“Don’t be mad at her, Jett. I called your office to apologize for my behavior at the ball. When they said you were home ill, I spoke to Hortensia. It’s not fair to ask her to keep secrets from your friends.”
“Yeah. Not like some people I know.”
Gavallan’s cell phone rang. “Hello.” He listened to the man on the other end of the line rant for fifteen seconds, then covered the mouthpiece and shot Cate a sinking glance. “It’s Tony. We’ve got problems.”
33
Jett, are you possibly in Florida?” Tony Llewellyn-Davies was saying. “Bruce, Meg, and I have some unannounced guests who very much would like to speak with you. The gentlemen appear to be from the FBI, and they’re asking some very nasty questions about you.”
Gavallan’s eyes darted to Cate, then back at the road. An hour ago, the news that federal agents had invaded his office would have shocked him. Now, he took it in stride. “Tell your friends they’re bang on. Say I came down here to have a word with Ray Luca and find out why he was bad-mouthing our offering. Just be sure to let them know that someone beat me to him.”
“I’ll relay the message, Jett.” A moment passed and Llewellyn-Davies asked if he might put him on the speakerphone. Gavallan said fine. There was another pause and he pictured his friends standing around his desk, the Transamerica Tower and Golden Gate Bridge looming in the background.
“Mr. Gavallan, Special Agent Vernon McNamee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation speaking. Good day, sir.”
Against his every reflex, Gavallan found himself saying “Good day” back.
McNamee said, “Sir, we’d like to speak with you about the murder of Mr. Raymond Luca and nine other individuals this morning in Delray Beach, Florida.”
“Here I am. Speak.”
“We’d prefer to conduct the interview in our offices. We’ll be happy to explain everything to you when we meet. The field office nearest to you is in Miami. The federal building on Northwest Second Avenue.”
“You want to arrest me for Ray Luca’s murder? Is that it?”
“No sir,” said McNamee. “I said no such thing. We’d simply like to ask you a few questions. I’m sure it will just be a formality.”
“A formality?” Gavallan wondered if the team of FBI agents shaking down his office in San Francisco was also just a formality. “Agent McNamee, let me make something clear. I did not kill Ray Luca. I’ll be happy to point you in the right direction, however. The man you are looking for is—” Gavallan stopped himself short. He wanted to say that Konstantin Kirov was the man responsible for Luca’s and the others’ deaths, and to offer a detailed description of the individuals he believed committed the crime. The first was a six-foot-four-inch male the size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator, approximately thirty-five years of age, blond hair, blue eyes, with a nose that had seen more than a few fistfights. Went by the name of Boris. The other was a woman, platinum hair, blue eyes, maybe nineteen, skinny, and feisty as a cornered bobcat. Tatiana was her name. Russians, both of them, in case McNamee hadn’t caught it.
“Do you have a name you’d like to give us?” the FBI agent inquired.
“No, I’m afraid not.” For the time being, Gavallan would have to keep his knowledge of Kirov’s role in Luca’s death, as well as his intention to cancel the Mercury deal, to himself.
“Well, then, sir, it’s my duty to inform you that unless you turn yourself into local law enforcement authorities within two hours’ time, we will have no option but to issue an arrest warrant on your behalf.”
Gavallan drew a breath. Not good. The last place he wanted to be was locked inside a six-by-eight jail cell. “You guys still there? Listen, I want you to get on the horn to Kirov and tell him everything’s copacetic with the offering. We’re going ahead as planned. Understood?”
“You’re sure, Jett?” It was Meg Kratzer. “Maybe it would be wiser to postpone the deal. We can reschedule it six months from now. Put Mercury on the calendar as the first big IPO of the new year.”
Gavallan answered for his audience, his script penned by Konstantin Kirov’s hand. “No way, Meg. Mercury’s a gem. I told you what Graf said. This whole thing with the Private Eye-PO is just a terrible, terrible coincidence. Nothing more. Now, keep your chin up. Come Monday, we’ll all be sitting in the Peninsula in New York drinking some bubbly and laughing about the whole thing. Except for Bruce, that is.”
“What do you mean, except for me?” Tustin crowed.
“Sorry, Brucie, no children allowed in the bar. We’ll be sure to send up some chocolate milk to your room.”
Gavallan heard some chuckles and knew he’d won back his team’s confidence.
A firm tap on the leg directed his attention to Cate. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What did Bruce say? Are the police looking for you? You didn’t mean what you said about Mercury. Go on, now. Tell them what you told me. About Boris and the girl. Tell them who killed Ray.”
“Shh,” he said to Cate. “Give me a second.” Then to McNamee: “Tell you what. You want to talk, get me one of your bosses on the phone. A Mr. Howell Dodson. He runs your task force on Russian organized crime. Name ring a bell? Find him and we can talk till we’re blue in the face.”
McNamee hesitated, and Gavallan could hear some discussion in the background. After ten seconds, the agent returned. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll patch him in.”
“Tell him to call this number.” Gavallan rattled off Cate’s mobile, hoping he was making it more difficult for anyone to track him down, then hung up. In less time than it took for Cate to fire up her journalist’s interrogation, her phone chirped. Gavallan slid it from her bag. “Mr. Dodson, I presume.”
“Hello, Mr. Gavallan,” replied a smoky Southern voice. “I’m sorry to disturb your vacation. Or is it a working holiday like our other famous Texan is so fond of taking?”
“Neither, actually,” replied Gavallan flatly. “I came here to speak with Ray Luca. When I learned he was the Private Eye-PO, I wanted to talk to him face-to-face and ask him why he was so intent on discrediting one of our upcoming IPOs.”
“That would be Mercury Broadband, would it not?”
“That’s correct.” Gavallan added, “I take it you’re acquainted with Mr. Kirov.”
“Not as well as I’d like to be. Perhaps you could introduce us someday.”
“I would enjoy meeting you, though, Mr. Gavallan. A little sit-down, just the two of us. How ’bout in an hour’s time at your hotel? You’re staying at the Ritz-Carlton, I believe. I’m sure you’re not too far away.”
About a hundred yards if you really want to know, answered Gavallan silently.
Cate had turned the Explorer down a narrow lane leading to the hotel. A pink pastel palace beckoned at the end of a manicured drive. Emerald lawns as smooth as velvet rolled from either side of the road. An imposing portico welcomed guests. Two police cars were parked beneath it, their front doors open. A few uniformed officers mingled with some stiff types whose short haircuts and inviolate posture identified them as members of the law enforcement community.
“Keep driving,” Gavallan said coolly, one hand covering the phone. “We’re a couple of tourists having a look around. Whatever you do, don’t stop. And if they come after us, floor it.”
“You’re scaring me. What did Dodson say?”
“Just keep driving.”
Gavallan froze in his seat, eyes to the fore, phone at his ear. But Cate handled herself as if born to a life of crime. Passing the quartet of police officers, she waved a hand and offered a cool smile, circling the portico at the same steady speed. The officers looked from Cate to Jett to Cate again, somber in their khaki rayon uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats. Tourists didn’t rate a second glance, and in a moment the four were talking amongst themselves. There was a fifth man nearby, standing at once among and apart from the police officers. He was a tall, professorial man with neat brown hair and a pair of half-moon bifocals. He was wearing Clarence Darrow’s seersucker suit and suede bucks, and he held a phone to his ear.