Brady spread his arms and grinned broadly. “Spectacular. We picked up young Mr. Scott late last night and gave him a few hours to appreciate the intensity of life experience at the MCC.”
The Metropolitan Correctional Center served as the intake jail for the federal justice system in New York. As an introduction to life in the BOP, it was violent and terrifying. Virgil’s father had killed himself there. He wasn’t the only inmate to arrive at that desperate decision. Larry called it The Zoo.
“He knew we had the old man and his friends in custody down in Florida and, of course, he knew about Nealis.”
Blackmore’s stern and noble visage had been on every news station—national and local, business and all-news—nonstop for the past twenty-four hours.
“He lawyered up, but one of the AUSAs gave him a crash course in federal racketeering law and the bargaining began. He sang. Arias. We now have Nealis for ordering the hits on Aimee Devane, Mark Barstow, and you.”
“What about that other punk? The one who washed up in the Great South Bay.”
“It seems Gino did that guy on his own initiative.”
“And the rest of the gang? Gino’s crew.” The men who had tried to kill me twice, and who had hunted me in the desert.
“Scott gave us their names and they are all in jail. There were only four of them left, you know. And their loyalty was to Gino, not Nealis. Once we started asking questions, they opened up, pointing fingers, and all trying to be first to cut a deal.”
For the first time, I really did feel like celebrating. I had not known how much pressure and fear I had been carrying until the moment when it lifted. My son was safe. I was safe. My family was safe. I wanted to share the news with Skeli.
“That’s great news. Thank you, Marcus.”
They both raised glasses in salute.
“One more request?” I said.
“What’s that?” Brady replied.
“Manny Balestrero.”
Larry and Brady shared a look. They both knew his real name. Neither could admit it to me or to each other.
“We’re working on it,” Brady said.
“There would be no case at all without him,” I said.
Larry nodded. “And we’re making progress. For the moment, he’s safe.”
Which might be all any of us could expect. I walked back toward the living room, but before I got there, I saw Skeli on the deck looking for me.
“Hello, Dr. Tyler. Your boyfriend just got some terrific news.”
“Good.” She was unsmiling and brusque. “It’s time to go.”
I was sure that Brady’s report would bring a smile to her face.
“Fine, but just give me one minute. I’m dying to share this with you.”
She looked me in the eye. “No. It’s time to go.”
And it hit me. It wasn’t just time to leave the party. It was time to go. We were about to have a baby.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On May 6, 2010, the Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped six hundred points in a matter of minutes, wiping out approximately one trillion dollars of wealth. Dedicated computers, all with similar if not identical algorithms, read certain signals and all generated sell orders at the same time. Five years later, regulators determined that high-frequency, computer-generated trading was not to blame, but only a contributing factor. Who was to blame? Authorities arrested a man in the United Kingdom who had been trading via a laptop while sitting in his parents’ home in a London suburb. He was accused of using various sophisticated, and illegal, trading strategies. On the day in question, he was said to have profited by as much as nine million dollars.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many friends, fellow authors, and relatives—and all the myriad combinations thereof—are deserving of mention that I fear giving offense to those I might omit. But if I included everyone who has helped me, the list would be as long as the book.
One man deserves special recognition, both for his generosity to me in giving of his time and expertise, but also for who he is and what he does. Bob Rogers heads the New Mexico State Police Search and Rescue Division. He coordinates the search teams when a pair of hunters fails to return home, or a team of spelunkers gets trapped in a cavern, or a child wanders off in the high country. May you never need his help, but if you do, be assured you are in good hands.
Thanks once more to the usual suspects: the Muses—you know who you are; Larry Ruggiero and Richard Fiske; Tim and Melissa O’Rourke; Dr. Cornelia; the Pawley’s crew; Judith Weber and Nat Sobel; and Neil Nyren and all of the great people at Putnam.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Sears spent more than twenty years on Wall Street, rising to become managing director in the bond trading and underwriting divisions of Paine Webber and later, Jefferies & Company, before leaving the business in 2005. Black Fridays was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, Barry, Shamus, and ITW Thriller awards, winning the Shamus. Mortal Bonds won the Silver Falchion Award for best crime thriller. Sears lives in Sea Cliff, New York, with his wife, the artist Barbara Segal.
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