by Ken Morris
But then, a day-trader’s rampage cut Dawson’s inquiry short. Bullshit. If Zerets, or whatever the hell his real name was, hadn’t blown himself up, nobody would have bought that idiotic story. Now, the agent remained alone in his lingering doubt. He didn’t believe for a minute Zerets committed suicide. Someone set the swine up—Dawson didn’t know how, but the murderer was just another disposable pawn.
Same with Stanley Drucker—a dimwit who couldn’t lead a barbell to gravity—yet somehow had managed to move hundreds of millions of dollars in and out of his managed accounts at a numbing velocity. And except for recent losses, he had made ungodly returns on his investments. Then, after an initial visit by Dawson, came his monumental suicide. And everything fell so damn conveniently into place: Drucker loses millions of dollars and is depressed. According to his ex-wife, he has a history of alcoholism and violence. A search of his house uncovers materials and instructions on bomb-making. Since not a molecule of Drucker remains, there is nothing more to pursue. The Director of Enforcement’s Special Assistant, Freeman Ranson, even suggests that Dawson had pushed too hard and set Drucker off.
And because of Ranson, the pressure on Dawson increased daily. Ranson took every opportunity to criticize—claimed Dawson felt bitter over having failed with the Treasury manipulation case he’d brought, and failed to make stick, against Stenman Partners a few years back. That he always pushed too hard and needed to back off and be less passionate. Some of what Ranson said was true. Dawson was bitter—damn bitter— but that had nothing to do with this case. People had committed crimes that dug deeply into the financial system, maybe deeply enough to stagger a few Wall Street institutions. Dawson felt the filth in the joints of his bones and it pained him. He cared about the law. To him, it mattered.
“You don’t listen to anyone and you’re dangerous, Dawson,” Ranson had said in front of the Director. “You’ve got a weak case and you go nuts, threatening people. Somebody needs to clip your wings.”
“Ranson’s an asshole,” Dawson now said as he clamped shut the file. “A flaming asshole.” The agent found himself wishing he stood six-foot, two inches and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, instead of five-six and one hundred and forty. If he had the size, he’d kick Ranson’s ass. Maybe not kick his ass, but threaten to kick his ass and scare the shit out of him.
“Mr. Dawson? Oliver?” Angela Newman, the secretary he shared with two other agents, stood at his door. “Did you need something?” she asked.
With his office door always open and the walls paper thin, Angela had heard his outburst.
“No. Talking to myself.” His head bent down to his thick-soled black shoes. He put the more scuffed of the two behind the other. It was a clumsy attempt to hide the fact that in over a year, he had yet to get a shoeshine.
“If you’re sure.” She turned and stepped away.
“Angela,” Dawson said, reacting to an impulse. “Can you ring the FBI lab? Find out who did the tests on those materials I got in May from San Diego?”
“Certainly.” Angela, raw-boned, with a narrow chin and crooked teeth, smiled. “Anything else?” she asked.
Dawson felt flush. He liked Angela and wished he wasn’t such a coward. Nobody would care if he dated his secretary. Ask her if she’s free for a drink after work, he urged himself. “Uh, maybe if you . . .” He stalled.
“If I what?” She batted her eyes.
“ . . . if you wouldn’t mind making that call now, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, Oliver.”
Dammit, he scolded himself.
Fidgeting, he watched her turn and leave. Her dress draped long and limp, a floral pattern with bunched shoulders and a pink ribbon cinched around her tiny waist and tied in a bow. Stringy, dirty-blond hair brushed against her collar in the back just before she disappeared around the corner. The others in the office made fun of Angela, calling her the old maid. She was thirty-five—younger than him. Not old, he thought. And even if the others didn’t like her looks, Dawson found her expressions kind.
One day, he vowed, I’m going to ask her out.
Dawson picked up his soda and downed the last three ounces. He pulled open his drawer and grabbed another can, listened to the hiss of the airborne carbonation—a whisper of his addiction—then took a deep swig and waited. Waited for a break. Waited for someone to step forward and give him another lead. Waited for Angela Newman. Waiting—that’s something he had long ago become accustomed to.
Fifteen minutes later, Angela returned to his open door, “The FBI lab technician?” She had tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” Dawson asked, attempting to present as pleasant a look as possible.
“Had an accident.”
“Terrific. Let me guess. He’s off work for a month and I can’t get my damn files back.”
“It’s—” Her voice shook. “It’s worse. He was with another agent. Killed. Shot in a horrible accident.”
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“When the friggin’ hell did that happen?”
She hunched over. “Two or three weeks...” she said.
“What a coincidence. About the same time Cannodine and Drucker are getting blown to bits.” Dawson seeped his rage through Angela’s tears— and softened. “I’m sorry. I care. Sometimes I get too emotional.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell is going on?” Dawson asked. “Angela, are you okay?”
“I think so.” She bit her lower lip.
“When you’re ready, see if I can get back the originals I sent for analysis—that would include a short letter, copies of ledger pages, notes, and two transcripts of phone calls.” He put the soda can against his burning cheek.
“I already asked,” she said. “They refuse to release any records until the deceased’s cases have been reassigned and the technicians have had a chance to evaluate his work.”
“How long will that take?” Dawson stood and trudged around his desk. Finishing his soda, he crushed the thin aluminum can and slammed it into the trash container. The clang echoed off the sides of both the can and his skull.
“Several weeks,” Angela said.
“Tell them this is top priority. Tell them I want everything as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I tell them anything else?”
“Yeah. Tell them . . . No. Forget it. I guess I’m just going to have to friggin’ wait.”
“Is that all, sir?” she asked, struggling with the words.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
The second she left, Dawson went to the open window, stuck his head out, and yelled, “Fuck it all!”
Through the noises of downtown D.C., his words died before they hit any ears other than his own. His voice barely qualified as sound.
Figures, he thought.
The door hinges chirped as Peter entered Ayers’ office. The attorney, propped upright against the front of his desk, greeted him with a wan smile. When Peter took a step forward, Ayers straightened up and offered his hand. The attorney stood an inch taller than Peter, and, with fingers like thick noodles, offered a limp handshake. Dressed like the millionaire he was, Ayers had regained much of the dignity he’d lost the morning he’d come to Peter’s apartment and broken down. Peter also looked refreshed in a blue suit—not a designer label like Ayers’, but still neat and a good fit. An outsider would not have recognized these two from their rendezvous over two weeks ago.
The office air held the scent of pungent flowers—somehow familiar— but mixed with tobacco smoke. Ayers’ face pointed away. Peter turned just as a woman’s voice said, “Hello, Mr. Neil.”
The woman from the elevator now eyed him as she leaned over her cane, all the while coddling a cigarette wedged inside a slim, plastic holder. She didn’t inhale deeply, but managed an endless stream of exhale.
“I didn’t see you when I entered,” Peter said, stumbling over his words.
His mind had just enough time to wonder who she was bef
ore she said, “I am Stenman.”
“You’re Morgan Stenman? I assumed . . .” Peter felt exponentially disoriented. Suddenly, knowing this was Stenman, the metal cane became an extension of her metal arm, her metal chest, shoulder, neck, and head. Cast in iron, she was an element of the earth, basic and impenetrable. Beyond flesh and blood.
“You expected a man,” Morgan said.
“I confess, I did. And that makes me a moron.” Peter’s face reddened. If his pants had fallen to his knees, exposing his privates, he couldn’t have felt more foolish.
“I gather you don’t watch much investment television,” Ayers said in Peter’s defense. “Morgan is an advisor to presidents and a glass-ceiling breaker of the first order.”
“Being flat broke, I watch no business TV. My portfolio consists of a couple boxes of cereal and a pint of milk for my cat.”
Stenman nodded. “Clever.”
Peter didn’t think she sounded sincere. “Put a foot in your mouth often enough,” he said, “and you develop strategies for getting the damn thing out. Nice to meet you, Ms. Stenman.” He offered his hand.
“I do not shake hands.” She leaned back, creating a few inches of additional space between herself and Peter. “From this point forward,” she continued, “if you intend to work for me, refer to me as Morgan.”
“If I intend to work for you?” Peter’s voice wavered between unbelieving and hopeful.
She took a calculated puff.
Ayers chimed in, “Your choice, Peter.”
Peter did not risk a moment’s hesitation. “If it’s up to me, then yes.”
“Good,” Ayers said. “Morgan informs me that you’ll start out doing trade processing and projects. If you are half as intelligent as I’ve assured her, you will progress quickly to more important assignments.”
Stenman held up her hand and Ayers immediately fell silent. “I am not offering you a job just because my long-time friend and attorney says to,” she said. “If you accept the challenge, then know this: your value as a human being will be measured by how much money you make for my firm, yourself, and me. You must make the necessary sacrifices. That is understood?”
Peter guessed her manner of speaking and accent were Eastern European. He blinked for the first time in a minute. “That’s the American way.” His face turned red over the triteness of his response.
“Indeed. The American way,” agreed Ayers. “Your beginning salary will be minimal—seventy-five thousand—but once you pass your probationary period, in a month, that will increase to a hundred. If you make it through year end, you will be eligible for a bonus.”
Peter doubted he had heard correctly. “Seventy-five thousand dollars?”
Stenman gave him a harsh look. “That is inadequate?” She had charcoal eyes—cold now but combustible.
“No, no,” Peter said. “Fine. More than fine.”
Peter knew he had failed to hide his shock. Seventy-five K was nearly twice what he’d been pulling-in writing mortgage loans. The thought of a hundred K and a down-the-road-bonus knocked his heart against his backbone.
“Now, Peter,” Ayers said, “about the loan secured against your mother’s house . . .”
Peter mentally switched gears. “The loan? Once I verify income, I can schedule repayment.”
“No,” Ayers said. “Stenman Partners will arrange to pay off the second mortgage—and keep the house from going up for sale. You should be able to handle the original loan on your own. With Morgan’s permission, I’ve already cut a check for fifty thousand dollars. The amount will be deducted from your year-end bonus.”
“Am I dreaming?” Peter asked, looking to Ayers.
“I erase your debts,” Stenman said, “because I do not want my employees’ attention diverted from business. Any other questions?”
“When do I start?” Peter asked, thinking they had way overpaid for him. He would have been happy to work for half what they offered and been satisfied with the annual five percent raises the rest of the world lived with. When you’ve had dose after dose of shit luck, you get used to the smell. He tried not to, but worried there had to be a catch.
“You begin tomorrow. Five-thirty,” Ayers answered. “New York markets open at half past six, but foreign markets trade all night.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Peter sputtered.
“Show up on time and do what it takes not to fail.” Stenman’s voice sounded guttural.
“Dress is smart-casual, Peter.” Ayers chuckled. “Only Martha Stewart knows what that means.”
“You report to Howard Muller—third floor.” As Stenman spoke, obliterating Ayers’ attempt at lightening the mood, Peter’s head jerked back to her. “Now,” she said in a dismissive tone, “I have other matters to discuss with my attorney.”
Ayers guided Peter away with a hand on his elbow. As Peter stepped out, the older man said, “Good luck.”
The office door clicked shut before Peter could respond. He closed his mouth and stumbled across the firm’s main floor, shocked a bombshell hadn’t exploded at the last second and shattered this amazing karma. Before exiting, he glanced toward the corner of the room where he had first seen Kate Ayers. She held a phone to her ear, but mouthed the words to Peter, “Goodbye, see you at seven.”
Peter nodded and drifted down the hallway. At the elevator, he punched the air with his fist in a subdued celebration. What a turnabout, he thought. Seventy-five plus bonus. Going to a hundred if I make it.
“I’ll make it all right,” he swore. “For that kind of money, I’ll learn everything. Do what I’m told. Do whatever it takes.”
Once Peter stepped outdoors, the sun penetrated his clothes and warmed his flesh. The air smelled sweet. The traffic rang vibrant. He now understood what it felt like to be at the center of a universe with all matter revolving around you. It felt exhilarating.
CHAPTER FIVE
BULLY’S RESTAURANT HAS A LOUD BAR AND DECENT STEAKS. At night, it is always crowded, attracting off-track bettors who migrate in as a clique to drink and distort their successes. The place is perpetually nighttime dark, smells of dripping fat, has crisscrossing wood beams, and yet it managed to feel intimate in the half-wall booth where Peter and Kate shared fifteen years of stories.
After several minutes of catch-up, they got around to ordering a bottle of Cabernet. Once the wine arrived, Peter said, “You look great. I can’t believe you’ve grown up into . . . well, into this . . .” He spread his arms, palms upturned in the gesture of a man offering up something special.
“Little ol’ me?” she asked, flapping her eyelids in mock Southern Belle style. “You mean this beautiful, alluring, sexy diva?” Kate smiled, then laughed. The combination represented a pattern both genuine and frequent.
“My thoughts exactly.” Peter put his hand over hers and rubbed. The gesture reminded him of the last time he had seen his mother alive. As they stood in the shadows of the building that morning, he had taken her hand and circled the back with his thumb in an attempt to calm her. In a reflex, Peter abruptly withdrew his hand from Kate’s.
“Did I do something?” she asked.
He exhaled deeply and regretted the sudden melancholy, but his emotions had just caromed around a place he found difficult to escape. Peter wondered if his mother had seen Kate at any time over the years. And did Kate suspect her father and his mother had once been intimate?
“Did you . . .” He wanted to ask, but if she didn’t know about the affair, wouldn’t it be better to keep it buried?
She reached across and covered his hand. Her flesh felt comforting.
“Did you ever see my mom, these last few years? Since our families stopped being social friends, I mean.” He stared, vainly searching for clues.
“A couple of times at the office. I meant to say something—how sorry I was, but I didn’t know how you’d react.” The wet sheen over Kate’s eyes built into droplets that she wiped away. “Father says he worshiped your parents. And even though yo
ur father broke off their friendship those last few years, Father never stopped admiring him.”
“Jason’s been a good friend.”
They worked their way through the painful conversation and by the time dinner arrived, they were back to sharing happier thoughts. Later, just after Kate paid the check, Peter said, “I’ll repay you for dinner once I get my first paycheck.”
“Not so fast,” Kate said. “I don’t want your money. What I want is for you to reciprocate. You can buy me dinner next time.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call.”
She wagged her head. “When a guy says he’ll call, it’s a blow-off. I’m not letting you off so easily. Your paydays are the fifteenth and the last day of each month. Next Tuesday you are once again solvent.”
“You know what day I get paid?”
“I told you: Father and Morgan have a relationship that goes way back. Our firm has a department that handles payroll for many of our clients, including Stenman Partners. We do most of their paperwork, banking, even some client billing. When I heard you got the job, I peeked at some of their records. Don’t tell anybody, but I know Father’s computer password and user name. If they found out, they’d change the entire system. Supposedly impenetrable.”
“Then how did you tap into the thing?”
“I was doing some work at home, over a weekend. Father was having a hard time—I think it was the weekend your mother . . . well, it hit him hard and he’d been drinking. He left his laptop on and I remembered his password: Hannah-anne-kate. Your mother’s, my mother’s, and my names, all pasted together. I also have a semi-photographic memory and recalled his ten-digit username.” Her mouth pleasantly stretched. “Okay, so I don’t have a photographic memory. I’m nosy, and I wrote the letters and numbers down. So today, I gave it a try. Bingo-bango. I had Stenman Partners’ payroll records staring at me.”
“That’s a lot of trouble, but at least I can alert my landlord he’ll be getting paid soon. With that settled, how’s Friday of next week for dinner?”
“It’s a date.”
“On another topic,” Peter said, “maybe you can tell me something about Morgan Stenman.”
