Brent was too stunned to reply.
“This is how you repay Biddle’s trust?” Wofford continued. “You’re not going to get away with this! Where did you send the damn money, Lucas?”
Brent’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t send it anywhere! I swear! The FBI took it!”
“According to Betty, you gave wire instructions!”
“Betty’s lying!” Brent shouted. “I released the money to the FBI! It was their wire instructions! I talked to Prescott! I—”
“Lucas!” Wofford said sharply. “You’re a wanted man! Turn yourself in!”
Brent clicked off and knuckled his eyes. His lungs couldn’t seem to get enough air. This had to be some kind of hallucination. He tried to think analytically, but his brain refused. Wofford’s words echoed in his ears—Faisal’s account transferred out of the country on his signature!
He thought of Betty Dowager. Had she planned this? Otherwise, why would she lie? He looked up her number and dialed.
A man answered on the first ring.
“Betty Dowager, please.”
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Brent Lucas. It’s urgent.”
“You!” he exclaimed. “You’re put her through a terrible time! Mrs. Dowager is extremely upset! She isn’t well enough to come to the phone.”
“Look, I’m innocent, and she may be the only one who can help me! It’s extremely important.”
“She’s sedated. She’s already asleep, and I’m not about to wake her.”
“Please!”
The man’s voice went up several octaves, betraying his tension. “I just told you, she’s not going to talk to you! Now don’t call here again!”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
TWENTY-NINE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
FROM THE BENCH BENEATH THE sycamores on the west side of Fifth Avenue, the Genesis Advisors’ building appeared stately and peaceful, an island of stability in the midst of New York’s bustle. What crap, Brent thought.
It was eight forty-five, about the time he’d hoped to meet Maggie in Morristown, but he was perched here instead. The rain had stopped, and now a gentle wind fingered the leaves overhead. Evening strollers and dog walkers had come out, and they filed slowly past along the wet sidewalk. Behind him, Central Park lay vast and silent, filling the night with the peaceful smell of wet earth. Brent was immune. His mouth was dry, and his pulse jackhammered as he stared at the light burning in Owen Smythe’s office.
He was praying Smythe was still there. He hadn’t seen him come out, even though most nights Smythe left around now. Of course, tonight he was probably doing damage control, making calls to warn clients in advance of tomorrow’s headlines. Brent pictured front-pages of the Daily News and The New York Times reporting that a portfolio manager at Genesis Advisors had stolen eight hundred and fifty million dollars. The entire world would assume his guilt. Once they found the bodies he’d be a murderer, too.
He thought again about calling a lawyer, but what would he say? I’m a victim of mysterious people who killed my client and stole his money? Without a shred of supporting evidence, who would buy it? He rocked back and forth on the bench, and his anger hardened into an almost physical pain. Somebody had set him up. He had no idea who, but he was going to find out. There’d be plenty of time for a lawyer after he’d made them pay.
A little after nine, the front door opened and a tall figure came down the steps and turned east. Brent stood then dodged several speeding cars as he hurried across Fifth. He trotted along the opposite sidewalk until Smythe reached the middle of the block, and then he crossed the street and came up behind him—thankful there was no one else nearby.
“Owen,” he said. “Wait!”
Smythe spun, his eyes wide going with fear. He gripped his briefcase and held it to his chest as if Brent was an assailant. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I need to talk to you.”
“They said you’d left the country.”
“Why would I leave?”
Smythe’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
“Why would I leave?” Brent repeated.
Smythe shrugged.
“I didn’t take that money.”
“Okay,” Smythe said. He dared a quick look at Brent’s hands.
“You think I did?” Brent demanded.
“I…” Smythe gave another helpless shrug. He threw a desperate glance over his shoulder toward Park Avenue with its stream of pedestrians.
Brent grabbed Smythe’s arm. “I started to tell you what happened when I came into your office. You remember that?”
Smythe tried to twist his arm free. “Let go or I’ll yell for the police,” he hissed. “They’re looking for you!”
“I didn’t do it!” Brent snapped, keeping his grip. “If I’d stolen the money, I would have gone straight to the airport and gotten the hell out of the country, but I didn’t! That’s why I’m talking to you now!”
Smythe seemed to take that in, and then after a few seconds he nodded. “Wofford told everybody that the FBI guys were fakes, that you masterminded it.”
“No!” Brent gave his head a violent shake. “I thought they were real until just a little while ago. Same with the lawyer that Biddle told me to call.”
Smythe had lowered his briefcase by now and was listening with a puzzled expression. “What lawyer?”
“Spencer McDonald? You’ve met him, right?”
Smythe nodded.
“What’s he look like?”
Smythe shrugged. “Tall, thin, patrician.”
Brent shook his head. “Not the guy who came to meet me.” He finally let go of Smythe’s arm. If he still wanted to run, Brent wouldn’t stop him.
“This is unbelievable,” Smythe said, rubbing his arm where Brent had gripped it. “You’ve… you’ve been set up.”
“It’s a lot worse.” Brent hesitated, but then he told about finding Dr. Faisal and the other two bodies.
Smythe listened with a stunned expression.
“I wouldn’t be telling you this if I were guilty,” Brent said. “You’re logical enough to realize that.” He paused, hoping for some sign of acceptance in Smythe’s eyes. “I’ve got to find a way to clear myself.”
“You need to get a lawyer then go to the police.”
“I’ve got nothing, other than the knowledge that I’ve been framed. I need some kind of proof.”
Smythe shook his head, finally getting it. “If I help you, I’ll go to jail, too.”
“I helped you when you needed it!” Brent cried. “You could be dead right now if those guys had knifed you.”
Smythe glanced back at Park Avenue again, as if part of him wanted to run before he heard any more. Finally, his shoulders slumped. “What do you want me to do?”
“All I have are phone numbers that the FBI Agents and the lawyer gave me. I need you to check to see if any of them are on Biddle or Wofford’s or Betty Dowager’s computers.”
“Jeez, at least you don’t ask for much,” Smythe said with a sardonic smile. “You actually believe someone at GA set you up?”
Brent shrugged. “Betty Dowager brought the FBI guys to my office. She gave me the attorney’s number, and she’s Biddle’s assistant.”
Smythe stared disconsolately toward the Genesis Advisors building and sighed. “No damn promises,” he muttered.
“I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah,” Smythe muttered as he started back. After a second, he turned. “Where are you going to be?”
“Around, staying out of sight.”
Smythe nodded. Brent watched him head westward into the last fiery glow of sunset, his shoulders slumped, his briefcase almost dragging the ground like an unsupportable weight.