anonymously sent to him in the San Diego case. He used an index finger to rip apart the seal. Reaching inside, he withdrew the contents.
A short cover letter read:
Dawson slammed the packet on his desk. He retrieved and fished through his files on Jackson Securities. Hadn’t he been told the investigation turned up no fingerprints? He was sure he had. Flipping pages, though, he found nothing in writing to confirm his vivid recollection.
“How the hell did I reach that understanding?” He drew a blank.
He phoned Angela, hoping she had an answer. After a brief exchange of soft endearments, she asked, “Do you have a problem, Oliver?”
“Yeah. Brain lock.” He then asked about the evidence from the lab. “Who informed us about the results, and when?”
“You were in San Diego. I relayed the information.”
“That’s right.” He shuddered at the memory of the cheap hotel room, the sleepless night, and the mission’s failure. “Where did you get your information?” He tried to contain his mounting wrath.
“Let’s see . . .”
Dawson stared at the FBI letter while he waited for Angela’s answer.
With what the lab had now concluded, he was certain it could identify who had contacted him, if he asked. “What a damn waste of time,” he whispered into the back of his hand, the one covering the mouthpiece.
“Did you say something?” Angela asked.
“Uh, no. Any recollections?”
“Yes. I got a call from Director Ackerman’s office.”
Dawson had known Donald Ackerman for ten years—before Ackerman became an SEC director. Their respect for each other stemmed from their equally strong commitment to their work. So why did Ackerman try to scuttle the investigation?
“Ackerman said the tests were negative?” he asked.
“Not the Director, his office. Maybe his assistant. Yes, I’m certain. Freeman Ranson notified us. I don’t think we received anything in writing, though.”
Dawson knew for damn sure nothing had been sent in writing. Writing left a trail. This way, Ranson could deny having said any such thing, or he could simply claim misunderstanding. Dawson’s dislike for the man quickly ballooned into hatred. Ranson had always been far too interested in matters that did not concern him. Prior to this latest outrage, Dawson had considered the director’s assistant merely a prying annoyance. Now, he had other suspicions. What did he know about the man? Thinking deeply, Dawson recalled that Ranson, before joining the SEC, had worked in compliance for an investment-banking firm. Was there a connection or a conflict of interest going on here? Dawson would give odds on it.
As a follow-up, the agent made a quick call to a friend in the SEC’s personnel department. Ranson, he discovered, had indeed worked for the investment bank Stratton Brothers prior to joining the Securities and Exchange Commission seven years ago. His educational and professional history suggested he had been a top-notch attorney, ambitious and connected. Now, Dawson wanted to know, what had possessed Ranson to leave a much higher paying job in the private sector for the SEC? It didn’t make sense.
That Freeman Ranson had come from Stratton Brothers represented another potentially disturbing piece to this puzzle, Dawson decided. Stratton was one of the two brokers in bed with Stenman Partners at the time of the Treasury manipulation investigation. And it was well-known that Stratton Brothers and Stenman Partners had a long-standing relationship—a relationship that predated Ranson’s leaving the investment bank. It was circumstantial, but Dawson’s instincts told him Ranson hadn’t been playing straight with him.
“Freeman-fucking-Ranson,” he said under his breath.
An hour later, Dawson convinced Director Ackerman to meet him in Dawson’s car, heading toward Silver Spring, Maryland. The director’s six-foot frame scrunched into Dawson’s undersized, unkempt Toyota. Director of Enforcement Donald Ackerman had slate eyes and the tan face ofan outdoorsman. Now fifty, he had achieved quick success at the SEC—a byproduct of his smarts and political savvy. Dawson believed him to be among the most competent people he knew.
“I like you, Dawson,” Ackerman said, “but this had better be good.”
“Sir, bear with me. As much as I hate to say it, you may have become an unwitting part in what I believe is massive securities fraud.”
Ackerman’s skepticism stretched his face. “You are on the thinnest of ice, Agent. Does this have to do with your dead-end investigation in San Diego—those two suicide crackpots who busted a brain-vein and went nuts? Tell me that’s not what you’re babbling about.”
“Not a suicide-murder, sir.”
“Good. What is it then?”
“I don’t believe Zerets committed suicide—I think someone, and I don’t know exactly how—set him up. These same people murdered Cannodine because of my investigation. And Drucker—”
“Oh my God, this
“No, sir.”
“This is insane. You can’t kidnap the head of SEC Enforcement.”
“Nearly fifteen years, sir—that’s how long I’ve knocked my head against a wall. Tried to enforce the laws with piss-ant results. This time, we’ve got some big fish dangling. Hear me out. Please.”
“You’ve got until we reach the Maryland border, then home. That’s fifteen minutes. Make it good.”
“I will. And thank you.”
“Don’t waste your time thanking me.”
Dawson lifted his foot off the accelerator, enough to cut ten miles per hour off his speed. Then, after laying out the coincidences, he asked, “Why didn’t you see the lab report indicating there
“We’re a huge agency and sometimes there are slipups. Shit happens.”
“This toilet’s stopped up and overflowing, and Ranson’s the one sitting on the pot.”
“In my book,” the Director said, “Freeman Ranson’s an exemplary employee. You have ten seconds to reconsider and withdraw your accusations.”
“No thank you, sir. I may be wrong, but I’m willing to go with my gut, and my gut tells me I’m on to something.”
“You willing to put your neck in the noose on this one? ’Cause that’s where it’s gonna be if you’re
