Kings of Providence

1

Monday morning dawned dull and rainy over Lower Manhattan. Rain slashed across Nassau Street, scattering newspapers and New Yorkers in a sopping, windblown flurry.

A swirling flow washed across the pavement. It sprayed out from under the tires of honking cars, then gathered in small eddies before rushing through sewer grates and pouring down concrete sluiceways, roaring to a thunderous pitch as it reached the end of the pipe. It cascaded down another twenty feet to converge with millions of gallons already flowing under the city.

The water formed a solid mass, pounding the sides of the reinforced concrete walls. At an aging seam below Platt Street a rivulet branched off and flowed north, leaching into the earth. Gravity snaked the stream left then right, seeking out the path of least resistance.

The rainwater carried the detritus of progress: carbon dioxide, methane, nitric and sulfuric acids. As it flowed, the caustic mixture eroded dirt and porous bedrock, carving the sides of the subterranean conduit a little wider with each gallon that poured through.

Past a Con Ed pipe, around a steam tunnel, straight down in a parallel course past the number two subway. A southbound car rattled past, sending vibrations through the earth that momentarily slowed the current.

Fifty feet below the surface the narrow crevice joined another. Together, they formed a solid stream of water that became a main artery, absorbing each smaller one it passed. At a hundred and twenty feet, the forces of erosion had opened the soil in yawning black spaces. The acidic flow cascaded into a small cavern, pooling around the northeast piers of an office building.

The supports below the corner of the building jutted into open space, suspended over the black water. They rested on nothing more substantial than cool, dark currents of air.

Imperceptibly, the building’s load had shifted to the remaining piers still anchored in solid bedrock. Thin cracks spidered along the concrete footings as the rebar torqued under the strain of the additional weight. The only sounds in the darkness were the groan of metal and the rhythmic tumble of water. A clump of earth fell away from the cavern’s ceiling and splashed into the pool below, sending ripples across the black surface of the water.

Subway cars rumbled overhead, carrying their passengers across the city.

* *

In his Long Island home, Paul Hewitt glanced out the kitchen window. The morning was overcast and rain pounded steadily against the glass. In spite of the rain it was going to be another scorcher. Nearly ninety-two degrees and only the first week of July.

He tucked his blue silk Brioni into his suit jacket and leaned over the table, careful to avoid the chocolate-swirled milk as he kissed the top of his son’s head.

Hey there, big guy. He slid into a chair next to the small figure in dinosaur pajamas. How’s Stan the Man this morning?

Rraaar. Five-year-old Tristan grimaced, showing a sugary mix of orange juice and cocoa-frosted cereal.

I’m a tronasaur.

Tronasaur Stan. That’s got possibilities. What happened to the stegosaurus?

That was yesterday.

Behind them, Allison Hewitt reached over and turned down the traffic report. Paul could feel the tension as she crossed the room and slid a glass of juice onto the table.

Paul, please don’t call him that. You know it drives me crazy. Tristan, finish your cereal. And it’s a tyrannosaurus, she corrected, wiping spilled milk from around the bowl.

Paul reached out and caught the ends of his wife’s long blond hair.

Hey, he said, where’s my kiss?

Allison leaned over and dabbed his mouth with a coffee-and-cinnamon-bun peck. It was a ten-year kiss, a husband and wife with the kids in the room kiss, but Paul pulled her close and touched his mouth to her neck, the tiny spot behind her ear that always drove her crazy. To his surprise, she pushed him away.

Don’t, she said. You’ll be late.

Puzzled, he watched her walk to the sink. She turned on the taps and started to fill the sink with soapy water. Worry flecked her green eyes as she studied him from across the room.

So, she said, today’s the day?

Paul nodded. So that was it.

Yep. But I already told you, everything’s fine. Barnes read the pre-nup and everything looks good. The merger’s already complete and everything’s in place. Now they’re just looking for a place to move their money.

I know. Allison frowned. It’s just that it’s a lot of money. And I know what kind of pressure they put you under.

Allie, listen . . .

Paul slid his phone and briefcase out of spilling range and crossed the room. You need to stop worrying so much, okay? It’s going to be fine. I’ve been playing ball with these boys for a long time. The only difference is, this time it’s hardball. And I’m not afraid to make the catch.

I know. She stopped the flow of water and turned to stare out through the rain, pondering the thin brown haze that signaled the distant Manhattan skyline. But I saw what happened to Harry. I don’t want that to happen to you. I don’t want to see my husband end up in the psych ward of some hospital, eating Xanax and watching reruns all day.

Paul reached out and pulled her close.

Hey, he said. One hand smoothed her hair as he spoke quietly. That’s not going to happen. Harry was an old man and he was used to doing things the old way. Investment is a tough game and you either keep up or get out. But this is my big break and it’s going to mean a lot more business if it goes well.

She turned to face him and for the first time he noticed the fine wrinkles beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. He smiled.

Don’t worry. Everything’s on the level. Barnes wouldn’t have it any other way.

She reached out to touch the slight tuft of gray at his temple.

I know, she said. It’s just that money isn’t everything.

Paul’s gaze followed the contours of the room. Custom cabinets, state-of-the-art stainless steel fridge and stove, gorgeous wife gazing up at him from under the fringe of her Fifth Avenue haircut.

Behind the counter, he slid both hands down and squeezed her ass.

Sure it isn’t. And we could always pack it in and move back to that godawful flat in Chelsea. No more spinning classes, no more spa suites.

That’s not fair. Allison frowned. We didn’t have to stay there. My parents would have helped.

Paul felt the familiar resentment creep into his voice but he made a conscious effort to keep things light. It was too early in the morning to rehash ancient history.

That’s not the point, Allison, and you know it. I wanted us to get here on our own.

All right. She pulled his hands away, one eye on Tristan slurping chocolate milk. You win. She lowered her voice. I like the money just as much as you do. But that doesn’t mean I want you working yourself to death over it.

But that’s just it, he said. I love this stuff. To me, it isn’t work.

The cell phone buzzed, Beethoven’s tinny Fifth vibrating against the table.

Hey, Dad—

I got it, pal. He gave her rump a pat. It’ll be okay. You’ll see. We’ll go out tonight and celebrate. You, me, and the big guy.

Yeah, well, not if he doesn’t finish his breakfast, she said. Come on Tristan, hurry up. Mommy’s got yoga at eight.

Tristan scooted down from the table and Paul swiped the phone’s screen. Hewitt.

He watched Allison clear the table.

Uh-huh. I know. That won’t be a problem. The guys from legal have been all over this one and all the i’s are dotted. He nodded. Okay. I’m on my way.

He grabbed his briefcase. I’ve gotta go. Fisher’s due at nine and Barnes wants to go over the fine print one more time. I’ll call you.

He kissed her cheek and ruffled Tristan’s fine blond hair. Be good for your mom and we’ll go for pizza tonight, okay buddy?

"Okay. Rroarr!"

Tronasaur Stan stomped bare feet down the hall.

Paul tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and slipped into the reassuring cocoon of the BMW. Imperial blue, light gray interior. He ran his hands over the soft leather then reached for the stick. Damn, he loved this car. After the last merger went down Barnes had suggested it was time for him to move up in the transportation department. Get something that looked a little more prestigious. Something his millionaire clients would feel good being taken to lunch in.

To Paul, that was as good as gold for a guarantee. Barnes liked him, the other partners liked him. The politics of being an up-and-comer were almost behind him and he had both feet firmly in the door of the old boys’ network. If they wanted to improve his image, that meant he was a keeper.

He smiled and revved the engine, backing out onto the tree-lined street. His Rolex beeped and he checked the time. Seven-thirty. He hit the gas and the tires thrust forward against the wet asphalt, flying over the road toward the gleaming god of the city.

2

Half an hour later Paul stepped out of an elevator onto the twenty-third floor of a building at Wall and Nassau. He slid past the reception desk of Serapis Investments, rapping his knuckles against solid oak.

Hey, Phyl. How was your weekend?

Good. Phyllis Schuyler tossed a bundle of mail toward him. Steve’s dad lent him the boat and we spent most of it on the sound. Yours?

Pretty good. Paul slipped a tablet out of his briefcase, powering it up as he spoke. The fourth isn’t until tomorrow but we already set off some fireworks for Tristan. He was so cranked he couldn’t wait. He swiped the tablet’s screen and scanned the front page of the Wall Street Journal.

Sounds like fun, Phyllis laughed. Tell him hi for me. Hey, how’s Allison doing these days?

Um . . . good. She’s fine. Paul checked the financial headlines. No corporate scandals, no hostile takeovers. The week was off to a good start.

What ever happened to those art classes she wanted to sign up for? Phyllis asked. Did she ever get that sorted out?

Paul swiped to open a stock tracker and slid a finger along the tiny rows. He switched to commodities, checking the morning gold price. Good, it was up two percentage points.

What? Oh. No, she didn’t.

Phyllis shook her head. That’s a shame. She could really accomplish something if she started exercising her mind as much as her body.

Paul grinned and raised an eyebrow. Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re in favor of that women’s lib stuff too.

Smartass. Phyllis wagged a finger at him. Allie’s a smart woman and you know it. Besides, when my degree’s finished, you’ll be sitting here answering my phones, mister.

Careful what you wish for, he laughed.

She waved him away. Go on, get out of here. Barnes is already looking for you. And tell Allison I said hi.

Will do. Paul tucked the tablet under his arm and swung through the double doors, enjoying the solid, successful thud of the heavy glass. Never mind the smell—money even sounded good.

Paul! Hey, Paul!

The muscles in Paul’s shoulders knotted and he walked faster. Damn. It was too early in the day for this. Before he could escape, Todd Barton caught up to him, a study in arrogance from the top of his head down to his fake Ferragamos. Paul had seen his type before. Twenty-two, new to the game, and trying to make his way up too fast.

Hey, how’s my man? Todd asked. Good weekend?

I’m not your man. Paul unlocked his office door. He circled the room, checking messages and flipping through mail. He slid the tablet onto his desk and dropped into his chair. And my weekend was good. Better than yours, he thought. He’d seen Todd’s girlfriend. Too much plastic, not enough personality. I’ve got a meeting at nine. What do you want?

Todd ignored the brush-off. I just wanted to play a little catch-up.

Paul frowned and punched the password into his laptop. On what?

The Andrus deal.

Paul’s fingers froze over the keys. He glanced up. We don’t discuss clients’ money with anyone not directly involved in the deal and you know it.

I know.

Another wave of tension rolled across Paul’s shoulders. The smug tone was new, even for Todd.

So?

So Barnes wants me in. Paul’s frown deepened as Todd continued. You know how it goes. He wants to get me started, get me primed for when the big stuff starts coming my way. He eyed the glass coffee table but stopped short of swinging his feet onto it.

Something close to disgust rose in Paul’s throat and he kept his eyes locked on the screen. He made a show of scanning his inbox but he could hear the edge in his voice.

And just what the hell do you know about the big stuff? he asked. The pressure, the million-dollar deals, the stress that threatened to split his head open with tension headaches. This asshole didn’t know a thing.

Todd stood up and circled the office. Enough to be sure I want it, he said.

He stopped and stared down at the morning Journal headlines on Paul’s tablet. Twelve Killed in Hong Kong Apartment Collapse. He tapped the screen and scrolled through the article.

See, this is the kind of crap I’m talking about. Bastards don’t even know how to put up buildings. People get killed, and for what? Bad workmanship, but what buys bad workmanship? No money, that’s what.

He turned to stare at the crowds flowing around and across the corner of Wall and Nassau twenty-three floors below. That’s not for me, Paul. I’m going first class and the Andrus deal’s just the beginning. You’ll see.

Yeah. I guess I will. Paul locked out the screen on his laptop. He wasn’t about to check client emails with Todd peering over his shoulder. Well, if you’re going to start playing the game there’s one thing you better learn.

What’s that?

Paul stood up and buttoned his jacket. Rule number one. Don’t keep the old man waiting.

Together they rode the elevator up four more floors. The executive suite was reserved for owner Jay Barnes and a handful of associates, old men past retirement who took care of a token number of clients. On the surface not exactly useful, but they knew where the bodies were buried.

Jay had started out young and broke but hadn’t stayed that way for long. The Depression had forged not only a small, malnourished body but a bitter soul who quickly learned how to squeeze a little bit of profit out of even less opportunity. At fifteen he’d been running messages for local loan sharks in his Chicago neighborhood. His twenties saw him move up in the ranks until he was running a small loan operation out the back door of his mother’s rented house.

But her Protestant sensibilities had instilled a reserve that abhorred violence, and no matter what the profit margin he never developed a taste for broken kneecaps.

When he’d made enough he got out and headed for New York’s financial district and the corporations that formed a new and thriving enterprise. At eighty he was a small, wizened man with a billion dollar fortune and a mind like a steel trap.

Paul stepped off the elevator, Italian marble echoing under his heels.

Listen, he said, why don’t you go ahead? He steered Todd toward the open door of the boardroom. I need to talk to Agnes for a minute.

Sure. Todd eyed him suspiciously but disappeared into the meeting room.

Behind the curved mahogany desk, a woman with a cropped gray afro sat under muted track lighting. She was fiftyish, elegant, and her understated outfit cost more than two of Paul’s suits together.

Jay didn’t want some college student handling his calls. Agnes was neither young nor beautiful but she made Homeland Security look indiscreet. Rumor had it Jay Barnes rewarded that discretion well.

Hi, Paul. She smiled and her deep voice was friendly. How’s the family?

Good. Yours?

Fine. Rule number two was almost as simple as rule number one: don’t get personal with Agnes.

Paul glanced toward the elevators. Have you seen Eli yet?

No. If anybody knew who came and went, it was Agnes. She glanced at her monitor. Relax. You’ve still got time.

I know. He tapped one foot. But this one’s high profile. She shot him an amused look and he laughed. Yeah, he said. I guess you already know that.

The elevator chimed and Eli Chang stepped out. He was short, no more than five-four, and young, with small wire-rimmed glasses. Young, Paul thought, but a hell of a lot more seasoned than Todd Barton.

Agnes gave an encouraging nod. Good luck in there, she said.

Paul didn’t answer as he hurried down the hall. He steered Eli away from the open boardroom door.

Where the hell have you been? he demanded. He maneuvered them into a private corner. Fisher’s due at nine.

Relax, Eli said. We’re all over this one. He glanced up. What gives? You don’t usually get this keyed up.

I know. Paul glanced toward the boardroom. What the hell’s this business with Barton? Why does Barnes want him in?

Eli grinned. So that’s it. Don’t worry, he’s not going to be a problem.

Maybe not, Paul said, but I don’t like it. He’s only been here six months and you and I both know he’ll move in as soon as he smells an opening. The guy’s a goddamn shark.

I told you, relax. Barnes has already had it up to here with him. The only reason he hired him is Barnes owed a favor to some old money in Atlanta. He’s moving Barton up just fast enough to let him fall.

Paul relaxed, checking his tie. Are you sure about that?

Dead sure. Eli glanced around. You know Liz down in accounting? Redhead? She was taking some checks in for signing and saw the email.

Paul’s eyes widened. Christ, that’s risky. Barnes would have her out of here in two seconds flat if he knew she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Besides, why would she tell you?

The elevator chimed again. Two suits from legal stepped out and moved in the opposite direction. Eli waited until they were gone. Because it seems that you and I aren’t the only ones that can’t stand Barton. Anyway, forget about him. Can’t keep the old guy waiting. Shit, hang on.

His phone vibrated and he checked the number then powered it off.

My mom’s called twice this morning already. She’s pretty upset.

From Taipei? Paul asked. What’s going on?

One of my aunts died yesterday. Great-aunt, actually. I never met her. She lived in Hong Kong.

Paul was only half listening as he did a last-minute check. Pen, backup pen, fresh paper. Client background in a manila folder. He slipped the file under his arm.

That’s too bad. Heart attack or something?

No, Eli said. They stopped at the entrance to the boardroom. It was the craziest thing. Her apartment building collapsed. Whole side of the building just sank into the ground.

A memory twitched at the corner of Paul’s thoughts. Twelve killed in Hong Kong. The Journal headline.

Oh. The elevator doors slid open behind them and he quickly changed the subject. Come on, we better get in there.

He took his place at the conference table and pulled out his phone. He powered it off then slipped it back into his pocket. Good thing Eli had reminded him to turn it off. The old man hated interruptions.

They worked their way around the table, reviewing their game plan and checking for loopholes. It was a big trade, with the promise of fallout business for the company’s real estate division. All the parties had their say but it was Jay Barnes that ruled the roost. He stood at the end of the table, pacing while he listened, nodding every once in a while.

Eli had the last say. The clock was ticking and the client was expecting to meet with them in less than ten minutes.

He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. Seventy percent stays local, fifteen goes offshore, and the rest is earmarked for development. The boys in real estate are taking a second meeting with them next week.

So what’s the bottom line? Todd asked. He was pushing it, trying to stay visible, but Paul relaxed. If Barton was already a thorn in the old man’s side it would be a pleasure to watch him bury himself.

The bottom line? Barnes punched a bony finger down the length of the room. The bottom line is, the Andrus Group has a lot of money and they want us to handle it for them. He glared around the table, taking them all in. And I don’t want anybody shitting the bed on this one.

3

Fifteen miles uptown, Allison shifted in a lineup and yawned. Tristan crouched beside her, running his toy cars up and over her purse. College students fidgeted in long straggling rows, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

Allison rubbed her aching forehead. She could have mailed her course application but she didn’t trust the bureaucratic bungling that seemed to be the way of the world these days. The only sure way to get anything done was to do it in person and she wasn’t leaving the campus until she had the stamped registration form in her hand. Once the arguments with Paul started, she wanted it to be too late to back out.

Tristan vroomed loudly and she winced. They’d all gone out to celebrate the pending Andrus deal last night and the big fat bonus that went with it. She’d had too much wine at dinner, and later, with Tristan tucked in behind his bedroom door, she and Paul had stayed up far too late having a little celebration of their own.

Guilt thickened her headache. Paul was excited at the prospect of another baby. She just hadn’t had the nerve yet to tell him there was no way it was going to happen.

You’re next.

What?

She turned around to find a scrawny young man carrying a medical textbook. He pointed.

You’re next, he said. Over there.

Oh. Thanks. She extended one hand to Tristan. Come on, honey.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped up to the counter.

Hi there.

Morning.

The girl behind the counter looked slightly weary as she gazed along the endless line of students shuffling papers and digging admission forms out of backpacks.

I’ve got it here somewhere. Allison’s hair fell over her face and she tossed it back as she dug through her purse.

Tristan tugged at the hem of her shorts. Hey, Mom. Look.

Not now, honey. I’m busy. Here it is. She slid the registration form across the counter. Hewitt. Cataloguing 201.

She waited while the girl scanned the papers.

Is this a fall course?

No. It’s the one-month concentrated. It runs during August.

At her feet, Tristan rolled his cars back and forth.

Hm. The girl chewed her lip as she studied the page. It says here that it’s booked next to the lower-level archive rooms.

That’s right. Allison frowned. Is there a problem?

The girl slid off her stool.

Wait here, she said.

She disappeared into a honeycomb of cubicles and Allison swore softly at the delay. As she shifted from one foot to the other, she felt a familiar dampness in her underpants. Great, just great. And of course she had to be wearing white.

Hey, Mom.

She looked down, following where Tristan pointed. Look, Mom. Worker men.

Mm-hm. She spared a quick glance at the plastic sandwich board. A stick figure in a hard hat warned people away from a flight of stairs. Tristan revved his cars, converting them into bulldozers.

The girl was back, hitching herself onto the stool.

I knew something was wrong. She picked up a pen and scratched the room information out. They’ve moved it to a different building. West campus, on the left when you enter the main parking lot. She stapled a map of the campus to the form. Right here—third floor off the main stairs.

Allison swiveled the paper around and studied it. Are you sure? I don’t want to end up in the wrong place.

I’m sure. The girl was already focused on her computer screen, punching information into the keyboard. The archives got closed down last week. They’re trying to get all the stuff moved out of there before classes start.

She hit the enter key. Five hundred and eighty-seven fifty. Cash or credit?

Credit. Allison dug for her wallet. What happened?

The girl took the gold card Allison offered. Don’t know. Structural damage or something. They don’t tell us anything. She swiped the card and printed the receipt. Sign here.

Allison collected her forms and stuffed them into her purse.

Great, thanks, she said.

She pulled Tristan away. She didn’t care if the whole goddamn roof fell in, as long as she was registered for the course.

In the family washroom, she flipped the change table down for Tristan. Play with your cars here for a minute, sweetie. Mommy’ll be right out.

She slipped into the stall and locked the door. She pulled a tampon out of her purse and peeled away the wrapper. She felt guilty somehow, as though Paul would know. She’d meant to tell him about going on the pill, wanted to actually, but he’d been so insistent on trying for another baby. Another perfect golden-haired child, maybe a girl this time. It would look good on the Christmas cards.

She pressed one eye to the stall door, checking on Tristan. He rumbled his cars along the pebbled brown plastic, engrossed in his make-believe race.

It was amazing how intensely she’d fallen in love with him, the mewling, red-faced thing they’d placed on her chest in the delivery room. She was fierce with the other mothers on the playground, the ones who let their kids run wild. A couple of times she’d even come close to a shoving match at the moms ‘n’ tots.

She flushed the toilet and zipped her shorts. Tristan was wonderful but the time just wasn’t right for another one. They could afford it, along with the house and the cars and the vacations. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was, every part of their lifestyle came from Paul’s money, a direct result of his career. Oh sure, she got a brief nod at the dinner parties when a wife or girlfriend would balance one of Tristan’s photos alongside her wine glass.

Oh, isn’t he darling. What’s his name? Tristan? Oh, that’s just darling. Frank, did you hear that? His name’s Tristan. What a darling name. You must be so proud.

Just once she wanted to hear how darling it was that she had something else to contribute to the conversation besides playgroups and spinning classes. She wanted someone to wave a Tiffanied hand across the dining room and say, Oh Frank, did you hear that? She’s in the art business. That must be so fascinating.

She dropped her purse on the counter, washed and rinsed her hands, then soaped Tristan’s. God only knew what kind of germs were crawling around on the change table’s surface.

Come on, pal. She hooked a paper towel around the bathroom door to leverage it open then tossed the paper into the wastebasket. Mommy’s got some more errands to run.

* *

Deep below the polished marble floors of Serapis Investments, Paul’s heels echoed through the concrete labyrinth of parking level D. Even at 8:30 p.m. before the Fourth of July, the parking garage was still half full. Money, investments, capitalism—there was no stopping it, not for time, tide, or even fireworks.

Twenty feet from the car the alarm system beeped and Paul heard the soft whoosh of the locks releasing. He didn’t miss a beat as he swung the door open, slid behind the wheel, and dropped his briefcase into the passenger seat. He slipped the key into the ignition and leaned back, letting the engine’s purr ease the stress out of his muscles.

Christ, it had been a long day. First that crap with Barton, then four and a half hours nitpicking the details of the contract with the Andrus bunch. It would have gone fine except for one of the new partners, a cautious rube from the west coast who was new to the investment game but who’d brought enough money on board that the senior partner, old Andrew Fisher himself, had welcomed him with open arms. Paul smiled, remembering the moment. He’d pulled out all the stops and proven once again why he was in the sweet spot, primed to move up, instead of some of the other guys his age. Eventually, when all the parties were satisfied, they’d signed and gone away happy.

After that there’d been the post-op meeting, then the usual avalanche of emails, phone calls, details for legal to double-check—

Damn.

Paul reached for his cell and punched the button to go to voice mail. He’d screwed up. Not a big one, but a screw-up nonetheless. Already the tension was creeping back into his shoulders. A client had left a message while he was busy with the Andrus deal. A very worried client, one who wanted to talk to Paul about a recent real estate decision they’d gotten him into. With everything else on his mind, Paul had forgotten to return the call. Or even to have Eli do it. The system clicked in and he entered his password. The computerized voice paused at each field.

You have – two – new messages and – one – saved message.

He skimmed through the new messages. Allison reminding him he’d promised to take Tristan out for pizza tonight, Eli following up on a detail Paul wanted to clarify. The system switched to his saved mailbox.

Paul, it’s Lewis Chan. Listen, I got some bad news today and I’d like you to call me back. That office complex you advised me to invest in, the one in South America. Well, they may know mining but it doesn’t look like they know shit about construction. It seems there’s not much left of it. And what is left is a pile of rubble sitting in a hole about twenty feet below ground. I want you to—well, just call me. Bye.

Paul replayed the message then scrolled through the list of callers. Good, Lewis’s number was still there. He checked his watch. Eight forty-five. Chan had left the message almost nine hours ago, and by now had probably gone from sounding a little worried to being very pissed off.

Paul’s thumb hovered over the call button but he paused, running through a mental checklist. Two million in gold, that was standard. Another million in a joint shipping venture, with the bulk of the money in mining. Real estate was only a small part of the portfolio and Paul struggled to remember where they’d made the investments. Vancouver mostly, plus a new office complex in Rio.

He switched to hands-free and threw the engine into reverse. He needed to do some damage control, and fast. Barnes was pleased with him—very pleased—but that didn’t mean he’d be any more generous about mistakes. Lewis Chan picked up on the third ring and Paul nosed the car through the switchback of concrete ramps and out onto Wall Street. It was going to be a long night.

* *

The one saving grace of spending the Fourth of July dealing with