I showed Spear the ATM receipt-the one that read “nonsufficient funds”-and said, “I was at an ATM on Third Avenue trying to get money to pay my hotel bill.”

He checked the receipt, stroking his chin. “So, if we went to the bank and reviewed the tape from the security camera, we’d see that it was indeed you who conducted this transaction?”

“You sure would,” I said smugly.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Why is that interesting?”

Kevin was about to explode. “That’s enough,” he said. “You’ve got your answer, Agent Spear.”

“I just want to know why that’s interesting,” I said.

Spear narrowed his eyes. “About a year ago I investigated a racketeering case. Mob guy took great pains to make sure he was on camera at an ATM in Manhattan at the exact moment the trigger was pulled in Jersey. He wanted to be able to prove up an alibi.” He paused for effect. “We nailed him on murder for hire.”

My expression fell.

“May I keep this?” he asked.

“No,” I said, taking the receipt back. I gave it to Kevin. “I think my lawyer will want that.”

“Fine,” said Spear. “We’ll see you around, gentlemen.”

I watched as the two agents walked away. Then Kevin looked at me, glowering.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

There was that tone again. “I have an alibi,” I said.

“Not anymore you don’t. Now he knows the correct charge against you is not murder. It’s a murder-for-hire case. That’s why you never talk to law enforcement.”

My stomach was suddenly in knots. Maybe Kevin was right: This was more than anyone could handle. Too much had happened in too short a time, and if I didn’t get some food and sleep, I was well on my way to becoming my own worst enemy.

“Let’s go eat,” I said.

“No,” he said. “You go.”

“Don’t be like that.”

He took a breath, then paused to measure his words. He spoke in an even tone, but I could hear the anger behind it.

“I’m really trying, Michael. But you’re making this way too hard. So please, get something to eat, and get a good night’s sleep. Because if you’re still talking crazy in the morning, you’re going to need a new lawyer.”

He walked away. I started after him, then stopped.

Better to let him go, but as he rounded the corner, it suddenly occurred to me:

I had no idea where I was going to sleep.

34

FROM THE DETENTION CENTER I WENT TO MY CAR, THEN DROVE TO Long Island, when a thought popped into my mind. I didn’t call first; I knew Olivia would tell me not to come. By the time I pulled into her driveway my thoughts had gelled, and I was so pumped with adrenaline that I nearly flew up the sidewalk to ring the doorbell. It was getting dark, and in the shadows I must have looked like some lunatic on a home invasion. But that wasn’t the reason Olivia left the screen door closed between us.

“I thought I made myself clear earlier,” she said.

“You definitely put on a nice show,” I said.

“A show?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying.”

She leaned closer to the screen and glanced at my feet. “Are you sure you’re allowed all the way out here with an ankle bracelet?”

“Very funny. I’m not wearing one. But I am curious to know who told you I was arrested. Was it…Ivy?”

Had I been wrong, the question would have been cruel, and I wasn’t sure where the courage-or audacity-to take that risk had come from. My need to know was overwhelming, but the gradual realization that Ivy could still be alive had moved from the analytical to the emotional, and I had reached the breaking point.

Olivia took a half step back, as if offended, but she must have seen something in my eyes or demeanor that cut through Act II of her performance. I didn’t know exactly what was in her head, but I sensed an opening.

“You pushed too hard, Olivia.”

Her silence said it all.

“It was so out of the blue,” I said, my voice shaking, “the way you suddenly turned against me and accused me of murdering Ivy. It was as if you were trying too hard to convince me, the FBI, and the rest of the world that Ivy really was dead. My gut told me that you were hiding something-or protecting someone. And now that I’ve pieced things together, I know that the ‘someone’ is Ivy.”

More silence. I kept talking.

“When I saw you in the back of the courtroom today, I thought you were helping Mallory. I don’t think that anymore.”

“It’s a public proceeding,” she said. “Anyone’s allowed to watch.”

“That’s true. And after those e-mails were made public, it must have been pretty frightening for you to realize that anyone could know about my four o’clock meeting with JBU.”

“Why would that frighten me?”

I gave her an assessing look. “Your performance is getting much weaker.”

She averted her eyes, so I kept talking-faster and faster-giving her no chance to deny any of it. “You knew that Ivy wasn’t keeping a minute-by-minute tab on my divorce. She had no way of knowing that those e-mails had come out in open court. And it was entirely possible that the people who had forced Ivy to disappear four years ago did have those e-mails and knew all about the four o’clock meeting. That was a risk you couldn’t take. You went to the Rink Bar. When Ivy got up and ran, and when that man ran after her, you did the only thing you could think of to protect your daughter: You created chaos by screaming ‘That man has a bomb!’”

Finally she answered: “Actually, it was ‘That man in the trench coat has a bomb.’”

Her words chilled me. “Where is she, Olivia?”

She shook her head. “There are things you are better off not knowing.”

I stepped closer to the screen door. “Olivia, please. Where is she?”

“She’s dead, Michael. That’s all you need to know. Ivy is dead.”

I suddenly couldn’t speak.

Her expression turned deadly serious. “Don’t come back here again, or I will call the police.”

The door closed, and I heard the chain lock rattle. Olivia switched off the porch light from inside the house, leaving me alone in the dark.

35

TONY GIRELLI WENT FOR A RIDE. HE WAS SEATED IN THE PASSENGER seat of a new Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, and Jason Wald was driving 80 mph-cruising speed for 520 horsepower-across the Triborough Bridge. It seemed that every time Girelli saw Wald, the kid had a new set of extremely fast wheels. Business was obviously good at Ploutus Investments, and it never hurt to be Kyle McVee’s favorite nephew-even if you were a sorry replacement for his dead son.

“Where we going?” asked Girelli. He had to shout over the rumble of the engine.

“Queens,” said Wald.

No shit, thought Girelli, but he didn’t press for specifics. Self-esteem for punks like Wald came from holding all details close to the vest-even the details they were too stupid to recognize as meaningless. Girelli figured they were headed to a debriefing about what had gone down at the Rink Bar. If information was power, Girelli held it for now. Only he knew that the chaos had all started when he’d used the name “Vanessa.”

“Nice car,” said Girelli.

“You want to drive it?”

“Sure.”

“Blow me.”

It was a familiar banter from better days between the two men, back when they used to hang out in Miami Beach and party with the skinny models on Ocean Drive who would give it up to any guy with money after two Red Bulls and vodka. That was during the subprime heyday, when Girelli was pulling down $125,000 per month and Wald was raking in ten times that much on thousands of mortgages he purchased from guys like Girelli and sold to Kent Frost and others on Wall Street. When the infamous e-mail from Saxton Silvers-As per Michael Cantella-had ended all that, Wald and Girelli vowed to nail that son of a bitch.