The Girl From Home: A Thriller (14 page)

*  *  *

Jonathan leaves his father and returns to the nurses' station. There's now a different nurse sitting behind the desk. She's a bit younger than Jonathan, in her late thirties. She's got a fleshy quality about her, although she's not exactly overweight.

“My father is William Caine,” Jonathan says. “He was brought down here a few hours ago.”

The nurse nods but doesn't smile. Jonathan assumes that ICU nurses don't get emotionally attached to patients or their families.

She pulls out a clipboard from a rack beside her. “He experienced a sudden drop in blood pressure. Stable now. The doctor was just here.”

“Can I talk to him?”

The nurse hesitates for a moment. “The doctor?
She's
on rounds at the moment. You can leave a message with her service.”

“When do you expect her to return?”

“Not until morning.”

“Can you tell me anything else about my father's condition? Any prognosis for when he might leave the ICU?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't. I'll leave word for Dr. Goldman that you'd like to speak to her.”

Jonathan thanks the nurse and pulls out his cell phone, only to have the nurse tell him that cell phone usage is strictly prohibited, while she points to a sign saying the same thing. Without protest, he walks out into the corridor and then calls his sister.

“The doctor won't be back until tomorrow and the nurses don't know anything,” he says. “I heard the word
stable
thrown around, but when I asked for more information, I was told I needed to talk to the doctor. And like I said, she won't be back until tomorrow morning.”

“How does he look?”

“He's hooked up to lots of monitors, but other than that, he looks like he's just sleeping.”

“Okay,” Amy says. “You need to promise me something, Johnny.”

The use of his nickname signals that she's about to ask for something that his first instinct would be to reject.

“What?”

“Stay with Daddy tonight.”

“Amy, he's in the ICU. There are nurses everywhere and there's . . . there's not even a decent chair in there.”

“Please, Johnny. I . . . I feel guilty enough not being up there. If it weren't for the fact that Kevin's away on business and there's no one to watch the kids, I would have gotten on the first plane up there and I wouldn't need to ask. I really don't want Dad to be alone.”

When their mother passed, Jonathan was at his trading desk. Amy had called earlier in the day and reported that the doctors believed the end was near, but Jonathan thought there would be more time.

Sometimes Jonathan thinks that's what they're going to inscribe on his own tombstone:
He always thought there'd be more time
.

“Okay,” he tells his sister. “I'll stay.”

T
he rain is hard enough that Jonathan decides to forgo his morning run, which allows him an extra hour of sleep. The downpour hasn't abated when he leaves for work, which means that getting a cab is going to be difficult, even at six thirty in the morning.

“Taxi, Mr. Caine?” Ruben, the doorman, asks.

“Yes, thank you,” Jonathan replies.

Ruben heads out into the storm. He uses a silver whistle as well as his hand to flag down oncoming cabs. After five or so minutes of standing in the rain, Ruben blows the three rapid-fire whistles indicating he's finally landed one.

Jonathan jogs out into the storm and wordlessly slaps ten dollars into Ruben's hand before grabbing for the cab's door. As he opens it, Jonathan hears a voice beside him.

“Going uptown?” asks a well-dressed man. Despite the fact he's holding a large umbrella, the stranger is still getting wet.

Jonathan hates sharing cabs. “I'm only going to Fifty-Ninth and Park,” he says.

“Then this must be my lucky day, because I'm heading there, too. Fifty-Seventh and Park, actually, so I won't even take you out of your way.”

“Okay . . . sure,” Jonathan says through a thin smile.

Jonathan scoots over to the far window, and the man slides into the back of the cab beside him. After he carefully shakes the excess water from his umbrella onto the cab floor, the man extends his hand to Jonathan.

“I'm Jeremy Woodrow,” he says.

Getting a better look, Jonathan realizes that his cab-mate is none other than the son of the real estate scion Archibald Woodrow, who owns more than half a dozen office buildings in Manhattan. Jonathan recalls recently reading a magazine article about how the family was now diversifying the family portfolio into other investments.

Jonathan can't believe his luck. It's as if God himself has sent an angel from heaven. The Woodrows could drop a few hundred million into the fund without batting an eye.

“Jonathan Caine,” he replies with a grin, pumping his new best friend's hand.

Jonathan bides his time waiting for Jeremy to ask what he does for a living, but that question doesn't come. Instead the taxi rolls along, making nearly every light until the red signal stops them at Forty-Second Street.

Jonathan figures that it's now or never. “What line of work are you in, Jeremy?”

“Real estate.”

“Interesting. I work with a lot of people in that space. I head up the currency derivative desk at Harper Sawyer.”

Jeremy Woodrow nods. Jonathan is hoping that he'll express greater interest than that, but he remains silent as the cab begins to move forward again.

At Fifty-Sixth Street, the light goes against them. Jeremy Woodrow calls to the driver. “I'll get out here. That way you don't even have to stop just for me.”

The building directly across the intersection is one Jonathan's passed a million times. Above the doors is the Woodrow name in large gold letters.

Jeremy Woodrow pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, even though the meter only says seven dollars. Jonathan waves away the gesture.

“No, no. My pleasure, Jeremy.”

“Oh. Okay. Well . . . thank you so much for the ride, Jonathan. Call my office and maybe we can get lunch sometime.”

*  *  *

Jonathan enters the Harper Sawyer trading floor with an extra spring in his step. In Jonathan's world, the only reason men have lunch is to discuss terms of a business transaction. That means that Jonathan's first and only order of business this morning is to learn everything he can about the Woodrow empire, with an eye toward how large an investment he might be able to pry out of Jeremy Woodrow.

He types his password into the computer. Instead of his normal screen displaying the current trading prices of various world currencies, he sees the message
See Tech Desk
.

Jonathan's stomach clenches. It's not that he's never seen this message before. Once or twice a year, there's some snafu when passwords have to be changed and this type of thing happens.

You're just being paranoid
, he tells himself. He's in the midst of a hot streak—Ross has been fully redeemed, the crisis in Russia was short-lived, and the ruble is now rising steadily, winning back most of the losses previously suffered. The chance meeting with Jeremy Woodrow only confirms that Jonathan is once again in control of his own destiny. It can't be over now. It just can't.

He picks up the phone, but it isn't the tech desk he calls.

“Were you able to log in?” he asks Haresh.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I got a message that I should contact the tech desk.”

Haresh sighs. In that breath, Jonathan's worst fears are confirmed. It's over for him. Harper Sawyer knows.

“I'm sure it's just a password thing,” Haresh finally says.

Jonathan has always known Haresh to be a lousy liar. For the first time, he sees that as bad news. Haresh won't be able to convincingly tell Harper Sawyer anything but the truth. In fact, he probably has already told them everything.

“Yeah, that's what I figured, too,” Jonathan says, knowing his own lie sounded more convincing. “I'll call them right now.”

He doesn't have an opportunity to call anyone, though. His other line is ringing before he puts down the phone.

“Jonathan Caine,” he says.

“Mr. Caine, this is Joy Brown, in Vincent Komaroff's office. Mr. Komaroff would like you to come immediately to the forty-seventh floor to meet with him.”

“What's this about?” Jonathan asks, knowing he won't get an answer.

“I honestly don't know, Mr. Caine. Mr. Komaroff just asked me to call you. They're waiting for you.”

They?
Komaroff has called in others for this. That's got to mean lawyers. Or worse, cops.

Jonathan's trying to think of something to say, but there's only one response that's acceptable when the CEO summons you. After a few seconds, he provides the expected answer.

“I'll be right up.”

Before leaving the trading floor for what he knows will be the last time, Jonathan takes a moment to survey his soon-to-be former kingdom. It's no different than any other Monday morning. The traders are screaming into their phones, the runners are scurrying about, the lights on the big board are flashing.

Jonathan had dedicated his life to the numbers on that board. When they went in his favor, he felt invincible. A god. And when they moved against him, he became a gladiator, ready to take up the fight to regain his standing.

What will he be now without any of it? Will he even be himself anymore? He thinks not. He'll be nothing. A nobody.

He briefly considers making some type of valedictory statement, or even just saying good-bye to Haresh. He knows better, however. Anything he'd say now would later be used to incriminate him.

As he walks off the trading floor, Jonathan considers the fact that the next time he'll see any of these people will likely be from across a courtroom.

*  *  *

Even though he was expecting it, Jonathan is still taken aback when he steps off the elevator to see Harper Sawyer security. Four of them, to be exact. Big men wearing rent-a-cop uniforms. At least Jonathan doesn't see any firearms.

But then he realizes that their presence is actually a good thing. Building security, at least, can't arrest him.

Vincent Komaroff's assistant, the woefully misnamed Joy, is a woman in her fifties whom Jonathan has never seen smile. She stands in front of the wall of security men; her job is to escort Jonathan back to Komaroff's office. Joy doesn't say anything aside from “Follow me, please,” and they walk silently in what Jonathan feels is a death march.

Inside the chairman's office, it's a full house. Attending the party is Komaroff and Fran Lawrence, as well as Harper Sawyer's general counsel, Calvin Caldwell, and three other men, none of whom Jonathan recognizes. The oldest of the three might as well have a tattoo on his forehead that says
outside counsel
—gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, three-piece suit, high-shine, cap-toe shoes, the works.

They are all seated—the lawyers grouped together on the sofa, and Komaroff and Lawrence in chairs on either side. An empty chair is opposite them. There's little doubt from the configuration of the furniture that Jonathan is the enemy here.

“Have a seat, Jonathan,” Komaroff says. “You know Calvin, the firm's general counsel. And I've asked Benjamin Ethan to join us today. He's with Taylor Beckett, and represents us in various regulatory matters. As you might have surmised, we have something of a problem here.”

So that's the older one's name, Benjamin Ethan. Jonathan's heard of him. A big gun. This is CYA time for Harper Sawyer.

Jonathan doesn't say a word. Not even hello. No handshakes are offered. Just the empty chair, which Jonathan reluctantly places himself in. Then he waits for the guillotine to drop.

Benjamin Ethan has apparently been charged with running the meeting. “Mr. Caine, we know that back in June, Michael Ross at Maeve Grant sent in a redemption notice seeking the immediate withdrawal of over seven hundred million dollars,” he says.

Ethan comes to a full stop. He and Jonathan stare at each other. Jonathan is determined not to be the one who blinks first.

“That's . . . correct, isn't it?” Ethan asks.

Jonathan knows that saying nothing is the smartest move. On the cop shows, only idiots try to talk their way out when they're guilty. Then again, he figures that there can't be much harm in admitting to what they already know.

“Yes. Mr. Ross redeemed in June. The redemption was not immediate, however. It was pursuant to the terms in the docs. There's paperwork on that.”

“How'd you cash him out?” Ethan asks.

“There's paperwork on that, too,” Jonathan answers flatly, this time looking at Vincent Komaroff.

Fran Lawrence takes up the mantle. He normally plays the heavy in these situations.

“You need to adjust your attitude, Jonathan. You'd do yourself a lot of good if you understood the seriousness of your predicament and cooperated with us.”

Cooperating is the farthest thought from Jonathan's mind. He knows it won't do any good. He's already fired; they just haven't told him yet.

“Compliance never said a word to me that anything was off,” Jonathan says. “What's the problem?”

“Compliance,” Lawrence snorts. “Compliance will be dealt with, too, I promise you that. But this is about you. I'll give credit where credit is due. You almost pulled it off. Bad luck about Alexeyev, though. Even someone as deceptive as you couldn't cover up a loss of that magnitude.”

“I'm sorry, I still don't understand,” Jonathan says, managing to maintain his poker face. “The fund is down a bit, but not materially so. And like you said, Alexeyev's death was a real market mover.”

“Fuck you, Caine!” Lawrence barks. “You could have single-handedly bankrupted a company that's been in existence for five generations!”