“Which only reinforces Michael’s conclusion,” said Andie. “Mallory could be in danger, too.”

“Sounds like you are taking everything Mr. Cantella said at face value.”

“I was standing right beside him when he called nine-one-one. I was sitting at his wife’s side when he literally pleaded with her afterward. In my judgment, yes, he was sincere.”

“You were also in the apartment when a search warrant turned up an envelope with Tony Girelli’s phone number written on it. Local homicide detectives are beyond confident that the five grand inside was Girelli’s fee for shooting Chuck Bell.”

“To me, it smells suspiciously like a plant, especially if it’s true that Girelli is now dead.”

Spear shook his head. “Your undercover role has brought you too close to the Cantellas.”

“My judgment has not been compromised.”

“Really?” said Spear. “Just yesterday you called Cantella to tell him that the FBI was turning up the heat on his first wife. What was that about?”

“I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already heard from his grandfather. That was a no-lose way for me to earn his trust, which I need to do if I’m going to play my role effectively.”

Spear seemed somewhat persuaded on that point, but he held his ground. “Look, we’re in agreement that Nathaniel Locke is the victim of foul play. But we have a fundamental disagreement as to the perp’s identity.”

“I don’t know who killed him.”

“Consider this possibility: Michael Cantella.”

“Why?”

“Two motives. One, the man was sleeping with his wife. Two, Nathaniel Locke was the anonymous source for Chuck Bell at FNN who brought down Saxton Silvers.”

The second point was news to Andie, and it took her aback. It was Andie who had picked up the telephone after Bell’s “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t Michael Cantella” remark, dialed Malcolm Spear, and pushed to subpoena Bell-First Amendment issues be damned. But Bell’s death had derailed that plan.

“I thought the name of Bell’s source died right along with Chuck Bell,” she said.

“Turns out that Chuck Bell kept a file on his source,” said Spear. “FNN shared it with us after his death, thinking it might help find his killer. In it we found e-mails and photographs that Locke had given to him, which made it abundantly clear that Mallory was sleeping with him.”

“I don’t follow the logic. Bell’s story had nothing to do with infidelity.”

“Apparently Bell had enough integrity not to broadcast rumors about Saxton Silvers unless he had a credible source. Locke’s credibility was tied to his status as Mallory’s lover. Michael trusted his wife enough to confide in her, and Mallory shared those confidences with Locke, who in turn shared those golden nuggets with Bell.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Bell may have paid him. We haven’t confirmed that yet.”

Andie considered it, but before she could speak, Spear closed the loop on the FBI’s analysis.

“It’s a fairly simple equation,” said Spear. “Sleeping with Michael Cantella’s wife gave Locke all the information he needed to be Bell’s source on Saxton Silvers. Bell was murdered after sending his lawyer an e-mail that said he was on his way to meet an even ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. Now Locke-the original source-is also dead. Girelli, the trigger-man, is dead, too. The only logical step for the FBI at this point is to work with local law enforcement to bring Michael Cantella into custody immediately.”

“Your whole theory crumbles unless Michael made up the story about being abducted and taken to a garage in New Jersey where he saw Girelli’s body and witnessed a man being tortured.”

“Michael Cantella is a Wall Street liar,” said Spear. “That’s the worst kind.”

Andie shook her head. “I believe he was being truthful about what he saw. The same goes for his first wife’s being alive.”

“Whom he was suspected of killing,” said Spear.

“He passed a polygraph.”

“Many sociopaths do. Many of them also claim that their wives are still alive, even though they’ve been missing for years.”

“It’s not just Michael who’s saying it. I’ve gotten to know Mallory well. She believes it, too.”

“Like I said: You’ve let yourself get too close to the Cantellas.”

“With all due respect, sir, I think something is going on that the FBI doesn’t fully understand. And I’m requesting permission to continue my undercover role until I get to the bottom of this.”

“Permission granted, on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“As far as the FBI is concerned, it’s full speed ahead in bringing Michael Cantella into custody. You are to take no action that is at odds with that objective.”

Andie hated those broad edicts. She’d worked for too many bosses whose idea of supervision was to tell his subordinates to “do everything that needs to be done.”

“You have my word,” said Andie.

48

I FELL ASLEEP IN THE CAR AND WOKE IN A BED. THE SIGHT OF A woman seated at the foot of the mattress scared me into the jackknife position.

“Who are you?”

“It’s okay,” she said as she turned to look at me.

I quickly realized it was Olivia-and that last night had not merely been a bad dream.

“Where am I?”

“North Bergen.”

“New Jersey?”

“On Tonnelle Avenue, to be exact.”

The street noise was so loud that I wondered if we weren’t literally on Tonnelle Avenue. I sat up in bed, still wearing last night’s jeans and sweater. Only my shoes had been removed. A sliver of morning sunlight was streaming in through an opening between drapery panels, and I noticed Olivia’s car parked right outside our motel room. One of the local morning shows was playing on the television atop the bureau, but the volume was too low to hear it.

“What time is it?”

“Not yet seven. When we got here last night, you woke up just enough for me to help you in from the car, but you were out like a drunk the minute your head hit the pillow.”

I’d needed the rest, to be sure, but the lingering effect of whatever Burn and his men had injected into my body undoubtedly had more to do with it.

“You want coffee?”

“Black, thanks.”

She poured some from an in-room machine. There was so much I wanted to ask her, but I figured I’d go right for the home run.

“Why does Kyle McVee want Ivy dead?”

I expected a show of surprise, maybe even shock-at least a reaction of some sort. Olivia simply handed me the plastic coffee cup and sat on the other bed, facing me.

“How did you know it was McVee?”

“He was the last person Ivy worked for before she disappeared.”

“You were the last person Ivy married before she disappeared.”

Clearly she was playing devil’s advocate.

“McVee has the kind of capital it would take to short-sell Saxton Silvers into the ground and make it look like I did it.”

“So do dozens of other hedge-fund gurus.”

“McVee is into credit-default swaps in a big way. That’s the point my brother’s friend at the DTC was making tonight: Credit-default swaps are where the huge money is going to be made when Saxton Silvers files for bankruptcy today.”

“Credit-default what?” she asked.

In another six months, even Papa would have a working knowledge of the esoteric derivative products that investment geniuses like Warren Buffett had labeled “financial weapons of mass destruction.” But at this point, not even Wall Street fully understood the dangers.

“Credit default swaps,” I said. “They’re not technically insurance, so there’s no government regulation to speak of. But in essence they are a form of insurance that investors cash in if Saxton Silvers can’t pay its debts.”

“So if you borrow money from me, I would buy a credit default swap that would pay me off in case you defaulted?”

“Correct, assuming you and I are major financial players. And what’s really interesting is that if you loan me money, Tommy Ho in Hong Kong or Crocodile Dundee in Australia or Hansel and Gretel in Germany can also buy a credit default swap that pays them off in case I default on your loan.”