38

 

THE SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION REGIONAL OFFICE, NYC, LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON, EARLY EVENING

Agent Pete “Rac” Rodgers sat at his desk, headphones clamped to his ears, elbows braced, chin in his hands, listening to the stream of verbal diarrhea that was Ronald Glass’s life. He was onto his fourth Red Bull. Domenica had kept him and Marlee up most of the night, and he found himself fantasizing about an all-white hotel room with blackout drapes, empty of everything save a big soft bed and him. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

Abruptly he sat up, knocking over the thankfully almost-empty Red Bull. He listened to the clip three times, then halted the recording and pushed himself stiffly to his feet. He rubbed his back like a pregnant woman. He was carrying too much weight and he knew it. Damn-all he could do about it. He’d given up cigarettes nine months ago, soon as Marlee told him she was pregnant. He’d replaced nicotine with sugar, and he and his wife had grown large together.

He barreled into Wilkie’s office. She was standing, back to him, headphones clamped to her ears, looking out the window. She was barefoot, doing perfect calf raises, like a ballerina warming up. She had a ballerina’s calves too—muscled and lean. Rodgers knew she did aikido, was some kind of black belt, and it showed in the parts of her powerful body that the suit did not conceal. A blond wig lay coiled on Wilkie’s desk like a dead animal. One of her disguises. She wasn’t pretty, her features were all a tad large for that, but she was handsome with her open face, ready smile, sharp gray eyes, and her striking red hair.

In her customary skirt suit—gray, anonymous-looking—she could have been any one of the thousands of PAs and lower-ranking executives who thronged Wall Street and its environs, but to anyone who looked closely enough, or who knew what they were looking for, she stood out. It was partially the stance. Even at rest, she stood like a sprinter on the blocks, leaning forward slightly on the balls of her feet, keen eyes focused on some finish line only she could see, and with an awareness that took in faces and memorized them, and names and bytes of information that would have defeated a lesser brain. The woman was encyclopedic; she was also one of the most energetic people Rodgers had ever met. He wished he could borrow some, just for a day.

As Rodgers reached out to tap her shoulder, Wilkie spun round in a perfect pirouette and beamed at him, pulling off her earphones.

“Saw your reflection,” she said with a grin. “No, actually, I felt your presence with my finely honed skills. What’s up Rac?”

Her partner grinned.

“We got Ronald Glass at it! Well, the foreplay, not the act. But it’s a start!” The mantle of exhaustion lifted and Rodgers’ dull eyes managed a sparkle. “Picked up a reference to personal cell phone. Come ’n’ listen.”

Wilkie followed Rac into his tiny office. “Hit it.”

The disembodied voices drifted through the room.

“Hi. It’s me,” said an excitable female voice.

“Call me on my personal cell phone,” snapped Glass.

“Sure thing.”

The recording ceased.

Wilkie studied her manicured hands. “The insider trader’s mantra. Call me on my fuckin’ personal cell phone.” She looked up at Rodgers. “He’s dirty.”

“Just a few weeks since we got the wiretap. Think how much went down before.”

Wilkie grimaced. “And the woman calling Glass, the one who no doubt gave him a big, juicy insider tip on his personal cell? Any ideas?”

“Unregistered cell phone,” replied Rodgers. “Pay as you go. She’d have trashed it after the call.”

“Profile?”

“Blue collar. Sounds like fuckin’ Minnie Mouse,” observed Rodgers, sliding into his chair, swiveling round to face Wilkie, who stood alert and straight, gazing down at him, her gray eyes cool and clear. No red veins for her. “Got access to some valuable info. Probably a PA somewhere. I’ll get the accent people to run her voice.”

“Good one,” said Wilkie. “I want to bring this bastard down, and all the crooked little shits he runs with.”

“You sound like Bergers: eradicate the contamination!”

“I’m a woman on a mission.”

“All we can do is do what we’re doing.”

“And pray for a lucky break. Wait for Glass or one of his tipsters to get just a bit too greedy. Then they’ll mess up.” Wilkie gave a nasty smile. “Wouldn’t it be nice to tap that bastard’s cell phone.”

“Nice if we could tap his home too.”

“I don’t think we’d ever get Judge Bustillo to agree to that,” said Wilkie.

“What would it take?” Rodgers asked.

“Evidence of terrorist activity. National Counterterrorism Center can get NSA to tap whoever the hell they like. Find some terrorist crap, and we’re sitting pretty.”

Rodgers screwed up his face, gave her a wry look. “Dream on.”