Steven Gore - Absolute Risk

“Before he lost his sense of humor,” she said, as she gestured him inside, “he used to invite people in here by saying, ‘Welcome to the scene of the crime.'”

Elaine’s face reddened as her eyes traveled from the desk to the battered file cabinet and paper shredder and past the sagging bookcases toward a framed FBI shield on the wall.

“And the agents who came here sure as hell treated it that way.”

Gage walked over and scanned the titles of the books. He noticed a few that were also on his own shelves: manuals on securities fraud, money laundering, and financial investigation, along with a shelf devoted to stock and bond trading, technical analysis, and principles of finance."Did he do day trading?” Gage asked, flipping through a twelve-hundred-page volume on financial modeling. He turned toward her. “This is pretty sophisticated material. Graduate-level math.”

Elaine shook her head. “He barely passed algebra in high school. I know. I sat behind him and fed him the answers.”

She reached past Gage and pulled out a volume titled The Fractal Analysis of Finance.

“Look at this thing,” she said, opening it near the middle. “He highlighted almost every sentence and I’m not sure whether he understood any of it.”

Gage recognized the book. It was an attack on the theories of finance that had guided the actions of the central banks in both the U.S. and Europe for two generations, and on the models used for risk assessment by corporations, investment houses, mutual funds, and currency traders. He wasn’t sure whether anyone other than the author of the book understood the argument, or if anyone did, whether he’d found a way to make use of it, except-according to legend and the prospectus of the offshore Relative Growth hedge fund-Hani Ibrahim.

“Did he study Ibrahim’s journal articles?” Gage asked, glancing over at her.

Elaine nodded. “But the FBI took the whole lot because he’d written notes on them.”

Gage’s mind looped back and he repeated her earlier words, “'Treated the place like a crime scene.’ What did you mean?”

“They even dusted for fingerprints.”

Elaine stepped toward the desk and pointed to the floor next to one of the legs.

“And they cut out a sliver of the carpet where they found blood. I told them it was Michael’s from when he sliced himself moving the file cabinet, but they didn’t believe me.”

Or they had a theory, Gage suspected, about how it got there, one in which Hennessy’s blood was evidence as much as anyone else’s.

Gage bent down to separate the wool pile to examine the surrounding backing. If there had been a fight, there would’ve been surrounding spatter.

He felt Elaine staring at him as he straightened up.

“One of the news articles said that you were once a homicide detective,” she said, “so I know what you’re thinking. The FBI thinks that Michael fought with someone in here.”

“Was there more blood? “

She nodded and indicated a path toward the door with a wave of her hand.

Gage surveyed the room. Every dent in the file cabinet, every scuff on the wall, every missing chip of paint on the windowsill now seemed to speak of violence instead of wear.

“And they think it was Ibrahim?” he asked.

She shrugged. “They didn’t say. But I have no reason to think he was here. If he had been, Michael wouldn’t have raced off to Europe looking for him.”

That pursuit would’ve explained why Hennessy was in France, Gage thought, but maybe not why he was in Marseilles, or at least not the only reason he was there.

Gage felt the crime scene shift back to the Mediterranean.

“Do you think Ibrahim might have killed your husband, maybe out of revenge?”

Elaine’s eyes narrowed and her body stiffened.

“I’m not going to answer that until I know who hired you.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to end up like Michael.”

“The problem is that the person who brought me into this is afraid if it becomes public that he’s interested, the press will portray him in the same way your husband was described by the FBI.”

“You mean, as a raving lunatic.”

Gage nodded. “But I can tell you this. He’s the person Michael went to Marseilles to meet.”

Elaine’s face flushed again. “You’re just like my husband. You’re asking me to trust you, but you’re not willing to trust me.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Elaine threw up her hands. “Now you’re quoting him. Everything was always too complicated for my little brain.” Her voice rose. “What now? Are you going to pat me on the head, tell me to go bake some cookies like a good little girl?”

Tears appeared in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She dropped into the desk chair, then leaned over and covered her face, her body heaving with sobs.

Gage knelt down next to her. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that I have to trust the person who hired me just as much as I’m asking you to trust me.”

Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Vicky ran into the room.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” she yelled, then pushed Gage away and wrapped her arms around her mother.

Gage regained his balance, but didn’t rise.

Elaine straightened in her chair, then took in a long breath and exhaled as she wiped her eyes. She gazed up at Vicky.

“He didn’t do anything to me. Life did something to me.”

Elaine looked over at Gage. “I’m just so angry,” she said. “At myself for divorcing him. At him for abandoning us.”

Vicky pulled away, her face reddening, clenching her fists. “He didn’t abandon us. Stop saying that. He didn’t.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Elaine said, opening her hands toward her daughter. “Why isn’t he still alive?”

Vicky glared at her mother, mouth open, but no answer emerged. She then turned and stared out through the window at the blizzard that had walled off their world.

Gage could see that every time she’d reached out to protect her mother, she found herself handcuffed and speechless, paralyzed by conflicting emotions and loyalties and unanswered questions.

“I can’t dissolve the cloud he left behind,” Gage said, rising to his feet. “But at least let me try to take some of the mystery out of how his life ended.”

Gage looked at Vicky.

“The man who asked me to do this believes that your father died for something important.”

And then at Elaine. “And after my meeting you two, I wonder if maybe his search was really an attempt to find a way to come back home as a man you could be proud of.”

Two years ago,” the president of International Society for Econometrics said, “the Federal Reserve was in disarray, having been managed by a succession of chairmen who spent their days testing the political winds, instead of interrogating the hard economic data.”

Harold Lasker scanned the upturned faces of the twelve hundred conference attendees in the ballroom of the Grand Hyatt in midtown Manhattan. To Milton Abrams, sitting to his left on the raised dais, they looked like refugees huddled in the safety of a school gymnasium after fleeing a war zone.

Antiglobalization demonstrators had gathered for a second time that day, blocking the hotel entrance, forcing the attendees to sneak in by way of Grand Central Station, their underground route fortified by police and private security guards against the surging protestors.

“What changed?”

Lasker shifted his gaze to Abrams, who felt himself recoil as twenty-four hundred eyes fell on him. He felt less like an honored keynote speaker and more like a burglar caught in a patrol officer’s high beams. The sudden attention caused him to cease his fidgeting that had accelerated during Lasker’s introduction. He withdrew his hand from the sweating water glass and the tracks its erratic movements traced on the starched white tablecloth, then dried his fingers on his napkin and dropped his hands to his lap.