“I know what I saw.”
“You didn’t see Ivy.”
“Could have been someone pretending to be Ivy.”
“Why would someone pretend to be Ivy?”
“I can’t think of a reason. That’s why I say it was her.”
He groaned even louder. I was undeterred.
“And I think she was literally running for her life when she took off and ran from that man who was chasing her.”
“Michael, you’re my brother, and I want to help you. But I’ve had just about enough.”
I could see he wasn’t kidding. It was time to change the subject. “Can we get something to eat?”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
I gathered up Papa’s trench coat and hat. Kevin yanked open the heavy entrance door and together we walked outside. We were at the base of the steps, and I was pulling on Papa’s old coat, when two men approached from behind a construction barrier on White Street.
“Mr. Cantella?”
Kevin and I stopped. I recognized one of the men as he flashed his shield.
“Malcolm Spear,” he said, “FBI.”
It was the same agent I’d met in Eric’s office with our general counsel. Spear had another agent with him, not the computer fraud specialist I’d met before. It was Agent Coleman, the one who had come to my building to investigate the elevator fire. I noticed a spot of duck sauce on his jacket, and I could almost smell it. We were still that close to Chinatown, and I was still that hungry.
“Let me guess,” I said, “you found my money.”
Spear showed no reaction. “Heard you had a temporary change of address,” he said. “Wanted to come by and ask you a question.”
Kevin stepped between us. “He’s not talking to the FBI.”
“Who are you?” asked Spear.
“His lawyer.”
“No tricks here,” said Spear. “I just want to ask him about Chuck Bell.”
“Since when does the FBI investigate homicide?” said Kevin.
“We’re talking about a pattern of criminal activity that includes a number of federal offenses. It’s all our business.”
“Sorry, he’s not talking,” Kevin said.
“I simply want to know if your client can tell me where he was between twelve and one A.M. night before last, when Chuck Bell was shot.”
Instinct told me not to answer, but a flash of excitement came over me. “As a matter of fact, I can,” I said, reaching for my wallet.
“Hold it,” said Kevin as he grabbed me by the wrist. “For the last time: He’s not talking to the FBI.”
“But I want to answer,” I said.
“Don’t,” Kevin told me.
He was probably right, but as always, something about his tone made it impossible for me to heed his advice.
I showed Spear the ATM receipt-the one that read “nonsufficient funds”-and said, “I was at an ATM on Third Avenue trying to get money to pay my hotel bill.”
He checked the receipt, stroking his chin. “So, if we went to the bank and reviewed the tape from the security camera, we’d see that it was indeed you who conducted this transaction?”
“You sure would,” I said smugly.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Why is that interesting?”
Kevin was about to explode. “That’s enough,” he said. “You’ve got your answer, Agent Spear.”
“I just want to know why that’s interesting,” I said.
Spear narrowed his eyes. “About a year ago I investigated a racketeering case. Mob guy took great pains to make sure he was on camera at an ATM in Manhattan at the exact moment the trigger was pulled in Jersey. He wanted to be able to prove up an alibi.” He paused for effect. “We nailed him on murder for hire.”
My expression fell.
“May I keep this?” he asked.
“No,” I said, taking the receipt back. I gave it to Kevin. “I think my lawyer will want that.”
“Fine,” said Spear. “We’ll see you around, gentlemen.”
I watched as the two agents walked away. Then Kevin looked at me, glowering.
“Don’t ever do that to me again.”
There was that tone again. “I have an alibi,” I said.
“Not anymore you don’t. Now he knows the correct charge against you is not murder. It’s a murder-for-hire case. That’s why you never talk to law enforcement.”
My stomach was suddenly in knots. Maybe Kevin was right: This was more than anyone could handle. Too much had happened in too short a time, and if I didn’t get some food and sleep, I was well on my way to becoming my own worst enemy.
“Let’s go eat,” I said.
“No,” he said. “You go.”
“Don’t be like that.”
He took a breath, then paused to measure his words. He spoke in an even tone, but I could hear the anger behind it.
“I’m really trying, Michael. But you’re making this way too hard. So please, get something to eat, and get a good night’s sleep. Because if you’re still talking crazy in the morning, you’re going to need a new lawyer.”
He walked away. I started after him, then stopped.
Better to let him go, but as he rounded the corner, it suddenly occurred to me:
I had no idea where I was going to sleep.
34
FROM THE DETENTION CENTER I WENT TO MY CAR, THEN DROVE TO Long Island, when a thought popped into my mind. I didn’t call first; I knew Olivia would tell me not to come. By the time I pulled into her driveway my thoughts had gelled, and I was so pumped with adrenaline that I nearly flew up the sidewalk to ring the doorbell. It was getting dark, and in the shadows I must have looked like some lunatic on a home invasion. But that wasn’t the reason Olivia left the screen door closed between us.
“I thought I made myself clear earlier,” she said.
“You definitely put on a nice show,” I said.
“A show?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying.”
She leaned closer to the screen and glanced at my feet. “Are you sure you’re allowed all the way out here with an ankle bracelet?”
“Very funny. I’m not wearing one. But I am curious to know who told you I was arrested. Was it…Ivy?”
Had I been wrong, the question would have been cruel, and I wasn’t sure where the courage-or audacity-to take that risk had come from. My need to know was overwhelming, but the gradual realization that Ivy could still be alive had moved from the analytical to the emotional, and I had reached the breaking point.
Olivia took a half step back, as if offended, but she must have seen something in my eyes or demeanor that cut through Act II of her performance. I didn’t know exactly what was in her head, but I sensed an opening.
“You pushed too hard, Olivia.”
Her silence said it all.
“It was so out of the blue,” I said, my voice shaking, “the way you suddenly turned against me and accused me of murdering Ivy. It was as if you were trying too hard to convince me, the FBI, and the rest of the world that Ivy really was dead. My gut told me that you were hiding something-or protecting someone. And now that I’ve pieced things together, I know that the ‘someone’ is Ivy.”
More silence. I kept talking.
“When I saw you in the back of the courtroom today, I thought you were helping Mallory. I don’t think that anymore.”
“It’s a public proceeding,” she said. “Anyone’s allowed to watch.”
“That’s true. And after those e-mails were made public, it must have been pretty frightening for you to realize that anyone could know about my four o’clock meeting with JBU.”
“Why would that frighten me?”
I gave her an assessing look. “Your performance is getting much weaker.”
She averted her eyes, so I kept talking-faster and faster-giving her no chance to deny any of it. “You knew that Ivy wasn’t keeping a minute-by-minute tab on my divorce. She had no way of knowing that those e-mails had come out in open court. And it was entirely possible that the people who had forced Ivy to disappear four years ago did have those e-mails and knew all about the four o’clock meeting. That was a risk you couldn’t take. You went to the Rink Bar. When Ivy got up and ran, and when that man ran after her, you did the only thing you could think of to protect your daughter: You created chaos by screaming ‘That man has a bomb!’”