Mitchell shrugged. “It’s just that you’ve been kinda…I don’t…mopey for the past couple weeks. Ever since you returned from New York.”
Janet forced a smile. “Oh, I get depressed occasionally. I guess it’s what we do around here. Our clients, you know?”
“Uh huh,” Mitchell answered, not sounding convinced. “Well, if you need someone to talk to.”
“Thanks, Frank. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She looked at her watch after Mitchell left her office and saw it was almost noon. She took her purse from a desk drawer, stood, and went left into the hall, in the direction of the exit to the parking lot. But then she stopped, turned around, and walked toward the building’s front entrance. Outside, she glanced in the direction of the wall, hoping, almost expecting to see Bruno seated there. But she was once again disappointed.
No calls, no emails, no letters, no nothing, she thought. Janet sucked in a deep breath as she turned down the walkway to the parking lot. As she vented the air in her lungs, she concluded that she would never see Bruno again.
“Bruno, you gonna hang around here for the rest of your life?” Massarino asked.
Bruno’s face seemed to droop when he looked back. “I’m sorry, Louis. I know I’ve abused your hospitality. I’ll pack up today.”
“You misunderstand me, my friend. You can stay here for as long as you like. Hell, you can live in this basement forever, for all I care. But it wouldn’t be much of a life. I was just wondering if you’ve thought about what you’ll do in the future.”
“I’ve been waiting to hear something about Sy Rosen. I hoped the Feds would have tracked him down by now.”
“Hah. Hope and wishes are like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Besides, the Feds have bigger fish to fry than Rosen. Keep in mind that, in the end, he didn’t take any investor money. You saw to that when you wired one point seven billion dollars to the SEC to repay the firm’s clients and their bank. The Feds pretty much lost interest in him after that.” Massarino laughed. “The Feds are probably more interested in tracking down whoever was behind the counterfeit securities deal that brought down Rosen, Rice & Stone.”
“You know I spent four hours with the SEC investigators this morning and they didn’t ask me one question about it. They were a little shocked when I walked in unannounced.”
“I’ll bet. Are they going after you for what happened ten years ago?”
“At first, things were a bit tense. Although there was no one there that remembered the securities fraud of a decade ago, once they pulled the file, the investigators acted as though they’d found a prosecutorial pot of gold. I thought they might handcuff me and throw me in a cell right then and there. But once I gave them the old files I’d taken and explained how my former partners had set me up and sent a hit man after me, and how they’d ruined my marriage and the last ten years of my life, they backed off. After the recent happenings at the Rosen firm, they were more than willing to accept my story.” After a couple seconds, Bruno said, “I think you might be wrong about the Feds not going after Rosen. Putting him on trial for securities fraud and solicitation of murder would be a prosecutor’s dream. Hell, if the Feds could get that Vietnamese woman to testify—”
“Did ya see the article in The Wall Street Journal today about the bank that took over Rosen, Rice & Stone?”
“Yes, I did,” Bruno answered. “The new owner kicked out all the junior partners and a bunch of the employees in the real estate investment and legal departments. Thirty-three people. I guess they’re tainted, as far as the bank’s concerned. Those people will have a tough time finding jobs. I know a lot of them from when I was with the firm. They’re talented and honest. It’s too bad. Unintended collateral damage.”
Massarino waved at Bruno. “I gotta go uptown for a couple hours. I’ll see ya later.” He moved to the bottom of the staircase, but stopped. “As I said before, you can stay here as long as you want. But if you’re hanging around, hoping Rosen turns up or that Vietnamese gal testifies against him, you’re wasting your time.”
“Why do you say that?”
Massarino shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
DAY 25
CHAPTER 35
A flight from Ho Chi Minh City to Phu Quoc Island would have taken a few minutes more than an hour. But the risks associated with her name being in the airline’s computer system were too great. Instead, Nguyen, dressed like a peasant—black pants, white blouse, sandals, and a bamboo coolie hat—boarded a bus at 5 a.m. She carried a tin of soup, two bottles of water, a box of crackers, and a thick wad of Vietnam Dong inside a mesh bag. Also in the bag, wrapped in a towel, was a combat knife with an eight-inch blade.
Ten hours later, the bus pulled into Hà Tiên on the west coast of the mainland, near the Cambodian border. She made her way to the docks where dozens of small fishing boats bobbed against one another. Most of the boats had been abandoned for the day. One improbably frail looking fisherman—he couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds—with a sun-leathered face chattered like an angry bird at a young man who helped him store fishing nets. She could see that his teeth were stained black from chewing betel nuts.
“How much to take me to Phu Quoc?” Nguyen asked.
The weary old fisherman scoffed while the young man leered at Nguyen. The old man looked her over and, apparently thinking she couldn’t afford to pay him enough to sail to Phu Quoc after he’d already spent a dozen hours fishing, waved a dismissive hand. “The first ferry boat leaves at 8:30 in the morning. It’ll only cost you two hundred thirty thousand Dong.”
Nguyen did a quick mental calculation. Between eleven and twelve dollars, she thought. “My mother is very sick. I need to get to her tonight.”
The old man waved her away again.
The younger man laughed, then cursed and spat at the ground. “Go away, woman. We’re tired.”
“How much to take me to Phu Quoc and back tonight?”
The old man threw his hands into the air and shouted, “Hai triệu đồng.” He turned back to his nets.
“Okay,” Nguyen said. “Two million Dong. Half now and half when you bring me back to Hà Tiên.”
She sensed the old man’s mental wheels turning. One hundred dollars was probably much more than he made in a full day of fishing. Both men stopped what they were doing.
“Let me see your money first,” the old man said.
Nguyen reached into her sack and held up a wad of Dong.
They stared open-mouthed for a second and then quickly loaded the nets onto the boat. The elderly man cranked the motor in the wheezy fourteen-foot craft, while the younger man hauled in the anchor with a manual crank.
“How long will it take?” Nguyen asked.
“Where on the island?”
“The Five Oceans Restaurant.”
“Good,” the young one said. “That’s on the eastern side of Phu Quoc. Seven hours if we use the sails.”
“What about the motor?” Nguyen asked.
“Gasoline is expensive.”