The Insider (19 page)

The young maid snatched the picture from Jay and scanned it briefly. “Yeah, you.” She shoved it back at him.

“A longer look,” he directed.

She looked at it again. “Him.” She pointed at Oliver. “He was with the woman in the last picture.” She gestured at the suite door again. “I nearly ran into him getting on the elevator as I was getting off it last Tuesday evening around nine o’clock, but that was down in the lobby.” She started to hand the picture back to Jay, then stopped. “He was with her.”

Jay gazed at the photograph. The young maid was pointing at Sally.

CHAPTER 17

“Hey, pal!” Oliver shouted across the trading room.

Jay checked his wristwatch. It was only six-thirty in the morning. What the hell was Oliver doing there? Usually he didn’t arrive until seven at the earliest.

“What an incredible morning,” Oliver exclaimed, laying his briefcase on the desk. “It’s still hot as Hades out there. I thought the cold front that went through here yesterday morning and brought us all those storms might have cooled things down. But it didn’t.” He was talking quickly and confidently, as if the events of the previous morning had never happened. “In fact, I think it’s hotter this morning than it’s been all summer.” He sniffed several times in rapid succession. “And we aren’t even into August yet.” He tossed his jacket over the bulkhead. “But it’s still damn good to be alive, Jay.”

Jay gazed at Oliver from his seat on the other side of the bulkhead. The man had to be in complete and utter denial of the incident on the roof. The self-preservation sector of his steel-trap mind must have kicked in and convinced the rest of him that his close call had been nothing but a terrible nightmare, Jay thought. That was the only explanation. Less than twenty-four hours earlier the man had been standing at the edge of an abyss, literally—staring down from a precipice into a valley of certain death. And here he was acting as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Acting as if nothing had happened.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” Oliver announced. “Want some?”

“No.”

“Okay, pal.” Oliver turned to go, then paused. “For a guy who’s the talk of the trading floor after picking two takeover stocks in one day, you certainly aren’t very cheerful.” He leaned over the bulkhead and lowered his voice even though there was no one else within earshot. “By the way, if you want to thank me for the information on Bell Chemical and Simons at some point, don’t bother, just throw cash. As I’ve always said, Jay, cash is king.” He put his head back and laughed obnoxiously. “By the way, I didn’t see TurboTec on the takeover wire yesterday.”

“What’s your point, Oliver?”

“Nothing,” he said smugly, cocaine drenching his nasal cavities. He had snorted several huge lines in the back of his limousine on the way into Manhattan. “See you in a minute.” He turned and headed off toward the coffee machine.

Jay watched Oliver make his way through the floor, stopping to slap early arrivals on the back and make small talk.
A complicated son of a bitch,
Jay thought,
in a complicated situation.
He only wished he knew more about that situation. Perhaps Oliver’s breakdown the day before had to do with his marital problems, or what was happening on the desk—whatever that was. Or maybe all those forces and others Jay wasn’t even aware of had come together that morning and caused the emotional implosion he had witnessed Oliver endure. Whatever it was, Oliver had to be hanging on by one very thin thread.

Jay began printing out the research material he needed for his trip—the only reason he had even bothered to come in at all that morning before heading to La Guardia Airport. When the printer finished, he placed the information in his briefcase, tucked the briefcase in his travel bag, and zipped the bag shut. He stood up and picked up the bag.

“Where are you going?” Bullock was moving across the floor to the desk.

“Nashua, New Hampshire,” Jay answered, cursing silently. Bullock was the last person he wanted to see.

“What the hell is in New Hampshire?” Bullock glanced down at Jay’s bag.

“TurboTec.”

“Why do you need to go all the way up to New Hampshire? Why don’t you just speak to someone at the company by phone?”

“I’m meeting tomorrow with a friend of mine from college who works for the firm. I think the meeting could provide some very helpful insights. And he wants to see me in person.”

“Does Oliver know you’re going?”

“No.” Jay took a step toward the elevators. “I thought I was free to do whatever field research I needed to do.”

“I think we better talk to Oliver first.” Bullock moved in front of Jay, blocking his path.

“Why?”

Bullock smiled. “He’s the boss. I care about what he thinks.”

Jay shook his head. “You don’t give a damn about what Oliver thinks. In fact, you don’t give a damn about Oliver, period.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bullock dropped his briefcase and stepped toward Jay.

“Exactly what you think I mean,” Jay replied calmly, standing his ground as Bullock moved closer.

“Spell it out for me,” Bullock challenged.

“Let me put it this way. If Oliver had slipped through my fingers yesterday and splattered all over Wall Street, something tells me you wouldn’t have gone into mourning.”

“You better reconsider that statement.” Bullock’s face suddenly flushed a brilliant red. “Oliver’s one of my best friends. I would never want anything to happen to him.”

Jay dropped his traveling bag. “Then why did you fall against my legs while I was holding on to him?”

“You stupid—” Bullock didn’t finish. His temper overpowered him and he took a swing at Jay.

Jay blocked Bullock’s punch and countered with a quick left to the stomach. As Bullock recoiled from the impact, doubling over and gasping for breath, Jay struck again with a compact right to Bullock’s chin, splitting his lower lip wide open. Bullock fell to the floor, clutching his stomach with one hand and his bleeding lip with the other. “Have a nice day,” Jay hissed, glancing around. Several of the traders were standing and staring at Bullock, who was moaning on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye Jay noticed Oliver emerging from the coffee room. He grabbed his bag and headed for the elevators.

When the doors had shut, Jay checked his knuckles. Blood was seeping from one, but he could move it. It wasn’t broken. He licked the blood away and laughed, a nervous release after the confrontation. He had felt an incredible tension between himself and Bullock since the interview at McCarthy & Lloyd over a month before, as if Bullock had been wanting this physical exchange ever since they had met. But Bullock had gotten more than he bargained for, Jay thought. He was probably still doubled over on the trading room floor or leaning over a bathroom sink trying to stop the bleeding.

There would be a price to the exchange for himself as well, Jay realized. When he returned from New England, the seat on the arbitrage desk would no longer be his. He was certain of that. Bullock had taken the first swing, but Oliver would stick up for his friend. If Oliver only knew what Bullock had tried to do the previous day on the roof… Jay shook his head, suddenly uncertain. Or maybe Bullock hadn’t. Perhaps Bullock had just slipped. But Sally had seen Bullock’s action and confirmed his intent.

Of course, where were her loyalties in all of this? She had been with Oliver immediately after he had left Abby in the Plaza Hotel room. Now Abby was dead.

The hell with it,
Jay thought.
The hell with Oliver, Bullock, McCarthy and Lloyd, Sally, and the million-dollar bonus. The hell with everything.
He was going on this trip, and when he got back, he’d deal with the situation the best he could. If there was no longer a job for him at McCarthy & Lloyd, so be it. He’d had enough of the damn place.

The elevator doors slid open, and Sally stood in front of him.

“Where are you going?” she asked, looking at the bag.

“On a business trip,” he snapped, brushing past her into the lobby, moving against the tide as people streamed into the building.

“I called you several times last night.” She trotted beside him, dodging people. “Why didn’t you call me back? I was worried about you.”

“Sorry. I was out.” That wasn’t true. He’d been at home all evening, paying bills and working at his computer. It was then he had realized that one of his disks was missing—a disk that stored a record of all personal checks and cash withdrawals he had written or made in the previous year. It was not something he would have noticed was missing, except that he still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Sally had rifled through his boxes of disks. So he’d gone through them carefully. He couldn’t prove she had taken the missing disk, but no one else had been in the apartment in three months.

Sally had called three times after he discovered that the disk was gone, and he’d listened to her voice carefully. Her tone seemed to grow more urgent with each message.

“Tell me where you’re going,” she insisted, grabbing his arm.

“Nashua, New Hampshire. TurboTec. The company I pitched to Bill McCarthy at the yacht club.” Jay paused at the front door. “Good-bye.” Then he was gone.

Sally started to move through the door to go after Jay, but she stopped. It wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t going to tell her anything else of importance, and she had what she needed. She watched him hail a cab, throw the bag inside, and pile in. When the taxi was out of view, she grabbed a cell phone from her bag and began dialing frantically.

Victor Savoy sat on a park bench beneath a grove of elm trees munching contentedly on a pastrami and rye sandwich, watching the lower Manhattan lunch crowd flash past. He loved pastrami but ate it only when he was in New York City because there was a particular deli on Williams Street called Ray’s that served a sandwich that literally melted in his mouth. Ordering pastrami from any other place in the world had always turned out to be a bitter disappointment. Savoy savored the last bite of the sandwich, then crumpled its wrapper and glanced to his left.

City Hall was fifty yards away. It was a three-story structure built of smooth white stone with eleven steps leading down from a portico to a small open area where the mayor occasionally welcomed visiting dignitaries or gave away keys to the city. In front of the open area was the candy end of a lollipop-shaped driveway crowded with blue Town Cars constantly dropping off or picking up city officials.

Savoy rose from the bench and began to walk. City Hall was located a half mile north of Wall Street, facing the small park Savoy was now ambling through. Broadway ran past City Hall’s west side, and another street ran diagonally left to right until it reached Broadway, creating a triangle in front of the building inside of which was the park. On the outside of the triangle skyscrapers towered over the cozy swath of grass and trees, creating an amphitheater effect with City Hall on the stage.

Savoy stood at the edge of the driveway, noting that there were several uniformed New York City policemen milling around, casually checking him out every few moments. When none of them was looking at him, he walked quickly out from the shade of the elm trees past two concrete barriers and moved across the driveway. As he reached the open area in front of the steps leading up to the portico, he stopped and turned. The Woolworth Building soared sixty floors skyward on his right, while shorter buildings encircled the rest of the park several hundred yards away.

He leaned back and examined the Woolworth Building. Someone in an office near the top of the neo-Gothic structure would have a perfect view of the open area where he now stood, one unobstructed by trees. Views from most of the other buildings around the perimeter would be at least partially blocked. The problem with the Woolworth Building, and most of the other buildings encircling the park for that matter, was that the Secret Service, the FBI, and British intelligence would have snipers and lookouts posted everywhere. A rifleman at the top of the Woolworth Building would be discovered quickly, as officials would be constantly scanning the area with high-powered binoculars. He’d have to come up with something else.

Savoy turned left, due south, and suddenly saw the opportunity. Almost a half mile from where he stood, a tiny piece of One Chase Manhattan Plaza was visible. Its dark outer structure protruded from behind a closer building rising up around the park’s perimeter. Only a tiny strip of the huge building that served as headquarters for one of the world’s largest banks was visible, but that would be enough. A person in one of those offices would have an unobstructed view of the dais, which on the critical day would be positioned exactly where he was now standing. And oddly, the treetops in the park parted in Red Sea fashion between the Chase Building and this spot. The sniper would stare right down a natural funnel into the open area. It would be a long shot, perhaps eight hundred yards, but Savoy had witnessed firsthand the proficiency of his hired guns. They would have no problem hitting the target.

One of the policemen moved quickly toward Savoy. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Admiring the view.” Savoy was wearing another disguise and wasn’t worried about the officer thinking back to this day at some later date and remembering him. He might remember the conversation, but not the face. Not a face that mattered.

“Well, this area is off-limits to the public. Move along,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Savoy said politely. There was no need for confrontation. If the officer got a bug up his ass, he’d find several different passports in Savoy’s pockets as well as plane tickets under the aliases. EZ Travel could get him anywhere in the world he wanted to go under any name he gave them.

A half hour later Savoy had talked himself onto the fifty-fourth floor of the Chase Building. He wanted to make certain that the view from the building down to City Hall was as good as the view from City Hall up to the building. It seemed logical that if the view was good from one direction, it ought to be good from the other as well. However, that wasn’t always the case.

The fifty-fourth floor was empty because the law firm that had rented the space from the bank had recently moved. From high above lower Manhattan, Savoy gazed down from the vacant northwest corner office at the open area in front of City Hall. He could clearly see officials hopping in and out of cars and the black Explorer parked in the driveway. Bingo. As soon as he could get to a secure phone, he’d call the people in Virginia and tell them to abandon the farm and make the move to New York City.

Savoy thanked the janitor who had graciously allowed him entry to the deserted floor in return for fifty dollars, and headed toward the elevators. He had to fly to Antwerp to meet the freighter that was now steaming its way up the west coast of Africa.