Peter led Evangeline toward the cab, pushed the female passenger back in, jumped in himself, and pulled Evangeline in right after him.
“HEY!” SAID THE cabbie. “Let lady out!” He was wearing a turban. A Sikh.
“It’s all right,” said Kathy Flynn. “He’s a friend . . . I think.”
Peter said, “Take us to the Flatiron Building. Fifth Avenue and Broadway.”
“That okay with you, lady?” the driver asked Kathy.
“Wherever he wants,” said Kathy.
Peter closed the little slider between the front seat and the back.
As the first police sirens started to wail, the cabbie rolled toward Fifth Avenue.
Kathy leaned around Peter and said to Evangeline, “Long time, no see.”
If Evangeline hadn’t been shaking, she might have come up with something sarcastic, something cool and cutting at the same time. But all she had was direct, blunt, and cold: “Your accountant is dead.”
Kathy sat back. “Dead? How?”
“Somebody just put a hit on him in there,” said Peter.
“Jesus Christ! A hit?” Kathy looked out the window. “There goes my source.”
“That’s all you can say?” demanded Evangeline. “A man’s dead and you’re worried about your source?”
“This could turn out to be a huge story,” she said. “And he was at the heart of it.”
Evangeline looked out at the people hurrying along. She felt tears welling, shock and anger. She had been around Peter Fallon long enough that she had seen a few shootings, but it was not something that she ever got used to.
Peter took two deep breaths, trying to get cool and stay cool. As the cab pulled around the corner, he glanced back up Forty-fourth Street. The blue lights were flashing and cars and cabs and delivery trucks were making way. The wail of the sirens was echoing down Fifth Avenue, too.
A shooting at the Harvard Club was no ordinary 911 call.
But Peter wasn’t concerned with the police. He was looking for familiar faces, unfriendly faces, anyone he might have seen on the Bowling Green or anywhere else. But he saw no one he recognized on the sidewalk or in any doorways.
The cab was one of those Nissan hybrids that were replacing the city’s fleet of gas hogs. It had a little backseat television. It did not have a ton of iron to protect you as you hurtled through intersections and slammed over potholes. So whenever he got into one of these little cabs, Peter put on his seat belt, but it was impossible when he was the buffer between two women so ready to dislike each other.
Kathy pointed to the TV screen. “The Dow went down another two hundred today. The technical resistance didn’t hold. And now China is saying that if the American bond market receives any more shocks, they might consider selling Treasuries.”
“What kind of shocks?” asked Peter.
Kathy shook her head and watched the screen.
Peter answered his own question: “The kind that the Supreme Court would send with a decision that forces the federal government to pay out billions of dollars to individuals and institutions holding 1780 bonds?”
“Billions?” said Kathy. “Arsenault really thinks there’s billions out there?”
Evangeline elbowed Peter in the ribs, as if she didn’t trust this Kathy Flynn about love or money or anything else.
Kathy didn’t seem to notice. She said, “Well, however much money it is, it could be a shock either way.”
“How?” said Peter.
“If the court upholds Arsenault’s claim, the Chinese may decide it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. And if the court finds against, the buyers of U.S. Treasuries may decide that if we’re willing to deny payment on the last debts of American Revolution, what else are we willing to default on?”
“A nice little dilemma,” said Peter.
Evangeline leaned around Peter. “That still doesn’t explain why you wanted us to have a drink with that guy in the Harvard Club.”
“I didn’t,” said Kathy. “He did. Carl Evers did. He was laying low, staying in the club accommodations. He said he hadn’t left in five days.”
“He might have been laying,” said Evangeline. “He was also lying.”
“Lying?” said Kathy.
Evangeline decided to throw out a bit of information and see what it attracted. “Carl Evers was on the Bowling Green on Monday night. I saw him there.”
“The Bowling Green?” said Kathy. “Did a bag lady have anything to do with it?”
“She got us into this,” said Evangeline. “In Oscar Delancey’s bookstore.”
“Delancey?” said Kathy. “He sold the bonds to Arsenault. Have you talked to him?”
“We’ve tried,” said Peter. “But he seems to have gone underground.”
“Permanently?” asked Kathy.
“Hard to say,” answered Peter. “So why did Evers want to talk to us?”
“Because I suspect you’re doing the same kind of work for Arsenault that Delancey’s doing. Evers must have had some kind of information for you. I was facilitating it”—Kathy looked out the window—“to pick up something for my story.”
“So you were using us?” said Evangeline.
“This is the big city, honey,” said Kathy. “Everyone uses everyone else.”
“I’ll remember that next time I need to use a financial reporter,” said Evangeline.
“I do what I have to on a story,” answered Kathy. “I work the club rooms. I work the boardrooms. I work the street.”
“You used to work the library stacks, too.” said Evangeline.
“Hey, listen—”
Peter jumped in. “If Evers wanted to see us, why did he walk right past us and head straight for Will Wedge?”
“Will Wedge?” Kathy pulled out her BlackBerry and typed something. “There’s someone worth an interview. I bet Evers had something for Will Wedge, too.”
“Can you speculate?” asked Peter.
“I think that Evers was going to spill whatever he knew about Avid,” answered Kathy, “like how much they have under management, where they’ve been investing, how they do their accounting and monthly statements . . . whether he was just signing off on his audits or actually certifying them . . . stuff like that.”
“Are you saying Arsenault is in trouble?” asked Peter.
“It’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“So . . . you really don’t know much about anything,” said Evangeline, “but you don’t mind pulling us into it.”
“I didn’t pull you in,” said Kathy. “The bag lady did. She came to me, too. She said it was time to investigate Avid Austin.”
Evangeline looked down the length of Fifth Avenue. The cab had gone five blocks, so they were already below the angle of the Empire State Building. She laughed and said, “And all this time, I was thinking you were the bag lady.”
“That does it.” Kathy threw open the slider and told the cabbie to pull over.
Peter looked at Evangeline and made a small gesture with his hand—stay calm.
Kathy said to Peter, “Next time we’re supposed to have a drink, come alone.”
The cab stopped. Kathy stepped out and stuck her head back inside. “On Friday, I run a story on Arsenault and Avid Investment Strategies. It’s about the bonds, the Supreme Court decision, and the board of the Paul Revere Foundation, which includes Will Wedge, another Harvard man. It may also be about you. So take care of yourself between now and then.”
“You, too,” said Peter.
“You know where to find me.” Slam. Kathy shut the door and went off.
“I just had a thought.” Evangeline watched Sally stalk off. “She set us up.”
“For a hit?” said Peter. “Ridiculous. But she’s lying about Evers. He wanted to see her. She wanted to see what he did when he met us.”
“What he did was not pretty.”
THE FAMOUS OLD Flatiron sat where Fifth Avenue and Broadway intersected to create the triangular lot that gave ris
e to the wedge-shaped building.
Whenever Peter looked up at it, he remembered something H. G. Welles had written: “I found myself agape, admiring a skyscraper—the prow of the Flatiron Building . . . ploughing up through the traffic of Broadway and Fifth Avenue in the late-afternoon light.”
But as they got out of the cab that afternoon, Peter was thinking only of looking around to make sure that they were not being followed.
They hurried in, smiled for the camera at the security desk, then rode one of the exquisite old art nouveau elevators up to the office of Magee & Magee.
Most of the Flatiron was occupied by a publishing conglomerate. There were a few literary and theatrical agents, too, along with galleries and a few artists. But the firm of Magee & Magee had occupied one of the upper floors since the forties.
And who would ever surrender that view, thought Peter as the secretary ushered them into Owen T. Magee’s office in the prow of the building, right at the apex, the point of the wedge. The rounded window behind Magee offered one of the best views in town. You felt as if you were standing on a rock as two fast-moving streams of cars and people flowed past. And when the headlights began to blink on, the effect was even more dramatic.
“Thank you for coming.” Magee was in his shirtsleeves. He wore blue and red suspenders color-coordinated with his blue bow tie. “As the compliance officer of Avid Investment Strategies, I’m expected to operate out of our Wall Street office, but my father rented this space just after World War II. And there’s no better view in New York.”
“Did you hear about the shooting at the Harvard Club?” said Peter.
Owen T. Magee shook his head. “Terrible.”
“That’s it?” said Peter. “Your accountant is killed and that’s your reaction?”
“He was the soon-to-be former accountant. We had philosophical differences.”
“You mean he knew where the bodies were buried,” said Peter, “and he was threatening to dig them up?”
“That’s rank speculation. There had been improprieties, failings, oversights,” said Owen T. Magee.
“We were there,” said Evangeline bluntly.
“There? Where?”
“In the Harvard club,” she said. “We saw him shot.”
Owen T. Magee gave her a long look, as if, with all the other news, this was something he could not process. “Why were you there?”
“We were thirsty,” said Peter. “We had a drink. How much danger are we in?”
“As we told you, there are numerous parties pursing these bonds.”
“How much did Carl Evers know about them?”
“Not enough to keep him alive, it seems.” Owen T. Magee picked up the television control and clicked on the flat panel against the back wall.
While a reporter did a remote in front of the Harvard Club, the crawl across the bottom offered snippets and details: AN APPARENT BIG-BUSINESS ASSASSINATION . . . THE SHOOTER, DISGUISED AS WAITSTAFF, ESCAPED THROUGH A SERVICE ENTRANCE . . .
They watched for a moment, then Magee said, “Killing him in the Harvard Club. That’s like putting a hit on someone in Saint Patrick’s.”
“Who killed him?” asked Peter.
“My answer would be purely speculative,” said Owen T. Magee.
Evangeline said, “Does Austin Arsenault have Russian clients? A guy named Boris followed us on the subway. The same guy was chasing Delancey later that day.”
“I would not be at liberty—”
Peter flew across the desk and grabbed Magee by the bow tie. “Listen to me—”
“You’ll get nowhere by roughing me up. There are three junior associates in the outer office who would insist that you let go of me if I call for them.”
Now it was Evangeline’s turn to make a gesture—calm down.
So Peter let him go.
Magee straightened himself and tugged at his bow tie. “We should have gone to you at the start, because of your proven ability to operate in dangerous environments.”
“I hate dangerous environments,” said Peter. “Give me a library any day.”
“Well, you can back out if you want,” said Magee.
Peter looked at Evangeline. “Do you want me to back out?”
“You’ve been asked to save America,” she said. “I don’t think you can back out.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Magee sat again and slid the papers across the table. “You’ll find everything in order here. But remember that you will be bound to silence with the media and other legal sources.”
“I don’t like gag orders,” said Peter.
Magee reached into his desk drawer and pulled out another envelope. “Sign and you’ll get this. Delancey’s research. With this and your skills, you might be able to find those bonds before the whole world goes hunting for them.”
Peter watched the envelope swinging between Magee’s fingers. Even if the bonds turned out to be worthless, he was now after a bigger truth, about money and business and New York power players. So he signed.
Then Magee said, “The answer is yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“There are some disgruntled investors who happen to be Russian.”
“Disgruntled?” said Peter.
“As Arsenault would tell you,” said Magee, “investing is not an exact science.”
Evangeline said, “That means he lost a lot of Russian money.”
“Or Russian American?” said Peter.
“Russian . . . American . . . what does it matter when we’re talking about money?” Magee got up and gestured for them both to come over to the curved window, to admire the Empire State Building and the other giants around Madison Square and the river of cars and people flowing down the streets. “Just look at it all. And think about it.”
“What I’m thinking,” said Peter, “is how do I find a small box of ancient bonds in all of that? It makes a needle in a haystack look like a fish in a barrel.”
“You’d better find it,” said Evangeline, “because with metaphors like that, you’ll never be a writer.”
Owen T. Magee said, “I don’t think either of you is approaching this with the proper seriousness.”
“The more serious it gets,” said Evangeline, “the more I joke.”
“Well, this is no joke,” said Magee. “Boston is history. Washington is power. L.A. is entertainment. But New York is the center of the universe. And that intersection below us, where the two greatest streets in the world cross, is the center of the center.”
“Mr. Magee, I know and love a lot of New Yorkers,” said Peter, “but you are the most provincial people in the world.”
Evangeline rolled her eyes. She’d heard this one before.
Magee hadn’t. “How can you say that people who live in the most cosmopolitan place on earth are the most provincial?”
“Because New Yorkers really believe that they live in the center of the universe. But the center isn’t real. It’s an idea. In America, it’s a lot of ideas.”
Magee didn’t miss a beat. “And what brings ideas to life, Mr. Fallon? Money. And Manhattan is money, plain and simple. It’s money growing, money spent, money divided to double and divide again, money tucked and trimmed and shaved so that a penny made on a bid-ask trade is multiplied mathematically, then exponentially, and then again until it’s grown into a fortune. It’s money from all across the country, from all across the world, money that comes here to work for all those American ideas. Money matters, Mr. Fallon. It always has and always will.”
“I know an old Boston bond trader who says that when you send your money to New York, nobody cares. It’s just more gas to run the greed machine.”
“He’s wrong. Money’s the gas, but it’s also the grease, the oil, the fine lubricant without which nothing else works. Every big idea, every invention, every advance in science, art, and the way we live . . . it’s all needed money to turn it from an idea to a reality. When Edison invented the electric light, the illuminati
on of great cities was a dream. It wasn’t until he met J. P. Morgan and Morgan’s money that they formed General Electric and lit lower Manhattan. Now the whole world glows at night. Why?”
“Because of Edison.”
“Because of money. That’s why New York is the center of the universe. Because we use money to fashion reality out of ideas.”
Evangeline actually thought his voice cracked as he spoke.
“Money matters.” And Magee dropped down into his chair, as if all that talk about his favorite subject had exhausted him. He took two or three deep breaths.
Evangeline said, “If I smoked, I’d offer you a cigarette.”
Magee straightened up, smoothed his hair, and said, “Of course, we sometimes make mistakes, even in New York. And some clients don’t understand. If all they wanted was a sure thing, they should have put their money in a bank.”
After a moment, Peter asked if they could see the envelope of research.
Magee handed it over.
Peter pulled out a pile of papers. First was a page copied from a ledger from the New-York Historical Society. It showed state bond sales from 1780 to 1783, including the purchase of two hundred bonds, numbers 2510 through 2709, by a Loretta Rogers.
Peter looked at Evangeline. “That’s L. R.”
“That’s what we’ve always believed,” said Magee. “The one who wrote the letter that was stolen. Read the next page.”
Peter turned to a bill of sale recorded in a ledger at the Morgan Library.
Purchased of Timothy Riley of 436 W. Forty-eighth St., one New Emission Bond, number 2510. Face value $100. No redemption value. For the sum of ten dollars. J. P. Morgan.
Just then, Peter’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Another text:
We have plenty to talk about. Can you come to the store now? Call from outside. I’ll let you in. Delancey.
Peter texted back:
Ten minutes. Where the hell have you been?
Delancey’s answer:
Trying to save America.
TEN
July 1893
FROM THE MOMENT TIM RILEY KNEW that his father was dead, he resolved not to cry.
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