Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Marty knew the names, had read about them. Ira Lasker was the young investment banker Wolfhagen hired to be a mole at Linder, Gleacher and Loeb. Book smart but greedy, Lasker was so taken by Wolfhagen, he agreed to sift through the partners’ files and look for hints of possible mergers.

Peter Schwartz, a veteran investment banker in his forties, had done the same for Wolfhagen at Stein, Goldsmith. In hopes of a lighter sentence, Wolfhagen quickly turned each into the SEC before either could strike immunity deals. Each did his time, just as Wolfhagen had.

“Where is Lasker living now?” Marty asked.

“In a penthouse on Fifth.”

Oh, to be an ex-felon, Marty thought. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Maggie said. “I’ve never met the man. Last I heard he’s working out of his home as a financial consultant.”

“And Schwartz?”

“He lives on 77th and Fifth. Mark and I had dinner there once. Unbelievable home. You’d think the Met had opened a new wing there. Word’s out he’s writing his autobiography.”

“Were they called to testify against Wolfhagen?”

“They were and they did.”

“And I suppose since he turned them in, Wolfhagen also testified against them?”

“That’s right. And Wood worked each case. She sentenced them all to prison. Do you have the paper in front of you?”

“I can get it.”

“Don’t bother. You can read the story when we hang up. Some cleaning woman from Harlem saw Hayes fall from his office window and smash onto the sidewalk. She may know something the police haven’t told the press. Is there any way you can find out?”

It was his Saturday to be with the kids. He intentionally chose an evening flight to California to watch Wolfhagen so he could have lunch with them. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Are you going to be at home?”

“I’ll be here until noon. The rest of the day, I’ll be tied up in interviews. Any way you can get back to me before then?”

He was supposed to meet Katie and Beth at noon. Gloria would have a field day with this if he canceled. “I can try.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll do my best.” He hung up the phone, went to the front door and got the paper. Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood were on the front page of the Times, not for the first time-and certainly not the last.

He focused on the Hayes article. Though suicide was probable, murder wasn’t being ruled out. Marty finished the story and sat in thought, his mind picking over the facts. Gerald Hayes had been trading successfully in the foreign markets. Investors were coming to him again for advice. He must have been fueled by the renewed sense of power.

So why jump out a twenty-story window and end it all?

He read the Wood article. As he suspected, the story offered few details that could help him. By the time they went to press, her story was still unfolding.

No problem.

Marty reached for the phone and dialed the one person in Manhattan who would know as much about this case as the cops-Jennifer Barnes at Channel One.

She answered on the third ring, her sleepy voice a reminder of things better left forgotten. “Jennifer, it’s Marty. I think it’s time we have that breakfast.”

There was a silence. He heard her turning over, the bed creaking as she shifted position. “Who is this?”

“It’s Marty.”

“Marty?”

“That’s right.”

“And you want breakfast?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You’ve got to be kidding…”

“I’m not kidding.”

“All right,” she said sleepily. “I’ve got food here. You know where to get the coffee.”

“Perfect.”

“What’s this about, anyway? I thought you needed more time?”

“This isn’t about us, Jennifer.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

Jennifer Barnes lived four blocks south on 67th Street.

Marty crossed over to Sal’s on 66th, bought two large coffees and left thinking of all the mornings he came here after spending a night with her. It was a brief, six-month affair and it didn’t end well. But in many ways, the time they spent together was a necessary distraction from a marriage that had fallen into disrepair.

The doorman recognized him on sight.

Marty nodded and strolled past him into the building. He stepped into the dark warmth of a mahogany-paneled elevator and pushed a button until it glowed. Channel One paid its star reporter a salary so handsome, it allowed her to live on the eighteenth floor, just high enough to offer a glimpse of Central Park.

Jennifer met him at the door with a gun.

She pointed it straight at his heart, took a step forward and pulled him inside by the arm. “I ought to put a hole straight through you,” she said.

Marty moved past her and put the coffee down on a side table. He took the gun from her hands, checked the barrel, saw that it was loaded, snapped it shut. “Cute,” he said. “What if it had gone off?”

“You probably would have died.”

“And if I had?”

“One less bastard walking the streets of New York.”

“Just the one?”

“I’ll find the others. They always seem to come to me.”

She took one of the coffees and started into the living room, her curtain of blonde hair swinging. “I don’t know why you’re here,” she said. “But it had better be good. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to see you, especially after I read your blog and Netflixed that movie you raved about. Second biggest waste of time in my life.”

“You read my blog?”

“Apparently, everyone does. People talk about it at work. It’s their go-to source for finding a good movie. I’m not nearly as enthusiastic.”

“Which movie did you watch?”

“‘The White Ribbon.’ And can you just tell me what you were smoking when you wrote that review? That was the bleakest, darkest movie I’ve seen in years. And it had subtitles. I hate subtitles.”

It was a fantastic movie, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. With raised eyebrows, Marty took his coffee and followed her into the living room, where she stood at the great window, her back to him, coffee on a side table, hands on her hips.

He loved this apartment. Much like his own home, books, magazines and newspapers were piled everywhere-on the floor, leaning against tables, towering alongside each end of the sofa. There was nothing pretentious about it, nothing that suggested a designer’s stamp. Marty always felt that he could breathe here, high as he was above the congested streets of Manhattan.

“Why are you here?”

They had met nine weeks after his separation from Gloria. He was just shaking off the cobwebs of a deep depression when the call came from Paul, his good friend from college, asking him to dinner. “There’s someone Laurie and I want you to meet.” The dinner was small and informal-an eclectic group of eight people eager to have fun and to be themselves. Jennifer Barnes was seated at his right. Her quick wit and easy laugh was like a tonic. Soon they were falling into conversation. For the first time in years, Marty found himself flirting.

“Don’t just stand there, Marty. Tell me why you’re here.”

For a while things were good. They dated steadily for three weeks before Jennifer asked him to spend the night. “Look,” she said. “I’m thirty-five years old, do what I want, choose whom I like. Can’t we get this out of the way?”

Sleeping with her was like throwing away the ghosts of his past. Unlike Gloria, who rarely enjoyed sex, Jennifer was sexy and fun, uninhibited and wild, her aggression a welcome reprieve from Gloria’s disinterest. Marty had never met anyone like her-professional, healthy, happy, remarkably settled considering her position at Channel One-and to this day, he regretted hurting her the way he had. She wanted a relationship and, naturally, he didn’t. End of their story.