The D.A. left the room without another word.
HER TWO O'CLOCK APPOINTMENT was with a senior vice president of DeutscheBank, London branch. He was a German with perfect English, an impeccably tailored navy double-breasted suit, rigid manners, and a fixed smile. He gazed for one split second at her legs, then got down to business. The wire from his bank, Zurich branch, would be for one hundred and thirteen million dollars, sent immediately to the AmericaBank, Washington branch. She had the account numbers and routing instructions. Tea and biscuits were brought in as he excused himself to have a private chat with Zurich.
"No problem, Ms. Pires," he said, smiling warmly now as he returned and took a biscuit for himself. She certainly hadn't expected any problems.
His computer hissed with quiet efficiency, and a printout emerged. He handed it to her. After the wire, the balance in DeutscheBank would be one point nine million dollars and change. She folded it and put it in her purse, a sleek new Chanel.
Another Swiss account had a balance of three million. A Canadian bank on Grand Cayman held six point five million. A money manager in Bermuda was investing over four million for them, and seven point two million was currently parked in Luxembourg, but was about to be moved.
When her business was complete, she left the bank and found her car and driver parked nearby. She would call Sandy, and pass along her next movements.
BENNY'S STINT as a federal fugitive was brief. His girlfriend spent the night in Frankfurt, then flew to London, landing at Heathrow around noon. Since they knew she was coming, the customs officer double-checked her passport and made her wait. She wore dark sunglasses and her hands shook. It was all captured on video.
At the cab stand, she was unknowingly detained by a policeman who appeared to be in charge of whistling for taxis. He asked her to stand over there, next to those other two ladies, while he worked the traffic. Her driver was a true cabbie, but only seconds earlier had been briefed and given a small radio.
"Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly," she said. He eased away from the terminal in heavy traffic, and nonchalantly gave the destination on the radio.
He took his time. An hour and a half later, he deposited her at the door of the hotel. She waited again at the registration desk. The assistant manager apologized for the delay, but the computer was down.
Then word came that the phone in her room was adequately tapped, they gave her a key and a bellman took her away. She tipped him lightly, locked and chained her door, and went straight for the phone.
The first words they heard her say were, "Benny, it's me. I'm here."
"Thank God," said Benny. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just scared."
"Did anyone follow you?"
"No. I don't think so. I was very careful."
"Great. Look, there's a little coffee bar on Brick Street near Down, two blocks from your hotel. Meet me there in an hour."
"Okay. I'm scared, Benny."
"Everything's fine, dear. I can't wait to see you."
Benny wasn't at the coffee bar when she arrived. She waited for an hour before panicking and running back to her hotel. He didn't call, and she didn't sleep.
The next morning, she gathered up the morning papers in the lobby and read them over coffee in the dining room. Deep in the Daily Mail she finally found a two-paragraph blip about the capture of an American fugitive, one Benjamin Aricia.
She packed her bags and booked a flight to Sweden.
Chapter 41
WITH JUDGE KARL HUSKEY whispering into the ear of his colleague Judge Henry Trussel, it was established that the Lanigan matter should take precedence until it was put to rest. Rumors of a deal were floating throughout the legal community in Biloxi, rumors chased and being chased by even more gossip about the poor Bogan firm. In fact, nothing else was being discussed in the courthouse.
Trussel began the day by calling in T.L. Parrish and Sandy McDermott for a quick update, which eventually lasted for hours. Patrick was brought into the discussion on three occasions by use of Dr. Hayani's cell phone. The two, patient and doctor, were playing chess in the hospital cafeteria.
"I don't think he's cut out for jail," Trussel mumbled after the second call to Patrick. He was visibly and verbally reluctant to let Patrick off the hook with such ease, but a conviction was a longshot. With a docket filled with drug dealers and child molesters, he wasn't about to waste time with a high-profile corpse mutilator. All the evidence was circumstantial, and given Patrick's current reputation for meticulous planning, Trussel doubted a conviction.
The terms of the plea agreement were hammered out. The paperwork began with a joint motion to reduce the charges against Patrick. Then an agreed order to substitute new charges was prepared, followed by an agreed order accepting the guilty plea. In the course of the first meeting, Trussel spoke by phone to Sheriff Sweeney, Maurice Mast, Joshua Cutter, and Hamilton Jaynes in Washington. He also chatted twice with Karl Huskey, who was next door, just in case.
The two judges, along with Parrish, were subject to voter recall every four years in the general election. Trussel had never had an opponent and considered himself politically immune. Huskey was quitting. Parrish was sensitive, though being a good politician he presented the traditional facade of making the tough decisions without regard for public reaction. The three had been involved in politics for a long time, and each had learned a basic lesson: when contemplating an action which might be unpopular, do it quickly. Get it over with. Hesitation allows the issue to fester. The press grabs it, creates a controversy before the action, and certainly throws gasoline on the fire afterward.
The Clovis issue was simple, once Patrick explained it to everybody. He would submit the name of the victim, along with authorization from the family to dig up the grave, open the casket, look inside. If it was in fact empty, then the plea agreement would be complete. Since there would always be doubt until they opened the grave, if by some chance the casket was occupied, then the plea agreement would be ripped up and Patrick would still face capital murder charges. Patrick was supremely confident when he talked of the victim, and everyone believed without a doubt that the grave would be empty.
Sandy drove to the hospital, where he found his client in bed, surrounded by nurses as Dr. Hayani cleaned and dressed his burns. It was urgent, Sandy said, and Patrick apologized and asked them to leave. Alone, they walked through each motion and order, read every word aloud, then Patrick signed his approval.
Sandy noticed a cardboard box on the floor next to Patrick's temporary desk. In it were some of the books he'd loaned his client. The client was already packing.
For Sandy, lunch was a quick sandwich at the hotel suite, eaten while standing and watching over the shoulder as a secretary retyped a document. Both paralegals and a second secretary were back in the office in New Orleans.
The phone rang, and Sandy grabbed it. The caller identified himself as Jack Stephano, from D.C.; maybe Sandy had heard of him. Yes, in fact, he had. Stephano was in the lobby downstairs and would like to talk for a few minutes. Certainly. Trussel had asked the lawyers to return around two.
They sat in the small den and looked at each other across a cluttered coffee table. "I'm here out of curiosity," Stephano said, and Sandy didn't believe him.
"Shouldn't you start with an apology?" Sandy said.
"Yes, you're right. My men got a little carried away down there, and, well, they shouldn't have been so rough with your boy."
"Is that your idea of an apology?"