He turned to face her, straightening the knot. “Any longer than that and I’d have some explaining to do to Mrs. Volke.”
“I understand. I’ll go. But I need your help.”
“What now?”
“I have nowhere else to turn,” she said. “No one else has the power to bring down Kyle McVee.”
“Don’t you watch FNN? He’s already kicked my ass.”
“I want you to tell the FBI that it’s him, not Michael, who’s killing the firm.”
“I already have. It’s falling on deaf ears. I know you’ve been away, but now more than ever, Wall Street is like the Wild West, no sheriff in town. Players like McVee do as they please.”
“Then you have to make the FBI understand what kind of man Kyle McVee is. Make them realize that he’s capable of murder.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Ivy paused, then forced out the words. “I want you to tell the FBI about me.”
“Tell them you’re alive?”
“Yes. And why I disappeared.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Have you lost your mind? I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“For starters, I helped fake your death. That’s a felony.”
Helped was almost an understatement. Eric had arranged for payoffs to the Bahamian medical examiner and DNA expert who had linked Ivy’s name to the decomposed “remains” found in the belly of the tiger shark.
“I was just watching television,” she said. “A warrant has been issued to arrest Michael for the murder of Chuck Bell.”
“That’s not my fault. In fact, I protected Michael. The FBI was very interested in knowing what he said to me in our phone conversation before Bell was shot, and quite honestly, Michael’s words could have been used against him.”
“What did he say?”
“Something to the effect that he was going to put a stop to Bell ‘one way or another.’”
“I’m sure Michael didn’t mean kill him.”
“I know he didn’t. That’s why I kept that conversation between us.”
“One of us has to tell the FBI what’s really going on.”
He went to her, his expression deadly serious. “That was not our deal,” he said. “I helped you disappear with the understanding that you would never come back, no matter what.”
“Things have changed, Eric. I tried running, and I’m out of options. If you won’t go to the FBI, I will.”
He stepped away, running his hand through his hair. But he didn’t push back the way she had expected.
“You’re right,” he said. “The only way to derail Kyle McVee is to make the FBI understand that, in his twisted mind, bringing down Saxton Silvers is secondary to finding you.”
“Everything is secondary to finding me. I should have told the FBI that four years ago.”
“The FBI couldn’t protect you then. And they won’t be able to protect you now.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Michael and my mother.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”
“You got their backs?”
He nodded. “McVee will never find them. I don’t care what it costs. I may have lost my shirt in Saxton Silvers, but thankfully, money will never be an issue for me. I’ve still got WhiteSands.”
Eric was talking about the investment management firm he’d founded in the 1980s, before his rise to power within Saxton Silvers. Some said it was the proverbial tail wagging the dog, with over a trillion dollars in assets under management, yet 49 percent owned by Saxton Silvers. Eric, individually, was still a major shareholder.
“Thank you, Eric.”
He nodded. “I don’t regret the way I helped you four years ago. And, of course, we all want to help Michael. You just have to figure out a way to do it without throwing me under the bus.”
She knew he was right. She gave him a quick hug, then stepped away.
“Good luck, Ivy. And for the last time: good-bye.”
52
IVY TOOK THE EXPRESS ELEVATOR FROM THE SAXTON SILVERS executive suite to the garage and left the building through the rear entrance. She walked toward Columbus Circle, weighing her options. Somewhere above the plywood tunnel that said POST NO BILLS, a demolition crew outshouted their jackhammers in a heated Mets vs. Yankees argument. A delivery truck blocked the cross street as fishmongers tossed tonight’s sushi over their shoulders and hauled it down into a restaurant cellar. On the sidewalk alongside the newsstand, hip-hop dancers whirled on their heads like spinning tops, all for a few bucks that passersby tossed into a hat. A bus pulled up, hydraulic brakes hissing. Every square inch of it, including the windows and door, was a mobile advertisement for Jersey Boys, “winner of four Tony Awards, including best musical and best actor…” They’d missed out on best actress.
Should have gone to Ivy Layton.
She missed living in the city. Ironically, she never would have returned, had it not been for Ian Burn. Their chance encounter at a restaurant in Florence last fall changed everything. She wasn’t certain that he had recognized her, but the exchange had been too dangerous to ignore. Ivy knew how McVee operated. If Burn was able to convince him that Ivy was alive, McVee would target Michael or her mother to draw Ivy out of hiding. She had to warn them, or at least keep her finger on the pulse of the situation, which meant returning to New York. She’d arrived in February-right about the same time Mallory’s friend Andrea moved to the Upper West Side. It had occurred to Ivy that the timing was no coincidence.
Speaking of “best actress.”
Ivy jumped in a taxi and rode up to Le Pain Quotidien near Columbus Circle, where Mallory met Andrea for coffee almost every morning after her Pilates class. As long as Ivy had been watching them, Andrea always arrived ten to fifteen minutes early and snagged a table in the café away from the bakery, surrounded by other skinny women who tried not to get too close to warm loaves of pain au chocolat or-Andrea’s morning favorite-the organic hazelnut flûte. Andrea usually scarfed one down before Mallory arrived. And there she was now, enjoying one with coffee at her usual table when Ivy approached.
“Wow, coffee and a pastry. How’d you get the bureau to approve that in your undercover operation budget?”
“Excuse me?” said Andrea.
She extended her hand, still standing. “Hi, I’m Ivy Layton.”
Andrea showed surprise but stayed in role. “Michael Cantella’s first wife?
“That would be me.”
More surprise, but now it was coming across too thick. “But you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Careful, girl,” said Ivy. “They don’t give Tony Awards for overacting.”
Andrea was suddenly speechless. Ivy smiled, then turned serious.
“Let’s clear that up right now. I’ll stop pretending to be dead, and you stop pretending that you’re not an FBI agent. Deal?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Andrea.
“Oh, come on,” said Ivy. “It takes one to know one, and I’ve known about you for quite some time.”
Andrea paused, clearly coming to realize that the jig was up. “It’s a crime to impersonate an FBI agent.”
“I didn’t mean it literally. I just recognize an undercover agent when I see one. It’s the little things. The way you always show up early for your eleven o’clock meeting with Mallory, probably to run through the conversation in your head and figure out what information you’re going to pry out of her. The body language that tells me that you’re only pretending not to listen whenever Mallory takes a call on her cell-that you’re trained to make Mallory think you’re reading the menu or checking your BlackBerry when, in fact, you’re all ears. The way you hang on every word that Mallory utters, always encouraging her to say more.” She tugged at the chair. “May I?”
Andrea didn’t say anything, so Ivy took a seat.
“I’ve been watching Michael for years,” said Ivy, “keeping my distance, of course. That’s how I found out his wife was cheating on him. And that’s how I knew you were an FBI agent working undercover.”