Andrew Gross - Reckless

“I know precisely what Tom asked,” Snell said. “He called here as well. But if you’ve got a paper and pen, I think I can be of some help. Something came back.”

Hauck grabbed a pen off his desk. “Go ahead.”

“Before we were told to stop, we started looking into his banking connections over here. Thibault maintains a personal account in his own name at RBS. Most of what goes on seems on the up-and-up. He pays for a flat in Kensington. A housekeeper. Some monthly expenses. What did strike me as interesting, however, is that every month, like clockwork, there’s a payment of three thousand euros wired from his account to another European bank.”

“To the Netherlands?” Hauck asked. That was where Thibault was supposedly from.

“No, to an AstraBanca,” the Brit replied. “In a town called Novi Pazar. In Serbia.”

“Serbia!” Hauck pushed back in his seat. “Wired to whom?”

“We’re not sure. A woman. The name on the account is a Maria Radisovic. Ring a bell?”

Hauck had never heard the name before. “No.”

“I’m not surprised. We did a quick check. She’s sixty-eight years old. Her husband, Evo, is dead. She’s got a daughter, Ola. Receives a small monthly pension from an auto parts factory there.”

Serbia.

It triggered Hauck’s memory of Merrill Simons’s mentioning a photograph she had found in Thibault’s wallet. Two women, one older, in an unidentified European city. The other, she thought, was around Dani’s age.

Hadn’t Thibault claimed to have been part of a Dutch force stationed in Serbia during the war?

“My suggestion,” Snell went on, “is to get me a set of prints. Or even better, a toothbrush or a drinking glass. His DNA. We’ll find out who the bastard really is. But if you want my guess,” the Brit said, “if we went and dug through the local birth records, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out your Dani Thibault-whatever his real name is-isn’t Dani Thibault at all, but most likely, in the end, Maria Radisovic’s son.”

What Snell had found coursed through Hauck. Thibault had claimed to be Dutch. Or Belgian. Now he had a tie-in to a woman in Serbia. He had lied about his past, his banking connections. Now he had a link to both dead traders. It was only getting deeper. Hauck knew it was gradually climbing over his head. He wasn’t sure what to do.

Merrill should know this. The FBI should know this. He had given his word not to divulge anything. To his boss and to his client.

But it was also a potential embarrassment if it ever got out that this was a guy the firm was protecting.

He tried Foley at the New York office. His secretary said he was in meetings and wouldn’t be free until after five. Hauck said he was coming in and insisted on a couple of minutes with him. This was always how it began. Something small, an accident, a confidential search he stumbled upon. That grew. Four people were now dead. Two large banks had failed. This was larger than the firm’s commitment to Reynolds Reid. Larger than something they could simply put on hold.

It was building speed like an avalanche-and he didn’t even have the charge to do anything about it.

Hauck grabbed his case and stuffed it with all the files he had been compiling: the photo of Thibault and Glassman, the phone records Vito had pulled for him, the connection between Thibault and Donovan. He told Brooke he was leaving for the day. He went downstairs to the ground-floor parking garage.

He found his Beemer in his private parking space and depressed the lock remote. He heard the familiar beep and opened the door. He threw his case on the passenger seat and went to climb in. He noticed something sitting on the windshield.

A book of some kind. He got back out and lifted it off.

The Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Wall Street.

Hauck froze.

“Thought you’d like the touch.” It was Shep Campbell’s voice.

Hauck turned around and saw the NYPD detective leaning on a nearby car.

“You really learn anything in that book or do you just use it as a prop?” Hauck asked, lifting it off his car.

“Nice wheels,” Campbell said, coming over. “But, hey, you deserve it, right?” A heavy-set black man remained leaning on the city detective’s car. “Say hi to Detective Washburn.” Campbell’s chummy tone was starting to wear thin. Bringing in his partner. Making this visit official. What was going on?

“Hey.” The large black dude waved. “Seen you on TV.”

Hauck nodded. If they hadn’t been two New York City cops, he’d have thought he was in for some kind of fight.

“Okay, I’m flattered.” Hauck shut the door. “What brings you by, detectives? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Campbell came up to the other side of his car. “I took your advice. On the Donovan thing. I started looking at it in a different way.”

“No charge,” Hauck said.

“Talon.” The detective bunched his lips. “You’ve been working there around, what, four months?”

“I feel like we’ve already been through this, Campbell. Check with personnel.”

The auburn-haired detective cocked a finger at him and chuck-led, like he was saying, One for you, guy. “They handle a lot of banks, I see. Tough time for banks, isn’t it?”

“Listen, detective, I really don’t have the time…” Hauck had no clue where this was going.

The detective smiled smugly. “This thing’s been in your craw from the very beginning, hasn’t it?”

“What thing?”

“These murdered traders. That’s what you called it, isn’t it? Murder. You were at the crime scene in Greenwich. Then the station right after. Called the new head of detectives a few times. That guy who took your place. What’s his name, Chrisafoulis? Pumping him for details. Even harassed him at his kid’s school. You had something going on with that first guy’s wife?”

Hauck stared back, grabbing on to the door handle. To keep from slugging him. Only Steve knew about these things. Brenda said he’d been in the city. Where was Campbell going with this?

“Then you come into the city…All hopped up on this Donovan thing. Pushing me for info. Telling me how to do my job. Then, not an hour later, you’re harassing his widow. Tee-bo, wasn’t it?” He pronounced Dani’s name like it was a Cajun nickname. “The guy you’re trying to tie into all this. I checked him out myself.” Looked at his partner and grinned. “Y’know, I’m finding myself in a whole new social circle these days.”

“What do you want, Campbell?”

There was a click of heels against the pavement and a woman came out of the staircase and crossed over to her car. He waited for her to get inside and start the ignition.

“So, I’m trying to figure it out.” Campbell smirked. “Your prints are all over this mess, aren’t they, Mr. Private Executive? Mr. TV Star?”

“You check out the phone logs yet?”

Campbell shrugged.

“What about the security tapes in Donovan’s building? I saw a camera. You look at them?”

“Maybe I did,” Campbell said, smirking.

“So what’d you find?”

“What did we find?” Campbell glanced around to his partner, cockily scratching the back of his head. Then he dug into his inside jacket pocket like he was about to unholster a gun. To Hauck’s relief, he came back out with just an evidence bag, something inside, and tossed it on the hood of Hauck’s car, never taking his eyes off Hauck. “What we found was this.”

Hauck picked it up and stared at what was inside. As he did, it became clear to him exactly what was going on. His lungs deflated like he’d been punched in the stomach.

It was a pen. A corporate pen. The lettering on it familiar.