“What? I can’t do that. And it wouldn’t be of any use to you. There’s no money there, either.”
“Did I ask for money? Say the word and I will do you a tremendous favor.”
“What favor?”
“Two years ago, your company started marketing reverse mortgages to elderly homeowners. Your salesmen promised lifetime payments, but that wasn’t true, was it? In fact, the first of those notes will fall due in the new year, allowing your company to repossess the homes.”
“Those contracts are perfectly legal,” Beckham said, swallowing.
“Of course they are. It’s just business, I understand that. You’re entirely within your rights to seize those properties and evict the owners, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Legally. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”
“I — don’t understand.”
“Sure you do, Peter. You’re a smart businessman and I’m counting on your intelligence. For example, why would I want the password?”
“Because — one of your relatives has a reverse mortgage? Look, if that’s all it is, I’ll cancel it! I can—”
“Not good enough. If you only change one, it’ll be obvious that pressure was brought and who brought it. No, you’re going to cancel them all. Every last one of them.”
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t do that. We sold those contracts to a—”
The short punch caught him flush on the mouth, snapping his head back against the headboard.
“Lie to me again, Pete, and it’ll be the last lie you ever tell,” Sean hissed. “Your company plans to develop those properties. You’ve already got financing lined up. That’s why simply canceling them won’t do. Your company computers are going to be hit by a virus that will find and destroy those records everywhere they’ve gone. During the disruption, you’re going to announce a change of policy, and cancel all reverse mortgages. And in return for this gesture of goodwill, a national labor union will transfer all of its acquisition business to your office.”
“A labor union,” Beckham echoed through bloodied lips. “I see.”
“Yes, I believe you do. What’s the word?”
Beckham hesitated. “Dexter,” he mumbled at last. “The password is Dexter.”
“Smart move, Mr. Beckham,” Sean said, rising, staring down at the rumpled realtor. “You won’t regret this. Unless, of course, you’re thinking ‘Thank God for hard copies.’ That once I’m gone, you can just call the police, report my visit, and then go ahead with the evictions. Is that what you’re thinking?”
Beckham didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
“I thought you might be. But that would be a huge mistake, Mr. Beckham. Because I’m your last chance. You live in this town, you do business here. I had no trouble finding you and I’m only the Ghost of Christmas Past. The next guy who comes for you won’t be a ghost. He’ll turn you into one. Goodbye, Mr. Beckham.”
“Wait! I gave you the wrong word! It’s not Dexter, it’s Rosebud.”
“Yes, it is. See? I knew I could count on your intelligence. Go back to sleep, Mr. Beckham. And have a merry Christmas.”
Awake at first light, Sean dressed in running togs and tiptoed down the hall to Gia’s room. Listened outside her door a moment. Thought about tapping, decided against it.
Downstairs, bodies were scattered about like a battlefield. Snoring card players dozed in recliner chairs or huddled in sleeping bags in the ember glow of the fireplace. Iron Mike was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, bare shins sticking out beyond the blanket. Sean stared down at him for a moment. Mike’s eyes blinked open.
He mumbled something, then coughed. “Everything okay?”
Sean nodded. “Fine. I’m going for a run. Wanna come?” But his brother was already asleep.
New snow had fallen overnight and the morning was utterly silent, no traffic, no pedestrians. Vagrant flakes drifted on the hint of a winter breeze. Sean walked half a block, stretching out, then kicked into a lope, jogging through a glistening, swirling world of white.
A dark sedan rumbled up behind him. He moved over to let it pass but it gunned ahead instead, cutting him off. Vanston leapt out in front of him, looking ragged and unshaven, a weapon at his side.
“Hold it right there,” he barked. “Lean against the car, O’Donnell, and spread ‘em. You’re under arrest.” Gia Sirico was out of the car now, too, circling behind his back.
“What is this?” Sean asked.
“Did you really think you’d get away with it? I played cards with those union goons for eight hours straight, watched ‘em kill a fifth of scotch apiece, get so blasted they could barely see their cards. But not a slip, not a sideways glance, not a sniff of anything illegal. I could have been playing with Quakers.”
“How much did they clip you for?” Sean asked.
“That’s not the point! With all the hustles your brother’s got going, strong-arm, extortion, racketeering, no way he’d go that long without mentioning something. Unless he was warned. Which cancels our deal, jerk-off. You’re busted.”
“For embezzlement?” Sean asked. “Actually, that’s been cleared up. Our auditing division called first thing this morning. They found the problem and the missing money last night. Turned out to be a computer glitch after all. They notified your office. Have you checked your messages?”
“I told you to lean against the car.”
“Screw yourself, Vanston. I cooperated with you to save myself and the bank embarrassment. But I’m not jammed up anymore. And I’m done playing. This game’s over.”
“I won’t tell you again,” Vanston snarled, raising his weapon.
“Put it away, Carl,” Sirico said, snapping her cell phone closed. “I just checked my messages. He’s right. He’s off the hook.”
“Damn it, he knew it all along. He was just jerking us around!”
“If so, he made a righteous job of it. Now put that piece away. Go home to your family. I’ll finish up here.”
Vanston slowly holstered his weapon, his eyes locked on Sean’s the whole time. “We aren’t done, O’Donnell.”
“Take the car,” Gia said. “Go home, get some sleep.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll grab a cab. I want a few words with our friend, here. With no witnesses.”
“Whatever you say,” Vanston growled. “See you Monday.” Slamming the door, he matted the pedal and roared off.
“You’re his boss?” Sean said, surprised. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Maybe you’re not as clever as you think.”
“Probably not. That ‘no witnesses’ business sounded ominous. Am I in trouble?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be. I’m good at my job, Mr. O’Donnell, and I had a gut feeling something was wrong here from the beginning.”
“Like what?”
“You, mostly. I don’t have any family, but the idea of a guy selling out his own brother at Christmas? That’s cold. Stone-cold. Not that I don’t run across some stone-cold types in my work; I do. But after meeting your mom, and watching you and your brother break each other’s balls—”
“That’s no act. We really don’t get along. You think it’s easy working in a bank with an albatross like Iron Mike around your neck?”
“Probably not. But he’s still your brother, isn’t he? And when push came to shove, I couldn’t believe you’d sell him out. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it. Yet you did everything we asked. Introduced us around, even conned your own mother. Stone-cold, O’Donnell. That’s why I had trouble sleeping. Trying to figure out why you’d do a thing like that.”
“And did you?”
“I think so. Around midnight, it dawned on me that we were here because you wanted us to be. Something was in the wind and you wanted your brother to have an ironclad alibi for it. And what could be more airtight than playing poker all night with an FBI agent?”