The Key
Jennifer Sturman

A RACHEL BENJAMIN MYSTERY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Anne Coolidge Taylor

Thanks to Laura Langlie, Selina McLemore, Margaret Marbury and the team at Red Dress Ink for their help and advice, and to my family and friends for their encouragement and support.

Contents

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

Chapter twenty-six

Chapter twenty-seven

Chapter twenty-eight

Chapter twenty-nine

Chapter thirty

Chapter thirty-one

Chapter thirty-two

Chapter thirty-three

Chapter thirty-four

Chapter thirty-five

Chapter thirty-six

Chapter thirty-seven

chapter one

I was having my favorite type of dream, a flying dream, when the phone rang.

I opened one eye, testing to see if this was part of the dream. But in my dream the skies were blue and lit by golden sunlight. In my bedroom, it was dark, and freezing, since my new roommate liked to sleep with the windows wide open, even in March and even in Manhattan. And the phone was still ringing.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the duvet over his head. I thought about doing the same, but surely nobody would call in the middle of the night unless it was important. I reached out for the phone.

“’lo?”

“Rachel. Glenn Gallagher here.”

This had to be a joke. “What time is it?”

“Almost six. Listen, I need you in the office. We don’t have much time to get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’ll tell you when you get in. See you in an hour.”

“But it’s Satur—” I began to say before I realized I was talking to a dial tone.

I was still half-asleep, so my reaction was somewhat delayed. It was nearly five seconds before I’d collected myself sufficiently to say the only appropriate thing that could be said in such a situation.

“You asshole!”

Peter gasped and shot into a sitting position. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. “And a good morning to you, too.” Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of his sandy hair.

“You look like Alfalfa.”

“Excuse me?”

“From The Little Rascals. You know, the one with the piece of hair that stuck straight up. He sang.”

“‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’”

“Uh-huh. He had a crush on Darla.”

“And that makes me an asshole?”

“No. Who said you were an asshole?”

“You did. Just now.”

“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Good to know, I guess.” He settled back into the pillows and reached for me. “So who were you talking to?”

I snuggled into his embrace. Despite the Arctic chill to the room, his body radiated heat. “Glenn Gallagher. But he didn’t hear me call him an asshole. He’d already hung up.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.”

“Who’s Glenn Gallagher?”

“The new guy Stan Winslow brought in.”

“And why was he calling us in the middle of the night?” Even as I answered Peter’s question I was marveling at the unfamiliar use of “us.” I’d lived alone from the day I graduated college until the previous week, and I still wasn’t accustomed to the first person plural being applied in reference to my household. Our household.

“He said he needs me in the office. In an hour. Actually, more like fifty-five minutes at this point.”

“Do you think he knows it’s Saturday?”

“Probably.”

“And do you think he knows we were going to sleep in? And have a nice leisurely brunch and read The New York Times? And then figure out where I can put all my stuff?” Peter’s worldly belongings had arrived from San Francisco a few days ago, and stacks of unopened cardboard cartons now occupied every available square foot of the apartment.

“I doubt he gave it that much thought.”

“Why do you do this again?”

I sighed and detached myself from Peter’s arms. The rug was cold beneath my bare feet. “Because this is how you make partner at an investment bank.”

“By letting assholes order you out of bed in the wee hours on weekends?”

“If I keep it up, one day I’ll get to order other people out of bed in the wee hours on weekends.”

“Something to look forward to.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later, when I know what this is all about. Maybe I can rescue at least part of our day together.”

But I wasn’t too confident about that.

By Monday morning, the only thing I was confident about was that I wanted Glenn Gallagher dead.

My brain was fried and my thoughts scattered from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but I did know with absolute clarity that I despised Glenn Gallagher and would be delighted to see him die a slow and painful death.

My firm, Winslow, Brown, had lured Gallagher from a competing bank six months ago, bringing him in as a senior partner and lavishing him with an enormous corner office and matching expense account. He’d been putting together leveraged buyouts for close to thirty years, and while LBOs were no longer as fashionable as they’d been in the junk-bond fueled eighties, Gallagher seemed to be doing just fine, judging by the addresses of his homes on Fifth Avenue and in Bridgehampton.

Regardless of his impressive real estate holdings, it hadn’t taken long for him to become the most hated man at Winslow, Brown—no easy feat in a place where there were a lot of hated men and even a few hated women. By the end of his first week he’d terrorized enough junior bankers to earn some interesting nicknames, including Adolf and Saddam.

Gallagher had learned late on Friday that Thunderbolt Industries, a Pittsburgh-based defense contractor, had chosen Winslow, Brown as its advisor on a management buyout. He hadn’t wasted any time scheduling a meeting with Thunderbolt’s CEO for Monday morning, which left just the weekend to get ready. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure how my name had ended up at the top of the staffing list, but I’d lost this particular game of Russian Roulette without even realizing I was playing. I’d spent most of the past forty-eight hours in the office with Jake Channing and Mark Anders, the other unfortunates who’d been shanghaied into working on the deal.

The “team” had gathered in Gallagher’s office for a final prep session. He had called another 7:00 a.m. meeting but hadn’t sauntered in until half past, and he was now attending to a few personal matters before we began. First we were treated to a conversation, on speakerphone, between Gallagher and his lawyer regarding his ex-wife’s complaints that he was behind in child support. Gallagher earned more in a year than most people earned in a lifetime, and the fees he paid his lawyer probably far exceeded the sums he coughed up for the basic care and feeding of his daughter, but he apparently was not the sort to open his checkbook on behalf of others without the threat of legal action.

The next call was to a tailor to complain about the imperfect fit of a custom-made suit, which seemed futile, at best. Gallagher could spend every penny he made on his clothes, and he still wouldn’t be much to look at. He had the physique of a scarecrow, with stooping shoulders and sallow skin. What hair he had was a mousy shade, and the cut did nothing to disguise the way his ears stuck out.

I stole a glance at Jake, who rolled his eyes in shared exasperation. Like me, he was a vice president, although slightly more senior, and while he’d transferred only recently from the Chicago office, we’d quickly become friends. But I still hadn’t figured out how he always managed to look as if he’d just come from a GQ photo shoot. Today was no exception—his blue eyes were bright and every blond hair was in place—nobody ever would have guessed that he was running on only a few hours of sleep.

Mark, on the other hand, took nondescript to a new level: brown-haired, brown-eyed, neither short nor tall, and in no danger of being mistaken for a male model. Still, he seemed like a decent guy, unassuming and mild-mannered, and as the junior-most person on the team he’d more than pulled his weight over the hellish weekend.

Gallagher reached for one of the pencils he kept in a silver mug on his desk and rammed it into an electric pencil sharpener. He sucked on the newly sharpened point as his tailor stammered a response. Gallagher let him get a few words out before he snatched up the receiver, uttered an impressive string of expletives, and slammed the phone down.

“Where is it?” he barked.

Jake handed him a neatly bound sheaf of papers.

“This had better be an improvement over the crap you faxed me last night.”

“We’ve made a lot of progress since then,” Jake assured him. He’d worked with Gallagher before and was one of the few people around who seemed unfazed by his complete lack of interpersonal skills. I, on the other hand, was gripping my chair’s armrests so tightly my knuckles were white. In an industry notorious for badly behaved people, Gallagher was in a class by himself.

He flipped through the pages, giving an occasional grunt. The presentation was flawless—we’d double-and triple-checked every detail—but he almost seemed disappointed when he didn’t find even a single typo.

“I guess it will do,” he said grudgingly. “Now, here’s the drill. Nicholas Perry, Thunderbolt’s CEO, will be here at ten. I do the talking. You guys keep your mouths shut unless I ask you a direct question. And you’d better know every number, every fact in here, backward and forward. There’s big money riding on this. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “But I was wondering about something.”

Gallagher narrowed his eyes in an expression that made him look even more like a ferret. “Wondering about what?”

“Well, Thunderbolt—” I winced every time I said the word—what sort of phallo-centric moron would name a company Thunderbolt? “—just doesn’t seem like an obvious candidate for a buyout. Its revenues have been declining, and the union’s making trouble so its labor costs are likely to increase, and—”

“Your point?” asked Gallagher. “Get to the point already.”

My grip on the armrests tightened yet further. “The point is that a buyout will add a lot more debt to Thunderbolt’s balance sheet. The company’s interest payments will skyrocket, and I don’t see how it will cover them.”

An LBO is sort of like buying an apartment by making the smallest of down payments and taking out a huge mortgage, all based on the assumption that you can generate enough money renting out the apartment to cover the mortgage payments. In this case, it was unclear that you could count on the tenant paying his rent on time. Or that you’d even be able to find a tenant in the first place.

Gallagher gestured impatiently toward the dozens of Lucite deal mementos lining his credenza. “See those? Each one represents a successfully executed LBO.”

Successfully executed, maybe, but more than a couple of the Lucites bore the names of companies that no longer existed, victims of a crushing debt load.

“I’ve been in this business a long time,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. So, why don’t you do your job, and I’ll do mine?”

“I was just—”

“Enough already! Nick Perry and I go way back—I’ve known him since Princeton. This deal is ours, and I’m not going to let anything screw that up. We do the work, we collect our fees, and everybody goes home happy. Can you get that through your pretty little head?”

Unbelievable. He’d actually said, “pretty little head.”

Pick your battles. That was what my mother always told me. Good advice, certainly, but not necessarily easy to follow. I opened my mouth to speak again but he cut me off.

“Dahlia!”

Dahlia Crenshaw, Gallagher’s secretary, hurried in. “Yes, Mr. G.?”

“I need some goddamn coffee in here. Pronto.”

Dahlia did not point out that technically her workday wouldn’t begin for another hour. Nor did she point out that getting coffee was not in her job description, however politely she was asked to fetch it. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Sure thing, Mr. G.”

Jake and I exchanged another look. Gallagher had brought Dahlia with him from his previous firm, and the office gossips were convinced that, in the tradition of bosses and secretaries throughout time, the two were having an affair. That Dahlia bore more than a slight resemblance to Jessica Simpson only helped fuel the rumors. And putting up with Gallagher, day in and day out, was just too much to ask without some fringe benefits. Not that it was clear how an illicit relationship with Gallagher would be a fringe benefit.

“We’re done here,” he announced, dismissing us with a wave of his hand. “Meet me in the conference room at ten with copies.”

I was following Jake and Mark out when I heard his voice behind me.

“Rachel, not so fast.” I turned, and Jake turned with me. “Just Rachel,” said Gallagher. He motioned for Jake to leave and shut the door, which he did, but not before shooting a commiserating glance my way.

“Courage,” he said under his breath.

Gallagher put his feet, shod in well-shined Gucci loafers, on his desk. “We need to have a little talk,” he said, rolling a pencil between his palms.

“All right,” I said in an even voice, admiring my own self control. It was probably a good thing that I was so tired; if I had more energy, I would still be too angry to speak, given his cavalier dismissal of my concerns about the deal, not to mention the “pretty little head” comment and everything that had come before it.

“This is a warning. I don’t want to hear any more crap from you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you make trouble on this, I’ll be happy to find another VP to work on the deal. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to have you on the team in the first place.” “Why’s that?” I asked. This time it was a struggle to maintain my even tone. I was one of the hardest working bankers in the department, and the other partners thought highly of me.

“I demand a lot from my teams. Girls like you—they’ve got other things going on. Work doesn’t come first for them.” The only thing missing was a lascivious up-and-down once-over, but he’d gotten that out of the way on Saturday, along with a thinly veiled and equally lascivious proposition.

I felt my shoulders stiffen. I pulled myself up to my full height, painfully conscious that this was only five feet six inches even with the aid of high-heeled pumps, and bit back a number of retorts that would put this pathetic, rodentlike excuse for a human being in his place.

Bonus, I reminded myself. Partnership.

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with either the quality or the quantity of my work,” I said.

“As long as we understand each other.”

“We do. We definitely do.”

chapter two

T he one advantage to being among the few female bankers in the department was that I could always retreat to the ladies’ room when upset—or, in this case, enraged. It was a relatively safe place to get my emotions in check; the only other people I was likely to encounter were the administrative assistants on the floor. They were a sympathetic group, but it was still a relief to find I had the room to myself.

I ran shaking hands under cold water from the tap and bent forward to splash some onto my flaming cheeks. No matter how level I’d managed to keep my voice, my face always betrayed me. I didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that two spots of crimson were staining my usual late-winter pallor. I averted my gaze—I didn’t want to see my reflection; it would only drive home the overwhelming feeling that I was trapped, running toward a goal that proved ever more elusive. How many times had I stood before this same sink, trying to calm myself after a disappointment or confrontation?

Get a grip, I told myself. Don’t let him get to you.

But how dare he question my abilities? Much less my commitment? I’d been at it for eighty hours a week for years, but that weasel assumed, just because I was female, that I was some kind of dilettante, that I’d wandered into Winslow, Brown by accident and was sticking around on a whim. If anything, I was as ambitious as any of the men at the firm, perhaps more so—I’d dealt with so much crap— to borrow one of Gallagher’s favorite words—that I was determined to make partner, if only to prove that I was better than most of the men with whom I worked. Another few months and that partnership would be mine, or so the department head, Stan Winslow, had assured me. Not only would my income soar, I finally would be in a position to start doing things the way I wanted to do them.

I took some more deep breaths, exhaling slowly as I waited for my anger to subside and for my fantasy of beating Gallagher over the head with a blunt object to work its cathartic magic. After a minute or two, my hands were still trembling, but just a bit, and Peter’s ring shone bright and reassuring on my finger. I took a final deep breath, squared my shoulders, and headed through the door.

I crashed immediately into Dahlia Crenshaw.

“Ooof,” I said.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I didn’t have time to answer before Dahlia burst into tears.

“I’m fine,” I said, leading her back into the safety of the ladies’ room. “But you’re clearly not. What’s going on?”

She sank onto one of the stools in front of the vanity. “You have to ask?”

“Gallagher?”

“I hate that man.”

“He’s a rat,” I agreed. “But you can’t let him get to you.” Easier advice to give than to take, as I well knew, but suggesting that she fantasize about beating her boss over the head with a blunt object seemed unprofessional, at best. I crossed to a stall, ripped a length of toilet paper from the roll and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Why don’t you quit?” I asked.

“I’d leave in a heartbeat if I could, but the money’s good and the firm pays for my night classes—I’m getting my nursing degree, did you know? I can’t afford to quit. After all, it’s only my pride I’m sacrificing here.” She said this with a bitter smile, and fresh tears began streaming down her cheeks, streaked with black from her running mascara.

I perched on the counter beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Dahlia shook her head. “You could kill him for me,” she joked with false bravado.

I laughed. “I’d kill him for myself. He sure hasn’t won me over. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“I can’t,” said Dahlia in a forlorn voice, the bravado gone. She turned to the mirror and began dabbing at the tracks the tears had left. “So much for waterproof mascara.”

“No mascara could stand up to these working conditions.”

“Working for Gallagher is bad enough. But it’s even worse knowing that everybody thinks we’re having an affair.”

I felt a wave of shame wash over me. That was exactly what everybody thought, including myself until a moment ago.

I was a bad liar, so I didn’t even try to convince Dahlia that the rumors weren’t out there. “Look, people are so desperate for a bit of intrigue, they’ll believe anything. But that’s a rumor that can be squashed.”

“I hope so. I mean, it’s not like he didn’t come on to me when I first started working for him, but I nipped that right in the bud, and I’m too good at my job for him to get rid of me. But how could anyone think I’d have anything to do with him? And why does he always have to be such a jerk, yelling and obnoxious? Didn’t anyone ever teach him any manners?”

“He does seem to have missed out on the common courtesy gene. I wish I knew how to solve that one.”

“You can’t,” said Dahlia. She sighed. “Sorry to unload on you like this.”

“No problem. I’ve had a few nervous breakdowns in here, too.”

“You? Impossible. You’re always so poised. Calm, cool, and collected.”

If she only knew. “Hardly. Anyhow, are you feeling better?”

“Better? Not really. But I’ll be fine.” She dabbed at her face a final time and rose from the stool. “And I should get back. This new deal seems to have him particularly worked up. Do you know that two different people have already called from Thunderbolt for a team list?”

“They probably want to send some more materials over,” I said, but I had to stifle a groan as I followed Dahlia out the door. The last thing we needed was another influx of documents and spreadsheets. It was hard to believe it was only Monday. And it was depressing, too. An entire week ahead and not a break in sight.

Little did I know what the week held in store.

chapter three

M y own assistant, Jessica, was at her desk outside my office when I returned.

“So,” she said, “judging by the stack of stuff you left for me, I’m guessing that you were here all weekend, weren’t you?” “Yup.”

“And this was your first weekend with your new roommate, too. When are you going to get a life?”

“At this rate, never.”

“And how is Il Duce?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Please, no Tony Danza jokes. I’m running on empty here.”

“I had a feeling about that. I left a little fuel for you in your office.”

“You are my new best friend.”

“You might want to wait and see what I brought you before getting rid of your old best friend.”

I was incredibly lucky to have Jessica as my assistant. An aspiring actor, she was absurdly overqualified for her current job with a degree in drama from Yale, and she’d saved my skin on more than a few occasions. Unfortunately, she was also a bit of a health nut. Instead of the bagel and cream cheese I’d been hoping for, the bag she’d left on my desk contained a distressingly wholesome-looking bran muffin and some carrot juice.

I reached into the small refrigerator under my desk and pulled out a can of Diet Coke. Carrot juice just wasn’t going to cut it this morning. I picked up the phone, cradling it against my shoulder and dialing Jake’s extension with one hand while I popped open the can of soda with the other. I probably could have walked over to his office, but it was on the other side of the floor and that seemed like too much work.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. So, are we ready?”

“I think so. Mark’s dealing with the copies.”

“He’s a machine.”

“Yes, and he’s our machine, thank God.”

“Good point.”

“So, what did Gallagher want with you?”

“Nothing much. Just to warn me to keep the thoughts in my pretty little head to myself.”

He chuckled. “Don’t let him get to you.” That seemed to be a recurring theme today.

“Who, little ole me? Worry my pretty little head with silly details about a silly ole deal?”

“Cute, Scarlett.”

I switched back to my own accent. “Let’s just say, if Gallagher suddenly dies a mysterious death—”

“We’ll know who to bring in for questioning.”

“Exactly.”

“Rachel,” he said. “Seriously. Do you want me to say something to him? Or to somebody else?” Jake had come into my office on Saturday shortly after I’d slapped Gallagher’s hand from my arm and told him that no, I had no interest in joining him for lunch at an intimate restaurant he knew nearby. I’d still been sufficiently upset that it hadn’t taken much coaxing to get the story out of me.

“What could you say?” I asked. “Everything he’s said and done can be explained away. It’s all too subtle, and it’s all his word against mine. And he’s a rainmaker—he brings in more fees in a month than I bring in all year, so I think I know where the partners’ loyalties lie.”

“I don’t care how much money he brings in. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this sort of thing.”

“I’ll just deal with it, and once I make partner, I’ll never have to deal with it again.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind….”

“Thanks, Jake. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. See you at ten?”

“At ten,” I confirmed and hung up the phone. “Pretty little head, my foot,” I muttered, washing the words down with a swig of soda.

I turned to where I’d left my briefcase on top of the credenza, unlatching it and drawing a battered spiral-bound notebook from an inside pocket.

The notebook contained a hundred sheets of ruled paper, but it was already more than half-filled, which wasn’t surprising given that I’d been making regular entries for years. I opened to a fresh page and printed the date at the top. Then I quickly summarized my interaction with Gallagher, “pretty little head” and all. I tried to describe it objectively, which was challenging given the rage still coursing through my veins. I wrote steadily for several minutes before pausing to look over my account. Satisfied that I’d captured everything important, I flipped through the preceding pages.

The previous entry was from Saturday afternoon and described the first incident with Gallagher. The page before that held a description of my most recent meeting with the partner assigned to be my “mentor.” He’d insisted on conducting my last performance review over drinks and had swilled down three Glenlivets while I nursed a seltzer and fought off his attempts to steer the conversation toward my love life, rather than my professional development.

The notebook was my version of an insurance policy, started at the urging of my friend Luisa, a lawyer. I wanted to succeed on my merits, but it hadn’t taken long to realize that there was a lot more than merit to succeeding on Wall Street, especially as a woman. If I ever found myself getting the shaft for reasons that I suspected had more to do with my gender than anything else, I had a detailed record of all I’d put up with over the years. None of my experiences met the legal definition of sexual harassment, but as a whole the handwritten pages told a compelling story.

I’d returned the notebook to my briefcase and was cranking through the e-mails overflowing my in-box when the intercom buzzed. “Peter’s on line one,” Jessica told me.

“Thanks, I’ll take it,” I said and picked up the phone, still typing with my free hand. “Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Not so far.”

“That’s the attitude, Sparky.”

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to check in and see if maybe you could sneak out for a nice romantic lunch today.”

I hadn’t told Peter about Gallagher’s far less welcome invitation—it would only upset him, and he was already concerned about how hard I’d been working—so he couldn’t have known the unfortunate associations lunch invitations held for me just then. Nor was there any way I was going to be able to sneak out for a nice romantic anything. In fact, sneaking out for a decent night’s sleep was probably going to be a problem, and I told Peter as much.

“That bad, huh?” Peter ran a tech start-up, and while he worked hard, he was his own boss and set his own hours. It wasn’t always easy for him to understand how little control I had over my own schedule.

“Just business as usual. Listen, I’ll call you when I know how things are shaping up. Maybe we can try to grab a late dinner?”

“That would be great. I feel like I see less of you than I did before we lived together.”

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “But this deal can’t last forever.” At least, I certainly hoped it couldn’t. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“All right,” he agreed.

My other line was ringing, and I checked the caller ID. “That’s Jake. I’ve got to run.”

I’d hung up before I realized Peter was still talking. “Love you—” he was saying.

I felt guilty, but only partly because I’d had so little time for Peter of late.

The other part was because I was annoyed that I felt guilty. A nasty little voice in my head was saying that Peter should know well enough by now what my job was like, that he couldn’t expect me to drop everything whenever he called. Just because he had a key to my apartment didn’t mean that he had a key to my entire life.

And the very existence of that nasty little voice made me feel all the more guilty.

chapter four

J ake, Mark and I took the single flight of stairs up to the designated conference room a few minutes before ten. “Where should I sit?” asked Mark nervously, setting the stack of bound presentations on the table. Client meetings were still pretty new to him—he’d joined the firm only a few months ago after graduating early from an undergraduate finance program, opting to start work immediately rather than use the extra time to travel or take a few electives.

“I wouldn’t just yet,” I advised. “I’m sure Gallagher has some master plan about how he wants to position us.” Like kneeling at his feet, awaiting his next command. Jake smiled as if he knew what I was thinking, and he probably did.

Gallagher arrived a moment later, deep in chummy conversation with his companion—Nicholas Perry, presumably. Next to Perry, Gallagher looked especially mousy, as Perry was well over six feet and bore a striking resemblance to George Hamilton, albeit dressed in a pin-striped suit rather than a Zorro costume.

Jake stepped forward and introduced himself, shaking Perry’s hand.

“Hello, Jake,” Perry said.

“And this is Rachel Benjamin and Mark Anders.” I had the feeling that Jake didn’t trust Gallagher to get the names of his minions right and had preempted the introductions accordingly.

“Nice to meet you.” He turned to Gallagher. “This is quite a group you’ve assembled here, Glenn.” There was something oily about his tone, or maybe it just seemed that way because he looked so slick, from his shining tasseled loafers up to his sleekly barbered hair.

Gallagher shrugged—he saved his chumminess for old college pals—and glanced at his Rolex. “Ready to get started?”

“Let’s do it,” agreed Perry with a glance at his own Rolex.

Sure enough, Gallagher did have strong ideas about seating. In my case, it was at the end of the table farthest from Perry. For once I was happy to be marginalized.

“We’ve run the numbers,” he told Perry as we took our places. “And the bond department is raring to go—we should be able to get this done in a couple of weeks.”

“The faster the better,” said Perry.

Gallagher began walking him through the materials we’d put together, with Jake, Mark, and I adding the occasional clarifying detail when called upon. The mechanics of the proposed buyout were fairly straightforward. Perry would purchase all of Thunderbolt’s shares, financing a small part of the acquisition with fifty million dollars put up by his investor group. The remainder would be financed by bonds that Winslow, Brown would issue and sell. The bonds, in turn, would be backed by Thunderbolt’s future earnings. Perry’s investor group would then own a company worth five hundred million dollars after putting up only ten percent of its value.

It was risky but perfectly legal. And Winslow, Brown would net a cool three or four million dollars in fees for a few weeks’ work, a healthy chunk of which would be deposited directly into Gallagher’s pocket. It was good to be a partner, and especially good to be a senior partner.

“The only thing standing in the way is getting the new union contract signed. Did you wrap up the negotiations?” Gallagher asked Perry.

“We finalized everything over the weekend. Kryzluk, the chapter president, is a bit bull-headed, but the last thing he wanted was layoffs—he had to cave on benefits.” He said this as if the decline in Thunderbolt’s business was a plus, because it meant that the union had to yield on its demands to ensure that employees kept their jobs.

“Good,” said Gallagher, who probably didn’t spend much time pondering the fate of industrial laborers in a rust-belt town. Concern about that sort of thing would be a liability in his line of work.

As I listened, however, my unease only increased.

The whole deal smelled. As I’d tried to point out earlier, Thunderbolt was in bad shape. I didn’t understand what Perry or his anonymous co-investors were thinking—sure, the buyout would leave them in control, but with massive interest payments that the business couldn’t support with its declining revenues.

When Gallagher paused to draw a breath, I spoke without thinking. “Are there any new contracts in the pipeline?” There must be a reason that Perry was so interested in owning the company—the man may have been slick, but I doubted he was stupid.

My question met with an awkward moment of silence. Then Perry turned to me, peering down the length of the polished mahogany table as if noting my presence for the first time.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” he said with finality.

Gallagher shot me a look that suggested he wished looks could, in fact, kill before changing the subject. A few minutes later he was chummily walking Perry down the hall to the elevators.

Gallagher had, of course, guaranteed Perry we’d have a revised set of numbers ready the next day, which meant that the rest of today and much of the evening were shot. I knew I couldn’t face diving back into work without a short break—preferably one involving food—and Jake and Mark concurred. We agreed to reconvene in ten minutes for a quick lunch and headed downstairs to our offices.

I was at Jessica’s desk, retrieving messages, when I heard the panicked voice of Bert, the guy who manned reception, from across the floor.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? You can’t go in there! I need to make sure you’re expected—”

Jessica and I both turned to stare. The woman Bert was trailing ignored his protests. “Don’t worry—I’ll find my way, thanks.”

She was average height and in her late forties, with the sort of face people describe as striking rather than pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was wearing a smart navy pantsuit. We watched, curious, as she surveyed the open space of the floor, its center crammed with the low-walled cubicles that housed junior bankers and assistants, and the offices for more senior bankers lining the perimeter. Her eyes landed on Dahlia, seated at her station in front of Gallagher’s own corner office.

“Hello, Dahlia,” she called, threading her way through the maze of cubes.

“Naomi!” Dahlia’s tone was surprised. Bert hesitated but seemed to take the greeting as proof of the intruder’s legitimacy. With a shrug he retreated to reception.

“It’s been a long time,” said Naomi as she reached Dahlia. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Glenn and I signed the divorce papers. Is he in?”

“He had a meeting, but he should be back soon. I didn’t know you were—I mean, do you have an appointment? Did he know that you were coming to see him?” Dahlia’s polite smile began to give way to a more apprehensive expression.

“I think we’re both aware that he would never agree to see me in person.” By this point the two women had the attention of everyone within earshot. There wasn’t much drama during the course of a normal day at Winslow, Brown, but it looked like we were all in for an unexpected treat.

“Oh. He’s not going to like this,” said Dahlia.

Naomi shrugged. “Too bad, isn’t it? Look, here he comes now.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The acoustics on the floor were pretty good, but it still may have been a strain for some of the eavesdroppers to make out what Dahlia and Naomi had been saying. Gallagher, however, could be heard easily since he was shouting.

“I was getting sick of my lawyer racking up fees talking to your lawyer,” his ex-wife answered. She followed him into his office.

“He wouldn’t be racking up fees if you weren’t being so unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? Unreasonable?” Naomi’s voice rose to match Gallagher’s own, and while nobody could see them now, everybody could still hear them. “I hardly see how it’s unreasonable to expect you to live up to your legal obligation to pay your daughter’s tuition.”

“I don’t know why she has to go to that fancy school. What can they possibly teach her that costs thirty grand a year?”

“You listen here, Glenn Gallagher. If I’d known when I met you what a stingy schmuck you’d turn out to be, I would never have had anything to do with you. Beth is the one good thing that came out of our marriage, and I’m not going to let you stint on her education. It’s the least you can do. I can’t remember the last time you saw her. She probably can’t, either.”

Jessica looked up at me, bemused. “Stingy schmuck?” she mouthed. I shrugged.

“Can’t we talk about this later?” Gallagher said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“No, we cannot talk about it later. I’m not leaving here without a check. And don’t even try to cry poor. Your new apartment’s the lead spread in this month’s Architectural Digest. Little Annabel probably spent more on each square foot of that place than the school costs.”

“There’s no need to drag Annabel into this.”

“I could care less about dear Annabel. All I want is for you to pry open your checkbook and write the check. Make it out directly to the school. If they don’t get it in the next two days, Beth’s going to lose her spot for next year. Or perhaps I should write a letter to the editor of Architectural Digest? I’m sure they’d be interested to learn all about how you managed to find the money to pay for your swanky penthouse but can’t seem to scrounge up your daughter’s tuition.”

“I’ll write the check. Just shut up already.”

There was silence, and then the sound of a check being ripped from a ledger.

“This better not bounce.”

“You’re psycho. A real head case. Now get out of here before I call security.”

“Gladly.” Naomi reappeared at the door then turned back for one last parting shot. “You know, you’d be of more use to your daughter dead. Pull any more of this crap, and I’ll kill you myself.”

She walked calmly out of her former husband’s office, and everyone who’d been listening hurriedly began shuffling papers or typing at their computers, feigning utter absorption in work. I stifled the urge to clap.

“I’m off,” Naomi said to Dahlia. “But I have the feeling that he’s not going to be much fun to deal with for the rest of the day.”

The women’s eyes met. Then Gallagher began yelling for Dahlia from his office.

chapter five

N aomi was still waiting for an elevator when I went out to the lobby a moment later to meet Jake and Mark. Listening to her let Gallagher have it had been almost as cathartic as if I’d done it myself, and it had definitely been more cathartic than my blunt-object fantasy. I wanted to thank her, but even I knew that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

She appeared preoccupied anyway, tapping her foot and checking her watch as she waited. My colleagues sat on the other side of the floor so had missed the entire scene—I was already looking forward to filling them in over lunch.

An elevator finally announced its arrival with a digital beep. The doors slid apart, framing another woman in the opening.

“Figures,” I heard Naomi say under her breath.

The woman was about my age and roughly the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. With her golden highlights and glossy manicure, not to mention the enormous diamond on her ring finger and matching studs in her ears, she was pretty much the illustrated dictionary definition of socialite-slash-trophy-wife. The Gucci jacket, Prada skirt, Manolo Blahnik heels, and Louis Vuitton purse did nothing to contradict the image, although I did find myself wondering if it was wise to mix so many brands at once. I also felt suddenly self-conscious. It must be nice to have the funds and leisure time to support such perfect grooming and over-the-top wardrobe selection. In fact, it must be nice simply to get enough sleep.

She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.

The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”

“Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.

It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely—the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.

Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”

“He’s in a fine humor.”

“Oh?”

“I have that effect on him. And I managed to separate him from some of his money. He never likes that much. Can I give you some advice, Annabel?”

“Do I have a choice?” she answered impatiently. She moved to step past Naomi, but Naomi moved with her. The elevator doors gave a whining beep in protest at standing open for so long.

“If you didn’t already sign everything away in a prenup, which he probably made sure you did, get things squared away now. Especially if you’re planning on having any little Annabels or Glenn juniors. Find a good lawyer and have him draw up some watertight contracts. Otherwise all you’ll see once he’s onto Number Three is half of whatever he made while you were married, and my guess is that he’ll hide a lot of that away.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Are you done now?” asked Annabel, trying again to step past Naomi. “These people are waiting for the elevator.” She motioned toward our little group, which had been bearing witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of awkwardness. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in her eyes as her glance swept over us.

“Yes, I must get back to my office. Some of us work, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I know how busy you must be with all of that shopping and decorating to do. Goodbye, Annabel.”

“Goodbye, Naomi,” Annabel said, mimicking Naomi’s tone. This time Naomi let her pass and stepped into the elevator, followed by Jake, Mark, and me. A small smile played over her lips as the doors slid shut.

We were all silent as the elevator descended. Personally, I was in awe. Naomi seemed to be completely comfortable saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. And while Miss Manners most assuredly would not have approved, I couldn’t help but be impressed.

The doors parted when we reached the ground floor, and Naomi strode off.

“Wow,” I said.

“Good show,” agreed Jake.

“You missed the first act.” I filled them in on Naomi’s showdown with Gallagher as we made our way to a nearby Burger Heaven. I’d chosen our destination; I was very much in need of protein, preferably accompanied by large quantities of French fries.

“It sounds like Wife Number One isn’t exactly president of the Glenn Gallagher fan club,” said Jake when we had settled in a booth and placed our order.

“I don’t think that’s a very happening club,” I said.

Mark laughed, his first laugh in the three days we’d spent almost entirely in each other’s company. I turned to him, glad to see some sign of personality. It would be nice if the guy loosened up—thus far, he’d been like a Stepford associate: focused, uncomplaining, and completely humorless.

“So, Mark, where are you from?” I asked.

“Me?” He took a sip of his soda. “New Jersey.”

“Southern New Jersey or northern New Jersey?” asked Jake. I wondered how this could possibly matter. New Jersey was New Jersey as far as I was concerned.

“Southern.”

“Then you’re an Eagles fan, right?” said Jake.

My heart sank. I really hated sports talk, and it didn’t help that I had no idea what sport the Eagles played.

“Yeah.”

“Man, did you see their game against the Cowboys? During the playoffs?”

“Uh, no. I missed it.”

“It was awesome.” Jake started talking about the game, and I was able to ascertain that the sport in question was football. It was amazing how someone who was usually so engaging in conversation could embrace such a boring topic.

“What about the Eagles-Steelers game? Did you see that one?” Jake asked.

Mark looked relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “That was a great game.”

They started talking about that game, and I tuned out. I couldn’t possibly be expected to concentrate on a subject this dull when I was hungry. I perked back up when our food arrived, and I was pleased to find that the football discussion had run its course. They were now talking about work. This was only a marginally better topic, but it still trumped sports.

“You’ve been with the firm since January, right?” Jake was asking. “How do you like it?”

Mark picked up his burger. “I expected that the hours would be pretty brutal, and they have been, especially with this new deal. But I wanted to work on a buyout.”

“Even with the Idi Amin of Winslow, Brown?” I asked.

Mark hesitated. “This is probably embarrassing to admit, but I was deciding between offers at a few different firms. When I heard that Gallagher had left Ryan Brothers to join Winslow, Brown—well, that made up my mind for me. In fact, I asked to be assigned to his next deal. I’d heard that working with him was sort of painful, but I thought it would be a good learning experience. He’s kind of a legend in certain circles.”

Circles of hell, I thought. Imagine wanting to work with Gallagher. In fact, following Gallagher to the firm? That was dedication. Or masochism.

“Then it’s a dream come true?” asked Jake. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me; there was a teasing edge to his tone. But Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.

“I have a question, Jake. Since you’ve worked with the guy before.”

Jake turned his attention away from Mark. “Shoot.”

“What’s with Gallagher and the pencil thing?”

“What pencil thing?”

“Don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t noticed the pencil thing. When he sharpens an already sharp pencil and sucks on it? He must have done it six or seven times when we were in his office this morning.”

He grinned. “Oh, that pencil thing.”

“Yes, that pencil thing. He must go through a dozen pencils a day. And the sucking—it’s disgusting. I don’t even want to know what Freud would make of it.”

“All that lead can’t be good for him,” volunteered Mark.

“Maybe he’ll die of lead poisoning,” I said, not bothering to disguise the hopeful note in my voice.

“I think they make them out of graphite now,” Jake said. “It’s funny, though. Do you watch Forensic City?”

“I love that show,” I said.

“You do? Me, too,” Jake said.

“I have the entire season’s episodes on my TiVo, just waiting for the time to watch them all,” I told him.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll ruin anything by telling you they had an episode a few weeks ago in which a guy who likes to chew on toothpicks dies from chewing on a poisoned toothpick.”

“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could slip some poison into one of Gallagher’s pencils?”

“Should I be worried you’re not joking?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know. Would you be willing to help out?”

“For you? Anything.” There was a gleam in his eye.

I laughed, but my cheeks felt strangely warm.

I decided to chalk up my reaction to hunger. “Could somebody pass the ketchup please?”

We lingered over lunch, and Jake talked about adjusting to life in New York after Chicago. “I lived here after business school,” he explained. “That’s when I first worked with Gallagher—I was an associate at his old firm. But my ex-wife was from Chicago and wanted to move back. Ryan Brothers didn’t have an office there, so I took the job at Winslow, Brown. But I was never a big fan of the Midwest, and it turned out that my ex-wife wasn’t such a big fan of me. Once we split up, I hightailed it back to the East Coast.”

I’d heard around the office that Jake was newly divorced after a short and unsuccessful marriage, but we hadn’t talked about it much. He seemed glad to be back in New York except, of course, for the inevitable lament about real estate. “The prices are insane.”

“I was lucky,” I told him. “I bought my apartment years ago.”

“Is there enough room for the two of you?” Jake knew that Peter had just moved in.

“It’s a little cramped right now, but we’ll figure it out,” I said with false confidence. Given that every closet was already filled to bursting, I wasn’t sure how this was going to happen. But I loved my home—its high ceilings and southern light and old-fashioned details—and I really didn’t want to move. It was only since Peter had arrived that I’d realized just how attached I was to the place, and how much I’d gotten used to having my own space.

There had been a lot of snow over the weekend, but it had warmed up since then and the pristine white piles were quickly melting into dirt-colored slush. We had to navigate the pavement carefully on our way back to the office.

We missed the light at the corner of Madison and Fifty-first, but I was still scoping out the enormous puddle lapping at the curb, trying to figure out the best way across it, when the signal changed from the orange hand of “Don’t Walk” to the striding white figure of “Walk.”

“I’ve got you covered,” Jake said.

“What—” I started to ask.

He grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, which most certainly was not the case, especially not after the meal I’d just consumed. He stepped easily over the puddle and continued across the street before depositing me on the opposite corner.

My feet were dry, but if my cheeks had felt warm before, now they were burning.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Anytime,” he grinned.

chapter six

A mountain of work waited for us in the office, but we were sufficiently fortified by lunch to get through it at an efficient pace. Still, it was well after nine by the time I let myself into my apartment.

I sensed instantly that something extraordinary was underway.

“Peter?” I called out, kicking off my shoes. I shrugged out of my coat and left it with my hat and scarf draped over one of the cardboard boxes in the foyer.

“In here,” he answered.

“In where?”

“The kitchen.”

“Why?” I asked. An old Van Morrison CD was playing on the stereo, and the apartment smelled strangely of food. My stomach reminded me with a rumble that lunch, however fortifying, had been a long time ago. I picked a path through the cartons that lined the hallway, heading toward the room in question.

“Why do you think?”

“Oh my God.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen with shock.

He was cooking.

“Lasagna all right with you? It seemed like a good choice for a cold night. It’s almost ready. Here, let me pour you a glass of wine.”

I struggled for words. “But—how? With what?” I didn’t see any plastic containers from restaurant takeout, or even one of those orange boxes with the trusty Stouffer’s logo. And the microwave was quiet. None of it made any sense.

“A casserole dish. The oven.”

“It works?” I’d gotten a letter from ConEd years ago, warning that they were turning off the gas since it registered such little usage. I was pretty sure I’d never responded.

“Seems to.” He handed me a glass of Barolo.

“I have a casserole dish?”

“It was a bit dusty, but I rinsed it off.”

“But—but didn’t you need spices and herbs and ingredient stuff?”

“There’s a grocery store a couple of blocks away. They even deliver.”

He was trying to act nonchalant, but he was clearly pleased with himself.

I put my glass down and wrapped my arms around him. “Will you marry me?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

A few minutes later he banished me from the kitchen so that he could put the finishing touches on the meal. In the living room, I saw that he’d even set the small table. Place mats! Who knew I owned place mats?

I went to stow my briefcase in the tiny room that I used as a study and which technically elevated my apartment from a one-bedroom to a two-bedroom, although it had never been clear to me how it could possibly fit a bed when it could barely fit a desk and chair. The PC was on—Peter must have been using it—so I took a moment to check my personal e-mail account. My BlackBerry was like an extra limb, almost surgically attached to me and ensuring that I rarely fell behind on my work e-mail, but my home account tended to fill up.

Most of it was spam. The Internet was supposed to usher in a golden age of targeted, one-to-one marketing, but I refused to believe that I was the target market for penile implants. I sent message after message into the trash bin, clicking the mouse with increasing impatience and speed.

As a result, I nearly missed an e-mail from Luisa confirming drinks the following evening. In a fortuitous twist of events, all four of my college roommates were in New York this week, and we’d agreed to meet at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel. I hit Reply All to caution them that I might be a bit late, but I resolved at the same time to make it out of the office at a decent hour. Gallagher and his deal would suck up every second if I let them.

The next and last e-mail also nearly missed being tossed into the trash bin. And once I saw it, I almost wished I’d deleted it unread.

The subject line read Important. Of course, all of the Viagra ads claimed relevance and urgency, too.

But the return address was from manofthepeople@rsnd.net. Not the most legitimate-sounding address—it had a self-righteous rabble-rousing air to it—but it seemed more likely to be a real person than one of the randomly assorted strings of letters that most of the Viagra ads came from.

I clicked it open. The message was short, and cryptic.

Perry’s dirty and so is this deal.

And they’ve done it before.

That was it. That was all it said.

chapter seven

T he mouse suddenly felt like a burning coal, and I grabbed my hand away. I had the sinister sensation there was someone else in the room, a presence at my shoulder.

There was nobody there, obviously, and the dark night outside meant I could see nothing through the window but my own reflection, yet I still had the eerie feeling I was being watched. I yanked the shade down.

Then I read the e-mail again.

Perry’s dirty and so is this deal.

And they’ve done it before.

The questions started flowing into my brain, but it took a couple of minutes before I could get over how creeped out I was to even articulate them, let alone begin to address them.

First, who was manofthepeople@rsnd.net? And why was he e-mailing me? Here, at home, on my personal e-mail account? How had he even found my personal account?

Second, how was the deal dirty? I wasn’t surprised to hear somebody else thought so, too, but Man of the People had been a little stingy with the details.

Third, what, exactly, had they done before? And who were “they” supposed to be?

And fourth—well, I was back to Question One, Part Two—why was Man of the People e-mailing me?

“Rach?”

I shrieked. The entire concept of jumping out of one’s skin made sense in a way it never had before.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that dinner’s served.”

I gaped at Peter.

“You remember dinner? The logical outcome of what I was working on in the kitchen? I know the entire dining-in thing is a bit novel and usually involves the delivery guy being buzzed up, but I promise there’s food on the table.”

“You need to see this,” I told him.

“Can it wait? I don’t want everything to get cold.”

“I don’t think so.”

He came around to my side of the desk and leaned over my shoulder to look at the screen.

“You just got this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“On your personal account?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know who this Man of the People guy is or why he’s e-mailing you, much less how he got your e-mail?”

“No.”

“That’s sort of creepy.”

“It’s very creepy.”

Peter convinced me it would be unwise to discuss matters any further on an empty stomach. I plopped myself down at the table and allowed him to cut me a large slice of lasagna and top off my wine.

The food was delicious—much better than anything that came out of a box—but it was hard to give it the attention it deserved. Under Peter’s careful questioning, I fleshed out the details of the Thunderbolt deal. We weren’t supposed to discuss work with people external to the firm, but it was common knowledge that nobody obeyed that rule with spouses and significant others.

“I knew there was something wrong with this whole thing,” I told him. “The company’s practically in the toilet but meanwhile Nicholas Perry wants to do a buyout and Gallagher can’t wait to help make it happen. I bet Gallagher’s part of the ‘they’ somehow.”

“At the very least, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out what Perry’s done before, or even if Gallagher was involved, too.”

We left the dishes on the table and returned to the study. My desk chair wasn’t really big enough for two, but we squished onto it together. It was probably a good thing I’d passed on the third helping of lasagna.

A page on Thunderbolt’s own Web site providing biographies of its management team quickly yielded the answer to our first question. Several years ago, Perry had been CEO of another company, this one, like Thunderbolt, a major defense contractor. I recognized its name—Tiger Defense Enterprises—immediately. One of the Lucite deal mementos lining Gallagher’s credenza bore its logo.

“What do tigers have to do with tanks or body armor or whatever this company makes?” asked Peter.

“Nothing. But a tiger is the Princeton mascot. That’s where Gallagher and Perry met.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“It’s better than Thunderbolt.”

“Not by much.”

Apparently the Tiger buyout, under Perry’s leadership, had been very successful. Perry had not only added the Tiger to the company name, he’d implemented an impressive turnaround. The company then sold shares to the public at a price considerably higher than the buyout price. Perry’s investor group more than tripled their money in a comparatively short timeframe. And Ryan Brothers, Gallagher’s old firm, had handled both the original buyout and the offering when the company went public again. Perry was lauded as a management guru and left Tiger shortly after to join Thunderbolt as CEO.

“So they have done it before,” Peter said.

“Yes. But I don’t know what’s dirty about it. If anything, it’s a textbook LBO. Take a failing company, buy it out, improve operations, and then sell it at a nice fat profit.”

“Why don’t we just ask him?”

“Who? Perry? Or Gallagher? I don’t think either of them is going to be too receptive to my asking how their last joint venture was corrupt. They didn’t seem too forthcoming when I tried to figure out what’s going on with the deal they’ve got on the table now.”

“No—not them. I meant your new friend. Man of the People.”

I thought about this. It was one thing to talk things over with Peter, but it was quite another to engage in any sort of discussion with an anonymous correspondent. “If anything, I should probably be reporting him somehow. Communicating about a deal underway with somebody whose real name I don’t even know is the sort of thing that falls into the strictly verboten category.”

“Give me a few minutes to play around a bit with the e-mail address. Maybe I can find out more about who this guy is.”

“How?”

“Rachel,” he reminded me, “I’m sort of a geek.”

“So that’s why there are suddenly all of those Star Trek episodes on the TiVo.”

“Worried that I’ll record over your Dawson’s Creek reruns?”

“I still get a rush every time Joey chooses Pacey over Dawson.” I went to clear the table.

I rinsed the dishes and added them to the dirty pots and pans already in the dishwasher, another rarely used appliance. I rummaged under the sink, located a box of detergent that bore the logo of a long-since bankrupt grocery chain, poured some powder in, and selected the Power Scrub function.

The casserole was still half-full of lasagna, so I covered it with tinfoil and slid it into the refrigerator, noting with yet more astonishment that I actually had to rearrange one of the shelves to find room. Peter had bought more than the ingredients for lasagna. It was peculiar to see my fridge, which usually held only a limited selection of life’s basic necessities—Diet Coke, white wine, and hot sauce—harboring a more usual assortment of groceries. There was actually butter in the butter compartment and eggs in the little indentations on the shelf alongside.

Peter was hunched over the computer when I returned. “Any luck?” I asked.

He sounded frustrated. “I’m not as much of a geek as I thought.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing,” I said, perching on the arm of the chair beside him.

“All I could figure out is that he’s using an e-mail resend service. It’s pretty sophisticated, too. It’s not a commercial service but a program that some hard-core techies set up for themselves.”

“So you think he’s a hard-core techie?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just friends with one. Either way, I can’t get to any information about where the e-mail may have originated. Usually you can track down the various stops a message makes as it goes over the Internet, but the service he used erased all that. I’m afraid that the only way we’re going to find out more is if you e-mail him back.”

“I’m tempted to. But it’s a bit of a quandary, in terms of professional ethics.”

“If the deal is dirty, don’t you have an obligation to find out how?”

“I think I’d be supposed to report it to Winslow, Brown’s legal department or the Securities and Exchange Commission or something. But I don’t even know it’s dirty, and if I make a stink at the office without any proof, Gallagher will probably try to have me fired. He’s already gunning for me.”

“Maybe this guy can give you some proof. Would it be such a big deal to e-mail him and ask for more detail? You wouldn’t be sharing any privileged information.”

I was torn. The easiest thing to do would be to delete the e-mail as if it was another piece of spam, but I was too curious to do that. The by-the-book thing to do would be to show the e-mail to the firm’s legal department, but I had no desire to incur further Gallagher wrath. And the tempting thing to do was to e-mail Man of the People back.

“You know, there are ways to cover your tracks,” said Peter.

“You’re like the little devil guy standing on my shoulder, trying to lead me astray.”

“But I cook like an angel.”

I had an idea. “Maybe I should call Jake and tell him about this. Get his opinion.” Peter was used to the more rough-and-tumble startup world, without the bureaucracy and lawyers and regulatory oversight. Jake had a better sense of the context than Peter, and he would also have an appreciation for my concerns about things like Gallagher and the SEC.

“Jake? Jake from work?”

“Maybe he’ll know what to do.” I checked my Black-Berry for his cell phone number.

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Of course I can trust him.” Jake and I had been friends even before we’d started working on this deal; several grueling days spent under Gallagher’s command had further cemented that bond. Besides, I would never have told him about Gallagher’s pass if I didn’t trust him, and Jake had been kind and supportive, eager to rush to my defense while also being discreet.

But I couldn’t explain all of that to Peter without opening up a whole can of worms I’d prefer to keep closed. “One mysterious e-mail and suddenly you’re suspicious of everyone,” I said instead.

“You barely know him.”

“I know him well enough. He’s a really good guy.”

It didn’t matter anyway. Jake’s phone went straight into voice mail. I hesitated but didn’t leave a message. It was late—he was probably asleep.

When I disconnected, Peter was looking at me, his fingers poised over the keyboard. And I was still torn.

“When you said there are ways to cover my tracks, what did you mean, precisely?”

chapter eight

I found myself back in Gallagher’s office first thing Tuesday with a strange sense of déjà vu. Yet again, it was way too early for a meeting, and yet again, I hadn’t gotten anywhere near enough sleep.

It had been close to one by the time Peter had set up a new e-mail account for me at a free service and we’d e-mailed Man of the People via the same resend provider he’d used. The e-mail—a simple and noncommittal request for more information—had been the easy part. It was the tracks-covering part that had taken so long. Peter had run a number of different programs he promised would erase all traces of Man of the People and our response from my computer. I’d never realized that paranoia could be so time-consuming.

“I feel like a criminal,” I’d said.

“Look, this guy is probably a crackpot and it won’t amount to anything. But it’s not like you’re telling him anything you shouldn’t, and if you do find out there’s something corrupt about this deal, you’ll have the facts you need instead of just pissing off Gallagher.”

“He’s already pissed off.”

“Well, instead of pissing him off more.”

What Peter said made sense, but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. The very act of track-covering was an admission that I was fully aware what I was doing was wrong on some level, even if Gallagher’s attitude left me with little choice.

By the time we got to sleep, it was after two, and it seemed as if the alarm went off only a moment later. It made me cranky that Peter got to roll over and go back to sleep, and it made me even crankier to have to take my things into the bathroom to get ready so I wouldn’t wake him again.

The bathroom was a small room to start with, and for a man without much vanity, Peter had a lot of toiletries—toiletries that were taking up a disproportionate share of space in the shower and on the countertop. It had been handy to have him around the previous night, to have his help in figuring out how to respond to mysterious e-mails and hide the traces of my potentially criminal actions, not to mention the homemade meal, but there was nothing like accidentally taking a big slug of aftershave (the bottle of which bore a sly resemblance to my mouthwash) to bring home the practical realities of sharing an apartment in New York.

Given that he’d set the meeting time, Gallagher evidently didn’t mind the hour; besides, his face was always haggard. At least he’d actually shown up on time today. Jake looked like he’d just returned from a month of lounging on a Tahitian beach, and Mark was his usual bland self, but I was all too conscious of the dark hollows under my eyes and the bitter taste of aftershave in my mouth. We were in our same seats from the previous morning, and my hands had already assumed their tight grips on the armrests of my chair in anticipation of another dose of verbal abuse. Gallagher didn’t disappoint.

“This is crap,” he announced without preamble, tossing his copy of the materials we’d spent most of the previous afternoon and evening preparing into the trash. In obscenity-laden detail, he began enumerating the changes we’d need to make before the conference call he’d scheduled with Perry for later that day.

The buzz of the intercom interrupted him. He hit a button to put the phone on speaker. “Yeah?”

“It’s your lawyer on line one,” said Dahlia.

“Got it. And brew a fresh pot of coffee. The stuff you brought me tastes like crap.” Gallagher hit another button on the phone. “Barry? How are the papers coming along?”

“We’ll be ready to file in a couple of days,” answered the disembodied voice.

“Let me know when the delivery’s confirmed. Not that I won’t hear from her the second she opens the envelope.” The lawyer said something in response, and Gallagher said something back, and I settled in for another session of listening to Gallagher charmingly air his dirty laundry.

I managed to tune out most of the conversation, but when he selected a pencil from the silver mug and rammed it into the sharpener, I couldn’t block it out. Nor did I trust myself not to laugh if I caught Jake’s eye after yesterday’s discourse on “the pencil thing.” Instead, I kept my gaze fixed stolidly ahead and tried to think about sad things, like abandoned puppies and global warming.

Sure enough, Gallagher inserted the newly sharpened end into his mouth and sucked on it, long and hard.

I dug my nails into my palms, trying to distract myself with the pain. Beside me, Jake made a weird noise that somehow combined a snort and a cough. Even Mark was pressing his lips together tightly, as if trying to ensure that no sound escaped.

Gallagher didn’t seem to notice. He hung up a moment later and resumed his critique of our work as if there’d been no interruption.

“That’s it,” he said finally, after thoroughly ripping to shreds everything we’d done thus far. “I want to see another draft of everything by noon. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” answered Jake.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Get out of here.” Hardly inspiring words, but anything that involved leaving his office sounded good to me.

We were almost out the door when he called us back. My earlier sense of déjà vu returned. At least today he wanted us all and not just me.

“There’s one other thing.”

He selected a fresh pencil from the mug, and we waited as he repeated his ritual with the sharpener. This time I had to work so hard not to react I worried that I might choke. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jake’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Thoughtfully, Gallagher lifted the pencil to his lips, and thoughtfully, he inserted the newly sharpened tip into his mouth as we waited for his final instructions.

But when he withdrew the pencil and opened his mouth to speak, all that emerged was a tortured gasp.

His eyeballs bulged, and a gurgle escaped from his throat, flecking his lips with blood-stained foam. His body jerked with spasms that pitched him out of his chair and onto the floor. His limbs flailed on the carpet as a horrifying wheezing sound came from his mouth.

I rushed to the door, to get help or tell someone to call an ambulance, but then the room went silent behind me.

Slowly, I turned around.

Gallagher lay still on his back, his eyes wide and unseeing.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.

chapter nine

I f we’d been doctors instead of MBAs, I suppose one of us would have tried CPR or something like that, but it seemed very clear that there was no bringing Gallagher back. A smell of burnt almonds tinged the air. I’d read about that scent in Agatha Christie books and had thought it was more a mystery novel convention than the real smell of cyanide. It turned out that she hadn’t been making it up.

Jake crouched down by the dead man, checking awkwardly for a pulse. Mark stood frozen, motionless in the spot he’d been in when Gallagher took his fatal lick. We both watched as Jake rose slowly to his feet. He shook his head, a stunned expression on his handsome face.

Dahlia arrived on the scene just then. She took one look, dropped the coffee cup she’d been carrying, and then followed it to the floor in a faint. Rather than step over her to get to another phone, I reached over Gallagher’s desk to call 911. Then I called Winslow, Brown security to explain that there was a dead banker on the 39th floor.

Paramedics arrived within minutes, followed closely by uniformed policemen, who were followed in turn by plain-clothes detectives. A photographer captured images of Gallagher’s body sprawled on the carpet. Then a team from the medical examiner’s office zipped up the corpse in a black rubber bag and wheeled it out, but not before the presumptive murder weapon had been extracted from the dead man’s fingers and inserted into a labeled plastic envelope. My little joke about poisoning Gallagher by pencil no longer seemed so funny, although it had been surprisingly prescient.

Jake, Mark, Dahlia, and I were shepherded into separate conference rooms until we could each give the police a statement. By the time I reemerged, it was nearly noon, I’d spent way too much time on my own with nothing to do but think, and the authorities were clearing out. If it weren’t for the yellow crime scene tape barring the door to Gallagher’s office, you would hardly know that anything untoward had happened. Gallagher’s death and the police presence were enough to generate a few hours’ worth of buzz and gossip, but this was an investment bank, and there were deals to be done and money to be made—people were already busily at work, although there was an oddly hushed and sober feel to the floor.

I returned to my office in a daze. Jessica took one look at my face, followed me in, pulled a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, and handed it to me without her usual lecture on how its various chemicals would rot those organs they weren’t mummifying. She even opened it for me.

Peter wasn’t at work when I called. “He had an appointment uptown,” his assistant told me. I left a message for him and then tried his cell, but it went right into voice mail.

I was staring unseeingly at my computer screen when Jake came in.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No. I mean, yes. A bit freaked out, I guess.” I’d seen dead people before, but I’d never actually watched anyone die. “How are you?”

He shrugged. “A bit freaked out, too. I rescheduled the call with Perry, by the way. He’s a real piece of work. He seemed more concerned that this might slow down his deal than anything else.”

I’d completely forgotten about the call, not to mention the laundry list of tasks Gallagher had assigned in his last minutes of life.

“Listen,” Jake continued,“Mark, believe it or not, is already working on the revisions to the Thunderbolt materials. I don’t think anyone would miss us if we skipped out of here for a bit. And I think we could both use a change of scenery.”

It had been a long time since I’d found myself drinking during the middle of the day, much less in the middle of the work week, but when Jake said,“To hell with it” and ordered a bourbon on the rocks, I changed my Diet Coke to a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé.

We were a few blocks from the office in the Bar Room of the 21 Club. The red-checked tablecloths and model airplanes and other trinkets hanging from the ceiling offered a cheery counterpoint to our less than cheery moods. We’d ordered food with our drinks, but neither of us could eat much. This was, for me at least, a clear indication that I really was freaked out. Our limited food intake, however, didn’t stop us from proceeding on to a second and then a third round of drinks. Jake was sticking to the Maker’s Mark, but I was alternating the wine with Diet Coke. Each beverage provided its own unique comfort.

“He wasn’t the nicest guy,” said Jake. “In fact, he was a total bastard. But nobody’s ever died in front of me like that. And it looked so…painful.”

I grimaced. I didn’t want to think about the convulsions, or the wheezing, or the strange cast to Gallagher’s skin as he lay dead on his office floor, but the images and associated sound effects kept playing in my head and had a lot to do with my lack of appetite. “At least you didn’t spend the last several days joking about how much you wanted him dead.”

“You were only joking. Somebody else must have been a lot more serious.”

“But who?” I asked. “I mean, it’s one thing to think the guy’s a schmuck or a bastard or whatever, it’s another thing to poison his pencil.” I couldn’t get over how surreal and somewhat ludicrous death by poisoned pencil truly was. If anyone ever chose to murder me, I hoped they’d do it in a more dignified way. “Speaking of which, it had to be someone who knew about the pencil thing.”

“And had recent access to his pencil supply,” Jake pointed out.

“Well, there’s us,” I said. “It wouldn’t have been too hard for one of us to sneak a doctored pencil into the mug on his desk. It was just a plain old Number Two, nothing fancy. Is cyanide readily available?”

“What makes you say cyanide?”

I explained about the smell of burnt almonds and Agatha Christie.

“Interesting,” he said. “I think cyanide’s a common ingredient in a lot of pesticides, but I don’t really know. Did you get a look at the pencil after the fact?”

“No. Why?”

“The entire tip was missing—I guess it came off in his mouth.”

“Ugh.” I pushed my plate of untouched food even farther away.

“Anyhow, we weren’t the only ones in Gallagher’s office lately. Dahlia’s in and out of there constantly. And she’s—she was probably in charge of his pencil supply.”

“Dahlia? You can’t be serious.”

“Everybody said there was something going on between the two of them.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I told him about my conversation with her in the ladies’ room.

“So they weren’t having an affair. But his treatment of her was pretty abusive. Maybe she just flipped?”

“You think she’s seen Nine to Five one too many times?”

“Huh?”

“You know, Nine to Five? Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin? They’re all secretaries, and they have an evil boss, and they fantasize about how they’d kill him? And Lily Tomlin’s character fantasizes about poisoning his coffee, and then she accidentally does?”

He was looking at me strangely. “Forensic City, Agatha Christie, and Nine to Five?”

“I have eclectic tastes.” It seemed best not to mention the Dawson’s Creek reruns.

“I’m beginning to see that.”

“But I still can’t picture Dahlia poisoning anyone.”

“No, I have to admit, I can’t, either.”

“Then who did poison him?”

“Here’s an idea,” he said, rattling the ice in his glass. “Gallagher’s daughter must be his primary heir—he wasn’t the type to leave much to charity, and he probably made his current wife sign a pretty rigorous prenup. Naomi was in his office. If she’d been married to the guy, she must have known about the pencil thing, and she had the opportunity to slide a poisoned one into his mug when he wasn’t looking. She’d probably be psyched for her daughter to come into her inheritance early.”

I thought about that. “Well, if she did, it wasn’t very smart of her to let half the department know that she would look so favorably on his dying. And when it comes to wives, his current wife was there, too. Annabel.”

“What motive would she have?”

“Gallagher’s money but no Gallagher. Sounds like a winwin to me.”

“I bet he was worth more to her alive than he is dead.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I became friendly with my divorce lawyer when my wife and I were splitting up, and in the process I learned a bit about pre-nuptial agreements.” He looked up with a rueful smile. “See—don’t let anyone tell you that divorce doesn’t have a silver lining—you get to meet new people and learn new things.” He was striving for a light tone, but he was only partially successful.

“Good to know,” I said, trying to match his tone, but I felt a pang of sympathy. Regular breakups were bad enough; I couldn’t imagine how people got through a divorce. It made you wonder how people ever had the courage to get married in the first place.

“Anyhow, what Naomi said was probably right. Annabel will likely only end up with a share of whatever Gallagher made during the course of their marriage. Anything he made beforehand was probably excluded. That’s how these things usually work. And they haven’t been married for very long—just a couple of years.”

“Gallagher must have made at least ten million just while they were married, though. That’s nothing to sneeze at.” Ten million was enough to buy a sufficiently large apartment that I’d never trip over Peter’s boxes again. In fact, it was enough to buy each of Peter’s boxes its own apartment.

“Not for most people. But a lot of it’s probably already spent, and as for the remainder—let’s just say, unless it was invested in something that really takes off, half isn’t going to be enough to maintain the sort of lifestyle the second Mrs. Gallagher has been maintaining for very long.”

“But were you listening to what Gallagher was saying this morning to his lawyer?”

“Hmm? No.” Jake shook his head as he sipped his drink.

“About the papers being delivered, and how he was sure he’d hear from ‘her’ when they were? Maybe he was going to divorce her.”

“In which case she’d end up with the same amount of money. Or maybe that’s not what he was referring to at all. He could have just been trying to screw Wife Number One in some new way. Or maybe another ‘she’ entirely.”

“Could be. He sure didn’t seem like the faithful type.”

“I still can’t get over the way he came onto you,” he said, shaking his head. “He really was a bastard.”

“It happens.”

“But in this day and age, and after all of the lawsuits you read about and diversity training and everything?”

“You’d be surprised.” Maybe it was the wine on an empty stomach or maybe it was the shock of that morning—either way, I found myself telling Jake about some of the other uncomfortable encounters I’d had with male colleagues and my “insurance policy.” It was nice to be able to talk to someone about it.

“It amazes me how sexist this profession still is,” Jake said in disbelief. “It makes me ashamed to be a guy, practically. But it’s a good idea, keeping a record like that.”

“I just hope I’ll never need it.”

“Does anybody else know?”

“About the notebook? Just my friend, Luisa. It was her idea in the first place.”

“Not even your fiancé?”

“Peter? No. He’s already upset enough about how hard I work. And he gets angry when I tell him about partners acting like assholes; he’d go ballistic if he knew they were acting like lecherous assholes.” I paused. “Why? Do you think I should tell him?”

Jake flashed his rueful smile again. “You’re asking the wrong guy. As my ex-wife would attest, not to mention everyone I dated before her, I’m not exactly an expert at relationships.” He took another sip of his bourbon.

“Me, neither.” My track record before Peter had been more than a little checkered on the good judgment front. Then with a jolt I remembered the other thing I’d wanted to talk to Jake about. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this,” I said.

“Tell me what?”

“Last night. There was an anonymous e-mail on my home account about Perry and the Thunderbolt deal.” I explained about the e-mail and what Peter and I had sent back.

“What a strange thing to happen.”

“Mostly it was just creepy.”

“I bet. I wonder why this Man of the People guy got in touch with you, specifically? How did he even know you were working on the deal? Do you think it’s somebody who knows you but didn’t want you to know who he is?”

“Could be. Although, I had another idea, too. Dahlia mentioned yesterday that two different people had called from Thunderbolt for a team list. Maybe one of them was actually this Man of the People guy and he was only pretending to be from Thunderbolt. She would have given out all of our names.”

“Names, yes, but how did he get your personal e-mail address? And why did he contact you, instead of me? Or Mark, for that matter?”

Peter and I had discussed this at length. “He may have tried different variations of all of our names at all of the likely e-mail services—AOL, Hotmail, Verizon. My home account is nothing clever—just my first name and my last name plus my broadband provider. He could have sent out dozens of other e-mails, most of them to addresses that don’t exist or belong to other people. And if they belonged to other people, they wouldn’t have responded—they wouldn’t have had any idea what the e-mail was about. And maybe he did try to e-mail you, and Mark, too, but he didn’t hit on the right addresses?”

“I definitely didn’t get anything on my Yahoo account. I checked it last night.”

“I just hope I did the right thing. It felt wrong not to follow up in any way. If the deal is dirty, then it seems like I have a professional obligation to do something about it. But I didn’t want to get anyone at the firm involved before I knew more, because I didn’t want to give Gallagher even more reasons to hate me.”

Jake nodded his head. “I think you did do the right thing. It was a bit of a catch-22, but you made the right decision. Even with Gallagher out of the picture, it’s probably better to find out what’s going on before making any accusations.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Will you let me know if you hear back from this guy?” he asked. “We should definitely get to the bottom of this, especially since Perry’s still so gung-ho on getting the deal done.”

“Sure,” I said.

It was good to know we were in this together.

chapter ten

W e left 21 a little after three. I’d only had a glass and a half of wine when all was said and done, but I could definitely feel it as we walked back to the office. The bourbon seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Jake.

His cell phone rang on the walk back, and while nothing he said into it was particularly revealing, there was something about the way he spoke that made me think he was talking to a woman. An uncomfortable feeling washed over me. It took a moment to identify what, precisely, it was, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t.

Jealousy.

This was inappropriate in every possible way, and I did my best to shunt it to the back of my mind, where it festered quietly for the rest of the day.

Four hours later I was sitting with another glass of white wine before me, but this time in the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street. The rich colors of the Maxfield Parrish mural that gave the room its name glowed from the wall above the bar, tarnished somewhat from decades of cigar and cigarette smoke. Now the place was smoke-free, thanks to Mayor Bloomberg, and while the nicotine-deprived might complain, business was still going strong. Every table in the small lounge was full, and a throng of people occupied the remaining floor space, drinks in hand as they vied for the next empty table.

Fortunately, my friends had arrived before me and secured a cozy corner spot for us. It wasn’t unusual for any of them to be in New York on occasion, but I couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been here at once. Luisa had trained as a corporate lawyer and was even affiliated with a local law firm, but mostly she did work on behalf of her family in South America. Their international holdings were extensive and complex, and their affairs brought her here regularly. Emma, an artist, was a Manhattan native, but she’d been living in Boston with her boyfriend, Matthew, for the last few months. She was in New York to go over preparations for a gallery show that was going up in April. Hilary was a journalist, and she’d been camped out in Jane’s guest room in Cambridge of late, putting the final touches on a true crime book about a string of serial killings that had occurred in the area. When she heard that Emma would be driving down, she hitched a ride and scheduled meetings with several publishers who’d shown interest. And when Jane heard that all of our other former roommates would be here at the same time, she’d arranged for a substitute at the school where she taught and insisted on coming along. “I’m nearly six months pregnant—this may be my last opportunity to go anywhere for a while,” she explained.

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