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  Griffin looked outside the window. New Jersey, at least that part visible from the train, was more rusted out than he had expected from the Garden State.

  “Time I got into character,” Bobby announced. He picked up a briefcase from underneath his seat. “Hey, I didn’t ask. You going to that party tonight at Saif’s parents’ house? He’s anxious for you to be there.”

  “I know. Seems his mother’s been ramping up for it all week,” Griffin replied. “She’s trying to fix him up with someone, but won’t say who. All she’s told Saif is, ‘She seems nice.’”

  Bobby: “Nice! She’s got a good personality? That’s the kiss of death.”

  Griffin agreed he would go and Bobby promised, “I shall return anon” and went to change.

  Griffin watched Bobby on his way to the men’s room. Several seats in front of Bobby a child suddenly and ear-splittingly burst into tears. For much of the trip, and from half a train car away, Griffin had endured the kid complaining about everything. His beleaguered father finally quieted the squalling by giving the child two coins to rub together. That brought the train car a few moments of relieved quiet.

  That quiet was now shattered as the kid shrieked, “My money! My money!” His two year old voice seemed to bore directly into Griffin’s teeth.

  The quarters the child had dropped rolled down the aisle in Bobby’s direction. Without breaking stride he scooped them up, said, “Super abra-ca-dab-ra!” and seemed to pull them from behind the child’s ears. He handed the quarters to the child. The tears and screaming immediately stopped.

  “If you’re not quiet,” Bobby told him, “next I’ll make you disappear.”

  The child did not say another word.

  *

  Griffin and Bobby emerged from surprisingly well air conditioned Grand Central Station into the heat of the New York day.

  “This is my third trip to New York.” Griffin told Bobby. They were both blinking rapidly in the hard sunlight. “Neither of the first two trips went well.”

  “I was there for one of them,” Bobby said. “Ninth grade school trip to the United Nations. You wound up suspended, didn’t you?”

  “For mere youthful exuberance. I simply corrected the grammar of the delegate who spoke to the class.”

  “Griffin, the delegate was French and you addressed him as Monsieur Grand Moronn? I was taking Spanish and even I knew what you’d called him. What was the other trip?”

  “The other trip?” Griffin said, looking around for a cab. “The second New York trip was last year. It ended with two FBI agents greeting me with handcuffs when I stepped off the train in Penn Station in Baltimore.”

  *

  A cab stopped and Griffin and Bobby climbed in. Griffin told him: “We certainly could walk to Future-Ride, but men of our distinction don’t walk we cab to destinations. You do remember our roles?”

  Bobby put on a pair of battered, rimless glasses held together at one end with blue duct tape. He angled his head slightly and the sun caught the lenses of the glasses, making his eyes disappear. He wore faded blue jeans, work boots, and a tangerine-colored polo shirt, with the collar popped, very much the exemplar of geek chic.

  Bobby said, “I’m playing Walter Briggs, the brilliant, somewhat eccentric and always frugal inventor of a process that miniaturizes fiber optic cable. You’re my lawyer, Charles Wales. We’re looking to invest with Future-Ride the money I made from my patent.”

  “Exactly. Future-Ride buys up struggling companies, strips away their unprofitable divisions, and repackages the company for sale. About half the businesses they’ve bought are American and the rest European. In order to buy these struggling companies Future-Ride needs investors, so they’ll want to see us.”

  “You’re sure this is a real company, Griffin? Not a front?”

  “Future-Ride is legitimate. That much we know.”

  Griffin had been busy the past two days with Grace working out details. The patent existed. The actual inventor had been convicted of tax evasion and Grace had erased any official record of his incarceration. To the world, the man was not in jail but was currently riding in the backseat of a cab in Manhattan.

  “We have how much to invest with Future-Ride?”

  “Bobby, their minimum investment is $750,000, to keep out the riff raff. We’re coming in with twice that much to get their attention. Grace will actually wire the funds to Future-Ride should we agree to invest. That will not happen today. When this search for wherever the key leads us is over, Grace will pull the money back out. But today we don’t want to give in and sign with Future-Ride too easily.”

  “They won’t respect us in the morning?”

  “Bobby, today is just a meet and make nice. When I set up the meeting I told them we only had thirty minutes. We’re in town for a telecommunications conference. Which we have both registered for, in case they check us out. I pitched this to them as a get acquainted kind of thing. Today, we want to learn whatever we can about Future-Ride’s connection to the man in white and the key he stole from me. Right now, Grace hasn’t a clue about any of that and neither have I.

  “The key didn’t bring the man in white whatever it is he wanted. When that happened, first thing he did was call Future-Ride. From Italy he calls a Manhattan investment company? The very first call he makes when he’s good and mad? Why did he call Future-Ride? The call was certainly not for everyday investment advice. There’s got to be a connection between him and the company, but what is it?”

  Bobby asked: “You think the connection is whatever the man in white was expecting in that room in the dungeon?”

  “Got to be. But who at Future-Ride did he call? The call went to an alcove phone that isn’t listed to anyone in the company. The phone is located between the office of two women, Alexandra Webb and Deborah Miller. Future-Ride is a small shop. Their analysts are part time and probably wouldn’t be there late on a Saturday afternoon. The likelihood is that the call was for one of those two ladies, but which one?”

  “The company is legit, but one of the ladies running it isn’t?”

  “Looks that way, Bobby. During today’s meeting we need to keep a close eye on both of these women we’re chatting up. Maybe one’ll give herself away. Kit will be helping us out on his end by calling the alcove number. The trip’s nothing like a sure thing, but it’s worth taking.

  “It’s not like we’re overwhelmed with other clues.”

  “No, Bobby, we most certainly are not. This is the only path to pursue to the man in white right now. What we’d most like to get out of this meeting is some idea which of the two ladies got the man in white’s call.”

  Bobby had little interest in any of that.

  “We don’t get to even touch the million-five?” he asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t Grace trust us with that much money?”

  “Would you? Bobby, can you make this work?’

  “Griffin, I can make this sing.”

  The cab pulled over to the curb. The building they were about to enter was nearly all smoked glass. The glass reflected the sky and clouds, leaving the glass an unfriendly dark. Griffin reached into his pocket for the fare.

  With an extended arm Bobby motioned for him to wait. He looked out the cab window. Griffin knew Bobby didn’t see any of the world outside. His breathing became quick and shallow. He was, Griffin knew, preparing for his performance. He gestured for Griffin to pay the driver.

  Griffin gave the cab driver a twenty. “Keep the change,” he told the driver.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Bobby said, now in character. To the driver he ordered, “We’d like three dollars back. You can keep the $1.80.”

  *

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen, do come in, please.”

  Griffin heard the voice, a smoothly flowing, deep Georgia drawl, before seeing the speaker. He and Bobby ventured into the Future-Ride conference room as the speaker rose to greet them.

  “I’m Alexandra Webb, president
of Future-Ride acquisitions,” she said, in her easy, pleasing Georgia accent. Sweet faces don’t always go with sweet voices, Griffin knew, but this one did.

  He guessed her age to be mid-fifties. She wore a powder blue dress and blouse. Her hair was swept back from her ears, revealing a pair of lovely, old fashioned earrings. She exuded graciousness.

  “I’m Charles Wales,” he said to her. “And this is Dr. Briggs, our inventor looking to invest.”

  Bobby crossed his arms, signaling Alexandra Webb he did not care to shake hands. She nodded, her graciousness undimmed.

  Still holding onto Griffin’s hand, she turned to the woman rising from her chair and said, “Gentlemen, this is my assistant-”

  “Deborah Miller,” Griffin said, to show he’d prepared for this meeting, a lawyer ably representing his client.

  “Actually,” the woman corrected, “my name is pronounced De-BOR-ah. Stress the second syllable. The incorrect pronunciation is a common mistake.”

  By emphasizing the word common, she left little doubt how she felt about Griffin’s mistake. De-BOR-ah had an intense, unblinking stare behind her black-rimmed cat’s eye glasses. Griffin would keep his eye on her but keeping an eye on De-BOR-ah would not be pleasant.

  “How did you gentlemen hear about us?” Alexandra asked, gesturing for Griffin and Bobby to sit.

  Griffin answered, smiling, the woman’s voice was so pleasing: “We saw your rate of return for your investors last year was well above the national average for investment firms of this type.”

  “One point eight times the national average,” De-BOR-ah said. Griffin could tell Bobby was also closely watching De-BOR-ah. With the light in the conference room slanting off his glasses, the women could not have known that he was.

  “Since we were in New York for a conference anyway,” Griffin went on, “we’re taking the time to stop by.”

  “And we are certainly glad you did,” Alexandra said. “Would either of you care for some tea? Coffee?” she offered.

  “Tea?” Bobby responded in a near-shriek, playing the eccentric card with gusto. “Tannic acid will kill you.”

  “I’ll take some coffee,” Griffin said.

  Alexandra went over to a silver coffee pot and poured two cups. When her back was turned, Griffin glanced at his watch. At 3:15, Kit would call the number the man in white had called Saturday, the alcove phone. With any luck one of the women would get up to answer that phone. Or at least she’d give some indication the ringing phone was of particular interest to her.

  For the first time De-BOR-ah asked a question. “Why do you want to invest in the tech sector, Dr. Briggs?” De-BOR-ah had an absolute gift for firing off questions in an antagonizing, smashmouth tone. “Your lawyer said that was your preference. We’re pushing companies making electric car batteries.”

  “Cars are so twentieth century,” Bobby replied, matching De-BOR-ah’s stride for disdainful stride. He bent down to re-tie a broken shoelace, the kind of attention to detail that made Bobby’s performances so believable.

  While Bobby retied his shoe, Griffin noticed the conference room rug was a shiny bright gold color. It was, he couldn’t help but remember, the same gold as the hatband in the man in white’s Panama.

  “We‘re talking an expected rate of return in excess of twelve percent,” De-BOR-ah went on in her dislikeable, foot-in-the-door style. “The tech sector cannot come close to matching that in this economy.”

  She sat dagger-straight in her chair, almost daring contradiction.

  “Alexandra,” Griffin said, “what are your thoughts about the best place for Dr. Briggs to invest his money?”

  Alexandra Webb spoke for a few minutes. Griffin caught little of what she said. Her words seemed to be coated in honey and soft Southern nights. Maintaining eye contact with Alexandra was a pleasure.

  In mid-sentence the phone rang down the hall; Kit calling at 3:15. Neither woman moved.

  “Do you need to get that?” Griffin asked, careful to look at both women. Neither betrayed any reaction.

  “The alcove phone? All the phones have their own answering machines,” said Alexandra. Had she spoken just a bit too casually? Griffin couldn’t tell one way or the other. At 3:23 – Griffin was asking about debt-to-equity ratios, a subject he’d had to bone up on – the phone down the hall rang again.

  At the time Alexandra was reaching for a corporate prospectus and did not notice Griffin glance at his watch. He was certain De-BOR-ah had seen him look at his watch, but she said nothing. Her stare at Griffin could have corroded metal. Kit was calling on schedule. The phone rang five times and went silent. Again, neither woman reacted.

  A few minutes later the meeting ended.

  “This has all been very impressive,” Griffin said, in a we’ve-got-to-be-going voice. “I’ll be in touch. Dr. Briggs is not one to invest hastily.”

  Bobby adjusted the duct tape on his glasses, as if proving the point. He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. To the women, the shake was just another eccentricity of Dr. Briggs. Griffin, though, knew its meaning: I can’t tell which of the women took that phone call from the man in white. Griffin couldn’t tell either.

  Griffin exchanged business cards with the two women.

  “Promise me you’ll call,” Alexandra Webb insisted. Her voice was delightful, especially compared to De-BOR-ah, whose speaking style made a jackhammer seem shy by comparison. “Whenever you make the decision about investing. Even if you decide to invest elsewhere.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Griffin promised.

  The women handed him the most recent Future-Rid annual report, a glossy brochure on the company, and documents listing companies Future-Ride had repackaged and profitably sold in recent years.

  He and Bobby left New York knowing no more about the man in white than they had when boarding the train in Baltimore.

  TEN

  June 11

  8:58 pm

  Annie and Kit were waiting on the sidewalk to the Venkatesan’s house on Purlington Way in Homeland when Griffin and Bobby arrived from their unproductive trip to New York.

  Annie wore black earrings that hung down like half moons. Kit wore another Hawaiian shirt, this one with an oversized mug of beer with foam frothing down the side of the mug.

  “Anything to report?” Griffin asked Kit.

  While Griffin and Bobby were journeying to New York, Kit and Annie had returned to Oakecrest Village to question the security guard about the theft of Andrea Platt’s ancient car.

  “We may have learned some—“

  Before Annie could finish, Saif stepped onto the front porch. When he spotted Griffin, the relief on Saif’s face was luminous.

  “Where you been, Griffin?” he said, loudly enough that for Saif it qualified as a shout. He was decked out in a blue blazer and charcoal grey pants, an outfit Griffin was sure Saif’s mother had chosen for him. “I wasn’t sure you would make it.”

  Griffin explained, “We were stuck on the train without moving for half an hour outside Newark. You know, if we had political prisoners in this country, that’d be the sort of punishment they’d have to endure.”

  He could tell Saif hadn’t heard a word.

  Saif said, “You have to meet ...” He trailed off, hesitated, then added in a barely audible voice, “meet my date.”

  They stepped into the house. Saif threw a jerky nod in the general direction of the fireplace. Saif’s date was not hard to spot.

  By the fireplace stood a woman in grey wool skirt and white blouse. She was short and chubby. By the way she hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes downward Griffin could tell she was not only shy but painfully so. She leaned a chunky arm on the fireplace mantle in an effort to look relaxed, but her attempt was so blatantly staged she appeared all the more nervous. On the mantle was a gleamingly polished bronze statue of Lakshmi. Lakshmi, Griffin knew from his reading on mythology, was the goddess of prosperity. The statue was about three feet high. The goddess’ breasts were en
ormous, her nipples obvious.

  “Who’s that woman with your date?” Griffin asked Saif. “A bit older, I think.”

  “That’s Bobby’s date.”

  “Mine?” Bobby said, over Griffin’s shoulder. “Who said I wanted a date?”

  “Who said I wanted a date?”

  “That, Saif,” Griffin responded, “is a whole ‘nother story.”

  This exchange took place out of the corner of their mouths, as the five of them lingered in the foyer before joining the party. The party was about to come to them.

  Dr. and Mrs. Venkatesan approached. Seeing them together, it was hard to believe they’d met on the day of their arranged marriage in Calcutta. She walked a deferential three strides behind her husband, a slight man with a few wispy hairs on the crown of his otherwise bald head. He was an anesthesiologist at GBMC with an open, honest face patients took to immediately.

  Mrs. Venkatesan was a tiny, very dark skinned woman, a homemaker and aspiring grandmother. When she smiled, which was frequently, her teeth flashed a brilliant white. She wore a lime green sari and thick, clunky glasses. Her only extravagance was a pair of open toed shoes, passionate red, poking out from under the hem of her sari.

  Spotting Griffin she hurried over to give him a hug. While doing so she whispered, “You must help Saif tonight,” nodding toward the fireplace as her son had done.

  *

  “I’m Griffin Gilmore,” he introduced himself, looking at both women by the fireplace. Saif’s chubby date met Griffin’s glance only briefly before bestowing the meekest of nods and lowering her eyes once more. The older woman looked at Griffin very directly. Then she looked at Bobby and held her glance even longer. She extended a slender arm – which jangled softly from her many silver wrist bracelets – in Bobby’s direction.