“Is that your office?” the detective asked, pointing at a set of double doors.
“Yes.”
“All right,” he shouted to his group, “execute the plan.” He pointed at a young man in civilian clothes. “You — on the computers, now.”
“Gotcha,” the youth replied, heading for the double doors.
Macher sat down on the stairs, the cold marble freezing his ass through the thin silk robe, picked up the warrant and began to read. “Shit!” he said to nobody in particular.
As dawn broke over the Upper East Side, the policemen began departing, carrying boxes of documents and other evidence. The IT man approached the detective in charge and held up a thumb drive. “Got everything worth having,” he said.
“Go back to the precinct and print it all out,” the detective said, “then get yourself some breakfast and some sleep.”
The detective walked over to Macher, who was still sitting on the stairs, handcuffed to the rail. “You got a permit for the piece?”
“I have,” Macher said, “full carry.”
The detective took out an iPhone and opened a departmental app, then tapped in the name. “Okay, you’re licensed,” he said a moment later. He uncuffed Macher, cleared the weapon and returned it to its owner. “Have a nice day,” he said.
From the third floor, a young woman was heard to call out, “Do you want to go again? Or am I out of here?”
Macher started up the stairs. “Out of here!” he shouted.
Stone was at his desk when Dino called.
“Good morning. How’d it go last night?”
“We got the will,” Dino said, “and it’s been turned over to the DA, who will decide whether to prosecute. My guys are still slogging through the printout from St. Clair’s computers.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Something occurred to me — you know this strong case thing that had the bomb in it that killed St. Clair?”
“Yep, I know it, it lived in my safe for a couple of days.”
“Describe it to me.”
“It was a kind of briefcase, but bigger and thicker than the standard and covered in black leather. It had unconventional locks and a key that was a slab of titanium with some pointy things on it.”
“Right, and was there some sort of procedure to unlock it without the bomb going off?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“What was the procedure?”
“I don’t know,” Stone said, “I never tried to open it.”
“And who had the strong case before St. Clair opened it and got his head handed to him?”
“It was in the possession of Ed Rawls, at his house in Virginia, then Macher or some of his cohorts in his security firm broke into the house, roughed up Ed, and stole the case. Macher then took it to St. Clair and sat there in his office and watched while he opened it, then blooey!”
“The strong case was a CIA thing, wasn’t it?” Dino asked.
“Yes. Holly Barker, who was visiting me at the time, knew about it from her days with the Agency.”
“And Rawls was CIA once, that’s where he got the case?”
“Right.”
“And,” Dino said, “Macher was CIA once, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then he would have known something about the strong case and how it worked.”
“Presumably.”
“And yet he sat there and watched St. Clair open it and kill himself.”
“Well... yes.”
“Doesn’t that sound to you like an awful good case for premeditated murder?”
“Well,” Stone said, “if you can prove that Macher knew how the case worked and withheld that piece of information from St. Clair, yes.”
“Did Macher or his men ask Rawls anything about the case when they took it from Rawls?”
“Ed says no, and in their rush he, ah, forgot to mention it to them.”
“I’m liking this,” Dino said.
“Then why don’t you have a chat with the DA and see what he thinks?”
“You know,” Dino said, “I believe I’ll do that.”
“Dino,” Stone said, “if you can get Macher locked up without bail, that would solve a number of problems for me and my clients the Carlssons.”
“Well, Stone,” Dino said, “this department is always ready to oblige you.” He hung up.
32
Stone was having lunch in the Strategic Services restaurant, Safe House, with Charley Fox.
“How’d the raid go?” Charley asked.
“As expected,” Stone said. “They got the will, and the DA has it now. I hear he has forwarded it to the Bar Association and to the chairman of the board of St. Clair. Now we just wait for the explosions. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to hear them in your office with the doors and windows closed.”
“I would enjoy that,” Charley said. “Now, my turn. After a few conversations, we have an agreement in principle for the investments in DigiFlood and Automobile Butler. I’ve spoken to Herb Fisher, and he’s at work on the contracts.”
“That went well!”
“Yes, it did. I want to send out a press release that combines the news of the investments and the forming of Triangle and my appointment as president. That okay with you and Mike?”
“Sure. A nice piece in the Journal and the Times will probably invite new opportunities for investment.”
“That would be good. I’m going to need seventy million in cash to close these two deals.”
“I’ll get on that. It should be in the Triangle account in a few days.”
“How much capital do we have access to? I need to know so that I can have intelligent conversations with prospects.”
“I think we can manage half a billion from our various sources, so for the moment, use that as a ceiling.”
“Will it all come from you and Mike Freeman?”
“These first two deals will. As we need more cash, I can call on Marcel duBois, in Paris, and a client of mine named Laurence Hayward.”
“I know who duBois is — the Warren Buffett of Europe. Who’s Hayward?”
“He won six hundred and twelve million in the lottery a few months ago.”
“Ah, yes, I read about that in the papers.”
“The good news is, he hasn’t spent it all yet, and he’s looking for investments.”
“I’ll be happy to help him.”
A few days later, Erik Macher sat down at his desk in rather good spirits. He had spent a couple of nice days on the yacht with a girl, and since the raid, nothing terrible had happened.
He found the Wall Street Journal and the Times on his desk, and he was alarmed to see a photograph of Charles Fox staring up at him from the front page of the Journal. He grabbed the paper and began to read the article.
Jake Herman had the misfortune to rap on Macher’s office door at that very moment. He made to withdraw, but Macher had spotted him. “Get in here!” he yelled.
Jake crossed the twenty feet to Macher’s desk cautiously, then took a seat, largely because his knees were weak.
“Have you seen this?” Macher demanded, slapping the Journal.
“Seen what?” Jake asked weakly.
“That fucking Fox!”
“What about him?”
“He’s stolen the two companies we were going to bid on!”
“How could he do that?”
“With money! It says here that he’s formed a new investment partnership called Triangle Partnership, and that he’s backed by Strategic Services, the big security company, and Stone Barrington, a partner at Woodman & Weld!”
“That’s very bad news, Erik. How can I help?” Jake very much hoped that would be a rhetorical question, but he was disappointed.