“Mr. Ayers and Ms. Stenman are waiting. You are to go back immediately.”
“Thank you.”
“Your voice,” she said before he departed. “It sounds deeper. Sexy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Peter nodded. Crushed vocal chords, he decided, were an absolute aphrodisiac.
A moment later, he knocked on Ayers’ heavy door and dove in.
Jason Ayers greeted Peter. Behind him, leaning on her aluminum cane—an extension of her brittle arms— Morgan Stenman had an almost pleasant expression that unnerved Peter. When Ayers winked, indicating that preliminary discussions had gone smoothly, Peter relaxed.
Peter endured a few informalities before saying, “Here’s your money, less a few thousand for expenses.” He dropped the bag on the floor next to Ayers’ desk.
“I will tell poor Howard you returned the funds,” Stenman said. “He will be pleased. But then this money had limited utility for you, didn’t it? Cash leaves incriminating footprints when not handled properly. It is satisfying to me that you have learned at least that much while in my employ.”
Peter ignored her words. “I want five million. Wired to this account.” He held a piece of paper with his Mauritius account information. “I get my money, you get the registered envelopes, unopened, dated before my mother’s death.”
Stenman showed no emotion. After asking Ayers to bring in some good strong coffee from a shop in the building, not the “crap you make in pots up here,” Stenman, like a savvy interviewer, deliberately paused. Peter read the tactic and wasn’t fooled—she had already decided what to say, but she wanted to let him hang, maybe get him to reveal something strategic. He didn’t bite. He would not initiate nervous chit-chat, as he’d seen others do in her presence. Nor would he offer new, diluted terms while wallowing in anxiety. In a minor inspiration, Peter asked Ayers if he might have a non-fat latte since they were waiting for a caffeine fix anyway. “And a biscotti, if that’s not too much trouble.” When the attorney cocked his head, Peter understood that his cool had impressed him.
Ayers sent a secretary down to the ground floor to fill everyone’s order. While they waited for coffee service, the older man made small talk about how this was the best solution for everyone and five million dollars was not a large amount of money. Then, somehow managing to keep a straight face, he went on to say that when this was over, they could all just get on with their lives, as if Peter’s life was worth a drop of toilet water at game’s end. Ignoring her attorney, Stenman lit a cigarette that, Peter thought, couldn’t have been half as hot as her stare.
When the tray with three coffees and one cookie finally arrived, Peter sipped his latte and chomped on the thick, Amaretto-laced cookie. He did-n’t like the taste of either but enjoyed Stenman’s self-inflicted impatience. He drank delicately and chewed slowly.
A minute into the beverage charade, Stenman finally stated her position. “The price is agreeable, but do not take me for a fool, Peter.” Granite-faced, she shoved her full cup of coffee to the side. “I will not send you five million dollars of
“Jason,” continued Stenman, “has suggested and already set up a joint account, triggered by voice recognition. He deposited your five million dollars this morning. Tomorrow, after the delivery of papers to me, I will call the bank, then you
Peter popped the last morsel of cookie into his mouth. He counted to five, then took a sip of latte to wash it down. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “If I give you the papers, how do I know you’ll honor
“What do you suggest, Peter?” Ayers asked, on cue.
“We do this in stages,” Peter said. He took his index finger and mopped up a few crumbs of cookie from his napkin. He delicately licked his fingertip and squinted with pretended thought. Sagely stroking his palm across his chin and mouth, he said, “And we use Sarah Guzman in such a manner as to make certain I can keep an eye on her. I know she was the one who set me up and had Ellen Goodman murdered.”
“If that were the case,” Stenman said, not bothering to hide her impatience, “it was because you disappeared and confronted a certain police detective, asking imprudent questions. Then this unfortunate incident with my ex- CIO Howard Muller. So foolish and unnecessary.”
“All tough breaks,” Peter said without inflection. “I have an idea about how I can watch her while we complete the trade.”
Peter outlined his scheme. Stenman, Peter, and Ayers would meet tomorrow, in a place of Peter’s choosing. “Some place that’ll make sure I don’t get ambushed,” he said. “Guzman will then receive the first of the two envelopes.”
Peter explained that Guzman would open and verify the contents. “With the first delivery, we transfer my five million,” Peter said. “After that, I arrange for the second packet to be delivered. If I don’t live up to my end of the bargain, you’re welcome to have someone put a bullet through my head.” Peter then agreed to remain hostage—at their meeting place—until Stenman verified she had the documents she wanted.
Ayers nodded. “The plan has enough safeguards, I think. Do you agree, Morgan?”
Stenman nodded while drawing so hard on her filter tip that teeth outlined against her cheeks.
“Once you arrive at my designated meeting place,” Peter continued, “you’ll want to check for bugs, mikes, whatever. Check me out too, if that makes you happy.”
“When will you notify us of the meeting time and place?” Ayers asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Peter turned to Stenman. “At twelve forty-five, you’ll be in your limo, heading north from your office.”
“In my limo? This is madness.” Stenman studied Peter’s face.
“I want you moving in the right direction, but I don’t want you knowing the final destination. That’s for my protection and to make certain there are as few delays as possible. Jason, I’ll phone you. You’ll then phone Morgan’s driver with the information. As far as Sarah Guzman goes . . .” Peter handed Ayers a slip of paper. “Until you call with her instructions, I want her at this location at noon tomorrow.”
Ayers took the slip and studied the address. “This is a diner in Oceanside. That’s twenty miles north of downtown. What’s going on, Peter?”
“I want everyone in a different location, moving towards this meeting. Bodies in coordinated motion.”
Puppets, Peter hoped, coordinated by a puppeteer.
Ayers shook his head. It was a prearranged protest. “Sarah Guzman will never agree to be a sitting duck.”
“She doesn’t agree,” Peter said, “then we have no deal.”
“No deal?” Stenman nearly shouted. “No deal means I initiate some ugly retribution. Somebody better find a goddamn answer.”
“Okay,” Peter said, rubbing his chin as if he had thought up the solution for the first time. “You,” he faced Ayers, “tell her everything will take place in a public place. She’s welcome to have Nunoz accompany her. I’m here to get paid, then disappear. Period. That should do the trick, don’t you think?”
This time Peter faced Morgan. He understood she had to agree. She needed to settle this matter, and Peter’s asking price was so small as to be stupid. She would have paid several multiples of what he demanded.
“You are a careful man, Peter,” Stenman said, just before agreeing to his terms. “But do not get cute with me.” She might as well have added:
After Stenman left the law offices, Ayers guided Peter to a sophisticated recorder. Peter read a series of numbers and a page of nonsense into a microphone with a wire-mesh pop-filter designed to reduce the effects of breath blasts and air currents. The voice recordings, Ayers said, were of a professional quality.
“How does this thing work?” Peter asked.
“In simple terms, we create a voiceprint,” Ayers said. “Most systems require a password of choice, plus three or four words for authorization. Our system requires thousands of samples. That’s why you had to read all this text. The recording you just made consists of a comprehensive combination of sounds that the computer will recognize and match to your voice. Every word and number in the instructions you give over the phone will be
