52

IVY TOOK THE EXPRESS ELEVATOR FROM THE SAXTON SILVERS executive suite to the garage and left the building through the rear entrance. She walked toward Columbus Circle, weighing her options. Somewhere above the plywood tunnel that said POST NO BILLS, a demolition crew outshouted their jackhammers in a heated Mets vs. Yankees argument. A delivery truck blocked the cross street as fishmongers tossed tonight’s sushi over their shoulders and hauled it down into a restaurant cellar. On the sidewalk alongside the newsstand, hip-hop dancers whirled on their heads like spinning tops, all for a few bucks that passersby tossed into a hat. A bus pulled up, hydraulic brakes hissing. Every square inch of it, including the windows and door, was a mobile advertisement for Jersey Boys, “winner of four Tony Awards, including best musical and best actor…” They’d missed out on best actress.

Should have gone to Ivy Layton.

She missed living in the city. Ironically, she never would have returned, had it not been for Ian Burn. Their chance encounter at a restaurant in Florence last fall changed everything. She wasn’t certain that he had recognized her, but the exchange had been too dangerous to ignore. Ivy knew how McVee operated. If Burn was able to convince him that Ivy was alive, McVee would target Michael or her mother to draw Ivy out of hiding. She had to warn them, or at least keep her finger on the pulse of the situation, which meant returning to New York. She’d arrived in February-right about the same time Mallory’s friend Andrea moved to the Upper West Side. It had occurred to Ivy that the timing was no coincidence.

Speaking of “best actress.”

Ivy jumped in a taxi and rode up to Le Pain Quotidien near Columbus Circle, where Mallory met Andrea for coffee almost every morning after her Pilates class. As long as Ivy had been watching them, Andrea always arrived ten to fifteen minutes early and snagged a table in the café away from the bakery, surrounded by other skinny women who tried not to get too close to warm loaves of pain au chocolat or-Andrea’s morning favorite-the organic hazelnut flûte. Andrea usually scarfed one down before Mallory arrived. And there she was now, enjoying one with coffee at her usual table when Ivy approached.

“Wow, coffee and a pastry. How’d you get the bureau to approve that in your undercover operation budget?”

“Excuse me?” said Andrea.

She extended her hand, still standing. “Hi, I’m Ivy Layton.”

Andrea showed surprise but stayed in role. “Michael Cantella’s first wife?

“That would be me.”

More surprise, but now it was coming across too thick. “But you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Careful, girl,” said Ivy. “They don’t give Tony Awards for overacting.”

Andrea was suddenly speechless. Ivy smiled, then turned serious.

“Let’s clear that up right now. I’ll stop pretending to be dead, and you stop pretending that you’re not an FBI agent. Deal?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Andrea.

“Oh, come on,” said Ivy. “It takes one to know one, and I’ve known about you for quite some time.”

Andrea paused, clearly coming to realize that the jig was up. “It’s a crime to impersonate an FBI agent.”

“I didn’t mean it literally. I just recognize an undercover agent when I see one. It’s the little things. The way you always show up early for your eleven o’clock meeting with Mallory, probably to run through the conversation in your head and figure out what information you’re going to pry out of her. The body language that tells me that you’re only pretending not to listen whenever Mallory takes a call on her cell-that you’re trained to make Mallory think you’re reading the menu or checking your BlackBerry when, in fact, you’re all ears. The way you hang on every word that Mallory utters, always encouraging her to say more.” She tugged at the chair. “May I?”

Andrea didn’t say anything, so Ivy took a seat.

“I’ve been watching Michael for years,” said Ivy, “keeping my distance, of course. That’s how I found out his wife was cheating on him. And that’s how I knew you were an FBI agent working undercover.”

Andrea still said nothing.

“I understand,” said Ivy. “You can’t confirm or deny. But let me guess. The federal investigation into the manipulation of Saxton Silvers stock is now in its…fifth month? Sixth? The FBI was counting on Chuck Bell to crumble under subpoena and reveal the confidential source who fed him the false rumors about Saxton Silvers. Michael Cantella was one of the short sellers who profited from the rumors. Bell could have exposed a chain of players that led directly back to Michael-motive enough, perhaps, for Michael to have Bell silenced before he could testify before the grand jury.”

The women locked eyes.

“Am I even close?” asked Ivy, but Andrea met her with more silence.

“I thought so,” said Ivy. “So here’s the truth. Eric Volke told me that he’s already laid out these facts for you, but maybe you’ll believe him if you also hear it from me: Michael is innocent. Kyle McVee is your man. He set up everything to make you think exactly what you’re thinking about Michael.”

Andrea considered it, and Ivy knew she finally had her engaged.

“Why would Kyle McVee single out Michael Cantella?”

“Because of me,” said Ivy.

“That much I’ve figured out. I need specifics.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

Andrea’s stare tightened. “You don’t seem to understand. Anyone who fakes her own death has defrauded the IRS, created a false Social Security number, used a phony passport, committed fraud and perjury in connection with identification documents-the list of federal crimes goes on and on. You have no choice: You have to do better.”

Most of what Andrea described was Eric Volke’s doing. Even if Ivy had wanted to tell the FBI everything, she couldn’t sell out the man who’d put himself at risk to help her create a new identity and disappear-effectively saved her life.

“Compared to the financial crimes you’re targeting in the undercover operation, that’s all very petty stuff,” Ivy tried.

“Petty? You’re looking at one to ten years of imprisonment for each offense.”

“Okay. But before you haul me in, hear me out. Like I said at the beginning: I’ve known about you for quite some time. Which should make you wonder: Why have I kept it to myself? Why didn’t I just come right out and tell Eric Volke or Michael or my mother that Mallory Cantella’s friend Andrea is an undercover FBI agent?”

Andrea was trying to show no interest-but was failing.

Ivy almost smiled. “I decided to keep my mouth shut until I needed a favor. And that time has come. It’s a simple one, but without it, I can assure you of this: The world will know by sunrise that you are an FBI undercover agent. Then you can watch months of undercover work go up in smoke with no payoff.”

Ivy let her chew on that one for a while, and finally it drew a response.

“And if I agree to grant you that favor?”

“Then I’m willing to tell you more than Eric Volke has already told the FBI. I’ll tell you exactly why Kyle McVee wants me dead.”

Andrea gave her an assessing look. “All right,” she said, extending her hand. “You good on a handshake?”

“I am if you are, Andrea.”

“Call me Andie,” she said as they shook.

“Okay,” said Ivy. “You may want to call me Vanessa.”

“So start talking, Vanessa.”

Ivy leaned closer. And then she told her.