The Trophy Wife Page 11

  But even if she succeeded in freeing herself from the bed, there was still the problem of escape from the room. She would have to get back up into the ceiling and hope that she could find another room over the tops of the framed-out walls. And then, she could only pray that if there were a room, it would have a door to the outside.

  Walter used the rear door of the InterBank complex and took a taxi to the side street entrance of Angela’s apartment. He climbed the fire stairs rather than risk being observed in the lobby and studied the hallway through the small glass window in the fire door before he stepped out into the corridor and hurried to her apartment. He let himself in, surprising her as she came out of her bedroom.

  “Walter, what are you doing—”

  “Hogan knows about us,” Walter said, cutting her off. “He had one of his people go through your apartment this afternoon.”

  “He … what?” Angela was genuinely shocked.

  Walter drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry. He confronted me this morning. He said we were both suspects.”

  “Me?” She seemed horrified as she pulled back out of his embrace.

  “Not just you. Everyone I know,” he hastened to tell her. “Particularly anyone who understands bank operations.”

  Rage appeared in her eyes. “The dirty bastard!”

  “It’s what I need him to be doing,” Walter said. “I need him to be looking at every possibility. Jesus, I know you’re not involved. But Hogan has to figure that out for himself. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell him that you were out of bounds. He would have gone straight to the chairman.”

  Angela calmed as the information sank in. “I suppose so,” she conceded. “But couldn’t you have called to warn me?”

  “I think my phone may be bugged. He said that they had put a bug on Mitchell’s phone. It figures that they would bug my office, as well.”

  Angela’s eyes snapped toward her home telephone.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Walter said. “Hogan can do anything he wants on bank property. But I don’t think he could cut into our home lines without a court order. Just be careful what you say in the office.”

  Her anger flared again. “Why should I be careful?”

  “Angela, he knows we’re lovers, for God’s sake! Emily was standing between us and now she’s been kidnapped. It’s not unthinkable that you and I could have planned this together. At least it’s a possibility that an investigator would have to look into.”

  Her nod was almost imperceptible. “I suppose it’s logical,” she conceded. “But I don’t enjoy being suspected of a capital crime.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Walter comforted. “How do you think I feel when I’m suspected of doing in my own wife.”

  Angela slipped back into his arms and they stood in an embrace, consoling each other. “God, I need you,” he whispered. “But, right now … the way things are …”

  She froze and then slowly backed out of his embrace. “What are you saying. That we can’t see each other?”

  “It’s probably not wise,” he answered. She backed away another step. He saw the suspicion in her eyes just before she turned her face away from him. “It’s just for a few days. Friday … Monday at the latest. Then it will all be over.”

  “If she comes home,” Angela said. “Or if they catch somebody. But if something goes wrong… if Emily doesn’t come home … then it will be a police investigation. With publicity. They’ll be watching us forever.”

  Walter was shaking his head before she could finish her thought. “We’ll get her back. I’m going to do exactly what they told me. I’m going to wire the money no matter what the bank does to me.”

  Her fingertips touched his lips. “Get her back, Walter. Please, get her back.” She turned away from him, her shoulders sagging, and disappeared back into her bedroom. Walter hesitated for a moment and then retreated back through the front door.

  He returned to his office and shuffled papers aimlessly. The incredibly important work of the bank seemed meaningless. All his attention was focused on the Friday deadline.

  His task was complex. There was no $100 million pool of funds just waiting to be transferred. The wealth of the bank was in its investments; the vast array of bonds, securities, properties, and the enormous deposits in foreign banks. Much of its ready cash was in its liabilities, principally in the accounts of its depositors. To transfer funds, Walter first had to raise cash from internal sources. He could sell investments and withdraw cash from the bank’s accounts. Or, he could sweep up the idle cash in depositors’ accounts. It would take hours to assemble the funds through a series of transactions that were small enough so as not attract attention. Then he would have to set up an account at a different bank, perhaps one of the Swiss affiliates, and fill it with a number of small deposits that he could transfer to the Folonari Cayman Island branch. Eventually, Mitchell Price’s computers would retrace the flow of funds through the circuitous routing and Andrew Hogan’s lookouts would detect the total amount going into the Caymans. But that would probably be hours—maybe even days—later. By then, the money would have vanished.

  During his ride home in the limousine he reviewed his complex scheme, calculating the number of transfers, too small to raise any flags, that would be needed to accumulate the entire amount. His head was spinning with figures.

  “You seem terribly occupied,” Omar’s voice sounded from the front seat. The East Indian cadence to the precisely pronounced English seemed almost condescending. “I hope my money is safe.”

  It was standard banter. Omar had a small account in one of InterBank’s few remaining retail banking locations and often joked about the effect of his deposits and withdrawals on the global financial economy. But at this moment, the harmless remark seemed sinister, as if the driver were amused by Walter’s predicament.

  “It’s safe!” Walter snapped, his eyes still fixed on his worksheets.

  “Oh, that’s very comforting,” Omar chanted. “I would hate to lose my money.”

  Walter looked up and caught the driver’s thin smile in the rearview mirror. The man looked self-satisfied, as if his ethereal Eastern values were superior to those of his money-grubbing Western employers. He had often seen the same look on the faces of clergymen, preaching the true wealth of poverty while adding a few words about the importance of next week’s collection. Well, Walter thought, look who’s riding and look who’s driving.

  He turned back to his cash transfer figures, but the melodic voice kept on talking. “It must be very disconcerting for you, Mr. Childs, having to keep track of such fantastic sums of money. To be so burdened with matters that are, at their root, unimportant.”

  Would the man never shut up! Walter raised his eyes again. “As a matter of fact, Omar, this is extremely important. Much as I’d like to chat, I really have to get through this.”

  “Of course, of course. I’m very sorry for having disturbed you. I only meant that it leaves so little time for pleasurable things. Human things … like the people we love. But I will let you get back to your very important work.”

  The thin smile came back to Omar’s lips. Walter felt his hand move over the work sheets so that the driver couldn’t see them in the mirror. Does he know, Walter thought Could he possibly know what these figures are? The people we love … Does he mean Emily? Does he know about Emily? He was suddenly very frightened. Maybe Hogan should put one of his people on Omar. Maybe he should call the car pool manager and get another driver.

  The headlights dimmed as the car turned into a residential area. Walter folded his papers and slid them into his briefcase. It would be more comfortable working at home. He keyed his code into the alarm and started toward his office. He was startled when he saw his daughter waiting in the living room.

  “Amanda. This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Mother was,” she answered. “I talked to her Sunday and told her I was coming down.”

  “Your mother is…” Walter w
as fumbling for the right word.

  “Kidnapped,” Amanda filled in. “The police were here when I got home. I tried to call you at your office but you had stepped out.”

  He set down the case and gave her a perfunctory hug. “I’m glad to see you,” he said.

  “Then why didn’t you call me? I would have come home right away.” She walked back to the coffee table where she had left her cigarettes, shook one out of the pack, and flicked her lighter, knowing that he would disapprove. She was surprised when he let the moment pass. “You were going to tell me, weren’t you?”

  “I thought about it,” he lied. “But there’s nothing that you or your brother can do. There was no need to worry you.”

  “Did you think maybe I had a right to worry about my mother? Maybe a chance to give my input on how we might get her back.”

  Walter went to the bar. He didn’t particularly want a drink, but he needed a moment to get his thoughts together. He had given some thought to calling Alex, if only for appearance sake. But the last person he wanted under foot was Amanda. He set a glass on the bar and then remembered that she was standing there. “Can I get you something?”

  “Just the truth. The police said you knew what the kidnappers wanted for Mom’s return. What is it? All your money?”

  He poured his scotch. “Not my money. That would be easy. They want the bank’s money. A great deal of it. It’s a very complicated situation that I have to work out. I don’t think you can help and there’s no reason why you should worry. That’s why I decided not to call you.” Walter endured the cigarette smoke as he passed by her on his way to retrieve his briefcase.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped when she saw him lift the case. “You can’t just close yourself up with your damn bank while Mother is in trouble.”

  He took a deep a breath. “Amanda, for once give me the benefit of the doubt. I told you they wanted the bank’s money. The bank has procedures that keep me from giving away its money. I’m trying to figure out how to get around them.”

  She looked suddenly apologetic, but she couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. Instead, she crushed out her cigarette and followed Walter into his office, where she waited silently as he spread out his papers. “There must be something I can do,” she finally tried.

  “Just your being here is important,” he said.

  Amanda watched in silence while he used his pocket calculator to work the figures on his spreadsheets. “Dad,” she eventually interrupted, “I know the bank is everything to you. I’m glad Mom is more important.”

  He nodded. But he was afraid to say that her mother was the most important thing in his life. He might not be able to sound completely sincere.

  She jumped up. “I better call Wayne and tell him I won’t be back tonight.”

  Walter’s jaw tightened at the mention of the name. “Could you do that from an outside phone. I should keep these lines open … in case…” He was trying to imply a call from Emily’s captors, even though he was sure that no call would be coming. The truth was that he suspected the line might be bugged and he didn’t want strangers enjoying the details of Amanda’s sordid life. Away at college was all the police needed to know.

  He heard her go out and then heard her car start in the garage. In a few seconds her headlights panned through the front windows. Walter turned back to his papers.

  The telephone rang. His instinct was to ignore it, particularly since it was Emily’s line. But on the second ring, he thought better of it. He touched the line switch and lifted the receiver. “Walter Childs,” he announced.

  “Okay, Childs, listen good, because I’m only goin’ to say this once. I have your lovely wife with me here and it will cost you fifty thousand dollars to get her back.” His drink slipped through his fingers and splattered on the carpet.

  “I want the money in twenties. Random serial numbers. And none of them better be marked because I’m goin’ to look them over very carefully.”

  The voice was completely business like. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Get the money tomorrow and you put it in a black leather briefcase. Then drive the case up to Randy’s on Southshore Drive in Greenwood Lake. Be sittin’ at the bar at eleven p.m. That’s where you’ll hear from me. If you’re not there, or you bring the police, then I’ll sell your dear Emily to one of my Colombian friends. They pay pretty well for women to work in their jungle whorehouses. Now listen very carefully. There’s somethin’ she wants to tell you.”

  There were mechanical clicks followed by the electronic hiss of blank tape running through a player. Walter jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice.

  “Dear Walter, Do what this man tells you. He’s treating me very nice. If you pay him, he will let me go. If you don’t, his friends will kill me. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t call the cops or you will never see me again. I love you.”

  His hands began to shake and a flood of nausea pushed up into his throat until he thought he was going to be sick. He was still listening to the terror in Emily’s voice even though her words had gone silent. “Jesus, this can’t be happening,” he whispered to himself. Then he shouted, “This can’t be happening…”

  Thursday

  ANDREW HOGAN HEARD HIS telephone ringing while he was still asleep. He was a kid in Brooklyn, hitching rides on the back of the old DeKalb Avenue trolley. For an instant, the telephone became the trolley car’s bell. He sat upright in his bed and blinked at the phone as if it didn’t belong on his night table. Then he lifted the receiver and managed a growl.

  “Well, I’m certainly happy that I didn’t take you up on your offer if this is the way you wake up,” Helen Restivo told him.

  “And I’m thrilled you refused my marriage proposal. I’d hate to be living with someone who begins each day with a smile.” Hogan looked at his clock and saw that it was only a few minutes after five. “Jesus, it’s five o’clock! I hope you’ve found Mrs. Childs, because otherwise there would be no reason for calling so early.”

  “No, but we have the kidnappers,” Helen answered. “The two guys who lifted the lady from her bathtub. I think we should talk.”

  “Now? At five o’clock.”

  “I managed an appointment with the young Miss Childs. Her house, at nine. So I can’t hang around for your bath and breakfast.”

  Andrew was already padding across to his bathroom. “How about Rosie’s in half an hour?”

  “Okay! Last one there pays for the bagels.”

  He stepped out of his doorway into the deserted West Side street. The pink light of the rising sun reflected in the top windows of the high-rise apartment buildings. But down in the caverns, it was still dark. He liked this time of day when the city was empty except for the occasional limo that carried the very important to their aircraft-carrier desks and the morning television personalities to their still lifeless sets. In his years as a policeman, the early morning hours were the only moments of peace. Crime, which was a nuisance during the day, seemed to flourish in the late night hours. It reached its crescendo around two in the morning, when the drunks staggered into their apartments and confronted their families, when the partygoers stepped out into streets mined with muggers, when the addicts awoke from euphoria and found themselves twisted in agony. From midnight to 3:00 A.M., the air wailed with sirens and crackled with gunfire. There weren’t enough ambulances to answer all the cries or enough gurneys to carry the bodies.

  But then the frantic pace of violence suddenly exhausted itself. A blissful quiet settled over the city. Crime seemed to fall into a deep sleep, resting up for the next night’s celebration. It was in this sunrise interval that a policeman could close his eyes and steal a moment of rest.

  Rosie’s was an all-night delicatessen in the theater district that Ed Sullivan had once credited with the best bagel in New York. Its owner didn’t have time to shut everything down and then start everything up again in the few fleeting hours between the departure of the stage hands and the
arrival of the financial types, so he just kept open around the clock. Helen was already at a table when Andrew arrived and she held up her bagel to remind him to pay for it.

  While Andrew used both hands to align his first cup of coffee with his mouth, Helen briefed him on the night’s activities. The fingerprints in the shower had identified two minor hoods with thick rap sheets filled with misdemeanors and small felonies. One had been picked up losing his fee for the kidnapping at an all-night poker game. “He should thank us,” Helen commented. “We got him out before he lost everything.” He had told them where to find his partner, who was picked up as he got off a bus from Atlantic City.

  Hogan shook his head. A defrocked lawyer. A couple of gutter gamblers. How in hell could these guys be involved in a hundred-million bank fraud? It didn’t make any sense.

  Like the lawyer, the kidnappers had been hired by a computer voice over the telephone that had offered them a chance to make ten thousand each. All they had been told was where the lady could be found and what they were supposed to do with her.

  “They took her exactly the way we figured it,” Helen went on. “They cased the place and decided to get her in the garage as soon as she stepped out of the car. But they were late getting there.”

  “Unbelievable,” Hogan interrupted.

  “It gets worse,” Restivo said. “The lady was in the bathtub when they broke in and apparently she kicked the stuffing out of our boys before one of them finally managed to stick her with the needle. Then they rolled her in the shower curtain and carried her out to the car.

  “They were supposed to leave her in a blue van that was going to be parked in one of the far-off sections of the Paramus Mall. But when they got there, they found two blue vans in the section and they didn’t know which one she was supposed to go to. They drove around for a while, waiting for someone to move one of the vans, and then they loaded her into the one that was left. Last they saw of her, she was stuffed down on the floor between the seats, still wrapped in the curtain.”