“Hold on,” she told Grayson before putting her phone back to her ear. “Yes, Natalie. I do know I’m a bitch.”
Warp-speed screaming again.
“I’m waiting for an explanation,” Grayson reminded, ignoring her sweet smile.
“I drove across town to a police station to pick up a nine-year-old little girl. She’s a new client,” she explained.
He nodded. “Which police station?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know it.”
“I know all of them. Which one was it?” he repeated.
She didn’t want to tell him because the station was located in such a bad area, and she knew he wouldn’t take the news well. He coaxed it out of her, though. Thankfully, Grayson was neither a screamer nor a screecher. She couldn’t imagine him ever behaving like her sister. Grayson’s voice was soft but firm. Sometimes he could be downright scary, but he was never scary with her. Angry, yes—scary, no. He always got his point across, and when he was displeased with her, she knew it.
He didn’t ask her if she knew she was crazy—that was a Natalie move—but his look suggested he thought she might be.
Olivia put her phone to her ear again and, interrupting her sister’s tirade, said, “Good-bye, Natalie.” She took great delight in ending the call.
“In the middle of the night . . . What would you have done if your car had broken down?” he asked her.
“I’d stay in the car, keep the doors locked, and call you.”
“You’d call me?”
That took a little wind out of his anger. “I’d also call for a tow. Now, can we please stop and get something to eat? We should probably find a drive-through. I want to get there before Wilcox’s attorney.”
At her insistence, they stopped at a McDonald’s. She ate a chicken wrap and drank a Diet Coke and told Grayson it was delicious.
“It doesn’t take much to make you happy,” he remarked.
She smiled as she sipped the last of her Coke. “I’m a simple girl at heart,” she said. Carefully folding the wrapper and napkin so that no crumbs would fall, she placed them in the paper bag.
“Have you figured out what you’re going to say to Wilcox?” he asked.
She had given some thought to the conversation, but she couldn’t know how Wilcox would react to seeing her. Would he remember her? Would he freak out when he heard her name? She practiced a couple of approaches on Grayson and was feeling pretty good about her plan . . . until she walked into the jail. She was immediately sorry she’d eaten anything because her stomach started doing flips. The rancid smell of what she suspected to be rotting mice in the walls was overwhelming, and everything looked old and decayed. The few pieces of furniture were broken-down and ready for the dump. Grayson told her the jail was going to be closed just as soon as a new facility was finished, but with budget cuts, no one knew exactly when that would be.
The air in the cell block was heavy with sweat. The cells were so crowded, there was barely room to walk around. A jailer with dark circles under his eyes and a weariness to his gait led Jeff Wilcox into a small interrogation room. Wilcox sat on one side of a small wobbly table. He looked scared and overwhelmed.
He saw Grayson’s FBI badge and said, “Am I being charged with mail fraud, too?” His voice was flat, with little emotion.
“No,” Grayson answered.
“Shouldn’t my attorney be here for this interrogation?”
“It’s not an interrogation. We’re having a conversation,” Grayson said.
Wilcox was focused on Grayson and was obviously afraid of him or possibly what he thought he was going to hear from the FBI agent. Olivia had time to study the man. The longer she watched him, the angrier she became on his behalf. She was seeing one of her father’s victims up close and personal.
“You’re going to fire your attorney,” Grayson said very matter-of-factly. He stood next to Olivia with his arms folded across his chest, his stance relaxed.
“Why?”
Grayson looked at Olivia. “Do you want to start explaining?”
Jeff Wilcox turned to face her then, and his eyes widened.
“Hi, Jeff,” she began. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Olivia—”
He almost came out of his chair. “MacKenzie,” he finished. “I remember you.” His demeanor changed immediately to anger. “You’re that bastard’s—”
She cut him off. “Listen carefully. Yes, I’m that bastard’s daughter, and I know what he is. I’m here to help you.” She rushed to continue before he could turn away from her. “You have a new attorney. His name is Mitchell Kaplan. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course, I have. He’s famous. I can’t afford . . .”
“I’m paying for his services,” Olivia said.
“Did he agree to take my case? Does he know what I’ve been charged with?”
Before Olivia could answer, he listed them. “Investment fraud, securities fraud, investment adviser fraud, and my attorney says, if I take the deal, they won’t add mail fraud.”
“What is the deal?” Grayson asked.
“Twenty-five years. Solid twenty-five years.” He put his head in his hands. “I swear to God I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear it, but my attorney said that, given the atmosphere, the prosecutor could add another twenty and get it.”
She thought he might start crying. Who could blame him? She put her briefcase on the chair across from him, pulled out a manila folder, and placed it in front of him.
“I know you’re innocent, and I know what you’re up against. Mr. Kaplan has written you a letter. Please read it, and then if you agree, sign the attached paper authorizing him to take over your defense. You can either choose to let Kaplan prove your innocence or . . . not. It’s up to you.”
She could see the confusion in his eyes. He wanted to believe but was afraid.
“Why do you want to help me?”
Tears came into her eyes. “I told you why,” she said, her voice shaking. “I know what he is, and he has to be stopped. I would like your help to do that, but even if you can’t, or won’t, I’ll still keep trying until I succeed.”
“Read the letter,” Grayson suggested.
“How do I know this is real?” He looked at Olivia and said, “Your father showed me investment statements on official letterheads, and it was all a fake.”
“Read the letter, Wilcox,” Grayson repeated more firmly. “You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
His hands shook as he opened the envelope. Olivia’s hands were shaking, too. She hadn’t realized how anxious she’d been about this meeting. She felt as though she’d just put herself through a wringer. Her nerves were stretched tight, and she could only imagine how Jeff was feeling.
Jeff looked up from the page he was reading. “Mr. Kaplan says he’ll have me out of here by tonight. Can he do that?”
“If he says he can, then he can,” Olivia replied. “You’ll be under house arrest, but you’ll be home with your wife and your baby.”
Jeff was starting to believe. She could see it in his eyes. She watched him go through the rest of the folder, scouring every page.
“There are copies of all these papers for you to keep.”
“Do either of you have a pen?”
Jeff signed two papers, one firing his current attorney, Howard Asher, and another retaining Mitchell Kaplan.
He’d just handed the papers back to Olivia when Asher walked in.
“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.
Asher wasn’t what she’d expected. Because Olivia had heard how inept the man was, she had made the assumption that he was young and inexperienced and perhaps had only just passed the bar. Asher was in his late thirties or early forties. He was dressed in a business suit and tie, but there was still something disheveled about him. She noticed the expensive Rolex watch he was wearing when he reached out to shake Jeff’s hand.
She decided he was also sleazy when he wouldn’t stop giving her the once-over. Her chest and legs seemed to captivate him.
“This is for you,” Jeff said, reaching out with the signed document in his hand.
Asher was still staring at Olivia when he asked, “What is it?”
“A paper I signed, firing you,” Jeff answered.
That got his attention. He whirled around and snatched the paper. “What’s this about? You need an attorney, Jeff.”
“Mitchell Kaplan will be handling my defense.”
Asher’s mouth dropped open. “Kaplan? You can’t afford Mitchell Kaplan. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Mr. Kaplan has agreed to represent me.”
Asher shook his head. “Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it. You’re fired. That’s all you need to know.”
“It’s too late,” Asher stammered. “We’ve made a deal.”
Jeff looked to Olivia for help.
“Then you’re in trouble, Mr. Asher,” she said, “because Jeff hasn’t agreed to any deals.”
“Exactly who did you make this deal with?” Grayson wanted to know.
Asher looked as though he needed to sit. His face was gray. “This can’t be happening. How did you ever get Kaplan interested . . .”
“I think we’re done here,” Olivia said.
“Wait . . . now, wait here,” Asher demanded. “Jeff, you’ll get fifty years or more if you don’t take the deal. You can’t take this to trial. You’ll get . . .”
He stopped arguing when Jeff put his hand up. “I’m not taking any deals, and you’re no longer my attorney.”
Grayson could see the panic in Asher’s eyes. The attorney had gotten past his surprise and was now letting his anger control him. His body was rigid and his hands were fisted at his sides.
“Jeff, it’s time to go back to your cell,” Grayson said as he motioned to the jailer.
“Wait,” Asher demanded. “Just wait a minute. We’re not finished here.”
“Yes, we are finished,” Olivia stated emphatically.
Asher turned to her and took a threatening step forward. Grayson pulled Olivia into his side.
“Listen, you,” Asher muttered, “go back to your boss and tell him we’ve already made the deal and it’s solid. It’s done. Kaplan will just have to step back.”
Olivia had had it. She took a step toward Asher and said, “No, you listen. There isn’t any deal. Got that? No deal. And, by the way, I don’t work for Mitchell Kaplan.”
Asher was obviously scrambling to keep his sinking ship afloat. His eyes darted back and forth between Jeff and Olivia while he tried to think of a way to stop what was happening.
The jailer escorted Jeff out of the interrogation room. Asher didn’t move. He seemed rooted to the floor, he was so livid. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you’re messing with the wrong people,” he hissed. “Powerful people.”
“Oh, I think I know exactly who I’m messing with,” she replied. Her voice was as smooth as a summer breeze. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Olivia MacKenzie.”
She picked up her briefcase and walked to the door. Grayson pulled it open for her. She looked back over her shoulder and said, “Tell my father I’ll see him in court.”
TWENTY-ONE
Grayson arrived at the Morgan Hotel a little after nine o’clock. He noticed all the security as soon as he walked inside. Because he’d worn a gun—he never left home without it—he had to show his credentials three separate times before he reached the guarded ballroom doors.
Ronan caught up with him as he was going in.
“Wait up,” he called. He showed his identification to another guard and started to walk past. The guard reached out and put his hand on Ronan’s arm. “Do you have an invitation? I don’t see one. You can’t go inside without an invitation. There’s some very important people in there.”
One glacial look from Ronan, and the guard immediately pulled his hand back. The antagonism in his voice irritated Ronan. “I’m FBI. I can go wherever the hell I want to go. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.” The guard hastily opened the door and stepped away.
“What are you doing here?” Grayson asked.
“I didn’t want to miss the show.”
“You’ve met MacKenzie,” he reminded. “You interviewed him, remember?”
Ronan grinned. “Of course I remember, but that was one-on-one, and I want to see what he’s like in a crowd. I’m betting he’s as humble as he was with me. He’s a real nice guy,” he added. “Just ask anyone.”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Grayson. “Yeah, right. Nice guy. Olivia’s worried I’ll like him.”
Ronan shook his head. “Did you tell her we put a lot of nice guys in prison every damn day?”
“Sure I did.”
The two agents moved to the back of the room and tried not to draw any attention as they watched the guests.
Four bars were set up, one in each corner, and people thronged around them as the bartenders rushed to fill their drink orders. Waiters passed among the crowd, offering dainty canapés or glasses of wine from their silver trays. The double doors to the adjacent ballroom were open, and there were stations with every kind of delicacy to eat. The best of everything. Guests were encouraged to help themselves to whatever they wanted.
A man walked past carrying a heaping plate piled with oysters, crackers, and a mound of caviar. The glutton was practically drooling in anticipation of his feast.
“I wonder how these people would react if they knew they were paying for this,” Grayson said.
“I think they’re going to be real pissed when they find out they paid for his mansion on the beach.”
“You’re right. No expense spared tonight. Do you know how much a bottle of that champagne costs?” he asked when a waiter offered fluted glasses to a couple in front of them.
“I drink beer, not champagne, but I’m guessing a whole lot.”
Grayson laughed. “Yes, a whole lot. It tastes like seawater, too.”
Grayson spotted Olivia’s brother-in-law, George, and pointed him out. There was a woman next to him, smiling and sipping champagne. She didn’t look anything like Olivia, but Grayson was sure she was her sister because she was holding George’s hand and occasionally smiling at him. Grayson thought the affection looked forced. George appeared to be miserable.
