Boston—about the same time
Trevor Jenkins wasn’t sure what he expected when Massina asked him to come to the office late Saturday afternoon, but it absolutely wasn’t an attorney, let alone one with a proffer already filled out.
“There’s no way I can go along with this,” the FBI special agent protested as he finished reading the legal document.
“It’s very straightforward,” said the attorney. “Restitution guaranteed by Mr. Massina personally, and an explanation of the technique, in exchange for a guarantee of no prosecution. You do it all the time.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I can call the U.S. attorney myself if you want,” said the lawyer. His name was Jasper Lloyd; he was one of the top criminal lawyers in the state. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“You don’t understand how complicated this is,” said Jenkins.
“We’re making it uncomplicated.”
“I already have a suspect.”
“As far as we know, you have the wrong suspect,” said the attorney. “And here we can not only solve a crime but prevent future ones as well.”
“You’re withholding evidence in a federal investigation,” said Jenkins.
Lloyd made the slightest of shrugs, as if what Jenkins said was beside the point.
Jenkins turned to Massina, who was sitting across from him at the large conference room table. Chelsea Goodman was next to him.
“No,” Jenkins repeated. “I’m not letting him off.”
“You have the wrong person,” said Lloyd.
Massina rose. “Let’s you and I go in the other room for a minute.”
Jenkins followed him through the door that led to Massina’s office. The building was an amazing mix of architecture, from the nineteenth-century brick exterior shell to the sleek surfaces of the interior walls and floor. The furniture on the upper floor was all exotic wood and looked as if it had just come from a showroom. But Jenkins wasn’t here to admire the decorating job.
“You’re not going to prosecute a fifteen-year-old girl,” said Massina as soon as the door was closed.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t solved the case, have you?” said Massina.
“Like hell. As soon as Gabor Tolevi comes back to the States, we move in. We already worked that out.”
“First of all, he’s missing,” said Massina. “And second of all, he’s not the one who did this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you should go back inside and call the U.S. attorney. Agree to the terms, sign on the dotted line, and then we’ll explain. Everything will work out, I guarantee.”
“You guarantee?”
Was this the same man who had sat with Jenkins and his wife all day when their daughter was being operated on and then fitted with the prosthetic? He had seemed so kind then, and understanding. Jenkins knew that Massina was no fool; not only was he a Boston native but no one could do business on the scale he did without a good helping of street sense. Still, his tone and the sharp-elbow approach didn’t quite jibe with the man Jenkins thought he knew.
“Do you trust me, Trevor?” asked Massina, sounding for just a moment like the kind man who had helped give Jenkins’s daughter a new lease on life. The words were exactly those he had used when they’d hesitated about the operations.
Do you trust me?
He’d nodded. What choice had he had? To see his daughter walk again, he’d have done anything.
And now?
What choice did he have, really?
“Let me call my boss,” he told Massina.
Borya looked up as Chelsea came into the room.
“We need you now,” she said. “Are you ready?”
“Did you find my dad?”
“We’re working on that,” Chelsea told her. “That’s going to take a little time.”
“Where is he?” asked Martyak. “He really should be involved. It’s his decision.”
“This is what’s best for Borya,” Chelsea told her. “And he can choose to ratify it or not. But otherwise, she’s going to jail. And for a long time. These are serious crimes.”
Borya lowered her head. If her father hadn’t been missing, all of this would have been different. She’d have been able to tough it out.
But losing him was too much. She felt as if she’d been stabbed with a knife a hundred times.
God, please, get him back. Make them help me! Get him back.
Borya glanced over at Beefy Bozzone, who’d been keeping them company, playing cards and telling her stories about dogs he’d owned. He seemed to have had nearly a hundred of them, with a particular fondness for pugs, “ ’cause you just about keep ’em in your pocket.”
His pocket, maybe. He was big.
“Are you going to come with me?” she asked him.
“No one’s gonna hurt you,” he told her.
“I know, but—”
“Yeah, I’ll come,” said Beefy. “And you guys owe me twenty cents and fifty-five,” pointing first to Borya, then to Martyak. “Don’t forget.”
“What?” asked Chelsea.
“Card game,” he explained. “A debt’s a debt.”