The Gods of Greenwich (36 page)

“Nice work. And I’m thrilled you’re buying lunch.”

“I was afraid,” Jimmy admitted, “you’d be angry. I know lunches aren’t your thing.”

“Should have done it myself.”

Thirteen minutes.

Cusack walked toward reception. He waited forever at the elevator bank. Waited. Waited. Waited. The elevator arrived. Stopped at every floor. Somebody said, “Local.” Nobody laughed.

The doors opened. Cusack marched through the building’s lobby, checked left and right in the parking lot for Cy’s Bentley, and headed for Greenwich Avenue.

Eleven minutes.

Jimmy peeked over his shoulder one last time and sprinted for Greenwich Hardware. Halfway up the street he ducked around a nanny pushing a stroller with an older woman in tow, probably the mother.

A few seconds later, he was standing in line, waiting for a beefy carpenter to order a pound bag of nails. Lumberjack shirt. Fifty pounds on the wrong side of fat. “Do you have any twelve-D nails that come with a three head?”

“They only come with a three-and-a-quarter head,” the clerk replied. Gray hair. Balding. Big smile and earnest.

“Nah, man. I need a three head.”

Seven minutes.

“Ten-Ds come with a three head. You need a three head, I got ten-Ds in three weights.”

“I need the twelve-D length.”

“Then you get a three-and-a-quarter head.”

Lumberjack Shirt scowled, and Cusack said, “Guys, I’m in an awful hurry to get a key made.”

Clerk and carpenter turned, both men annoyed. Lumberjack Shirt asked, “Think I care?”

“Twenty dollars say you do.” Cusack held up a crisp Jackson.

“You’re right about that.” Lumberjack Shirt snatched the bill and told the clerk, “Help my new friend, Gordie.”

“Hey, I could use one of those, too,” Gordie the clerk protested.

“Cut my key, and I’ll fix you up,” Cusack promised. He reached into his pocket and found not one file key on Nikki’s ring, but three. “Check that. I need three.”

“This will take time.”

“Time turns your Jackson into a Lincoln,” advised Jimmy.

“I’ll get her done.”

Grinding. Cutting. Seconds, seconds, seconds. Cusack sprinted out the door with three fresh keys and fifty dollars less, no change.

Three minutes, thirty seconds.

Cusack had never been the fastest guy on Columbia’s football team. Nor the slowest. He sprinted down the Avenue, racing toward Two Greenwich before Nikki and Shannon returned. His heart beat like a stopwatch.

One minute, thirty seconds.

He walked into the lobby, panting and sweating. Pouring from his brow. He checked the room again, controlling his lungs en route to the elevator. Dodging the gods with take-out lunches.

Fifteen seconds.

Nikki and Shannon entered the building. The two were talking and laughing, Shannon carrying the boxes of pizzas, each one stacked on top of another. They steered toward the elevator.

Cusack noticed Shannon’s eyes. He saw the big man’s gap-toothed smile disappear behind a tight-lipped grimace. He saw his own blurred reflection in the smoky chrome of the elevator doors. He was inside. They were outside, waiting for the next car.

*   *   *

The doors opened, and Cusack burst into the lobby. He pushed into LeeWell Capital’s reception area, and from under her headset, Amanda called, “Hey, thanks for buying lunch.”

“My pleasure.”

At Nikki’s workstation he dropped a pen, accidentally on purpose, and pulled her purse off the desk as he bent down. Key ring out. Ring inside purse. Bag on desk. Cusack stood up, his lungs still burning from the run, and prepared to turn around. That’s when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

Cusack jerked around to find Victor Lee.

“Thanks for buying lunch,” said the head trader.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Did you get something light?”

“One salad. Two veggies.”

“You’re the best,” Victor said. And pointing to the desk, he added, “Nikki shouldn’t leave her purse out like that.”

“You got that right,” Cusack agreed.

“It looks like a Birkin knockoff.”

“Okay, Victor.”

In that moment Nikki joined them, Shannon trailing her with the pizzas. “Follow me, boys.” She led all three men into the conference room, where other employees were already waiting.

“We have Jimmy to thank for this meal,” Cy Leeser announced. After the clapping stopped, he said, “Just don’t eat so much you fall asleep this afternoon. We have work to do.”

Amanda raised her hand, daring to ask the forbidden question from the last pizza party. “Does this mean we can turn up the heat, boss?”

No one said a word. Leeser squinted at one face after another, leveling on every pair of eyes in the room. It wasn’t until he broke into a broad grin that everybody laughed. The markets down, down, down—it was the release LeeWell Capital needed.

There was only one person who didn’t laugh: Shannon. Cusack bit into one of the greasier slices of pepperoni extra cheese, and the big man said, “You forgot something.”

“Greek olives?”

Shannon held up Cusack’s pen. “I found it at Nikki’s desk.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy replied, sounding happy.

The big man said nothing. Mack face. Cold eyes. No smile. Shannon’s callous expression reminded Cusack what he already knew. Digging Cy’s computer out of Nikki’s files would not be easy. The head of security was there every step of the way.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

LEEWELL CAPITAL AFTER DARK
 …

A flicker of light, the distant bang of a backfire, and even the passage of time all contribute to the basic problem of breaking and entering. Every change, no matter what or how minute, drills the senses like a do-it-yourself root canal. It is impossible to escape the anticipation of getting caught, especially when you have no practice rummaging through locked files and fishing out a video with your sad-sack puss mushed against four naked lap dancers from the Foxy Lady.

*   *   *

Cusack shifted uncomfortably on his Aeron chair. He pretended to answer e-mails. He pretended like he gave a damn the market lost nineteen points today. He had been pretending for the last hour. The waiting, the vigilance, and the erring on the side of caution were all wearing thin. He was sick of pretending.

LeeWell Capital was far from silent, even at 8:20
P.M.
on a Wednesday night. There were fifteen flat-screen televisions, each one ranging from forty to fifty-two inches, all tuned to the talking heads. CNBC and Fox Business were still dissecting the day’s trades, still warring over airwaves to win the hearts and minds of investors everywhere. And no one, no one, was there to listen.

No one except Cusack.

Nikki had been the last person to leave. That was forty minutes ago. Cusack stood and began walking through LeeWell. He peeked inside every office. He inspected the kitchen and found the screaming eagle atop the cappuccino maker right where it belonged. He checked the pool room. He even inspected the sauna to ensure the coast was clear.

Cusack eyed Nikki’s filing cabinets, each with three drawers. He pulled out the three keys from Greenwich Hardware and unlocked the first file. Pushing the meticulous folders left and right and checking over his shoulder all the while, he probed for the Mac laptop with the Foxy Lady video. No luck.

He rifled the second file, showering each drawer with alpha waves as though the power of positive thinking would lead him to the Holy Grail. Nikki kept a few extra pairs of shoes and an unopened pair of stockings in one drawer, the only clutter among the otherwise pristine organization. But no computer, nothing.

The Mac was not in the third filing cabinet, either. Cusack cursed his luck and stared blankly at the green hanging files, one after another. Each one packed with fat sheaves of paper. Soon, Nikki would need another lateral file just to hold all the papers. Cusack closed the drawer and stared at the keys.

What a waste.

His sprint to the hardware store was a bust. So were the pizzas. The Foxy Lady video was still out there, still likely to surface at the most inopportune time. That’s when an image triggered in his brain. Something inside the last file. Something he saw.

Cusack opened the last drawer and inspected the contents. There were a total of eight sections, approximately six inches each. Every section contained records for one person. And there it was. There was the connection that sparked a second look.

“Barnes, Conrad” was the first file tab.

Cy Leeser was helping a widow with her husband’s estate. But last week, he had dismissed the importance of the business relationship. “Barnes and I had business dealings from time to time.”

Six inches of carefully labeled paperwork felt like more than “business dealings from time to time.” For the moment, Cusack forgot all about a Mac laptop and the ambient sounds from the after hours. His curiosity took over.

*   *   *

Jimmy scanned seven other names in the drawer. Conrad Barnes was the only one he recognized. All eight names contained the same three tabs:
UNDERWRITING
;
PURCHASE AND SALE
; and
CERTIFICATES
. Nikki had arranged her files with perfectionist care, labels typed, consistent divisions for each person.

“Underwriting” conjured up investment banking transactions. So did “Purchase and Sale.” Cusack peered at the drawer for what seemed a month of Sundays. And then he understood.

Or at least he had a hunch. He was staring at the secret sauce. He was staring at answers that had eluded him ever since day one at LeeWell Capital, ever since he gagged on the 30 percent concentration in Bentwing Energy. Cy’s fanatic secrecy, his indifference to Qatari shorts and his strange preoccupation with Caleb Phelps—it was all there in front of him. Why some creep was stalking his wife. Why Leeser was holding him hostage with video clips, not to mention an overleveraged condo in the Meatpacking District. Why Shannon was a dick. Maybe Victor, too. Why Leeser had lied about
Night of the Living Dead Heads.
And why some cloak-and-dagger Samaritan named “Daryle Lamonica” was warning him to get the hell out of Dodge and “beware the Greek.”

Cy Leeser, Jimmy decided, hedged risk through private deals. He solved the age-old problem of stock tickers, which reported bad decisions with the cold consistency of Chinese drip torture that repeats, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” every second, every trade. Private deals were less transparent and took more time to value. At last there were answers, all wrapped up in tidy files courtesy of Nikki.

Cusack found a pad in Nikki’s middle desk drawer. He scribbled down seven names—he knew Conrad Barnes by heart—and made a mental note to Google them later. His watch read 9:10
P.M.

Jimmy reached for Conrad’s Underwriting file. But he heard a muffled noise. Or was it his imagination, fear wrapping his senses like an octopus handshake?

Cusack yanked six inches of paperwork from the middle of the drawer and closed it. He never checked the name. Anyone would do, anyone other than Conrad Barnes. Leeser might dig through the records any day to help the widow.

First one key. Then another. The last one. Jimmy locked all three lateral files. The rustling grew louder. The noise was real.

Cusack grabbed his list of seven names. He double-checked Nikki’s desk one more time. No way he’d repeat his earlier mistake with the pen. He scooted across the hall into his office and dropped the six inches of paper underneath the desk. He grabbed his briefcase and turned to his door.

Cleaning crew?

Not a chance. Jimmy Cusack glanced up to find his worst nightmare. Shannon. The big man closed fast, his eyes blazing, his perma-scowl angry and contentious. Cusack braced for the long-simmering confrontation.

*   *   *

“We gotta talk, Kemosabe.”

“What is it now?”

“Have you been watching CNBC? I about strangled on my heart today.”

“You can’t watch the market. It’ll drive you nuts.”

“But, Kemosabe,” Rachel persisted, “this reminds me of when Daddy told me Santa got killed in the war.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

*   *   *

Shannon thundered across the floor. He screeched to a stop, blocking Cusack’s exit from the office. The big man’s bald head, brighter than the chrome bumper of any eighteen-wheeler, gleamed under fluorescent lights that showered fatigue from the long day. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Going home.” Cusack smiled crookedly. He yawned, struggling to stay calm, and stepped around Shannon.

The big man shifted and blocked Cusack’s path. Old-school intimidation.

“Is there a problem here?” Jimmy demanded.

“Security is twenty-four/seven,” Shannon announced, cocky and self-important with drill-sergeant swagger, like he was smelling his own musk.

“So is prospecting. But for the record, I feel safer knowing you have an eye on things.”

“You got a smart mouth, rich boy.” Shannon stepped closer, violating Cusack’s body space, inviting him to push his way through. Any closer, and it was a rugby scrum.

“Why don’t you join me for a beer and a crash course in personality?” Cusack taunted, smiling crookedly, not flinching, not backing off.

Shannon did not advance. Or give any ground. “What were you doing at Nikki’s desk today?”

“Buying pizza for the office. You got a problem with that?”

“What were you doing at Nikki’s desk tonight?”

“Walking past it. You got a problem with that?”

“Let me clue—”

“No, Shannon. Shut up and follow me.” Cusack turned and stormed back to his office. He dumped the entire contents of his briefcase, satchel construction, onto his desk. From the corner of his eye, Cusack saw that the six-inch file had slid into view underneath his desk chair.

“Knock yourself out,” boomed Cusack, pulling his bottom desk drawer wide open for effect, “so I can do my job.” The file drawer obscured Shannon’s view of the paperwork and the all-caps label that read
HENRIETTA HEDGECOCK
. Cusack swept his arm, big-time flourish inviting the head of security to poke around.