TAKEDOWN Page 4

  She thrust a finger at the page on his desk. "Didn't you read the part about how they've co-opted high level people in FBI and SEC and who knows where else?"

  "Yeah. Geezus." Anderson took off his glasses and pinched his fingers into his forehead as if he had a headache. "Yes, this is authentic. There's no way you could make this up. It has the appearance of a scheme to take down the equity markets." His voice carried an incredulous tone. 'The Great One' they refer to is the smartest quant in the industry. He's brilliant -- a physicist who designs memory management systems out loud during interviews. 'The berg' is insider-speak for Silverberg Horne -- the highest volume traders on the Street, and 'Double D' is the nick the players use for Dan Decker. I interviewed Decker when I was doing research for my book. The long and short of it is nobody could figure out how he got the results he earned for his fund. That's why he's called 'Double D' -- for outsized returns, like, uh --."

  "A bra size?" Jane blushed.

  Anderson cleared his throat and bounced the pen faster off the pad of paper. "Trading lingo is full of sexual innuendo," he muttered. "I've wondered if Decker has been running a Ponzi scheme. It would explain his too-good-to-be-believed fund performance."

  "A Ponzi scheme? Is that like a pyramid?"

  Anderson's hands flew palms up. "In a Ponzi, the funds from investors are funneled to an account, and then those funds are used to pay high returns to earlier investors. Of course, the scheme requires a constant stream of new investors, to get new money flowing in to keep the house of cards standing. When the money stops it quickly falls down."

  "Oh. And a take down -- that's like deliberately crashing everything, right? How do they make money on that?"

  "They place short bets, that is, bets against the market, ahead of the crash. When it hits bottom -- or whatever they decide is the bottom -- they buy to cover at a huge profit."

  Jane's shoulder's shook as if she were cold. "People get hurt from this?"

  He sighed. "Big time. The greater damage is to confidence, and it can't be measured. Our financial system runs on trust. Ripple from this panic could cause runs on other markets and financial institutions."

  "People jumping out of windows?"

  He nodded slowly. "Yes. Lives could be destroyed." He took off his glasses and settled them on the desk. "The market is getting crazier by the day. Ultra-fast computerized bids to create noise, complex trading schemes, offshore hedge funds. You name it, they'll try it. It all adds up to high volatility, and the destruction of the relationship between value and stock price. The SEC doesn't have the technology to monitor the crooks, and the last thing they desire is loss of public trust. People have to believe in the safety and stability of their investments. The Feds will cover up before they risk loss of confidence."

  Jane was quiet for a full minute. "OK, I get it -- the markets are like casinos -- but this 'Double D' character must be very powerful, like the mob in Las Vegas or whatever. He's got the BCA calling for my head. I called the FBI Minneapolis office yesterday, and nobody called me back." Had she already said that? She was repeating herself. "Maybe they lost my message. They have to know I'm not the killer. No way! I wasn't fired. Someone wants to squash this, at any cost -- including innocent lives. They'll kill me too. They're searching for me. They took out my whole office." Her voice quavered. "Oh God. Sandy, Dave, Rob . . . " Her voice faded into a sob.

  Jack Anderson reached across the desk and put a hand over her fingers. "'Double D' is nearly untouchable. He's greased the skids -- he's given over a hundred million to charities and politicians. You know Chelton College? He owns it." The light in Jack's eyes flickered as he appeared to switch gears. "Why me, Jane? Why did you come to me for help?"

  She sniffed and wiped her blue eyes. "I can't go home. I can't go to family or friends. They'll track those people down. I had to choose an almost-stranger."

  "Almost? What did you say your name was?"

  "Jane Nelson." She looked into his eyes when she said it, and Jane could see the wheels spinning. He glanced to the left as he remembered the flower delivery.

  "You knew my wife?"

  "I met her on the internet, in a round-about way. I meet a lot of people online lately."

  "OK, Jane Nelson. You know you have to go off the grid, right? How did you get here?"

  "I drove my car. Don't worry -- it's hidden now. I haven't used a credit card or ATM all day. I left my cell phone at the Northtown Mall this afternoon. I need a place to stay."

  "I never thought I'd harbor a fugitive, but my house is available."

  "Thanks. I've done nothing wrong. We have to stop this."

  Anderson looked into her indigo eyes for a full fifteen seconds. "Yes. Oddly, I've found a new purpose."

  "Yeah. Saving the markets from criminals was on my lifetime "to-do" list, too."

  Chapter 8

  Special Agent Felipe Moreno, better known to his colleagues as Phil, had worked through the night on the Woodbury massacre case. At 5 AM he returned to the Minneapolis field office, where he sacked out for forty minutes on a canvas cot.

  Now he was hungry, so he stepped out to catch breakfast at the Washington Ave Cafe before conducting a team briefing in the Criminal Investigative Division conference room. He'd spend no more than 45 minutes with the team, and then he'd pull together what he had to present to his boss, Alden Black, who had the unsavory job of fielding questions at the press conference at Woodbury City Hall at 10:00 AM.

  Moreno had to credit Alden for giving him ample space on this case; the media was all over it, and everybody was making hay on this one -- even the staid Scandahoovian governor planned to give a statement. The bone-crushing pressure to find the perpetrators in the next five minutes had driven him to order a mega-sized coffee.

  He looked up from his menu. The cafe's blonde waitress, wearing a patronizing smile over her ample bosom, was tapping her pencil against her order pad.

  "Ready for something to supplement the caffeine?"

  He nodded. "Give me the number three. Wheat toast. Eggs over easy."

  She scribbled and trotted her girth to the kitchen. Agent Moreno was sandwiched between two full tables, and he couldn't help overhearing other conversations in the small diner.

  On his right side a group of coaches from DeLaSalle Catholic High were going at it. Two of them were grilling the other one, and Felipe thought she defended herself pretty well. Then she talked about one particular student athlete who was apparently very good. Whoever this young lady was, she was a hot topic. They spewed words like "top division one", "leadership", "latest minutes per mile", and then went on to discuss who was following her from the colleges.

  Felipe was reminded of his own history. As a successful prep athlete he'd earned a full scholarship, and he was the first on his family tree to graduate from university. His parents were proud, even prouder when he was accepted to the FBI Academy in Quantico.

  Four businessmen circled the table to Moreno's left, and the heavy one said to a younger man, "if there is a hell, you are going to burn in it!" Felipe turned his ear to this more intriguing conversation, but nobody gave specifics about the accused man's transgression.

  Moreno glanced at his watch. Daylight was burning. He wolfed the rest of his eggs, slapped a ten on the table, and headed back to the job.

  As he entered the office he met Sally and Ray. Both were assigned to his group, and they arrived together. Felipe suspected they had something going, and he had to admit Ray was smart to choose her. Sally was attractive, and a crack analyst to boot. Relationships were common between colleagues, and the FBI didn't have a strict fraternization policy. As long as they didn't engage in afternoon delight during work hours, Felipe was fine with it.

  Team members Tony and Mark arrived at seven o'clock

  "Hey Phil," Mark hailed his boss as he sat down. "I won the football pool."

  Felipe, pacing at the front of the room, stopped and looked at the younger agents. "Let's hope it's a sign. We need a break in this
case." Moreno half-smiled. He was beginning to like the rich kid. Instead of sliding easily into his father's business, Mark had joined the Bureau. At first the younger man was an enigma, and the Yale ring he wore on his manicured hand irritated colleagues. Yet somewhere over the past year he'd removed it, and lately he'd taken to the local culture like a black bear to honey. What was more, Mark worked hard and put in the hours when needed.

  Felipe began a rundown of what they had. He marked status updates and the leads he'd obtained from the Washington County detectives on the white board. Each team member reported on interviews and research.

  Mark chimed in. "The locals aren't hitting the mother lode with the families of the deceased. If something was going on at the office, well, the spouses didn't know about it. The local boys are still trying to track down this Jane Nelson. Nothing so far, but I did sit in the interview with Al Longren, who says he was with her until around 3 pm yesterday. Longren's a Valley View sporting goods client who took her ice fishing at Mille Lacs," Mark explained. "He's CEO of All Pro Tackle. It was the first time he'd met the woman. Apparently she's the quiet type and something of a wallflower. He said she was mildly excited when she caught a big walleye."

  Mark continued. "Being up at Mille Lacs explains why calls to her cell didn't go through. She called our office Wednesday. Nobody called her back until Thursday. Or at least they tried," he added as Moreno marked this observation on the board. "The attempts at call back weren't noted in the log, but Jason was on the desk and he says three calls were made."

  "Not in the log?" Moreno muttered. Odd. Was it simple incompetence? Were the calls really made?

  Mark replied. "No, and we don't know what she was trying to tell us."

  "She's running, Phil," observed Sally. "She thinks she's a suspect."

  She doesn't trust us, thought Moreno. Months before he'd heard some talk about a questionable security group inside the organization, but he'd dismissed it at the time. Black ops?Jesucristo. No wonder the woman wasn't coming in.

  "They haven't found her car yet. Nothing in her apartment."

  Moreno sighed. "We know this was a professional hit -- at least three shooters."

  "That information hasn't been put out for the media yet, so she doesn't know it," Sally wedged in. She opened her field notebook. "Jane Nelson likes to watch movies and read books. No boyfriend. Creative, a vivid imagination, and geeky. Maybe she likes a good conspiracy theory."

  Moreno hooked his thumbs onto his belt. "Maybe, but if not for Jane Nelson's call to our office, I'd say these shooters hit the wrong address. We found two boxes of cocaine in the supply cabinet, obviously planted as a distracter." He cocked his head to the right. "No other evidence of a drug operation, and no evidence of money laundering. The bank records are squeaky clean." He shifted his weight to lean against the table at the front of the room. "We need to bring the elusive Jane in for her own protection."

  Moreno's dark eyes ran over the team. They looked tired, but he was going to press them to their limit.

  "Tony, how's the lab analysis of the computer drives and server going? Anything in the employee emails?"

  "Nothing yet. We're working on it."

  "Ray, what have they got on her family?"

  "A sister here in town, retired parents out of town. They haven't heard from her in a week. We're working on her friends. There's an old college boyfriend, and I talked to her neighbors at the apartment building. They said she was quiet, respectful, didn't have many visitors. No men hanging around. It all fits with Sally's profile."

  Moreno looked at the photo of Jane Nelson plastered on the board below those of the victims. "A young, attractive woman with no social life? What else does she like to do, besides books and movies?"

  "The report from the sister said she swims a mile at a health club every other day, plays table tennis and video games, babysits her niece and nephew, and often takes her vacations with family." Ray flipped his notebook pages as he spoke. "Her medical record shows an accident -- she was hit by a truck six years ago -- a day after her college graduation. She was forced to give up the dream job she'd been hired for in California, and she moved back in with her parents after she got through rehab. It was a long haul, and then she landed the job at the web design outfit, and she was getting back on her feet socially, according to the sister."

  "Sisters are prone to wishful thinking," commented Sally.

  Moreno put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. "So she's a survivor." His jaw tightened. "OK. We'll see more lab results later today. We're working with BCA."

  The crime was heinous, and the leads were thin. Felipe Moreno would find Jane Nelson if it meant working the next three days without sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Jack Anderson's biggest worry had been getting through Christmas without Jillian. Now he was facing Jingle hell. "Ho, ho, ho, boy," he muttered as he patted Buddy's midnight-black head. "I know. I brought home a stray. Don't worry. You're still number one."

  Jane Nelson was holed up in the bathroom trying to "fix herself", as she'd put it, after lying on the back seat of Jack's car for the ride home. Fix herself? She needs to fix a lot more than the dark circles under her gorgeous eyes.For starters, she has to keep from being killed and save the world from terrorists . . .

  Buddy yipped.

  "Hungry Buddy?" The dog cocked his head and wagged his long tail until it whacked the wall. Jack rose from his seat at the kitchen table and headed to the pantry.

  He decided he'd establish ground rules with the woman. Keep it straight and simple and professional, he told himself. He scooped one cup from the kibble bag and dropped it into Buddy's bowl. Then he auto-walked to Buddy's dining spot in the mudroom and lowered the dog dish to the floor. As always, Buddy's eager nose was in the chow before it hit the ground.

  Jack heard the bathroom door creak open, and soft footsteps wandered into his kitchen. Jack stroked Buddy's back one more time, sucked in a deep breath, and turned to face his new life challenge.

  She was seated at the table, back to the window. "Warm place," she commented. "But kinda' green for my taste."

  He laughed. "Mint green, sage green, hunter green. The colors weren't my idea."

  A grin edged up on her face. "It didn't go over the top until I saw the leafy wallpaper in the bathroom. Hey, what's with the motorcycle in the living room?"

  Jack leaned against the kitchen counter, his long legs spread wide. "You know, it has a mind of its own, and there was nobody to stop it from coming in through the French doors."

  "Heh. A grand piano came through the sliding back door at my parent's place, and my Dad couldn't stop it either. You know, those tires are totally goth. Metal studs? Are those for climbing Mount Everest?"

  "Huh. Only if I add oxygen tanks. It's a flat track bike I've customized for ice racing. I hope to have it perfectly tuned for the St. Paul Winter Carnival race on Phalen. I've got time. It's two months away, but I've finished adjustments on the front forks, and I can test on the conditions down there in the days before the event. Living two blocks from the lake gives me a big advantage over the competition."

  She slapped a hand to her forehead. "Zow! Math professor AND moto-bad boy! I'm beginning to feel like I hit the jackpot here."

  "Well, sure you did." Jack grinned. "My brother and I were motocross racers when we were teens, but then I switched over to ice racing to get away to Canada whenever I could, and now I join in on the occasional exhibition event."

  "How fast do you go?"

  "Top speed around 80 miles per hour. The bikes are all two-gear, no brakes. My wife wasn't keen on it, so I slowed it down these past few years, but I keep Winter Carnival -- it's fun, and more show than blood competition. Winter Carnie a good ride for an old man like me."

  "I've never ridden on a motorcycle."

  "Perhaps I can fix that deficit sometime."

  "Hmmm." Jane eyed a pile of books stacked on the kitchen countertop. "Fitting," she muttered.

  "Wha
t?"

  "You've got Stephen King's latest, Desperation, alongside Ambrose's Undaunted Courage. I've read both."

  "Which did you enjoy more?"

  Her brow wrinkled. "Courage".

  "Me too. Lewis and Clark is a great story."

  "It is. Too bad about the ending for Lewis."

  An awkward silence ensued.

  Jack moved across the room and opened the refrigerator door. "It's nearly nine o'clock. I'm hungry. How about you?"

  "I guess. I haven't had anything since lunch. My stomach's been tied in knots anyway."

  "You're in luck." He talked into the cold box. "Your face isn't on the milk carton."

  She stared blankly at his muscular backside. "Great. Thanks for the status report."

  "I can reheat a tater tot hot dish." He pulled the Pyrex casserole from the middle shelf and crossed to the microwave oven on the opposite wall. Phoebe had delivered the meal the previous day, and now Jack realized he'd best call his mother-in-law to tell her he'd be out of town for a while, at a conference or whatever. He punched the buttons to heat the food.

  Jack pulled two plates from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

  "You have the one brother then?" she asked.

  "Yeah. He teaches down in Madison. We grew up in Green Bay. My dad's a high school principal."

  "Ouch. A Packer fan."

  "All the way. How about you?"

  "I'm a fair-weather Viking."

  "You grew up here?"

  "Stillwater and Lake Elmo. I have one sister. My Dad is a retired 3Mer. He knows all there is to know about tape. Believe me, we never had an adhesion crisis at our house.

  The oven beeped, and Jack grabbed a dishtowel, wrapped it around the glass dish, and pulled it from the oven. Then he yanked open a drawer and rifled through the utensils until he found a large spoon. He scooped the casserole onto the plates and carried them to the table.

  "Can I help?"

  "Sure. Grab some forks from the drawer over there." Jack nodded to a bank of oak cabinets.