Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

“I don’t get it.”

“You will.” I tabbed to another section of the workbook. “This is the profit and loss generated by each of the thirty-four accounts, listed month by month for each of the last three years.”

“Four of the accounts always lose money,” she said hesitantly, “and the other thirty always make money.”

“And the net of the money lost and the money made?”

Her eyes flicked to the far right-hand column of the spreadsheet.

“Zero?”

“Right. Which only makes sense because Mohler isn’t really trading. All he does is buy stock through one broker and sell it through another…”

“And then put the losing trades in the first four accounts and the winning trades in the other thirty,” she finished in a rush. “It’s like the whole IPO thing with Petronuevo. It’s all just a way of moving money from one pocket to another pocket.”

“Bingo. And not just moving money. Mohler’s making payoffs to people and simultaneously laundering the money so the gains look legitimate. All of which explains why he can spend his entire day looking at Internet porn. He doesn’t care if the market goes up or the market goes down. All he has to do is allocate the winners and the losers to the right accounts at the end of the month.”

Reggie and Claire entered, laden with carryout food. Kate stood up to intercept them.

“Let me deal with that,” she said. “You have to listen to Dad. He’s figured this whole thing out.”

“Hardly,” I protested.

“Almost,” she insisted. “You were only wrong about one thing. You’re not an idiot at all.”

“Okay,” Reggie said, pushing his empty plate away fifteen minutes later. “Bottom line, we know what Mohler’s doing.”

“Right,” I said. “The problem is that we don’t know who he’s doing it for. There aren’t any names in his trading records.”

“Any luck breaking into his hard drive?” Claire asked, glancing toward Kate.

“Nope,” she replied glumly. “I’ll check with Gabor again when he wakes up, but whatever kind of firewall Mohler’s running is doing what it’s supposed to do. No matter what I try, his machine just doesn’t respond.”

“So, what are our options?” Claire persisted.

“Beyond breaking in and just grabbing his computer? A couple of things, I guess. We can send him a virus and hope he’s dumb enough to open it, and that he’s not running any antivirus software. That would let me into his computer. And we can keep an eye on his incoming and outgoing mail. We might learn some names that way.”

I stood up from the table where we’d been eating dinner, feeling restless and frustrated.

“No. I don’t want to lose momentum. Kate’s supposed to be at school. And the more time we spend screwing around with Mohler’s records and his network, the more likely it is that someone figures it out and comes right back at us. We need to keep the initiative.”

“I like that idea,” Reggie said.

“What idea?”

“The idea of trying to get these guys to come back at us. The one thing we know about this gang is that they’re not shy. Maybe we can use that against them, to set a trap.”

The LaGuardia Motor Court in Queens is an architectural throwback to the 1950s-a rambling, pink-painted, two-story wooden structure that surrounds an asphalt parking lot on three sides, with rooms that open directly to the central lot at ground level and a long, open-air gallery above. My room was upstairs. Four steps carried me from the cigarette-burned nightstand to the peeling veneer of the wall opposite. Another four carried me back. I pushed the yellowed curtain from my window for the tenth time and checked for activity outside. The view was of the half-empty parking lot, a narrow, brown finger of the East River, and the raw concrete buildings of the Rikers Island penitentiary beyond. The only change in the last two minutes was that the lights of the prison had come on, gleaming with a false cheerfulness through the wintry mid-afternoon gloom. A plane roared low overhead from the adjacent airport, making the floor joists tremble. I doubted anyone got much sleep at the LaGuardia Motor Court. The carpet underfoot seemed to seep desperation, and there was something crusted on the curtain. I let the curtain fall, electing to wipe my hand clean on the leg of my jeans rather than wash it. Lord knew I didn’t want to enter the bathroom for any reason. Reggie had been at pains to explain that he was familiar with the LaGuardia Motor Court only because it was owned by the nephew of a city councilperson, and hence one of the dumps where the local court system housed jurors unlucky enough to be sequestered. He’d recommended it as a place that had good sight lines and a management that was simultaneously adept at cooperating with law enforcement and at ignoring most of what transpired. I was too nervous to care much about the ambience, although I felt a vague sense of relief that I’d never been sequestered.

My phone rang as I resumed pacing. I answered it and heard Amy’s voice.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said, spotting a cockroach the size of my thumb on the ceiling. “What’s up?”

“Susan called. Walter wants to see you.”

“That’s a surprise.” Alex’s funeral had been held that morning.

“I know. I asked what it was about. All Susan knew was that Walter’s at home in the city, and that he wants you to stop by as soon as possible.”

The hubris that led Walter to believe I’d drop everything and hustle on over to his town house after the way he’d treated me was offensive, and I was more than a little tempted to insist that he call on me instead. Regretfully, I couldn’t afford the luxury of holding a grudge. I still wanted to know who he’d seen and what he’d learned in Washington.

“Not going to work for me. Tell her that I’ll call in later to set something up for tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Waiting won’t kill him.” A shadow fell on the window curtain; someone was in the gallery just outside my room. “Text or e-mail me if you have anything else,” I whispered. “I have to go now.”

I hung up without waiting for her answer and moved silently to the door, imagining I could sense someone on the other side. I touched the gun in my pocket to reassure myself. Reggie and Claire had been united in insisting that I carry it, much to my surprise. I took a deep breath and jerked the door open.

Mohler was hunched over on the other side, head angled as if he’d been trying to eavesdrop. He was wearing a black trenchcoat with the collar turned up and a Clouseau-like herringbone hat. Startled by my sudden appearance, he leaped sideways, his stupid hat falling to the ground. My nerves had been stretched taut, but it was impossible to feel intimidated by him. My initial impression came back-he was a little man in over his head. I picked up the hat and offered it to him.

“I know you,” he said, snatching it from me and working his fingers along the brim. “You’re the guy who was in my office the other day. The telephone guy.”

“And I know you,” I answered. “You’re the guy who surfs spanking porn all day and transfers money between numbered accounts once a month.”

His lips twitched, exposing crooked front teeth.

“You’re fucking with the wrong people. You have no idea what kind of trouble you’re in.”

“Maybe not. But I know what kind of trouble you’re in. So, why don’t you come on in, and we’ll talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Then why are you here?”

His lips twitched again, but he seemed to have run out of bravado. He entered the room slowly, head darting from side to side. There was nothing to see except the bed, the nightstand, a low chest of drawers, and a green tartan-upholstered chair. I flicked on the overhead light, shut the door, and sat down on a corner of the bed. I figured it had to be marginally cleaner than the chair.