Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  “I don’t care who knows you. I said—”

  Her Blackberry vibrated in her pocket.

  “Hang on.” She pulled it out and looked at the backlit face. She had a text message.

  “I warn you. I’m very persistent.” He flashed a cocky grin as he stepped out of the bathroom.

  She ignored him and pressed keys to retrieve the message.

  WD REALLY LIKE TO KNOW U BETTER

  It was unsigned, and she didn’t recognize the phone number it came from.

  She stared at Barry’s back through the doorway, thinking this was something he’d sent, but she doubted it. He was an in-your-face type. So who sent it? And how did this joker get her personal number? Her hands started to shake.

  She looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of Laura Thayer’s body on the bed. She stared down at the message.

  Could it be him? Drac? What were the chances?

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  No, she thought, fighting back the fear. No. Can’t be.

  Chapter 4

  The downtown office towers blended with the pewter-colored clouds. The sky had been overcast all day, but rain wasn’t in the forecast. Walking north on Broadway, Lassiter could see City Hall just ahead, the familiar flight of steps leading to the limestone portico supported by a row of stately columns, a press-conference backdrop favored by politicians whenever the television cameras were rolling. City Hall Park, a narrow triangular oasis of greenery in front of the building, was to his right. He scanned the benches, all taken. Harried office workers wolfing down late lunches. Male teenagers wearing baseball caps askew and sitting on the tops of the benches with their sneakers on the seats. Old men reading newspapers. Lassiter focused on a homeless woman with long matted gray hair, wearing a filthy green snorkel parka despite the mugginess of the day, crushing pretzels in her gnarled arthritic hands and tossing pieces to the pigeons.

  “Poor woman,” he said but didn’t really mean it. He’d said it for the benefit of his assistant, Richard Shugrue, who was walking a half step behind. Lassiter was looking for someone.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lassiter?” the young man said.

  Richard was tall and gangly, and his clothes were too big for him. His black trousers flapped around his legs, and his white dress shirt could have doubled as a sail on a windy day. When he had applied for the job last spring, he said he’d lost a lot of weight during his senior year of college. From the way his clothes fit, he must have lost half his body weight, but Lassiter had never asked for the details. It could be awkward, and he wanted his employees to like him. But in truth he didn’t give a damn about their personal lives. They were just part of his cover.

  Lassiter felt one of his cell phones vibrating. “Hang on.” He pulled out his personal phone, glanced at the caller ID, and answered it.

  “Any news?” he said.

  A woman’s voice on the other end. “It’s confirmed. They’ll announce the acquisition the day after tomorrow.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “And my fee?”

  “It’ll be in your account by the end of the week. Same as usual.”

  “Great. Take care.”

  He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Mr. Lassiter?” Richard said. “What woman were you talking about?”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘poor woman.’”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, I was distracted.” Lassiter pointed with his chin. “I was just commenting on that poor old woman over there. The one feeding the pigeons.”

  Richard squinted into the distance and moved his floppy brown hair off his forehead. “Yes, I see her.”

  “Here.” Lassiter dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “See that smoothie truck over there? Buy her one. Something healthy. And whatever food they have—a sandwich or something. Then go give it to her. I’ll wait here.”

  Richard looked puzzled as he took the twenty. “Why not just give her the money?”

  “Because she won’t buy food with it. She’ll buy liquor or drugs or God knows what. Never give homeless people cash in the city, Richard. It’s a sad fact, but they seldom use it to help themselves.”

  Richard nodded. “I’ll remember that.” He had grown up in Maine and gone to college in rural Minnesota. He wasn’t dumb, but he was enough of a rube to accept anything his boss said with little questioning. That’s why Lassiter had hired him.

  Lassiter gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  He watched Richard walk toward the smoothie truck. In truth Lassiter couldn’t care less about that woman or any other homeless person. He just needed an excuse to kill time. And to take care of some private business.

  He took out his business cell and pressed a speed-dial number. “Hello, David? It’s Gene. I want three million shares of Goodman-Lake Pharmaceuticals. Today. I’ll be back at the office in a little while.”

  Lassiter grinned. He knew the current price of Goodman-Lake stock, and it would probably double when they announced their acquisition of Haley Health. He’d make a $173 million profit on this transaction, give or take. He tucked his phone back into his pocket. Information is everything, he thought, especially when he got it before the rest of the world.

  He watched Richard standing in line, then glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to two. The FBI field office was a few blocks north of here on the way to his office. This should work out, he thought. He’d checked out that smoothie truck earlier this week. The smoothies weren’t made from scratch, and the sandwiches were pre-made. Only one person in line ahead of Richard, so this shouldn’t take long. He glanced at his watch again. He didn’t want to miss Trisha.

  He’d been trying to track her for the past week and a half since he’d met her at the Orchid Club meeting. Since he owned his own business and kept his own hours, his staff never questioned his absences, and he typically spent a lot of time meeting with clients away from the office. He didn’t know where Trisha lived—yet—but on six of the past eight business days he’d seen her entering the FBI field office on Broadway at around 8:30 AM. He’d also seen her walking from there to One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters, nearby. She’d exited the police building with a tall, husky man who wore black suits with skinny lapels and skinny black ties, and together they drove off in an unmarked sedan. Lassiter thought of him as a Blues Brother because of the way he dressed and assumed he was a city detective.

  It had taken every ounce of self-control to keep his distance from her. He wanted her badly, but he’d never done an ambush killing and couldn’t imagine doing something so base to Trisha. He always took his time to savor his work, and he planned to take a long time with Trisha.

  Richard walked away from the truck, carrying a smoothie cup and a sandwich in clear plastic wrap. He wore an earnest, furrow-browed expression as he headed toward the homeless hag and her brood of filthy pigeons.

  Lassiter checked his wristwatch again. Come on, Richard. Just give her the damn food and let’s get going.

  For five of the past eight business days, Trisha had left the field office at lunchtime and bought take-out. Always a late lunch—never earlier than 1:30—and always substantial food—pizza, subs, deli sandwiches. She apparently wasn’t a woman who starved herself on salads. Whatever she ate, it didn’t show on her figure. Slender, athletic, and petite—just like Natalie.

  He glanced at his watch again. He’d tried to run into her yesterday but couldn’t find her. He was hoping for better luck today.

  His personal cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Sam Banerjee at Basto Systems, one of his tipsters.

  “Hello, Sam. What’s up?”

  “We have to talk. About my fee.” Sam had a slight Indian accent, and as usual he was humorless and blunt.
r />   “Not on the phone.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me. We need to talk.”

  “Let’s set up a meeting. I’ll call you back later this afternoon—”

  “I’ll go to the SEC. I’m serious.”

  A lightning bolt of anger blurred Lassiter’s vision. “I said, not on the phone. I will call you later, and we will work this out in person. I promise.”

  Silence. Then, “All right. I expect to hear from you. Today.”

  Sam hung up.

  Greedy little bastard, Lassiter thought. He knew exactly what Sam wanted. Fifty percent. But that was insane. All his tipsters had the same deal. One percent of the profits he made based on the insider information they provided. So what if he made $350 million on the last Basto deal. One percent of $350 million is plenty.

  Besides, he couldn’t afford a 50/50 partner because he needed those profits for the McCleery Foundation. It was vital that he kept Michael and Cindy McCleery as clients. They were his lifeline to Trisha.

  He looked across the park and saw Richard awkwardly trying to present the food to the old woman. She examined the offerings critically before even touching them, then took the sandwich, unwrapped it, and started tearing off pieces and tossing them to the pigeons. Richard looked across the lawn to his boss, frowning as if he had failed. Lassiter gave him a sympathetic shrug and waved for him to come back. Richard left the smoothie on her bench and backed away.

  Come on, Richard, Lassiter thought, maintaining his benevolent expression. Let’s go! Move it!

  Richard walked up to him with a hang-dog expression. “I tried, Mr. Lassiter. Sorry.” He handed Lassiter his change from the twenty.

  “You did a good thing. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  They continued walking north on Broadway, Lassiter scanning both sides of the street, keeping an eye out for Trisha. A pizzeria she’d gone to last week was just across the street.

  “Mr. Lassiter, I really want to thank you again for the suit. You didn’t have to.”

  “I know I didn’t, Richard, but I wanted to.” Earlier Lassiter had taken Richard to a men’s shop on John Street to buy him a suit, which he sorely needed. They’d left it there to have the alterations done. But it wasn’t an act of good will on Lassiter’s part, just another excuse to get out of the office and hopefully run into Trisha. He didn’t want any of his staff to wonder why he was disappearing every day around lunchtime. When he was at the office, he usually ate lunch at his desk.

  “I hate to admit it,” Richard said, “but this is only the second suit I’ve ever owned. My parents got me one for my confirmation when I was in seventh grade, and I only wore it three times, I think. My confirmation, my Aunt Joyce’s wedding, and my grandfather’s funeral. When I outgrew it, my mom got me a blue blazer and a pair of gray dress pants…”

  Lassiter tuned him out as they waited for the traffic light on bustling Chambers Street. Richard was prone to launching into Lake Woebegone-style homilies. A nice kid but incredibly boring.

  When the light turned, they crossed, Richard still babbling. The FBI field office was up ahead two short blocks on the right. The sidewalks were jammed with pedestrians—business people, sketchy street characters, the down-and-out. Lassiter kept an eye peeled for petite brunettes. He’d spotted a few who fit his criteria, ones he otherwise might have followed, but he was looking for Trisha and only Trisha right now. A police car pulled up to the curb, two female officers in the front seat, but they didn’t concern him. Cabs whizzed by. A dirty white panel truck with red Chinese writing on the side and a broken muffler made a racket as it headed uptown.

  They came up to the corner of Duane and Broadway and stopped for the red light. The pungent steamy smell of sauerkraut from a nearby hot-dog cart made Lassiter frown. He was starting to despair that he wouldn’t find her today. Two days in a row that he hadn’t seen her. His desire had become a constant gnawing in his soul.

  But then he spotted a brunette with lush shoulder-length hair on the opposite corner, and his pulse quickened. She was on the small side, but from this distance he wasn’t sure if she was petite. Her back was turned to him. That could be her.

  He started to step off the curb before the light turned, and a cab running the yellow honked at him.

  “Mr. Lassiter!” Richard called out in alarm.

  Lassiter waved off the young man’s concern. “This is New York, Richard. Can’t be a wimp here.” He forged ahead, his gaze zeroed in on the brunette. She was wearing a black pants suit and low-heeled pumps. Trisha had worn a similar suit to the Orchid Club. And female law-enforcement personnel always wear sensible shoes on duty. This could be her. He picked up his pace, taking a long stride up onto the curb.

  Richard pointed west down Duane Street. “Aren’t we going back to the office, Mr. Lassiter?”

  Lassiter ignored him. The kid was right, that would be the shortest route, but there were other cross streets that would get them there.

  “Mr. Lassiter?” Richard said.

  A family of slow-moving tourists—an overweight couple and two pre-teen boys, all wearing fresh-from-the-store Yankees caps—had gotten between Richard and his boss, forcing Richard to weave through them.

  But Lassiter had stopped thinking about Richard. Didn’t hear him, didn’t see him, didn’t see anything except for the brunette and the sway of her hair as she walked. She was ten feet away. He veered around a bedraggled Willy Loman in an ill-fitting suit, pulling a scuffed rolling suitcase, and stepped faster, moving closer until her profile came into view.

  She hooked her hair around her ear, and for him it was like the opening of a theater curtain at a long-anticipated performance. It was her!

  He took two long steps to catch up. “Ms. McCleery?” he said, adding surprise and fancy-meeting-you-here to his voice.

  She snapped her head toward him, and for the briefest moment he saw a flash of fear in her eyes.

  “Mr. Lassiter,” she said.

  “Gene,” he corrected with a smile.

  “Yes, of course. Gene. And please call me Trisha.” She stopped and shook his hand, smiling brightly.

  Excitement percolated through him like a Christmas tree bubble light. He felt the skin and imagined it melting into his like candle wax.

  “Your office is in this neighborhood, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes. Over on Hudson.” He nodded in the general direction. She didn’t reciprocate saying that hers was right up the street, but that didn’t surprise him. FBI agents didn’t volunteer their whereabouts. The huge government building that held the field office was right there, plain as day, but without a sign for the FBI.

  Richard had finally caught up, waiting like a loyal Labrador.

  “I’m sorry,” Lassiter said. “Trisha, this is Richard Shugrue, my assistant. Richard, Trisha McCleery. Her father and sister are clients.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. Everyone at the office knew about Michael McCleery.

  Richard shook Trisha’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. McCleery.”

  “Nice to meet you, Richard.” She had a pleasant but no-nonsense personality. Hard to tell what she really thought of people. Friendly but no indication that she could ever be intimate. Maybe that just took time.

  “Are you off to a meeting?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” Lassiter said. “Just coming back from a little shopping trip. For Richard.”

  “Mr. Lassiter bought me a suit,” Richard said, a bit bashful. “A very nice suit.”

  “Really.”

  Lassiter said nothing, letting his generosity shine on its own. He loved Richard’s small-town ingenuousness. The best actor in the world couldn’t be that effective.

  “You don’t have time for a coffee by any chance?” Lassiter said. “I know your father and Cindy so well, but I
only know you from beneficiary forms.”

  She laughed.

  “I feel I should get to know you better, Trisha.”

  “So you’ll know where all that money will be going?” Her tone was sardonic as if she never expected to inherit her father’s wealth. Or maybe she didn’t want it. Or maybe she didn’t think she’d be around to enjoy it. Which she wouldn’t be.

  She checked her watch and pursed her lips. She seemed to be thinking about it, weighing the importance of having an impromptu coffee with her father’s wealth manager.

  Oh, come on, Trisha, he thought. It’s just coffee.

  She studied his face with a frankness most people shy away from. He had to suppress an inappropriate grin, but he liked that about her. Natalie had been like that.

  “Okay,” she said. “I have time.”

  “Great. I just have to swing by the office for a minute. Walk with us. It won’t take long.”

  The offices of Lassiter Management took up an entire floor of an 18-story building on Hudson Street. Trisha took it all in as she walked with Lassiter through the carpeted trading room where a dozen men and women in their twenties and thirties hovered over multiple computer screens, each wearing a headset. A few nodded or waved to the boss as he passed, but most concentrated on their work. Sunlight poured in through large amber-tinted windows. The employees looked busy but not overwhelmed, which she found unusual for a financial office in this city. The men mostly wore khakis and open-collar shirts, the women slacks and casual tops. The place felt more like a congenial dot.com start-up than a high-pressure investment firm.

  She followed Lassiter down a hallway off the trading room and passed a glass-walled conference room with a large, dark wood conference table and oxblood leather swivel chairs. Executive offices lined both sides of this hallway. She assumed that the office at the end on the left was Lassiter’s because a secretary sat at a desk just outside. She was a round-faced strawberry blonde who wore minimal makeup, her hair tied back carelessly. As they got closer, Trisha saw that the young woman was very pregnant.