MANHATTAN
SUNDAY, 2:10 P.M.
DWAYNE PICKED UP STEELE’S private hotline. “Dwayne here.”
“Faroe.”
“The Ambassador is talking to a CEO whose assets surpass that of all but a few nations. Shall I interrupt?”
“No. Turn loose the dogs on Theodore Franklin.”
“We already have. Steele was certain you would take the job.”
“Damn, I hate being predictable. What do you have?”
Dwayne clicked over the computer and looked at various summaries. “Do you want the long form or the bottom line?”
“Whichever gets me closer to Teddy-boy.”
“His hedge fund is in trouble. Big trouble.”
“Why?” Faroe asked.
“Bad investments.”
“If that was against the law, half the investment experts would be in jail.”
“That’s just part of the problem,” Dwayne said. “Think of a Ponzi scheme crossed with a classic money-laundering profile.”
“You’re giving me a headache.”
“Take two aspirin and call me when I care. Ted’s going down. Steele is already smacking his lips.”
“I’m trying to imagine that,” Faroe said. “It’s giving me a bigger headache.”
Dwayne laughed. “Nobody gets turned on by hidden numbered accounts like the Ambassador.”
“He’s not the only one. Some stripe of cop had Ted’s La Jolla office staked out.”
“Steele won’t like that,” Dwayne said.
“I’m not doing backflips of joy myself. How close are you to finding Ted?”
“So far he hasn’t used any of his accounts or credit cards. When he does, we have him.”
“Kick some ass,” Faroe said impatiently. “We have a day to get Lane Franklin out of jail.”
“We’re kicking ass and taking names. No guarantees on the timing.”
“Two days, two weeks, two years,” Faroe said coldly, “find the son of a bitch who nominated his kid for a Colombian necktie. Men like that need to be taken out of the gene pool.”
Dwayne opened his mouth, but he was talking to a dead phone.