these allegations are investigated. Convenient that Mexico’s president is a drug-fighter. We’ve received his assurances we can do with Carlos as we deem necessary.”
“You think so?” Sarah asked. “When he gets out—”
“When?” Dawson interrupted. “
Sarah ceased listening. Reaching for her cellular phone, she fully expected Dawson to stop her, but all he did was grin, listen, and look full of himself, as she confirmed that she had indeed moved funds to one of her accounts instead of Peter Neil’s.
“Fine, Goddammit,” she shouted to the banker at Cayman Island Trust. “I want to transfer the funds back. Put them in one of Stenman Partners’ accounts.”
The SEC agent imagined what the frightened voice on the other end of the phone was saying. He counted to four, then heard pretty much what he expected from Sarah Guzman: “I don’t have a damn password, you moron. I want to move the money back. How difficult can that be?”
This time Dawson counted to six before she again exploded: “I can’t get the password from Mr. Ayers for the simple reason that he set me up. This is . . .”
Nice touch, Dawson thought. Peter and Ayers had sucked Sarah in. Not a dime would ever be moved from that account without an all-important password. Peter didn’t know what it was. Only Ayers had that bit of vital intelligence.
Sarah’s phone conversation ended a minute later as she threatened to murder the banker, along with everyone else on Grand Cayman Island.
“Cartel money in my account is my death warrant,” she said to Dawson, her face aflame, “and that simpleton banker says he does not have access to transfer information. What do you want from me?”
“You talking to me?” Dawson asked. “Yes. I guess you are. I’ve already got everything I need in life. If safety’s a concern, I can place you in the Witness Protection Program. You interested?” Dawson’s motion sickness disappeared.
“I have my own protection, you fool. You can’t get away with this.”
“Get away with
“We’ll drop you off within the hour,” Dawson continued, “and we’ve arranged for land transportation to your villa. Director Ackerman wants me to express his gratitude for your cooperation.”
“I won’t cooperate with you. I will renounce this immunity agreement.”
“I don’t blame you,” Dawson said, his smirk widening. “Nevertheless, we will honor the terms. We are men of our word. You are immune, and will remain so.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FERNANDO GUZMAN CHOSE THIS DAY TO SETTLE OLD SCORES. To gather courage, he focused on his brother’s death. Of one thing Fernando was certain: Sarah Brigston Guzman had done to her husband what she had done to her own father. She murdered them both.
As he approached the front gate without stopping, Fernando drove under the gate-arm, waved to the guard, and passed through without a search. In the old days, the soldiers had been steadfast and professional. Now? Now they were open to auction. For ten thousand U.S. dollars, Fernando could have parked an atomic bomb in the courtyard.
Fernando stumbled through that courtyard and down the esplanade, where he and his brother had once played as children, where he had not been welcome for the three years since Enrique’s death. He continued up the stairs, no longer guarded by men with automatic weapons. A worker with a bucket and mop splashed water and cleaned the rust-colored esplanade. As Fernando passed, the worker nodded recognition before arching his back to continue his labors.
Fernando arrived at the heavy door with the brass knocker. He debated whether or not to knock. Out of habit, he knocked.
“Come in,” Sarah said.
Fernando opened the door and stepped in. He still shook at the sight of his sister-in-law. She not only had been a deadly force in his family’s life, but had schemed to torture him beyond human imagination. Despite the fact that her beauty had faded these last weeks, she still had the eyes of a devil. And as hard as he fought the thought, being in her presence sent him back into that hole for those three days. At night, he now slept with the lights on, and never again could he tolerate the dark. The risks of losing his mind were too great.
“Get out, Fernando,” she said, regarding him as nothing more than a silverfish, nibbling on a scrap of toilet paper. “I do not have time for you.”
She was on the phone, whispering to someone. Begging, Fernando guessed, for money, help, understanding, her life. He stood, unmoved and uncaring.
She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and repeated: “Out, you worthless old man.”
She looked away as Fernando pulled a handgun from his overcoat pocket. Nerves forced him to use both hands to steady his aim. But from ten feet, he did not miss.
For nearly a month after that climactic day at the beach, Peter and Kate didn’t have a single opportunity to talk at length in private. Peter was too busy with the legal system. He had arranged for Dawson to indict him on insider trading, knowing full well that the government would eventually drop the charges. But for the time being, Dawson made Peter look like a target, rather than a confederate. The ruse worked.
With her own mounting and potentially all-consuming problems— with the SEC, her clients, and Sarah Guzman—Stenman thought nothing of Peter. He wasn’t even a blip on her radar screen, and would stay that way for the foreseeable future. He was the forgotten man, and that was what he hoped to remain.
On the personal side of the ledger, Peter originally had intended to keep the story of Jason Ayers and his father to himself. It was one of those things, he had thought, better left buried in the past. But with all that had occurred, he understood he had to tell Kate.
“Our fathers were best friends and roommates in college,” Peter began, during the first chance he dared be alone with Kate. He told her everything he had learned. That her father had a gambling problem in college, bet on games, got in over his head, couldn’t repay his bookies. “His career was going to be ruined before it began. If exposed, he could never have gotten into law school, much less become a lawyer.”
“This is about a gambling debt, forty years ago? That’s what brought on all this misery?” Kate asked.
“Your father was in a jam, and kept doubling up on his bets. Then he said something that changed everybody’s lives. He told his bookie that his best friend was Matthew Neil, star wide-receiver. If it became necessary, he said, he could ask my father to help with a bet.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Point shaving. Jason intimated he could get my dad to drop a few passes, keep his team from covering the point-spread on a game. He hoped the boast would buy him time. But New York money, interested in betting on a sure thing, told him to put up or shut up. He approached Dad.”
“And your father agreed?”
“Dad said no. Jason then told him that the bets were already down, that his own reputation and life were on the line. Dad never admitted anything, not even to your father, but he dropped two passes in the end zone that Saturday. Had he made either catch, the point-spread would have been covered. The school quietly investigated, but with no money changing hands, they cleared Dad.”
“He saved Father, then.”
“Jason told me he was certain that those dropped passes were the reason Dad never turned pro—shame and
