James Grippando - Money to Burn

“Who were those people at the security desk?” I asked.

“Our lawyers,” he said.

“At two o’clock in the morning?” It was the second time I’d asked that question in the past ten minutes, and this time Olivia wasn’t there to say, “Don’t ask.”

“They’re gearing up for battle,” said Darwood. “With rumors flying that Saxton Silvers is filing for bankruptcy in the morning, everyone’s banging on the door-figuratively, except for you guys-to get whatever information they can about the short sellers.”

“Then I guess we’re not asking for anything out of the ordinary,” said Kevin.

“Give me a break,” said Darwood. “DTC fights to keep that information secret even when we get hit with a subpoena. Why do you think our lawyers are here? If they see me with you, I will lose my job.”

“We’re not on a fishing expedition,” said Kevin. “We want very specific information. Just help us confirm the identity of the offshore corporation that used Michael’s money to go short on Saxton Silvers’ stock.”

Darwood paused, then said, “I can’t do it.”

Kevin’s voice took on an edge. “We agreed that you would.”

“I said I would help, if I could. I can’t.”

Kevin looked at me, as if it were somehow my fault that the guy had changed his mind. I wasn’t sure if he was upset because I wasn’t getting the help I needed or because Darwood had blown Kevin’s opportunity to be the one who gave me that help-a fine distinction that only brothers could understand.

I looked at Darwood and said, “Would it help if I told you that it was a matter of life or death?”

“Cut the bullshit,” said Darwood. The expression on his face was truly pained. I had no way of knowing what attorney-client pressure point Kevin had pushed to get us in the door, but it was obviously tormenting this poor guy.

What would Darwood do if Mr. Burn came calling?

“You guys are looking in the wrong place anyway,” said Darwood.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“People are always blaming the DTC for every problem in the marketplace that could conceivably be caused by short sellers. Wake up, guys. When Saxton Silvers goes down, the really big profit isn’t going to be from short sales.”

“I still don’t know what he’s talking about,” Kevin said to me.

I gave Darwood a careful look. He was sweating, but I sensed he wasn’t lying. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to help-the faster to get us out of there.

“He’s saying that if we want to know who’s really behind the attack on Saxton Silvers, we need information he doesn’t have access to.”

“Exactly,” said Darwood.

“Who does have it?” asked Kevin.

“Honestly,” said Darwood, “I’m not sure there’s anyone at DTC who can provide it. But if we can, it’s in the Deriv/SERV Warehouse.”

“Deriv what?” my brother said.

“Let’s go, Kevin,” I said.

“Wait. You got an address for that warehouse?”

“It’s a database, not a building. I got all I need. Let’s go.”

Darwood leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. “Please. Go. Before I-”

“I know, I know. Lose your job,” Kevin said.

Darwood made sure the coast was clear, then led us out of the men’s room, down the hall, and to the exit. The glass doors locked automatically behind us.

“Why did you let him off the hook?” Kevin asked me as we headed down the sidewalk.

“Like I said: I have what I need.”

Oliva’s car pulled up at the curb, and again the passenger’s-side door flew open.

“Get in,” she said.

“He’s going home with me,” said Kevin.

“No, he isn’t,” said Olivia.

“He needs to be in my office by nine, and then we have arraignment at eleven.”

“Can’t do that,” said Olivia.

Kevin chuckled. “Thanks for tracking him down. But unless he wants the cops to haul him in wearing handcuffs, he’s leaving with me.”

“Then he’ll never see Ivy.”

Her words chilled me.

“That’s not a threat,” she said. “That’s just a fact.”

Kevin grabbed my arm. “Michael, do not let her push your buttons about Ivy, and do not get in that car.”

“Ivy’s alive,” I said.

“Stop it!”

“I talked to her on the phone tonight!”

Kevin froze.

Olivia said, “Do you want to see Ivy or don’t you?”

“Michael, I don’t know what kind of crazy shit’s going on here, but we have a deal with the D.A. If you don’t show up, you will be a fugitive.”

“If you do show up, you’re dead,” said Olivia. “Don’t you understand, Michael? They only let you live because they think you can lead them to Ivy. If you’re in jail, you are of no use. They will kill you,” she said.

My mind was humming.

“Who are they?” asked Kevin.

I looked at him and said, “I think I know. And I have to go.”

I climbed in the car and slammed the door, my head snapping back against the headrest as Olivia burned rubber.

AT SIX A.M. ANDREA AND HER FIANCÉ WERE SEATED AT THE DINING room table for an emergency meeting with their operations supervisor.

Overlooking the old sheep meadow in Central Park, Andrea’s Upper West Side apartment was by far the nicest place she had ever lived. In February, when she’d moved in, she could watch the ice skaters in Wollman Rink from her window, and every night the Midtown skyline was a spectacle of lights. Of course, this ten-million-dollar dream apartment was way beyond Andrea’s personal budget. Formerly owned by a Colombian drug lord who’d fled the country and forfeited his U.S. assets in lieu of standing trial on racketeering charges, it was currently on loan from the Drug Enforcement Agency to the FBI for special assignment.

“We need to arrange protection for Mallory Cantella,” said Andie.

Special Agent Andie-“Andrea”-Henning was in the fourth month of her Saxton Silvers undercover assignment, and her tenth year as an FBI agent. Hardly a lifelong dream of hers, the bureau had been more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker. At the training academy, she became only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Her first major undercover operation had been the infiltration of a cult in central Washington. Her supervisors saw her potential, but she’d resisted doing more undercover work until the Wall Street assignment came up.

Since autumn, law enforcement had suspected that Saxton Silvers was being targeted by a particularly ruthless band of short sellers who would apply any means-legal or not-to bring the firm crashing down. Andie thought she’d be immersed in the high-stakes business world, trying to find out who was working on the inside. Instead, her undercover “fiancé” enjoyed the daily stimulation of sleuthing around Saxton Silvers’ risk-management division while Andie played the sometimes mind-numbing role of a Saxton Silvers significant other. “Wives talk” was the underlying rationale, and Andie had proved to be an effective plant.

So effective, in fact, that within a month, she’d managed to completely shift the chief focus of the investigation away from short selling and toward something far more evil.

Her supervisor, Malcolm Spear, drummed his fingers atop the mahogany table as he considered her request for protection.

“Our operations budget is not unlimited,” he said, his expression deadpan. “I can’t even get headquarters to approve full-time surveillance on Michael Cantella, and you want round-the-clock protection for his wife?”