“So this is especially sweet for you.”

“You have no idea.”

Graves seemed satisfied. He rose from the couch, and the men shook hands. Together, they walked down the hall and boarded the elevator. On the ride down, Graves reiterated that the sheikh would be “more than happy” to be the financial muscle behind the next go-round. McVee made no promises. He certainly didn’t bother to disclose that he didn’t really need outside money, that the sheikh was along for the ride only because the mob wanted an oil-rich Kuwaiti to blame on the off chance that Congress would finally drop its obsession with steroids in baseball and maybe even hold a hearing or two on what the hell was going on with Wall Street.

McVee walked them out to the street, where Graves climbed into a limo.

“We’ll be in touch,” said Graves.

McVee watched from the sidewalk as the limo pulled away. His explanation for targeting Saxton Silvers had placated the sheikh’s solicitor, but destroying Michael Cantella was about so much more than money. The obsession had begun last fall, when he received a phone call from Florence.

“She’s alive,” Ian Burn had told him. “She’s changed her look, but we locked eyes just before she ran, and I would bet my life it was her.”

If true, the tip meant Tony Girelli was a liar-he hadn’t turned Ivy Layton into fish food. McVee was skeptical at first, but Burn was adamant that his eyes had not failed him. The way to lure Ivy out of hiding, he said, was to put the people she loved in danger-the very people she had protected by disappearing in the first place. McVee began cautiously, but last November’s sit-down between Burn and Cantella at Sal’s Place had been far too subtle, drawing no reaction from Ivy. Burn pushed for more convincing measures, and it was the anniversary of Marcus’ suicide that had put McVee over the edge. The thought of Ivy living a new life while his thirty-year-old son rotted in the ground was too much. It was then that McVee decided to turn the attack on Saxton Silvers into an all-out assault against Michael Cantella-destroying his marriage, wiping out his personal fortune, making him a traitor to his own firm. Then Ivy blinked. She warned her precious Michael and, in so doing, revealed herself. Tony Girelli-liar that he was-became the first wave of collateral damage. There would be more. But eventually McVee would get Ivy. And make himself richer in the process.

Another limo with dark-tinted windows stopped at the curb. The driver got out and came around to open the rear passenger’s-side door. McVee climbed in, and the door closed.

“Hello, Ian,” he said.

Ian Burn was seated on the bench seat with his back to the soundproof partition. McVee sat opposite him, facing forward, and the limo pulled into traffic.

“My nephew told me about last night,” McVee said.

“Went well,” said Burn.

He was wearing a hooded jacket and dark sunglasses that reminded McVee of the old FBI sketches of the Unabomber.

McVee said, “I’m concerned about the number of bodies.”

“I agree: The Bahamian was a long shot. He didn’t know anything about Ivy. That was a needless one.”

“I don’t care about him. It’s this flurry in my own backyard that worries me. It’s a dangerous cycle. Girelli put a bullet in Bell’s head because Chuck didn’t have the balls to buck a subpoena and refuse to name Mallory’s boyfriend as his source. The boyfriend had to go because sooner or later he would name my nephew. Girelli had to go-well, just because Girelli had to go.”

“Is there someone in that group you wish was still alive?”

“I just want to make sure we’re efficient. You kill these fringe players, yet you let Michael Cantella go.”

Burn removed his sunglasses. The lighting was dim, most of the sun’s rays blocked by the tinted windows. But with the glasses off, the scars on the right side of Burn’s face were evident.

“This is my life’s work,” he said.

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. Have you ever wondered how I got these scars?”

Of course he had. “Not really,” said McVee.

“It has to do with money.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“This was a very special kind of money,” Burn said, his Indian accent suddenly more noticeable. “Dowry. It still exists in some parts of my country. If a bride’s family doesn’t deliver as promised, that can be very dangerous for a new wife. The husband might even take her into the kitchen or garage, douse her with kerosene, and burn her alive. Happens about every ninety minutes in India. It happened to my sister.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“So was her husband after I caught up with him. That was my first experience with homemade napalm. I got the job done,” he said as he pulled back the hood, exposing his melted ear. “But it didn’t go perfectly.”

McVee sat in silence.

Burn tightened his stare. “Everything since then has gone perfectly. Everything.”

“I’m sure.”

Burn pulled up the hood and put on his sunglasses. “Michael Cantella’s freedom is only temporary. He’s holed up with Ivy’s mother in a motel over in Jersey. Your nephew is watching him as we speak. The minute Cantella makes a move, I’m on him. There is no doubt in my mind that he will lead me to Ivy Layton. Then they’ll both be toast. Literally.”

“You should have just put a gun to Cantella’s head and threatened to blow his brains out if Ivy didn’t show up in thirty minutes.”

“Wouldn’t have worked. Even if we could get a message to her, it’s not like a normal kidnapping. We can’t say, ‘We have your husband, give us a million bucks.’ Ivy knows that what we’re saying is, ‘We have Cantella, now come here and get him so we can burn you both alive.’ She’s not going to walk into that. We need Cantella to lead us to her.”

“There’s logic to that,” said McVee.

“Of course there is. Trust me. This is going to go perfectly.”

The limo stopped. McVee pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. It was filled with cash.

“Money to Burn,” he said, handing over the envelope. “If you don’t wrap this up soon, I may have to create a special expense category on my balance sheet.”

Without a word, Burn opened the door, climbed out, and left McVee alone in the back of the limo.

50

I DIALED PAPA’S CELL FROM THE MOTEL LANDLINE. I GOT HIS VOICE-MAIL greeting:

“I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but I’m either away from my phone or still trying to figure out how to use this damn thing. Please leave a message.”

I waited for the beep. “Papa, I called the airline, and they tell me your plane landed in L.A. an hour ago. The hotel says you haven’t checked in yet. I want to make sure you’re okay. I’ll keep trying, but if you see an incoming call from my old number, don’t answer. Someone stole my cell.” I paused, realizing that my message was sounding a little scary. “Anyway, I’m hard to reach, so just call Kevin and let him know you’re okay. Bye, love you.”

I hung up and looked at Olivia.

“Still can’t reach your grandfather?’ she said.

“No. And the airline won’t even tell me if they were on the flight. It’s some sort of security policy.”

“He probably forgot to turn his cell back on after landing.”

That was more than likely. But with all that had happened, there were less benign possibilities. “I feel like I’m in an information dead zone in this motel. I need to get out of here.”

“We can’t go anywhere. We’re being watched.”

“How do you know?

“McVee’s men let you go last night only because they’re betting that you’ll lead them to Ivy.” She walked to the window and crooked her finger to part the draperies an inch. As best I could tell, we had a view of a graffiti-splattered concrete wall with Tonnelle Avenue beyond.

“They must be out there watching,” she said.

“So you don’t know,” I said. “You’re assuming.”