The Trophy Wife Read online

  He reached down and began undoing the top button of her gown.

  Emily shuddered. “Get away from me.”

  “Just a little feel … for starters.” He was leaning closer, the smile narrowing into a leer.

  “Get away!” She kicked out, driving her bare foot against his leg and sending him toppling away. He regained his balance and started back to her, his hand raised in a massive fist.

  “Mike!” the woman’s voice came from the floor above. “What’s going on down there?”

  “Nothin’!” he snapped in a voice that sounded like a shotgun blast. His fist slowly dropped and he looked up toward the door at the head of the stairs. “Just bringin’ her the paper cups.”

  When he turned back to Emily, his mouth was a tight line of anger. But he let it relax into a beatific smile. “You really ought to be nice to me, lady. In a coupla days, after these guys—whoever they are—get their money, we’ll get a call tellin’ us to get rid of you. That’s the way it always is. Smart guys don’t send the one they kidnapped back to pick ’em out of a lineup and these guys are smart. Damn smart. So when that call comes, I’m goin’ to be the only thing between you and a burned-out hole where your brains used to be. You’ll be throwin’ yourself at me, begging me to do anything to you except stick a gun in your mouth.”

  The woman called down again. “Mike, what’s keeping you?”

  Emily’s terrified eyes followed him up the steps and lingered after he had closed the door behind him. “Oh, Christ,” she prayed out loud. “Who is he? How does he fit into this?” She pulled herself to her feet, smoothing out the nightgown as if he might still be watching. She saw the stack of paper cups that he had apparently been told by the woman to bring down to her. “God, please. Don’t let her send him on her errands.” She picked up the cups and carried them into the bathroom. Her tongue was like glue from her fright. She was desperate for a sip of water.

  Tuesday

  WALTER HAD TO SEE Angela. He drove his own car so that he could park near her apartment and used the keys to the front door and elevator that she had given him. She opened the door the instant he tapped and welcomed him into a sympathetic embrace.

  “You poor dear, you must be going crazy …”

  “It’s been tough,” he admitted. “Damn tough. I’ve been up all night trying to figure how to handle this.” He followed her inside, through the small kitchen where she picked up the coffee pot, to the dining area where the table was already set with cups and saucers and a plate of toast.

  “I don’t think I can swallow,” Walter said. But she was already pouring the orange juice.

  Angela slid into the chair across from him. “What happened? How did you find out?”

  He told her about his arrival at home, remembering his uneasy feeling when he saw the garage door open with no light turned on. “It was so unusual. I guess I knew right away that something was wrong. But I figured, maybe a friend had had an accident … that she had gone to help and lost track of the time. I never figured …” Walter closed his eyes, trying to fight back the tears.

  She reached across and covered his hand with hers. “Of course not. How could you even imagine such a thing.”

  He described his instant fear when he found a strange man waiting in his living room. Then he told the story of the bizarre scene in which the man calmly explained that his wife had been kidnapped. “We’re sitting across from each other having a civil conversation about Emily being dragged from her bedroom. I was helpless. Not just because of the gun. But the son of a bitch didn’t know any more than I did. I mean, he didn’t know what had happened … or why.”

  “Did you believe him? That he didn’t know anything?”

  Walter thought. “Not at first. But I guess I did come to believe him. I mean, you’d have to see him. This guy was definitely not a gangster. He kept wishing me well, and trying to convince me that he wasn’t part of any crime. ‘Just a citizen reporting a crime,’ is what he kept telling me.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Angela said. “He knew damn well he was being paid to deliver a ransom note.”

  “But what difference would it make,” Walter snapped in sudden anger. “What was I supposed to do? Knock him down and sit on him while I waited for the police. I couldn’t take chances with Emily’s life. Christ, they could kill her and bury her in a cellar …”

  “Of course, of course,” Angela was already consoling. “You couldn’t take any chances.”

  Walter drank the coffee from trembling hands. Then he drew a deep breath to steel himself. “The problem is that the bank is involved. What the kidnappers want is a transfer of bank funds.”

  Angela didn’t seem to understand.

  “The bank has a policy,” he explained. “Like the government. We don’t bargain for hostages. We thought that someone … probably terrorists … could kidnap someone at the bank and demand something as ransom. Not just money. Some kind of monetary action.”

  Her eyes widened. “Like dump some country’s currency. Like an Arab country telling you to wreck Israel’s economy.”

  “Exactly,” Walter said. “We knew we were open to blackmail so we adopted a very strong and well-publicized policy: No dealing with kidnappers or extortionists. Christ, I spearheaded the policy. What I’m supposed to do is inform the chairman that my wife has been taken. The board will relieve me temporarily of all responsibilities and notify the police.”

  “But, Emily …” Angela was interrupting when Walter slammed his fist down on the table. “The policy regards Emily as already dead,” he said. “We don’t bargain for her. We put the police onto her killers.”

  “Walter, these aren’t terrorists. These are kidnappers who want money for your wife. You’ve got to do what they want.”

  He nodded. “I know. Especially with us. I mean, it would look like I wanted it to happen. Jesus, people might even think that I had something to do with her disappearance. You and I … we could never be seen together.”

  “Dammit, Walter,” Angela snapped. “This isn’t about you and me.”

  “I know. I’ve got to think about the bank. I suppose Hollcroft would see it was one incredible act of loyalty if I put bank policy ahead of my own wife.”

  Angela was shocked into a speechless moment. Walter looked puzzled at her reaction to his analysis. Finally she managed, “Is that what you were up all night thinking about? How your wife being kidnapped might affect your chances of being chairman?”

  “I’ve been considering every possibility. I’ve been churning it over and over again.”

  Angela jumped up, throwing her napkin angrily at her chair. “For God’s sake, Walter, there’s only one thing you have to consider. Not the bank. Not what anyone might think. The only issue is Emily’s life.”

  “I know! I know!” Walter snapped back. “But it’s a consideration. If I don’t turn this over to Jack Hollcroft. I could lose everything. Not just Emily. But you. And my whole future.”

  “Walter, listen to me. I said I’d have you under any terms,” Angela said factually. “That includes after the board fires you for violating their damn antiterrorist policy, although I don’t think they would have the guts to fire someone for trying to save his wife. But I couldn’t have you if you just … turned your back on her. For the love of God, Walter, it’s going to be hard enough to get into another woman’s bed even after you’ve given her everything. But if you … let her die …” Angela was suddenly crying, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs.

  Walter stood up. “I’m not going to let her die. I’ll work this out,” he promised her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got to get to the bank and work this out.” He reached back to the table and finished the coffee in his cup. Then he kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

  Angela stared after him. She felt very sorry for Mrs. Walter Childs. The present one, and any in the future.

  Andrew Hogan, InterBank’s security director, returned Walter’s
call just a few minutes after 7:00 A.M. “Mr. Childs. Andrew Hogan here. I just came in and your message was on my voice mail.”

  “Andrew, I wonder if you could join me in my office for a few minutes.”

  “Sure! What time’s good for you?”

  “Right now,” Walter said.

  Andrew Hogan’s job as director of security paid him vastly more money than he had ever imagined possible. He had been an up-through-the-ranks New York City police officer who had made it to the department’s top uniformed rank. When he retired, it was simply to change into civilian clothes and walk across the hall to become police commissioner.

  But while good police work had been the key ingredient in advancing through the ranks, Hogan had quickly learned that it was not the most important talent of a good police commissioner. He had learned that pointing his finger at a criminal operation could be a career-limiting move unless he first found out who the patrons of the criminal operation were.

  He had come down hard on the practice of lending city garbage trucks to private sanitation firms because many of the private outfits were mob-related. Too late did he find out that the payoff for the trucks went to the ranking officers in the sanitation union. The result was a garbage collectors’ strike. He also made the mistake of landing on schoolteachers who falsified their hours. Both the teachers’ union and the Board of Education demanded his resignation.

  The job, he was told by a well-meaning politician, was really intended as the grease between the city’s minority population and the uniformed officers who tried to enforce the law. It had nothing to do with white-collar crime, which was the foundation of the city’s economy or, God help us, with the financial interests of public officials. “You’re the most popular cop in the history of the city,” he was reminded. “Just make speeches. Don’t try to clean up anything.”

  Andrew had resigned, ready for a retirement to the trout streams upstate. But his reputation as a skilled and squeaky-clean policeman was immensely valuable to any institution that existed on public trust. Brokerage firms, banks, consulting partnerships, and even law firms had gotten into a bidding war for his services. InterBank came out on top with an offer of half a million a year.

  “Andrew!” Walter was on his feet as soon as the security officer appeared in his still-empty outer office. Hogan was a slight man with silvery gray hair, who looked as fit as he actually was. There were many small-time toughs about the city who had mistaken his small stature for weakness and still had limited movement in their limbs as a result. Walter Childs charged out to greet him, shook his hand affectionately, and then led him into the carpeted quarter acre that was his private office.

  Hogan’s guard was immediately up. He wasn’t used to warm, enthusiastic receptions from the bank’s top officers and rarely was he invited to the senior executive floor, much less into one of the private offices. As he had learned, the top bankers with their Ivy League diplomas and graduate degrees didn’t think much of City College. Nor did those used to winning in the private sector have much use for men who had made their careers in public service. The former police commissioner of New York made a very impressive entry in the bank’s annual report, but he didn’t make a very desirable luncheon companion.

  “Sit down, please.” Walter pulled a comfortable chair up to his desk and then ran around to his own massive swivel chair. Andrew Hogan’s radar locked on. Walter Childs, he guessed, had a security problem, and one that he didn’t want publicized.

  “Andrew, the security scenarios your people come up with are always fascinating. It’s hard to believe that there are so many ways to attack a bank.” Hogan had built a team of experts who were challenged to break the bank’s security systems. It included not only a half dozen computer hackers who spent their days trying to break into bank records, but also second-story men who tried to get around InterBank’s surveillance and alarm systems. Whenever one succeeded, Hogan developed an antidote.

  “I remember one case you had based on extortion. I think you compromised a branch manager and then got him to deposit into a fictitious account.”

  Hogan nodded. “That’s right. We called him Mr. X because it was a classic case of entrapment. It wouldn’t have been right to turn him in.”

  “That’s the one,” Walter agreed. “I was trying to remember the steps that were taken to protect against such a thing.”

  “We guarantee complete confidentiality to anyone who reports the attempt within twenty-four hours. After that, the person is on his own.”

  “That’s all?” Walter wondered.

  “We also have key employee surveillance,” Hogan said. “It’s limited, of course. We don’t want our people living in a police state. And, as you know, none of this applies to the senior vice presidents, president, or directors.”

  “I see … I see …” Walter mumbled. “Now, after someone does report an attempt … at compromising him … what action do you take?”

  Hogan’s eyes remained unsuspecting. It was a trick of his trade that his face should never reveal what he was thinking. “We turn the matter over to the appropriate authorities. Police, federals, bank examiners, anyone who ought to be involved. We give them a John Doe for the bank employee in order to assure he’s not identified.”

  Walter was nodding gravely. “But you never deal directly …”

  “Directly with whom?”

  “With the perpetrator. You never try to handle the issue … confidentially.”

  “No,” Andrew assured him. “Bank policy doesn’t let us. We want to make it completely clear that no one has anything to gain by threatening a bank employee.”

  Walter was fumbling for his next question. Andrew Hogan decided that they had spent enough time playing games.

  “This would be a lot easier, Mr. Childs, if you’d tell me what concerns you.”

  “Oh, nothing directly. Just curious …”

  Hogan stood. “It’s seven in the morning and you called me into your office to satisfy your curiosity?”

  Walter tried to look offended.

  “When you decide to tell me who’s trying to get to you,” Hogan went on, “then we’ll see what we can do for you. But I should tell you. These things always get worse with time.” He turned and started out.

  “Mr. Hogan.” Walter’s words stopped the security officer, who turned back. “Is this office bugged?”

  Andrew had to fight back the smile. Walter Childs was one of the senior executives who had exempted themselves from all security measures. “No, Mr. Childs. We have no bugs on this floor. And we sweep every couple of days just to be certain that no one else does.”

  Walter gestured Hogan back into the chair. “Please, call me Walter.”

  Oh, he’s in very deep shit, Hogan thought, as he settled back down.

  “My wife’s been kidnapped,” Walter began. “She was taken out of my house sometime yesterday. Probably late morning after her tennis match. When I got home, I found a man sitting in my living room with a gun pointed at me.”

  Andrew Hogan’s expression never changed as he listened to the events of the previous night. He interrupted only once, to confirm that Walter’s visitor had claimed not to know who had arranged for him to deliver the message. “A recorded voice?” he asked. Walter explained that the messenger couldn’t even be sure whether his contact was a man or a woman.

  When Walter finished, he took the envelope out of his suit coat pocket, opened it, and pushed it across the desk. He felt foolish when Andrew used his handkerchief to handle the document.

  “A hundred million,” Hogan remarked when he reached the instructions concerning the money transfer. He whistled softly. When he finished the second page, he turned the pages over, held them up to the light, and then tipped them to a sharp angle. “Computer printer on office store stationery,” he said. “Could have come from anywhere,”

  He set the pages down and looked up at Childs, “Is all this possible?” he asked. “Could you really transfer that much money to an u
nnamed account?”

  Walter nodded. “At that bank I can. Very few of the accounts at Folionari’s Cayman branch have names.” He could see that the security officer didn’t understand. “It’s a central bank for the drug trade. It pays no interest and makes a fortune on service charges. All it does is change money and launder accounts.”

  “InterBank deals regularly with such an institution?” the detective questioned.

  “When we have to. We work as agents for central banks. The drug dealers have more monetary assets than the central banks of many countries. So, when we have to buy or sell currencies, they become critical partners.”

  “So someone could simply set up a numbered account, deposit an InterBank loan into it, and then walk off with the cash?” Andrew concluded, realizing his security precautions hadn’t taken into account the peculiar practices of Folonari’s Cayman branch.

  “In just about any currency they wanted. Francs. Lira. Dollars. Or even corporate securities that the Cayman branch owns or stores. It has a healthy supply of everything.”

  Hogan pursed his lips as he thought through the scenario that Walter had just posed, “This certainly fits under the bank’s antiterrorist policy,” he concluded. “The only thing we can do is inform Mr. Hollcroft and have him notify the board”

  “We’re not talking about terrorists, dammit! We’re talking about my wife.”

  Hogan raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It comes under the same policy guidelines. We won’t negotiate with these people.” He picked up the ransom document again and glanced through it quickly. “Not that they seem interested in negotiation. This is pretty much take it or leave it.”

  “We can’t simply regard my wife as already dead,” Walter said, hitting each word with its own cadence. “She’s alive, and she’ll stay alive at least for another day if I make that lunch date.”

  “And on Friday?” the security officer asked, “When you don’t transfer the funds?”