Without the daily presence of Mr Christopoulos, Carmine’s casual M.O. grew careless. He left copied documents by the communal printer for hours, so I made additional sets of his private papers. This went on through January until it was all there in black and white. Carmine was not only diverting several fragrances to South America and the Middle East, and flooding the North American market. He’d created the covert company that manufactured the counterfeit brands. I no longer suspected gambling. Backpacks jammed with cash and knock-offs looked more like money laundering or fraud.
I sat at my desk, head-in-hands. This accounted for the profitability of ‘other business models.’ I thought about our North American stores’ loss of market share for the brands we represented. Carmine was slowing down my sales, causing the P&L to look like we were losing money. At the same time he reported manipulated income or revenue to the IRS. Tax evasion.
My Determination to keep my team ignorant and safe kept me silent even when Dustin or Jennifer raised eyebrows on their own. I ached thinking Mr Christopoulos knew about this illegal activity but piecing together earlier events, conversations, and back story forced reality on me. Had he brought me in for legitimacy? Put me under contract while concealing the fine print? Alarm shredded my concentration but fuelled my determination to stay on task and make sense of the situation.
A few weeks later on the way home I got caught in a frozen February storm and ducked into the nearly-empty Surrey Hotel bar at Seventy-seventh and Madison. A man in a dripping trench coat slid onto the next stool and I dug into my purse to avoid chat.
“Emma Paige, don’t react just listen.” A Tommy Lee Jones drawl came at my ear. “I’m federal agent Munz. We’ve been tracking you for weeks and have some questions. I need you to calmly get up, retrieve your coat. Exit through the back door to the SUV parked just outside. We can talk in the back seat.”
Right. No way would I swallow a trite, B movie spiel from some Texas who-hah Isgro henchman. “I am not getting off this stool, let alone waltzing through a back exit with you.”
He slid a folder under my nose. “Open it.”
“Look—”
“Open it, Mrs Paige.”
I skimmed authentic, illegal Ciao!Beauty and Kinetic information only a federal investigative agency would have. Next came his ID. Agent Munz represented the FBI. I did as directed.
Rainy rush hour and round-the-clock World Trade Centre demolition slowed our excursion to Lower Manhattan. The crawl and his impassive silence exacerbated total terror all the way to twenty-six Federal Plaza. When we finally reached a generic office on the twenty-third floor (wired for sure), I asked to call my husband. I was a workaholic, I babbled. He probably suspected nothing. Still, I was two hours overdue.
In case our apartment phones were bugged, I had to say I was still at the office. Bugged phones? I called, apologised, told Ethan I loved him, and hung up. The men in black offered me coffee as Agent Munz explained the case began two years earlier.
Hells bells.
They had to determine my involvement in illegal activities.
Bloody hells bells. I was in no way involved, but recently noted abnormal, possibly illegal activities, I said. “In fact I’ve started my own file. Do I need an attorney?”
“Not at this time,” Agent Munz replied. “Though you have the right to counsel if you think you need it.”
I said not at the moment and wiped my palms on my skirt.
There was not a shred of doubt I’d have to prove my innocence.
The agents expected to close the case within weeks. “Still,” Agent Munz said, “To insure you’re not implicated, we need you to put eyes and ears in the office. You’ll wear a wire to gather the final evidence that will shut them down.”
Oh my God. Oh my God. I fought terror and tears this time. “May I think about it? Can we meet tomorrow night with my attorney?”
They agreed, took me out through the rear of the Federal Building to an SUV, and sped me home where I was also to keep this from Ethan somehow. I embellished my earlier lie with traffic and headache complaints and went directly to bed, convinced the FBI had the apartment under surveillance. The minute Ethan left on morning commute I called Darlene Duke’s private line and begged to meet with her. I then emailed Carmine of my delay due to a doctor’s appointment.
My attorney was her usual snippy self. “Lucky for you I’m experienced in dealing with government agencies. Good lord, Emma, how the hell did you get involved with these idiot gangsters?”
“I swear I had no idea until a few weeks ago and I won’t sleep until the FBI puts this plan together. The FBI! They practically kidnapped me. Tell me you can be there tonight.”
She agreed. From there I went to work and smothered anxiety in the routine. Of all days Carmine burst into my office falling over himself to tell me he’d brought a new brand into the company. I was to think about ideas for merchandising it.
We’d fine-tuned avoidance since the elevator incident. Asking for advice? Appearing to enjoy my company? This had to be a setup. Caution kept be vigilant but an hour of stupid questions and ignorance convinced me the man was clueless. I finished the day checking my watch every thirty minutes, closed my door at five and promptly ran into Cabinet Guys in the hall.
“You’re leaving early tonight. Big date?”
“Dinner with Ethan.”
I fled for the town car and onward to negotiations. Darlene and the FBI made it clear it was in my best interest to cooperate for two weeks. Agents, posing as utility workers for Kinetic office repairs, would provide surveillance to the team sequestered in the corporate space across from our interior entrance. Once they had sufficient evidence, I would be excluded from legal proceedings to protect my career, my identity and my life. To further remove me from suspicion, the FBI would pounce on my routinely scheduled quarterly getaway.
Two training sessions kick started my out-of-body experience. I learned to bugs phones, attach tiny cameras on TV screens, and conceal surveillance items in small objects. A female agent came to my apartment, fit me with apparatus and chose attire to hide it. I spent all conversations with board members wired. Freaking mission accomplished.
Complete relief nearly normalised my behaviour when Ethan and I left Thursday night for our 1770 House, East Hampton long getaway. Dustin and Jennifer called Friday morning from breakfast to our bundled beach walk when I finally picked up.
“I have no clue what’s going on but until the dust settles, don’t talk to anyone. I’d go home and stay home.” I hung up and slung my arm through Ethan’s. “Major office shake up.”
“How shook up?” He pulled me against his down jacket. “You know you want nothing to do with any half-assed gambling operation like the numbers system you pretended to be interested in, right?”
“Right.”
“And that means nothing to do with that Carmine guy.”
“I’ll probably know more when I go back Tuesday.” Snow dusted the sand as I hugged his arm. Except for my level of anxiety, the long weekend remained uneventful.
Tuesday morning I returned to work and exited the elevator. Thick silver chains shackled our door handles. A professionally printed notice plastered our entrance:
THIS COMPANY IS CLOSED
INDEFINITELY PENDING INVESTIGATION
Like a cheesy movie scene, I leaned against the wall, slid into a crouch and cried myself hoarse. When composure finally returned, I went home and called Mr Christopoulos.
“Emma! We are in a terrible emergency. Such chaos and confusion. Oh, my dear dear Emma, I am so very sorry. You have no work. So many worries. You must make a promise to stay away from all this mess. You don’t deserve to be dragged into it.”
