I had been in denial, but it was time to take my final lumps and officially crown myself “the last to know.” I scrolled through the text messages stored in Mallory’s phone, found a recent one from “Nathaniel,” and read it. It made me cringe. There were many messages just like it, dating back more than a month. It was clear now why Mallory had been so reluctant to give me her cell.
“What’s wrong?” asked Olivia.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just a little high-tech confirmation that I’m a blind fool and that my wife was seeing another man.”
She leaned over and laid a hand on my forearm. It was the first sign of any affection she’d shown toward me-and strangely, I felt some of Ivy’s warmth in her touch.
“We’ll get through this,” she said. “It will get better.”
“You think?”
She smiled a little. “Can’t get worse, can it?”
The television suddenly caught my eye. “Today’s Big Story” was at the top of the Today show, and right behind Ann Curry was an image of me. The mug shot taken at the Tombs after my bomb-scare arrest had, as I’d predicted, come back to haunt me. I actually looked like a criminal.
I jumped up and raised the volume, catching the report somewhere in the middle:
“-arrest warrant for Wall Street power broker Michael Cantella, who is facing charges in a murder-for-hire conspiracy that resulted in the fatal shooting of Financial News Network’s Chuck Bell.”
I listened in stunned silence as the national coverage recapped my nightmare for the entire country, before shifting to the mud slides in California.
My phone-Mallory’s-chirped again. Another message, a follow-up to Wanna see your lover?
It read: He’s hot.
I knew what these guys were capable of, and I got the double meaning. But that didn’t lessen the shock when I clicked on the attached file and saw the photograph. The image was gruesome-several pyromaniacal steps beyond what I had witnessed last night. But it was definitely the same man. Burn had killed my wife’s lover.
And he’d sent these taunting messages to Mallory-proof of a grisly homicide-with my cell.
“What’s wrong?” asked Olivia.
“So much for your promise that things will get better.”
“What do you mean?”
I glanced at her, then back at the image on Mallory’s cell. “They just got worse.”
I laid Mallory’s cell on the nightstand and started dialing on the room’s landline.
“Who are you calling?” asked Olivia.
“My brother.”
“What for?”
I paused after punching out half of Kevin’s number. “He can’t guarantee that I’ll be released on bail, so I need to tell him that he won’t be seeing me in his office or in court this morning.”
“Smart move.”
“And to make him understand that I can’t be a sitting duck in a prison cell waiting to have my throat slit by another thug hired by Kyle McVee.”
“You can’t mention McVee’s name.”
“I’m going way beyond that. I’m going to instruct Kevin to write down everything I’ve learned, wrap it up in McVee’s name, and take it to the FBI.”
A look of horror came over her. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Sorry, but if you can’t tell me why McVee wanted Ivy dead, maybe Kevin and I can help the FBI figure it out.”
I finished dialing, and Kevin’s line was ringing. Olivia continued pleading.
“Don’t you understand? The FBI couldn’t protect Ivy from Kyle McVee. They can’t protect you, me, or anyone else from a man like him. That’s why she ran.”
The call went to Kevin’s voice mail. I hung up, immediately hit redial, and as the line starting ringing again, I tightened my stare on Olivia.
“Why did McVee want Ivy dead?” I asked her.
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“You told me there were things about Ivy that I was better off not knowing. That’s not the same thing.”
“That’s exactly what Ivy told me. Can’t you see she’s protecting us?”
“Can’t you see the game has changed? I’m not willing to live the rest of my life the way she’s been living hers.”
“If McVee finds out you’re helping the FBI, you won’t have to worry about living, period.
The ringing continued, but not even her desperate tone could make me hang up and hide out in a motel room while Kyle McVee framed yours truly for crimes that would bring down me, my firm, and maybe all of Wall Street with us.
Olivia lowered her head into her hands.
On the fifth ring, Kevin answered his cell.
“Kevin, it’s me,” I said.
“Please, don’t,” said Olivia.
I looked away and told my brother everything I wanted the FBI to know.
49
KYLE MCVEE ARRIVED EARLY TO THE OFFICE FOR AN EIGHT A.M. meeting. The Midtown headquarters of Ploutus Investments occupied the top four floors of a Third Avenue skyscraper, the highest floor being off limits to anyone but McVee and his closest confidantes.
The penthouse level had just two private offices. One was McVee’s. The other had belonged to his son Marcus, untouched since his death, a de facto vault for thirty million dollars’ worth of original artwork by Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol, and other masters whom Marcus had collected over the years. Art had been his final passion in life. Before that, wine had been his thing, and before that, a collection of classic cars. Marcus never went into anything half baked, and that passion was his trademark. In the hallway between the two offices was a photograph of him at base camp on Mount Everest. In his first attempt he’d managed to scale the hard blue ice of Lhotse Face and climb to Camp III at 23,500 feet, where weather forced his team back. Few people doubted that he would someday get beyond Camp IV and on up to the top at 29,028 feet. Even fewer doubted that he would soon be at the top of Ploutus Investments.
Marcus’ involvement in the business went against a certain logic. McVee had essentially worked through Marcus’ childhood, so busy in the world of Wall Street that he barely noticed his son. As an adult, Marcus would have had every right to disown his old man. But the opposite had occurred.
Three months after Marcus’ graduation from college, McVee and his wife had traveled to Bermuda for their twenty-fourth wedding anniversary. A business commitment forced McVee to fly back to New York for a day, which turned into two. When he returned to Bermuda, he found his wife in the hotel room beneath a cool white sheet, an empty bottle of Valium beside her in the bed. Her death made him recall the special things he had loved about the young bride he had married-and regret how little he knew about the seriously depressed empty nester she had become. After the funeral, he started to see the best of Evelyn in their son Marcus. Not just the dazzling intelligence but the bursts of awe-inspiring creativity, the way he devoured things that interested him. McVee reached out to his son, and his son reached back. For nearly ten years they were an inseparable team that not only grew the business but sat right behind home plate in Yankee Stadium together. By his thirtieth birthday, Marcus McVee had become everything a father could want in a son-and more. The “more” part was the problem.
At various times in his life, Marcus-like his mother-had been treated for anxiety and depression.
“I have good news,” said McVee, shaking off the constant thought of his son. “Saxton Silvers will file for bankruptcy just as soon as the courthouse doors open today.”
McVee was standing at the window, the morning sun throwing a zebralike pattern across the room as it shone through the venetian blinds. An English solicitor named Graves was seated on the silk-covered couch, listening. He represented a Kuwaiti multibillionaire whom McVee had never met in person. It was a rare occasion that a client was allowed in the penthouse. This was one of them.
“The sheikh will be very pleased, I’m sure,” said Graves. “What will the final numbers look like?”