“I’d rather not say right away.”
Reaching out to return the card, she said, “I’ve had enough mysteries already.”
Gage held up his hands. “How about this? I’ll explain to you why I’m here, and then you decide whether it makes any difference who hired me.”
Elaine stared up at him for a few moments, and then turned away from the door and said, “Come on in.”
As Gage stamped his feet to knock off the snow that had collected on his shoes as he walked from his car, she looked back and smiled and said, “Nice try with shivering-in-the-cold gimmick. My husband used to use that one, too. He knew all of the tricks.” Her smiled died. “A lot of good it did him in the end.”
CHAPTER 8
I only divorced him so he couldn’t spend all of our savings trying to find Ibrahim,” Elaine said, as they sat across the kitchen table from each other. She gestured toward the 1950s knotty-pine cabinets, the Formica countertops, and the lime green refrigerator. “He spent our kitchen remodeling money chasing him across Eastern Europe.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “Assuming Ibrahim was even in Eastern Europe.”
Lying between them were online newspaper articles about Gage that Vicky had printed out. He was sure that she’d searched for them hoping to find something that would convince her mother not to talk to him. But they had the opposite effect, and he respected her courage in bringing them down to her mother anyway.
Elaine spun one around and faced it toward Gage. It was about Gage’s capture of a fugitive in Budapest who’d stolen five hundred million dollars from a Russian-U.S. oil production joint venture.
“Since you found this guy,” Elaine said, “maybe you can locate Ibrahim and figure out what happened to Michael. And why.” Her gaze settled on the article. “I suspect that if Michael had been worth half a billion dollars, too, there’d have been more people interested in finding out.”
Elaine’s hands shook as she took a sip of tea. Gage wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or fatigue. Her gray-framed eyes and errant strands of hair suggested the latter.
“What was driving him?” Gage asked.
“You mean, why was he obsessed?”
Gage shook his head. “I don’t know enough about him or what happened to say that.” He smiled. “It may be that after a few weeks working on this, people will say the same thing about me.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then smiled back.
“I think I like you,” she said. “Most investigators I’ve met, especially FBI, have been assholes. Pricks with badges.” She flushed. “Sorry for the body part analogies. I learned them from my kids.” She pointed at the church events calendar held to the refrigerator by an apple-shaped magnet. “It’s hard for a preacher’s daughter to admit, but ‘asshole’ is the most exquisite and versatile word in the English language.”
Elaine’s eyes went vacant as though images of those to whom the word applied were passing through her mind, then she blinked and said, “It really wasn’t an obsession. People who collect stamps and who pull slot machine handles in twelve-hour shifts are obsessed. For Michael it was a moral crusade, one that I’m afraid I didn’t understand. And because I didn’t understand it, I didn’t support it.” She raised her teacup to take another sip, but then set it back down. “That’s not right. I couldn’t find a way to support it. And I tried. I really did.”
“You mean you don’t think Ibrahim was framed?”
“I never saw anything that showed he wasn’t guilty.” She glanced upward. “I even searched Michael’s office when he wasn’t home, trying to find out. All I ever got from him was, ‘You don’t understand,’ and ‘It’s too dangerous for you to know,’ or ‘I can’t violate Bureau policy. I know they’ll take me back once I prove I’m right.’ “
“You mean he was concerned that he might violate FBI policy by disclosing what he’d learned when he was an agent? “
Elaine nodded.
“Which means that whatever he learned, he learned while he was still with the agency.”
She nodded again.
“Did he leave anything behind?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “The FBI came and took everything, including his safe, which they weren’t able to open while they were here.”
“Did they have a search warrant?”
“You mean, did they see him as a suspect, rather than as a victim? “
Gage shrugged. “I guess you could say that’s the flip side of the question.”
“They said they needed it in order to investigate his death, so I signed a consent form. They may have had a search warrant with them just in case, but they didn’t show it. They said they’d send me a receipt once they had inventoried everything.”
“Have they?”
“No. And it’s been a week.” She sighed. “I wonder if I made a mistake by making it so easy for them.”
“If they hadn’t brought a warrant, they could’ve easily gotten one just based on the suspicion that he took FBI records with him when he left the Bureau.”
She shook her head. “I think it was less a theft and more that he failed to return the files. He’d started on his crusade about eight years ago and when he wouldn’t let it go, they fired him.”
Elaine paused, the memory seeming to well up in her. “Devastating. It was devastating. For the first few months he sat in his office just staring out of the window, then something happened, I don’t know what, and he went manic over the thing again.”
Gage pointed up toward her husband’s office. “You mind if I look at what’s left? Maybe it’ll help me understand him.”
“Then you’ll know a lot more than I did, and I was married to him for almost twenty years.”
Elaine led him up the oak staircase they’d passed on the way to the kitchen, then down a carpeted hallway to a converted bedroom.
“Before he lost his sense of humor,” she said, as she gestured him inside, “he used to invite people in here by saying, ‘Welcome to the scene of the crime.'”
Elaine’s face reddened as her eyes traveled from the desk to the battered file cabinet and paper shredder and past the sagging bookcases toward a framed FBI shield on the wall.
“And the agents who came here sure as hell treated it that way.”
Gage walked over and scanned the titles of the books. He noticed a few that were also on his own shelves: manuals on securities fraud, money laundering, and financial investigation, along with a shelf devoted to stock and bond trading, technical analysis, and principles of finance.'Did he do day trading?” Gage asked, flipping through a twelve-hundred-page volume on financial modeling. He turned toward her. “This is pretty sophisticated material. Graduate-level math.”
Elaine shook her head. “He barely passed algebra in high school. I know. I sat behind him and fed him the answers.”
She reached past Gage and pulled out a volume titled The Fractal Analysis of Finance.
“Look at this thing,” she said, opening it near the middle. “He highlighted almost every sentence and I’m not sure whether he understood any of it.”
Gage recognized the book. It was an attack on the theories of finance that had guided the actions of the central banks in both the U.S. and Europe for two generations, and on the models used for risk assessment by corporations, investment houses, mutual funds, and currency traders. He wasn’t sure whether anyone other than the author of the book understood the argument, or if anyone did, whether he’d found a way to make use of it, except-according to legend and the prospectus of the offshore Relative Growth hedge fund-Hani Ibrahim.
“Did he study Ibrahim’s journal articles?” Gage asked, glancing over at her.
Elaine nodded. “But the FBI took the whole lot because he’d written notes on them.”
Gage’s mind looped back and he repeated her earlier words, “'Treated the place like a crime scene.’ What did you mean?”
“They even dusted for fingerprints.”
