"No problem," I said, nodding like a marionette. "I'll email it to you, no worries. I'd better get out of here and get working, then?"
I didn't even wait for Sandy to answer before leaving his office, heading back to my cubicle with a new spring in my step.
After poking my head briefly into the break room to ensure that no boxes of donuts magically appeared there since I last checked, I retreated into the relative seclusion of my cubicle, where I opened up the paper and started reading. If I was going to go chasing after Rob Hendricks, I needed to at least know the basics of this case.
The basics of the case, I soon discovered, were fairly dull. Rob had worked as a trader at Cartmann Securities, a small but rising firm based right here in the city, trading all sorts of stocks and other assets for big, institutional clients. However, Rob placed huge bets against several companies, going against the tide - bets which paid off, when those companies shocked the world by revealing less-than-stellar earnings results.
Those bets were so lucky, it turned out, that the big overseeing federal agency - the Securities and Exchange Commission, or SEC - started getting suspicious. They poked about a bit and concluded that it was highly likely that Rob couldn't have known that the companies would report results like that, and that he wouldn't have placed such risky bets unless he had advance notice.
In other words, Rob made his bets off of privileged information - insider trading.
The end to the paper's article petered out a bit, I felt. The SEC was still gathering more information before declaring any formal charges, but they'd suspended Rob's trading accounts pending the decision. Rob, according to the paper, had "retreated into seclusion at his Hamptons estate" and wasn't willing to talk to any reporters.
I snorted. Hamptons estate? That sounded just like one of these rich, snotty Wall Street jackasses. Going off and hiding with their stolen millions of dollars in their fancy mansion while the rest of us yelled outside their gates, demanding justice.
Still, my eyes kept on returning back to the picture of Rob Hendricks. They'd caught him as he approached his car, I guessed; he was dressed in a dark gray pea coat over his suit and tie. His hair was golden blond, swept back over his head to reveal a face that looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance sculptor. His eyes glinted brilliant, icy blue, and his chiseled jawline in particular drew my eye. He hadn't looked that sexy when we'd been growing up, had he? If so, why hadn't I gone after him and swept him away before he saw any college girls?
I shook my head, lightly smacking myself in the cheek. Get your mind out of the gutter, April, I commanded myself. Even if he practically looks like he ought to be modeling that coat in a billboard ad for some fancy department store, he's basically under house arrest for insider trading! Don't let his sexy looks cloud your judgment of him for this story.
Tearing my eyes off of his jawline, I forced myself to reread the story. I drew a circle around "Hamptons estate", and then turned my attention from the newspaper to my laptop computer.
God bless Google. Within ten minutes, I had an address for a "Hendricks, D" living in the Hamptons area. The address was for East Hampton, which I knew, even among the wealthy, was considered especially valuable prime real estate. I dug out my phone, plugged the address in, and grinned to myself as directions popped up. Sometimes, the wealthy pulled tricks so that these addresses couldn't be publicly found, but it seemed like Rob hadn't gotten to that point.
I did wonder a little about the "D" in the first name area. Had he bought the house under an assumed name, or for someone else?
Still, I'd figure that out later. I grabbed my laptop and charger and shoved them into a shoulder bag, and shoved my other belongings into my purse. Pausing only to give Teddy, still on the phone, a quick little wave goodbye, I headed out of the office.
I'd need to pack, I thought to myself, ticking off tasks on my fingers. Unfortunately, I'd have to give up my perfect parking spot, but I needed my car in order to get up to Rob's Hamptons address.
Oh! That reminded me...
I stuck my head around the corner into Sandy's little personal office before I left the Grit's suite. "Hey, boss, any chance that I could get an expense account for this, since I'm headed up to the Hamptons to chase down the story?" I asked, crossing my fingers.
Sandy groaned. "Fifty bucks a day. Don't buy anything overpriced. And I'll look at the receipts, don't think that you can toss them."
"Thanks, boss!" Yes! Free money! This gig was getting better and better!
Fifty bucks would at least be enough to fill my car up with gas, pay the tolls, and maybe grab a snack along the way, I considered. I'd still need to figure out where I'd stay in East Hampton once I got there, but I could tackle that problem once I got to the neighborhood, after I'd figured out where Rob was hiding out.
On my way out, I even smiled at Cindy the Receptionist Bimbo. "Have a good time, Alice!" she called after me.
Packing didn't take long, since I pretty much just threw things into my suitcase until I had to sit on top of it to force it closed. I didn't know what I'd need to wear, so I tossed in a mixture of casual and more dressy outfits. What did someone wear for an interview with a former Wall Street trader accused of stealing millions of dollars, anyway?
I even tossed in a swimsuit, even though I hadn't put one on in years, and suspected that I wouldn't look good if I did squeeze into it. Maybe I'd find myself on a deserted beach, I told myself, feeling optimistic despite myself. I was off to go get a real story, one that could pay off all my bills!
I hauled my suitcase down to my car and wedged it into the trunk. I dashed back upstairs, dug through my junk drawer until I found a pad of sticky notes, and scrawled out a note of my own to stick on the door for Hilda, my landlady. "Off to Hamptons for work - will be back with rent," I wrote, and slapped it on my front door.
There. Hopefully that would keep my apartment safe for me until I got back.
I scrambled into the driver's seat of my little Mazda, sliding the key into the ignition slot. "Come on, baby, start up nice for Momma," I told the car, rubbing the steering wheel as I gave the key a twist.
The little car coughed a couple of times, but then the engine turned over, and I cheered. "Yes! Next stop, Hamptons! Sun, beaches, and a story!"
I pulled out of my parking space, digging my phone out of my purse and re-opening the maps application. The address of Hendricks' Hamptons home was still on the screen, and I started the directions. I balanced my phone up on top of the console, against the windshield, so that I could glance over at it to catch where I needed to turn.
Here we go! April Carpenter, ace reporter, is off to bag her story!
Chapter Three
*
Hook grimaced as the stiff, uncomfortable airplane seat dug into his back. He'd told himself that he didn't need one of those stupid-ass donut pillows that they sold in the overpriced shops in the terminal, but now he'd kill a man to get his hands on one.
Hell, he'd considered offing the guy in the row in front of him, just to rob him of that damn pillow.
He really hated planes. He hated flying, the idea of leaving the ground behind. Man spent most of his time walking around on the ground, and things worked out just fine. Why did we need to change that by climbing into big metal tubes and rocketing ourselves up into the sky?
His bosses, however, had insisted. "You need to get up to New York, track down this pendejo, and get our goddamn money back," they had ordered Hook. "And you get it back fast, understand? Or else we'll send someone else, and they won't care if they shoot you, or this thief, or everyone. Understand?"
Hook understood perfectly.
Normally, he worked most of his jobs along the border, hunting down anyone who happened to get on the bad side of the cartels. There were always plenty of targets - coyotes who got a bit too greedy with the drugs they smuggled across the border, middlemen and suppliers who thought that they could get away with skimming a bit of extra cash off the top for them
selves, the occasional tourist who saw too much and needed to be silenced. But these were day jobs, not paying much. Hook knew that he'd never get rich off of the little jobs like these.
No, he needed something big, something that would really prove his worth to the cartels, and get him a nice mansion in the foothills where no one would come looking for him or bother him again.
Now, that big job had finally fallen into his lap - and he wasn't about to screw it up, even if he did have to get on a plane and fly far outside his usual zone, up to this buzzing hive of frenetic activity and cheap suits known as New York City.
Groaning, Hook tried to stretch. His big, bulky frame wasn't built for economy class, and his shoulders stuck out on either side of the narrow airplane seat. The middle-aged woman sitting next to him, her dyed orange hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head and contrasting horribly against her turquoise half-moon reading glasses, had coughed and glared at him when he first sat down and jutted his shoulders against her.
Hook hadn't even noticed the sound.
Now, as he tried to extend his big, muscle-bound arms so that he could get some feeling back in his fingers, she coughed again. Again, he didn't pay the slightest attention to her
"Excuse me, but can you keep from invading my personal space?" she snapped, when the coughing once again had no effect on Hook.
He turned and looked at her, his flat, gray eyes not giving away any emotion. "Shut up," he suggested bluntly.
The woman, however, didn't seem to hear the menace in his voice. "Why, I never!" she gasped. "How rude, telling me that I should be quiet, and in such foul language-"
Ugh. This bitch wasn't going to stop talking. Hook could already feel a headache starting behind his temples, probably brought on by the crappy recycled air inside this tin can, and this yapping little woman wasn't helping matters. He glanced down, and noticed that her arm had settled on the armrest between their seats.
He dropped his elbow down into the crook of her arm, pressing down until her mouth snapped shut and her eyes watered in pain. "Again, shut up," he growled, giving an extra little push of his arm to emphasize his words with another little spike of pressure on her sensory nerves. "Or I'll break your fucking fingers off."
That closed her mouth, at least. The woman sitting next to him yanked her arm away as soon as she could, looking shocked that this brute of a man would dare to threaten her so brazenly, but she'd already dropped off of Hook's radar.
If he hadn't been trapped on this airplane, he could have had a bit more fun with her, he considered. His fingers slipped into the pocket of the cheap, forgettable gray suit that he wore, its loose cut helping to disguise the bulging muscles of his arms, the thickness of his neck. He slid his fingers into the folds of his leather wallet, feeling for that little packet of waxed paper.
There it was. And inside the paper, half a dozen size six fishing hooks, barbed and razor sharp.
Hook closed his eyes and leaned back against the protesting airplane seat, imagining how he'd handle the bitchy woman beside him if he wasn't trapped on here. He'd duct tape her to a chair, first, or maybe strap her down to a bed. He'd bind her arms and legs, making sure that she couldn't move. Maybe he'd break a couple of fingers, just to show her that he meant business.
And then, he'd take out the hooks, finding all sorts of wonderful places to slip them in and out of flesh, loving how the barbed hooks pierced so easily.
Yeah. That would stop her from yapping at him like a little bitchy dog - especially after he put a couple of them through her lips to hold them shut.
Hook's real name was Gint Wilson, although this wasn't printed on the driver's license in his wallet or on any of his travel documents. Gint Wilson, after all, was wanted by the police for connections with a dozen different crimes, ranging from kidnapping to petty theft to arson to suspected murder. But Colin O'Donoghue, the man officially listed as sitting in seat 38-C on this plane, had no criminal record, and didn't receive a second look from the TSA agents when he strolled into the airport.
Hook had picked the name, and he still grinned whenever he looked at the fake driver's license. Colin O'Donoghue was the name of an actor who played Captain Hook on some TV series. Hook liked the symbolic connection.
"Okay, folks." The voice of the plane's captain, rough, static-filled, and barely understandable, crackled over the intercom. "Looks like we're cleared for landing, although there may be a bit of turbulence as we set down."
Hook groaned. Great. Now they were going to shake up the metal tin can. Just what he needed.
"So, uh, make sure your seat belts are fastened, and we'll be on the ground in just a few minutes." The captain clicked off the intercom, and the stewardesses began heading down the aisle, tapping people on the shoulder and telling them to put their chairs back in the upright position and put away their shit.
Hook stabbed at the button to lift his seat back up with a thick finger. Weren't stewardesses supposed to be all sexy? The woman heading down the aisle towards him looked like she was about fifty, and rather chunky. He'd always imagined that stewardesses were all slender legs and nice little tits, not everyday looking people.
The chunky stewardess leaned over him, intruding into his personal space without even a word of apology. "Fasten your seat belt, sir," she commented, moving on to the next row before Hook could growl at her.
His glare was probably nearly hot enough to melt the metal of his buckle, but he fastened it across his lap, just in case the plane did end up crashing. Hadn't he heard that the only purpose of seat belts was so that the authorities could identify bodies in the event of a crash, that no one ever made it out?
Ten minutes later, however, the airplane's wheels were back solidly on the ground, and Hook popped the seat belt open again as they taxied towards their gate. The woman next to him started to open her mouth as if she wanted to comment, but she at least had enough sense to close her mouth without speaking when Hook glared over at her.
He'd checked his bags instead of hauling anything on board with him, so he was able to hop up from his seat and quickly dash past several rows. Suddenly, claustrophobia gripped Hook's throat, and he needed to get out of this damn can, back onto solid ground. Several other passengers glared at him and yelled out as he pushed past them, but he didn't bother trying to look back and apologize. Why bother, when he'd never see any of them again?
Up the jetway and back in the terminal, Hook finally felt the iron band around his chest loosen and release. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, glad that he was done with flying, at least until he'd finished this job.
Hell, maybe he wouldn't even fly back down to collect his fees from the cartels once he'd completed the job. Maybe he would take the payout and retire up here, buy a house up on the coast somewhere where he wouldn't have to deal with idiots, somewhere remote.
Making his way out through the terminal, Hook grabbed his bag off of the baggage claim. He nodded to the fat blob that had somehow managed to squeeze himself into a TSA uniform and sleepily watched the departing guests.
What a fool, he thought to himself. Not only had they not stopped Hook from bringing his fish hooks on the plane, but Hook could probably kill the lard-ass before he even managed to reach that Taser strapped to his extra-wide belt.
This was what the government considered to be security? What a total joke.
Still, Hook wasn't here to cause problems in the airport. He had a target, and he'd accomplish his mission. That was what mattered.
Bag in tow behind him, the big, muscled, hulking man ambled out of the airport terminal, over to the rental car agencies across the tarmac. He'd booked a car with one of the places - he didn't remember the name, but he recognized the yellow rectangular logo, and headed inside to get his car.
"Good morning, sir!" burbled the young woman behind the rental car counter. "Here to pick up your vehicle?"
Hook grunted in assent and fished out his phone. He pulled up the email with his rental car confirmat
ion and slid it across the counter to the young woman.
"Great! Let me see here..." The woman's voice trailed off for a minute as she typed in the confirmation number from the email. She pecked at the keys with her index fingers, and Hook drummed his fingers on top of the counter as he fought the urge to reach over and grab her by the neck, smacking her around until she understood the value of his time.
"Ah, there we go," the woman finally said, clapping her hands at her screen like a damn child. "Your car is out in spot C-30, just through this door." She pointed around the corner. "The keys are right in the ignition. Any big plans for your time in New York City? Going to go see the Statue of Liberty, Times Square?"
"Nah, not my kinda shit," Hook replied, taking his phone back and depositing it in the deep pocket of his suit. "I'm here for finance stuff."
"Ooh, how fancy!" The agent raised her eyebrows at him, waggling them like a disobedient child. Hook considered how she might look if he'd taped her down to a chair, how she'd squirm and scream under his attention. She was young enough for him to have some fun with, he considered with a smirk. "Up here to check on your money, make sure it's being managed well?"
Hook almost snorted. Yeah, because he looked like some sort of preppy, trust fund jackass. What a load of shit.
"Something like that," Hook answered as he turned away. "He's got something I need to collect for my employer."
He probably shouldn't even spill that much, but what the hell, the car rental agent wasn't going to talk to anyone. He headed out through the door that she'd indicated, tossing his luggage into the back of the nondescript brown sedan he'd rented.
Sure enough, the keys were waiting for him in the ignition. Hook slid behind the wheel and the first hint of a smile graced his face as he started up the vehicle. Now, he could get to work on what he did best.
Bad Boy of Wall Street: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Page 2