Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (45 page)

“What’s that exactly?”

“Who killed Anson and Bill. Somebody killed them both, and I don’t believe it was a coincidence. If it weren’t for my alibis, the cops would have arrested me for it. I think they may figure I hired someone to do it. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’ll never be able to prove that I did.”

“Because you didn’t, right? I mean, I’m not engaged to a murderer, right? You’re not going to knock me off for the insurance or anything, are you?”

“What insurance?”

“The life insurance you want to take out on me.”

“I don’t want to take out any life insurance on you. What are you talking about?” Warren turned to face her, completely flabbergasted.

“Come on. I got that letter and application from your company’s insurance agent.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Warren was smiling. “Good joke.”

“Warren, I’m dead serious. I thought it was nice, you adding me to your medical coverage. And I thought it was generous that Weldon allows you to insure your fiancée.”

“They don’t. I didn’t. I mean, I would, but I didn’t. What application? Did you send it in?”

“No, not yet. What do you mean you didn’t send me the application? If you didn’t, who did?” She was sitting straight up.

“I don’t know. But it sounds like a problem.”

“A problem? Someone sends me an insurance application? That’s a weird problem. I can see how you’d be concerned if I’d made an appointment to talk to a salesman or something. Actually, that’s worse than dying. But who would bother?”

“Someone who is trying to set me up?”

“But set you up for what? Dental coverage?”

“Think about it for a minute.” He tapped his head.

“Oh, thanks for pointing. I forgot where to think.” Sam paused for a moment. It was obvious. “But, if they were trying to set you up to look like you killed me, isn’t it a little simpleminded? What difference could a half a million dollars make? No one would believe you’d want to kill me to collect a half a million bucks of insurance. That’s no money to you big investment bankers.”

“An obvious setup might be something a clever guy like me would do to cover his tracks.”

“You read too many cheap mystery books. Jesus. Take out insurance on me to make you a suspect, but then point out that you’re way too smart and sophisticated to do something so stupid, therefore the insurance policy would actually have been a way to prove it wasn’t you. And you’d get to keep the money.”

“The application itself could start a fight. You could start to suspect me. Who the hell knows? All I know is that you could be in trouble. Or I could. I can. There’s too much money at stake here. I don’t get it. Why try to set me up? These are some very confusing bad guys. Why don’t they just ask for the fucking money back? It’s not like I can tell anyone about it. They could threaten me. Threaten you. My mother. My father. Kneecap me. Break my fingers one at a time. Disfigure my face. Offer to kill me quick and painlessly if I tell them without a struggle. I’d crack eventually.”

“I’ve got news for you. You’ve already cracked. Boy. I thought you had a plan.”

“I thought I did too. Hmmm. Insurance policy? It just doesn’t make sense. Unless…”

“Hey, maybe someone in your benefits department heard you were engaged and sent you the insurance forms. Maybe you’re paranoid,” Sam said.

“Maybe. Probably. Or, it could just be a warning. Threatening you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah. But two people who were pretty tough business are already dead. I think this is gonna have to work itself out soon, or I’m going to just kill myself so I won’t have to deal with the anxiety.”

“Oh. Okay. How much insurance is there on you? Can I be the beneficiary? Are you worth more dead or alive?”

“Nice. Let’s go check out that bed up there, then you can answer that question. All this thinking is wearing me out.” Warren stood up and stretched.

“Why is it every time you say you’re tired, I wind up feeling like I’m in some nature show about rutting antelopes or wildebeests?’

“I dunno. Meet me in the
Wild Kingdom.
I’m going to take a shower and think all this over.” He tugged her up off the couch, and he tickled her as they climbed the stairs.

“Hey! Cut it out!” She whacked him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna get it!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.…” They turned down the hall, giggling, for the time being.

fifty-four

When he got back to work the next week, he had a busy schedule. First, Warren asked Annlois to book him on a flight to Los Angeles and reserve a room for three nights at the Beverly Wilshire. He told Malcolm that he needed to catch up on things with the banks, that Karlheinz had asked him to come out and review their strategies for the new year, and that he would stop in at Golden State as well. To build up some background, he put in a call to Bill Scherrer in the Reorganization Group and chatted with him for fifteen minutes about some of the bank recapitalizations that Weldon had been hired to complete. It seemed, Warren explained, that the West Coast thrifts were all going to need to be restructured eventually, and getting in the door early couldn’t hurt. He’d met Bill through Larisa and thought he was bright and capable.

“Say, would it be helpful if I joined you in LA? I could clear the deck.” It never failed to amaze Warren how willing people at Weldon were to fly off to sunny Southern California at the drop of a hat right up until June.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you see if you can leave it open for Wednesday, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow from out there and let you know.”

“Okay. I can ask Larisa if she can cover for me if you need me.” Bill knew that Warren and Larisa had been involved with each other, but it had momentarily slipped his mind. “I guess,” he added hesitantly.

“That’s a great idea. I’m sure she’ll be happy to. I appreciate it. I’ll give you a call no later than five tomorrow, and you can grab the Wednesday-morning flight for an afternoon meeting if it looks like a go.” Bill had agreed, and they’d disconnected. Warren had anticipated that Larisa would have to be notified about the trip—the Reorg group was always stretched thin.

Once the plans were made, he called up Frank’s house, to ask Karen if Frank was home. She sounded surprised that he wasn’t in the office. Warren shuffled some papers, then apologized. “I forgot. I thought he was going out to LA this afternoon, and I wanted to fly out with him. He actually canceled the trip, and I plum forgot.”

“You’re going to LA?” She sounded interested. “You and Sam going to ask for her father’s blessing?” Frank had told Karen about the engagement.

“No. Actually she’s staying here.” His voice sounded strained.

“Is everything all right?” Karen’s interest perked up.

“Yeah. She just didn’t feel like going. Why aren’t you working? Playing hooky?”

“No. I’m only working three days a week now. Frank wants me to quit after the wedding. He says he wants to ‘keep’ me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re not his first wife. You keep the job or you’ll just wind up fighting to keep him. Idle minds are the devil’s something or other. You know.”

“Oh, you don’t see me as the Suzy Homemaker type?” Karen said sarcastically.

“I don’t think that’s in the Mueller genes. You ladies need to apply those minds of yours. Making cookies in a lightbulb oven isn’t a life’s work, you know.” Warren laughed. “Larisa always said you wanted to be the next Albert Schweitzer.”

“Says you. How long you going to be gone? Want me and Frank to entertain your betrothed while you’re away?”

“Till Friday. Sure, if you feel like it.… Oops, I’ve gotta jump, duty calls.” He knew Karen understood how conversations on a trading floor were subject to instant cancellation if a customer called. He figured that Karen would tell Larisa that she’d spoken to Warren, and that he was going to California without Sam.

Before leaving, Warren briefed Kerry about everything he had going on and gave each of his accounts a call to let them know he’d be out for a few days. He wasn’t ready to leave until four thirty, and most of the business for the day was finished anyway. He got his coat and two-suiter from the closet and waved good-bye to Kerry. A car was waiting for him downstairs, and he tossed his bag on the seat.

“Newark, right?” The driver shot a quick look over his shoulder and pulled away from the curb.

Warren grunted and settled back in his seat. “You mind if I change my clothes back here?” The driver shrugged, and Warren quickly pulled a pair of black jeans and a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt out of his bag. He wrestled himself around for a while, waiting to change his pants until they were in the Lincoln Tunnel. By the time they arrived at the airport, he was casually dressed, with a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his suit was carefully stowed in the garment bag. He signed the voucher and hopped out of the car, rushing through the doors like all the other travelers trying to make their flights.

fifty-five

Sam had settled in with a couple of videos and a book on Renaissance art. Warren marveled at the thick, impenetrable volumes she read and teased that they were her equivalents of sleeping pills. He grabbed one from her once and quizzed her, amazed when she remembered almost every date, name, and detail.

“I could fill my mind with useless
garbage
, like you, or I can fill it with useless
knowledge
, like this,” she’d said, and gone back to reading.

From the window, in the evening light, the trees were just beginning to break their buds. It had been a warm day, and the chilly winter weekend in East Hampton seemed separated from the coming season by months, not days. She pushed the first cassette into the VCR and settled back in the bed. It was
Year of the Dragon,
with Mickey Rourke. Warren had recommended it, though he warned her it was pretty violent. She remembered that it had been panned by the critics, who all thought Michael Cimino, the director, was some kind of irredeemable war criminal for making
Heaven’s Gate
. She had actually liked
Heaven’s Gate
.

She enjoyed the film, and the gore didn’t bother her much. It was just the movies, and she’d seen how they faked it when she was working. Rourke had been good, and the action taut. She wandered into the kitchen for a beer and turned out the lights.

It was almost eleven o’clock, and Sam changed into a pair of Warren’s flannel pajamas before settling back in bed and reading for an hour. Before turning in, she picked up the phone and called her parents’ house, but the housekeeper told her they were out to dinner, so she brushed her teeth and buried herself under the covers in the dark room, the lights of the skyline throwing a pale shade across the wall, the clock on the MONY Building read 12:05.

*   *   *

The key turning in the lock of the service door barely made any sound at all. Certainly not enough to disturb anyone inside. It was almost three in the morning, and the city was sound asleep. The carpeting in the hall muffled the footsteps as a shadowy figure carefully made its way toward the half-closed bedroom door. In its right hand, a steel blade reflected the weak light that filtered in through the window as the intruder turned and quietly entered the bedroom. At the door, the figure stopped, scanning the room. Out of a pocket came a small plastic bag, which was silently opened and a finely shorn combination of hair and fiber cuttings shaken out on the carpet. This done, the figure slowly stepped toward the bed where Sam lay, her body under the comforter, and her head mostly covered by pillows, a habit to keep out any noise or disruption. The knife hand swung around, poised.

“Why don’t you put that thing down?” Warren’s voice came from behind, and the figure jerked in shock. He was standing in the open closet door, holding his steel tennis racquet in front of him like a shield.

Behind the ski mask, the killer’s eyes flashed around the room.

“I mean it. I’m pretty good with this thing.” He took a few short swings.

“Fuck you, Warren. Fuck you.” It was a woman’s voice and the tension went out of her body as she turned to face him.

“Come on, Larisa, don’t do anything stupid.” He took a half step back as she stood on the floor, the knife still in her hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid? Don’t do anything
stupid
? It’s too late for that.” She took a step toward him and spat out, “I am stupid. I did stupid things. For you. I did everything for you. You should be in fucking LA right now. You should let me take care of all this. I always have.”

“You didn’t do anything for me, Larisa. You did it all for yourself. Even Anna’s ski accident.” He held her off by brandishing the racquet again, and she pulled off the mask, her blond hair exploding over her shoulders in the half-light.

“Fuck Anna. She had everything handed to her. She shouldn’t have been skiing out of bounds anyway. All I did was point her the wrong way. You’re an asshole, Warren. You’re just like the rest of them. No better. Don’t kid yourself.” She still held the knife. “What are you going to do? You and your fucking tennis.”

“No. You’re going to put down the knife, and we’re going to get you a good doctor. Maybe in another country. We can both afford it. So you killed Billy and Anson. Who cares? They were useless sacks of shit anyway.” He backed up a little, and Larisa moved away from the bed toward him. “Come on. I’m on your side. I still love you. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

“I killed them for you. You have to know that. They were in the way. That pompous idiot Dougherty, he was already dead, he just didn’t know it. Inbred moron. You are so much smarter than him. And Anson? I only fucked him once to find out what he was going to do. He was trying to get you fired, you know. He would’ve too. But he liked me. He told me everything. In Dallas, that time. I stopped him. For you.” Her eyes were wild. “I didn’t even kill that bitch he was screwing when I smashed his fucking skull. But I should have. Fucking slut.” Larisa reached down with the knife and, the blade turned backward, slit the turtleneck shirt from the bottom to her throat. It hung open, showing her chest.