“Yeah, well, that’s not what he told the guys at Dillwyn. He said he was personally authorized by you to transfer Grace Brookstein to our Fairfax facility. They faxed me the documents, Harry. I’m looking at your signature right now.”
“This is crazy! I never authorized anything. Williams was obsessed with Grace Brookstein. He had this weird, personal thing going on with her. That’s why we let him go.”
“Jesus Christ!” roared the director. “Do you have any idea what a stinking mess this is?”
Harry Bain did have some idea. The staff at the OGA prison had released Grace Brookstein into Gavin Williams’s custody last night. The two of them were last seen driving out of Dillwyn at around five P.M. At five A.M. this morning, the burned-out shell of Williams’s car had been discovered in a remote part of rural Virginia with Gavin’s remains inside. Or as Harry’s boss put it, “his barbecued remains.” Grace Brookstein herself had vanished.
“What’s happening with the search effort? Is there anything my guys can do to help?”
“We’re all over it. We got helicopters up, tracker dogs, you name it. I was gonna say ‘she won’t get far’ but after last time…”
“I take it the media don’t know yet?”
“No one knows. And we’re gonna keep it that way. No one knew she was at Dillwyn in the first place, thank God.”
Harry Bain thought, Except Gavin Williams. How long would it take for a persistent reporter to uncover the truth? Long enough for them to find Grace? He was reminded of Lady Bracknell’s famous line in The Importance of Being Earnest. To lose Grace Brookstein once may be regarded as misfortune. To lose her twice looked like carelessness.
He hung up, wondering under what circumstances it might be possible to salvage his career, and was searching through his desk drawer for some aspirin when a disheveled blond man burst into his office. Harry reached for his gun.
“Easy.” Mitch put his hands in the air. “We’re on the same side, remember?”
Harry Bain didn’t remember. The NYPD had been nothing but obstructive with his guys since the day Grace escaped. Even after they captured her, Mitch Connors had done all that he could to block their access to her.
“What do you want, Connors?”
Mitch got straight to the point. “John Merrivale did not catch his flight to St. Lucia this morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to the airport. Checked the passenger lists. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”
Harry Bain shrugged. “So he missed his flight.”
“No. You don’t understand. He never intended to catch that plane. He’s not going to Mustique.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I believe Merrivale has left the country to avoid being prosecuted for murder.”
“Murder?” This conversation was starting to become surreal. “Whose murder?”
“Leonard Brookstein’s.”
Harry Bain laughed, then stopped laughing. Connors was serious.
“I believe that John Merrivale was responsible for the theft of billions of dollars from the Quorum Hedge Fund. I believe he’s known where that money has been hidden all along. I believe he is on his way to retrieve it now.”
Harry had heard rumors that the NYPD’s erstwhile wonder boy had gone off the rails. There was a 90 percent chance the guy was a crackpot.
That meant there was a 10 percent chance he could be onto something.
Harry Bain pointed to the chair opposite him. “Sit down. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Convince me.”
MITCH DIDN’T TAKE A BREATH. STARTING with Davey Buccola’s information, he told Harry Bain everything he knew about what might have happened the day that Lenny Brookstein’s boat went missing. He talked about evidence of violence to the corpse; about Lenny’s affair with his sister-in-law; about his strained relationships with all of his so-called friends, and their various motives for wanting him dead. He talked about Andrew Preston’s debts and his obsessive love for his adulterous wife, about Jack Warner’s love affair with a hooker, and Connie Gray’s blatant attempts at blackmail. Finally, he talked about John Merrivale: Grace’s suspicions that John had deliberately sabotaged her trial; the lies John had told police; his faked alibi; his affair with Maria Preston, whom he claimed barely to have known.
Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. Harry Bain listened and said nothing. When Mitch finished, he asked only one question.
“How much did Grace Brookstein know about all this?”
“Up to the part about Merrivale, she knew everything,” said Mitch. “I only figured it out myself in the last forty-eight hours.”
He told Harry Bain about Grace outsmarting him and his men at Times Square, about her humiliation of Buccola after he’d betrayed her, about her rape and abortion and her determination to clear her husband’s name at all costs. “I’ll tell you something about Grace Brookstein. She’s smart. She’s courageous. And she’s resourceful as hell.”
“Sounds like you admire her,” said Bain.
“I do.”
“Like her?”
“Yes, I like her.” Mitch smiled. I like her too much for my own good. “The real Grace, not the monster they paint on TV. But at this moment I’m happy she’s locked up somewhere. She’s safer that way.”
Harry Bain looked uncomfortable. Mitch Connors had risked a lot coming here, to a rival agency, an agency that theoretically supported John Merrivale, and laying his cards on the table. On the other hand, he was a maverick. He’d already broken every rule in the book to get the information he had. His own department had suspended him. Is this really the sort of man I can afford to trust right now?
Bain made a decision. “There’s something you ought to know.”
Mitch listened openmouthed. Was it possible? Grace had escaped? She’d killed a man? His first thought was for her safety. If those helicopters found her, they would shoot first and ask questions later. Everything about Grace Brookstein’s case had been a cover-up, so why not her death? Mitch could imagine the headlines now. Grace had slipped in the shower. She’d succumbed to a rare virus. Who would know? Who would care?
“The dead guy, the one who faked your signature on his authorization papers. What did you say his name was?”
“Williams. Gavin Williams.”
Alarm bells went off in Mitch’s head. Nantucket. The woman at the airport. William, he said his name was…he had one of those army haircuts…went to the same page, June twelfth, John Merrivale…
“How did he wear his hair?”
Bain looked confused.
“Gavin Williams. His hair. Was it long, dark, light, was he bald?”
“He was gray-haired. Always wore a crew cut. What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
Mitch sprang to his feet. “He knew. He knew about John Merrivale! He was the guy in Nantucket asking questions, just a day or so before me. Gavin Williams knew John flew back to the island, that he’d lied about his alibi. He must have suspected he was involved in Lenny’s death.”
Bain let the significance of this sink in.
“Do you think he told Grace?”
“I have no idea,” said Mitch. “You’re the one who knew him. But if he did, and your helicopters don’t find her, at least we know where she’s headed.”
“We do?”
“Sure. Find John Merrivale and you’ve found Grace Brookstein. She’s on her way to kill him.”
THIRTY-THREE
JOHN MERRIVALE DID NOT LIKE FLYING. Pulling down the window shade, he tried to focus on the jet’s luxurious interior, and not the fact that he was thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean in a hurtling metal box with wings.
Taking in the soft leather couches, cashmere-covered cushions and inlaid walnut table set with a pair of crystal flutes and a dainty silver bowl of caviar, he thought, It’s wasted on me. Perhaps that was the greatest irony in all of this. John Merrivale didn’t care about money. He never had. John Merrivale wasn’t interested in things. The truth was things bored him. Bespoke suits, sports cars, private planes, yachts, mansions. It was women who lusted after all that, the accoutrements of wealth, the status symbols. With Caroline it was real estate. Maria had been more of a magpie, a bauble whore, salivating over anything and everything that sparkled.
Poor Maria. Killing her had never been part of the plan. But she’d put him in an impossible situation. By threatening to tell Andrew about their affair, she’d put everything at risk.
For two years now, the delicate balance of mutual dependence between John and Andrew Preston had protected both of them. If Lenny had been Quorum’s head, its brain and its nerve center, Andrew and John had been the fund’s left and right hands. John brought money in. Andrew paid it out to investors. Keeping the SEC, and later the FBI, in the dark had been a simple matter of each of them covering for the other.
Of course, the scale of their respective crimes varied wildly. I’m like a hippo on a seesaw with an ant. Andrew’s thefts—$600,000 here, a million there—were small. As for his reverse engineering of financial statements, “spinning” the fund’s accounts to make it look more profitable than it actually was…every hedge fund on Wall Street did that. Compared with what John had done, Andrew Preston’s “crimes” were laughably insignificant.