James Grippando - Money to Burn

KYLE MCVEE WAS BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A BLACK SUV, DRIVING toward WhiteSands. His nephew had arranged for transportation to be waiting for them at the private heliport a few miles away when they landed. He was in the passenger seat, too busy fussing with his new toy.

“I’m liking it,” said Wald.

He was inspecting his new weapon for the tenth time, an older but nicely refurbished Italian-made Beretta 92FS Compact. From a technical standpoint, it was everything he needed-thirteen rounds of 9 mm ammunition in a quick-release magazine, a smaller and more easily concealed version of its big bad-ass cousin, the M-9 pistol used by the U.S. military.

“I can see why Tony liked it so much,” he said, weighing it in his shooting hand.

“You kept Girelli’s gun?”

“My trophy.”

McVee flung his fist at him, hitting his nephew square in the chest.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Dump that damn gun the minute we’re done here,” McVee said. “Now put it away before you shoot yourself.”

Wald double-checked the safety and tucked his trophy back into his shoulder holster. “Like I’m the only one taking unnecessary chances,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” said McVee.

“The way we’ve played this so far, it would be difficult for anyone to place you in the same zip code as Ian Burn, let alone in the same helicopter hangar.”

“Fine. Your concern is noted.”

“I understand that they all have to go,” said Wald. “But there’s no need for you to be there when it happens.”

McVee gripped the steering wheel even tighter. “You know nothing about my needs,” he snapped.

“I’m just saying, we can handle this.”

They rode in silence for another minute, but McVee’s emotions were beginning to roil.

“You don’t know me,” said McVee, “and you certainly didn’t know your cousin.”

“Marcus?” said Wald. “Of course I knew-”

“You didn’t,” said McVee.

He paused, struggling to get control of himself. There was nothing to be gained by unloading on Jason at this point, but the kid seemed to think that this was all part of Kyle McVee’s business plan and personal vision, that he was proud of the way his nephew was comfortable in dealing with the darkest elements of organized crime. The boy couldn’t have been more wrong.

“You think this is what I wanted Ploutus to become?” he said. “You think I like being the Wall Street thief who manipulates the market? The go-to hedge fund for mob money?”

He glanced at his nephew, and from the look at his face, the younger man had never really reduced it to such vile terms.

“You pay a price,” said McVee, “when you reach a point in your life when everything you’ve worked for is bullshit. When it doesn’t matter anymore. When you need a man like Ian Burn to make it right.”

Wald was about to speak, then stopped, seeming to sense that silence was the wiser course.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to see lightweights like Eric Volke rise to the top? To see a know-nothing like Michael Cantella named in Forbes magazine as Saxton Silvers’ youngest-ever investment advisor of the year? It would be hard enough to stomach that shit in any case, but in a world with my son dead and buried, it’s unbearable. Marcus was a dynamo,” he said, his voice quaking, “and we had plans. Big plans. If he were alive today, he’d be the CEO of Ploutus-a thirty-six-year-old king of the world. I’d probably be president of the NASDAQ. All that ended when that bitch came along. I was happy when she was lost at sea and the sharks got her-and just enraged when I found out four years later that it was all a lie. That Girelli didn’t really get the job done.”

“He was a punk,” said Wald.

“So are you,” said McVee, disdain in his voice. “How my sister popped you into the world I’ll never understand.”

Jason looked out the passenger’s-side window, toward the passing darkness. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the insult.

“But I can tell you this,” said McVee. “Marcus was no punk. And for him, I’m going to spit in that woman’s eye before she burns alive in a WhiteSands helicopter with her conniving mother and the biggest punk of all-Michael Cantella.”

Wald’s phone rang. He answered. It was Burn. The conversation lasted just five seconds. He ended the call and looked at his uncle.

“Show time,” he said.

The engine revved as McVee accelerated down the last half mile of the WhiteSands access road.

THE MAIN HANGAR DOOR WAS CLOSED, AND I HEARD A CAR PULL up outside. The narrow row of polycarbonate windows that stretched across the big sliding door from end to end was above eye level, but Burn was standing on the boarding step to the helicopter, high enough to see out. He did not seem alarmed. A moment later, the smaller entrance door opened to the darkness of night. Jason Wald entered first, followed by his uncle.

Kyle McVee was dressed casually in a navy blue sailing jacket, linen slacks, and deck shoes, as if he were on his way to a weekend getaway at his waterfront estate in the Hamptons. His demeanor, however, was anything but relaxed. He walked toward Ivy and stopped in front of her, his glare like lasers.

“I’ve waited for this day,” he said.

“So have I,” she said.

McVee wasn’t the only one confused by her response.

Ivy said, “I’ve always wanted to know why you held me-and me alone-responsible for Marcus’ suicide.”

“You can’t seriously mean that,” he said.

“It was Eric who hired me for the assignment. But you never blamed him.”

She was clearly pushing buttons, taking her cue from the voice-mail message I’d played from Agent Henning. But McVee seemed to find something humorous about the exchange, and he was looking at me while talking to Ivy.

“Still playing the good wife to Michael Cantella, I see.”

“The only role I ever played was the one Eric hired me to play. But in the end, he wasn’t the one you came after.”

Eric spoke up for himself. “A little corporate espionage is what any reasonable businessman would do to protect his own company.”

“I’ll handle this,” said McVee, silencing him. “But Eric is right: He was doing something that anyone would do. You, on the other hand-you were different.” He stepped closer, his stare tightening. “There was no need for you to do the things you did to Marcus.”

“What things?”

“I’m sure you researched matters before starting your undercover role. You knew the family history was there-that his mother had taken her own life. You saw Marcus’ highs, and you knew how low his lows could be. And still you did whatever it took to get the information you needed out of him. You flirted. You slept with him. And you even pretended to be in love with him.”

“That’s not true!” she said.

“When you had the information you needed to report back to Eric, you crushed Marcus-told him to his face that he’d been played for a fool. My son didn’t kill himself because of anything Eric did. He killed himself because of you-the way you destroyed him.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Ivy.

“You used my son the same way you used Michael Cantella. Hell, you were even willing to marry Michael, if that was what it took to pull off your disappearing act.”

I exchanged glances with Eric-McVee had just repeated the story that Eric had told me in the WhiteSands dining room-and then I looked at Ivy.

Her eyes pleaded with me. “Don’t believe any of this, Michael. I married you because I loved you. I never slept with Marcus. Okay, I may have flirted-that’s part of the game-but it was never intimate. Never. And definitely not while I was with you.”