by Nele Neuhaus
“Mark, have you been to the Statue of Liberty?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “Three times.”
“I’ve never been,” Alex said. “What’s it like?”
“Well,” Mark said in between bites of his sandwich, “you have to wait in line forever because there’s only one elevator that holds a maximum of two people. Or you can squeeze up the narrow stairwell with the crowd and have a fantastic view of the butt ahead of as you climb step by step for about an hour.”
“My God,” Alex said, dismissing the idea, “that’s settled.”
“My grandmother arrived in America on a ship from Europe in 1943. She’s Jewish,” Mark said. “When she first saw Lady Liberty, she realized that she had escaped the Nazis, the war, and the bombed-out cities, and that she was finally free. She told me and my brothers about it so many times that I had to see it for myself.”
Alex swallowed the cynical remark at the tip of her tongue when she sensed Mark’s honest emotion. And she had assumed he was an unemotional and somewhat boring person!
“The Statute of Liberty is a symbol of our democracy,” he continued, “and whenever I see her, I feel a sense of humility and gratitude that I am able to live here and not in Africa or, say, Russia.”
“You’re a real philosopher,” Alex replied, teasing him. He responded to her sarcasm with a skeptical look.
“Haven’t you ever thanked God that you have so much good fortune in your life? That you are healthy, smart, good-looking, and managed to take advantage of your opportunities?”
Alex suddenly felt uncomfortable. She crumpled the sandwich wrapper and tossed it into a trash can next to the bench. What did God have to do with her success? She was the one who worked so hard and sacrificed so much!
She tried to lighten the tone of the conversation with a joke. “What, are you a Jehovah’s Witness or something? A Scientologist?”
“No,” Mark countered seriously, “I’m Jewish.”
“That was supposed to be a joke.” Alex grimaced.
“I don’t joke around about God or faith.”
She looked at him and shrugged, but his comment called to mind the values that her strict Catholic parents had instilled in her. She hadn’t set foot in a church for years, though there were more than twenty-five hundred churches in New York. Suddenly she had a guilty conscience. She glanced at her watch, brushing off feelings of embarrassment.
“Lunch is over,” she said. “Duty calls!”
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” Mark said as he straightened his tie. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They walked back through the park without exchanging a word. A man walking by stopped in his tracks.
“Mark? Is that you?”
They turned around. Alex had never seen this man before. He was in his midthirties, with tan skin; he was wearing mirrored sunglasses. With his jeans, Knicks T-shirt, light-brown Timberlands, and a backpack over his shoulder, he looked like a tourist.
“Oliver?” Mark asked in disbelief. When the man nodded, both of them laughed and hugged each other heartily.
“Alex,” Mark said, “may I introduce an old friend of mine, Oliver Skerritt? We were law school roommates at Harvard. Ollie, this is my boss, Alex Sontheim.”
“Hi, Alex.” Oliver took off his sunglasses and reached out his hand with a smile. He had a nice face, with a thin goatee. He exuded a casual confidence.
Alex responded with a smile. She instinctively felt his gray eyes judging her and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
“How long have you been back in the city?” Mark inquired.
“Three weeks,” Oliver replied, grinning. “There’s nothing worse than working where other people go for vacation.”
“Where were you?” Alex inquired politely.
“The Caymans.” Oliver grimaced. “On business, unfortunately. Luckily, I had the chance to do a bit of diving.”
“Oliver works for the Financial Times,” Mark explained.
“Really?” Alex was surprised. “So what were you doing in the Caribbean?”
“A piece about offshore companies,” he said vaguely. “I’m somewhat familiar with the subject.”
“That’s a gross understatement,” Mark interjected. “Oliver was with Simon, Weinstein & Cooper. He specialized in corporate law. After that, he was a fund manager at Trelawney & Hobbs and managed speculative and high-risk hedge funds.”
Alex looked at the man with renewed interest.
“Why are you working for a newspaper now?” she asked. Oliver smiled, but his eyes remained serious.
“I was simply tired of my job,” he replied. “You are drilled to be a ruthless and unscrupulous machine, and it’s all about more money and financial success. I wanted to preserve a shred of humanity for myself. I like the whole business much better from the outside, and I finally don’t have to keep my mouth shut.”
“Did you get fired?” Alex asked directly.
A mocking look sudden flashed in his gray eyes.
“No.” There was a hint of amusement on his face. “I simply quit, bought a house on Martha’s Vineyard, a loft in the Village, and turned my hobby into my profession.”
Alex couldn’t understand how someone would trade a position at Trelawney & Hobbs—the world’s largest investment company—for a job at a newspaper, and she suspected that he had been fired after all. “And what’s your hobby?”
“Uncovering scandals,” Oliver said with a smile, “and making them public.”
Oliver and Alex sized each other up disdainfully.
“So you’re a whistle-blower,” she declared, and he became serious.
“If necessary, I also do that,” he said, “and this is why I advised Mark to quit his job at LMI as soon as possible.”
“Oliver,” Mark started to say, “how could you say that in front of my boss—”
“It’s okay, Mark.” Alex stared firmly at Oliver. “Can you explain to me why?”
“I’d give you the same advice,” he answered. “You still have a good, clean reputation in the industry, but that could change very soon if you keep working at that place. I’ve uncovered some pretty sensitive details that are directly tied to LMI. And this isn’t about market manipulation or tax evasion, but substantial fraud and at least one life lost.”
“Is that so?”
“Have you ever heard the name Gilbert Shanahan? No? Just ask Mark about him.”
Mark’s face looked like he would prefer the earth to open up and swallow him.
“Imagine,” Alex said, growing impatient, “that I’m not interested one bit in this Gilbert. I have a well-paid, fascinating job, and I have worked very hard to get to where I am today.”
Oliver gave her a penetrating look.
“A couple of years ago I had the same reaction,” he said. “It hurts to admit that you are just a cog in the wheel of a giant criminal machine.”
“Please listen closely, Mr. Skerritt,” Alex interrupted Oliver harshly. “You could get into serious trouble if you keep making insinuations that you’ll be hard pressed to prove.”
“Shanahan was targeted by the SEC,” Oliver replied, unmoved, “because he moved funds of unknown origin to various offshore tax havens. He was on his way to an SEC hearing when he was run over by a stolen truck with stolen license plates. The truck was found a few weeks later burned out in a parking lot in Vermont. Shanahan’s widow claimed that her husband acted under orders of LMI’s management, which they obviously vehemently deny. At the time, Levy assured the police that Shanahan was not acting in a professional capacity.”
“Stop it!” Alex hissed. “I have no interest whatsoever in your absurd conspiracy theories. Let’s go, Mark. Our lunch break is long over, and we have a lot of work waiting for us. Have a nice day, Mr. Skerritt.”
She turned on her heel and marched off, not deigning to give Oliver Skerritt another look. Mark only caught up with her at the park’
s exit.
“Alex, I…I’m so sorry.” He was out of breath. Alex stopped abruptly and looked at her employee.
“I don’t want to hear another word about this,” she said emphatically. “LMI is paying us both handsomely, so we owe them our loyalty. If you happen to disagree with me, I suggest that you take your friend’s advice and hand in your notice. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.” Mark nodded and lowered his head.
Alex started walking again. Why did Skerritt’s words get to her? She should have just brushed them off with a smile and a shrug. But suddenly there was this tiny, nagging doubt planted deep inside her, a whispered warning that called to mind her private conversation with Levy. At the time, she’d accepted the bonus and decided to have it paid in stock options instead of cash. And she’d asked herself ever since how a serious investment bank could offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of unaccounted money. Why did Zack fly to the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands, or Grand Cayman every few weeks? Damn it! A chill overtook her, but then she chased off these gloomy thoughts. She didn’t want to know anything about it. She wanted to do her job without being disturbed. Forget Oliver Skerritt!
It was difficult for Mark to focus on his work for the rest of the day. The encounter with Oliver at Battery Park was by no means a coincidence. He had carefully arranged it. Over the past weeks, his doubt had grown about the legality of the deals that he was working on. During his research for the current Micromax deal—which appeared to be unspectacular at first—Mark had discovered that Finley Desmond, the majority shareholder of the Los Angeles-based Ventura Film Corporation who wanted to acquire Micromax, already owned a large equity stake in Micromax by means of a dubious Canadian company. This Canadian company was in turn owned by a familiar player, namely SeViCo Holdings, which was owned by Sunset Properties. This was a rather strange coincidence; it almost looked like money laundering. Mark didn’t like the thought of working for a company that was involved in shady business. It was becoming clear to him that something wasn’t quite kosher at LMI.
When he told Oliver about his suspicions, Oliver shared many more details with him. He suspected that Alex knew about everything. Mark refused to believe him, but he was deeply disappointed that Alex wouldn’t even listen to Oliver.
He vividly remembered how Gilbert Shanahan had changed in the weeks preceding his death. Before joining LMI, he was the top equities trader at Cantor and owned multiple Ferraris and a mansion on Long Island. Before he died, this pompous man had turned into a bundle of nerves, a shadow with bloodshot eyes who twitched every time the telephone rang. He couldn’t handle the pressure that he was under anymore. Mark saw Shanahan every day and observed his growing panic, expecting him to have a breakdown. Was Shanahan really involved in illegal activities on his own account? Or should he believe Oliver’s version—that Levy used Shanahan and ultimately sacrificed him when it seemed the shady wheeling and dealing might blow up?
Was Alex possibly involved in the same business as Shanahan? Mark stared at the wall. He admired his boss. It wasn’t as easy as it had been ten years ago to find a well-paying job if you didn’t specialize in a particular field. These two factors had prevented him from following his friend’s advice. But what if Alex really did know about the dubious connections between her clients and—
The ringing of the telephone pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Alex. She was waiting for the LMI profit forecasts to finance the Micromax deal for Ventura. Mark grabbed his files and left for Alex’s office. He would continue to observe everything. That was all that he could do.
May 17, 1999
Alex was dead tired as she rode the subway home. Earlier that day, she had finally closed a major deal she had been working on around the clock for the past week. Yet, she left the party with her team at Luna Luna after just one drink. She didn’t feel like celebrating. She felt simultaneously burned-out and electrified. The stress didn’t bother her, but the article in the Post’s gossip column someone had placed on her desk during lunch did. Alex boiled with rage after reading it. Sergio had attended a charity golf tournament last weekend on Long Island with supermodel Farideh Azzaeli on his arm for the third event in a row. Sergio had asked her to make time for him, which she did. She even turned down two other invitations so she could be with him. But he stood her up and she was left at home waiting for his call. Since their return from Cinnamon Island, Sergio had completely changed his behavior toward her. Before the trip, he had sometimes called her three times a day just to say hello, but since their return he called only once in a while to get together for sex. Alex couldn’t understand what changed. She was hurt, and she was incredibly angry that she—who was so competent and powerful in her job—had lost control of the situation and let a man humiliate her like this.
Alex climbed the subway stairs at the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street and picked up some pasta from an Italian restaurant and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, stubbornly ignoring the repeated humming of her cell phone as she made her way home. When she finally checked, she saw that it was Sergio. She had no desire whatsoever to talk to him. She was well above playing second fiddle to a starved, cow-eyed model. She turned at the corner and saw the bicyclist too late. He tried to brake, but the front wheel and handlebars slammed into her hip and elbow. The bag with the pasta and the bottle of wine slid from her hands.
“Damn it!” she yelled at the bicyclist, who almost crashed. “Open your eyes!”
“You could watch where you’re going, lady!”
This voice sounded familiar to Alex, and she took a closer look. After a few seconds, she recognized Oliver Skerritt.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said in a sarcastic tone. “Are you chasing after another conspiracy? Why are you in such a rush?”
Then he recognized her and grinned.
“What a coincidence,” he said. “Honestly, I was just grabbing some food at Giovanni’s. I’m sorry.”
“You just ruined my dinner.”
Alex bent down to pick up the broken glass.
“Wait, let me help you.”
“No thanks, I’ve got it. Ouch!” Alex cursed as she cut her finger. Her emotions overcame her: she was mad at Sergio and feeling tired and hungry. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Here.” Oliver handed her a clean tissue, which she wrapped around her bleeding finger as they both continued picking up the remnants of her dinner.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I can’t stand to see girls cry.” He looked up and smiled, his face level with hers. She realized that he had beautiful eyes. His hair was a little shorter than it was a few weeks ago, and looking closely, she found him quite attractive.
“I’m not crying anymore,” she replied, “but now I have to find myself something to eat.”
“How about a plate of tagliatelle al salmone over at Giovanni’s?” Oliver straightened up. “As compensation for damages, so to speak.”
Alex looked at him suspiciously for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t feel like sitting in her apartment alone hoping Sergio might possibly appear at her door because she wouldn’t answer the telephone.
“I’m really hungry,” she said, “but I’m in no mood for an evening of abstruse conspiracy theories.”
Oliver looked at her bemusedly and then adopted a solemn expression.
“I swear,” he said, raising his hand as if making a pledge, “that I will not utter a single word about LMI or Gilbert Shanahan.”
“Okay.” Alex had to smile reluctantly. “It’s a deal. But if you mention them even once, I’ll get up and leave on the spot.”
“I would never risk such a thing,” Oliver responded and picked up his bike. “I’m a journalist in my heart and soul, but I’m not an idiot.”
He really wasn’t. He was downright entertaining and had a good sense of humor. Over big bowls of pasta and a bottle of Chianti, he told her about his childhood in Maine, where his father owned a few fish trawlers, and hi
s student days at Harvard and in Europe. He had lived and worked in Paris, London, Frankfurt, and Rome over the course of his career. He and Alex got to talking about Frankfurt, ordered a second bottle of Chianti, and then a third. Alex’s cell phone was turned off, and she was surprised how quickly the time passed. It was after midnight when they left the restaurant. Oliver had kept his promise and not said a word about LMI or Shanahan. Alex struggled to walk in a straight line and stumbled over the curb. Oliver let go of his bike just in time to grab hold of her.
“Oops,” she mumbled. “I think I had a little too much to drink.”
His embrace felt good. They stared into each other’s eyes and before she knew what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed her. She could not contain the flash of lust that coursed through her body. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with passion. They broke apart and shared a moment of breathless eye contact. The second kiss was longer and more passionate than the first. She liked Oliver. Very much. Sergio had cheated on her and stood her up with some model. Ha! In less than a half hour since discovering his infidelity, she’d gotten back at him.
June 14, 1999
Sergio Vitali looked silently at the photos spread on his desk. He flipped through them slowly and was annoyed to notice his hands shaking.
“Who is this guy?” he asked, trying to control his voice.
“His name is Oliver Skerritt,” Silvio Bacchiocchi responded. “He’s a freelance journalist for the Financial Times and he lives on Barrow Street in the Village.”
A wave of jealousy washed over Sergio. For days now, he had been trying to reach Alex to no avail. Her secretary kept making excuses, and his voice mails remained unanswered. So he had sent Silvio to follow her, and now he had to face the fact that she was running around hand in hand with another guy! He had done what Nelson suggested. With this nitwit Farideh Azzaeli, he had been trying prove to Alex that he didn’t need her, even if it was terribly difficult for him to do so because his longing for Alex almost drove him crazy. Sergio was annoyed by his obsession; he couldn’t bear the thought that she was seeing another man.