He had offered me the front seat for this trip, but I’d refused. Sitting in the back emphasized that Sorensen and Diefenbacher were the adults. Diefenbacher was, I now knew, eleven years older than me. He was even wearing a suit and tie. To him I was just too young to think of romantically. Sexually. And to him my recent personal revelation, deep in the dark of another sleepless night, was irrelevant.
Whatever else I might or might not be, I was not a child. I had had the body of a woman for seven years now. Seven years.
A confirming cramp bit into my abdomen. It was almost like an old friend. I pressed my forearm against my stomach and looked out the window at the trees beside Interstate 93.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on remembering the facts about this whole mess, as I had learned them over the last days, not only from the media, but from talking to Diefenbacher and Sorensen, over coffee, yesterday.
They had been good to me yesterday, Diefenbacher and Sorensen. Well, they had tried. In the abandoned cafeteria at Pettengill they had answered all of my questions. Or, at least they had answered the ones I was able to ask. We all knew, I think, that some things—some personal things—could never be asked, or answered, or even acknowledged.
I didn’t want to know if Diefenbacher had realized how I felt about James Droussian. I didn’t want to know if Sorensen had told him her thoughts about that.
I had actually been fascinated by the coverage of the scandal in the media. Somehow the reporters and TV people had largely been kept away from Pettengill itself, so I felt safely distanced as I—along with everyone else on campus—kept up with the latest public information. CNN and the Boston Globe and Dateline seemed to be following along in my mental footsteps. It was satisfying in a twisted kind of way, to watch the story unfold.
FBI AND SEC HOLD JOINT PRESS CONFERENCE
COGNITIVE REACH STOCK CRASHES IN REVELATIONS ABOUT INITIAL VENTURE CAPITAL FINANCING
PRESIDENT OF INTERNET FIRM ARRESTED
PREP SCHOOL LEADERS JOIN TOGETHER TO REASSURE PARENTS, STUDENTS
IS YOUR TEEN DEALING DRUGS? TEN WARNING SIGNS FOR PARENTS
The stories had dominated the business and education news for days, but were beginning to fade now—“At least,” Sorensen had said yesterday in the cafeteria, “until the legal stuff gets fully under way.”
“Uh-huh,” I’d replied, marveling again that this unfamiliar woman was—had been—my Ms. Wiles. I did not look directly at James—at Diefenbacher—but I could see him anyway, in the periphery of my vision.
“Did you read this yet, Frances?” Sorensen asked, pushing a current newsmagazine across the table and pointing to a headline. HOW IT BEGAN: LEYDEN AND FRIENDS FORM UNHOLY ALLIANCE. “It’s the best synopsis of the business end that I’ve seen so far.”
I had in fact read the article that morning, but I bent over it anyway, scanning it again. For all I’d wanted this meeting with both of them, wanted my questions answered, now I was not quite ready.
Patrick Leyden started Unity Service as a senior at the exclusive Pettengill preparatory school, after two years running his own small drug distribution operation. Even at eighteen he had organizational genius, and he worked out a plan to recruit younger students for the charity, with a trusted few in each class understanding and operating the real business. Throughout his college years, he stayed involved, becoming the major force behind expanding the drug ring to other prep schools and turning it into a mostly wholesale business.
As the associated students graduated and became alumni, they stayed involved, helping with the expansion. A handful of school faculty members and one administrator were also recruited as permanent partners. Leyden proved uncannily good at determining who was vulnerable to long-term involvement as a so-called “salaried adviser.” (See graph on teacher salaries.)
Using the “food pantry” work as cover, the organization was able to buy drugs in large quantities and redistribute them efficiently.
In addition the charity proved to be an excellent way to launder money. Cash poured in and was labeled as charitable contributions. This proved attractive to purchasers: Who wouldn’t want to buy their cocaine on a tax-deductible basis?
Leyden then used his profits from the false charity to provide the initial venture capital funding for his legitimate business—the Internet start-up Cognitive Reach.
Ironically, this eventually proved to be Leyden’s downfall. Two years ago, in the period before the first offering of Cognitive Reach stock to the public, an analyst for the Securities and Exchange Commission became curious during a routine check into the venture capital funding of the company.
Since start-up investing at that level is quite risky, it is usually only done by very experienced and wealthy individuals, or family members. But Leyden’s money had all come from a group of very young investors, none of whom had ever invested in a start-up before, and none of whom had any obvious sources for the money themselves.
The SEC analyst contacted the FBI’s financial and computer-related crime divisions, who eventually contacted the drugs and interstate racketeering division. A complex investigation with undercover elements began …
I could feel both Diefenbacher and Sorensen watching me while I read the article. I took my time. Finally I looked up.
“You figured out a lot of this stuff yourself,” said Diefenbacher.
I shrugged, even though inwardly I was warmed by the approval I saw in his face. “Well,” I said. I fidgeted, smoothing one hand over the magazine. I took a deep breath then, and began my questions. “What part of the FBI do you two work for?”
“RICO,” said Diefenbacher. “That’s, uh—racketeering. Organized crime.”
“I’m in finance,” said Sorensen. When I stared at her, surprised again, she added—did I imagine a bit defensively?—”Well, it’s interesting. And art history was my minor at college, not my major.”
I didn’t know her, I reminded myself. I didn’t know who she was at all. I asked, “When did you—the FBI—begin focusing on Unity and Pettengill?”
“Almost right away after the SEC contacted us,” Diefenbacher said. “It wasn’t difficult to figure out that Pettengill was the common link between the initial Cognitive Reach investors and Leyden. Leyden’s involvement with Unity was public knowledge. And then a detailed audit of Unity’s books turned up some other financial peculiarities.” He seemed to understand that I just wanted him to keep talking. “We, uh, took a look around the buildings—the Unity food pantry, and that of similar pantries at some other prep schools—and soon we knew what was going on. We could have stopped the whole thing a year ago.”
I sat up straighter. A year ago my brother was still alive. “Why didn’t you stop it a year ago?”
“Because we had to have Leyden!” Sorensen said, leaning forward. “Leyden himself, not the students. We needed direct evidence of Leyden’s involvement, and the only way to get it was an undercover investigation. And imagine—we had to stand idly by last year and watch Leyden get that Presidential Freedom Award. Orders. It was unbelievable.”
Sorensen had gone undercover at Pettengill first, using her undergraduate minor in art history and some falsified teaching credentials to get the art teacher job.
“Yvette worked hard to try to get inside Unity herself,” Diefenbacher said. “But all they let her do was attend charitable meetings and pack clothing once a month. And her attempts to get close to the students and faculty members who seemed to be on the inside were just as futile. So I enrolled as a post-grad student at the beginning of last September and tried to establish myself as a shady character of the kind that Unity might like to recruit. And no one paid any attention at all.”
I wondered about the ethics of an FBI agent actually dealing drugs, even as an undercover agent. I remembered James saying to me once that he wouldn’t sell smack. Was that the line? It seemed arbitrary.
It made me feel queasy.
Diefenbacher had gone on. “That was another miscalculation on
our part. We hadn’t yet figured out that by now Leyden’s student recruits were all on scholarship. That was another brilliant idea of Leyden’s. The scholarships were created with the thought that the recipients would be good recruits for the real work. More easily seduced; more easily controlled.”
Like Daniel, I thought. I said, “Was any of Unity’s charity work legitimate?”
“Some, we think. The cash grants to families in need. The scholarships were real, as you know. And they did donate overflow clothing and shoes and so on to the Salvation Army. But they never did any real distribution of charitable goods themselves. Goods went round and round, as Andy Jankowski figured out. And we went round and round, trying to find an angle on Leyden.”
“And then Daniel died,” I said quite calmly.
“And then Daniel died,” Diefenbacher confirmed. “And we noticed you. We realized that you could potentially get inside Unity. We thought they might need someone new, with Daniel gone.”
I thought about being at that Unity meeting, with James declaring that I shouldn’t do what Leyden wanted, while Ms. Wiles said that I should. For a second I thought that under no circumstances did I want to hear Yvette Sorensen justify to me why Ms. Wiles—my supposed friend!—had tried to influence me into joining Unity and, perhaps, becoming their informant. Why she’d been able to risk my emotional—and physical—welfare in that way. But I took a quick breath anyway and said, “So you two decided to play good cop-bad cop to try to manipulate me into joining.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Diefenbacher said, “Not exactly.” He was looking directly back at me. His eyes still said You, but I was ice. “Yvette and I disagreed about this. To me it felt too desperate, and I didn’t think they’d trust you. But—” He cleared his throat. “But we were in agreement about you. We knew that if you did get in, if you discovered what was going on, you’d help us get Leyden. You’d do whatever you could.”
Listening to his voice, I remembered sitting across a cafeteria table from him when he was James Droussian, on a day that had felt, to me, like spring.
“We knew you had integrity, Frances. We knew you were honest.”
“Yes,” said Sorensen. “There was never the slightest doubt about that.” I wouldn’t look at her. “It’s in your work, Frances. It’s in everything you do.”
How strange to hear something good about yourself, and to believe it.
I put it aside.
“Anyway, it didn’t work out the way you two planned,” I said to my hands. “I talked to Andy and figured out a few things, and panicked. And I see now that if Saskia hadn’t done what she did, I would have messed up everything. Or maybe even gotten killed, like my brother. And Leyden would have gotten away.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Sorensen dryly. “But don’t worry about that. You didn’t do any worse than we did. As you know.”
More long, awkward silence had filled the cafeteria then. And into it, finally, I asked, “So. How did my brother die, exactly? How did he come to be killed?”
In my mind I could see Daniel in the lotus position, shaking his head. No, no, no.
Around me, that same silence. And then Sorensen said, “Saskia Sweeney has asked that she be the one to tell you about Daniel’s death. If you agree, we can drive you up to Boston tomorrow to see her.”
“Oh,” I had said uncertainly. “Saskia.”
I had a moment of all-too-familiar fear. I thought: What difference did it make exactly how Patrick Leyden had had Daniel killed? I knew Daniel had been involved with Unity, up to his neck in drug distribution and evil. Did I really want any more details? Did I need them? Did I want to hear what Saskia had to say?
No. I did not. But … but … I also had to.
I pushed the fear back.
“Okay,” I had said. “I’ll talk to Saskia.”
“We’re here,” said Diefenbacher now, as I clutched my stomach against another round of cramps. I looked up and discovered that we had parked in front of a large brick apartment building.
Saskia, I thought. Saskia is in there. I took a deep breath.
I got out of the car.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello, Frances,” said Saskia.
She was standing just beyond the apartment’s small foyer, balancing somehow with legs crossed and one sock-clad foot on top of the other. She wore ancient jeans, the tails of a red flannel shirt hung over her hips. I stared in shock—she looked so sloppy! And yet somehow she looked comfortable, at ease in her skin, despite the situation. Despite everything.
Her gaze was fixed on me like a laser beam. Just behind her I could see a middle-aged uniformed woman sitting on a sofa and pecking away at a laptop computer. A cop.
“Hello,” I said. My cramps clutched at me again but I tried not to react. Not in front of Saskia.
“We can talk in my room.” Saskia jerked her head toward a hall to her left. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and I could see the empty pinprick holes for her earrings. “Okay, Maria?” Saskia’s tone had gone slightly sarcastic. I followed her gaze to the policewoman on the sofa.
“Fine,” said the policewoman calmly. I noticed that she was wearing a gun. “Leave the door ajar.” I saw Saskia wince before her face smoothed out again into blandness.
The policewoman was looking at me now. “Did they say they’d be back to pick you up in two hours?”
“Yes.” I wished it were fifteen minutes. From across the room I could feel Saskia’s intensity.
I followed her into a small room with a daybed, a nightstand, and a desk on which a pile of familiar textbooks were stacked. The novel Beloved sat right on top, looking as untouched as my own copy. “They got a tutor for me,” Saskia said, noticing where I was looking. “Like it matters.” Somehow she had moved behind me, blocking my access to the door. “Have a seat,” she said.
There should have been a chair in front of the desk, but there wasn’t. Uneasily, I settled down on an end of the daybed. I tucked one leg beneath myself, keeping the other on the floor. But then I heard Bubbe’s mocking voice in my head: Ready to run? I put both feet on the floor. I’d run if I wanted to. I placed one arm against my stomach so that I could press on it, when I needed to, in an unobtrusive way.
Saskia plunked herself down at the other end. Seated, our different heights ceased to matter and, although separated by three feet of mattress, we were eye to eye. As I looked at her, I thought with the old wonderment and resentment that she was still beautiful. She was still what I wished I were. And she was the one who had exposed Patrick Leyden. She was the one who had avenged Daniel. She was the heroine of the drama, while I had only walked on and bumbled around in the last act.
“Well,” I said uneasily. “Are you okay? Are they treating you all right?”
Saskia shrugged. “Sure. I have a lawyer. They let my mom visit. Of course, there’s the twenty-four-hour security—they think Patrick might try to have me killed—but I’m adjusting to that.” At my expression, her lips twisted and she added, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I know Patrick better than they do and believe me, it’s the last thing on his mind. He’s busy with his lawyers, writing checks, trying to figure out an escape strategy.”
Patrick, I thought. “If he’s got smart lawyers and lots of money—”
“No,” Saskia interrupted. Twin red spots appeared in the middle of her cheeks. “He’s not getting out of this. Listen, I got bank statements and accurate money trails. I got tape recordings. I got drug bags with his fingerprints on them. I have a diary over the last six months that details every meeting, every conversation, every decision. I knew what I was doing. I have him tied up.”
I knew that Diefenbacher and Sorensen thought the same thing. “Well, then,” I began.
But Saskia wasn’t finished. Words poured from her in a torrent. “Not only that, but he’s going to be bankrupt soon, so he won’t be able to afford a fleet of lawyers. Get this—it’s so good I can’t stand it. Patrick had just bought back a lot of his own st
ock. But of course Cognitive Reach’s stock price went right into the toilet last week, and he lost fifty million dollars! The stock won’t recover until the company dissociates itself from him, which of course they’re doing fast. So Patrick is going to lose his beloved Cognitive Reach, Frances, along with all his credibility and stature and reputation. By the time the SEC and the IRS and his own lawyers are through with him, he’ll be a pauper.”
Her eyes gleamed with triumph—and something else. Pain?
“And you know what, Frances? I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who ruined him. Me, little Saskia. He knows it. And he’ll know it even more as things get worse and worse for him. Until finally he’s in jail, choking on it.”
I was silent. I had never seen such hatred. What had caused it? Why did Saskia hate Leyden so much? It had to be about Daniel.
Watching Saskia, I was more than a little awed. I thought back to when she had promised to make my life miserable, and I remembered how I had countered her but inside had curled up with terror. I had been right to fear Saskia. If she had really wanted to make my life miserable, she could have.
She must not have wanted to, then. How could I ask her? I said carefully, “When you didn’t want me to join Unity, I thought …”
“What? That I was being a hateful bitch?”
I nodded.
The red spots on Saskia’s cheeks were fading back now into white. “And what do you think now?”
I stumbled. “Were you—were you trying to protect me?”
Her gaze shifted away from me, then back. “I had work to do. Maybe I just didn’t want you getting in my way.”
“Oh,” I said. The silence elongated. Suddenly I had to press my forearm to my abdomen, hard.
Saskia said clinically, “Cramps?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought so. I get them too.” She regarded me closely. “Maybe not so bad, though.”
I had had to close my eyes for a few seconds. Finally the wave of pain passed. I looked up again. Saskia seemed … closer. She burst out, “Look, I’m not really sure, okay? I just—didn’t want you involved.”