She watched them for any hint of deception when she shook his hand and realized she must have seen the exact same thing his wife did when she needed to convince herself that she was the only one. He gestured for her to enter his office and closed the door after her.
She stood behind the chair in which she’d been meant to sit and leaned on its plush back. He stood before the tinted glass windows with his domain at his back for a long moment before taking a seat, crossing his left leg over his right, and tenting his fingers on his knee. He cocked a curious eyebrow in her direction.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Special Agent Lawton. Or ever again, for that matter.”
“Neither did I, Mr. Lloyd. Although I can’t say I’m quite as disappointed as you look.”
He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. He knew that it had been at her urging that he’d been audited, both personally and professionally, after the tragedy. While it was really more of an inconvenience than anything else since he had a fleet of corporate accountants and tax lawyers on staff, he obviously viewed it as the attack it was meant to be. That he’d come back clean of any malfeasance and not a single decimal point had been out of place was irrelevant. At least to Lawton. The way she saw it, the kind of president and CEO you could walk in and find behind his desk on a Tuesday morning was the kind of man who knew exactly what the prime movers on his staff were doing at any given point in time. His peripheral involvement in the Hargrove case could be viewed as coincidental, even though it had made him the type of fortune about which men can only dream, one that allowed him to anoint himself king of an empire that had been in the Webster family for four generations, right up until the last Webster had walked away so quickly one might almost call it running. The fact that Lloyd’s new company came up at all in the investigation into the second nightmare caused by a teenager with a painted face and the simultaneous dumping of roughly a third of his company’s overall holdings stretched even the definition of coincidence.
“So…pleasantries aside, shall we cut to the quick?”
“Are you familiar with what happened on the IND Queens Line this morning?”
“Terrible tragedy. Just terrible. Do they know why the train went off the rails yet? Rumor has it there was some kind of explosion. Seems to me that’s the kind of thing the FBI might want to have all of its available agents running down, don’t you?”
“We have to follow every possible lead, Mr. Lloyd.”
“Oh? I sincerely doubt you’ll find any terrorists here.”
“Who said anything about terrorism?”
“I suppose the mind jumps quickly from explosion to bomb to terrorist all on its own these days. Especially here. Did you know we watched the Twin Towers fall from the windows of our old office? That’s the kind of thing that forces you to take a good long look at your life and ask yourself if you’re really making the most of the time you’ve been given.”
“I can’t see how you could possibly be making any more.”
“There’s always more to be made, Special Agent. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, go ahead and state your business. While trading in Europe is already done for the day and the New York Stock Exchange has yet to open, I assure you that the market never sleeps.”
“Speaking of Wall Street, can you explain why you purged such a large portion of your holdings within minutes of final call yesterday afternoon?”
“If it’s any of your business, every trade we make is a product of analytics, experience, and instinct. We make money for our clients not by following the trends, but by setting them. It’s our business model to predict what’s going to happen in the market on any given day and anticipate how investors will respond to the subtle changes in order to capitalize on them. Anymore, I really just dabble from time to time to remind myself that I’m still alive. I have a whole team of brokers analyzing the market and running prognostications every minute of every day.”
“It’s obvious when it comes to making predictions that no one does it as well as you and your team. So tell me, how does one predict the crash on a subway train that kills more than forty people?”
He smirked, leaned forward, and wagged a finger at her.
“You take me too literally, Special Agent. That’s your business, not ours. We simply make money.”
“How much do you imagine you’ll make this morning when the market opens after the four-hour delay caused by the tragedy?”
“There’s really no way of knowing for sure. I’m confident we’ll hold our own, though.”
“Like you did in the wake of the shootings at New Brunswick?”
“You’re wasting your time trying to vilify me. I’ve had many days in the interim when I’ve made a whole lot of money.”
“But not as much as you stand to make this morning, isn’t that right?”
“Indulge me.” He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Tell me how I’m going to make all of this money today. Believe me, that’s the kind of thing I’d really like to know.”
“All right. Just over twelve hours ago your company unloaded tens of thousands of shares of Isilon Systems, Acme Packet, and Netflix, all of which were up nearly two hundred and fifty percent from the point at which you purchased them.”
“That is how one makes money in the market, Special Agent. Buy low, sell high. Please correct me if I’m wrong. All told, I’d imagine those three stocks alone made our investors and shareholders somewhere in the neighborhood of eight billion dollars. Where I come from, that’s called a solid business decision.”
“Now consider the fact that the market is predicted to open somewhere around twenty percent down from yesterday.”
“Then I’d be a fool not to buy back solid earners like that, wouldn’t I?”
“Some might say you were a fool for bailing out of them when—even in a disastrous economic climate like this one—they showed no indication of reversing, or even slowing, their upward trend. But they couldn’t have foreseen the one point six billion dollars you’ll make today simply by buying back the exact same shares, could they?”
“I sense an accusation somewhere in there, Special Agent, but surely you can’t be suggesting I had anything to do with—as you said—a train derailment that might or might not have been caused by a bomb. And I find it hard to believe my company is the only one that made big moves during the past week, especially on the eve of the end of the third quarter and all.”
“Oh, you weren’t,” Lawton said. She pushed back from the chair and straightened her jacket over the bulge of the Glock beneath her left shoulder. “Prestige Equities did, as well. I stopped by there first, but out of respect for the victims of the tragedy, their families, and the employees affected, they suspended all operations for the day.”
Lawton turned and headed for the door. She wanted to have the uncomfortable expression that crossed Lloyd’s face be the last thing she saw. She wanted to savor it.
“I can see myself out.” She hoped he could hear the smile in her voice. “But rest assured…I’ll be back.”
Nine
Bowery
Lower Manhattan
New York, New York
September 29th
11:33 a.m.
One hundred and fifty-three minutes post-event.
The streets were deserted, save for the occasional police cruiser blocking an intersection and keeping back idiotic onlookers who, for whatever asinine reason, thought the benefits of getting a peek at the mass casualty event outweighed the risk of the most painful death imaginable by a chemical agent classified as a weapon of mass destruction, one that could kill them with the faintest whiff or skin contact. The officers on the street wore full CBRNE suits in jet black to distinguish themselves from the federal agents in gray-scale urban camouflage, not that the Colt M4 carbines didn’t serve that purpose every bit as effectively.
Lawton and Badgett used that as their cue to don the hoods and masks of the matching suits that had been waiting f
or them at the hastily erected National Guard staging area in Central Park, where the people displaced by the chemical attack on Wall Street were being set up in tents and awaiting treatment and food from Red Cross volunteers. The sidewalks were positively lined with newscasters using the chaos of bodies as a backdrop for their live broadcasts.
Everything south of Chambers Street to the west and the Brooklyn Bridge to the east had been evacuated, essentially closing off the entire southern tip of the island. Every possible ingress was already barricaded and staffed by National Guardsmen whose orders were to ID everyone making an effort to either enter or exit the restricted area, then get them the hell out of there. Unlike most disasters of this magnitude, they at least had little fear of rioting and looting. Those within the roughly ten-square-block cordon had witnessed the unimaginable suffering on television or in person and wanted no part of it.
Lawton’s pool Crown Victoria rocketed straight down Bowery. She didn’t bother with the siren. The NYPD did exactly as they’d promised they would and cleared the road of all traffic and moved stalled and abandoned cars out of her way. The side streets were barricaded. People were gathered on rooftops and balconies in hopes of getting a glimpse of the nightmare to the south or the drama unfolding on TV from Central Park to the north, or, failing at that, a good look at whatever had caused them to close down the busy thoroughfare.
Badgett’s phone rang. He answered it before the first chime even finished. His side of the conversation was brief and involved little more than a couple of grunts. He disconnected with a beep.
One hundred and fifty-five minutes post-event.
“You were right. The kid blew off school two days each week for the last six weeks. According to the school, his father called him in, so as far as they were concerned, he was legitimately excused.”
“Including today?”
“You got it.”
“Considering the father’s in LA and the mother was obviously looking forward to him being at school, I’m guessing he either pretended to be his father and called himself in, or else our guy did it for him. What’s their call-in protocol?”
“They have to talk to one of the secretaries if they call in after seven, but if they call in before then—”
“They can leave a message on the school’s voice mail.”
“Bingo.”
His phone rang again. He made no move to answer it and let the call go to voicemail.
“And our boy?”
“His quote-unquote father left a message at quarter to seven.”
“They still have it?”
“They deleted it, but our guys were able to retrieve it.”
“I want it compared to the voiceprint of the sample we recovered from the kid’s computer.”
“Way ahead of you. We ought to hear back in a matter of minutes. In the meantime, I figured you’d want to hear it for yourself.”
Bowery turned to St. James as they blew past China Town, barely recognizable for its lack of frenetic activity. The entire city was on self-imposed lockdown, at least those who didn’t make it off the island before the National Guard and gridlock sealed off the bridges and tunnels.
Badgett plugged his cell phone into the USB adapter in the dashboard. He pressed a series of buttons to access his voicemail and then followed the prompts to play the most recently received message, which, according to the time stamp, came in one minute ago.
St. James became Pearl and Pearl turned to Water Street. The buildings down here in the Financial District were so tall they blocked out the sun and those who made their homes and livings here did so in a world of perpetual shadow. At least those who couldn’t afford to live in the penthouse suites above the haze of car exhaust, where the last of the fresh air was kept secreted from the East River.
Two more blocks south and two to the west. Lawton had gotten to know this area well during the last five years, although she’d never seen it so utterly desolate.
One hundred and fifty-seven minutes post-event.
“Here we go,” Badgett said.
“Um, yes. Hello.” It was the same voice. No doubt about it. The same electronic undertones with the same bass modifications. Granted, he had made an effort to make himself sound like an older man, but Lawton didn’t need to wait for formal voiceprint analysis to know for sure. “This is Charles Billington. My son Logan won’t be attending classes today. I’m afraid he’s suffering from yet another migraine. If you have any questions, please feel free to call me at two-one-two, six-four-six, oh-two-three-one. Thank you for your understanding.”
“Any doubt?” Badgett said.
“None. You?”
“That’s our Yogi Bear, all right.”
“Your guys try the number?”
“Please.”
“And?”
“It belonged to a prepaid cell phone that’s since been disconnected. Meaning no, we can’t track it by GPS. And yes, it matched the incoming number on the school’s Caller ID.”
Lawton turned from Water onto Wall Street, heading the wrong way down the deserted one-way street. There were still black Ford Explorers and Crown Vics sealing off Wall Street at Broad, near the New York Stock Exchange. There was also a fleet of refrigerated panel trucks they’d been forced to lease in order to keep the victims’ remains both preserved and isolated. At last count, they had more than twelve hundred bodies in the process of identification, but they were waiting to release a final number until all of the apartments and offices in the surrounding buildings were cleared. As the sarin had been dispersed by means of an aerosol unit, its dispersion pattern was beholden to the prevailing winds, which at any point in time were largely unpredictable down here in these urban canyons near the confluence of the Hudson and the East Rivers.
“That’s it right there,” Badgett said. “Seventy-five Wall.”
Lawton drove right up onto the brick curb and screeched to a halt within feet of the revolving doors. The building was a thirty-story residential tower with a red marble and bronze façade. A stylized eagle hung high up in the nook of the arched three-story entryway.
One hundred and sixty minutes post-event.
She jumped out of the car and ran to the door. The protective suit restricted her movements and the boots were cumbersome. Her breath sounds echoed from the respirator. She blew through the doors and the ornate lobby. Ran past shiny silver couches and chairs. Walls covered with an irregular pattern of light and dark wood squares. To the red elevator corridor, where four reflective stainless steel doors waited. Pushed the button.
She half-expected the light not to come on, but they’d obviously restored power to the grid after initially shutting it off. The door to her right opened. She lunged inside and held the door for Badgett, who pushed the button for the sixteenth floor.
The speed at which it ascended was even more maddening than the canned music. Nineties stuff she only vaguely recognized. A boy band song, minus the vocals. Watched the number climb.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
“Which apartment number?”
“Sixteen oh eight.”
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Lawton racked the slide of her Glock. Chambered a round.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
She squeezed sideways through the doors before the elevator even dinged their arrival. Turned left into the main hallway. Sprinted to her left.
1612.
1610.
1608.
Turned the handle. Locked. Stepped back. Kicked to the right of the knob. Once. Again. A cracking sound and the door splintered inward. She shouldered through. The door struck the wall behind it. Bounced back and hit Badgett as he came through low behind her.
Lawton swept her Glock from left to right. The living room. Fireplace and mantel against the wall to her right. Windows on the far wall, directly ahead. No blinds. No furniture. Nothing but bare floor. To her le
ft, a bedroom. Again, totally bare. A bathroom that serviced both rooms. Clean and empty.
She returned to the living room.
“Kitchen’s empty, too,” Badgett said.
Lawton lowered her weapon and walked to the window. Stared down at the street. The Café Wall Street, permanently closed. An abandoned food vendor cart. Toppled on its side. Pressed her cheek to the glass and craned her neck to see down the street to her left. She could see all the way to Broad, where teams of agents in CBRNE suits flooded the intersection around the corner from the NYSE.
The monster probably stood where she was standing right now and watched the people come running around the corner away from Broad. Screaming. Dropping in the streets. Dying. He probably watched right up until the emergency vehicles started arriving, then strolled casually out into the chaos and vanished into the crowds.
Lawton shouted in frustration and punched the window. She watched the pane reverberate against the backdrop of the roof of the building across the street while she composed herself.
One hundred and sixty-three minutes post-event.
“How much do you figure a place like this runs?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten grand a month.”
“A hundred twenty grand for a year’s lease on a place he essentially used for the Wi-Fi. Why spend that much when you could set yourself up somewhere else for a fraction of the cost?”
“You can’t wear a bear mask into a Starbuck’s without drawing attention to yourself.”
“I mean, why here? Why this particular building? He could pay half as much six blocks north of here.”
The Event Page 6
