Money to Burn

“A man’s been shot,” I said, breathless, “in the parking lot at Palisades Medical Center. The shooter’s name is Ian Burn. Six feet tall, dark complexion-maybe Indian decent-a bad scar on his right ear from a burn.” I continued to rattle off every distinguishing characteristic I could recall, and then wondered if the scar was on his left ear and not his right. The more I spoke, the more my thoughts scattered, and I shuddered to think what the recording of this call would sound like. I finished with a flurry: “He is an extremely dangerous professional killer. You have to find him!”

I hung up and sprinted away. I was on Park Avenue, which bore as much resemblance to the Park Avenue as Rome, Georgia, did to its namesake. Just beyond Gunther’s Bargain Corner and directly across the street from a used-furniture store called the Tickled Pink Petunia was a twenty-four-hour Laundromat. I ducked inside and grabbed a chair in the corner away from the noisy machines where I could catch my breath. I was still recovering when I hit speed-dial number one on the cell Ivy had given me.

“Hey, girlfriend,” said Olivia.

She’d clearly assumed from the incoming number that the call was from her daughter.

“It’s Michael,” I said, and then I told her about the string of mishaps that had landed Ivy’s cell with me. I was still processing the whole shoot-out myself, and the full impact of Nick’s death didn’t even hit me until I spoke of it.

“Burn shot my driver dead,” I said, my voice quaking. “Nick’s got two little kids, for God’s sake.”

She sighed so loudly that her voice crackled on the line. “Where is Burn now?”

“I’m sure he ran. I guess someone dialed nine-one-one. Police were on their way. I called, too, just a minute ago.”

“You what?”

“Don’t worry. I used a pay phone. They now have Ian Burn’s name and a pretty good description of him.”

“Michael, don’t take risks like that. I’m sure Ivy has already given all that information to her FBI contact.”

“It doesn’t hurt for them to hear it twice.”

“There’s an arrest warrant out for you,” she said. “For the tenth time: If the police haul you in, you’re dead. And now that you’ve called nine-one-one, patrol cars are probably in the neighborhood looking for you as we speak.”

“I didn’t leave my name.”

“Good. Just don’t make any more calls. We’re coming to get you.”

“You and Ivy?”

“No. Eric and me. Where are you?”

I told her.

“That’s in Guttenberg,” said Olivia. “Give us five minutes and we’ll pick you up in Eric’s car. Just stay right there.”

Across the Laundromat was a young mother folding sheets while her two boys ran wild up and down the aisle. I thought of Nick’s widow, her two kids, and their college fund filled with worthless Saxton Silvers stock.

“Don’t worry,” I said into the phone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

58

OLIVIA AND ERIC PICKED ME UP IN LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES. IN forty-five more, we were in central New Jersey-Somerset County, to be exact, one of the oldest and wealthiest in the United States. WhiteSands had moved there after its World Trade Center headquarters was destroyed on 9/11, one of many financial firms displaced by the sudden loss of the office-space equivalent of twenty-five Empire State Buildings. The firm had no plans to return to Manhattan, its current CEO rather liking the comfortable distance between himself and WhiteSands’ founder and board chairman emeritus, Eric Volke.

“Make a left here,” said Eric. It was his car, but I’d insisted on driving. Thirty years of chauffeured limousines had turned Eric into a terror on the highways.

It felt like the country, but most of Somerset’s agricultural roots had been lost long ago to developers. We were actually on a dark private road owned by WhiteSands-still owned by them, despite the bankruptcy of its 49 percent shareholder, Saxton Silvers. In fact, no aspect of WhiteSands’ business was affected by the recent filing. Not its 2.3 million square feet of office space in Franklin. Not the 275 acres it owned inside the Princeton Forrestal Center. Not the billions of dollars’ worth of other real estate holdings throughout the United States and Europe. Not its seven hundred investment advisors with over $1.3 trillion in assets under management.

And most important of all-at least for my immediate purposes-not the company helicopter and on-site heliport.

“The pilot won’t be here for another forty minutes,” said Eric.

I checked the time on the dash-nine-forty P.M.-and tried to remember the last time I’d eaten. “Is there food at the hangar?”

There wasn’t, so Eric navigated our way into the complex and into the corporate cafeteria for something quick. We ate cold sandwiches in the corporate dining room, the flat screen playing on the wall. Pundits on CNN were analyzing the financial fallout from the failure of Saxton Silvers. The cast of losers included everyone from guys like Nick and his kids’ college fund to a group of Japanese banks that were out $1.5 billion. Somehow, I knew who would be all right, and who wouldn’t be.

I switched to a local news station, where the breaking-news coverage was all about the emergency-room shooting in North Bergen. I was happy to hear that “miraculously, no one was injured,” but I was suddenly wondering if I would ever see Ivy again. Was she gone for good this time, another disappearing act? The reporter’s closing words jarred me loose from my thoughts.

“The suspect escaped before police arrived,” she said into the camera, speaking from the parking lot outside the hospital, “and he remains at large. Anyone with information about this crime is encouraged to notify the police.”

She signed off, and I nearly choked on my sandwich. “I told the nine-one-one operator who did it,” I said. “Why the hell don’t they have Ian Burn’s name and photograph all over the airwaves?”

“Don’t take this personally,” said Olivia, “but maybe they’re waiting for a credible source before they send everyone looking for a Mumbai hit man with a french-fried ear.”

Olivia excused herself for a bathroom break, leaving Eric and me alone in the dining room. He switched the station to FNN, where experts were saying that the ripple effects from Saxton Silvers and the subprime crisis could push the Dow as low as 10,000-a prediction “as lunatic as gas going up to four dollars a gallon,” shouted Chuck Bell’s replacement.

I wrapped up the last few bites of my sandwich and opened a bottled water.

“So what’s going to happen next?” I asked. “To Olivia and me, I mean.”

Eric lowered the television volume. “We drive out to the hangar. The helicopter will get you into Martha’s Vineyard before midnight. My yacht’s ready to go as soon as you land. You should be on your way to Bermuda in a few hours. If it’s still not safe by the time you dock there, we’ll refuel and keep you moving.”

“How long can that go on?”

“As long as it takes.”

I drank my water. “Is that what you told Ivy four years ago?”

We exchanged glances. I hadn’t intended it as a barb exactly, but he did seem to take my meaning. I grabbed the remote and clicked off the television, making it clear that I needed to get to the root of it.

“When we were in the emergency room,” I said, “Ivy told me about the corporate espionage she was doing for WhiteSands. She started to tell me why McVee wanted her dead, but the shooting started before she could finish.”

Eric showed little reaction, his tone matter-of-fact. “She did a good job. That’s why McVee wants her dead.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ivy didn’t just figure out what Ploutus was doing to manipulate the market for WhiteSands’ stock. She caught the mastermind himself red-handed. If we had gone to the D.A., the things she’d uncovered could have put Kyle McVee’s son in jail for a very long time.”