Man in the Middle

“Yes. Of course. This has nothing . . . It’s just a good thing that . . .”

“Good thing what?”

“A good thing you no longer work for me.”

“I agree, though I suspect you have a new reason.”

“You’re smart, Angie. I need you to be my conduit to Ackerman. Now that this case is heating up, he needs to be updated. We’ll pretend you’re contacting him on behalf of your new boss, Jonathan Tinker. You and I can then meet once a week. You pass on instructions from the Director. I’ll give you an update from my end.”

Angela’s eyebrows looked as if they might slide from her face. “We’ll meet once a week? We see each other every day.”

Oliver looked down at their hands. He intertwined his fingers with hers. “This is important. People are dead. I’m certain Ranson will be monitoring my activities. He must know by now that I received the report from the FBI. Hopefully he doesn’t suspect I put two and two together and fingered him as the asshole who misrepresented the lab findings. I don’t think anyone in San Diego knows I contacted Neil.”

“This is a long-winded explanation for something. Spit it out, Oliver.”

“We can’t see each other until this is over. Nobody in the office knows for sure about our relationship. If you are to be my back-door to Ackerman, and you’re to stay safe, you must stay away from me most of the time.”

“No!” she said. “Drop the case. That’s asking too much.”

“Please. Here.” Dawson reached into his pocket, removing an item he smothered in his balled fist. “I want to ask you something, Angie.” He got down on one knee, then took her left hand in his. “Will you marry me?”

Inside his now opened hand, he held out an engagement ring.

Angela gasped. Her hand shook as she reached for the diamond, but said nothing. Dawson listened for what seemed a silent eternity. Finally her tender sobs drew his gaze from his shoelaces to her face. Her head bounced up and down, causing her glasses to slide along the bridge of her nose.

“That means yes? Right?” Dawson asked, biting at a snip of air.

“Yes. But this is one heck of a way to get me to agree to do what you ask.”

“Thank you . . . Darling.” The endearment sounded new and strange. “Only one other thing,” he continued.

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Uh, I don’t know quite how to say this . . .”

“What?”

“Well, until this matter is settled . . .”

“Yes?” Angela slipped the ring over her finger.

“Until we are no longer an undercover team, you can’t wear the ring or tell anyone we’re engaged.”

“You have got to be joking.”

“Ranson finds out you and I are—”

“I get it, Oliver. All I have to say is, you better get this case cracked and send the bad guys to jail, soon. Real soon.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 PETER DIDN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND WHY HE HADN’T MENTIONED HIS Dawson run-in to Ayers or anyone at Stenman Partners. It wasn’t as if he believed any of the ridiculous accusations tossed around by the agent. And he hoped nothing more would happen if he ignored the whole episode. As it turned out, his anxiety over Dawson’s visit did begin to subside. To placate himself, Peter even phoned Dawson’s D.C. number. When the agent picked up, Peter disconnected, relieved that his tormentor no longer haunted Southern California.

Despite the unpleasantness at Sammy’s Restaurant, Peter passionately loved his job, especially the daily adrenaline rush. That everyone measured their worth by the money they made put them all on an equal footing. Make it or fail. Period. He also appreciated the fact that everyone minded their own business and kept their activities a well-guarded secret. The most successful people on Wall Street had built their personal dynasties on this simple formula. One day he might be placed on one of the pedestals reserved for Wall Street’s legends, if only he stayed the course. And I will, he silently swore to God, stay the course.

Things progressed uneventfully until the end of October. On a Saturday, Peter stumbled onto an opportunity. He decided to buy a personal computer. He went to three separate stores, only to discover PC’s to be in short supply. His frustration sparked a trading idea.

Arriving at the Stenman offices on Monday, he began to work the phones. He made calls to a number of PC manufacturers, assessing inventory levels and accounts payable and receivable. He confirmed that sales had very recently exploded. This revelation flew in the face of dire headlines and a severe price decline in computer makers’ stocks. By midday, he felt confident. He ran his idea by Stuart.

“Just a few weeks ago, PC manufacturers pre-announced lousy earnings for this quarter. Their inventories grew bloated when retailers began returning units right and left. These companies initiated discounts, and planned to reserve against unsold product—most earnings estimates had these companies losing money over the next four or five quarters.”

“I read the papers,” Stuart said, “and it’s a ten-hankie story. What’s your point?”

“These guys went ahead and lowered prices,” Peter answered. “At first, ten percent. Sales went up, but not much. Then they lowered prices another ten percent. Guess what happened?”

“They lost enough money that half of them are going out of business by year-end?”

“That’s what I thought, until I tried to buy a PC this weekend. They hit a price point where elasticity of demand was huge.”

“Elasticity of demand? You read too many fucking books, dude.”

“I’m saying sales went through the roof. Inventories are down—way down. Ergo: no write-offs as previously announced. Soon, as early as next week, we’re going to get an about-face on those profit warnings.”

“No way, Peter. In fact, Howard has a huge short position in these stocks and he’s tight with someone at Guerren, Clark in San Francisco. Between you and me—and I mean only you and me—his contact’s head of Corporate Finance. The guy’s information is perfect ’cause Guerren, Clark underwrites half these companies’ stock deals. If what you say is true, Howie-Boy would know.”

“Maybe not,” Peter said. “None of these companies is contemplating selling stock to the public—not with their share price in the shit-can.”

“That’s true,” Stuart conceded.

“That means corporate finance business is at a standstill. Muller’s guy might not be up-to-date—when there’s no business pending, these guys are lazy assholes—you’re the one who told me that.”

“If I said so, it’s true.” Stuart leaned back and chomped on a stick of gum at a hundred miles an hour.

“Also, this is a rapid turnaround,” Peter continued. “That last price cut was recent. The stock-out’s recent. I called several CFOs. They confirmed inventories are historically low. And as they sell add-ons to all the computers moved in the last few weeks, the current Street estimates for next year will also go up. These shares are going to double—no, when this news hits the marketplace, they’ll triple in price.”

“You sure, Petey? If you’re right, Howard’s going to get his ass handed him. He’s not used to losing money, and not even heaven’s gonna save the guy at Guerren, Clark.”

“I’m certain,” Peter said, his body coursing with excitement.

“You gotta run this by Muller. He’s got a position, and you can’t go long the group while he’s short stock.”

“Do I call him?” Peter asked.

“He’s not going to be a happy camper, dude. You better go knock on his door. Say something nice about Robert E. Lee to cut the ice . . .” Stuart grinned.

“Why are you smiling?”

“No reason. Go.” The smirk grew.