Clawback (11 page)

Not so long ago, human traders, yelling at each other in the pits, would have figured it out. Or at least not been so quick to pull the trigger. But those sepia-toned days are dead history.

“I get the picture,” I said.

“Yeah.” Johnny nodded. “
Someone
was short. In the previous forty hours, someone had bought a shitload of deep out-of-the-money puts. When Akelman died, someone made a fucking killing.” He
choked briefly on his
carnitas
, and I realized he was laughing. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean.”

“Interesting, huh?”

“You haven’t gotten to the useful part yet.”

“Yeah, well, as to that—”

“Wait. You don’t know who
did
it?”

“Not exactly.” He finished his burrito and crumpled the wrapping. “Same as whoever profited off York when Marlett kicked the bucket. Small transactions, through the electronic markets. Hard to track. Option trades are easier to hide anyway, and they burned a lot of brush behind them.”

“A subpoena would pry a name out of the exchanges fast enough.”

“Yeah? You got one of those?”

“I mean, if the CFTC takes an interest, it won’t be secret for long.”

“The FSA—the Exchange is in London.”

I knew that. “Point is, I can’t believe the Riddler is whacking Wall Street whiz kids just for an edge on a long put. It’s too obvious. Trading records would lead straight back to him.”

“The firm executing most of the trades was Whyte and Fairlee.”

“So you
did
find out who it was!” I swear, Johnny could be a pain in the ass.

“And the IB was Riverton Commodities.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t you just say so? Game over.”

“Not so fast. The trail stops there. The options were held in a street name.”

“Oh.” For all record-keeping purposes, in other words, Riverton was listed as the nominee—even though the company was only serving as a broker for the actual owner. A convenience for the file clerks meant a solid wall of anonymity. “So all you’ve got is the broker.”

“I looked Riverton up—they’re a small shop. One of thousands. You could try a phone call, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“But even if you found a single entity profiting from the Akelman selloff, so what?” We passed a trash can, and Johnny tossed in his spent wrapper. “It doesn’t prove he killed anybody. It’s hardly even circumstantial.”

Good point. “Hmm.”

The mist had gradually turned to light rain, which was now threatening a downpour. I turned up my collar, once more wishing for a hat.

“Still, if you’re right—” I started.

“If?”

“I need to know who these guys are. A pissed-off Bolshevik is one thing. Cold-blooded murder for a few points of alpha, that’s something else.”

“Yeah.” Johnny didn’t seem to notice or mind that we were getting soaked. “It makes more sense, for one thing.”

At the entrance to his building, we stopped under the awning before Johnny went inside.

“You seem a little distracted today,” he said.

“I do?”

“Or not.” He shrugged.

But he was right. Johnny watched the world around him far more closely than most people realized, and far more objectively than most people could manage. It might have been why he was such a good trader.

Well, that and a totally ruthless need to win at all costs.

“You got me,” I said.

“What’s up? Besides the girl?”

I just couldn’t keep secrets. Not from Johnny. I looked at him. “I have a brother,” I said.

“No shit? Really? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“I didn’t know.” The letter was still in my pocket. “His name’s Dave. Separated at birth. He tracked me down through Children’s Services records.”

“How about that.” Johnny thought about it, then grinned. “What’s he do? Sharpshooter? Pool shark? Puts out oil rig fires? With your genes—”

“Auto mechanic. But, yeah…he races, too.”

“I knew it. So, you talked to him?”

“Not yet.”

A woman in a trench coat walked out of the building, collar clutched against the rain, on her cellphone. Taxis splashed past in the street. Johnny must have sensed I didn’t feel like talking about it.

“Hey, I forgot,” he said. “I meant to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

He laughed. “Right. That’s the question.”

“Huh?”

“Three of my guys came in to work with guns today.”

“Real weapons? Don’t you have a policy on that?” I thought about
the locker-room antics in Johnny’s bullpen. “No offense, but your traders seem to be at the wrong end of the impulse-control spectrum. Do you really want them waving pistols at one another?”

“Oh, I made them lock up the guns before they started working. And they have legitimate permits. All you have to do is go down to One Police Plaza in a nice suit, show them proof of employment, and you’re in.”

“I hope this isn’t some kind of trend.” I zipped my wet jacket all the way up. “Life is going to be a lot more dangerous if every asshole banker who thinks he’s the Terminator now has the hardware to prove it.”

“It’s the news, Silas. The guys are worried. They want to be ready if they end up in this avenger’s crosshairs.”

As if Wall Street weren’t the OK Corral already. “So what do you want me to do about it—offer them a firearms safety refresher?”

“Nah, I was hoping you could give me a recommendation.”

“A rec—” I stopped. “Oh, Johnny. You too?”

“They’re all carrying Glocks. The seventy-seven model or something. Is that a good one?”

I sighed. “Seventeen. It’s not bad. You could kill your girlfriend with it, by accident, real easy.”

It took a few minutes, but I think I persuaded him to hold off. Handguns ought to be left in the hands of professionals, not hyperactive testosterone-driven alpha dogs. Maybe Walter had the right idea—retiring to a fisherman’s shack on Little Torch Key was sounding better and better.

“Keep on Akelman,” I said, in parting. “I need names.”

“I’ll see what else I can dig up.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“But if you get to them first…” He hesitated. “Or if you just have some ideas even before you catch them, let me know, okay?”

I stared at him for a moment. “Jesus, Johnny.” I shook my head. “I can’t let you front-run a murder-for-money scheme.”

“Why not?”

“Why
not
?”

“I mean, if we try our best to stop them.” A thought occurred to him, and he pointed a finger at the air. “In fact, it would be better if you
did
prevent the next one.”

“Of course it would.”

“No, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Then we could just buy up the other side of their positioning trades—right before you shut them down! We make out like bandits. They lose everything, and go to jail.”

“Um…got to think about that one.” An ethics puzzler. Maybe I could write up a business-school case when this was all done.

“They lose, we win. What’s more all-American than that?”

“You’re right.” I had to agree. “It’s in the Constitution.”

R
iverton Commodities didn’t look like much.

After leaving Johnny, I’d stopped in at an office services shop to copy, scan and email the copies I had of Hayden’s forged identity documents. Walter had outdone himself, as usual—the work was beautiful. I was sure the DA would lock up Hayden immediately, and good riddance. One less crooked hedge fund manager to blight the world.

While I was there I bought some small rolls of tape in different colors. My cellphone collection was getting out of hand, and I figured marking them with color-coded tags might help me remember which was which.

Next, I stopped off at my apartment for a change of clothes. Finally, the trip to Riverton. They’d fronted the rigged trades on cobalt that had earned someone an extra-special payday when Akelman got run over, and I wanted to know who.

I wouldn’t get anything by asking, naturally, but at least I’d get to see the place.

They had a suite somewhere in an eight-story building on Ninth Avenue in Chelsea, fifty-year-old brick and pressed cement, not far from the 23
rd
Street station. Coming up from the subway, I watched the pedestrian flow—people in suits, a few deliverymen, women wearing low black heels, not stilettos. A workaday neighborhood, more business than residential.

The lobby was tiny but nicely trimmed out, with buffed terrazzo floors and a shiny brass elevator. The Near East–looking woman behind the desk didn’t speak much English and didn’t want ID before waving me on. Friday afternoon, a courier coming out, another suit coming in—a typical, one-of-a-thousand office building, too far from any terrorist’s ground zero to worry about.

I did notice a screen behind the guard’s desk, though, with a four-panel surveillance camera view.

On the sixth floor, three suites. Doctors Hartzfeld and Logan were clearly dentists, from the fresh mint smell and—how unpleasant—the faint whine of a drill. Transoceanic Services, Ltd., might have been anything, but their windows were dark. Riverton’s door, with custom dark-wood molding and a brushed-aluminum sign, indicated the upscale tenant here.

As did the access control panel: silver steel with an aqua-blue LCD. I pressed a large button next to it marked “Please Ring.” A moment later the door clicked and I pushed through.

“Can I help you?” Riverton’s receptionist was young and pretty and not too busy, unless she did all her work on the pink iPhone lying flat on the desk before her.

“Sure. You buy gold, right?”

“Um, yes…you mean gold contracts?”

“No. Gold. The real thing? The metal?” She looked at me blankly. “You know. It’s heavy. And, well, gold colored?”

When I’d stopped at the apartment, I’d changed into business casual: permanently creased slacks, open-collared shirt, navy jacket. Also dark-framed, tinted eyeglasses, bronzer and a really heavy dose of Panzer cologne.

No one ever mentions it, but smell is a remarkably effective component of disguise. She’d remember the scent of Panzer forever, but forget what color my hair was in thirty seconds.

“We’re a trading firm,” she said. “Would you like to open an account?”

“Not really.” I glanced around. “See, after the divorce, I ended up with some jewelry. Earrings and like that. Part of the settlement when we divvied it all up. What the freaking vampire lawyers didn’t take, I mean. So I’d like to sell it.”

“Oh, we don’t buy actual gold.” She smiled. “Just like contracts and futures and stuff.”

“But the sign said—”

“That’s not what it means. Not what you think.”

“Oh.”

Three more doors were visible, but one opened into a conference room with an empty walnut table. A dead-end hallway held four fire-safe file cabinets, all locked. An open closet at the end of the hallway seemed to be the server room; I could just make out a rack with several pieces of installed equipment, a mess of cables, and two keyboards stacked atop each other. LEDs glowed.

The interior office doors had keypads, same as the entry. I could see a pair of motion detectors, one covering the waiting area and front door, the other the hallway and one office. They were discreet, up in the ceiling, but not hidden.

And two cameras. One seemed to be pointed directly down at the receptionist, which might be why her shirt was buttoned all the way up.

The door to the corner office opened, and a big guy emerged. About forty-five, really good hair, a rugby-every-weekend sort of physique. His suit undoubtedly cost more than my car, though that might not have been saying much.

“What’s up, Kels?” he asked. Short for Kelsey, I figured.

“I was just explaining we’re not a retail store.”

“Frank Riverton.” He turned to me with his hand out.

“Mark Wilson.” I gave his overly firm grip right back. “I got some gold jewelry to sell.”

“I’m afraid you’d be better off up on 47th Street for that.” He smiled. “But what are you planning to do with the proceeds? Because, I’ll tell you, I’ve got some opportunities here you wouldn’t believe.”

His pitch ran almost three minutes, despite my obviously increasing uninterest. I finally extricated myself when even Riverton couldn’t ignore the twitches, shuffling, glances at my watch, and so forth.

“Keep us in mind,” he said. “The stock market’s for suckers. Buying and selling
real
things—grain and metal and oil—that’s how you make your fortune.”

I decided Riverton had started as a pit trader and never
really left the rough-and-tumble. “I’ll do that,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Not at all.”

“Have a good day, now,” the receptionist added.

“Thanks.” I turned to go, and as I approached the door, a faint click sounded. “You, too.”

I
hate hospitals.

For all the usual reasons—horrifically ill or injured people you can only avert your eyes from, fear of death, lousy food, et cetera. But also because of my profession. If I’m on a patient ward, then either I screwed up and got hurt, or I screwed up and someone
else
got hurt. Either way, no fun and bad associations.

Maybe Clara picked up on that.

“Relax,” she said. “It’s not like someone’s waiting for you with a bonesaw.”

“Sorry.”

“I think they checked me out already, but I should stop at the nurses’ station on the way.”

She was dressed in street clothes. A light leather jacket over an Avalon Shrike T-shirt, jeans and sandals—not the running outfit I remembered, which she must have arrived in. The same faded laptop carrier weighed down one shoulder.

“My roommate brought me my things this morning.”

“Good of her.”

“Him, actually. Yes, it was.”

Him? I felt an odd ping in my chest. “You look good for an overnight patient.” Her face was unmarked—the kicks must have been to the back of her skull—and her eyes were lively.

“There’s wi-fi, so I was able to work most of the day.”

“Really?” I followed her into the hallway. “Whenever I get a concussion, I seem to spend two or three days in blinding pain.”

“I’m not sure why they kept me. I felt fine when I woke up.”