THE PALMS
“Oh, I meant to call you, Officer Herron. I am so sorry.” She looked tired, rushing back to her office after class. Even so, she was striking; he’d forgotten how striking. Beautiful face, natural. She opened the door, balancing a stack of books, and Herron followed her into the cluttered office.
“Please sit down,” she said, moving a stack of magazines off the chair and stepping behind her desk. “I did get your message, and it was very kind of you to follow up, but if I called you, it was completely unintentional. I do that all the time.” She took out her phone and put it on the desk. “I have no idea how but I somehow manage to routinely dial old numbers in my purse. I have one friend who won’t answer my calls anymore because of all the pocket dials.” She laughed, inviting him to see the humor.
“Would that be Mr. Prenn, ma’am?” Herron said.
She hadn’t expected that. She was thrown for a moment. Then she smiled. “Yes, it would actually. Of course you met Alex. That was a very difficult time.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Herron said. His face was sincere but there was something in his tone of voice, as if he was in on a private joke, that made her face feel hot. “I’m sure he has been a great support.”
It was a statement but Herron’s inflection suggested it was more of a question. His eyebrows remained slightly arched, inviting Stephanie to elaborate.
She knew she was on dangerous ground but the silence required some comment. “Yes, absolutely,” she said, trying to find a safe way forward. “I actually met Alex at the same time I met my husband. They were friends, from school.” Herron nodded politely.
“Harvard actually.” She flushed as she heard herself; it sounded elitist and condescending somehow. She wondered where the detective had gone to school. Was there a university like West Point or Annapolis for cops? Of course not. Stephanie felt like she was going to laugh out loud. She felt reckless; the whole conversation seemed surreal, absurd. Raised voices from the students outside brought her back.
“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Prenn now?” Herron asked.
“He is probably the nearest thing I have to a friend.” She paused for a moment, looking up at the dusty transom over her office door.
“My husband was my confidant, my shoulder. We were a society of our own. Now that he’s gone Alex is my closest link to that society. He’s the only other person who knew Jordan like I did, so when I need someone I talk to him. Does that make any sense?”
Herron nodded thoughtfully. “It must be nice to have someone to talk to.”
Stephanie looked at him, her head tilted a little to one side. “Of course,” she said.
* * *
Follow the money. When Herron had first made detective, his partner had been a guy named Jimmy McKenna. He was a couple years from retirement and mostly shuffled around the station with his gut leading the way and his pants threatening to fall off because he had no ass to keep them up. He gestured with a hand that seemed to have a cup of coffee permanently attached, making weighty pronouncements for the benefit of the junior detectives. “Follow the money” had been a particular favorite trope.
Genometry was a very small cap stock traded on the Hong Kong Exchange. Until the recent buyout talk with Pfizer, it was seldom traded at all. However, going back several years Herron saw a pattern of high-volume trades that seemed to anticipate significant moves in the share price.
Surefire tell for insider trading. Bigger company, someone would have noticed. The biggest individual shareholders were Jordan Parrish and Alex Prenn. But they weren’t buying or selling. The bulk of the liquid stock was held by Viceroy Interests, a venture capital firm with a Boston address. Time to go to the lieutenant. He’d need subpoenas.
* * *
The kids were long asleep when the phone rang. Stephanie was lying in bed with an old issue of The Economist. She never seemed to catch up; every week another issue chock-full of no doubt timely and insightful reporting would arrive before she had cracked the last one. Her eyes were rescanning the same paragraph for the third time and she still had no idea what she’d read.
She picked up the handset. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stephanie. I hope it’s not too late to call. It’s Simon.”
“No, it’s fine. I was just reading.”
“I wanted to call as soon as I knew.” His voice seemed a long way away. “It’s a match.” Stephanie didn’t respond. She looked at the way the faded palm trees on the wallpaper visible through the bathroom door didn’t really line up where the seam was and wondered that she’d never noticed it before.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, Simon. Thank you. You’re absolutely sure...of course you are, I’m sorry.”
“I ran thirteen sites, three trillion to one against a false positive, and that’s allowing for twins. I also checked the fragmentation and it was consistent with the date of the accident. Listen, I’m really, really sorry—”
She cut him off. “Please, Si, don’t. I needed to be sure, that’s all. Thank you for indulging my craziness. You’re a prince. Go home, get some sleep.”
“Are you okay?” So far away.
“Yes, of course. I’m fine, it’s better, really. Good night, Simon.”
“Good night, Stephanie.”
If she were designing wallpaper, she would space the pattern so that the seam would always fall on the solid tone, not the print. It was maddening.