to get there and back, you listen to what I want from you. If you agree to follow my lead, I’ll see that you get your evidence against Stenman—if that’s what Mom had.”
“You haven’t looked at any of the documents, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. Mom sent everything by registered mail, thank goodness. You think you know what’s in those envelopes?”
“Names attached to some overflowing accounts. Bank trails. Notes made during meetings between Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers lawyers and Stenman, Muller, Guzman, others. Copies of documents that no longer exist. In other words, dynamite.”
“You willing to play ball for a chance to handle some of this dynamite?” Peter asked, already knowing the answer. Dawson was on a professional jihad, and only his SEC investigations made his professional life meaningful. Peter had to fight this fight, or perish. Dawson battled out of principle. And Peter admired him for it.
Dawson peered out the window and ran a fingertip across his lip. Without turning, he said, “It doesn’t cost me anything to listen.” The feigned indifference didn’t work. Peter understood the man was hooked and ready to be reeled in.
Halfway into the return trip home, Peter said, “That’s the deal. You in, Dawson?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want the evidence.”
“Then I’m in.”
“You can guarantee your boss—Ackerman—is gonna buy in?”
“Yeah, but he ain’t gonna like it.”
“Tough. I’ve still got a lot to figure out. Some things’ll change on the fly as conditions warrant. That okay with you?” Peter took the Balboa exit, south of La Jolla.
“Where you taking me?” the agent asked.
“I asked if changes were okay, if necessary.”
“Yeah. Where am I?”
“Pacific Beach. I’m dropping you off on Mission Bay.”
“I’m parked at Sammy’s. Why—”
“Just in case someone spotted your car. I’m paranoid, okay? Here. You can reach me at this number. I’m trusting you, Dawson. Nobody else knows where I’m staying.”
Dawson took the slip of paper. “Where’s this?”
“Ayers’ guest house. He’s putting in an answering machine for messages.”
“Ayers? Stenman’s attorney?”
“The same.”
“You certain he can be trusted?”
Peter shrugged. “He’s scared. And he thinks I’m going to end up dead, no matter what I do, but yes, I think I can trust him.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“Thanks, Sunshine.” Peter slowed the car and coasted into a parking lot on the east side of Mission Bay. “Here you go. This is where you get out. Make your call, grease the wheels.”
The agent got out and leaned through his partially open door. “When do I hear the rest of this brilliant plan of yours?” he asked.
“Maybe never. I’ll be in touch.”
As Peter sped off, Dawson stepped back, slamming the door shut. In his rear view mirror, Peter saw Dawson step off the curb and stare, the agent’s head shaking in disbelief.
A left turn later, Peter pressed his right foot down on the accelerator and felt his car surge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I WANT TO SPEAK TO THE DIRECTOR. Now.” Dawson enjoyed giving orders to Freeman Ranson. He hoped one day to order the slime-ball to eat shit and die. “You’re not even employed here any more, Dawson. You should be arrested for impersonating an agent.”
This conversational direction and tone did not surprise Dawson. “You mean,” he said, “to tell me you refuse to pass on to Director Ackerman that I’m close to a deal? Or that I’ve got someone high up, on the inside, interested in negotiating?”
“You have no authority to negotiate on behalf of the SEC . . . or anyone else for that matter,” Ranson said. Dawson didn’t think it sounded convincing. “Not that I believe you, but who is it you think wants to make a deal?” Ranson tried to make this last question seem like an afterthought, but Dawson didn’t bite. He knew the scumbag was apoplectic. And the realization gave him a warm tingle.
“I promised not to say until the deal is signed,” Dawson said. “It involves immunity and turning a blind eye to certain future activities. But it’ll be well worth the sacrifice if it happens.”
“You talking about Peter Neil? We’ve been down that dead end before.”
“Not Neil. First off, I can’t find the guy. Secondly, he’s turned me down more than once. Finally, he’s got much bigger problems with this murder rap.” Dawson silently congratulated himself. The lies sounded convincing.
“Not Neil? I repeat:
This time Dawson read a Grand Canyon of concern in Ranson’s voice. Perfect, he thought. He’s buying in. “I can’t say.”
“Then I have to assume you’re full of it—”
Show outrage, Dawson told himself. The agent took a deep breath, and spit into the mouthpiece of the outdoor payphone. “You, Ranson, are a piece of incompetent filth.” Then he hung up.
“Okay, Mr. Peter Neil,” Dawson said in a low whisper. “That’s done. I sure wish I knew why you wanted to get Ranson’s bowels in such an uproar, but you surely have.”
The agent made one more call. This one was to Angela Newman. “Tell Director Ackerman what happened. Tell him this is part of a plan I’ve devised.”
“I thought you said this was Neil’s plan,” she said.
“It is, but don’t tell the director that. If he thinks I’m being jerked around by a guy suspected of rape, torture, and murder, he might not go along.”
“I wouldn’t blame him.”
“Me either, Sweetheart. Gotta go. Love ya.”
Dawson, like everyone else in Peter’s plan, could only wait.
Sunday night made for a lousy night’s sleep. When Peter woke on Monday, the thoroughness of Saturday’s cover-up still frightened him. That Stenman controlled so many people boggled the mind. And what of Howard Muller? The man disgusted him, but Peter hadn’t wanted to physically hurt him. “On vacation in Mexico”? Maybe on vacation from life, Peter guessed.
From a downtown Rancho Santa Fe gas station, Peter decided to call Stuart at work and get an update. He used Stuart’s private line.
“Peter? What the hell’s going on?”
“Got a few problems to iron out.”
“Where in God’s name are you?”
“I’d rather not say. I’ve been moving around.”
“You a . . . what’s that word you used to describe Muller that one time? Misan . . .”
“Misanthrope. No, not when it comes to you. I just don’t trust phones.”
“Whatever, dude, but this is a secure line.”
“I’m paranoid.”
“Can’t blame you for that. And for what it’s worth, dude, I know you didn’t kill that chick.”
“That makes two of us.” A car honked at a pedestrian next to the payphone. “You hear anything about
