and Ayers or Stenman Partners? Or was she just a casual pickup?”
“I asked for I. D.”
The man reached into his shirt pocket and produced identification. He cupped the tag in his palm, shielding it from any other eyes.
“Okay. Assuming your identification is real and you didn’t make it at Kinko’s, since when does the SEC do business in barrooms? Am I under some kind of investigation?”
“Look over my shoulder. Is silky thighs still staring at you?”
Peter looked, but didn’t answer the question. “I asked if I’m under some kind of investigation? I assume this isn’t normal operating procedure.”
“No. You’re not under investigation.”
“Good. Then how about enlightening me as to what this is all about.”
“My interest in you was prompted by your mother.”
“My mother’s dead.”
“You know Sammy’s Restaurant? A half mile down the beach?”
Peter’s expression indicated he did.
“I understand you ran track in college,” Dawson said.
“You have a point?”
“After I split, order another drink. Make it look like you’re camped here for the night. Go to the men’s room. Use the back exit, but don’t let anyone see you. Take your athlete’s legs south on the railroad track path to Sammy’s—nobody’ll be able to follow you.”
“You bring up my mother and then expect me to follow—”
“If anyone asks”—Dawson spoke so quietly that Peter had difficulty hearing him—“you tell ’em you told me to shove it. Here. Take these insurance brochures. Tell ’em I was a salesman who recognized you from a previous pitch.”
Peter pushed the life insurance materials away.
“I’ll wait at Sammy’s for an hour,” Dawson said
The agent left, shaking his head, playing the part of a scorned salesman. On the way out, he handed several strangers insurance brochures.
Raising a hand, Peter caught the attention of the waitress. When she came, he said, “Another round, please. And by the way, I’ve got to hit the head and make a call. Hold my table. I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes. Here. Take my Gold Card. Run a tab. See the cute blond over by the bar?”
“Sure do, sweetie,” the waitress said with a wink. “She’s been ogling you, hasn’t she?” The waitress also ogled.
“Yeah. Chill a bottle of DP. In a couple of minutes, pop the cork and tell her I had to go to the head and make a call, but pour her some of the bubbly and ask her to wait.”
Peter handed the waitress a twenty. “Thanks,” they said in unison.
He shuffled to the restroom, found the rear exit, and constructed a timetable for completing his next annoying task. A mid four-minute miler in college, he figured he could run the half-mile to Sammy’s in under three minutes, even in Top Siders. With the cool air, he might not even work up a sweat. Allowing for five minutes to find out what Dawson wanted, three minutes back, and a few minutes slippage time, he’d be sipping champagne with Katrina— Kat—in fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. Not too long for a piss and a phone call.
A minute later, Peter felt the uneven gravel under his pounding feet. He knew pace, and this was just as he predicted: roughly a six-minute mile. He could do better, but at night, with a railroad track flanking his right side, and the festering thought that this was insane, he remained content to cruise.
Peter had last been to Sammy’s with Kate Ayers. Spotting the restaurant lights, he thought about what had happened between them these last few months. Since she left in July, things had degenerated, and he blamed himself. They spoke every so often at first. But then Kate had invited him up to LA to attend a party, and he claimed that work kept him too busy to travel. Why, he asked himself, did he have such a hard time dealing with serious feelings? Countless times he had decided to call, invite her to visit, talk things over, but each time he failed to follow through. No wonder she quit taking the initiative.
At the edge of Sammy’s parking lot, he committed to making contact with her, tomorrow. He’d go see her. They’d go back to being friends, maybe more.
Catching his breath as he passed parked cars, Peter did a quick survey of the area. The valets milled around and joked with one another, having little else to occupy their time. With a picture window fronting three miles of beach, Sammy’s did gangbuster tourist business in the summer months, but not much in the off-season. This time of year, the bar and restaurant had only locals as patrons, and not many of them at that. Across the darkened bar, Peter spotted Dawson, perched at a rear table, sipping a Coke, and showing no surprise that Peter had arrived so soon.
Peter wove his way through the tables, looking side to side, making certain nobody recognized him. When he got to Dawson’s table, he said, “I only came because you’re SEC. Since you already said I wasn’t under any kind of investigation, how about we cut through the bull and you get to your point? I’d like to go back to enjoying my weekend.”
“Mr. Neil, my full name is Oliver Dawson. Have you heard of me?”
“Dawson?” As Peter said the name out loud, a memory began to assemble. “Agent Dawson. Yeah. You’re the one who tried to nail Stenman over her T-bond trades.”
“That’s right. I tried and unfortunately failed.”
“If you’re here about that Treasury investigation, I wasn’t even employed at Stenman back then. But I’ve been briefed about it, and told not to say anything to you or your department without an attorney being present.”
“What do you know about the T-auction?” Dawson asked.
“I know your case got tossed because it had no merit.” Peter immediately regretted saying anything.
“No merit? Let me educate you, Mr. Neil.”
“No thanks. Is there anything else of relevance? If so, I suggest you contact Jason Ayers at Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers.”
“This is not about the damn Treasury case,” the agent said. “Sit down and listen. Your life may depend on it.”
“My life? Give me a break.” Despite his skepticism, Peter leaned forward.
“Since you brought it up, let’s start with the Treasury situation. Stenman and her CIO, Howard Muller—in league with several New York investment banks and other scumbag hedge funds—cornered an auction. They squeezed the shorts working an arbitrage against the futures market. You understand how that works?”
“More or less,” Peter said. “But so what? Those are the risks—”
“Not if there is manipulation, collusion, failure to make appropriate regulatory disclosure.”
“I don’t know anything about any of that.” And, Peter thought, I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.
Dawson ignored Peter’s remark. “We had a case against Stenman until two things got in our way. One: the SEC didn’t want to disgrace two of the most powerful investment banking firms in New York that had participated with Stenman. They were afraid a scandal of this magnitude might disrupt the markets. Or maybe some powerful people pulled some political strings. Or maybe both. Two: everybody and their brother refused to cooperate. Documents couldn’t be found. Phone tapes were garbled. Kind of like the Nixon Watergate situation.”
“And your own department forced you to drop the case,” Peter said. “That’s pretty much the end of that story. Unless you have something more interesting to tell me, I need to get back before I’m missed.”
“If you’re not worried, then why the need to rush back?”
Peter did a double-take. He
“Even if you won’t admit it to me, you’ve seen enough in your job to know things.”
“Don’t tell me what I do or do not know. I have no interest in making an enemy of you, but I cannot—will
