Friday

WALTER PAUSED AT THE door of his inner office and set down his briefcase so that he could fit the key into the lock. Then he stumbled over the case as he pushed the door open. He was exhausted, his eyes still red and puffy from his sleepless night, a tiny speck of tissue stuck to the blood clot on his cheek, evidence of his effort at shaving. He picked up the briefcase and dropped it heavily into one of the chairs that flanked his desk. Then he went into his private washroom and tried to make to himself look presentable before his staff began arriving.

He was shocked at what he saw in the mirror. Not just the fatigue, which he had expected, but more the total emptiness in his eyes and expression. The week had taken its toll. In some higher court of justice, he was being fined heavily for his plan to put Emily aside.

Walter had never wanted her hurt. He could have stood before God and sworn that he wished her absolutely no ill. Oh, there would certainly be some embarrassment. Even though he expected her to tell their friends that he was a liar and a philanderer, and blame the breakup on his weakness, she would still feel humiliated that he had preferred another woman. Some resentment was inevitable. But Walter knew Emily to be a strong and practical woman. Deep down, she would be able to admit to herself that he had simply gone off into another orbit. She would know that she had no interest in traveling with him and that her happiness was located exactly where he was leaving her, in a gracious home, with her tennis and travel, in the love and occasional company of her children. His settlement would guarantee that she would never want for anything. It was not even unthinkable that she would find another man to take his place.

Instead, he had left her in the hands of a madman whose ambitions reached only to $50,000 and whose lust would be sated by cutting her to pieces. No matter what, regardless of what it might omen for his relationship with Angela or his future with the bank, he had to save her from the monstrous voice on the telephone. His own needs, important as they were, paled in comparison with her danger.

He held a wet washcloth over his eyes, letting the cold invigorate his dead face. He removed the tissue paper and carefully wiped away the spot of blood. He took his electric razor and completed the job that he had botched with a blade. He gargled with mouthwash to cleanse the paste from his tongue and ran a comb through his hair to cover the thin spots. Then he went to his desk and turned on his computer.

The first step was to check into the accounts in which he had stored the $100 million ransom. Once he had moved the few thousand that Andrew needed to set up his trap in Grand Cayman, he fully intended to follow with the full amount.

Next, he checked his own accounts in the bank’s executive compensation files. He had over $100,000 in treasury bills, accumulated from his incentive percentages and available to purchase approved securities. He could draw the $50,000 with a simple coded order that automatically posted the required tax and payroll deductions. His problem would be getting the funds in cash, specifically nonsequenced twenties. Cash was fast becoming a curiosity among money center banks and his request for compensation funds in twenty-dollar bills would certainly raise some eyebrows. The last thing he wanted to do now was call attention to himself. He was going to have to take a bank check for the funds and then go to another bank to cash the check. In fact, he would be better off taking several bank checks and cashing each at a different bank. This was the kind of thing that Andrew Hogan could arrange easily. But Emily’s safety depended on his keeping Hogan’s people away from the ransom.

He was startled when he heard Andrew’s voice. “What did you decide?” The security officer was speaking as he came through the door, acting as if they were still engaged in last night’s conversation.

Walter looked up, his expression registering his confusion.

“We agreed to sleep on it,” Andrew reminded him, as if there had been any chance of his finding restful sleep. Walter wanted to scream.

“I’ll tell you my thoughts,” Hogan said, settling into a chair, “but you’re not going to like them.” He took Walter’s silence as interest in his decision. “I think we ought to go together up to Hollcroft’s office and lay everything out for him. That’s probably what we should have done right off the bat. But there’s still time to get this off our backs.”

“Jack Hollcroft will call in the police and the FBI,” Walter said in despair.

“That’s the best move. We were wrong to try to handle this with our own resources.”

“And Emily. We just act as if she’s of no importance. As if her life isn’t worth anything?”

“That’s the bank’s policy, Walter.”

Childs’s lips curled in anger. He bit off his words. “Bank … policy … is that she’s … already dead.” They stared unblinking at each other. “You know she’s alive,” Walter went on. “You heard her voice. In fact, she might be free right now if you had let me pay the lousy fifty-thousand-dollar ransom.”

Hogan broke off their eye contact and glanced down at his hands. “That’s not fair. You know as well as I do that the fifty thousand was a side bet.”

“Well, the hundred million is for real, dammit,” Walter snapped back. “And that’s what I’ve decided. I don’t want to take any chances with Emily’s life. I want to pay the hundred million just as I’ve been ordered.”

“Maybe Hollcroft will see it that way …” Andrew tried.

“No, he won’t. He’ll see it exactly the way a bank president has to see it, because it’s not his wife. He’ll follow policy.” Walter sagged slowly as if the air were being let out of him. “If we go to Jack, he’ll summon the board. And that will be Emily’s death sentence.” He looked pleadingly across the desk. “Let me send the money. I take full responsibility.”

Hogan’s head shook so slowly that his gesture was nearly imperceptible. ”Security is my responsibility. I can’t let anyone give away a hundred million of the bank’s money. No matter what the reason.”

“Then you’re the one who’s going to kill her,” Walter said. Even though they were only the width of the desk apart, they each disappeared into separate worlds of gloom.

They were called back by Walter’s secretary, who brought in the usual morning coffee, setting cups before the two men. When she finished, Hogan took up the discussion. “We’ve gone in a complete circle and we’re back to where we were yesterday. There are a hundred things wrong with the trap we’ve got set up in the Caymans. But it’s the only play we have.”

Angela stood before the full-length mirror. Her hair was up, tucked under the soft canvas hat so that its color hardly showed. The floppy brim circled the sides of her face and the sunglasses provided the perfect mask. The poncho disguised her figure and the baggy pants even raised doubts about her sex. Even Walter, she thought, could pass her by without recognizing her.

The outfit itself was her biggest problem. Anyone looking for suspicious characters would be attracted to a costume that made someone impossible to recognize. But in George Town, broad-brimmed hats and opaque sunglasses were de rigueur. And loose, cool cottons were the standard cover for the thongs and bikinis that were ubiquitous on the beaches and at the pools. In the streets and shops surrounding the bank, there would probably be a hundred costumes similar to what she was wearing. She would be as inconspicuous as Angela Hilliard was ever going to get.

Her laptop computer was open on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, its power cord plugged in above the toaster, and a phone cord stretching from its base to a telephone jack on the kitchen wall. Angela had simply dialed into the PC in her New York office and then connected that computer to the bank’s internal network.

Walter’s password, which he had often encouraged her to use, had put her computer online with his server. Anytime he downloaded a file, or connected to the network in order to move funds from one account to another, the information would write out on her screen just as it was appearing on his. As far as his computer dealings were concerned, she might just as well have been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.

She glanced at the screen as she stepped into the kitchen for still another cup of coffee. Keep sharp, she had warned herself, and alert. She couldn’t allow herself to settle into the relaxed mood of her surroundings.

There was nothing yet, which was hardly surprising. It was only 9:00 A.M. Angela guessed that he would probably wait until his colleagues were buried in the day’s work before he would key in the ransom transfer. His activities would go unnoticed until late in the day.

She could easily imagine die tension that was seizing Walter’s hands and the pressure that was building up inside his head. Walter, she knew, was highly driven and completely obsessive. The danger he was confronting would take possession of all his senses. He had collapsed into her arms only a few nights earlier when his moment of truth was still many hours off. Now that he was down to his final minutes, he was probably becoming a basket case. She could only hope that he wouldn’t crack. She was counting on his being able to face up to the dangers and make the only choice that was really left to him.

She took her coffee to the patio and looked up the length of the Seven Mile beach. Pure white sand was pasted on flat blue water to form a piece of impressionistic art. The first sun worshipers of the day were just beginning to migrate down to the water’s edge.

This was the kind of place where she would like to live; a paradise with none of the uncertainties of the seasons, reserved for the rich and powerful, and next door to discreet banks that would let her manage her money. When people thought of her as power hungry, they imagined that she enjoyed flexing her financial muscle over subordinates at the bank and clients around the country. But that certainly wasn’t high on her list of priorities. The power she needed was the power to command any service and to gratify any need. Money bestowed that kind of power and she planned to have a great deal of it.

But for all its practical attributes, Grand Cayman struck her as a bit too sterile. Its history, a brief tale of European powers that had tried to foist the islands on one another, could be written on the back of a clam shell. It’s only geopolitical importance was as a landing strip for resident seagulls and for the longer-range migrant birds. In truth, its real beauty was underwater, visible only to the divers who left its shores every morning.

Europe, she thought, would be more fitting. Perhaps a villa on the Riviera, or a white cement house above the harbor of one of the Greek isles. Or perhaps the Italian coast, south of Naples, where cities with centuries of history rose vertically from the sea.

She looked over her shoulder at the computer, its screen still blank. She could imagine Walter ringing his hands as he circled the machine next to his desk in New York. Come on, Walter, she thought. Let’s get on with it.

Walter was, indeed, circling his desk like a caged animal. But he had yet to give thought to the small transfer that he and Andrew Hogan had agreed upon. Instead, he was waiting anxiously for the five $10,000 checks that were coming up from the cashier’s office. He had called the appropriate officers at several of the other major banks that filled the blocks of east-side midtown. Each would be delighted to arrange for five hundred used twenties to be available for pickup. No problem whatsoever. “You going down to Atlantic City?” one of his business acquaintances had jibed. A closer friend had ventured that he would like to see the lady who was worth that much money.

He had already lied to his secretary, telling her about an opportunity to pick up a great-looking sailboat that he could put into charter service. “I hate to do this, but the guy is in the middle of a divorce and doesn’t want the money to show up in his checking account. Could you … ?”

Joanne had agreed to leave early on her lunch hour, bring his checks to neighboring banks, and have the cash back to him before 2:00 P.M.

The messenger arrived and Walter hurriedly endorsed the bank checks. Then he sent the secretary on her way and turned his attention to the small account he was about to deliver to the Caymans. It was a wasted exercise, he thought. No one was going to come calling for the small amount he was wiring. But he had to go through the motions just to satisfy Andrew Hogan. Once Andrew saw the $10,000 transfer and thought he was completely on top of the situation, Walter planned to move the $100 million from his storage accounts.

Angela heard the electronic ping from her laptop and strolled around the kitchen counter to see what Walter was up to. First came an InterBank account number, followed almost instantly by the international routing number that identified the Folonari Cayman branch. Next was the Folonari account number, the one where the ransom instructions had directed that the funds be deposited. She found herself smiling at how easy it was. No masks, no guns, no getaway cars. Just “hello” and “thank you very much.” Probably even a “pleasure doing business with you. I hope we can be of service again.” It would all be completely polite and civil. Why would anyone stoop to armed robbery?

Next came Walter’s authorization code. Somewhere in Milan, at Folonari’s headquarters, an old mainframe was checking the code against its file of authorized wire transaction depositors. The cursor on Angela’s screen blinked impatiently. It wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Then Folonari’s confirmation number printed across the screen. The branch could accept the funds with the same assurance, as if they were counting their way through a truckload of U.S. dollars. The sender had the money and had InterBank’s authorization to transfer any amount.

Angela looked eagerly for the $100 million figure. She was stunned when the computer wrote out the number $10,000. “What the hell … ?” she heard herself mumble dumbly. She hunched down close to the screen as if she suspected her eyes were deceiving her. There was no mistake. Walter was depositing only $10,000. She pulled away. Something was wrong. Someone was playing a game and it was a game in which she hadn’t anticipated the rules. What was Walter up to?

She ran through a list of possibilities. He was transferring the funds in small amounts. Smart, because it would be more likely to go undetected than one large transfer. But $10,000? At that rate, it would take all day and a good part of the weekend to complete the deposit.

He was trying to bluff the kidnapper. “Take it or leave it,” he might be saying. “I’ll let you walk with a few thousand and we’ll forget any of this ever happened. Just release my wife and get out of my life.” That was a possible ploy, Angela decided, but not for Walter. He simply didn’t have the guts for games of chicken, played at high speed.

Most probably this was simply a trial run. He had established the account and funded it out of the bank’s coffers. He was waiting to be sure that the transaction went unchallenged before he sent the bulk of the money.

She poured herself still another cup of coffee, set it next to the computer, and climbed up onto one of the stools that served the counter. There had to be more coming. She sat patiently, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

An hour dragged past and Walter’s server reported no action. Whatever he was doing, it didn’t involve accessing the bank’s internal accounts and records. Nor did it seem to involve any correspondence with outside banks. Something was terribly wrong.

She perked up when Walter’s machine went back online. Maybe this was what she had been waiting for. But he keyed in a routine transaction and then went immediately back into darkness. Angela jumped down from the stool and switched off the machine. There was nothing happening in New York. She had to find out if anything was happening at the Folonari Cayman branch.

She took her huge canvas bag, which served not only as a purse but also as a shopping bag, and locked the apartment door behind her. The sun was already high in the sky and its heat was radiating from the sidewalk and the black surface of the road. The beach, to her right, was dotted with cabanas and umbrellas and the oiled bodies of physically endowed vacationers. In the streets to her left, the day’s commerce was in full bloom.

It was a quaint little town, ugly in the dilapidation of its structures, but pretty in the colorful commerce it housed. The wide, double doors of shops were thrown open, with merchandise migrating out into the streets. Coffeehouses had no front facades, their business reaching out until the tables were threatening to topple over the curb. Automobiles, mostly European and Japanese compacts, were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk and a steady flow of cars through the narrow space left in the roads amounted almost to a traffic jam.

She strolled passed the front entrance of the bank and noticed a tall man, probably in his thirties, leaning casually against the wall, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His white complexion stood out among the native tans, his sports shirt was brand new, and his shoes weren’t typical island ware. Was he watching the entrance, she wondered as she drew close? Or was he waiting for a wife who was spending her day on a shopping spree? His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Angela thought she noticed his head turn to follow her as she passed. Had he spotted her? Or was he just bored enough to look at anyone?

Get hold of yourself, she chided. Anyone could look suspicious. If she were confident she could watch the bank without being recognized, then professionals would be even more difficult to recognize. She and Walter were both certain that a bonded courier would be the likely choice to pick up the money. She was looking for a courier who was prepared to walk down the street with $100 million in Folonari bearer bonds. She could expect a briefcase, probably chained to his wrist, a businesslike sedan that would wait at the curb, and jacketed driver, probably armed, who would be actively scanning the crowd.

Angela turned at the corner, crossed over, and headed back past the bank on the opposite side of the street, toward the import outlet where she would spend an hour examining cameras. She would select a display case just inside the open warehouse doors, giving her a vantage point that looked directly across at Folonari, with enough height to see over the heads of the shoppers.

Then, she saw him. It was the weasel of a man who had followed her into the first-class lounge and had waited outside the Boca Raton industrial park. He had replaced his wire frames with sunglasses and his business suit with a more casual costume. But, like the one in front of the bank, he was in a freshly unfolded sports shirt and heavy dark shoes. He was looking away from her, but his head was slowly panning in her direction. Angela turned away and moved into a souvenir shop to get off the street.

There were two of them, probably with their car parked at the edge of the shopping district. If the pickup man came on foot, they would have no trouble following him. If he came by car, the car would move at a snail’s pace until it reached the main beachfront road. One of them could walk beside the courier’s car. The other could run ahead to have their car ready. Or maybe they had no intention of allowing anyone to get back to a waiting car. They could just as easily take their man in the bank doorway.

Angela smiled. So that was why Walter had transferred only $10,000. He was going along with Hogan’s scheme to catch the kidnapper. He had simply used the ten thousand to create an account. His real intention was to see who came to claim the money. He wasn’t planning to ransom Emily at all!

She looked back into the street and found that neither of the lookouts seemed to be interested in her direction. Casually, she sauntered out into the middle of a throng of shoppers and moved away from the man she had recognized. Then she ducked into the sidewalk cafe and took a table just inside the building. She could sit unobserved, but still watch the bank and the man stationed in front of it.

Half an hour dragged by, spent sipping bottled water so that she could hold her place at the table. She was beginning to wonder what had gone wrong that the courier hadn’t shown up. Could the courier service be connected into the bank? Had they learned that only a small amount had been transferred and decided to wait for new instructions?

Angela had waited long enough. Nothing was going to happen and she didn’t want to linger any longer around people who could identify her. She counted out the change for her bill, stacked it on die table, and was just about to abandon the watch when the car she was waiting for appeared. It came down the side street next to the bank and turned into the dense parade of shoppers. Carefully, it edged up to the curb. She could see two men behind the darkened windshield and watched the reaction of the man keeping watch at the front door as he made a point of wandering away from the his post without glancing back at the car.

One man got out. He looked in both directions, then moved to the door of the bank, turning his shoulders as he pressed through the crowd. There was no mistaking him. The gray, summer-weight suit stood out like a lighthouse, even though it was worn over an open-collar white shirt. The briefcase was a thick, case-file size. All she could see of the man who remained behind the wheel was his silhouette. He was leaning back, away from the windshield, disguised by the black tint of the side window.

The little man who had been posted on her side of the street suddenly appeared, moving into her view as he crossed the street behind the car. He then sauntered past the parked car and went into the bank’s front door. Angela allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She had called it right. One had gone to the end of the street where the car would have to pass. The other had moved into the bank and was ready to follow the courier. Andrew Hogan; she thought, needed to be more original. His operatives were being a bit too obvious.

The minutes dragged by slowly. She had expected the courier to return within a few moments. All he had to do was count the bonds and sign a receipt. Unless he knew the amount that he was supposed to pick up; then, he probably would have called his office for instructions when the account contained only a fraction of the amount.

But he was seemingly at ease when he emerged from the building, moving straight to the car without examining his surroundings and disappearing inside. Instantly, the car eased from the curb, forcing itself into the human traffic. In another instant, the man who had followed her to Florida came out of the bank and began moving along the far sidewalk, keeping in the sedan’s blind spot. Angela stepped out and began following on her side of the street.

At first, she moved very quickly, darting in and out of the shoppers. But she realized that, even at a slow pace, she would move ahead of the sedan. She had to hang back in order to keep the car in front of her. She glanced across the street at the man making his way down the other side. He now had one hand raised to his head and was talking into a small radio or telephone, perhaps alerting another member of the team that the car was on its way. Ahead, she could see the line of taxis waiting to take shoppers back to their hotels and beach houses. It would be easy for her to jump into a cab and have him follow the car that the man across the street would undoubtedly get into.

The courier’s sedan was near the end of the street, about to break free from the crowds. Angela picked up her pace, knowing that she had to be at the cabstand before the car was able to accelerate away. But when she glanced back to her right, the man across the street had vanished. She suffered a split second of panic as she realized that Hogan’s agents weren’t following the script she had assumed. But what did it matter? She still had to get to a taxi before the courier’s car left the area.

The door of a taxi at the rear end of the line opened in front of her. She started to step around it, hurrying toward the head of the line. Suddenly, hands reached from behind and locked on her arms. Before she could turn her head, she felt herself being pushed forward and into the arms of a man who was already inside the taxi. She had hardly hit the seat, when the man who had pushed her slid in next to her and closed the door behind him.

“Who the hell … ?” Angela started. But then she recognized that she was being held immobile between the two men who had been watching the bank. “What do you assholes think you’re doing?”

“Following the courier. Same as you,” said her friend from the first-class lounge.

“Figured you’d appreciate a lift,” said the second man. “So just shut up and watch.”

“You can’t do this,” she protested. “This is kidnapping.”

“No, it’s bank robbery,” said the first man, “and it could get a little dangerous. So keep down and keep quiet.”

The taxi had already pulled out of line and was no more than fifty feet behind the courier’s sedan, separated by a thinning group of shoppers. As Angela watched, the sedan found its opening and moved onto the shore road. Then it took a left turn toward the airport where her private plane had landed. Seconds later, the taxi maneuvered around the stragglers and turned after the courier car. The driver stayed a good way back in order to avoid being spotted.

“Looks like they’re heading for the airport,” the guard to her right announced. The driver nodded. Then the guard turned to Angela. “Is that where you were going to meet them? At the airport?”

“Meet who?” she countered, staring straight ahead.

“We figured someone would come down to pick up the money.”

“What money?”

She noticed that the guard to her left was examining a photograph and, when she stole a glance, saw that it was the photo of her from personnel file. He glanced at the picture and then over at Angela. Then he chuckled. “Where did you get that outfit? You look like an idiot.”

She kept staring straight ahead. “You’re the ones who are going to look like idiots when I pick you out of a lineup for assault. If you have half a brain between you, you’ll stop this car and let me out. You’re holding me against me will.”

“They made us!” the driver suddenly announced and the taxi lurched forward, almost as if it had been hit from behind. The sedan had suddenly pulled out to pass a car ahead and was now rapidly accelerating away. The taxi shot up close to the car ahead and then leaned out across the center line. Angela saw a car coming directly at them and closing fast. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head into the seat back like a turtle squeezing into its shell. The engine downshifted and roared. Horns blared and tires squealed as the car lurched back across the dividing line. She expected the sound of tearing metal, but instead the horn blasted past, its pitch dropping as it vanished behind.

“You bastards are crazy,” Angela shouted.

“We don’t want you to miss your pickup,” the man to her right said.

The taxi was moving so fast that it seemed to be hopping in a short series of flights and then leaning heavily when the road turned. The traffic sign for the airport exit rocketed past and seconds later they shot by the exit itself. Angela focused on the speedometer and saw the needle hovering around the 100 mark. Far ahead, she could make out the sedan, which still seemed to be pulling away from them.

“Where’s he heading?” the guard on her left asked the driver.

His shoulder hunched. “Search me. There are just a few roads ahead. He won’t be able to shake us.”

“Just keep him in sight, then. Sooner or later he’s gonna run out of island.”

The road, which had been well paved and protected with guardrails where it circled George Town, had deteriorated to a gravel path that was barely the width of two cars. The sedan ahead was forced to slow down and the taxi was catching up. Then, without warning, the sedan’s taillights flashed and the car turned sharply onto a nearly invisible road that ran south toward the sea. It was headed to a small colony of buildings that were at the water’s edge.

The cab skidded into the same turn. When the sedan screeched to a stop, the taxi was only a hundred yards behind. The courier and his driver jumped out and raced into one of the buildings.

“Stay here!” The man to her left ordered Angela. Her two captors sprung out the sides of the taxi.

“Fuck you,” she shouted as she rolled out through the open door.

She was running after her captors, glancing back at the taxi driver, who was trying to catch her from behind. The building was a dive shed, with displays of scuba equipment guarded by a wide-eyed clerk, who was powerless to interfere with the chase through the center of his store. The couriers were quickly through to the seaside entrance and out onto a wooden pier. They were trying for a dive boat, tied to the end of the dock, but Hogan’s two agents were right at their heels.

“You ain’t going to make it,” one of pursuers called out. A second later, he had a pistol in his hand and fired two shots out into the water. While the shots were still echoing, the courier and his chauffeur skidded to a dead stop and fired their hands into the air. Hogan’s two men pulled up next to them. Seconds later, Angela and the taxi driver joined the conference. It was Angela’s first-class companion who took charge and steered the group off the pier, back into the dive shop. There, he flashed some credentials, which the owner barely acknowledged, and threw down a pile of twenties, which got the owner’s attention. Seconds later, they were all in the dive shop office, the door shut to assure their privacy.

The couriers were fiercely professional, unwilling to say anything about their assignment other than to refer Hogan’s people to their superiors at a downtown office. They were unimpressed when they were told that they were involved in a kidnapping. Many of the courier company’s clients were using the firm precisely to maintain their anonymity while they retrieved illegally gotten gain, so the threat that they might be involved in a crime came as no shock. But the courier who had gone into the bank was completely flabbergasted when Hogan’s man told him what was in the briefcase that was still locked to his wrist and exactly what had transpired inside the bank.

“You guys have been had,” Angela’s traveling companion told them, “and the kidnapper who hung you out is here on the island. Where were you supposed to take the money?”

“The airport …” the courier started to explain, but he was silenced by the threatening glance of the driver. The two men went silent, leaving Hogan’s people no alternative but to telephone the courier office and to take the entire party back to George Town to talk with their boss.

“I’m not going with you,” Angela protested. “I have nothing to do with these two or whatever they’re involved in.”

The grip of the man who had been following her was anything but gentle. “Why don’t you just tag along and see if anyone recognizes you?”

The cash was impressive. There were 2,500 twenty-dollar bills neatly stacked in twenty five paper wrappers. Walter’s secretary had gathered it in a shopping bag from four different banks, dragging cash in and out of a waiting taxi, and praying that the bottom wouldn’t fall out of the bag in the middle of Park Avenue. Then she had brought it up in the elevator, realizing that no one cared what she had in the bag and musing how easy it would be to carry the same amount down in the elevator and out the front door. All day, she worked with amounts that ran into the millions or the tens of millions, counting up small fortunes with a few keystrokes on her computer terminal. The vast sums she worked with were vague and meaningless, like the numbers in the InterBank annual report or the frequently quoted total of the national debt. But $50,000 in twenties had a real presence. Joanne had swallowed hard as she stacked the currency neatly on the coffee table in Walter’s office. He had thanked her profusely, again forcing her to endure his lame excuse about a friend’s boat. As soon as she was out the door, he began to wrap it.

It was a hefty package, a twelve-inch cube of plain brown paper secured with unbreakable tape and tied with a heavy cord. Walter lifted it. Twenty pounds, he guessed. He carried it to his closet and pushed it to the back corner of the shelf. No one would question him at the end of the day when he carried it down in the elevator. He would probably rest it on the guard’s desk while he initialed the sign-out sheet.

He used his private line to dial Andrew Hogan’s office. “Any news?”

“Nothing yet,” Hogan answered.

“It’s been over an hour. They wouldn’t just leave it sitting there.”

Hogan’s voice sighed with impatience. “We’ve got the cashier working for us and the street covered. If anyone shows up, we’ll know about it. They’re just taking their time. Wouldn’t surprise me if they had people watching the street themselves.”

“You’ll call me?” Walter asked.

“Soon as I hear something, you’ll be the first to know.”

He sat at his desk, trying to shift his attention to the mountain of work that needed his input. But he couldn’t concentrate on anything except the ransom account in George Town. Andrew would have it under surveillance until someone came calling for it. Then, when he thought he had his man and was no longer interested in the paper account, Walter would send down the full $100 million.

But would that buy Emily’s freedom? He had never even considered that she could fall into the hands of a psychopath like the man on the telephone. Just recalling the relish with which the smug voice had described her mutilation sent a chill up his back and into his hairline. Even if the man were paid in full for holding Emily captive, he might not obey an order to release her. No matter what happened in Grand Cayman, Walter was determined that nothing should interfere with his turning over the cash he had pushed into his closet.

He went to the locker room, changed into his gym shorts and sneakers, and then slumped into the exercise room where Mitchell Price was already sliding weights onto the bar. “Jesus, you look like hell,” Price said by way of a greeting. “Something wrong with the deutsche mark?”

“Sound as a dollar,” Walter answered, completing the tired old joke. He climbed up onto the treadmill and set it for a warm-up jog.

Son of a bitch, Walter thought, as he watched Price begin a series of shoulder shrug exercises. It would be Mitchell’s computers that would find the $100 million he had siphoned from dozens of accounts and trace it through to the Folonari Cayman branch. It would be Mitchell who would bring him up to the boardroom, confront him, and then listen to his lame explanations. And it would be Mitchell who would be knighted, while he was being led away in disgrace.

He fought against the wretched hope that something might happen to Emily before he transferred the money. Something totally beyond his control that would leave him blameless. But die most logical something was that the madman who was holding her would kill her horribly. Nothing he could ever gain would be worth that. Walter wanted to be free of Emily. He didn’t want to live with her screams echoing in his brain. Nor was there any way he could refuse to pay. Angela had made it pretty clear that she could never marry him if he left Emily to die.

He really had no choice but to play the affair through to the end. Transfer the money and then run away with Angela. That was certainly a future he could live with, if only he wouldn’t constantly hear Mitchell Price laughing from the chairman’s office.

The headboard was yielding under Emily’s grip. As she leaned her weight on the crossbar, she could see its ends breaking free from the corner posts. The joints had only a fraction of their grip. If she had a hammer, she could probably knock them free with a single swing.

Not that she wanted to be free right now. Her two guards were still in the house. She could hear them moving around on the floor above. Rita was due to bring down her lunch sometime during the next hour. Mike might come down at any time to record another horror message or just simply to enjoy her terror. She couldn’t let them find her in a broken bed. As soon as she was free, she had to begin her escape through the drop ceiling and that would take time. She had to bide her time until they were both asleep or both out of the house. Otherwise one of them might walk in while her legs were hanging down through the roof.

She stopped forcing the bar and bent to blot up the small traces of wood dust that were on the floor. Then she swung the chain over the corner post and got herself back onto the bed. Within seconds, she heard footsteps padding toward the top of the stairs, and then the bolt snapping open. Rita came down with a small tray.

“Just a sandwich,” she said as she put the tray on the table. “It’s cheese. I hope you like it with mustard.” The woman was almost pleasant. She found the key in her jeans pocket and unfastened the hands that Emily offered. Then she watched sympathetically while Emily tried to massage the blood back into her wrist.

“You’ve been exercising, haven’t you?”

Emily felt a jolt of fear. “What do you mean?”

Rita’s hand brushed up the side of Emily’s face. “You worked up a sweat. What were you doing? Leg lifts?”

“Yes,” Emily lied. She stood up from the bed and went into the bathroom.

“I used to do aerobics,” Rita called after her. “But it was a waste of time. You can’t fight age, can you. Neither of us is getting any younger.”

Flattery can’t hurt, Emily thought. “I wish I were in as good a shape as you. You probably don’t need a lot of exercise.” She washed her hands and splashed water on her face and neck. Then she went to the table where she began to quaff down the sandwich.

“Take your time,” Rita said. “No need to put the bracelets back on you until I have to go out.”

Emily’s face snapped up from her plate. “You’re going out?”

“Just to get a few things. But I can leave you with only one handcuff. Mike will be here, so you’re not going anywhere.”

Emily stood slowly, drawing the gown around her. “Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with him. I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. That’s to scare your husband. It’s not you he’s after. It’s the money.”

“He’s been all over me. And he told me that he’d be back when you were gone.”

Rita’s quickness caught Emily offguard. She crossed the space between them in two lightning steps, her open hand flying through the air as she came. The blow cracked across Emily’s cheek, sending her reeling back against the wall.

“Mike doesn’t need anything from you,” she said in an angry whisper. “I give him everything he needs … or wants.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Just don’t try to come on to him. It won’t do you any good because he isn’t interested in you. And you don’t want to do anything that makes me mad, because then you’d really be in trouble.”

Andrew Hogan decided not to use the telephone. He wanted to be face-to-face with Walter Childs when he told him. In all his years as a detective, he had never met anyone who could completely hide his reaction to bad news. Walter’s expression would tell him exactly how much he knew about his lover’s activities in Grand Cayman.

He held up a hand to stop Joanne from announcing him, opened the door, and walked directly to the desk. Walter’s eyes showed his amazement when he looked up.

“What?” he stammered. “What happened?”

“Two couriers showed up for the money.” Andrew said. “We caught them and ended up talking to their boss.”

“What did he say?”

Hogan kept focused directly on his eyes. “They’d been told to make a pickup and deliver it directly to a private jet hangar at the airport. The caller was a woman who said she would identify herself by showing them the account number. She paid with a check for five thousand dollars drawn on the account.”

Walter seemed to be digesting the information. Nothing in his expression hinted that he might have known about the arrangements in advance. “The courier service was willing to do that?” he asked in what appeared to be genuine surprise.

“In the Caymans, that isn’t unusual. Or at least that’s what the couriers say. There’s a lot of money laundering by people who don’t want to leave their name and who don’t wait around for the paperwork.”

“Who did you find at the hangar?” Again, Walter seemed honestly eager for information.

“No one,” Andrew admitted with an expression of despair. He fell into a side chair.

“No one!” Walter’s expression turned to anger rather than to relief. If he already knew all the details of the ransom payment, he was doing a wonderful job of playing innocent. “Then you blew it!” He was up on his feet. “You played Russian roulette with Emily’s life and you lost!”

Hogan smiled cynically. “Not quite. My guys found the pickup person before they ever got to the airport. Turns out someone else was following the courier, too.”

Walter backed up a step. “Who in hell was it?”

“Your lady friend. Angela Hilliard.”

The shock that registered in Walter’s eyes looked real. “Angela! That’s ridiculous. She’s with a client.”

“She was with a client,” Andrew corrected. “We followed her down to Boca Raton where she spent most of Thursday with one of the bank’s customers. But she gave our people the slip.”

“You followed her?” Walter interrupted.

“Of course. Her. The other officers. Even you. We’re keeping an eye on everyone. But when we lost her in Florida, we had no idea she was heading for the Caymans. It was just luck that we identified her. The guy who had followed her to Boca Raton was sent down to Grand Cayman after he lost her. He was the only one down there who could have recognized her and even he wasn’t too sure. She was in disguise … dressed very differently.”

“A disguise?” Walter’s mind seemed to be reeling. “What in hell would Angela know about a disguise? This whole thing is crazy.”

“She’s on a plane right now, headed back up here with our investigators. They’re due to land at La Guardia around seven. I think we all ought to gather right here at, let’s say, eight o’clock.”

Walter bristled. “And in the meantime, what do we do about Emily? Just … let her die?”

“No. I think your girlfriend is going to be able to tell us where Emily is. Or, at least, be able to tell us who has her.”

“Damn you! Can’t you get it through your thick skull that Angela isn’t in on this.” Walter’s eyes were flooding with tears of frustration. “She’s been insisting that I do everything possible to get Emily back.”

“Insisting that you pay over the hundred million dollars,” Andrew reminded.

“She’s not involved!” Walter exploded.

“If she’s not involved, then we’ll just have to wait for another message from the people who are involved.”

“There won’t be another message. You remember my orders. Either the money is there or I’ll never hear from anyone again.”

Hogan rose slowly. “Walter, we have our kidnapper. And I think when she understands what she’s up against she’ll lead us to Emily. Now don’t get me wrong. We’re not relaxing for an instant. We’ll still be watching every one who could possibly be involved and we have people running down every shred of information. But I think Miss Hilliard will have all the answers.”

Angela concentrated on the laptop computer on the tray table in front of her, making a point of ignoring the investigator in the seat next to her. She knew he was alternating between obvious interest in the information scrolling across her screen and sneaked glances down at the generous length of thigh that showed below her pulled-up skirt. The pitiful jerk, she thought for a moment. He’d spend his life looking instead of taking.

They had expected her to crumble the moment she had confronted the couriers, and heard them say that they had been on their way to meet the woman who had hired them. Instead, she had stuck to her story, repeating that she knew nothing about the money that the couriers were collecting, nor any of the details about a kidnapping. Her only crime, Angela had conceded, was playing hooky from her office long enough to allow herself a long weekend in the Caymans and that was a matter between herself and InterBank. It was none of their business.

They had posted a guard outside the window of her apartment while she changed back into her business outfit, warning her that they would be watching her every minute. Angela hadn’t even bothered to pull the shade, enjoying the obvious embarrassment of one of her guards when she began undressing. When she was packed, she had handed one of them her suitcase to carry.

On the way to the airport, she had given them a very clear and formal warning. They were not policemen, nor officers of any court, and had absolutely no right to take her into custody. If this was a citizen’s arrest, then she demanded that she be handed over immediately to the island police. “You’ll look pretty stupid charging me with … what is it? Following you up the street while you were following someone else?” If they insisted on bringing her back to New York, then she fully intended to charge them with assault and kidnapping as soon as she touched down.

Angela offered no resistance when their flight was called, nor did she even glance at the policeman who patrolled the boarding gate. On the plane, she had ordered a martini, while Helen Restivo’s detective had accepted a complimentary soft drink. Then she had set up her computer and begun typing her trip report, detailing all the adjustments to Roberto’s accounts that had been agreed to at the business meeting.

“You’re making this hard on yourself,” the investigator had advised her. “We’re working for the security people at your bank. They’re the ones who want some answers.”

“The New York police will want their names,” Angela had countered. “If they’re really in on this, then they’re guilty of conspiracy.”

As she worked, she noticed the man squirming in his seat and was amused by his uneasiness. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He was no different than her superiors at the bank or most of her businessman clients. Once they knew that they were outgunned by her intelligence, and intimidated by her daring, they harbored secret thoughts of how they would dominate her in bed.

Sassy bitch, she watched them say to themselves, I’d show her who’s boss if I had her between the sheets. I’d knock that smart-ass smirk off her face in one hell of a hurry.

It was the last resort of a man’s ego. She’d kicked their asses all through college and then through b-school. But it just wasn’t in their makeup to admit defeat at the hands of a woman. Instead, they reached back to a primitive past of sexual superiority and comforted themselves with the thought that they could easily dominate her in the only contest that really mattered. On the few occasions when she had taken up the challenge, she had usually left them exhausted and trembling in fear of a heart attack, without so much as raising a sweat.

That’s what the cop next to her was doing right now, Angela assured herself. She could almost hear the rusty, castiron gears turning in his brain. Snotty broad thinks she can frighten me with this bullshit about me getting arrested. She thinks she can just wiggle her ass and walk away from a capital offense. Boy, would I like to show her a thing or two.

Then he’d peek down at the inside of her thigh, imagine her breathless under his weight, and reassure himself that he was still in charge. What a complete, absolute nerd! Running roughshod over guys like him was almost too easy to be called a contest. She turned suddenly in his direction, catching him momentarily with his eyes in her lap.

“Be a good boy and order me another drink,” Angela said. Then she tugged her hem down a bit, just to let him know that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Walter closed his door and turned his chair to face the computer. He keyed in his password and the machine answered with his clearance. He could look into any file on the InterBank network and execute any transaction that wasn’t in violation of banking laws. Only five people at InterBank had total access and Walter was one of them.

He clicked onto the menu and then onto the first entry, account access. A matrix appeared asking him the number of the account and then for a repeat of his password. He spent the next few minutes checking into each of the accounts he had created and found no surprises in the amounts. They were all exactly as he left them. None of them had any indicated activity—they had not been called up by anyone for any reason. That meant that Mitchell Price’s auditors hadn’t located them yet.

Walter typed in the number of the account that had been set up in the Caymans. As he expected, the words access denied flashed in the center of the screen. It was a private account, one of a list of accounts belonging to drag dealers, dictators, and politicians who didn’t want anyone browsing through their affairs. But the fact that it was still listed meant that no one had yet closed it. It could still accept Emily’s ransom and then make the money disappear.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Andrew Hogan’s spooks probably wouldn’t be watching. They already knew the identity of the kidnapper. Or at least, they assumed that the woman they held in custody would provide the link to the kidnapper. As far as they were concerned, the case was closed.

He designated the target account at Folonari’s Cayman Island branch and was about to list the accounts to be transferred, when a new warning flashed across his monitor: Access limited. Account under surveillance. His fingers jumped off the keyboard as if he had touched a hot griddle.

“Son of a bitch!” he snapped softly. Then his fist exploded against the edge of his desk. “Son of a bitch!” Hogan was using his authority to keep a security watch on the account. In theory, Walter could get into it, but couldn’t do anything with it. And with Folonari’s guarantee of secrecy, he couldn’t even look into it. He was dead in the water. “Son of a bitch!”

* * *

Angela Hilliard was relaxed to the point of boredom when she was escorted into Walter Childs’s office. Andrew Hogan led the procession, walking directly in front of her, and the two agents who had escorted her back from the Caymans flanked her. Helen Restivo was holding up the rear.

“Angela,” Walter whispered, coming around his desk to greet her. But none of the men moved aside and Angela, who stood in their midst, seemed completely indifferent to Walter’s affections. Hogan pointed her to one of the chairs in Walter’s lounge area and then sat on the sofa, directly across from her, so that their legs were almost touching. The others arranged themselves around her, leaving Walter to drag one of his side chairs over and take a seat near Angela’s shoulder.

“Walter, do you know these idiots?”

He looked around and realized that he didn’t “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Hogan started his introductions, beginning with Helen, but Angela rode right over him. “I’m glad you don’t, because they’re all going to be spending the next few years in court, if not in prison.”

“You know why we’re here,” Hogan told her.

Angela ignored him, keeping her attention focused on Walter. “There are two things you can do for me. First, go to your desk and call the police. Tell them that I’m being held against my will. Then call the most expensive tort lawyer you know. You can tell him these bumbling fools are going to be paying me a lot of money and there will be plenty to cover his fees.”

Walter looked uncertainly from Angela to Andrew. “You can’t just … hold her,” he tried.

Andrew kept after Angela. “Miss Hilliard, what were you doing in the Cayman Islands, across the street from the bank where Mrs. Childs’s ransom was being paid?”

“Walter, will you please make those telephone calls for me?” She wasn’t budging at all from her role as the outraged woman.

“They’re trying to help us find Emily.” He was begging her to understand his predicament.

“And you think I know anything about what happened to her?”

“Oh, Jesus, no. But you may be able to help us. Something you saw, or something you might have heard.”

She turned to Hogan. “I saw nothing, nor did I hear anything relevant to Mrs. Childs’s situation. I hope that concludes this meeting.” She tried to stand, but Hogan leaned forward and blocked her escape.

“You know she’s been kidnapped,” the security officer said.

“Yes. Walter told me. And he knows he has my complete sympathy.”

“And you knew how he was supposed to pay the ransom?”

“He told me. And I urged him, for Emily’s sake, not to let you and your Boy Scouts fuck everything up. Which, apparently, you have already done.”

“You went there to pick up the money,” Hogan pressed on.

She shook her head in exasperation. “I’m going to get up now and I’m going to walk out the door. The only way you’re going to going to stop me is by knocking me down. I think that’s called a felony.” She stood up, but Hogan stood with her so that they were face-to-face. “You better tell him, Walter, what the headlines are going to do to your tenuous grip on the presidency. ‘Banker’s Mistress Assaulted in InterBank Executive Suite.’ ”

“Please, Angela. Answer his question. What were you doing in the Caymans?”

She froze him with a glance. “I feel very sorry for you, Walter. You just made the worst decision of your life.”

She pushed past Hogan and stepped out of the circle toward the office door. Walter jumped to his feet and took command. “Will you all step outside, please. I’d like to have a word alone with Miss Hilliard.”

Angela stopped with her hand on the knob. Helen and her agents looked up at Andrew Hogan for their instructions. “Let’s wait outside,” Hogan decided. They rose reluctantly and filed past Angela. But Hogan closed the door behind them, turned, and leaned his back against it.

“Please, Andrew,” Walter Childs asked.

Hogan shook his head. “I can’t do that, Walter. You two have a … relationship. And the fact is that you’re both suspects. I can’t give you an opportunity to coordinate your stories.”

“Jesus,” Angela said in despair. She reached around Hogan for the doorknob and then looked back to Walter when the security officer wouldn’t budge.

“We’re trying to save Emily’s life,” Walter pleaded, “if she’s not dead already.”

Angela considered for a moment. “You’re right, of course,” she said to Walter. Then she stepped quickly to the sofa and sat in the chair she had just left. This time, Hogan sat a decent distance away from her and Walter perched on the very edge of his chair.

“We’re all in agreement that Emily’s kidnapping involved insiders,” she began, “people well placed in the bank and familiar with its operating procedures.”

“Yes, of course,” Walter acknowledged. He looked at Hogan for confirmation, but the detective’s expression was professionally noncommittal.

“You do agree with that, don’t you, Mr. Hogan?” Angela persisted. Hogan reluctantly allowed that it was a strong possibility. “Then which one of your operatives was going to identify the person from InterBank? Did any of them even know anyone from InterBank? Any of the senior officers or the key people on their staffs?”

Hogan kept staring. She was right. Helen’s hired hands wouldn’t have been able to identify anyone from the bank who showed up to claim the ransom.

“That’s why I went to Grand Cayman,” Angela told him. Then she looked over at Walter. “You told me when you were supposed to send the ransom and how it was going to be handled. I knew you’d pay it. You’d never take a chance with Emily’s life. And I knew that the only way you would survive here would be if you could show Mr. Hollcroft who the real thief was.” She turned back to Hogan. “Someone from InterBank was down there. Probably waiting at the airport for the couriers to make their delivery. And I would have spotted him, if you’re people hadn’t screwed everything up.”

Hogan shook his head slowly. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Miss Hilliard. You’ve got balls. We catch you red-handed at the scene and you blame the people who caught you.”

“Those idiots couldn’t catch the runs in Mexico,” she fired back. “First, they couldn’t have been more obvious if they were dressed like Batman. I spotted them and I’m not exactly Scotland Yard. Then, they blew whatever cover they might have had by barging through pedestrian traffic to arrest me. Next, they let themselves be suckered into driving right past the airport where the person they were supposed to find was probably waiting.”

Andrew was turning red from the description of the operation. “They found the person they were supposed to find,” she interjected.

Walter came to Angela’s defense. “She does have a point, Andrew. You said yourself that the couriers were supposed to deliver the money to the airport.”

“For the love of God, Walter, don’t side with her. She knows where Emily is.”

“I don’t,” Angela said, “but I think that maybe your investigators do. It’s hard to believe that they could have screwed up that badly if they weren’t trying.”

“Where is Mrs. Childs?” Andrew kept pressing.

Angela looked back and forth. Then she stood quickly. “I’m very tired. It’s been a bitch of a day.” She fixed on Hogan. “I’m going home now.” And then she said to Walter, “I’m truly sorry about all this. You know I want to help you in any way I can. You have my address and phone number. Your friend Hercule Poirot, here, ought to be able to find me.”

They all sat speechless and watched her walk out of the office.

“She couldn’t be involved in this,” Childs finally assured Hogan. “I know her. She couldn’t do anything like this.”

“Walter, think with your head instead of your pecker. You don’t really believe that she went down there to catch the kidnapper, do you?”

“I know she’d do anything to help me.”

“She’s not helping you. She’s helping herself. Dammit it, Walter, I’ve been a cop all my life. I know when someone is lying. Your lady friend went down there to collect the hundred million. She knows where your wife is.”

Helen didn’t agree with Andrew Hogan. She had listened patiently as Hogan repeated the conversation that had been held in Childs’s office after Helen and her men had departed. Then she announced, “Of course she’s lying. Her story about going down there to identify the kidnapper is pure horseshit. Something that she made up on the plane. But I don’t think it follows that she’s involved.”

“What other explanation is there?” Hogan demanded.

“I don’t know. But she doesn’t have a motive. Why would she be part of a scheme to kidnap Emily Childs?”

“How about a hundred million bucks. Isn’t that motive enough?”

“Not for this young lady,” Helen instantly answered. “She has the next president of InterBank wrapped around her finger. Prestige. Power. Money. Even after Emily Childs leaves with half the property and a life’s worth of alimony, there’s still going to be more money than Angela Hilliard can ever spend. It would be stupid of her to risk all that for money that will come to her eventually. And one thing this young lady isn’t is stupid.”

“Well, if it isn’t her, then who in hell is it?” Hogan’s question was more an explosion of frustration than a serious inquiry, but Helen answered thoughtfully.

“That’s what doesn’t make sense. There are no motives. No one has anything to gain.”

Hogan returned a blank stare.

“Well, think about it,” she went on. “Why would Walter Childs have his wife kidnapped? He’s got his fortune. He has his trophy wife. He’s got a big-time job. So he’s going to have to give up his house—he’ll buy another. And he’s going to have to pay serious alimony—he can afford it. To him, it’s a simple financial transaction. He pays top dollar for a brand-new wife who’s worth top dollar. It’s just like trading in his BMW for this year’s model. No big deal.”

“You said he was ambitious,” Hogan corrected, reminding his friend that she had once thought that Walter might use the kidnapping to assure his rise to the presidency.

“Yeah, but that only works if he goes to the board and makes a big show of sacrificing his wife rather than robbing the bank. Childs is trying to pay the ransom, which isn’t going to raise his stock with the directors.”

Andrew nodded in despair. Then he asked, “What about the tennis jock?”

Helen shrugged. “He’s hard to figure. Amanda is right about her mother paying him regularly and Emily did send a note with her last check saying that she wasn’t going to need any more lessons. But is that a motive? It’s not like she was going to turn him in. He had nothing to fear from her and he still was collecting overtime from all those would-be Steffi Grafs.”

“Her note could have come as a disappointment if he was counting on half her divorce settlement,” Andrew mused. “But he doesn’t know a thing about InterBank activities. And if he were in on it, why would he have come in after the kidnappers and walked all over the crime scene?”

“So who does that leave?” Helen asked.

“The other banker, I suppose. He knows the bank procedures inside out and he has a real interest in derailing Childs’s career.”

“Yeah, but he already has a seven-figure salary and all the perks. Why would he risk exchanging all that for a jail cell?”

Hogan supplied the answer. “To make himself the world’s top financier. For people like Mitchell, finishing second is a complete disgrace.”

Helen nodded. “So I guess the only one left is you.”

Hogan laughed. “You still think I might be the kidnapper?”

“You’re the only one with the underworld contacts,” She answered.

“Well, I’m not paying for the chorus girl you have following me,” Hogan said.

“No charge. It’s the least I can do for an old friend.”

They fell into another period of moody silence, both focused on the same set of suspects and motives to see if there might be something that they had missed. Then Hogan put his thinking into words. “Suppose Emily decided that she didn’t want to be pushed aside …” Helen looked up into Andrew’s face, signaling her interest, so Hogan continued with his train of thought. “Walter lays everything out for her one night, tells her he’s fallen in love with another woman and explains what a wonderful settlement she’s going to get. But instead of demanding more, like any sensible wife would, Emily says flat out no. She threatens to drag Walter and his mistress into the garish light of public disclosure. Walter pleads. Promises her twice as much, but she isn’t interested in the money. She’s so pissed at the guy that she wants his head on a pole. She’s already cutting out a scarlet letter to sew onto Angela’s lapel. Wouldn’t that be enough motive? Wouldn’t Walter want to put her out of the way?”

“Maybe so,” Helen allowed.

“Or, suppose Walter accepts the bad news,” Andrew continued. “So he goes back to Angela and tells her that he won’t be able to marry her because he’ll be disgraced and thrown out of the banking world. All of a sudden, a very ambitious young lady who figured she was going to get it all is now going to get nothing except the occasional sexual favors of a middle-aged man. Quite a disappointment, don’t you think?”

“It’s a motive,” Helen conceded. She stood up wearily. “Guess I better find out whether Emily Childs knew she was going to get thrown out of bed.”

“How are you going to find that out?”

“Amanda. She’s searching through her mother’s records. Maybe she found a check retaining a divorce lawyer.”

* * *

Walter Childs took a devious route from his office. He signed out in the usual fashion, crossed the lobby, and as he climbed into the waiting limo, stole a glance at the man who had been watching his office. The man, presumably one of Hogan’s hirelings, waited until the car pulled away from the curb and then turned abruptly to head off in the other direction. That was exactly what Childs expected. Just as on the previous nights, the one watching his office had passed him off to another investigator whose car was just now falling into line behind the limo. The car would tail them all the way out to Short Hills, up to the moment when they turned into the driveway. Then it would roll past, leaving him to the man who was watching his house.

Walter made sure the car was still following when the limo turned south on Park Avenue. Then he leaned forward to his driver. “Omar, I need to head uptown. Take a U-turn here.”

Omar looked bewildered. “Where would you like to go?”

“Just uptown. Now!”

Omar braked and turned abruptly into the cross-street cutout in the center island. He found a minute space in the northbound traffic and accelerated rapidly into his turn. The following car was hung up at the intersection. With the light turning yellow at the next corner, Walter yelled, “Take this right!”

“Dammit,” Omar cursed quietly as he squealed into an abrupt right turn. As soon as they were safely on the cross street headed east, he added, “You should give me more warning, Mr. Childs—”

Walter cut him off. “We were being followed. I think we lost him on the first turn. But you better make a few more just to be damn sure.”

Omar registered a different kind of fright. “Followed?” He reached for the telephone that was cradled in the dashboard.

“Don’t call anyone,” Walter ordered. “Go north, then east over to Second. Use Second south and get me back to the rear door of the bank.” He glanced over his shoulder. There were a couple of taxis hanging on the back bumper, but no sign of the following car. One of the cabs blasted its horn as Omar took a quick left without signaling. There were more angry horn blasts as they angled across traffic and turned into the next eastbound street. Omar backed off to a normal speed, and coasted to a stop at the Second Avenue traffic light.

“I am supposed to call immediately if anything suspicious happens,” he said indignantly. “I really have to call.”

“Just get me back to the office and then don’t hang around. Keep driving. I’ll phone you when I’m ready.”

“But the procedure is …”

“For Christ’s sake, Omar, I’ll tell you what procedure is. Just do it!”

The driver looked as if his feelings were hurt.

Walter jumped out quickly and went directly to the security lock on the rear doors. He bent over the keypad as if entering his identity code, but kept an eye on the car until it had turned at the next corner. Then he stepped back out into the street and hailed a taxi.

He used the back door and the fire stairs to reach Angela’s floor, searched through the wired-glass window to make sure the corridor was empty, and then dashed to her apartment door. He used his key to let himself in so that he wouldn’t have to wait outside for the bell to be answered.

He crossed the living room to the bedroom door and tapped softly. “It’s me. Please! I have to see you.”

The door pulled open. Angela was slipping into her robe. She looked more angry than startled. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I have to talk to you.” He led her out to the living room sofa.

“Now?” She questioned. “I thought we agreed that this wasn’t a very good idea.”

“I know.” He left her sitting on the sofa while he went to the kitchen liquor cabinet.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said when he returned with their drinks. “It’s bad enough that moron suspects me. Now he’ll think that we’re working together.”

“I’m so sorry,” he began. “I never would have allowed them to subject you to that kind of treatment. But it never dawned on me that you would … involve yourself … in the investigation.” He sat carefully on the edge of the sofa next to her, but made certain to keep a bit of distance between them. It was as if he were asking if he were still welcome.

She shook her head slowly. “They had no right. No right at all.”

“Of course not. They’re a bunch of damn fools.” Walter’s hand wandered over to touch her shoulder. He was relieved when she didn’t pull away. “I should have thrown the whole bunch of them out. But I’m not thinking straight. Jesus, I keep thinking that we’ve blown it and wondering what they might be doing to Emily to get even. I’ve read things … like people being buried in a box and just left there. Or even worse, like …” He squeezed his eyes shut to lock out the ghastly images.

Angela took his face between her hands and brought it close to hers. She kissed his cheek softly and then rested against his shoulder. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, Walter. I was angry because my dignity was being abused. I should have been thinking about what you were suffering. It was selfish of me.”

He hugged her reassuringly. “No. We’re both upset. It’s just too damn much to cope with.” He jumped up and began to pace frantically. “I handled this wrong right from the beginning. I never should have tried to play it smart. I never should have gone to Andrew Hogan. I should have just collected the money and deposited it in the account, exactly the way they told me. If I had, Emily might be home now, safe …”

“You did what was right,” Angela corrected. “You went to an expert. Someone who should have known how to handle it.”

“He’s a cop,” Walter wailed. “I should have known that he’d act like a cop. That he’d try to catch the bastards instead of trying to save her.”

“You can’t blame yourself. You’ve tried twice to buy her freedom. It’s Hogan and his goons who keep screwing things up. If anyone is responsible, it’s he. Jesus, he couldn’t have done any worse if he were trying to get her killed. The way Andrew Hogan has worked things out, you’re going to get hurt no matter what happens.”

His eyes flashed. What in hell was she saying?

“Well, just think about it,” Angela said, putting aside her untouched drink. “He didn’t go to the board the way he was supposed to. That would have lifted the entire burden off your neck. And yet he won’t let you pay the ransom.”

“He can’t,” Walter interjected. “He can’t let me give away the bank’s money.”

“No, I understand that. He’s just using the money to bait the trap for the kidnappers. Only he never catches anyone in his trap. The guy on the telephone never took the bait. And down in the Caymans, he arrested me instead of the person who was waiting at the airport.”

Walter squinted, suspicious of her logic.

“Don’t you see? If you don’t pay the money, you lose your wife. And if you do, you lose your career. Andrew Hogan gets to drag you before the board and say, ’Look who I caught with his hand in the till.’ ”

His expression hardened. She was certainly right Hogan had screwed things up right from the beginning.

“Walter, is it possible that Andrew has it in for you? Is there any reason why he’d want to destroy you?”

“Hogan? Of course not. We hardly even spoke to each other before all this happened.” Then he shook his head. “He’d never be involved in a kidnapping.”

“No! But is there any reason why he would use the kidnapping as a way to get back at you? Because everything he does seems to bury you deeper in your problems. He seems to be grinding you into the ground. Christ, he made you sit and watch while he and his bullies were working me over.”

The idea was absurd. And yet, Hogan’s plans kept backfiring. The kidnappers were never caught. Emily had not been freed. And no money had left the bank. He seemed to be running in circles, chasing after thugs who would probably fit comfortably into Andrew’s circle of underworld associates. Certainly, Andrew wouldn’t be a kidnapper. But would he enjoy watching Walter, or one of his senior executive associates, swing slowly in the wind? And would he be likely to throw one of them to the wolves just to raise his own stock with the bank’s management? The thought wasn’t beyond consideration. Andrew was a proud man who had enjoyed sterling success on the public payroll. Yet the senior executives had treated him like a night watchman. Walter couldn’t help think that if he were in Andrew’s place, he would relish a few moments of sweet revenge.

“I haven’t told him anything about tomorrow.”

Angela looked up quickly. “Tomorrow?”

“I was contacted again by the bastard who’s holding Emily. He threatened to do horrible things to her and then told me I had one more chance to save her. I’m delivering the money tomorrow.”

“Alone? Where?”

“It has to be alone. I’m not going to jeopardize Emily again. And I don’t know where. He has my cell phone number. He told me to bring the money and just keep driving around the Paramus Mall. He’ll contact me. Probably send me on a couple of wild-goose chases. Then he’ll tell me where to leave the money.”

Her eyes darkened with fear. “Walter, that could be dangerous. You have no experience dealing with this kind of person.”

He tossed down the drink. “I’ve got to do it this way. It’s what I was told. And Hogan doesn’t know about it so he can’t mess it up. I have no choice.”

Walter took her into his arms and held her tight. “Please don’t worry. I’ll be all right. I shouldn’t have told you anything about it.” He kissed her forehead and then bolted out the front door and down the fire stairs. Twenty minutes later he was in his limousine, with Omar behind the wheel, driving downtown toward the tunnel. I shouldn’t have told her about tomorrow, he berated himself as he stared blankly out into the traffic. It was then he realized that he hadn’t told her about the previous scheme to pay Emily’s ransom. Angela knew how the $100 million was going to be transferred and which bank it was going to. But how did she know when the transfer was going to take place? How did she know to be in Grand Cayman on the right day and to be across from the Folonari branch at precisely the right time?

Suddenly, Walter felt totally alone and completely exhausted. There was no one he could trust.

Amanda and Alex were waiting in the living room, she in jeans and a sweatshirt and he in his shirtsleeves, a print necktie tight up against a buttoned collar. He was taller than his father and more athletic, with a muscular neck and more of his weight in his shoulders. But there was no mistaking his lineage. He had his father’s chiseled features and his hair was the same color, thinning in the same pattern. Walter went straight to his son and embraced him. “I didn’t want to drag you into his,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“What have you heard? Is there any news about Mom?” he asked.

Walter nodded. “We’re very hopeful. We’re following some very good leads.”

Alex pulled away. “You should have told me right away. You must have been going through hell.”

“Especially with a detective following you,” Amanda chimed in.

Walter looked at her and saw anger blazing in her eyes. When he glanced back at Alex he found less than the young man’s usual admiration. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. What the hell has she been telling you?” he asked in Alex’s direction.

“Just the truth,” Amanda said from her position on the sofa. “And I think it’s time that we had a lot more of the truth. Like how long have you been cheating on Mother?”

“Amanda,” Alex said, reprimanding his younger sister. “Take it easy.” But when he looked at his father it was obvious that he was expecting an answer.

“I haven’t been … cheating,” Walter answered hesitantly. He was quibbling about her choice of words rather than the fact. “Your mother and I … have our differences …”

“Stop the bullshit!” Amanda shouted, jumping to her feet. She brandished a stack of papers that she had been holding behind her back. “She hired a detective. She knew all about you. You and your …” Amanda consulted the pages for the name that she made sound loathsome “… your Miss Angela Hilliard.”

He wanted to throttle her. How dare she accuse her father! How dare she make Angela sound like some common streetwalker! He didn’t owe her any explanations, her and that doped-up drifter she was living with. Who did she think she was, spouting moral indignation? But Alex seemed wounded. Amanda’s accusations, which he had undoubtedly heard earlier, had taken on new impact in the presence of his father. He slumped into a soft chair as if he had been punched in the stomach. His hand was covering his eyes.

“Alex, I’m sorry she had you fly all the way across the country just to listen to this,” Walter said.

Alex’s eyes appeared above his hand. “Is it true?”

“No, no, it’s not the way it sounds.” He stepped around the coffee table and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You have to understand. As you get older, your interests … change, mature. Mother and I were finding … other interests.”

“You hypocrite!” Amanda snapped. “You called me a slut because I was living with Wayne. And then you’re bedding down some bimbo!”

The veins in his temple began to pound. How could she equate her humping with that second-rate photographer to his relationship with Angela? But he didn’t really care about her opinion. They had agreed years before not to like each other. It was Alex’s admiration that he couldn’t bear to lose. He dropped down to one knee so that he would be face-to-face with his son, who was still slumped in the chair.

“You have to understand. Things change. Your mother and I have been moving in different directions. I didn’t have time to be involved in her sports … her activities. And she really has no interest in mine. You know how she hated it whenever I talked about the bank. And how she wouldn’t even buy a new dress for a business affair.”

“She loves her home … her family,” Alex interrupted.

“That’s not enough!” Walter’s voice turned up in volume. “My responsibilities go far beyond my home and family. Your mother doesn’t want any part of those responsibilities.”

“So you need someone to polish your global image,” Amanda said sarcastically.

“No,” he answered to Alex. “This isn’t about vanity. This is about partnership. I need someone who can share my interests … stand beside me in my new ventures. I’m not some clerk who comes home, demands his supper, and then squats in front of a television. I manage critical, global affairs. Your mother doesn’t care about them.”

“But to cheat on her …” Alex whispered in despair.

“That’s not true. I simply met someone who was moving in my direction. Someone who could keep pace with me …”

“Someone younger?” Amanda asked.

“Yes, younger,” he admitted, finally sparing his daughter a glance.

“Closer to my age than to yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose so.”

“Attractive?”

His anger was beginning to boil again. “Yes, very attractive.”

“Perfect?” Amanda persisted. “Flawless skin? A model’s figure?”

“I said she’s very attractive. But that’s not important. What’s important is our shared interests … her grasp of my problems … her ease and comfort with the important people I have to mingle with.”

“Oh,” Amanda said, pretending to understand. “So if she weighed three hundred pounds and had to shave her upper lip, you’d still be tossing Mom over for her.”

His jaw locked in rage. Through clenched teeth he bit off every word of his response. “I … am risking … everything … even my life … to get your mother … back.”

“Why? So you can walk out on her?” Amanda demanded. “So that her ghost won’t be hovering over you while you and your little bimbo share … interests?”

He jumped to his feet. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he shouted. He started toward his daughter, both fists clenched in fury. It was only Alex’s moving in between them that prevented physical violence. “Don’t, Dad!” And then turning quickly to his sister, “That’s enough, Amanda.”

Walter backed away and Amanda settled back onto the sofa. Alex looked cautiously at both of them. “None of this is going to help Mother. Right now, she needs us all.”

Walter gained control of himself. “I’m going to get her back,” he promised them both.