Andrew Gross - Reckless

Jessie was already on the phone on the couch, watching Comedy Central. He started with the sports section. Tiger and Phil were gearing up for a showdown at the Masters. The Yanks lost to the Red Sox on opening day.

As he threw the sports aside and searched for business, a headline on the front page of the metro section grabbed him.

Suicide Victim in High-Rise Is Second Wall Street Trader

The body found hanging yesterday morning in the office of a superintendent of a midtown apartment building was identified as that of James Donovan, a mortgage bond trader at Wall Street firm Beeston Holloway. Mr. Donovan was a resident of the building.

The death is being considered a suicide, and Donovan is the second high-profile Wall Street trader in the past month to meet a sudden end. Mark Glassman, a securities trader at the recently collapsed Wertheimer Grant, was fatally shot along with his family in what was thought to be a break-in at his home in Greenwich, CT, on March 6. The resulting scandal of losses and trading mismanagement helped to take down the firm.

Donovan, 32, was a high rider, recently described by friends and coworkers as having appeared “bothered” and “preoccupied” of late, perhaps resulting from the precipitous turnaround in the mortgage bond market. Staff at the upscale building where he lived with his wife and son said he was often seen in the middle of the night walking his dog, and seemed to have some arrangement that allowed him access to the superintendent’s office, where his body was discovered early Friday morning as the building’s super, Luis Verga, arrived for work. Mr. Verga would not comment other than to say he knew Mr. Donovan and that “he was a good guy,” but one building staffer said Mr. Donovan often used the office to take late calls because “it was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job and he didn’t want to bother his wife at late hours. He was on the board. At Christmas, he made it worthwhile.”

Friends and coworkers described the successful trader as changed in the past few weeks, “kind of withdrawn and edgy.” “He felt under a lot of pressure,” one coworker said. Susan Fine, spokesperson for Beeston Holloway, said, “Jim was an excellent young man and an adept trader. His future was on the rise.”

Speculation that Donovan’s suicide was related to a pattern of financial mismanagement that helped bring down the once-mighty Wertheimer Grant began to circulate as soon as the news of the trader’s suicide hit the streets. “Such speculation is completely unfounded and untrue,” Fine said when asked to comment. “Beeston has tight operational controls.” She added that the firm, despite its own dramatic stock slide over the past weeks and rumors of impending write-downs against its balance sheet, “is on sound financial footing.”

Donovan, who is originally from Sayville, Long Island, and received an MBA from NYU, leaves behind his wife, Leslie, and a son, Zachary, four.

Hauck put the article down. He stared, doubt swarming in him, at the placid sound.

He didn’t really believe in coincidences, and like every cop, he lived by the rule “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

A second Wall Street trader suspiciously dead was now a fire.

At 6:40 that Monday morning, Naomi came in from her early run along the Potomac. She threw her shell top on the chair in her two-level apartment in Alexandria, her gray Bon Jovi T-shirt and tight black leggings soaked through with sweat. She took a water bottle out of the fridge and placed the cool plastic against her forehead, exhaling. That felt good.

Six miles.

She had done it in a little under thirty-two minutes. She was building up for next year’s Marine Corp marathon. Pushing for an under-three-twenty time.

Next week she’d push herself up to eight.

She peeled off her shirt, down to her sports bra, and got ready to head into the shower. She checked her government e-mail.

This second dead Wall Street trader was on her radar. She was taught to look for patterns, and for this one she didn’t have to look very far. By seven, a staff assistant would forward her links to any news story that might be of interest, and over the Post, coffee, and the Financial Times Naomi would scroll through them to bring herself up to speed for the day. Yesterday, news came out on James Donovan, who had died under unusual circumstances. From Beeston Holloway. Hung himself. Couldn’t stand the pressure. These young guys had come out of college, made more their first year than Naomi had to her name. They’d only seen the market go one way-up!-their entire lives.

At least that’s how it was being portrayed in the press. She’d already brought it to Rob Whyte, her boss at Treasury. It didn’t smell right. No matter how it was being portrayed. “You watch,” she told him, “something’s not right on this. I should go check it out.” She scrolled through her in-box, looking for whatever had been posted on the trader’s suicide.

There was a new item flashing. Along with the red message light on her BlackBerry.

It was a text from Rob. Naomi saw that he’d posted a link.

The subject was “Second Trader Dead.” The only thing it said was “Need to talk on this TODAY!”

Something else had happened.

Putting her yogurt down, she clicked on the link, which turned out to be an update of the earlier story, on Bloomberg, dated only an hour ago.

DEAD BEESTON TRADER IMPLICATED IN SECOND INVESTOR SCANDAL. BILLIONS UNACCOUNTED FOR. COMPANY CALLS DAMAGE “MATERIAL AND PERVASIVE.” AUDIT UNDER WAY.

STOCK REELING IN OVERSEAS TRADING.

She knew it! She turned on the TV. CNBC was on it. Their angle was an out-of-control Wall Street unable to cope with the downturn. First Wertheimer, now Beeston.

No, she now felt sure-that wasn’t what was going on. Not at all.

She was taught to look for patterns. Patterns that could be woven into puzzles. Threats.

This one was right in front of her.

Naomi grabbed her BlackBerry and texted her boss. “Already on it,” she said.

The second investment manager to die under suspicious circumstances quickly became front-page news.

The media paraded it as a sign of Wall Street “on ’roids!” No controls. All oversight shattered. Donovan became a tragic case of the life-altering pressures of highly remunerated “dice rollers” unable to cope with their evaporating positions. The post-boom world.

First it was the subprime debacle, Wertheimer going belly-up. Then it was Fannie and Freddie teetering, AIG coughing up blood. Now it was Beeston. Portfolio managers having to double down on their bets to make up their widening losses, taking their firms down with them. Over the edge. These people weren’t programmed for anything but success.

James Donovan had only known life one way. Up.

He just couldn’t handle it.

Hauck opened the door to the Seventeenth Precinct station house. He’d left work early that afternoon and driven to the city. Monday was the night he usually had Annie over and cooked dinner, but tonight, this new development was on his mind.

On the way in, he’d caught the news. Beeston said it was engaged in heated talks to save the company. They were now admitting Donovan had cost them billions. Pundits were speculating that he had started to panic when the scandal at Wertheimer hit, knowing he could no longer keep the lid on his own giant losses. Now the only momentum on the Street was toward outright panic. Wertheimer was history. Beeston Holloway could be next. The whole financial sector had zero support.

Hauck winced. The Dow had tumbled to its worst level in eight years yesterday.

The precinct station was on East Fifty-first. Hauck went upstairs and asked a woman sitting behind the duty desk for Detective Campbell.