Black Market

company.”

“I'm real lucky in that respect-I don't have any money to lose. Why is it allowed to happen? What about the SEC?”

Carroll was already beginning to feel slightly incensed, though he'd never personally lost a dime on Wall Street. Stocks and bonds and securities had always seemed Olympian things to him, arcane matters in which other classes of people dabbled.

“It's fairly simple, really. As I said in the beginning, these kinds of stories are rarely told outside Wall Street.”

“I'm honored.”

“You should be… The Wall Street banks, the brokerage houses, investment bankers, even the computer companies-they know that the success of their marketplace depends on confidence and trust. If they prosecuted all the embezzlers, if they ever admitted how easy it was, how many stock certificates are actually stolen each year, they'd all be out of business. They'd have about the same reputation as used-car salesmen-which some of them ought to have… The point is, Wall Street is more afraid of bad publicity than of the actual thefts.”

Suddenly Caitlin was silent.

“Caitlin, will you forgive me? I'm so very sorry.”

Freddie Hotchkiss had finally arrived. It was one o'clock. He was forty-five minutes late for their business lunch.

Carroll looked up and saw a man with thinning blond hair and a ridiculous, innocent grin on his face. He had pale, water-blue eyes and a face as round and as expressionless as a pie tin. He would have looked eight years old if it hadn't been for the lines on his face.

What did they do down on Wall Street? Carroll wondered. Were there genetic laboratories dedicated to the preservation of the pure-blooded, uncontaminated WASP strain? All of them turning out plump little Freddie Hotchkisses?

Caitlin had told Carroll that Hotchkiss was becoming legendary on Wall Street. He was a very hot partner at his firm, a frequent emissary to both the West Coast and Europe -where he had extensive dealings with key European bankers as well as movie moguls.

“Truly sorry about the time.” Hotchkiss looked anything but sorry. “I completely lost track. Roughing it out in the pied-a-terre on Park since the trouble on Friday. Kim and the kids are staying down in Boca Raton, her mom and dad's place. Ah, what exquisite timing you have, sir.”

A Christ Cella waiter had spotted Hotchkiss arriving and had scurried to the table for the all-important drink order. Carroll stared at Hotchkiss. This was a type he wasn't comfortable with and didn't particularly like. Poor bastard had to rough it on Park Avenue. Carroll thought his heart would break.

“I'd like a Kir. Anyone for seconds?” Hotchkiss asked.

“I'll have another Sam Smith.” Carroll was trying to be good: no hard liquor, no neat shots of Irish. He was also trying not to say something impulsive, something that might lose him the advantage of surprise with Freddie Hotchkiss. It might be fun, he decided, to lean on this character.

“No, thank you, nothing for me,” Caitlin said.

“Freddie, this is Arch Carroll. Mr. Carroll is the head of the United States Antiterrorist Division. Out of the DIA.”

Freddie Hotchkiss beamed enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, I've read volumes about you specialized police folks. The sooner someone can bring a little order and reason to this whole unfortunate affair, the better, I say. I heard yesterday, or maybe I read it somewhere, that there is a Libyan hit team right here in New York. Actually residing in Manhattan.”

“I doubt it's the Libyans we're looking for,” Carroll remarked casually. His darker eyes held Hotchkiss's pale blue ones for an extra beat as he sipped his Sam Smith. He was going to attack.

He leaned forward, softly nudging a finger into Freddie's pale blue shirt, seeing a faint expression of surprise float across the man's puffy face. It amazed Carroll that such a face was capable of expression.

“I'd like to cut out the chitchat bullshit, okay? You're an hour late, and we're pressed for time. I have absolutely no personal interest in you, Freddie, you understand that? I don't think I like you, but that doesn't matter. I'm only interested in a man named Michel Chevron.”

“He's not one for small talk, Freddie.” Caitlin threw a quick glance at Carroll, and he thought it was the most intimate thing he'd experienced in years.

Freddie Hotchkiss, meanwhile, seemed to have stopped breathing. He looked down at Carroll's finger sticking in his chest. “I'm not sure… I don't think I understand. I mean, I've heard of Michel Chevron, of course.”

“Of course you have,” Carroll said.

“Tall, austere-looking French gentleman,” Caitlin intervened. “Plush Louis Quatorze offices on rue de Faubourg in Paris. Very affluent digs in the heart of Beverly Hills.”

She flipped open a leather-bound notebook.

“Let me see if I can jog your memory. Mm, oh, yes… on February nineteenth of last year, you visited Michel Chevron's Beverly Hills office. You stayed for approximately two hours. On March third, you visited the Los Angeles offices again. Also on July ninth, July eleventh, July twelfth. In October you visited Chevron's Paris office. You had dinner with Chevron that night at Lasserre. Remember? Can you place him yet?”

Freddie Hotchkiss had slowly begun clasping and unclasping his plump, hairless hands. The watery eyes were even more watery.

“We've known for over two years that Michel Chevron is the largest stolen securities and bond dealer in Europe and the Middle East. We also know he has a personal relationship with Francois Monserrat,” Caitlin continued. “We know a great deal about your own security-trading abilities as well. Right now we need to know exactly who else Chevron deals with, and we need a rough idea of the nature of these deals, a general feel for the Euro-Asian black market. That's why I thought we all should have lunch.” Caitlin Dillon smiled.

Right then, Freddie Hotchkiss found the strength to frown derisively. He began to snap back, to rally strongly.

“Really. You don't expect me to talk about private and absolutely legal business dealings here in this restaurant? You had better have all your subpoenas and your Justice Department lawyers ready, if you believe that will happen. I can assure you, it won't be done over lunch… Good afternoon, Caitlin, Mr., uh, Carroll.”

Arch Carroll sat up very straight. He leaned across the dining table and flicked his finger three times very hard against Freddie Hotchkiss's starched white shirt collar.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“Just sit tight now, okay? Just put your nice soft ass back down on the chair, Freddie. Try to relax. Okay?” Hotchkiss was so astonished, he obeyed.

In a soft voice, which to Carroll's ears sounded mildly seductive, Caitlin said, “February twenty-first-you deposited one hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars in Geneva, Switzerland. February twenty-sixth-you deposited another one hundred and fourteen thousand. April seventeenth-you deposited… is this a typo?… four hundred and sixty-two thousand? April twenty-fourth-thirty-one thousand. Small potatoes, that one…”

“What Caitlin has been politely trying to point out to you, Freddie, is that you are a second-rate thief!” Carroll leaned back and smiled at Hotchkiss, who now sat as expressionless as a ventriloquist's dummy.

Carroll raised his voice above the restaurant's usual buzz. “Poor Kim, the kiddies, wintering down in Boca Raton. They have no idea, I'll bet. Tennis pals at the club. The boys at the yacht club. They don't know, either… You ought to be in jail. You shouldn't be allowed to eat here, you're such a sad piece of shit.”

Other diners in the expensive restaurant had stopped eating. In a state that resembled a communal hypnotic trance, they stared across the room.

Carroll finally lowered his voice. He pointed toward a corner table where two men in dull gray suits were seated. “Those two guys? See them? They can't even afford to eat the nibbles here. See, they're sharing a three-dollar ginger ale. That's the FBI for you… Anyway, they're going to arrest you, right here and now… or, Fred, you're going to tell us a long and very convincing story about Michel Chevron. It's absolutely your move. And yes, it's going to happen right here in the restaurant.

“Then, in that second case I mentioned, you get to go home absolutely scot-free to the pied-a-terre on Park Avenue. No problems, 'cause then you're my main man, see.”

Arch Carroll dramatically crossed his two fingers. “We're tight, like that. Except, of course, you're the finger on the bottom.”

Freddie Hotchkiss slumped pathetically at the table. He hesitated, then slowly began to tell yet another Wall Street horror story

This one was about Monsieur Michel Chevron. It was a truly fascinating story of the most exclusive rat pack of thieves in the world. All of them very respected bankers, high-priced lawyers, successful stockbrokers. Every single one of them was in a position of absolute public trust.

Was this Green Band? Arch Carroll couldn't help wondering.

Was Green Band a powerful international cartel of the richest investment bankers and businessmen in the world? What would be their motivation?

Carroll finally signaled to the two FBI guys patiently waiting at the corner table.

“Read him his rights and arrest this guy now… Oh, and Freddie? I told a white lie about letting you go scot-free… Have your lawyer call my lawyer in the morning. Ciao.”

Mike Caruso was outside the restaurant when Arch Carroll finally appeared. Carroll's lieutenant, a devotee of summer who never embraced the winter season, was wearing a garish beach shirt beneath his overcoat. He beckoned to Carroll. Both policemen huddled at the far edge of the sidewalk.

“I just got a report on our friend Isabella Marqueza,” Caruso said. “Somebody murdered her in Bendel's. She was shot four times. At point-blank range,” he added in the offhand manner of someone immunized against murders. “It freaked out all the Christmas shoppers.”

“Yeah, I'm sure it would.” Carroll was silent a second. He tried to imagine Isabella Marqueza dead. “Somebody thought she talked too much. Somebody was keeping close tabs on her.”

Caruso nodded. “Somebody who knew all of her movements, Arch. Or yours.”

A ragged wind blew down East Forty-sixth Street, whipping discarded newspapers around. Carroll plunged his hands inside the pockets of his coat and stared at the cold, grim city surrounding him. He liked this investigation less and less.

He pointed to the doorway of Christ Cella. “Nice place to eat, Mickey. Next time you want to blow a couple of hundred on lunch.”

Caruso nodded. He tucked in a flap of his flowered shirt. “I already had a Sabrett.”