by Mike Cooper
I looked at the station. A half-dozen police vehicles were parked under “No Parking” signs along the street—unmarked blue-and-whites, a supervisor’s SUV—and some of the other cars were obvious, with Fraternal Order of Police stickers in the windows or reflective vests on hangers in the rear. But no people were standing around, not in the rain, and the dark windows stared blankly back at me.
Not a happy-feeling place, but maybe that was the point.
Fortunately, I found Ganderson quickly enough, in a public waiting area to one side of the concrete reception desk. Plain steel benches sat along the opposite wall, under stained acoustic paneling. The officer behind the desk gave me the eye, but I nodded at Ganderson and walked over.
“They won’t let me see him,” he said, skipping right past the hi-how-are-you-thanks-for-coming bit.
“A good attorney will have you in straight away.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” Probably not, but it wasn’t my problem. “What was he doing?”
“I don’t know! I called the son of a bitch an hour ago. The retainer I pay him, you’d think he’d be here in his pajamas.”
Behind the desk sergeant, an open space had some cubicles, with glass-fronted offices along the wall. A metal detector stood unused in front of an elevator bank. Two uniforms were talking in low voices at the stairwell, both holding styrofoam cups of coffee. Office noise—keyboards, the occasional cellphone, a copier—drifted from the bullpen. The holding cells were probably in the basement, hidden away, and the detectives would have their own unit somewhere else.
“I meant Brandon,” I said.
“Oh.” Ganderson grimaced. “He was being an idiot, as usual. He didn’t say much on the phone, maybe because cops were listening in, but it sounded like he was hanging out at the park after midnight and one of his friends mouthed off to someone and it got out of hand.”
“Which park?”
“Tompkins Square.”
“Ah.” The notorious after-hours drug market had been cleaned up and the homeless largely evicted, but it still wasn’t exactly a frisbees-and-hot-dogs greensward. Not in the middle of the night. “Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Doesn’t sound like more than a misdemeanor, then. They’re probably keeping him a few hours just to make a point.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Want to sit down? Go get a coffee or something?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I need to wait here.”
Ganderson wore a nylon shell over a plain polo shirt and jeans. His hair, which had always been exactly combed, stuck this way and that—buzzcut short but unruly. He had on a pair of eyeglasses, squarish titanium frames. Woken in the middle of the night, he must have skipped the contacts.
It was hard to square this worried father with the suspicions I’d begun to have.
On the other hand, I thought I noticed a bulge under his jacket.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re not carrying, are you?”
“What?”
“That handgun of yours. Did you just walk into a city police station armed?”
“Yeah, so?” He shrugged in annoyance.
“Jesus.” I looked around, suddenly feeling like a focus of attention from every policeman in the building. “Someone sees that and we’ll both be sitting in a cell, waiting for the lawyer.”
“Calm down. It’s licensed. And I contribute a nice packet to the PBA every year. They won’t give me any trouble.”
“Why do you have that cannon, anyway?”
“Four dead guys and another on deck, that’s why. If those terrorist madmen come after me, they’re going down first.”
I glanced at the sergeant again, but he seemed to be ignoring us.
“And now they’ve struck again,” said Ganderson. “Though nothing like the pattern so far.”
I brought my attention back. “Is Plank dead? I hadn’t heard.”
“Plank? What are you talking about?”
“You said—”
“Blacktail.” He frowned. “The terrorists hit Blacktail yesterday. Don’t you get the news?”
“Oh, that.”
“Plank’s still alive and well. CNBC did an interview this morning—asked him what he thought about the car bomb.”
The cabbie’d had his radio on during my ride down the length of Manhattan. The world seemed to have decided that the anarchist cell was floundering, and Terry Plank too well hidden, so they’d struck a different target instead: another hedge fund. But instead of one of the principals, they’d taken down the entire operation—and by an unfortunate chain reaction, the rest of the stock market, too.
It was the sort of story that almost made sense.
“Look at this.” Ganderson held up a copy of the Daily News. The headline read, “BLACKTAIL DOWN.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think this has to end, is what I think. We can’t live on the Kingda Ka roller coaster.” He tossed the paper onto the metal bench. “What will they do next, nuke JP Morgan?”
“I’m sure that’s been discussed at the Fed.” I kept my voice down, hoping Ganderson would do so as well. “The coincidence seems a little too…uh, coincidental.”
“What coincidence?”
“Blacktail. I matched their Director of Security to the attack on Faust, and you talked to them on Tuesday. Two days later, the Expendables blow up their office. See what I mean?”
“You think they attacked themselves?”
“The timing’s funny, that’s all.”
We eyed each other for a few moments. I broke first.
“Terry Plank escaping, apparently,” I said. “That seems funny too.”
“He’s lucky to be alive,” said Ganderson. “The way these terrorists operate.”
“Not if they don’t know where he is.”
“How hard could it be? CNBC found him.”
“Good point.”
“In fact, I think he’s the best bet.”
“Huh?”
Ganderson rolled his shoulders like a fighter trying to get back in the match. “There’s no clue about where they’ll strike next. You haven’t found anything to lead us to them—your one lead, Blacktail, ended up being a victim itself. The way I see it, all we have is Plank.”
I couldn’t figure Ganderson’s angle. “Maybe…”
“I’m going to try to contact him. And when I do, I’ll get you in.”
“What? And why on earth would he agree?”
“To save his life, that’s why. You seem to be a lousy detective, but everyone I’ve talked to says you’re the best, ah, security contractor available.”
“Well, I don’t know about—”
“True or not, I don’t care. You’re good with a gun, and you’re closer than anyone else to the case. It might be the edge Plank needs.”
So there: no longer an independent, crackerjack investigator, I’d just been demoted to bodyguard, the lowest form of hired gun. What was Ganderson up to?
I protested, a little, enough to renegotiate the rate upward ten percent. Then he stepped aside to call his attorney again. I watched, Ganderson apparently hearing nothing but rings, wondering how he could possibly be involved with the bad guys.
The main problem with fitting Ganderson in as villain was that I couldn’t see how it made any sense to put me on the payroll.
He came back. “Voicemail. Again. Maybe I should try someone else.”
“Sorry.”
A woman came in, older and Chinese. She began a long discussion with the desk sergeant, gesturing, but not loud. He nodded, commenting occasionally. It looked like they knew each other, like they’d had the same conversation before.
“The industry can’t take much more of this,” Ganderson said.
“Of what?”
“The murders! This killing has to stop.”
Oh, that. “Look at it this way—how many private investment firms are there in the U.S.? Plus the
prop traders and mutual funds?—it’s got to be thousands. Statistically, that’s a robust ecosystem.” Clara’s point.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, the anarchists. They’re going to have to seriously ramp up their numbers to make a dent.”
Ganderson didn’t find that funny. But I wasn’t sure I was joking, so call it even.
“Every thumbsucker in America seems to think it’s open season on bankers,” he said. “We’re being dragged behind the pickup truck of public opinion.”
“It’s not so bad.” Actually, I liked that one. What hardworking American, seeing his retirement account mismanaged into toxic waste, hasn’t wanted to wrap a chain around some guy in chalk stripes and hitch him up to a flatbed?
“It’s not working, you looking for the assassins,” Ganderson said. “Now we’re going to let them come to you.”
I finally figured out what we’d been talking about.
“Hey!” I said. “This is a setup, isn’t it? You think Plank’s a staked goat, and you want me there to shoot back when they finally make their move.”
“Not exactly.” He shrugged. “But if it works out that way, I think everyone would be happy.”
I wasn’t even a bodyguard, I was a fucking leg breaker.
And I was angry about it. I realized just how angry when I barely stopped myself from striking Ganderson—right under the sternum, knuckles half folded, a killing blow if done just a fraction too hard.
Ernie’s violent, terrible death, on top of everything else. I desperately needed to find Saxon, beat the truth out of him, and tear my way to the heart of the lunacy.
Ganderson could wait.
The station’s door opened, pushed wide by a tall man in a suit the color of midnight, over brilliant white pinpoint with a blue silk tie that probably cost more than my car. He strode over to Ganderson, no hesitation, not glancing once at the sergeant.
“Good morning, Quint,” he said, and the voice was deep and powerful and perfectly pitched.
“It’s about time.” But Ganderson straightened up. “Let’s go spring my boy, all right?”
“Why I’m here. We just need to go over a few things first.” He looked my way, one eyebrow raised.
Ganderson could take a hint—at least, coming from this guy. “We’re done for now,” he said to me.
I was still working on controlling my adrenal response. Catecholamines had flooded my system.
“Call me when you reach Plank,” I said, jaw tight.
“You got it.” Ganderson made it sound like he was doing me a favor.
The lawyer nodded a dismissal my way, and they walked off.
I guess I knew my place.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When I walked out of the station, the sky was lighter but the rain heavier. At seven-thirty the morning rush hour was under way, cars splashing down the street, pedestrians hunched under their umbrellas. The commuters looked sullen—nothing like starting out your workday wet and cold.
I passed by two Starbucks on general principles before finding an independent breakfast place closer to NYU. It was crowded, most of the tables filled, busy and noisy. A waiter pointed me to a two-top near the restroom doors, and I sat down, trying not to drip on the table.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” I ordered an omelet, extra mushrooms, double toast, oatmeal on the side.
It felt like it was turning into that kind of day.
Ernie’s death continued to weigh on me. I wanted to call Clara, but that wasn’t any kind of conversation to have over the phone, in a public space. Just to hear her voice…but I couldn’t not talk about what had happened. Best leave it be for now.
I took my time. Every table probably turned over twice before I finally finished eating, especially the fruit bowl and yogurt. But it was worth it—I had dried out, warmed up and started to come to terms with the violent scene I’d walked into four hours earlier.
I’m sorry, Ernie.
I paid up, thought about but decided against an umbrella from a display that had been opportunistically set up at the register, and stepped back out into the day.
Ganderson’s motives were puzzling, but one thing was clear: I might need some backup.
Under a block of construction scaffolding, rain dripping through two-by-sixes overhead, I called Zeke.
“What do you want?”
“Jeez, is that how you always answer the phone?”
“So?”
“If you’re rude, people won’t want to call. They’ll avoid you.”
He just snorted.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it,” I said. “But someday money is going to call, and you’ll be an asshole, and it’ll go somewhere else.”
“Good riddance. Why are you calling?”
“I might have some work. You busy?”
“Are you kidding? After last time?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Naw. I just wish all my jobs could be so fun.”
“You’re the only one who sees it that way.”
“Yeah,” Zeke said. “Listen, I’m working tonight, but—”
“When?”
“Afternoon, then probably late. Celebrity event. Some rich guy’s worried about paparazzi. He wants a few more secret service in the perimeter.”
“Try not to shoot the wrong one.”
“It’s nothing important. You need me? I can skip this.”
“No, no. Just lining up the ducks, in case.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Call anytime.”
“Thanks.”
People pushed past me, between the scaffolding columns and the Jersey barriers along the street’s gutter. Buildings are always being renovated downtown—feels like every single block sometimes. A workman twenty feet from me bent to cut pipe at the back of a truck, his circular saw flaring sparks like an oversize flint toy.
The noise of the saw was painfully loud. I started walking again.
I thought about what Walter had told me last night. When the noise stopped, I switched phones and dialed again.
“What?”
“Johnny, it’s me.”
“I’m in the middle of something.”
Click.
Well, fuck that. I hit redial.
“Don’t hang up!”
“I said, I’m in the middle of a fucking—goddamn it!”
“Sorry. Listen—”
“I just lost a penny and a half!”
I had no idea what that meant. It was too wide to be the spread on an individual price. Maybe it was shorthand for 150 thousand dollars.
Or a million and a half.
“So make it back on the next trade,” I said. “This is important.”
“Better be.” He subsided, grumbling.
“Someone famous is about to flee the jurisdiction.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’d they do?”
“Don’t know.”
“How much money?”
“Um—”
God love him, Johnny started laughing. “What the hell do you know?”
“It’s a good tip.”
“And utterly useless. Why are you telling me?”
“I was hoping you’d heard something. So I could start connecting dots.”
“The NASDAQ dropped a hundred fifty points at open, then made it all back, plus another fifty. The VIX crossed forty an hour ago. Volume is off the charts.”
“You’re having an exciting day?”
“Good enough. Better than over at Wetherell Stark. One of their options strategists dropped dead at his desk. Massive coronary.”
“Anyone notice?”
“They had one of those portable defibrillators on the wall—you know, like on an airplane? Didn’t help, though.”
“You might want to get one, for your boys.”
“Hah!”
“No, really.”
“Would you
give a chainsaw to a five-year-old?”
I could see Johnny’s point. Last year one of his traders, celebrating, had grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprayed half the room. He’d shorted out three keyboards before they wrestled it away from him. The damage somebody could do with four thousand volts didn’t bear imagining.
“Hey, I followed some crumbs on Marlett this morning,” he said. “Once I knew who to look for, it was obvious. The major counterparty on those York Hydro trades was Blacktail Capital.”
“No shit?”
“And they’re implicated on Sills, too. Blacktail bought shares in her fund, which as we mentioned was doing really, really badly. As soon as she was dead, though, the price jumped up. Investors must have figured that anyone could do a better job at it—which maybe wasn’t too hard because it was actually trading at less than aggregate book value. Blacktail cleaned up.”
“So that’s it!—every one of these killings was done for profit.”
“Seems clear to me, but I don’t know that a jury would buy it. Or understand it, for that matter. Could have been just luck. And there were other parties in every transaction—Blacktail could be simple coincidence.”
“It’s good enough for me,” I said. “Can you pull together some documentation?”
“Piss off. What am I, your research assistant?”
Okay, I didn’t think he’d go for that. “At least point me in the right direction if I’m going to have to do it myself.”
“I’ll email you something later. After close.”
A ringtone. For a moment, confused, I stared at the phone in my hand, wondering how it could ring if I was talking on it. Then I realized it was coming from a different pocket.
“Gotta go, Johnny.”
“Your mystery absconder? You get a name, call me back.”
“In a heartbeat.”
I hung up, dug out the other one. A horn blared, some asshole driver in a Lexus giving me the finger, and I jumped back onto the curb as he roared past.
“Hello?”
For a moment I only heard random noise—bangs, splintering. Loud. Then, “Silas!”
“Who’s this?”
“They shot everyone and grabbed Clara!” His voice cracked.
“Rondo?” I stopped dead.
“They attacked the library!”
“What’s going on?” I was shouting.
“They’ve got—” The call cut off. For a moment I stood, stupidly.
