Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [31]
Carroll was smoking a crumpled cigarette. Sometimes on the weekends he wore the coat and smoked crumpled cigarettes when he took Mickey Kevin and Clancy to New York Knick or Ranger games.
It made both kids laugh hysterically. They told him he was trying to look like Mel Gibson in the movies. He wasn’t, he knew. Gibson was trying to look like him: like some nihilistic, tough-guy city cop.
Hurrying down the long, echoing corridors, Carroll pulled his way out of the leather coat. For a few long strides, he left it cape-like over his shoulders.
Then he folded it over one arm, in the hope that he’d look a little more civilized. There were a lot of very straight business’ people in the hallowed halls of No. 13 Wall Street.
Carroll pushed open leather-covered doors into a formal meeting room thick with perspiration and stale tobacco smoke. The room where the New York Stock Exchange professional staff usually met was the size of a large theater.
The scheduled meeting was already in progress. He was late. He was also weary from his flight, and his nerves— kept moderately alert by an infusion of amphetamine— were beginning to complain.
He glanced at his watch. There was another long day ahead of him.
Carroll quickly glanced around the shadowy room. It was filled with New York City police, and U.S. Army personnel, with corporate lawyers and investigators from the major banks and brokerage houses on Wall Street. The only seats left were way in front.
Groaning under his breath, Carroll crouched low and made his move toward the front row. He clumsily climbed over gray and blue pinstriped legs, and over someone’s abundant lap. It felt like everybody in the room was staring at him—which was probably true enough.
The speaker was saying, “Let me tell you how to make a hell of a lot of money on Wall Street All you have to do is steal a little from the rich, steal a little from the middle rich, steal a lot from the lower rich …”
Nervous laughter cascaded around the vast meeting room. It was a muted, mirthless outbreak that sounded more like a release of fears than anything else.
The speaker went on, “The Wall Street security system simply doesn’t work. As you all know, the computer setup here is one of the most antiquated in all of the business world. That’s why this disaster could happen.”
Carroll finally sat down, sliding lower and lower until only his head peeked above the theater’s gray velvet seat back. His knees were actually pressed against the wooden stage in front.
“The computer system on Wall Street is a complete disgrace …”
Carroll’s eyes finally rose and took in the meeting’s speaker. Jesus. He was taken aback by the sight of Caitlin Dillon on the podium. Her hair was bobbed at the shoulders, a sleek chestnut-brown. Long legs, slender waist. Tall—maybe five foot ten.
She was staring down at the first row. Her brown eyes were very calm, measuring everything they saw. Yes, she was staring directly down at Carroll.
“Are you expecting trouble during my briefing, Mr. Carroll?” Her eyes had fastened onto his Magnum, his beat-up leather shoulder holster. He was embarrassed by her question and the way his name had sounded through her microphone. Those pale red lips seemed to be mocking him.
Carroll didn’t know what to say. He shrugged and tried to sink a little deeper into his seat. Why didn’t he have one of his usual wisecracks to throw back at her?
Caitlin Dillon smoothly switched her attention back to the audience of senior police officers and Wall Street businessmen. She resumed her briefing at exactly the point where she had interrupted herself.
“In the past decade,” she said, and her next chart efficiently appeared on the screen at her back, “foreign investment in the United States has skyrocketed. Billions of francs, yen, pesos, deutschemarks have