Beach Wedding(61)

He took out a Galaxy phone from the inside of his suit jacket and showed me a video of a car, a white Cadillac SUV. It was parked in what looked like the lot of the building I was in. In the video, somebody went to the Caddy’s liftgate and opened it. In the trunk was a large leather duffel bag filled with mounds and mounds of hundred-dollar bills.

“This is what is in that bag,” Byron said as he scratched something on the back of a blank cream-colored business card with a Montblanc pen.

He passed the card over.

$4,000,000.

He slid the card back across the table and took a Cadillac key fob from his pocket and spun it in his hand.

“You get someone to deliver what you have on my client, and a man comes in here and takes off your cuffs, and you’re free and clear in that car. That’s the deal.”



83

I stared at Byron. He had dark brown eyes and a squared-off forehead that was broad and flat like the face of a sledgehammer.

I looked at him for another good minute.

He stared back cool as a cucumber. He was good at staring.

I finally nodded and leaned back as best as I could in the chair and rolled my stiffening neck.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“You know, I heard a story about this old guy who lived in a rent-controlled apartment in an old hotel in Manhattan,” I said. “A builder wanted to knock down the hotel and put up a billion-dollar high-rise, but before he could do that, all the rent controllers had to agree.

“They got everybody out except for this one stubborn old man. They offered him a nice new place, a penthouse in Midtown. He declined. Then they offered him a nice new place and a million bucks. No dice. You know how much that old guy got in the end?”

Byron held up the four-million-dollar card again with a hopeful look on his face.

I shook my head.

“Not even close, Byron,” I said. “Here in my palm, in my grubby little palm, I have hold of the rest of your client’s life. Every particle of her, every year, every day, every minute from this day forward now belongs to me. You know it. I know it.”

Byron sighed. “So that means?”

“All of it,” I said.

“All of what?” he said.

“Of her money,” I said. “I want all of her cash and assets. I want her business liquidated. I want all of her stock and the Glass House and all of her other property and cars and clothes and furniture sold and all the proceeds compiled together and wired into a numbered Swiss bank account by five o’clock today.”

Byron stared at me, a smile playing on his lips.

“That’s a tall order, Mr. Rourke. Impossibly tall, actually. Especially considering the time constraint. But the fact that you’re willing to negotiate is refreshing. Let’s talk.”

“Oh, wait,” I said. “I forgot one thing. This part is nonnegotiable. I also want my father back.”

Seager squinted at me, the smile gone.

“I get every penny Hailey Sutton possesses and one Sean Rourke brought back to life. And she gets to stay out of prison for the rest of hers. Seems like a fair trade to me. You type up that contract, Mr. Seager. I’ll Montblanc my name right on the dotted line. What do you say? Is it a deal?”

“Okay,” Byron said, picking up his card and briefcase. “You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance, Mr. Rourke. What happens next is all on you.”



84

Five minutes passed. Then, without telling me anything, two gray SWAT cops came in (if that’s what they really were) and guided me back outside of the undisclosed office building.

They put me back into the rear of the SUV and away we went.

I have to say, I was getting extremely nervous again as we drove along. These people were obviously out of their corrupt minds. The evidence I had gotten my hands on was apparently such a threat that they were willing to do anything.

Anything, I thought, swallowing, as we finally shrieked to a stop.

By the time the door groaned open, I’d already decided that whatever these fools thought they were going to do to me, I wasn’t about to go along peacefully. I was going to go kicking and biting.

Then I looked out the open door, and I felt a wave of glorious relief.

I landed hard on my ass after one of the goons unlocked my cuffs and then my seat belt, and I was shoved out onto the edge of the Montauk Highway near my old house in the Hampton Bays.

“Assholes!” I yelled as the corrupt cops peeled out, their rear tires spitting gravel in my face.

Without a cell phone, I began to trudge down the storied course’s long road toward Southampton in my golf cleats.

“Hey, mister. You really sliced one, huh?” said a voice from a slowing Mustang full of teens before they sped off.

“I’ll say,” as I finally crossed the Southampton town line.

I took a shortcut and came out on another road with an old cemetery across the street. The cemetery I walked along soon became a quaint pond with benches around it, and I stopped for a moment to catch my breath.

Sitting there gave me time for some reflection. I wondered why I hadn’t been charged. If Tapley wanted me behind bars for breaking into his house and burglarizing it and knocking him out, why wasn’t I?

What the hell was he doing? Was he afraid to actually arrest me because he had no evidence? Or because he was afraid of what would be revealed about what he had in his possession?