The Insider (17 page)

CHAPTER 15

It was just before midnight and the cavernous McCarthy & Lloyd trading room was deserted except for a man cleaning the carpet at the far end of the floor where the bond traders yelled and screamed over telephones all day, buying and selling multimillion-dollar pieces of paper they never saw. Jay walked down the corridor paralleling the floor, then threaded his way through the clutter to the arbitrage desk. Despite the lack of people, the room was brightly lit. Half-full coffee cups stood in front of chairs pulled out from the long workstations, and most of the computer monitors remained on, graphs, memos, and reports glowing on the screens. It was as if everyone had filed out for a fire drill, Jay thought as he reached his position on the desk. Or the place had been hit by a neutron bomb.

He tossed his suit coat over the bulkhead and sank down into his seat, exhausted and emotionally drained. He had spent the last few hours with Abby’s father, accompanying him as they walked slowly through his darkened Brooklyn neighborhood, talking about everything but Abby. Bob Cooper’s best friend had died recently, Jay found out, and only then did it become clear why the older man had asked him to stay a while as they stood on the concrete stoop together. He needed someone, anyone, to talk to after losing his only child. At that moment on the stoop Jay had been the only person in the world for him to turn to.

Jay leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He’d agreed to stay. The poor man was clearly beside himself, and even though they hadn’t known each other ten minutes, Jay wasn’t going to leave any human being alone in such a vulnerable state. At the end of the walk he’d accompanied Cooper inside and met Abby’s mother. She was short and attractive, an older version of Abby. The sister had left a few minutes earlier, and it was time for Cooper and his wife to grieve together. And time for Jay to go.

Now, as he sat alone on the trading floor, Jay realized that he hadn’t come to grips with Abby’s death himself. He’d been too busy comforting her father to grasp the fact that she was gone. He’d met Abby only a month earlier, but he’d felt an instant bond of friendship with her. She was one of those people you didn’t have to expend a great deal of energy to get to know. She was open, energetic, and compassionate, a woman who wanted to make people feel comfortable in new surroundings and help others in any way she could.

Jay glanced past Bullock’s seat at Abby’s position. Now she was gone. That quickly. Just like Phoebe. He shook his head, his expression grim. He hoped that at some point the authorities would discover that they had made a terrible mistake and Abby would turn up, absolutely fine. He glanced at her chair once more, then rubbed his eyes. Perhaps this was what the psychoanalytical types termed denial. Perhaps it would take time before her death would sink in. But then, Phoebe’s still hadn’t.

He leaned forward and began typing commands on his keyboard. The computer clicked several times before images flashed on the screen. He had come back to perform research on Bell Chemical and Simons. He was the uncomfortable owner of a large stock position in each company, and though the decision to buy shares had already been made, at some point he might have to defend his purchases with hard data. He knew he couldn’t count on Oliver to back him up if no takeover bids were announced and the share prices of each stock dropped. He’d have to face McCarthy’s wrath alone.

The research was work he could have started the next morning, but he didn’t want to go home yet. His apartment would feel even lonelier than this deserted floor, and he had the feeling that once he got into bed, he’d simply stare at the ceiling and think about Abby—and Phoebe.

He had tried to call Sally from Brooklyn, but there was no answer at the number she had given him Saturday evening. Perhaps she had stayed late at work and was still on her way home.

Jay punched in a few more commands on the keyboard, then headed toward the soda machine while the computer contacted an on-line service that would provide him with research material regarding Bell and Simons. When he returned, he noticed someone standing at the arbitrage desk. Jay stopped and took a sip of soda, watching while the short, dark-haired man reviewed a document. After a few moments the man slid the document into a manila envelope and put it down in front of Bullock’s position. He knelt, removed a key from beneath the desktop, then slid the key into the lock in Bullock’s stack of drawers and opened the middle one.

“Hi, Paulie.”

Paul Lopez stood up quickly and glanced around. “Oh, hi, Jay.” He spoke in a high-pitched whine.

Paul was one of the firm’s late-shift back-office employees—quartered two floors up—who made certain that the hundreds of millions of dollars flowing through McCarthy & Lloyd on a daily basis reached their intended destinations. These operations people didn’t begin their shifts until ten o’clock at night and often were just going home as the first traders were arriving on the floor in the morning. They couldn’t leave until all the money wires satisfying the previous day’s trades had been sent out or received and any problems with other financial institutions concerning transfers not received had been resolved.

“What are you doing here so late?” Paul asked, checking his watch. “Man, Oliver must be busting you. It’s midnight.”

Jay saw Paul almost every evening around ten o’clock. It was then that Paul made his rounds to collect the last batch of order tickets—tickets traders filled out detailing every purchase or sale of securities they had made during the day. He and Paul had gotten to know each other fairly well and often spent a few minutes talking about the Yankees or Mets before Paul continued on.

“Yeah, Oliver’s a slave driver,” Jay answered innocuously.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“What are
you
doing here, Paulie?” Jay asked. “Does anybody ever do a trade at this time of night?” By eleven, when he usually left, he was one of only a few people—if not the only person—remaining on the floor.

“Nah. I’m delivering something to Carter Bullock. I need his signature on it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he’s an officer of a company that McCarthy and Lloyd owns.”

“Really?” No one had ever mentioned anything about Bullock’s having a second job.

“It’s a travel agency.”

“Here in New York?”

“No, it’s in Boston.”

“Why does M and L own a travel agency in Boston?”

Paul shrugged. “Got me. I don’t know much about the company except that we send money up there every once in a while. It’s funny, though.”

“What is?”

“We don’t ever get money back, at least not that I know of.”

“How is Bullock involved?” Jay asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Paul nodded at the envelope lying on the desk in front of Bullock’s position. “Carter authorizes the money transfers from M and L to the travel agency. That’s why I need his signature. I think he’s actually listed as the chief financial officer on the official advice—the hard copy detailing the transfer that we send to the payee. He goes up there every so often, probably to check the books.”

“Up to Boston, huh?” So that was where Bullock went. Jay had never received a satisfactory explanation for Bullock’s six separate absences in the last few weeks. The secretaries had no idea where he was, and Oliver would say only that Bullock was visiting “some company.” Typically, if you were traveling, you had to be reachable at all times so that the desk could contact you if there was an emergency with a deal you were working on. That hadn’t been the case with Bullock during his absences. “To check the books,” Jay repeated.

“I guess so. Isn’t that what a chief financial officer does?”

Jay grinned. “Yeah, Paulie, that’s what a CFO does.”

“Well, I gotta go,” Paul said. He picked up the manila envelope, placed it in Bullock’s middle drawer, and pushed in the lock. “At this rate I won’t be out of here until nine in the morning,” he groaned, bending down to replace the key on the small sill beneath the desk.

“Pretty careful about all this, aren’t you?” Jay asked.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Carter’s orders. If you ask me, he’s being paranoid. There’s nothing anyone could do with that advice even if they got hold of it.” He stood up, groaning again. “See you later.” Paul chuckled. “Probably tomorrow night, knowing how hard you work.”

“Probably. Hey, Paulie?”

Paul stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

“How long have you been with McCarthy and Lloyd?”

Paul thought for a second. “About three years. I came over from Chemical after the Chase merger.”

“Were you given a performance appraisal after your first month here?”

“You mean a review? Like how I’m doing on the job?”

“Yes.”

“Hell, no. I haven’t had a formal review since I got here. This place is pretty lax about all that stuff. Ask any of the traders.” He waved at the empty chairs. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just wondering.”

“Don’t worry—if you’re screwing up, they’ll let you know.” He waved. “See you later.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Jay watched Paul disappear into an elevator, then checked the trading floor. He was alone in the huge room. He glanced at the elevator doors once more, then quickly moved to Bullock’s position, pulled the chair out, knelt, and slid his hand beneath the desktop. At first he felt nothing but lint and dust, but a moment later he located the key. He grabbed it, pulled it out, and slid it into the lock. A quick turn to the left and the lock popped out. He took one more look around the trading floor, then pulled the drawer out, removed the manila envelope, withdrew the advice, and scanned it.

The name of the firm receiving the money was EZ Travel and the amount of the money transfer was five million dollars. The numbers blurred in front of his eyes. Why the hell did a travel agency need five million dollars? A travel agency was nothing but a couple of people sitting in front of computers booking flights and hotels. And Paulie had said that funds were transferred from McCarthy & Lloyd to EZ Travel on a regular basis. If this was a typical transaction, how much money had already gone to this Boston address?

Jay made a mental note of the post office box number, then slid the advice back into the manila envelope and replaced it in the drawer. He was about to close the drawer when something caught his eye. In the back of the drawer was another envelope that seemed vaguely familiar. Affixed to the top left corner of it was a label decorated with a floral pattern, and inside the floral pattern was Abby’s home address. Jay had watched Abby attach that same label to a stack of bills one afternoon a few weeks earlier.

His heart beat furiously. If Paulie came back or someone else saw him rifling through the drawer, Bullock would probably find out. Then there’d be hell to pay.

He pulled the envelope from the drawer and studied it intently. The letter had been sent to Oliver Mason at McCarthy & Lloyd, but there was no stamp. The top of the envelope had been ripped open, and Jay pulled the paper from within, his fingers shaking. It was Abby’s resignation letter. The same letter Oliver had held up in front of them the previous week in the conference room. Abby’s name was typed at the bottom with her title beneath, but she hadn’t signed the letter.

Jay slid the letter back into the envelope and replaced it in the drawer. He rose, turned around, and froze. Bullock stood only a few feet away.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Replacing your calculator,” Jay replied, his voice raspy. “I… I borrowed it because I left mine at home and I know you keep yours in this middle drawer. I’ve seen you get it out of there a hundred times.” He gestured at the drawer. “I was doing research and I needed to run some figures,” he explained haltingly.

“You were doing research at midnight? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“One of your comments on my review was that I wasn’t getting enough accomplished. Remember?”

“How the hell did you get into the drawer? I left it locked.”

“No, you didn’t. There’s the key.” Jay pointed at the key protruding from the lock. “You must have thought you locked it. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d mind if I used your calculator.”

“You were looking at a letter,” Bullock hissed, moving toward Jay, flexing his right fist. “I saw you.”

Jay held up his hands, backing up until he touched the desk. “I swear I was using your calculator.” He glanced down. “I did check out one of your payroll stubs.” He had noticed the blue stub next to a box of staples. It was the same stub everyone at M&L received from the company that processed the firm’s payroll. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Bullock stood only inches away, hands on his hips, his face twisted in rage. Suddenly he grabbed Jay and pushed him aside roughly. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Easy, Carter.”

“I said get out!”

“All right.” Jay hustled to his position, placed several things in his briefcase, then headed for the elevators.

When Jay was gone, Bullock pulled the manila envelope from his drawer and gazed at it. If Jay had inspected the contents, he now knew about EZ Travel. When the takeovers were announced and Jay realized how desperate his situation had become, he would remember this evening.

Bullock glanced at the elevator doors once more, his eyes narrowing. The Bell Chemical or Simons takeover needed to happen quickly. Just one of them. Then O’Shea could make the arrest, and once Jay West was in jail, his life would come to a quick end. Jay would be found dangling from the ceiling of his cell, a sheet around his neck, and all would be well. The authorities would term the death a suicide and the link would be cut.

Bullock dropped the manila envelope into his briefcase, then retrieved the resignation letter from the drawer and placed it into the briefcase as well. He closed the drawer and the briefcase, then hurried toward the elevators. He wouldn’t feel completely secure again until Jay was dead.

From beneath her desk on the other side of the bulkhead, Sally rubbed one calf. Her legs were tucked underneath her in the alcove and they were beginning to cramp. The pain was intense, but she couldn’t move until Bullock was gone. She was certain Bullock wouldn’t leave anything of consequence in his desk, especially now that he had caught Jay rifling through the drawers, but she had to check. She hadn’t made any progress, and her superiors were becoming anxious.