Dead Certain

by Adam Mitzner

  The suitcase lurches as I pull it, but not so much that I can’t get it to roll along to the elevator and then through the hotel’s marble lobby.

  “Taxi, sir?” the gloved attendant asks.

  I jump at the sound of a voice that’s not in my own head. “What?”

  “Would you like me to get you a taxi, sir?”

  He’s looking down at my bag. I wonder if he’s seen an arm or a leg pushing out the side. I glance down myself. Everything looks fine—aside from the fact that I’m pulling such a large suitcase after midnight, of course.

  “Oh. No, thank you. I’m only going a few blocks.”

  “In that case, would you like us to hold your luggage?” he says.

  “Thank you, but I have some things in it that I’m going to need for my meeting.”

  If he’s dubious about my having a meeting at such a late hour, he doesn’t betray it. Nor does he inquire about the contents of my suitcase.

  “Very well. Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

  In this part of Manhattan, I’m almost equidistant from the East and the Hudson Rivers. Without giving it much thought, I head east. I cut over to Fifteenth Street to avoid the traffic on Fourteenth and select the block to the north because, even though I’m not the least bit triskaidekaphobic, it feels like I’d be tempting fate by dragging a dead body along Thirteenth Street.

  Once I’m off the main drag, I relax a bit. Of course, I’ll have no good answer if a cop approaches and asks why I’m wheeling a suitcase large enough to hold a dead body along Fifteenth Street after midnight, but it reminds me a little of walking my dog as a kid. That feeling of being alone, but not completely so. I stifle the impulse to talk to Charlotte, to apologize for what I’ve done and for what I’m about to do. That won’t do either of us any good.

  When I reach FDR Drive, the highway that runs along the eastern shore of Manhattan, I realize that depositing Charlotte in the East River is going to be more difficult than I’d previously imagined. Before getting to the river, I’ll need to traverse the FDR, which is four lanes across with a three-foot-high median between north and south traffic. It’s a difficult thoroughfare to cross under the best of circumstances, but at night, with a dead body in tow, it’ll be next to impossible.

  I spy a pedestrian bridge a few blocks south and decide that’s the better play. It has a ramp, so making it across turns out to be relatively easy. A few minutes later, I’m on the other side.

  I give some thought to leaving Charlotte in the park that borders the East River but figure that, given that I’ve come all this way, I should see the job through as I envisioned it. So I drag the suitcase across the dirt until I make it to the railing at the river’s edge.

  I had originally thought that Charlotte’s weight would be enough to sink the suitcase to the bottom of the river, but now I’m not so sure. Once she’s in the river, it’ll be too late to rectify the situation if I’m wrong. To eliminate any risk she’ll float to the surface, I start collecting rocks and stuffing them in the outer pockets of the suitcase. When I can’t lift the satchel above my ankles, I figure it’s heavy enough that it will sink to the bottom.

  My plan is thwarted when the suitcase doesn’t fit under the lowest bar of the railing. Worse still, because I’ve loaded it down with rocks, it’s now too heavy to lift over the top. Although it’s the very last thing I want to do, I have little choice but to take Charlotte out and make the transfer in phases.

  Her lifeless body spills out as soon as I open the zipper. Charlotte is now contorted in a way that’s anything but natural. I try not to look at her face, and instead roll her body under the fence and down the embankment, stopping just short of the water. I look around once again to make sure I’m not being watched, then scurry back up the hill to collect the suitcase.

  Without Charlotte’s weight, I’m able to hoist the suitcase over the top bar even with the rocks. Then I slide it down the embankment until it rests beside Charlotte’s lifeless body. Once we’re all reunited, I stuff Charlotte back inside.

  If I want to make sure she isn’t found, I know I’ll need to pull the suitcase out into the river. Otherwise, I run the risk that she’ll just wash up on the bank ten feet from where I’ve pushed her in. But after the deed is done, I’ll still have to make it back home without raising any suspicions, and a soaking-wet man walking through Manhattan is something people remember. So I strip down to my birthday suit and get into the water, dragging the suitcase in after me.

  The water is freezing cold. From the first stroke, I know my body isn’t going to adjust to the temperature. I shiver every inch of the way. After I paddle far enough out that I can no longer stand, I feel the suitcase drop hard. I had forgotten that even though the suitcase is lighter in water than it had been on land, my leverage is much less now that I’m afloat. I originally thought I could make it halfway across, but the weight of the suitcase and the numbness in my limbs make me quickly realize I’ll never get that far.

  I’m a hundred feet from the shoreline when I let go of the suitcase.

  Once I’ve released my load, I’m overcome with a sense of lightness. Not just because I’m more buoyant now without holding a dead body. It’s as if the act of letting go of Charlotte’s body has freed me from what I’ve done. My sin will also be forever buried beneath the black water.

  The swim back is far easier. Without Charlotte pulling me down, I make it to land quickly. Once there, I lie low in the muck until I’m satisfied I’m outside of anyone’s view. It takes me a few minutes to locate my clothes in the dark, but I eventually stumble across them.

  I do my best to shake the water off before I get dressed. I’m confident that it will be next to impossible to ascertain by sight that I’d spent time in the East River. The stench is a different matter. I can’t tell how rank I’ll be to others, but my nostrils twitch.

  I’ve got three options to get back home: walk, subway, or taxi. Walking renders me the most incognito, but it will take at least an hour and I need tonight to be over. The subway is faster—probably less than five minutes—but I’ll be on the security cameras and in sight of other passengers, which is obviously less than optimal. With a taxi, there’s only one person to worry about—the driver. So I select the least of the three evils and hail a cab on First Avenue.

  Other than giving the driver my address, I don’t say a word. I try my best to hide my face, but still can’t shake from my mind the image of the cabbie—a Mr. Mamadou Iqbal, according to his license—on the witness stand, testifying that he picked up a guy after 1:00 a.m. on the night Charlotte Broden went missing who reeked like he’d just gone for a swim in the East River.

  Needless to say, I pay in cash.

  Once inside my apartment, I step into the shower and let the hot water rain down on me. It feels like a baptism, washing away not only the chill in my bones, but also what I’ve done.

  DAY TWO

  WEDNESDAY

  27.

  After the strenuous work of disposing of Charlotte’s body, I have no problem falling asleep. There’s no tossing or turning, racked with guilt. Nor do nightmares invade my slumber. Like the rest of me, my subconscious is at peace.

  After my good night’s sleep, I wake up, shower, put on my best Kiton suit and tie, lace up my Berluti cap-toes, and head out into the world. My plan is simple: go about my business as usual. In my case, that’s as an investment banker, where I specialize in providing financing for midsize companies trying to make the jump to the big time.

  As it happens, I’m ass-deep in a deal that’s beginning to crater. My client is an underwear company called The Pouch. Seriously. They have a patent on some technology that enhances the male package. Think of it as a push-up bra for men. To paraphrase the old saying, no one ever lost money investing in the insecurity of the American man. The company can’t keep up with product demand.

  The CEO of The Pouch is named Paolo Amoroso. He’s based in Milan and looks it, right down to the perpetually maintained three-day
growth of beard. During our initial meeting, Amoroso told me that the company’s goal was to raise $100 million without giving up more than a third of the equity. That meant they were looking for a banker who could convince people smart enough to have millions of dollars available for investment that The Pouch was currently worth $300 million.

  That was going to take a lot of salesmanship. The company’s revenues in the last fiscal year were only slightly north of $20 million, and the industry multiplier was ten times the trailing twelve—which meant that most people on Wall Street would value The Pouch at $200 million, tops. Numbers don’t lie, so all the other banks were likely quoting Amoroso an IPO price of around $8 per share. To get the business, I told Amoroso that I could get him at least $10. Guaranteed.

  That was six months ago. Amoroso has flown in from Italy because he’s finally realized that I lied to his face.

  Amoroso is impeccably dressed, as always: pin-striped suit that looks as if it were sewn onto his body; a single sleeve button open on each arm to signal to the world that they’re functional; a white shirt that’s likely never been worn before, the collar standing at full attention; and a patternless silver tie. His stubble is the same length as always, and his thick head of black hair is gelled straight back.

  Knowing what’s coming, I had suggested we meet for lunch. My thinking was that a meal would make him my captive audience for an hour, so after he chewed me out I’d still have some time to dissuade him from firing us. He said he’d prefer to meet in my office, which I took to mean that he didn’t want to spend a second more with me than was absolutely required.

  The first good sign of this encounter, though, is that he’s come alone. Usually he travels with flunkies, but he must have thought ripping me a new one would be humiliating enough without an audience.

  “Paolo,” I say as if we’re still best friends.

  He stares at my outstretched arm, and I fear he’s going to leave me hanging. But then he shakes it.

  Even before I can offer him a seat, Amoroso says, “Let me tell you why I’m here.”

  We’re now in the awkward pose of me standing in front of my desk with him facing me, although there is an array of perfectly comfortable chairs in my office going unoccupied.

  “Want to sit down?” I say with a smile.

  “No,” he says flatly. “This should only take a minute.”

  His accent is slight. Just enough to enforce he’s Italian, but not so much as to make it difficult to understand him.

  “Okay, then. Shoot.”

  “I’m not going to spend time going over ancient history, but just so we’re on the same page, when you were pitching me, you told me that you could raise the hundred million dollars by offering ten million shares, and you guaranteed—that was your exact word, guaranteed—an offering price of at least ten dollars a share. And now you’re telling me that the best the market will bear is somewhere between seven and eight. That puts us in the position of either raising twenty to thirty million less than we need, or giving up more of the company to get up to the original hundred million. Needless to say, neither are attractive alternatives to my board.”

  “I understand, Paolo. Believe me that I do, but—”

  He talks over me. “I’ve heard your BS before and, believe me, I didn’t fly across an ocean to hear it again. Just let me say what I came to say, and then you can go about your day lying through your teeth to some other client, no doubt.”

  He’s right. Better for me just to shut up and let him finish. So I nod that the floor remains his.

  “I’ve taken meetings with other banks, and everybody tells me that your read of the market, at least, is correct. As a result, the company is resigned to the fact that our stock is going to be valued in the seven-to-eight-dollars-a-share band at offering. And believe me, I’d go to another bank in a heartbeat to finish the deal if it weren’t for the fact that we’re thirty days out with you guys and they’re all telling me that they’d need six months, minimum, to get us to market. Of course they can’t guarantee today’s pricing will still be there six months down the road.”

  I try not to smile, but I know this means we’re in. He can’t fire us without putting the company at risk.

  “Where that leaves us is that we’ll stay with you, but only if we get some concession on the fee to compensate us for the shortfall. Since we’re taking a twenty to thirty percent hit, the fee has got to be reduced accordingly.”

  By now I’ve assumed a more relaxed posture, leaning against my desk. Paolo tops out at five seven—thanks to the two-inch heels he sports on his alligator-skin shoes. Even slouching, I still maintain a considerable height advantage.

  I’m not going to reduce our fee. Given my bait-and-switch to get Amoroso to sign on in the first place, the odds are awfully good that The Pouch isn’t going to be a repeat customer. That means that any gesture of goodwill on my part now is simply throwing money away.

  Of course I can’t say that. So I launch into classic banker double-speak.

  “Look, I want you and your board to be happy. We don’t build on this relationship if you’re not. But we clearly have different recollections of our initial discussions. I’m not going to do a whole he-said/he-said thing, but you act like I’m some sort of magician. The market pays what the market pays. Now, if this were a situation where our mistake cost you money, I’d have no problem discounting the fee. But we didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody can get you ten bucks a share. You know that’s right because you’ve been shopping this deal. So the beef you have is that you came away from our initial meeting thinking that price was doable, and now the market won’t pay it. And I feel the need to remind you that we never guaranteed a price. The contract is quite clear that our only obligation is to use best efforts to get you a reasonable market price based on conditions at the time. We’re delivering exactly that. Besides, let’s be honest here—you know as well as I do that if the market rallied and the offering went off at eleven or twelve, you weren’t going to pay us a dollar more than the fee in the contract. It’s a two-way street, I’m afraid.”

  “You certainly are a smooth talking son-of-a-bitch, I’ll give you that.” Amoroso shakes his head in obvious disgust to be in my presence. “But no matter how you spin it now, you know and I know that you lied to me when you promised us ten dollars a share. I’d understand if the market dropped, but that’s not what happened. The realistic market price back then was the same as it is now. You knew it then, and you know it now. When you quoted me ten, it was just to lock up our business. Everyone else at the time was telling us seven to eight.”

  I want to point out to him that he’s just as big a liar as I am. I remember him distinctly telling me that the reason he chose our firm was because he valued the personal chemistry between him and me. He never once mentioned everyone else’s market estimate had come in at least two bucks a share under mine. It’s his own greed that put him in this spot. He knows as well as I that he would have done business with Satan for an extra buck a share. Still, name-calling isn’t going to advance the ball here.

  “I’m sorry, Paolo. There’s no give on the fee. That’s a nonstarter. If you want to move the business to someone else, just tell me where to send the file. But if you stay with us, we’re ready to bring you to market in four weeks.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. The primate thing—wondering, if it came to it, which one of us would be able to kill the other.

  He leaves my office without saying another word. The truth is that I’m surprised he’s able to walk at all, considering that I have his balls in a vise.

  Less than an hour later, I get a call from the office of the firm’s CEO. I’m told by his assistant that “Mr. Freedman wants to see me right away.”

  I’ve given so little thought to Charlotte Broden today that it doesn’t even occur to me that Freedman might be calling me in to be arrested for murder. Instead, I’m certain that Amoroso pulled rank and now it’s Freedman’s turn to ream me out.


  “What the fucking fuck?” Freedman asks when I enter his office.

  The guy actually talks like that. Like he’s in a Quentin Tarantino movie.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Freedman,” I say. “What the fucking fuck about what?”

  One of the odd things about Wall Street is that it’s one of the few places where you don’t want to be the boss. The goal is to make money, not to be in charge. Supervisors get fired, or worse, indicted. To be sure, Joel Freedman makes a shitload of money. More than I do. But that won’t be the case in a few years. It’s like being a professional athlete who plays for a marquee head coach. When you’re starting out, the coach may make more money, but that doesn’t mean that you’re angling to be the coach. You just want to stay on the field as long as you can so someday you can buy the whole goddamn team and retire to a Caribbean island. Right now Joel Freedman’s tax return might have a bigger number than mine, but he’s also sixty-seven years old and doesn’t live on a Caribbean island.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Tyler,” he says. “You fucking well know what.”

  “You talked to Paolo Amoroso, I’m assuming.”

  “No. I didn’t talk. He talked. No, that’s not right either. He fucking screamed at me for twenty minutes.”

  “The guy’s upset that the numbers we’re seeing from investors are below what he had hoped for.”

  “No fucking shit, Sherlock. Why the fuck is that?”

  Just like I knew overpromising Amoroso would lead to his chewing me out, I also knew that I’d eventually wind up in Freedman’s office on the receiving end of a profanity-laced tirade. It was a price I was more than willing to pay. My bonus last year reflected bringing The Pouch into the firm. Besides, if I had come to Freedman back then and told him it would take lying to Amoroso to land the business, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell me to do it. No, that’s actually not true. He would have fired me for asking such a stupid question in the first place. His hand-wringing now is all about him pretending to be holier than thou.