“It’s okay,” said Andrea. “Let him have it.”
Mallory exchanged glances with her friend, then handed me the phone.
“Thank you,” I said, but Mallory didn’t acknowledge it. I wanted a better understanding of what was going through her mind, but there wasn’t time. And I didn’t want her to do an about-face on loaning me her cell. I said good night and let myself out quickly.
Three minutes later I was back on Fifty-seventh Street. Never before had I felt so unsafe in my neighborhood. In the first sixty seconds, I must have checked over my shoulder a half dozen times. A car approached, and my heart raced. It went right past me. Nothing.
How did Ivy do this for four years?
Her warning—run!—reverberated in my mind. Burn’s men had emptied my pockets, so I no longer had the key to Papa’s hotel room. But the booking was under the name Cantella, and I had to sleep somewhere. I wondered if the night manager would recognize me and let me in if I just showed up. I walked toward the subway, but the cumulative effects of the night’s events finally coalesced into a sense of urgency, and I started jogging and then running down the sidewalk. A car screeched around the corner and stopped at the curb, and I froze. The passenger’s-side door flew open, and then I knew I wasn’t merely paranoid. I was about to run in the other direction when I caught a glimpse of the driver.
It was Ivy’s mother.
“Get in!” she shouted.
I hurried toward the car but stayed on the sidewalk. “You need to keep away from me,” I said, the dome light glaring between us.
“I’m here to help you.”
“Don’t. I don’t have time to explain, but anyone who helps me is in serious danger.”
“Do you think I’m any different from you?” she said.
I looked at her for a moment, and from the expression on her face I could see that Olivia, too, was running from them—whoever they were.
“Get your Wall Street ass in the damn car!”
I jumped in the passenger seat, and the car squealed away.
46
“HOW DID YOU FIND ME?” I ASKED AS I BUCKLED MY SEAT BELT.
“Your brother called me.”
“Kevin called you?”
We were driving toward the East River. “He’s been trying to reach you for hours. Thinks you lost your mind and went looking for Ivy, so he called me.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
She hesitated, then glanced over at me. “Ivy told me.”
I started to speak, but she silenced me. “Don’t ask, Michael.”
I had to push. “For a while, I thought they shot her tonight. I heard the gun go off when she called me.”
“She shot the lock off a church door.”
“What was she doing in—”
She stopped me again with her expression.
A quick turn, and we were soon flying down the FDR Drive, with virtually no traffic. Olivia grabbed a granola bar from the glove and gave it to me. “You must be starving.”
“Thanks,” I said. It was gone in three bites. She gave me another.
“Where are we going?”
“Downtown, to meet your brother. He has a contact at the DTCC.”
“At two o’clock in the morning?”
The Depository Trust Clearing Corporation was on Water Street, just a couple blocks away from the stock exchange. Most people had never heard of the DTCC, but if Wall Street was the stage, the DTCC was backstage. Before the DTCC was formed, brokers physically exchanged certificates to effect a trade. Electronics changed all that, and the DTCC settled the vast majority of securities transactions in the United States, more than $1.86 quadrillion annually—or roughly twenty times the economic output of the entire planet.
How the hell my brother knew that, I had no idea. Sure enough, though, he was right outside the building, waiting for us.
“Tony Girelli’s dead,” I said, and before he could even react I told him everything I had reported to 911. To say that he was overwhelmed by my words was to say that Napoleon was uncomfortable at Waterloo. I stopped short of telling him about Ivy, knowing that would push him over the edge.
“Let’s sort this out after we get what we need here,” he said.
Kevin took us to the back entrance. An extremely nervous DTCC employee was there to let us in. The thought of bringing three people inside after hours made him even more nervous. Olivia agreed to wait in the car.
Kevin introduced the skinny young man with a goatee as Tim Darwood. He skipped right past hello.
“I could lose my job over this,” he said.
“And if not for me,” said Kevin, “your current job would be making license plates. So let’s call it even.”
Darwood led us down the hall toward the security desk. The building was quiet, as to be expected at this hour, and for someone who worked there, Darwood sure did seem to check over his shoulder a lot. This was not his normal work hour, and the jeans and black T-shirt were clearly not his normal work clothes. It was at this point that I noticed the silk-screened image on the back of his cotton tee—Alan Greenspan in flapper drag singing “Tonight I’m Gonna Party Like It’s 1929.”
We passed the elevators and stopped. Two men and two women were checking in with security, and just the sight of them nearly sent Darwood into cardiac arrest.
“In here,” he said, quickly pulling us into the men’s room.
My brother and I stood with our backs to the stalls as Darwood paced furiously before us.
“You are going to get me so fired,” he said, anxiously running a hand through his hair.
“Who were those people at the security desk?” I asked.
“Our lawyers,” he said.
“At two o’clock in the morning?” It was the second time I’d asked that question in the past ten minutes, and this time Olivia wasn’t there to say, “Don’t ask.”
“They’re gearing up for battle,” said Darwood. “With rumors flying that Saxton Silvers is filing for bankruptcy in the morning, everyone’s banging on the door—figuratively, except for you guys—to get whatever information they can about the short sellers.”
“Then I guess we’re not asking for anything out of the ordinary,” said Kevin.
“Give me a break,” said Darwood. “DTC fights to keep that information secret even when we get hit with a subpoena. Why do you think our lawyers are here? If they see me with you, I will lose my job.”
“We’re not on a fishing expedition,” said Kevin. “We want very specific information. Just help us confirm the identity of the offshore corporation that used Michael’s money to go short on Saxton Silvers’ stock.”
Darwood paused, then said, “I can’t do it.”
Kevin’s voice took on an edge. “We agreed that you would.”
“I said I would help, if I could. I can’t.”
Kevin looked at me, as if it were somehow my fault that the guy had changed his mind. I wasn’t sure if he was upset because I wasn’t getting the help I needed or because Darwood had blown Kevin’s opportunity to be the one who gave me that help—a fine distinction that only brothers could understand.
I looked at Darwood and said, “Would it help if I told you that it was a matter of life or death?”
“Cut the bullshit,” said Darwood. The expression on his face was truly pained. I had no way of knowing what attorney-client pressure point Kevin had pushed to get us in the door, but it was obviously tormenting this poor guy.
What would Darwood do if Mr. Burn came calling?
“You guys are looking in the wrong place anyway,” said Darwood.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“People are always blaming the DTC for every problem in the marketplace that could conceivably be caused by short sellers. Wake up, guys. When Saxton Silvers goes down, the really big profit isn’t going to be from short sales.”
“I still don’t know what he’s talking about,” Kevin said to me.
I gave Darwood a ca
reful look. He was sweating, but I sensed he wasn’t lying. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to help—the faster to get us out of there.
“He’s saying that if we want to know who’s really behind the attack on Saxton Silvers, we need information he doesn’t have access to.”
“Exactly,” said Darwood.
“Who does have it?” asked Kevin.
“Honestly,” said Darwood, “I’m not sure there’s anyone at DTC who can provide it. But if we can, it’s in the Deriv/SERV Warehouse.”
“Deriv what?” my brother said.
“Let’s go, Kevin,” I said.
“Wait. You got an address for that warehouse?”
“It’s a database, not a building. I got all I need. Let’s go.”
Darwood leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. “Please. Go. Before I—”
“I know, I know. Lose your job,” Kevin said.
Darwood made sure the coast was clear, then led us out of the men’s room, down the hall, and to the exit. The glass doors locked automatically behind us.
“Why did you let him off the hook?” Kevin asked me as we headed down the sidewalk.
“Like I said: I have what I need.”
Oliva’s car pulled up at the curb, and again the passenger’s-side door flew open.
“Get in,” she said.
“He’s going home with me,” said Kevin.
“No, he isn’t,” said Olivia.
“He needs to be in my office by nine, and then we have arraignment at eleven.”
“Can’t do that,” said Olivia.
Kevin chuckled. “Thanks for tracking him down. But unless he wants the cops to haul him in wearing handcuffs, he’s leaving with me.”
“Then he’ll never see Ivy.”
Her words chilled me.
“That’s not a threat,” she said. “That’s just a fact.”
Kevin grabbed my arm. “Michael, do not let her push your buttons about Ivy, and do not get in that car.”
“Ivy’s alive,” I said.
“Stop it!”
“I talked to her on the phone tonight!”
Kevin froze.
Olivia said, “Do you want to see Ivy or don’t you?”
“Michael, I don’t know what kind of crazy shit’s going on here, but we have a deal with the D.A. If you don’t show up, you will be a fugitive.”
“If you do show up, you’re dead,” said Olivia. “Don’t you understand, Michael? They only let you live because they think you can lead them to Ivy. If you’re in jail, you are of no use. They will kill you,” she said.
My mind was humming.
“Who are they?” asked Kevin.
I looked at him and said, “I think I know. And I have to go.”
I climbed in the car and slammed the door, my head snapping back against the headrest as Olivia burned rubber.
47
AT SIX A.M. ANDREA AND HER FIANCÉ WERE SEATED AT THE DINING room table for an emergency meeting with their operations supervisor.
Overlooking the old sheep meadow in Central Park, Andrea’s Upper West Side apartment was by far the nicest place she had ever lived. In February, when she’d moved in, she could watch the ice skaters in Wollman Rink from her window, and every night the Midtown skyline was a spectacle of lights. Of course, this ten-million-dollar dream apartment was way beyond Andrea’s personal budget. Formerly owned by a Colombian drug lord who’d fled the country and forfeited his U.S. assets in lieu of standing trial on racketeering charges, it was currently on loan from the Drug Enforcement Agency to the FBI for special assignment.
“We need to arrange protection for Mallory Cantella,” said Andie.
Special Agent Andie—“Andrea”—Henning was in the fourth month of her Saxton Silvers undercover assignment, and her tenth year as an FBI agent. Hardly a lifelong dream of hers, the bureau had been more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker. At the training academy, she became only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Her first major undercover operation had been the infiltration of a cult in central Washington. Her supervisors saw her potential, but she’d resisted doing more undercover work until the Wall Street assignment came up.
Since autumn, law enforcement had suspected that Saxton Silvers was being targeted by a particularly ruthless band of short sellers who would apply any means—legal or not—to bring the firm crashing down. Andie thought she’d be immersed in the high-stakes business world, trying to find out who was working on the inside. Instead, her undercover “fiancé” enjoyed the daily stimulation of sleuthing around Saxton Silvers’ risk-management division while Andie played the sometimes mind-numbing role of a Saxton Silvers significant other. “Wives talk” was the underlying rationale, and Andie had proved to be an effective plant.
So effective, in fact, that within a month, she’d managed to completely shift the chief focus of the investigation away from short selling and toward something far more evil.
Her supervisor, Malcolm Spear, drummed his fingers atop the mahogany table as he considered her request for protection.
“Our operations budget is not unlimited,” he said, his expression deadpan. “I can’t even get headquarters to approve full-time surveillance on Michael Cantella, and you want round-the-clock protection for his wife?”
“Have you listened to the tape of Michael’s nine-one-one call? He doesn’t know it, but the victim he’s describing is clearly Mallory’s lover.”
“Agreed,” said Spear. “Nathaniel Locke’s apartment was searched this morning. It would appear that he has gone missing.”
“Which only reinforces Michael’s conclusion,” said Andie. “Mallory could be in danger, too.”
“Sounds like you are taking everything Mr. Cantella said at face value.”
“I was standing right beside him when he called nine-one-one. I was sitting at his wife’s side when he literally pleaded with her afterward. In my judgment, yes, he was sincere.”
“You were also in the apartment when a search warrant turned up an envelope with Tony Girelli’s phone number written on it. Local homicide detectives are beyond confident that the five grand inside was Girelli’s fee for shooting Chuck Bell.”
“To me, it smells suspiciously like a plant, especially if it’s true that Girelli is now dead.”
Spear shook his head. “Your undercover role has brought you too close to the Cantellas.”
“My judgment has not been compromised.”
“Really?” said Spear. “Just yesterday you called Cantella to tell him that the FBI was turning up the heat on his first wife. What was that about?”
“I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already heard from his grandfather. That was a no-lose way for me to earn his trust, which I need to do if I’m going to play my role effectively.”
Spear seemed somewhat persuaded on that point, but he held his ground. “Look, we’re in agreement that Nathaniel Locke is the victim of foul play. But we have a fundamental disagreement as to the perp’s identity.”
“I don’t know who killed him.”
“Consider this possibility: Michael Cantella.”
“Why?”
“Two motives. One, the man was sleeping with his wife. Two, Nathaniel Locke was the anonymous source for Chuck Bell at FNN who brought down Saxton Silvers.”
The second point was news to Andie, and it took her aback. It was Andie who had picked up the telephone after Bell’s “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t Michael Cantella” remark, dialed Malcolm Spear, and pushed to subpoena Bell—First Amendment issues be damned. But Bell’s death had derailed that plan.
“I thought the name of Bell’s source died right along with Chuck Bell,” she said.
“Turns out that Chuck Bell kept a file on his source,” said Spear. “FNN shared it with us after his death, thinking it might help
find his killer. In it we found e-mails and photographs that Locke had given to him, which made it abundantly clear that Mallory was sleeping with him.”
“I don’t follow the logic. Bell’s story had nothing to do with infidelity.”
“Apparently Bell had enough integrity not to broadcast rumors about Saxton Silvers unless he had a credible source. Locke’s credibility was tied to his status as Mallory’s lover. Michael trusted his wife enough to confide in her, and Mallory shared those confidences with Locke, who in turn shared those golden nuggets with Bell.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Bell may have paid him. We haven’t confirmed that yet.”
Andie considered it, but before she could speak, Spear closed the loop on the FBI’s analysis.
“It’s a fairly simple equation,” said Spear. “Sleeping with Michael Cantella’s wife gave Locke all the information he needed to be Bell’s source on Saxton Silvers. Bell was murdered after sending his lawyer an e-mail that said he was on his way to meet an even ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. Now Locke—the original source—is also dead. Girelli, the trigger-man, is dead, too. The only logical step for the FBI at this point is to work with local law enforcement to bring Michael Cantella into custody immediately.”
“Your whole theory crumbles unless Michael made up the story about being abducted and taken to a garage in New Jersey where he saw Girelli’s body and witnessed a man being tortured.”
“Michael Cantella is a Wall Street liar,” said Spear. “That’s the worst kind.”
Andie shook her head. “I believe he was being truthful about what he saw. The same goes for his first wife’s being alive.”
“Whom he was suspected of killing,” said Spear.
“He passed a polygraph.”
“Many sociopaths do. Many of them also claim that their wives are still alive, even though they’ve been missing for years.”
“It’s not just Michael who’s saying it. I’ve gotten to know Mallory well. She believes it, too.”
James Grippando Page 22