“And you found nothing at the morgue?”
“Nope. Her parents are still kicking, all the brothers and a sister are still sucking oxygen. You sure she was never married, right? No kids, not even a bastard.”
“Never,” O’Neal answered, sounding deeply unsettled.
There was something here, O’Neal was sure, and he was even more desperate to find it. He was being paid for his instincts in these matters-and right now his gut was screaming that the key to Mia Jenson was that mysterious loss, whatever it was.
He wished he had more time to think about it, but things were coming unhinged fast. The morning had become a nightmare. Castile was supposed to call in about the break-in to Jenson’s house, but the call never came. Repeated attempts to reach Castile, both at his house and on his cell, went unanswered.
O’Neal had a team out now trying to hunt down the missing burglars; unfortunately, it was a ridiculously small team, two men, a pair of sad losers he ordinarily wouldn’t have dispatched to the deli for a sandwich.
Problem was, O’Neal had everybody with the slightest tinge of competence working overdrive to find someone much more important.
Jack Wiley had fallen off the face of the earth.
O’Neal hadn’t yet informed Walters that Wiley had slipped his net.
He prayed he would never have to.
Martie’s prayer went unanswered. The call he dreaded came at six that evening in the form of Mitch Walters in a foul mood, demanding an update.
He started with Mia. Martie explained about the meeting with her big brother in Chicago, about the mysterious “loss,” and reassured Walters that TFAC was deploying as many resources as possible to unearth the story. In this case, “as many resources as possible” equaled a sorry louse whose total PI experience was hunting down lost cats and peeking into bedrooms. But he didn’t admit that, of course.
“What about her home?” Walters asked. “Your boys pay her a visit yet?”
“Last night,” O’Neal answered, hoping that was the end of it.
“Did they leave her a little gift?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“We’re, uh, having a slight glitch getting in contact with our contractors.”
“A glitch?”
“Nothing to worry about, Mitch. They went in last night and disappeared for a while. These boys are pros. They don’t bring no ID, they don’t bring cell phones. We’ll get it sorted out. Like I said, don’t worry.”
He almost laughed with relief when Walters asked, “What about Jenson’s office?”
“Working on it. I warned you it would take preparation and time. Won’t be long,” he promised.
There was a pause. Martie closed his eyes and hoped Walters was finished.
Finally Walters asked the question O’Neal desperately didn’t want to hear. “Where’s Wiley right now?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just say that Wiley wasn’t as cooperative as we hoped. We’re worried about Jenson making contact with him again. Tell me you’re keeping a good eye on him.”
Another long pause, this one on O’Neal’s part. He pinched his nose and confessed, “He, uh, well, he seems to have slipped away.”
“Tell me I didn’t hear that.”
“Sorry, Mitch. Yesterday, after he left your building, he went downtown, parked in a public garage, and disappeared.”
“This better be a joke, O’Neal. But I’m not laughing.”
“No, it’s quite true, Mitch.” He paused and struggled to keep his voice level. “Seemed innocent at the time, a momentary slip-up in coverage. But we reconsidered. Wiley obviously planned this escape a while ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s not complicated. We have his charge card numbers, his phone accounts, his bank account numbers, all of which we acquired seven months ago. He’s not using any of them. His bank accounts were electronically emptied out yesterday. He’s gone totally underground.”
Walters began cursing at O’Neal, unleashing a world of anger and fury. O’Neal held the phone away from his ear until Walters’s well ran dry. It took a while.
“That’s not helping anything,” he said to Walters.
“You’re fired,” Walters replied back.
“Don’t be stupid, Mitch. You can’t fire me right now. You need me more than ever, to put this thing back together.”
He could hear Walters breathing heavily on the other end. A few more scattered curses and threats flew across the line, but they lacked any semblance of conviction, just empty shots fired after the surrender to an ugly reality. “Find Wiley,” he barked in his most menacing tone. “Do whatever it takes, find him.”
“That’s not so easy. He’s a smart guy, and like I said, he prepared for this. But I have a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
O’Neal explained his plan-it was a great idea-and Walters quickly agreed to do his part.
It was impossible to sleep or nap.
Jack had his feet up on the coffee table and his eyes glued to the television in his hotel room, watching as William Pederson, a smooth-talking lizard in an Armani suit, stood outside the big cylinder that was home to CG’s headquarters, issuing his firm’s first response to the nasty rumors roaring about the city.
Pederson was enjoying himself immensely, juking and jiving into the forest of microphones jammed in his face. “No, we really have no idea what prompted the secretary’s shutdown order. We’re investigating now.”
“Is it true the polymer wears off?” one reporter yelled.
“I won’t say it’s possible and I won’t say it isn’t. We’re running tests now.”
“Why wasn’t it tested before?” bellowed another.
“Who said it wasn’t? I assure you it was, quite vigorously.”
After that wonderfully vague and obviously self-conflicting answer, Pederson’s eyes shifted to a reporter in the back of the mob wearing a conspicuously nice suit; an obvious plant. “Sir,” the “reporter” screamed on cue, “wasn’t the polymer invented by somebody else?”
Pederson acted as though the question annoyed him. His eyebrows knitted together. He stared down at one particular microphone. He tried his best to impart the impression that he was only answering under duress. “Yes, that’s right,” he said gravely. “Among the possibilities we’re exploring is that somebody ran a scam on us.”
The mob of reporters fell silent.
The same “reporter” in the back, a swarthy man with a big nose, asked, “You said it was a scam?”
“Well, let’s say it’s possible somebody committed a few indiscretions. Some of the documents we were given during the purchase of the company that discovered the polymer now appear, well, questionable.”
“You mean doctored or falsified?”
“We’re seeking two men, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan, in our effort to get to the bottom of this.”
“Are you saying you were defrauded?”
“I’m saying no such thing.” A brief, well-timed pause-could he say it any clearer? He was screaming it from the rooftops to any idiot who would listen. “I’m saying that we’re seeking these two men to help clarify a few questionable matters. In fact, it’s so important to us that we’re offering five million dollars to anyone who helps locate them. Again, Jack Wiley and Perry Arvan are the names. Their photos are posted on our corporate website for anyone interested in the five million reward.”
Jack had an urge to laugh that was quickly tempered by an even stronger compulsion to hop the next flight out of the country and flee to Brazil, or anywhere, really. Anywhere, that is, where there was a thick, impenetrable jungle, accommodating legal authorities, and the possibility of disappearing forever.
Instead he picked a phone from his stack of cell phones, dialed a number, and had another quick conversation with his lawyer.
27
It was thought that Daniel Bellweather had the best chance to pull it off; if not him, there was no hope. He had once shared the same job, the same onerous responsibilities, the same pressure-cooker office, after all. And when he set his mind to it, he could be fairly charming in a brusque, uncompromising way.