by Lee Vance
“Pandering,” Earl says. “Fags.”
“Odd, don’t you think?” William asks rhetorically. “Pandering’s a stalwart of most Eastern European economies. At any rate, he thought he might be able to trade information in exchange for some assistance.”
“You have a relationship with the Russian cops?” I ask suspiciously. “Perhaps you asked them to look for Andrei?”
“Heavens no,” he says, sounding amused. “The last thing I want is a gang of Russian thugs asking Andrei questions. Dmitri requested monetary assistance.”
“You called Josh back in September and asked about a foundation that Andrei was involved with. You were looking for him then, weren’t you?”
“I was interested in Andrei’s financial affairs, not his person,” William says, watching me closely. “Perhaps you know why?”
“I do,” I reply. “And I can guess why you’re interested in Andrei’s files. But they won’t help you find your money. It’s gone. Andrei lost it all trading his personal account.”
“Well,” William says. “That answers my first question. You know about the theft.”
“Andrei kept good records.”
“Documentation was one of his strong suits,” William says wryly, shaking his head as if over a child’s foible. “He sent me his trading records with his confession. I know the money’s gone. That’s not why you and I are talking.”
William’s answered one of my outstanding questions: how he learned about Andrei’s theft. Andrei must have owned up when his losses became too large to conceal.
“Then why?”
“You’re the smart one,” he says. “You tell me.”
“You want me to keep quiet about the counterfeit securities so you can sell your shares in Turndale for a good price.”
“Well done.” He smiles at me patronizingly.
“Hushing this up is crazy. You can’t hide something this big. You’re going to destroy your company and cause big trouble for Katya and God only knows how many other people.”
“You, Andrei, Earl, and I are the only people who know what’s happened. Unless you’ve already told someone else?”
“This isn’t a playground secret. You’re holding a billion dollars of fake stock.”
William cranes his neck like a bird, fixing me with a cold eye.
“You must realize I have a plan.”
“Of course. I assume you intend to use the proceeds of your share sale to buy back the fake stock before anyone figures out what happened.”
“Bravo, Mr. Tyler,” he says, clapping softly.
“You’re delusional. The buyer’s bound to figure it out, and when he does, you’re going to jail, and you may take Katya with you.”
“In a public sale of my shares, you’d certainly be correct. In a very quiet, very carefully negotiated private sale, with a counterpart who’s extremely apprehensive about spooking me and thinks he’s getting a bargain price from a tired old man, you’d be surprised. I’m not about to let Andrei, the regulators, or anyone else destroy my company,” he says fiercely, voice suddenly booming in the cavernous room. “Turndale will become an independent subsidiary of a larger financial firm, with Katya at the helm. That’s not a bad outcome for anyone.”
Not a bad outcome. I stand up and walk to the gas fire, extending my hands for warmth. The flames barely throw any heat. Being forced to sell your family firm is like losing custody of a child. William’s not telling me the whole truth, but I haven’t got the time or inclination to work at understanding why.
“Let’s get to the point,” I say. “You don’t want me to tell Katya, or anyone else, what I’ve learned. You want me to bury my evidence. So here’s the deal. Katya’s a friend of mine. I have to make sure she’s protected. You provide me with a handwritten note saying you take sole responsibility for the cover-up, and detailing the steps you’ve taken to keep Katya ignorant, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. If everything goes according to your plan, no one will ever be the wiser. If the shit hits the fan, I’ll give the note to Katya and testify to everything I know.”
“Interesting,” he says. “Please.” He touches the arm of the chair I vacated. “Sit.”
“There’s nothing more to talk about.”
“There’s always something more to talk about. You’re looking for Andrei, aren’t you? Sit.”
I step forward uncertainly, wondering if he actually knows anything about Andrei’s whereabouts.
“Earl,” he says. “Turn that damned fire off.”
Earl passes behind me as I resume my seat.
“I’m not making any deal that doesn’t protect Katya,” I say.
“Please don’t try to anticipate me, Mr. Tyler,” he says, leaning forward to catch hold of my forearm. “It’s insulting.”
I start to jerk my arm back, catching a flash of movement behind me. My left shoulder explodes in pain, my lungs exhaling involuntarily in a keening moan. I hear William speak over the roar of blood in my ears.
“The elbow, Earl.”
I try to jerk away again, provoking a fresh bolt of pain from my shoulder. My elbow explodes, white-hot anguish blinding me with tears and paralyzing my chest muscles. I vomit black coffee and bile onto the shiny table and hear William speak again.
“Put him on the floor.”
Earl catches hold of my hair and drags me sideways out of the chair. I fall heavily on my left side, unable to catch myself, and shriek at the impact.
“Be quiet, Mr. Tyler,” William says. “Unless you want Earl to work on the other shoulder.”
Earl’s still got me by the hair, one sharp knee pinning my head to the floor. I open my eyes and see a black leather sap dangling in front of my face.
“I’m going to throw up again,” I say, choking on the words.
“I doubt it,” William says. “Everything usually comes up in one big gush. One reason it’s a good idea to keep prisoners on a light diet. Considerate of you to have skipped lunch. Hit him again, Earl. We don’t have his full attention.”
“No,” I shout. “I’m paying attention.”
Both men laugh. I blink furiously, sweat running into my eyes. My arm feels as if it’s threaded with molten wire from the elbow to the shoulder, the pain unbelievable.
“The question I’d like answered,” William says, “is who else have you told about this?”
“No one.”
Earl presses his forearm against my right shoulder, grinding the left side of my body into the carpet with his weight. I scream, fresh tears pouring from my eyes.
“Shh,” William says. “Try again.”
I can barely breathe, tears and mucus clogging my windpipe. If they listened to Katya’s voice mail, they already know I visited Mrs. Zhilina.
“Katya’s mother,” I say. “She’s the only one.”
“You told her everything?”
“No,” I say, trying to protect her. “Just that Andrei stole from you. Not how much, or what it meant to Katya or the company.”
“Earl.”
The sap catches me on the right hip, agony traveling through my pelvis and up my spine.
“It’s the truth,” I manage to gasp.
“Why tell her only half the story?” William asks.
“It wasn’t any of her business. I just wanted her help finding Andrei.”
“The nose, Earl.”
“No,” I shout as Earl cocks his arm. “I’m telling the truth.”
“Wait,” William says. He looks down at me, hands folded calmly in his lap. “Nothing more to add, Mr. Tyler?”
“No,” I say piteously.
“Well,” William says, pushing off the table to get to his feet. “Then I suppose we’ll have to leave it at that for the time being. You’re fortunate that Earl and I have other engagements this evening, Mr. Tyler. Consider this a warning. Stay out of my business, or I’ll arrange for us to have a more lengthy chat, and you’ll discover just how much of a prick I can be. Understand?”
“I understan
d.”
“Good,” he says. “Earl, show Mr. Tyler out, please.”
Earl lifts me up, catches hold of my bad arm, and twists it up into my back, frog-marching me across the room as I try not to moan. A rear door leads to a service corridor. He summons a freight elevator, holding my head tight to the side of the cab as we descend. It’s all I can do to stand. My reflection’s visible in the dull aluminum doors, blurred and misshapen. It’s a relief not to see myself more clearly, shame beginning to penetrate my shock. Dragging me from the cab on the ground floor, Earl uses my body to slam open a fire door, then pushes me into a dank alley.
“I got something for you,” he says, releasing his hold on my hair. He slaps my temple hard enough to make my head ring, the folded visitor’s pass fluttering to the ground. Grabbing my shoulders, he heaves me into the brick wall opposite the door, then stands over me as I slump to the ground.
“Sorry I touched you,” he says. “I hope you had a nice visit.”
He kicks my injured shoulder, and I descend into darkness.
29
JENNA AND I went skiing for my thirtieth birthday. I’d never snowboarded, and wanted to learn, so I took a morning lesson on the bunny slope. Two hours later, I linked three turns without falling and the instructor declared me a natural. After lunch, I rode the gondola up and started down a gentle intermediate run with Jenna skiing beside me. A few hundred yards farther, the hill steepened and I caught my heel side edge, falling backward and snapping my head into the packed snow like the tail end of a whipped towel. When I opened my eyes Jenna was cradling me in her arms, her hot tears falling on my face.
“I think I’m okay,” I said groggily. The azure sky framing her looked like a warm sea miles away, and I had a moment of vertigo, feeling I might fall up into the blue. I struggled onto my elbows and the world righted itself.
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
“You hit your head so hard. You were so pale.”
“You thought I was dead,” I said, too dazed to process how upset she was. I stuck my tongue out and let my head loll, clowning.
“Stop it,” she shouted, slamming me hard on the chest with both fists, like a child having a tantrum.
“Knock it off,” I said, sitting all the way up and raising an arm to protect myself.
She was on her knees, hair hanging loosely around her face as her shoulders heaved silently, skis standing in the snow behind her.
“Jenna?”
I tucked her hair behind her ear with one finger, touched her chin, and turned her tear-streaked face to me.
“I was so scared,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I felt so alone.”
Waking up in the alley behind Turndale’s building, my face pressed to the cold pavement, I think for a moment I’m back on the mountain with Jenna kneeling over me. I raise my head, expecting to see her. She’s not there, and I suddenly feel so scared and alone that I let my head drop down onto the pavement and weep. My phone rings. Rolling painfully onto my back, I fumble it out of my pocket with my good hand.
“Yeah,” I croak.
“It’s Rupert,” Mr. Rozier says. “Did I catch you at a bad moment?”
“No.”
“I learned something interesting about that deposit in your friend’s account. You might want to stop by later. The children are gone by seven-thirty. I’ll be here until eight.”
I can’t lift my left arm, so I take the phone from my ear and read the time off the display. It’s six-forty.
“I’ll see you at seven-thirty,” I say.
He says good-bye. I hang up and dial Tigger.
“Hello?” He sounds like he’s on a speaker phone.
“It’s Peter. Where are you?”
“Drivin’ around Times Square tryin’ to find a garage that doesn’t charge forty bucks for two hours. Why can’t you join a club that’s got parking?”
“I’m in a jam,” I say. “You mind picking me up?”
“Where are you?”
I lift my head again and look around, trying to get oriented.
“Forty-seventh,” I say. “Between Sixth and Seventh. The north side of the street.”
“Five minutes.”
I let my head drop and lie motionless on my back. A rectangular swath of night sky shines with reflected light above the alley, low clouds gleaming golden with rose-colored highlights. It would be nice to fall up and away. Not yet, I tell myself, rolling to my stomach and inching my way up to all fours. Not yet.
30
“YOU DON’T WANT TO TELL ME what’s going on, that’s your business,” Tigger says, steering with one hand and jabbing at me accusingly with the other. “But you should be goin’ to the hospital.”
“I told you. Nothing’s broken.”
“You could barely get in the car.”
“I didn’t want to get in your car. It’s freezing in here. Who drives around with a busted heater in the middle of the winter?”
“Maybe I should buy a new car because the vent fan’s broken?”
“Maybe you should get the thing fixed, you cheap fuck.”
“They had to order a part. And don’t change the subject.”
Bantering with Tigger makes me feel a little better, even if my teeth are chattering. It’s not just the heater. Tigger insisted on stopping by a Korean grocery after he picked me up, where he bought a jumbo bottle of Advil and paid a teenage clerk to load ice bags through the passenger window, packing my arm, shoulder, and hip like fresh fish. The throbbing’s just about tolerable if I sit still, although I may freeze to death. I’m trying hard not to think about Earl and William laughing at me as I lay on the floor writhing in pain. I’ve got other scores to even first, but I hope like hell I have a chance to get to them.
Tigger pulls the car up in front of the library and double-parks. We sit quietly for a moment, watching a heavy black woman in a transit uniform lead a small, sleepy-looking boy down the steps. It’s seven-fifteen.
“Seriously, Petey,” he says. “What the hell is going on?”
“I told you. I’m trying to figure out who murdered Jenna.”
“And you can’t let the cops deal with it?”
“I’m working with the police, but there are other people mixed up in it. It’s complicated. I can’t tell the cops everything yet.”
“And you can’t tell me why not.”
There’s nothing I’d like better than to tell Tigger everything, but I can’t risk talking about what Andrei’s done until I can speak with Katya and make sure she’s protected herself. “Right.”
“And what you can tell me sounds like a lot of shit.”
“We’ve been through this already,” I say, sighing loudly.
“Remind me who gave you that black eye? Oh yeah, I forgot, you fell getting out of bed.” He mutters in Yiddish, the intonation obviating any need for a translation.
“So tell me why you were so excited when we spoke earlier,” I say, wanting to distract him before he can get himself going again. “What happened?”
“You got a lot on your mind already,” he says dismissively, waving the subject away.
“I could use some good news.”
He stares through the window sullenly, probably thinking to punish me by withholding information, the same way I’m withholding it from him. A familiar grin begins to creep over his face after a few moments, though, his thumbs starting a tattoo on the steering wheel.
“You sure you want to hear?” he asks.
Mr. Rozier won’t be free for another fifteen minutes.
“Absolutely,” I say.
He slips sideways in the driver’s seat and grins, rocking a little bit with pleasure.
“You’re gonna love this. My lawyer—”
“Your daughter, Rachel.”
“Yeah, but I like sayin’ it the other way. My lawyer spent the whole weekend goin’ through your e-mail. For a woman who’s the head of Human Resources at Klein, and a lawyer herself, Lemonde screwed up big-time.�
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“Eve?” I ask, enjoying Tigger’s excitement. “I would’ve bet she never put a comma wrong.”
“That she knew about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rachel understands this computer shit. She said that Eve didn’t just send you and the rest of the Human Resources Committee regular e-mails. She sent you document files with all sorts of spreadsheets and stuff attached to them.”
“So what?”
“Plain e-mail, what you see is what you get. But somebody sends you a file, like a Microsoft Word document, you get a whole bunch more. There’s somethin’ called metadata that tells you who wrote it, when they wrote it, and how long they worked on it. If there are spreadsheets attached, sometimes you can unlock them and see hidden data. And sometimes,” he says, rocking faster, “you can go back and see any changes the writer might have made, like if she was workin’ late at night on her home machine and feelin’ pissed off. Things she wrote and erased, never expectin’ anyone would see.”
“No shit,” I say breathlessly, caught up in his story. “What’d Rachel find?”
“The quarterly personnel reviews Lemonde sent out were Word files with attached Excel spreadsheets. The spreadsheets had all sorts of data hidden in them—employee names and addresses, and each person’s age, sex, race, compensation history, hire and fire date. Everything. Rachel says it’s like a road map to a class-action suit.” He pauses and makes a disapproving face. “Klein really has a crap record with women and minorities. I was kind of shocked.”
“Everybody on Wall Street’s got a crap record with women and minorities,” I say, my laugh at his naïveté cut short by a stabbing pain in my shoulder. “We spent all kinds of money on the diversity seminars you never went to because we were scared to death of getting sued. Just so we’d have some good facts on our side.”
“I guess,” Tigger says. “I never realized the numbers were so bad.”
“You knew. All you had to do was look around. You weren’t thinking about it.”