Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“Look, Detective, if it makes you feel any better, Anson Combes was a world-class shit. Nobody liked him, probably not even his wife, who he was cheating on with more women than just Bonnie. Hopefully, she’ll get remarried, and her kid will have a decent father. He is not missed around here, I can tell you that.” Warren risked the candor because he felt bad for Wittlin.

“I know. It’s amazing, everybody says the same thing about that guy. If you had to look at everyone that hated him as a suspect, you’d bring in anyone who ever met the guy. Still, some perp is laughing his ass off at me and may do it again. This fucking job can get on your nerves. Do you know the lab guys identified the hair and skin samples to a black male, probably twenty-five, type O positive blood. There’s about a million suspects in that category, just like about sixty percent of the murders in this city. Same basic profile for the guy who killed Dougherty. Similar samples, different blood type, different DNA. We can test for that now.

“So it wasn’t the same guy. Just the same act, ending a man’s life.” Wittlin had gotten up and was slouched over as he talked, disheartened.

“Well, if anything else comes up, I hope I can be of more use next time.” Warren held the door for the detective and escorted him back to the elevator landing.

“Thanks again, Mr. Hament. You gotta understand. The DA’s office won’t arrest anyone without almost a signed confession these days. We have to build an air-tight case. And listen, you be careful, okay? This is a rough city for you bankers these days.” Wittlin smiled, and they shook hands again.

“Detective, believe me, everyone here has been a lot more careful since this all happened. Christ, the secretaries have a subway pool—no one rides home alone anymore. Take care.” The elevator door closed behind the man, and Warren turned back to the trading floor.

He stopped in the bathroom and washed his face. The fear that had seized him was irrational. He hadn’t done anything. Wittlin’s inquiry was a wild-goose chase. Still, something in that security photo drew Warren in, something he felt he should have noticed, should have seen. He checked his wallet. Wittlin’s card was still there. If it came to him, Warren could call. But, he wondered, if it did, would putting Wittlin on the trail inevitably lead to Faaringsbank, and the snotty little Herr Dohlmer? Or would keeping quiet lead a young, maybe black man with a special mission and a peculiar talent to decide that Warren Hament’s house was the next one to burglarize?

Angelo was surprised to see Warren in the middle of a weekday afternoon. The building had a fair number of retirees and wealthy dilettantes, most of whom would often linger for idle chats with the garrulous Italian doorman. He was something of a font of gossip about the building, and if you caught him slightly off guard, or after a lunch that included a little wine, there was no telling what you might find out.

“Hey, Mr. Hament, nice to see you.” Angelo touched his cap as he opened the taxi door. He was a little wobbly, a sign that his lunch break had been well catered by Mrs. Ingrisano. Warren generally tried to remember to bring home the tiny service bottles of wine from his plane trips to leave for Angelo. That way, at least the portion would be small. He knew Angelo’s favorite was a Sutter Home cabernet.

“Same here, Angelo.” Warren climbed out, then paused to check the seat behind him, an old habit that had saved him countless umbrellas and several wallets. “How’s tricks? There are some bags in the trunk.”

“Not bad, not bad, Mr. Hament.” The older man smiled under his salt-and-pepper mustache and motioned to the driver to pop the trunk lid. “Of course, not anything like you. Not at my age.” The lascivious grin was meant as a compliment to Warren’s taste in women. Sam was definitely a hit with the doormen and car valets on both coasts. Angelo struggled a bit with the two large shopping bags, which were not heavy, and Warren helped him with one.

“Yeah, well, Angelo, you never know. This one looks like it might last a while.” He paused in the lobby, a beautiful marble hall with elegant neoclassical moldings and a circular plan. It always irritated Warren that the board of the building was too cheap to give the walls a good cleaning, but the patina of age was not badly served by the layer of dirt. It almost suggested an unearthed ruin, a Pompeian tomb, but with an automatic elevator.

“Oh? I’m happy to hear that. Umm, your most recent… I mean, the young lady… before…” Angelo was lost for a tactful way to refer to Larisa, as he had obviously forgotten her name.

“You mean Larisa, my last girlfriend?” Warren came to his rescue.

“Oh, yes. Exactly. Larisa. Well, I hadn’t seen her around for a while, and what with the new one, I sort of figured…” Angelo’s grin was huge.

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Angelo?” Warren handed him the $5 bill he’d gotten in change from the cabbie. “See ya.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Hament. And good luck!” Angelo called to the closing elevator door.

Sam was out for the day. She’d gone to New Jersey to visit her cousin, a physics professor at Princeton. She’d hit Warren with a ball of socks when he’d asked if they were going to discuss the behavior of high-energy plasma in a supercooled nongravitational state, or just girl talk. He missed her, but there were some things he needed to do, and he’d taken the day off from work. She had been with him for months now, and he’d stocked up at the discount drugstore for himself and picked up some items on her list. He also bought three new pairs of shoes at Bally, which he dropped in the bedroom. He dumped the bags full of shampoo and moisturizers in the bathroom and had just sat down at his desk when the phone rang. He let it ring a second time before he answered it, a habit he’d picked up somewhere along the line.

“Hi. Is this Warren Hament?” The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, a circumstance that had never meant anything to him before. These days, it provoked a distinct bit of anxiety. He acknowledged his own name.

“Hi, Warren. My name is George Charpentier. I’m with Julian Jameson, the executive recruiter. Do you have a second, or is this a bad moment?”

“George, I hope I never have a bad moment. What can I do for you?” Warren couldn’t help it; his pulse quickened just a bit. He’d heard about these calls. These were the guys who did all the sniffing around for Street firms looking to raid talent from the competition. The right sniff could mean a multimillion-dollar contract. Warren wasn’t sure what his situation might be, but he wanted to listen.

“Well, Warren, we’ve been retained by an investment bank here in town to help find candidates to build up their sales effort with the top Fixed Income accounts, mostly on the East Coast. Your name came up as a prime prospect. I wonder if you might like to pursue this. I know they’d love to talk to you.”

Warren smiled at the here in town . He could never see New York as a town. “Well, what kind of firm is it? A major?”

“Well, no. It’s a second-tier firm that is starting to invest in a push to move into the top tier. They are extremely strong in retail and have a presence on the institutional side.”

“Well, it’s hard for me to respond one way or another. I’m pretty happy at Weldon. Before I can say yes or no to talk, I obviously need to know which company it is.”

“Sacramento. They’ve gotten the okay from their parent company to make a three-year campaign to hit the top five. They just hired two top investment bankers from your shop. Senior guys. Generous terms too. They’re negotiating right now with a major name to head up Fixed Income. As far as capital is concerned, they’ve got far more than Weldon, and they’re also hiring new traders. It’s actually pretty exciting. You could wind up a key guy at a major player in a year or two.”