Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [43]
“I’m real lucky in that respect—I don’t have any money to lose. Why is it allowed to happen? What about the SEC?”
Carroll was beginning to feel slightly incensed, though he’d never personally lost a dime on Wall Street.
“It’s fairly simple, really. As I said in the beginning, these kinds of stories are rarely told outside of Wall Street.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be …. The Wall Street banks, the brokerage houses, investment bankers, even the computer companies—they know that the success of their market place depends on confidence and trust. If they prose cuted all the embezzlers, if they ever admitted how easy it was, how many stock certificates are actually stolen each year, they’d all be out of business. The point is, Wall Street is more afraid of bad publicity than of the actual thefts.”
Suddenly, Caitlin was silent.
“Caitlin, will you forgive me? I’m so very sorry.”
Freddie Hotchkiss had finally arrived. It was one o’clock. He was forty-five minutes late for their lunch.
Carroll looked up and saw a sparsely blond-haired man with a ridiculously innocent grin on his face. He had the palest, watery-blue eyes, bleached of almost all color, and a face as round and expressionless as a pie tin.
What did they do down on Wall Street? Carroll wondered. Were there genetic laboratories dedicated to the preservation of the pure-blooded, uncontaminated WASP strain? All of them turning out plump little Freddie Hotchkisses?
Caitlin had told Carroll that Hotchkiss was becoming legendary. He was a hot partner at his firm, a frequent emissary to both the West Coast and Europe—where he had extensive dealings with European bankers.
‘Truly sorry about the time.” Hotchkiss looked anything but sorry. “I completely lost track. Roughing it out of the pied-a-terre on Park since the trouble on Friday. Kim and the kids are staying down in Boca Raton, her mom and dad’s place. Ah, what exquisite timing you have, sir.”
A waiter had spotted Hotchkiss arriving and had scurried to the table for the all-important drink order. Carroll stared at Hotchkiss. This was a type he wasn’t comfortable with and didn’t particularly like. Poor bastard had to rough it on Park Avenue.
“I’d like a Kir. Anyone for seconds?” Hotchkiss asked.
“I’ll have another John Smith.” Carroll was trying to be good: no hard liquor, no neat shots of Irish. He was also trying not to say something impulsive, something that might lose him the advantage of surprise with Freddie Hotchkiss.
“No, thank you, nothing for me,” Caitlin said. “Freddie, this is Arch Carroll. Mr. Carroll is the head of the United States Antiterrorist Division. Out of the DIA.”
Hotchkiss beamed enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, I’ve read about you specialized police folks. The sooner someone can bring a little order to this whole unfortunate affair, the better. I heard yesterday, or maybe I read it somewhere, that there is a Libyan hit team right here in New York. Actually residing in Manhattan.”
“I doubt it’s the Libyans we’re looking for,” Carroll remarked.
He leaned forward, softly nudging a finger into Freddie’s pale blue shirt, seeing a faint expression of surprise float across the man’s puffy face. It amazed Carroll that such a face was capable of expression.
“I’d like to cut out the chitchat, okay? You’re an hour late, and we’re pressed. I have absolutely no personal interest in you, Freddie, you understand that? I don’t think I like you, but that doesn’t matter. I’m only interested in a man named Michel Chevron.”
“He’s not one for small talk, Freddie.” Caitlin smiled and nursed her drink.
Freddie Hotchkiss, meanwhile, seemed to have stopped breathing. He looked down at Carroll’s finger sticking in the center of his chest. “I’m not sure … I don’t think I understand. I mean, I’ve heard of Michel Chevron, of course.”
“Of course you have,” Carroll said.
“Tall, austere-looking