Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [42]
She had a nice telephone voice. Music in a tuneless world, Carroll thought. He’d put his feet up on the desk and tilted his head back against the wall. With his eyes shut, he tried to bring Caitlin Dillon’s face into his mind. Untouchable, he remembered.
“Freddie Hotchkiss is connected with a man called Michel Chevron,” Caitlin said.
“The name rings a bell,” Carroll said and tried to place it.
“The information I have is that Chevron’s a wheel in the stolen securities market and—this is what should really interest you, Mr. Carroll—there are rumors of a link with Francois Monserrat.”
Carroll loosened his crimson and blue school tie before he took the first inviting sip of John Smith’s Pale Ale in the dining room of Christ Cella on East 46th Street. He found ties uncomfortable, which was one reason he rarely wore them. Actually, he thought neckties pretty much without purpose, unless you impulsively wanted to hang yourself, or get inside some overpriced New York steakhouse.
Christ Cella required a jacket and tie. Otherwise, it was comfortable enough. Actually, it felt good to be sitting here with Caitlin Dillon.
Christ Cella’s steaks were sixteen ounces at a minimum, choice prime, and aged properly. The lobsters started at two pounds. The waiters were immaculate and subservient, city cool to a fault. For the moment, Carroll was enjoying himself. For this moment only, Green Band had receded from his mind.
“One of the first things I learned in New York is that you have to make ‘the steak house’ a ritual if you’re going to survive on Wall Street.” Caitlin smiled across the white linen of the tablecloth. She’d already told Carroll that she was originally from Lima, Ohio, and he could almost believe it, listening to her perspective on New York City living.
“Even to survive in the SEC, you have to know the conventions. Especially if you’re a young ‘gal,’ as a particular brokerage house CEO once called me. ‘I’d like you to meet the new young gal from SEC.”
Caitlin said the phrase with such casual, twinkling malice, it almost sounded nice.
Carroll started to laugh. Then they both laughed.
Heads turned at other tables, staid faces looked around. Was somebody daring to have fun here? Who?
Carroll and Caitlin were waiting for the arrival of Duncan “Freddie” Hotchkiss, who was fashionably late, despite the fact that Caitlin had asked him to be on time.
A shrimp cocktail eventually found its way to Carroll’s place. The fish was perfect and overpriced by at least three hundred percent.
Carroll asked Caitlin about Wall Street—what it was like from her vantage point at the SEC? Caitlin began regaling him with a few of her favorite horror stories about the Street. She happened to have a treasury of true, mind-bending stories which circulated in the inner sanctums, but were usually not shared with outsiders.
“Embezzlement has never been easier on Wall Street,” Caitlin said. Her brown eyes sparkled with humor.
“One economist we prosecuted worked at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. At twenty-seven, he went off and bought a summer house in the Hamptons, then a new Mercedes convertible and a Porsche, then a sable coat for his dear mom. Along the way, he managed to get in debt close to three quarters of a million dollars.”
“He’s still working for the government?” Carroll finished the second shrimp. “ln your story, I mean?”
“He quits Treasury right about this time—for a much better paying job. Only he takes with him the security access codes, which allow him to find out enough to buy or sell on the credit and stock markets. A very, very profitable bit of knowledge. He’s got the ultimate on insider’s trading information…. You know how it fell through? His mother called the SEC. She was worried that he was spending all this money without any job she could see. His mother turned him in because he gave her a sable fur.
“There was an outfit called OPM Financial Services— that stood for other people’s money, I swear to God. Michael Weiss and Anthony Caputo opened their company over a Manhattan candy store in the seventies. Along