I was running on fumes, desperately craving sleep. There’s only so much morally justifiable subterfuge a person can engage in before needing to recharge the batteries.
My plan was to grab a nap for a couple of hours, wake up and cook a three-egg Western omelet, and then, when I’m good and rested and calorically satisfied, clean the apartment a bit before Tracy and Annabelle got home from Marblehead. I’d really missed them both.
Yep. That was my plan. Unfortunately, Mathias von Oehson had his own plan. No sooner had I arrived home when he called my cell. If only I’d let it go to voicemail.
“Where are you?” he asked, skipping any hellos. “Are you in the city?”
“Yes.”
“How fast can you get to the Yale Club?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” he said. “A half hour, no later. I’m on a plane this afternoon.”
Then he did the most billionaire thing he could do. He hung up on me.
I could’ve called him back and postponed, but I’d already seen firsthand how Mathias von Oehson deals with rejection. Exhibit A, extorting me by buying the building that housed Tracy’s legal aid office.
I changed my clothes and grabbed a cab.
When the Yale Club building in Midtown Manhattan opened in 1915, it was a place where a bunch of rich white guys could gather to feel extra smug about the fact that they attended Yale. Of course, times have changed. These days, the club is a place where a bunch of ethnically diverse people of all backgrounds can gather to feel extra smug about the fact that they attended Yale. That’s progress for you.
“Yes, he’s right over here,” said the hostess. “This way.”
Von Oehson hadn’t mentioned whether he was in the Tap Room or the Grill Room in the club. Both served lunch, and while the more refined Grill Room would normally match his tastes, everyone knows that the Tap Room is the place to be around the holidays. Decked out with garland and poinsettias galore, with its bright-red dining chairs and massive wood beams, the room was a sight to behold. It was as if Santa had designed a ski lodge.
“There he is,” said von Oehson, standing from his back corner table to greet me as I approached. He wasn’t alone. “I’d introduce you to Richard here, but apparently you’ve already met.”
“How could I forget?” I said, shaking the hand of my one and only stalker. Last time I saw Richard Landau, chief compliance officer for Von Oehson Capital Management, he was telling me that his boss—an old college chum—had no idea that he was following me.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
“You as well,” I replied, although we both knew that was being overly kind. “So did you confess, junior detective Landau, or were you found out?”
“He confessed,” said von Oehson, as we all sat down. “I would’ve fired his ass for stalking you, but he knows all my secrets.” He paused, smiling. “Most of them, at least.”
“I felt guilty,” explained Landau. “I should’ve never doubted my dear friend, and I told him as much.”
“Bullshit,” said von Oehson. “You thought I was losing my grip, and I was.”
“Well, now you’re not. Carter is alive and well and home safe,” said Landau.
“Yes. Yes, he is,” said von Oehson with a look of overwhelming relief. He pointed at a double old-fashioned glass in front of him. Whatever he was drinking on the rocks was now just rocks. “I’d raise a toast, but I’m empty. Dylan, you want something to drink?”
“Actually, it’s food that I could use.”
“I was going to say, you look a little worn down.”
“I had a late night,” I said. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Let’s get you a menu, then,” said von Oehson, motioning for a waiter. “In the meantime, Richard, why don’t you get the conversation started. I’ve got to take a piss.”
Landau, head of compliance, nodded dutifully as his boss got up. “Sure thing,” he said.
It was a seamless handoff. Casual. Off the cuff. Very nonchalant.
It was also very unconvincing.