The investment bank that employs Fitzgerald and me is called Harper Sawyer. When I first joined, I spent time in the trading group before I realized that private equity is where the big boys ended up. But Fitzgerald and I remained friends even after I switched departments—at least in the way that guys who work together are friends. I know Bill is twice divorced and in the process of getting a third because he talks about the alimony payments he makes all the time, but other than that I don’t have the first clue about his life.
“There’s the man in his big corner office,” Bill says.
“Bill, my brother. How’s the market treating you?”
“Like a hammer treats a nail.”
Fitzgerald is always saying stuff like that.
“Can’t force it.”
“Easy for you to say. I got two kids in college and one about to go.”
Bill Fitzgerald has kids. At least three. Who knew?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see it come across the screen. Two o’clock on the button. Probably some PR flack’s idea that right after lunch will maximize publicity.
TERROR LAWYER’S DAUGHTER MISSING . . .
I make Fitzgerald a promise that we’ll go to a strip club next week—on me. When that doesn’t do the trick of getting him out of my office, I tell him that I’m late to a conference call with the coast and ask him to shut the door behind him on his way out.
The moment Fitzgerald steps out of my office, I start clicking on news stories like a madman. The idea is that—in the event that someone later searches my computer to see what I was reading just as news broke of Charlotte Broden’s disappearance—it’ll look as if I took a respite from the markets to catch up on what was going on in the world. I wade through sports headlines, political stories, and then the article about the Syrian mess before I click on the only one that matters.
TERROR LAWYER’S DAUGHTER MISSING
The youngest daughter of criminal defense attorney F. Clinton Broden has been reported missing. Charlotte Broden, twenty-five, a graduate student at New York University, was last seen on Wednesday morning in her Upper West Side apartment. Ms. Broden’s father is currently representing Nicolai Garkov in connection with charges of securities fraud. Mr. Garkov has also been linked to the Red Square Massacre, but has not been charged in connection with that terrorist attack. The police did not comment on whether foul play was suspected in Ms. Broden’s disappearance or whether there is any connection to the case of Jennifer Barnett, the twenty-two-year-old financial analyst who was reported missing when she did not report to work at Maeve Grant on Tuesday.
Last seen Wednesday morning. Mr. McDouche is even more of a douche than I previously gave him credit for. As I contemplate why he’d claim to have been with Charlotte on Wednesday, when I’m reasonably sure he was not at the bottom of the East River, my phone rings.
It’s Amoroso.
“Paolo, how are you, my man?” I say as if we didn’t have a massive blowup the day before.
“My board met last night. Needless to say, there was a lot of support for firing your ass and suing.”
“I hope cooler heads prevailed. I know you’re a smart enough guy to tell them that it’s in the company’s best interest to make a shitload of money on this IPO, instead of pissing it away on lawyers.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what’s in our best interest. We still may wind up suing you, but for now, we’re going ahead with the IPO as planned.”
Victory. I don’t care about happy clients. I only care about paying clients. Still, I have to show the guy some contrition to make sure he remains that.
“Look, I get why you’re upset. And I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding between us. But you’re making the right call. We’re going to do a successful offering for you guys, and it’s going to bring in the money you need to expand. A year from now you’re going to be sitting on top of fifty million dollars in revenues, and by that time I guarantee that you and I are going to be best friends.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. That’s not like Amoroso. He’s a talker.
“Paolo, you there, man?”
Still nothing. I pull the phone away from my ear to find that the call has been disconnected. I assume he hung up on me right after he was done talking, before my crap about us walking hand-in-hand together into the sunset.
The rest of the day, I try to keep myself busy by answering e-mails, making some calls to fund managers I think might be interested in throwing six or seven figures into The Pouch. None of those guys answers his phone, so I leave my pitch as a voice mail message, even though I know that they’re also too busy to listen to their voice mails. I’ll have to reach out to their secretaries tomorrow to set up in-person meetings.
At five, my assistant Beth knocks lightly on my door. I motion for her to come in.
“You have a second?” she asks.
She looks frightened. More or less the same look she gets when she hears rumors that the firm is doing a round of layoffs. But I haven’t heard anything along those lines. Something else has her spooked.
“Sure. What’s up?”
She steps inside and closes my door behind her. Then she sits down.
“I don’t know if you heard that there’s a second girl who’s gone missing. Another one like Jennifer Barnett.”
“Okay . . . ,” I say tentatively, not sure where Beth is going with this.
“Well, on the Internet they’re saying that there’s a serial killer out there. And he’s targeting white women in their twenties . . .”
Beth is a white woman in her twenties. Naturally, she thinks she’s next to be abducted. I’m tempted to point out to her how many women in this city fit that description, but I know that’s not going to make her feel any safer.
“I’m pretty sure that security downstairs screens for serial killers, Beth,” I say with a smile.
“I’m not worried about being here. I just . . . if it’s okay with you, I’d like not to work any overtime for the next few days. So I can leave at a normal time, while it’s still light out. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
The fear leaves her eyes. She’s now certain that she’s safe, even though she’s less than four feet away from the man who murdered Charlotte Broden.
DAY FOUR
FRIDAY
30.
On Friday morning, I repeat the same mantra in my head: every day from here on out will be easier than the last. The trick is to go on living my life and, soon enough, the murder of Charlotte Broden will recede into the background until it’s indistinguishable from a dream, unclear, even to me, whether any of it had actually happened.
Of course, all that depends mightily on my not being caught.
On my way to work, I again stop at the newsstands. As I had expected the previous day, this morning the New York City tabloids are running Charlotte’s picture on the front page. The headlines both go with the same motif—that a serial killer is on the loose.