CHAPTER TWENTY

 CACTUS GREW INSIDE HUGE, HEAVY CLAY POTS POSITIONED BELOW view-windows—windows taking in Pacific whitecaps, seagulls, fishing boats, and the occasional hang-glider. The horizon stretched in every direction without blemish—endless blue sky, connected to endless blue ocean.

Morgan Stenman and Sarah Guzman deliberated with their backs to the windows—they had a view of only each other and Carlos Nuñoz. Because it was a Saturday, all of Stenman’s computers were shut down and, except for this meeting in her office, there were no other people on her half of the second floor. Across from the two women, Carlos fidgeted in a chair with cabriole legs, an antique from the time of Queen Anne—not comfortable, but priceless. His right foot rested on his left knee as he tugged at his ankle with an open palm, as if stretching his joints in preparation for a workout.

“Morgan, what did Peter Neil say to your attorney?” Sarah asked.

Stenman inhaled, then exhaled, as she nearly always did when framing her words: “According to Jason, he said he doesn’t know where any documents are. The tapes we made seem to corroborate that.”

“Perdoneme, señora,” Carlos said, “but you believe this to be true?”

Stenman merely shrugged.

“Neil is dangerous,” Carlos thought out loud. “He has seen a letter from his mother. What else has he seen? I believe it is possible more legal documents—stolen by this Hannah Neil—exist. It is also possible that Neil has them, or knows where they are, or will soon come to know these things. It is importante that we retrieve this information.”

Sarah nodded agreement. “For the time being, we will wait and continue following, recording, tracking him.”

“Maybe some of what you say is true,” Stenman said, sounding noncommittal. “I like Peter. I hope this turns out well for him.”

“This is a difficult case,” Sarah said. “What would you have us do, Morgan?”

Stenman flicked ashes into a crystal bowl. “Unless we are forced to, I do not think it wise to harm Peter. Not with what happened to his mother, with the possibility that the regulators may still be interested in his affairs. If possible, we should get needed answers first.”

“I agree,” Sarah said. “My recommendation is that we buy time. Hope to find out what he knows. But the moment we ascertain he has information stolen by his mother, and we retrieve that information, he must be dealt with. Fortunately, Carlos and I have a contingency plan. You are ready to execute this contingency plan when necessary, Carlos?”

“Sí.”

At that moment, Stenman’s phone rang. She pushed the speaker button. “I wish to speak with Señor Nuñoz,” said an accented voice.

“I am here,” Carlos said, the impatience in his voice an unspoken threat.

After a rapid briefing, the man said, “He is lost.”

Carlos slammed a fist into a wall. “What does that mean, pelotudo? ‘Lost’?”

In Spanish, the caller explained that Neil had taken off running. Nobody could hope to keep up with him, he moved too fast. At some point, the tracking device must have broken, because the signal died. Off to the side, Sarah gave a whispered translation to Stenman.

“Ocho ochenta! Find him!” Carlos slammed a fist into the speaker button, disconnecting the line. “This changes everything,” he said. “The transmitter did not accidentally break. He knows.”

“Calm down,” Sarah said. “Watch his house. This is no reason for panic.” She rolled her eyes in Stenman’s direction. Carlos understood the gesture, exhaled, and nodded.

“You will solve this problem intelligently,” Stenman said, making certain it sounded like a directive. “I do not want anything to happen to Neil that might reflect back on me. Understood?”

To her surprise, Carlos spun in anger. “We do what we have to, Señora Stenman. It is more than just your interests at stake.”

“Carlos,” Sarah reprimanded, “do not forget with whom you are speaking. Morgan Stenman is a great person. She is our friend.” Turning to Stenman, Sarah continued, “I am sorry. This is not like Carlos. He is upset that we have lost contact with Mr. Neil.”

“Perdoneme, Señora Stenman,” said Carlos. “I spoke unnecessarily.”

“Do not screw with me, Carlos, or underestimate me.” Stenman’s voice was like a deep freeze, and the room grew frigid. “And do not speak to me in such a manner ever again.”

“We will uncover the truth,” Sarah explained. “But you must trust our instincts.”

“And you must trust mine,” Stenman replied, still furious. “I prefer to continue grooming Peter Neil, but I am not in love with the notion. This has gotten complex, and I do not like that. Remember what you said about Howard Muller: he is dangerous because he does things without reason. Do not forget that lesson, either of you.”

Carlos’ crooked lips trembled. “I will not forget,” he said. “Anything.”

After Sarah and Carlos left, Stenman summoned Howard Muller. He arrived a half-hour later. Stenman recounted to him the day’s events.

“Why wasn’t I part of that meeting?” Muller drew his eyes together.

“Because our friends do not respect you, and because you have lost your objectivity.”

“Who does Nuñoz think he is? Scarface acts so polite, then calls us names in Spanish as if we won’t figure out we’re being insulted. He thinks everybody’s afraid of him.”

“Thinks they are afraid? Don’t be asinine, Howard. He is dangerous. So is Sarah Guzman.”

“I’m capable of doing as much damage as those two. Maybe we should sever our relationship with them. We don’t need her money—you’ve got plenty coming out of Eastern Europe.”

She rotated her head and blew smoke towards a window. “No. Sarah Guzman is the most viciously intelligent woman I have ever known. We will continue together unless she breaks the trust first.”

“As for Neil,” Muller said, “I happen to agree with Nuñoz. Whatever his mother knew or took is floating around like a time-bomb. And don’t forget, I’ve touched nearly every damn peso, drachma, and ruble that’s moved into our funds. I’m the one who finds the places to backtrade. The one who talks to our contacts. If Neil’s mother hid anything substantive, it’s my ass that’s fried first. You want my opinion: find another Zerets and have him hunt Neil down. End it, once and for all.”

“You wear your hatred for everyone to see,” Stenman said. “Perhaps you hear the footsteps of a bright young man, ready to take over.”

“Neil is less than nothing. What I don’t like is someone having information that’s going to get me investigated by the SEC for the next fifty years.” Muller stood up and towered over Stenman. “How do we know he hasn’t turned anything over to the government already?”

“Simple: where are the subpoenas? And, according to Freeman Ranson, nothing in or out of the SEC or the Justice Department related to Peter Neil.”

“We should nail Neil anyway. I’d love to be the one—”

“Drop it,” Stenman said.

Howard Muller dropped the line of conversation, but not the fantasy. He had a plan, inspired by Nuñoz and Guzman. He spun his head, grinned, and imagined the look of terror on Neil’s face. His plan was genius in its simplicity, he thought.

And he hoped his plan did become necessary.

Just before Peter had left the co-op, he patted his jogging outfit. No transmitters sewn into the clothing, he had convinced himself. He then examined his running shoes, first picking up the right one and searching for a slit around its soles. Finding nothing suspicious, he bent the shoe, thinking something might become evident. Again, nothing.

He ran his index finger down the top of the shoe tongue, to the back, and a spot hidden by thick laces. He felt something small, hard. He held the opening to the light and discovered a disc—similar to the one in his jacket collar—attached to the tiny spot between the tongue and the shoe-top. He never would have seen or felt its presence once the shoe was on. He did not remove the transmitter. He then repeated the process with the left shoe. Nothing.

Peter poured a cavernous bowl of dry cat-food for Henry. He leaned over, stroked the cat’s back, and whispered, “I know you don’t like dry, old man, but I may be gone for a while.” He then took a large bowl from above the sink and filled it with a half-gallon of water.

Peter bolted his front door on the way out and began a slow jog that built to a run. He churned up a hill that led north, through the central business district, pushing himself at a five-minute mile clip—fast enough to ditch anyone following on foot. He then cut through several dead-end street barriers, blocking any car that might be trailing.

Ending a confusing two-mile route, he stopped and removed the right shoe. He reached in and ripped the bug from its hiding place. He placed the circle on the pavement and stepped hard, crushing the insect-sized device. Putting his shoe back on, he took off again, this time at an even more rapid pace. He veered towards Rancho Santa Fe, a three-mile run up hills and over trails.

A mile later, outside the men’s room at a mini-mall already decorated for Christmas, he stopped at a payphone to call Drew Franklin. Despite being hidden from view, he remained alert to anything or anyone unusual. He watched as wide-eyed kids dragged their tired parents to toy and electronics stores. A small line formed outside a Radio Shack as someone extolled the wonders of some video-game gadget. Capitalism at its finest, he thought. Despite the innocence of the scene, Peter kept all senses on alert. This qualified as prudence, not paranoia, he assured himself.

After Drew answered, Peter tried to explain things, then instructed his friend, “Meet me downtown Rancho Santa Fe. In the back of that nursery off the main road. I’ll need to talk to Ayers, so give me an hour and a half.”

“Why not meet you outside Ayers’ house?” Drew asked.

“I’m not certain I can trust the guy. If he calls whoever is so interested in following me, I don’t know what might happen. This way, I’ll take off, no matter what.”

Before agreeing, Drew asked, “Does this have something to do with your current employment?”

“I hope not, but probably. And if it does have a connection, I may be up shit creek for more reasons than just Mom’s papers.”

“I hate to ask.”

“I’ve done some trades that aren’t exactly legal.”

“You broke securities laws? I can’t believe that, White Bread.” Peter was grateful Drew didn’t sound judgmental.

“Everybody in this end of the business is guilty—you get non-public information, you do a trade based on that information. It’s impossible to turn the fact-faucet off—brokers, corporate management, even politicians spoon-feed non-public tidbits to us all day long. Most times, we don’t even ask for it.”

“If these people call and volunteer information, you mean to tell me it’s illegal to use?” Drew sounded bewildered. “Doesn’t sound criminal to me.”

“That’s what I told myself, and even believed was true—I didn’t realize until later . . .” Peter heard the dinging of a garbage truck backing up. “That’s all bullshit,” he said. “I don’t have a good rationale for what I did. But I know for damn sure I need to be more careful from here on out. I think I’m capable of making good money based on legitimately obtained information.”

“It sounds confusing,” Drew said. “I think I’ll stick to blocked arteries and aneurysms.”

“That’s not all, either. I’ve got an ex-SEC agent after my ass. I’m in the middle of something ugly, and I don’t know how to get out.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Thanks, Drew. I love you, man.”

“Me, Monica, and soon-to-be baby Hannah love you too. And, Bread?”

“Yeah?”

“You got the number of my voice mail at the hospital?”

“Memorized.”

“I’m gonna give you the password. That way we can give each other messages, then retrieve them without someone listening in.”

“Thanks. Mind if I give the number to my buddy Stuart at work? If this gets any hairier, I may need to talk to him on the QT.”

“Do what you have to do, Bread,” Drew said.

Finishing, Peter hung up. He gave a final look around, then began to jog, still considering which route to take.

The wind blew briskly with the air temperature in the low sixties. “Perfect weather for a run,” he told himself.

He decided to take side roads until he got to the Rancho Santa Fe trails. At the trails, he legged his way east, keeping out of sight. His collar lay flat, so he pulled it high and angled his Padre baseball cap, allowing it to shield his neck and face. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the outskirts of Rancho Santa Fe, sucking oxygen into his burning lungs. Shadows from skyscraping trees cast a chill over his dripping sweatshirt. He shivered. Bounding forward at a steady pace, he squinted at a street sign and continued farther east. A couple of minutes later, he arrived at the lonely stretch of road that wound down a steep hill to Jason Ayers’ estate.