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He was an incorruptible patriot, a modern-day Robespierre. He was a revolutionary, bringing justice to America.
I am the righteous sword of the law.
The Lord Almighty says, ‘I will punish them. The young men will die, their sons and daughters starve. Not one of these plotters will survive, for I will bring disaster upon them …’
‘Mr Williams?’
Gavin stood in the hallway of Bedford Hills infirmary. A pretty young nurse looked at him strangely.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Mrs Brookstein is awake. You can talk to her now.’
Gavin Williams was certain that Grace Brookstein held the key to finding the stolen Quorum money. The rest of the FBI task force had given up on her as a potential witness. Harry Bain told him, ‘Forget about Grace, Gavin. She’s a dead end. If she were going to tell us anything, she’d have done it by now.’
But Gavin could not forget about Grace. Her dirty whore’s face haunted his dreams at night. Her voice mocked him during his long days spent poring over the complex paper trail that Lenny had left behind: I know, she taunted him. I know where that money is, and you don’t.
The press continually compared the Quorum fraud with the Madoff case, but the two could not have been more different. Madoff’s returns were so ludicrously consistent. It was plain to anyone with the brains to look that he was a fraud. Either he was doing insider trading, or running a Ponzi scheme. Those were the only two logical possibilities. Given the fact that nobody traded with Madoff, none of the major banks, no brokerages, nobody, it had to be a Ponzi.
Quorum was different. Everybody had traded with Lenny Brookstein. There wasn’t a firm on Wall Street that had seen through the guy, not a whisper of the scandal that was to engulf him and his fund so spectacularly. The missing Quorum billions were not just the figment of some creative accountant’s imagination. They were real. But Brookstein had been so secretive about his trades, even flying paper records to Cayman and Bermuda to be burned, it was virtually impossible to follow any transaction to its end point. Not unless you were an insider. Not unless you knew.
When Gavin Williams got word of Grace Brookstein’s suicide attempt, he knew it was an opportunity not to be missed. Like the last time he interviewed her at the morgue, she would be in a weakened state. But this time there would be no lawyers to protect her, no phone calls, no escape. This time, Gavin Williams would squeeze her till she couldn’t breathe. He would get the truth from Grace Brookstein if he had to make her vomit it out.
For today’s interview Gavin had dressed as he always dressed: dark suit and tie, his short, gray hair neatly parted, black shoes so shiny he could see his own reflection in the leather. Discipline, that was the key. Discipline and authority. Gavin Williams would make Grace Brookstein respect him. He would bend the deviant to his will, and expose Harry Bain, his so-called boss, for the shortsighted fool that he was.
When Grace saw Gavin Williams, her pupils dilated with fear.
Gavin Williams smiled. Her terror aroused him. ‘Hello again, my dear.’
She looked weak. Dwarfed by her white prison nightgown, still pale from blood loss, she seemed as insubstantial as a ghost or a wisp of smoke.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m here to make a deal with you.’
‘A deal?’
Yes, a deal, you greedy bitch. Don’t pretend you don’t understand the concept. You’re as corrupt as hell and one day you will rot in hell for your sins.
‘It’s a deal you can’t refuse. The procedure is simple. You will provide me with three account numbers. All refer to funds held in Switzerland. You are familiar with all of them.’
Grace shook her head. She didn’t know any account numbers. Hadn’t they been through this the last time?
‘In return, I will see to it that you are moved to a mental health facility.’
‘Mental health? But I’m not crazy.’
‘I assure you, the conditions at penal sanatoriums are considerably superior to those at correctional facilities such as this one. The account numbers, please.’ He handed Grace a piece of paper with a Credit Suisse letterhead. Grace glanced at it and sighed, closing her eyes. The drugs made her sleepy. As frightened as she was of this man, it was a struggle to stay awake.
‘John Merrivale,’ she croaked. ‘It’s John Merrivale. He took the money. He knows where it is. Ask him.’
Gavin Williams’s eyes narrowed. How typical of a woman! To try to shift the blame, just as Eve blamed the serpent when she polluted the world with her sin. How stupid did Grace think he was? Did she think the FBI hadn’t looked into Merrivale, into all the staff at Quorum?
‘Don’t play games with me, Mrs Brookstein. I want those account numbers.’
Grace was about to reason with him, but then she thought, What’s the point? He won’t listen. He’s insane. If anyone needs the sanatorium, it’s this guy, not me.
‘I know what you’re doing. You’re holding out for more.’ Gavin Williams positively glowed with rage. ‘Well, you won’t get it, do you understand me? You won’t get it!’
Grace looked around for the nurse but there was no one. I’m alone with this nutcase!
‘There will be no appeal. No parole. It’s the sanatorium or you will die in this place. Die! Give me those account numbers!’
‘I told you! I. Don’t. Know. Them.’ Exhausted, Grace fell back on the pillow. She was losing the battle for consciousness. Sleep engulfed her.
Gavin Williams watched her eyes flicker and close.
Her neck is so tiny. So fragile. Like a willow twig. I could reach out and snap it. Just like that. Put my hands around her lying, thieving throat and crush the devil inside.
There were no other patients. No staff. He and Grace were alone.
No one would know. I could do it in a split second. Smite the wicked, purge the evildoer of sin.
In a trance, Gavin Williams reached his hands out in front of him, flexing his long, bony fingers open and closed, open and closed. He imagined Grace’s windpipe collapsing beneath them, felt his excitement building.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
The nurse’s voice made him jump physically out of his seat.
‘Your fingers. I know what you’re thinking.’
Gavin was silent.
‘You’re a smoker, aren’t you? I was the same when I gave up. You never stop thinking about it, do you? Not for a second.’
It took Gavin a moment to register what she was saying. She thinks I’m grasping for an imaginary cigarette. As if he, Gavin Williams, would ever be so weak as to succumb to an addiction. Out loud he smiled and said, ‘No. You never do.’
‘Believe me, I get it,’ chirped the nurse. ‘It’s like an itch you can’t scratch. There’s a courtyard outside if you’re desperate.’
Gavin Williams retrieved the Credit Suisse paper from Grace’s sleeping fingers and slipped it back into his briefcase.
‘Thank you. I am not desperate.’
But he was.
After two weeks Grace returned to her cell on A Wing. Warden McIntosh had intended to transfer her back to her original cell with the Latinas on the less austere C Wing, but Grace became so agitated that the psychiatrists recommended the prisoner be allowed to have her