As she walked back up to the house she took a moment to admire the rear facade of the mansion. The purchase and renovation of this house had been, by far, her greatest extravagance. And she had done it for two reasons. First, because she was tired of traveling and wanted to settle down, although she would’ve been happy in something far less magnificent than what she was staring at. Second, and more important, she had done it for the same reason she had done most things over the years: for Lisa. To give her a real home with a sense of permanence where she could grow up, marry, and have children of her own. Home the last ten years had been hotels, rented villas, and chalets, not that LuAnn was complaining about existing in such luxury, but none of them were home. The tiny trailer in the middle of the woods all those years ago had had far deeper roots for her than the most extravagant residence in Europe. Now they had this. LuAnn smiled at the sight: big, beautiful, and safe. At the thought of the last word, LuAnn suddenly huddled in her coat as a wind broke through the stand of trees.
Safe? When they had gone to bed last night they had been safe and secure, or as much as one could be living the kind of existence they all did. The face of the man in the Honda sprang up before her and she closed her eyes tightly until it finally went away. In its place came another image. The man’s face stared at her with many emotions passing across it. Matthew Riggs had risked his life for her and the best she could do was accuse him of lying. And with that response she had only served to make him more suspicious. She pondered a moment, and then sprinted toward the house.
Charlie’s office was straight out of a men’s club in London, with a magnificent wet bar of polished walnut occupying one corner. The custom-built mahogany desk had neatly sorted piles of correspondence, bills, and other household matters. LuAnn quickly flipped through his card file until she found the one she wanted and plucked it out. She then took out a key Charlie kept high up on a shelf and used it to open a drawer in his desk. She took out the .38 revolver, loaded it, and carried it upstairs with her. The weight of the compact weapon restored some of her confidence. She showered, changed into a black skirt and sweater, threw on a full-length coat, and went down to the garage. As she drove down the private road, one hand tight around the pistol in her coat pocket, LuAnn anxiously looked around, for the Honda could be lurking. She breathed a sigh of relief when she hit the main road and was still all alone. She glanced at the address and phone number on the business card and wondered whether she should call first. Her hand hesitated over the car phone and then she decided just to chance it. If he wasn’t there, then maybe it was best. She didn’t know whether what she was planning would help or hurt matters. Ever one to choose action over passivity, she couldn’t change her ways now. Besides, it was her problem, not anyone else’s. She would have to deal with it eventually.
Eventually, she would have to deal with it all.
Chapter twenty-six
Jackson had just arrived back from a cross-country trip and was in his makeup room divesting himself of his most recent disguise when the phone rang. It was not his residential phone. It was his business line, an untraceable communications linkage, and it almost never rang. Jackson called out on the line often during the business day to convey precise instructions to his associates across the globe. Almost no one ever called him, however; and that was the way he wanted it. He had a myriad of other ways to ascertain whether his instructions were being carried out. He snatched up the phone.
“Yes?”
“I think we might have a problem here, or it may be nothing,” the voice said.
“I’m listening.” Jackson sat down and used a long piece of string to lift the putty off his nose. Then he removed the latex pieces adhering to his face by tugging gently on their edges.
“As you know, two days ago we wired income from the last quarter to Catherine Savage’s account in the Caymans. To Banque Internacional. Just like always.”
“So? Is she complaining about the rate of return?” Jackson said sarcastically. He tugged firmly on the back edges of his snow white wig and then pulled up and then forward. He next removed the latex skullcap and his own hair sprang free.
“No, but I got a call from the wire department at Banque and they wanted to confirm something.”
“What was that?” Jackson cleansed his face while he was listening, his eyes scanning the mirror as layer after layer of concealment was removed.
“That they had wired all the monies from Savage’s accounts to Citibank in New York.”
New York! As he absorbed this stunning news, Jackson opened his mouth wide and removed the acrylic caps. Instantly, dark, misshapen teeth became white and straight. His dark eyes glittered menacingly and he stopped removing his disguise. “First, why would they call you if it was her account?”
“They shouldn’t have. I mean they never have before. I think the guy at the wire desk down there is new. He must have seen my name and phone number on some of the paperwork and figured I was a principal on the receiving account instead of being on the other end of the transaction, the sending account.”
“What did you tell him? I hope you didn’t excite any suspicion.”
“No, not at all,” the voice said nervously. “I simply thanked him and said that was correct. I hope I did the right thing, but of course I wanted to report it to you right away. It seemed unusual.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything you want me to do on follow-up?”
“I’ll handle it.” Jackson hung up the phone. He sat back and fiddled absently with the wig. None of LuAnn’s money was ever, ever supposed to end up in the United States. Money in the United States was traceable. Banks filed 1099s with the IRS, and other documents detailing income and account balances. Social Security numbers were communicated and kept as part of the official record; filings with the IRS on behalf of the taxpayer were required. None of that was ever supposed to happen in LuAnn’s case. LuAnn Tyler was a fugitive. Fugitives did not return to their homeland and start paying their taxes, even under assumed names.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“Yes, sir?” the voice asked.
Jackson said, “The taxpayer’s name is Catherine Savage.” Jackson provided her Social Security number and other pertinent information. “You will find out immediately whether she has filed a U.S. tax return or any other type of documents with the IRS. Use all the sources at your disposal, but I need this information within the hour.”
He hung up again. For the next forty-five minutes, he walked around his apartment, wearing the portable phone and headset, a requirement when you liked to pace and your apartment was as large as Jackson’s was.
Then the phone rang again.
The voice was crisp. “Catherine Savage filed an income tax return last year. I couldn’t get full particulars in such a short time frame; however, according to my source, the income reported was substantial. She also recently filed a change of address form with the IRS.”
“Give it to me.” Jackson wrote the Charlottesville, Virginia, address down on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket.
“One more thing,” the voice said. “My source pulled up a very recent filing in connection with Savage’s tax account.”
“By her?”
“No. It was a Form 2848. It gives a third party a power of attorney to represent the taxpayer with respect to just about anything having to do with their tax matters.”
“Who was the requesting party?”