Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

“Shanahan was targeted by the SEC,” Oliver replied, unmoved, “because he moved funds of unknown origin to various offshore tax havens. He was on his way to an SEC hearing when he was run over by a stolen truck with stolen license plates. The truck was found a few weeks later burned out in a parking lot in Vermont. Shanahan’s widow claimed that her husband acted under orders of LMI’s management, which they obviously vehemently deny. At the time, Levy assured the police that Shanahan was not acting in a professional capacity.”

“Stop it!” Alex hissed. “I have no interest whatsoever in your absurd conspiracy theories. Let’s go, Mark. Our lunch break is long over, and we have a lot of work waiting for us. Have a nice day, Mr. Skerritt.”

She turned on her heel and marched off, not deigning to give Oliver Skerritt another look. Mark only caught up with her at the park’s exit.

“Alex, I… I’m so sorry.” He was out of breath. Alex stopped abruptly and looked at her employee.

“I don’t want to hear another word about this,” she said emphatically. “LMI is paying us both handsomely, so we owe them our loyalty. If you happen to disagree with me, I suggest that you take your friend’s advice and hand in your notice. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.” Mark nodded and lowered his head.

Alex started walking again. Why did Skerritt’s words get to her? She should have just brushed them off with a smile and a shrug. But suddenly there was this tiny, nagging doubt planted deep inside her, a whispered warning that called to mind her private conversation with Levy. At the time, she’d accepted the bonus and decided to have it paid in stock options instead of cash. And she’d asked herself ever since how a serious investment bank could offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of unaccounted money. Why did Zack fly to the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands, or Grand Cayman every few weeks? Damn it! A chill overtook her, but then she chased off these gloomy thoughts. She didn’t want to know anything about it. She wanted to do her job without being disturbed. Forget Oliver Skerritt!

It was difficult for Mark to focus on his work for the rest of the day. The encounter with Oliver at Battery Park was by no means a coincidence. He had carefully arranged it. Over the past weeks, his doubt had grown about the legality of the deals that he was working on. During his research for the current Micromax deal—which appeared to be unspectacular at first—Mark had discovered that Finley Desmond, the majority shareholder of the Los Angeles-based Ventura Film Corporation who wanted to acquire Micromax, already owned a large equity stake in Micromax by means of a dubious Canadian company. This Canadian company was in turn owned by a familiar player, namely SeViCo Holdings, which was owned by Sunset Properties. This was a rather strange coincidence; it almost looked like money laundering. Mark didn’t like the thought of working for a company that was involved in shady business. It was becoming clear to him that something wasn’t quite kosher at LMI.

When he told Oliver about his suspicions, Oliver shared many more details with him. He suspected that Alex knew about everything. Mark refused to believe him, but he was deeply disappointed that Alex wouldn’t even listen to Oliver.

He vividly remembered how Gilbert Shanahan had changed in the weeks preceding his death. Before joining LMI, he was the top equities trader at Cantor and owned multiple Ferraris and a mansion on Long Island. Before he died, this pompous man had turned into a bundle of nerves, a shadow with bloodshot eyes who twitched every time the telephone rang. He couldn’t handle the pressure that he was under anymore. Mark saw Shanahan every day and observed his growing panic, expecting him to have a breakdown. Was Shanahan really involved in illegal activities on his own account? Or should he believe Oliver’s version—that Levy used Shanahan and ultimately sacrificed him when it seemed the shady wheeling and dealing might blow up?

Was Alex possibly involved in the same business as Shanahan? Mark stared at the wall. He admired his boss. It wasn’t as easy as it had been ten years ago to find a well-paying job if you didn’t specialize in a particular field. These two factors had prevented him from following his friend’s advice. But what if Alex really did know about the dubious connections between her clients and—

The ringing of the telephone pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Alex. She was waiting for the LMI profit forecasts to finance the Micromax deal for Ventura. Mark grabbed his files and left for Alex’s office. He would continue to observe everything. That was all that he could do.

Alex was dead tired as she rode the subway home. Earlier that day, she had finally closed a major deal she had been working on around the clock for the past week. Yet, she left the party with her team at Luna Luna after just one drink. She didn’t feel like celebrating. She felt simultaneously burned-out and electrified. The stress didn’t bother her, but the article in the Post ’s gossip column someone had placed on her desk during lunch did. Alex boiled with rage after reading it. Sergio had attended a charity golf tournament last weekend on Long Island with supermodel Farideh Azzaeli on his arm for the third event in a row. Sergio had asked her to make time for him, which she did. She even turned down two other invitations so she could be with him. But he stood her up and she was left at home waiting for his call. Since their return from Cinnamon Island, Sergio had completely changed his behavior toward her. Before the trip, he had sometimes called her three times a day just to say hello, but since their return he called only once in a while to get together for sex. Alex couldn’t understand what changed. She was hurt, and she was incredibly angry that she—who was so competent and powerful in her job—had lost control of the situation and let a man humiliate her like this.

Alex climbed the subway stairs at the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street and picked up some pasta from an Italian restaurant and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, stubbornly ignoring the repeated humming of her cell phone as she made her way home. When she finally checked, she saw that it was Sergio. She had no desire whatsoever to talk to him. She was well above playing second fiddle to a starved, cow-eyed model. She turned at the corner and saw the bicyclist too late. He tried to brake, but the front wheel and handlebars slammed into her hip and elbow. The bag with the pasta and the bottle of wine slid from her hands.

“Damn it!” she yelled at the bicyclist, who almost crashed. “Open your eyes!”

“You could watch where you’re going, lady!”

This voice sounded familiar to Alex, and she took a closer look. After a few seconds, she recognized Oliver Skerritt.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said in a sarcastic tone. “Are you chasing after another conspiracy? Why are you in such a rush?”

Then he recognized her and grinned.

“What a coincidence,” he said. “Honestly, I was just grabbing some food at Giovanni’s. I’m sorry.”

“You just ruined my dinner.”

Alex bent down to pick up the broken glass.

“Wait, let me help you.”

“No thanks, I’ve got it. Ouch!” Alex cursed as she cut her finger. Her emotions overcame her: she was mad at Sergio and feeling tired and hungry. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Here.” Oliver handed her a clean tissue, which she wrapped around her bleeding finger as they both continued picking up the remnants of her dinner.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I can’t stand to see girls cry.” He looked up and smiled, his face level with hers. She realized that he had beautiful eyes. His hair was a little shorter than it was a few weeks ago, and looking closely, she found him quite attractive.