continued. “You know about Mrs. Kincaid’s previous marriage?”

Huitt nodded. “Yes.”

“What can you tell me about her childhood?”

“I don’t see how this helps us find JoJo.”

“We can’t predict what’s helpful,” snapped Torres.

“JoJo grew up in San Diego?” interrupted Claire. “Right?”

The cantankerous old lawyer shook his head no this time.

“Where?” demanded Claire. “What are you hiding, Huitt?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHALK SOUND, TURKS AND CAICOS