“I’d call it mob-style strangulation with an exclamation point.”
“I call it an extremely personal killing. Lots of anger toward the victim. Not a clean hit.”
Her expression tightened. “I believe this non-discussion has gone far enough.”
I wasn’t completely convinced that Lilly was right, but it seemed worthwhile to test her theory. “A guy told me I’d end up like Gerry Collins if he didn’t get his money. Why would he do that, unless he killed Collins?”
“What happened to you is nothing like the murder of Gerry Collins. A gun to the back of the head is not this killer’s style.”
“And why would you be talking about a ‘style,’ unless the killer has the ability to strike again?”
“You’re fishing,” she said.
“Sometimes fishermen actually catch fish. The fact remains that my attacker threatened that I would end up like Collins.”
“Copycats are everywhere.”
“Maybe. But let me put it to you this way: suppose I report this incident to the police.”
“You’ve reported it to me. That’s enough. You know you can’t go to the police.”
I smiled thinly, knowing that I’d found her motivation to renegotiate our deal. “A full police report would surely trigger leaks to the press about the bank’s possible link to Abe Cushman. Leaks to the press would mean that my work inside BOS would be over. Very bad for you and the FBI, no?”
“Yes. That would be bad.”
“I’m so glad we’ve agreed to renegotiate.”
She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t seem too resentful of the angle I’d worked. She may have even respected it. “What are you proposing?”
“I’ll stay on mission. But I want more protection. And I want protection for Lilly, too.”
She scoffed so hard her breath steamed. “Lilly’s the target.”
“It’s time to change the target. Collins used her. She’s a pawn in this.”
“You fell into bed with her. If you were an undercover FBI agent, you would have been fired long ago.”
“We’ve already covered that ground, and I believe the bottom line is that I’m all you’ve got. Which puts me in the driver’s seat. So here’s the deaclass="underline" I’ll do what I can to help you and the FBI save face. One thing we know for certain is that Treasury isn’t copying you on its internal memos. Assuming I don’t get fired, I’ll stay at BOS and help you gain back whatever ground the FBI has lost to Treasury in the great interagency race to unravel Cushman’s scheme and be the first ‘on the money,’ so to speak.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Stop. I’m only going to say this once. I’ll also keep quiet about the threat I got in Times Square so that you and I don’t have to waste all our time avoiding calls from the media.”
“What’s the catch?”
“I want two things. One: I want the FBI to help figure out who threatened me.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t mean some abstract promise that law enforcement is doing everything it can. I want to be kept informed by you , personally.”
“I’ll see what-”
“No, there’s no ‘I’ll see.’ That’s the deal. Second, I want protection for me-and for Lilly. Even more for Lilly.”
Our eyes locked. She could have turned me down flat. But if she accepted, it would mean that Treasury’s focus on Lilly and BOS/Singapore really had come as a surprise to her, and that my hunch was correct. For some reason, the FBI was out of sync with its sister agency, and Agent Henning needed me to stay involved if she was going to figure out what the heck was really going on.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll check with the bureau to see what kind of protection I can get.”
“Thank you. And when this is over, remember that I was the one who told you that whoever wrote that Treasury Department memo is dead wrong: Lilly had nothing to do with Cushman.”
“Sooner rather than later, you are going to have to open your eyes and help me see the real Lilly Scanlon.”
I wasn’t blind, and of course there was a corner of my mind that wondered if Treasury was right-that Lilly really did know something. But I wasn’t going to share that with Henning. I felt guilty enough as it was for having spied on Lilly.
My gaze returned to Alice and her friends on the giant mushroom. “Sure thing,” I said, “I love chasing down rabbit holes.”
10
T he subway took me down to TriBeca, and on the short walk to my apartment I stopped at the corner deli for takeaway. A couple of slices of pizza for me, a dinner salad for Lilly. I probably should have called to ask what she wanted, but I knew the chicken Caesar would be a winner. More to the point, I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet, not even about something as mundane as, What do you want for dinner? Agent Henning’s warning about “the real Lilly Scanlon” was playing on my mind.
My relationship with Agent Henning was complicated. Sometimes she felt like an adversary. Other times she seemed like someone I could trust. My first impression had been highly favorable, but only because I found it intriguing that such an attractive woman on the other side of the coffee bar seemed incapable of taking her amazing green eyes off of me. The second impression had been not so favorable. Getting cornered by an FBI agent is not exactly a banner day for a Wall Street banker. It was soon clear, however, that I was not suspected of any wrongdoing. The target was one Lilly Scanlon at BOS/Singapore. My immediate reaction had been that the FBI was overlooking an obvious point, which I’d laid right on the table.
“I work in New York.”
“We have cooperation from an insider. She’ll get you transferred.”
“But I have no interest in going to Singapore.”
“It will only be for a few months.”
“That’s a few months too long.”
“We could be talking about billions of dollars for Cushman’s victims.”
“It’s not that I don’t care. But if this thing blows up and it comes out that I was a mole working for the FBI, my career is over.”
“It won’t blow up.”
“Easy for you to say. Look, I don’t mean to sound mercenary, but you’re asking me to take a huge risk. I understand the point about helping Cushman’s victims, but…”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Back up even further. Why me? With eight thousand financial advisors at BOS, why are you sitting here in New York asking me, Patrick Lloyd, to help you?”
“Because I know you’re not Patrick Lloyd.”
The answer had hit me like ice water, but Henning was just getting started.
“Here’s the deal… Peter.”
Her invocation of my real name had done its job. Naturally, what had followed was the proverbial offer I couldn’t refuse.
“Yo, dude,” said the guy behind the counter. “You want the dressing on the salad or on the side?” He seemed annoyed, as if it was the third or fourth time he’d asked. I’d zoned out.
“On the side,” I said.
A cold wind was blowing in from the river as I walked home. With no gloves, my right hand was glad for the steaming pizza in the paper sack I was clutching. My left was not so happy toting my overnight bag. I hurried down the sidewalk, passing a few pedestrians, then stopped short in front of my building. It was dark, I had things on my mind, and I was in a rush to get home-but I could have sworn that the man in the overcoat who’d just walked past me was the guy from Puffy’s Tavern.
I pivoted and did an about-face. The man was walking briskly and had already reached the corner. He stopped to check for traffic, then glanced over his shoulder. The glowing streetlamp provided just enough light: there was instant, mutual recognition. I dropped the suitcase and the food and ran after him. He took off like a rocket.