this ghastly conspiracy.”
“You may have been the one to introduce them, but that’s not to say Page
and whoever was funding him couldn’t have helped that introduction
occur. Moving in the right circles, helping publicize Page’s financial
brilliance to the right people.”
“Go on.”
“So Page and Lieberman hit it off. The third party may believe that
Lieberman may one day run the Fed. So Page and his backer bide their
time. The backer pays Page to keep up the romance. They would’ve
documented the relationship every which way from Sun-day–taped phone
calls, video, still photos–you can believe that.”
“Then Steven Page was all part of a setup. He never actually cared for
Arthur. I… I can’t believe this.” The little man sounded terribly
depressed.
“Then Page gets HIV and allegedly commits suicide.”
“Allegedly? You have doubts about his death?”
“I’m a cop, Charles, I have doubts about the Pope. Page is gone, but
his accomplice is still out there. Lieberman becomes Fed chair man, and
barn, the blackmail begins.”
“But Arthur’s death?”
“Well, your comment about him seeming almost happy that he had cancer
tells me one thing.”
“Which is?”
“That he was about to tell his blackmailer to take a flying leap and was
going to go public with the scheme.”
Tiedman rubbed his brow nervously. “It all makes perfect sense.”
Sawyer lowered his voice. “You haven’t mentioned ‘any of what we’ve
discussed to anyone, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, stick to that habit, and never let your guard down.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” There was a sudden catch in Tiedman’s
voice.
“I’m just recommending in the very strongest possible terms that you be
very careful and do not tell anyone–not any of the Fed members,
including Walter Burns, your secretary, your assistants, your wife, your
friends–anything about this.”
“Are you saying that you think I’m in danger? I find that very hard to
believe.”
Sawyer’s tone was grim. “I’m sure Arthur Lieberman thought that tOO.”
Charles Tiedman gripped a pencil on his desk so hard that it snapped in
half. “I’ll certainly follow your advice to the letter.”
Thoroughly frightened, Tiedman hung up.
Sawyer leaned back in his chair and longed for another cigarette as his
mental engine went into overdrive. Somebody had obviously been paying
off Steven Page. Sawyer thought he had a reasonable answer for why:
setting up Lieberman. The question nagging at him now was who? And
then the biggest question of all: Who had killed Steven Page? The FBI
agent was now convinced, despite evidence to the contrary, that Steven
Page had been murdered. He picked up the phone. “Ray? It’s Lee. I
want you to give Lieberman’s personal physician another call.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Bill Patterson looked at the dashboard clock and stretched out his large
body. They were traveling southbound about two hours north of Bell
Harbor. Next to him, his wife was sound asleep. It had been a far
longer trip to the market than they were expecting. Sidney Archer had
been incorrect. They had not stopped on the drive up to Bell Harbor,
and had reached the beach house barely ahead of the storm. Having piled
their luggage in the back bedroom, they headed out for food before the
storm worsened. The market in Bell Harbor was sold out, so they were
compelled to drive north to the far larger grocery in Port Vista. On
the way back, their route had been closed off by a jackknifed tanker
truck. Last night had been spent very uncomfortably in a motel.
Patterson now checked the backseat; Amy was also napping, her little
mouth forming a perfect circle. Patterson looked at the heavily falling
snow and grimaced. Fortunately, he had not been privy to the latest
news flashes proclaiming his daughter to be a fugitive from justice. He
was sick enough with worry as it was. In his anxiety he had chewed his
fingernails until they had bled and his gut was full of acid. He wanted
to be protecting Sidney now, as he had dutifully done when she was a
little girl. Ghosts and bogeymen had been his chief foes back then. The
current ones were far more deadly, he had to assume. At least he had