James Grippando - Money to Burn

He nearly dropped his glass. “No, not if she’s alive. I was going to say…she came into your life so all of a sudden. Then vanished. Did you ever wonder if that’s all she was ever meant to be?”

He was starting to sound like Kevin, and it didn’t seem like the time to start the conversation that Ivy was indeed alive.

The phone on his desk rang. He went to it, seemingly glad for the interruption, as if he had never intended the conversation to get this personal.

“This is the call I’ve been waiting for,” he said as he put on his headset.

I started toward the door, but he stopped me.

“Have a seat,” he said. “This is why I invited you over. I want you to hear this.”

I was confused, but I obliged by taking a chair by the fire-place as Eric answered the phone.

“Agent Spear,” Eric said into his headset, “what can I do for you?”

I did a double take. Spear was the lead FBI agent who had interrogated me in Eric’s office.

Eric pushed a button on the phone that allowed him to use the headset without Spear knowing that the call was on speaker-or that I was in the room.

“Thanks for making time to talk with me tonight,” said Spear. “I know you have a million things going on.”

“A million and one now,” said Eric.

“I’ll make this quick. I just have some follow-up on Michael Cantella. We subpoenaed his cell phone records for the night Chuck Bell was shot.”

My chest tightened. It was intimidating to feel the power of the federal government in action.

Eric was unfazed. “And?”

“Interestingly enough,” said Spear, “Michael and you had a phone conversation just after midnight, not too long before the shooting.”

The last few days had become a blur, and I had to think a moment before recalling that I’d spoken to Eric on my way back to the Hotel Mildew from the ATM.

Eric said, “Michael and I have been in very close contact lately.”

“Did you talk about Chuck Bell in that conversation?”

“Could have.”

“Did Michael say anything about Bell?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Do you remember anything at all about the conversation?”

“Not really.”

“All right,” said Spear. “Just wanted to plant the seed. When the dust settles with Saxton Silvers, we can talk more.”

“You got it. Good night,” said Eric. He pushed the red button to end the call, then tossed his headset aside.

I had a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball. “You lied,” I said.

He stepped away from the desk and sat on the edge of the chair, facing me. “Like a rug,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I have a very specific memory of what you said that night. And it bothered me very much.”

“What did I say?”

“You were furious at Bell for suggesting on the air that you were his source. And you told me, ‘One way or another, I’m going to get a retraction out of that son of a bitch.’”

“I didn’t mean violence. And I definitely didn’t mean I was going to kill him.”

“Did you know that Bell had been subpoenaed before he was shot?”

“Subpoenaed for what?”

“To reveal the identity of his source.”

“I wasn’t his source, Eric.”

“I’m simply telling you what I’ve gathered from my conversations with the FBI. That’s what this latest follow-up was all about-and that’s why I wanted you to hear it with your own ears. Spear is convinced that you knew Bell had been subpoenaed. He thinks you wanted to stop him from revealing his source. One way or another.”

It was a less-than-subtle underscoring of how well my own words fit with the FBI’s theory. “What are you really telling me, Eric?”

He walked over from his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “Two things,” he said. “One: That phone conversation you and I had is between us. No one-especially not the FBI-is going to know about it.”

“You don’t have to protect me from anything,” I said.

“Two,” he said, letting his promise stand. “Make no mistake: There is one thing far worse than being accused of killing Chuck Bell.”

“What?”

“Being the accused killer of Saxton Silvers. A few people will make money when this firm goes down. A lot more will lose money. A lot of money. Shareholders, creditors, employees-they all get wiped out in bankruptcy. One thing you can be sure of. Somewhere in that long line of losers is someone mad and crazy enough to blow you away-if they get the opportunity. You understand what I’m telling you?”

I nodded, but he said it anyway, his expression deadly serious.

“Don’t give them the opportunity.”

IVY LAYTON WAS ON THE RUN. THAT WAS NOTHING NEW.

Running from one hiding place to another had become a way of life. What made tonight so different was the level of fear-a fear she hadn’t experienced since those terrifying days and nights in the Bahamas following the happiest day of her life. They had found her.

Again.

A bit of dust fell from the twilled linen cloth as Ivy climbed out from under it. The marble floor felt cold on her hands and knees.

Ivy had spent two of the last four years in Italy, where there seemed to be a Catholic church on every corner. Confessionals had become her go-to hiding spots. Tonight, it was just her luck that she’d darted into an Episcopal church-no confessionals in the Anglican tradition. A beautiful damask that covered the altar inside the chantry chapel had served her needs in a pinch.

St. Thomas Church is at Fifty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, a few blocks north of its more famous Catholic neighbor, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Ivy recognized the French High Gothic style, and everything but the length appeared to be of cathedral proportions. Her first thought had been to conceal herself behind the high altar, which was front and center in the traditional design. Halfway down the nave she found the chantry chapel in its own alcove. It would have been perfect for a small wedding-and the hollow space beneath the small altar was an excellent hiding spot.

Ivy stepped cautiously from the chapel, her gaze sweeping across fifty rows of empty wooden pews in the church nave. Two hours earlier, when she’d rushed inside in a panic, the entrance doors had been unlocked and the chandeliers had been on. The vast interior was now dark, save for the indirect lighting on the sculptured stone wall behind the high altar. Hopefully lights off didn’t mean doors locked-as in Ivy spending the night.

She turned away from the lighted altar and walked slowly toward the narthex, trying not to let her heels click on the inlaid marble floors as she passed by the World War II memorial. Just thinking about the close call at the Rink Bar made her pulse quicken. If not for the bomb scare, it would have been the end of the line. She probably could have been in Canada by now if she had just kept running, but she had taken enough risks for one night. Her next move, she decided, would be just a few blocks to the west. Her friend Phillip would give her something to eat and a place to sleep. He’d helped her more than any man since Michael, but the relationship was completely platonic. Phillip was gay, a bartender at Therapy. Michael’s new wife wasn’t the only one who thought a gay bar was a good place for a woman to hide.

Lucky for Ivy that she had recognized Mallory before Mallory had recognized her.

Or maybe not.

Ivy pushed against the carved Archangel Gabriel on the heavy church door-the same door through which she’d run earlier. It was locked. She tried the one next to it, carved with the Archangel Michael-hoping that the name alone would bring good fortune. Locked, too. She put her shoulder into it, more out of frustration than an actual attempt at escape, only to discover the hard way that these old doors were made to last a millennium.