He took a room at a small hotel along Highway 101 in the beach town of Encinitas. The meeting with Stenman was set to go, and he had two hours to accomplish several things before that.
First, he phoned Oliver Dawson.
“You’ve arranged for a boat?” Peter asked.
“A boat? More like a yacht. This monster’s costing me a fortune.”
“Good,” Peter said.
“You should see this thing. Forty-something-feet long with a cabin that sleeps six, I’m told. Thing also kicks ass in the speed department. By the way, you care that every time I step on a boat I get seasick? Hell, Neil, every time I step on a dock I feel like puking.”
“I’m deeply distressed. You’ll be ready off La Jolla Shores, tomorrow, before one o’clock?”
“Yes, Massah. You interested in telling me how you intend to orchestrate this miracle?”
“No. The immunity papers for Sarah Guzman drawn up like I asked?”
“The director didn’t like it . . . me either.”
“You got them, though, exactly like I asked?”
“Yeah, yeah. Exactly, including the bit about allowing her to transfer assets without interference. If this doesn’t work, I’m screwed.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’m dead, and my death trumps your screwed. You think the director’s assistant— Ranson—bought into your story of a potential high-level informant?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dawson said. “Ranson has to assume it’s serious and report back to Stenman. I’m certain she’s aware of our conversation. When this is over, I look forward to busting that prick.”
“You ready to take care of Ayers and his wife? Kate too if necessary?”
“Roger to that, but why is Stenman’s attorney going to need to disappear?”
“Trust me, he’s not going to be a popular guy when this is over. I think we’re set, so good luck, Agent.”
“Before you go, Neil, tell me what’s going to happen to you after I get those papers? No way you’ll get out of that hotel room alive.”
“That’s my problem. You just wait for your cue, get your guy to shore, get her on board, and get your asses down to Mexico as fast as your boat or yacht or whatever it is can take you. After that, you do what you need to do.”
Once that was settled, Peter checked Dawson off his list.
At noon, right on schedule, Peter’s phone rang.
“We’re all set,” Jason Ayers said. “Morgan’s ready to meet. I get the impression she’s happy to negotiate the return of those documents. She even shows signs of liking you.”
“I’m flattered. She’s not considering setting me up, is she?”
“No. Certainly not at my office. Besides, I think the seed you planted with Ranson has her neurotic. She wants those papers.”
“My Mauritius Island bank account ready to go? The account numbers as I asked?”
“Just as you requested. And I’ve set you up with a car rental. A blue Celica, parked just where you asked.”
“Thanks. Did Morgan agree to open a joint account to escrow my payment?”
“She did. But why do you want to do that?”
“The account is technically in her . . . what did you call it? Her
“Yes. Her various offshore funds are part of her so-called empire of funds.”
“And you have the power-of-attorney to move funds from other Stenman Partners offshore accounts, into this new escrow account? As part of your intra-empire fund transfer authority. Right?”
Ayers said nothing. Peter listened for breathing, but heard none.
“Jason. You still there?”
“You’re going to ask me to transfer funds from Morgan’s big accounts to this joint account of yours and hers. Aren’t you?”
“That’s why I needed to arrange with Dawson for you and your wife to disappear, at least until we get through the fallout.”
“Peter,” Ayers began, sounding concerned, “you’ll never be able to spend a dime of that money.”
“I don’t expect to end up with anything. My plan is more complex than you realize. It’s time I explained how all this works . . .”
When Peter finished, Ayers asked, “You think you can do all this without Guzman or Stenman catching on?”
“Not sure. A lot has to do with your acting skills. You’re the one who’s got to sell Sarah Guzman. You still game? I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“If this works, it’ll be worth it.”
“It has to work,” Peter said. “And, Jason, things are going to get hairy tomorrow, and I wanted to tell you one last thing. On a personal level . . .”
“Personal? It must have to do with Kate.”
“I know she’s engaged to be married, and I hope she’s happy. But I wanted you to know I love her. I’ll do what I can to keep an eye out for her.”
“She made me promise not to, but I think I should tell you anyway.”
“Tell me
“She broke off her engagement.”
Before Ayers finished, Peter went from standing to sitting.
“Peter. Did you hear me?” Ayers asked.
“Did . . . did she say anything about her feelings for me?”
“She didn’t have to. She cares, a lot. But she’s afraid you might feel gratitude, not love, in return. You’ll have to win back her trust.”
“I will. And thanks.”
A short while later, Peter sat in the back of a taxi, trying to ignore the cabby’s constant chatter. Outside his window, he watched a boy kick a soccer ball up and down like popping corn.
“Whatcha got going on downtown?” the driver asked. “You’re not dressed like a business guy, but that’s all that ever goes to this Leeman, Johnston law place. Suits and briefcase guys. Y’know the type, stuck up, snooty big deals. Never took a regular guy there before. Y’know, dressed like he’s going to a workout instead of—”
Peter reached into his wallet and drew out a ten. “I need to think. Mind if I just ride in silence?”
“Sure. Didn’t mean to yap yer head off. Just trying to pass the time.”
Peter tossed the ten over the front seat. “Shhhh,” he reminded the driver. “Unless you see someone tailing us, I’d prefer your north and south lips stayed glued.”
The ten bucks worked. The driver nervously scanned for a tail as the creaking yellow proceeded south on Interstate 5.
Peter spent the time mentally reviewing every detail of his plan. He realized that if Stenman wanted him dead, he’d have a bullet in the back of his head before he entered the law-office front door. The thought made his skin tingle, as if he had a bull’s-eye hung on his back. The enticement of recovering his mother’s papers, Peter hoped, was important enough to keep him alive for at least one more day.
Once they reached Front Street and turned towards Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers’ offices, Peter decided to have the driver circle the block before departing. He then asked to be dropped off a block away. Heading down the crowded sidewalk, he tried not to look concerned. At the building entrance, he resisted the temptation to duck and run. Instead, he paced to the elevator, waited for the double-ding of opening doors, and stepped into the lift. No gunshots meant he had survived hurdle one.
Peter carried a canvas bag filled with the bills he’d taken from Muller’s safe, appreciating for the first time how light a couple of million dollars felt. When he entered the law offices, the receptionist presented a pleasant face. “Good morning, Mr. Neil. I see you’ve changed your haircut and color. It looks good.”
“Thanks,” Peter said. “I’m here to see—”
