The October List Read online

  "It'll be close," Daniel shouted. They both glanced to their right at the crude carrier, then ahead to the buoy, which was three hundred yards away.

  Then two hundred.

  One...

  "Close!" Daniel repeated in a ragged shout. "It'll be close. I can stop. You want me to stop?"

  Her heart pounding, a primitive drum, electrified by the speed, by the looming nearness of the massive vessel, by the presence of the man at the wheel, inches from her, Gabriela leaned closer and put her head against his. "Win," she whispered. "I want you to win."

  CHAPTER 5

  5:00 P.M., FRIDAY

  1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES EARLIER

  LIMONCELLO'S WAS NOT BUSY.

  Perhaps it would be, probably would, since the restaurant was in the heart of Wall Street and it was Friday. And the place overlooked picturesque New York Harbor, offering a view of boats and endless waves, rising and falling like a metronome. This was just the spot for traders and brokers, who'd toyed with millions of other people's dollars in the last eight hours, to celebrate their good decisions, to forget the bad.

  But now, late afternoon, the bar was half empty. Those business folks who'd arrive later were still at their desks or writing up tickets on the floors of the closed exchanges or at health clubs and on jogs through Battery Park.

  Here particularly, near the water, you could smell autumn in the air.

  Gabriela wove through the brass-and oak-accented room, returning from the toilet to the tall chair at the bar, which she'd occupied for the past half hour. She slipped her black-and-white-checked jacket off, hung it over the back of the stool. A white silk blouse was tucked primly into a knee-length pleated gray skirt. She wore black hose and mottled burgundy-and-black high heels; she would change into her black flats--her walking-to-work shoes--later; that comfy pair were on the floor, in the faded Tiffany bag she used for footwear transport.

  She resumed editing the documents she'd been poring over since she'd arrived. The top one was headed Open Items for Accountant. Several entries she crossed through completely. Others she marked with precise asterisks, each line of the sunburst an equal length. Beneath these were a half-dozen sheets headed with the names of companies and below that Balance Sheet and P & L. There wasn't a single sheet that listed assets below $250 million. Another said, CP Personal Accounts.

  She then turned to another contract, headed Short-term Commercial Lease. But there was nothing brief about the contents. Twenty pages of dense type. She sighed and started through it once more, pausing once to note herself in the mirror. Her hair was pulled back severely and pinned, which made the auburn shade lighter, for some reason.

  She edited some then looked out the tall windows, sipped wine and caught a glimpse of City Pier A. The structure wasn't as large as other piers farther north, in Greenwich Village and in Midtown, but this one had more history. The Professor had been particularly interested in the sagas of Downtown Manhattan and would spend hours reeling off stories to her. Built in the 1880s for the Department of Docks and the Harbor Police, Pier A had been witness to the relentless expansion of the city. She noted the seven-story clock tower, which had been built in 1919. The elaborate timepiece was a memorial to the U.S. soldiers killed in the First World War. This was particularly poignant considering that the original pier had been built by the son of a famous Union general in the Civil War.

  She could listen to the Professor for hours.

  As Gabriela returned to the lease, the man beside her set his drink down and continued to speak into his mobile phone.

  Gabriela stiffened and blurted, "Oh. Hey." When he didn't respond she spoke more forcefully. "Excuse me."

  He finally realized that he was the object of the comment. He turned, frowning.

  She was displaying her sleeve, which was stained brown. "Look."

  His square handsome face, eerily resembling that of a well-known actor, beneath close-cropped black hair, studied the sleeve and then her face. His eyes followed hers to his glass of scotch. His brows rose. "Oh, hell." Into the phone, "I'll call you back, Andrew." He disconnected. "Did I do that? I'm sorry."

  Gabriela said, "When you put your glass down, yeah. Just now. On the phone, you were talking, and you turned. It spilled."

  "Sorry," he repeated. It sounded genuine, not defensive.

  His eyes migrated from the stain to her white blouse, all of the blouse, beneath which a trace of bra was visible. It was pale blue. Then his gaze settled back on the stain. "Silk?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "I know what to do," he explained. And took charge, summoning the bartender, a young man who seemed to be covering tats on his neck with makeup; this was a Wall Street, not an East Village, bar.

  "Soda water and a towel, no, not the green one. The white one. The white towel. And salt."

  "Salt?"

  "Salt."

  The remedies arrived. He didn't apply the water and seasoning himself but let her do it. She'd heard the trick too--from her mother, as he had from his grandmother, he told her.

  "Careful with the salt," he said. "I don't know how well it works on silk. You might hurt the cloth if you rub too hard."

  The magic trick did a pretty good job. Just the faintest discoloration remained.

  She examined him with eyes beneath furrowed brows, then: "Why don't you drink Martinis like everybody else here?"

  "I don't like Martinis. I'd probably have a strawberry Cosmo, and if that was the case, the stain would never come out. I'll pay for the cleaning."

  "If I were a man would you make that offer?"

  "I don't make any offers to a man wearing a silk blouse."

  She kept a straight face for a moment then laughed. "No, thanks. It'd have to go to the laundry anyway."

  "Well, I apologize again."

  She lifted her palms. "Accepted."

  With detente achieved, she returned to the lease and he to his mobile. But when the last page of the document was marked up and when his call disconnected, the silence prodded them to glance toward each other--in the mirror at first--and conversation resumed.

  "I'm sending you back home stinking of whisky. What's your husband going to say?"

  "He probably won't find out. Since he lives thirty miles away from me."

  "Ah, you're in that club too. I'm Daniel Reardon."

  "Gabriela McKenzie."

  They shook hands.

  Conversation meandered for a bit, both of them testing the waters, and then found true north, which included the question you can never avoid in New York: What do you do for a living?

  Daniel worked as a venture capitalist, private equity, he told her. "The Norwalk Fund." He nodded. "We're a few blocks from here. On Broad."

  Gabriela glanced at the documents. "I'm office manager for a financial adviser. Prescott Investments."

  "Don't think I know them." He glanced down at the documents before her, then away quickly, as if looking at confidential client details was tantamount to glancing through an inadvertently left-open bathroom door.

  "It's a small outfit. Charles was with Merrill years ago but opened his own shop. He's a lot happier."

  "Your office is near here?"

  "No, Midtown, east. Turtle Bay." She sighed. "My boss--he's a great guy, but he dumped this in my lap this morning. He wants to lease a warehouse on Bankers' Square--near Wall Street--and the deal fell through. I got elected to check out some new space... and go over a forty-page lease. We need to sign it up in two weeks."

  "Two weeks?"

  "Yep. And you know Bankers' Square? It took hours even to get inside and look the place over. All that construction."

  "Oh, the new stock market annex. Supposed to be finished by now."

  "Anyway, I came here to jot some notes and unwind."

  "And get a drink spilled on you."

  "It sounded like you were working too, a business call." She nodded at the two mobiles that sat in front of him. An iPhone and a Motorola Droid.

  "I was doing a project
with a partnership in Aruba. It just closed today. I've been banging out the details since nine."

  "Congratulations. And my sympathies."

  "Thanks." Daniel laughed and sipped the scotch. "I went for a swim at my health club and came over here... to unwind."

  She smiled at the echo.

  The talk veered slowly from the professional. Personal stats were recited. They both lived in Manhattan. He told her that he had two sons, living with his ex in Nyack.

  "My husband and I have joint custody." Gabriela tugged her phone from her Coach purse. She scrolled and displayed a picture. "This's Sarah. She's six."

  "Adorable."

  "She's into ballet and gymnastics. But she just discovered horses. Oh, does she want a horse."

  "Where are you in the city?"

  "Upper West. Two bedrooms, a thousand square feet. We could probably fit a horse in, but I don't think they do well in elevators."

  "And Sarah's dad?"

  She said, "No. He's okay in elevators."

  "You're pretty funny." Spoken as if Daniel didn't date women who were.

  "Tim lives on Long Island," Gabriela continued. "But not in the horse stabling neighborhood."

  Daniel gestured to the bartender, who responded immediately. "Another for me. And the same for her."

  "No, really," Gabriela protested.

  "Cheaper than buying you a new Neiman Marcus blouse."

  "It's Macy's. But I didn't mean no to the drink. I mean no to what I'm drinking. I'll upgrade to the Merry Edwards pinot noir. Since he's buying."

  Daniel lifted an eyebrow, impressed at her choice.

  A moment later the drinks appeared. She wondered what tats the bartender was hiding with the makeup.

  Occupy! Down with the One Percent!

  Or maybe something simple: Fuck Capitalism.

  She thought about saying this to Daniel but, while he'd probably laugh, she decided not to.

  When the new glasses arrived, they tapped and talked about the agony and ecstasy of living in the city. About Ground Zero, which was visible from Limoncello's. The Trade Towers would forever cast indelible shadows over the city.

  Then a dozen subjects arose in easy conversation: restaurants, traveling, parents, politics--the last in a safely glancing fashion, though their views seemed similar.

  When they were close to finishing their drinks, Daniel looked at his watch. Didn't sneak a glance, just lifted the heavy Rolex and noted the time.

  She nodded. "Dinner plans, sure."

  "Actually, no. I have a meeting." Daniel's eyes circled, her hair, her face, her eyes. "You have to get back to your daughter?"

  She sniffed subtext. "I'll pick her up tomorrow. She's at her father's tonight."

  "Don't know if you're interested, but that meeting? You have any interest in helping me out?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Actually, I'm meeting an interior designer to pick out upholstery."

  She shook her head. "That's not a good come-on line."

  "I'm having new leather installed in my speedboat."

  "That's a better one."

  He opened the backpack he used for a briefcase and took out a booklet of leather samples. She flipped through the pages, which were organized by color. Her favorites were the rich oranges, the sort she imagined as the color of seats in brash sports cars. The names were words like "carrot," "pumpkin," "amber," "tomato."

  But her favorite was called "Princeton," presumably after the school colors of the New Jersey university. It was the boldest offered by the company.

  "I do have a preference," Gabriela said slowly. "But how can I say for sure without seeing the boat?"

  "We can fix that."

  CHAPTER 4

  1:30 P.M., FRIDAY

  3 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER

  THE PRIUS, TINTED IN TOYOTA'S WAN, innocuous light blue, eased through the winding streets of Bronxville, New York, past mansions nestled in spacious yards of yellowing grass, waning gardens, banks of crisp September leaves.

  Accustomed to driving his Maserati, Daniel Reardon didn't much care for the car, though he hadn't expected power. It was mostly the quiet of the engine he objected to. He'd heard there were some cars that now added sound, sexy engine noises through speakers. This was a cheat and he thought it ridiculous. Daniel liked authenticity, for good or bad. The Maserati's Tubi exhausts, for instance, resonated at a high pitch that could, in the upper gear ranges, threaten to pierce your eardrums.

  He loved that.

  Faint classical music was on the radio but it dimmed when an incoming call announced itself. Daniel answered and spoke to his client in the awkward language of business that is at the same time vague and precise. Finally, some technical legal and financial decisions made, he offered a pleasant farewell to the man who'd earned The Norwalk Fund close to two hundred thousand dollars last year. He disconnected. The classical music rose once more. Mozart. The clarinet concerto. An odd instrument and very difficult, he knew, to play well. He'd dated a girl once who'd been a clarinetist in a symphony orchestra. She'd explained that the reeds had taken her the most time to master. "You've got to negotiate the sound from them."

  Daniel had liked that expression quite a lot, which was why he remembered the sentence, while the image of the girl had all but vanished years ago.

  In his gray Canali suit, Daniel was certainly dressed for this area. He seemed like any other businessman returning home early from his White Plains law firm or investment bank.

  He drove carefully. The streets were slick with colorful layers; wind and rain had conspired to thin the canopy of oak and maple, decimating the foliage (almost literally, removing about every tenth leaf or so--Daniel grew irritated when people used the verb incorrectly).

  He steered onto Henderson Lane, presently deserted of traffic, and continued past houses less opulent than the mansions but just as quiet. The windows of the structures were dark, mostly, and he spotted not a single person on the clean sidewalks. At a four-way intersection, he braked to a stop and let a Grand Cherokee, dark red, precede him, turning into Henderson. Daniel accelerated slowly and fell in behind the vehicle.

  Several blocks away, when the SUV eased up to a stop sign, Daniel stabbed the brake pedal. The Prius skidded on the leaves and tapped the bumper of the Jeep gently.

  He frowned and glanced forward. He saw the eyes of the Jeep's occupants, the driver's in the mirror and his college-aged passenger's directly: The girl turned to gaze with some generic hostility.

  Daniel winced and climbed out. He joined the driver, standing by the Jeep's open door. He shook his head. "I am so sorry!"

  The stocky man in a navy sport coat, tan slacks and blue shirt grinned ruefully. "Not like you were doing a hundred miles an hour."

  "I didn't think the leaves'd be that slick. Man, it was like ice. I just kept going." Daniel looked into the front seat. He said to the girl, clearly the man's daughter, "Sorry, you okay?"

  "Like, yeah. I guess." The blond girl returned to her iPod. The day was warm but she wore a stocking cap pulled down tight over her long hair, and the sleeves of her thick sweatshirt extended nearly to her fingers.

  The two men walked to the back of the SUV and regarded the vehicle. The Cherokee driver said, "They make 'em tough. I was going to say American cars, but, hell, I don't really know where these babies're built. Could be Tokyo." A nod at the Prius. "And that could've been made in Arkansas. Parts of it anyway."

  Daniel looked around the immaculate neighborhood. All was still deserted. "Thomas, listen carefully. Are you listening?"

  The driver kept grinning. Waiting for an explanation. When there was none, he asked. "Do I know you?"

  "No, you don't. Now, I want the name of the bank in Aruba your investment partnership uses. And the main investment account number and the PIN."

  "Wait. What is this?"

  Daniel unbuttoned his jacket and displayed the narrow grip of an old Smith & Wesson revolver. A .38 special.

  "Oh, my God." His e
yes went to his daughter, lost in the elixir of music.

  "Just give me the information and you'll be fine. She will too."

  "Who are you...?" His voice rose into a filament of sound, not unlike a note from a reed instrument.

  "Hold on, hold on," Daniel said, keeping a smile on his face, just in case anybody did happen to be behind one of those black windows. "Don't panic. You don't want to do that. This is just business. All I want is that information. I'll verify it and then you go on your way. You'll be out twenty million dollars but no one will get hurt. Besides, you didn't exactly get that through socially minded investments, did you?"

  "You're insane," he whispered. Panic was gone, anger had taken its place. And fast. "You fucker. You do this in front of my daughter? Who are you working for?"

  "Thomas, you don't have much time. I'll shoot your daughter first, because I need you alive to give me--"

  "All right. Don't even mention that! Don't even say it! All right, I'll give it to you."

  Daniel placed a call.

  "Hello?" came the low, melodious answering voice.

  "Andrew." He handed the phone to Thomas and instructed, "Give him the information."

  "I don't have it memorized!"

  "She gets shot first and--"

  "I just mean it's in my phone! It's encrypted. It'll take a minute."

  Daniel said into the phone, "He's got to decrypt it."

  Andrew Faraday said through the tinny speaker, "Okay. But hurry."

  Daniel glanced into the Jeep. The girl seemed irritated that she couldn't find a song on her playlist.

  With Daniel watching, to make sure that Thomas didn't hit 911, the businessman began typing on his mobile. He lost his place. He took a deep breath. Daniel told him, "Stay calm. Take your time."

  "He said hurry!"

  "Calm," Daniel said.

  Thomas started over. He nodded at the screen and took the phone from Daniel's hand. He began reciting numbers.

  Daniel took back the iPhone. "Well?" he asked Andrew.

  He heard keyboard taps. A delay. "It's good." The phone disconnected.

  The whole incident from car tap to confirmation had taken four minutes, just the time for two drivers to good-naturedly swap insurance info and agree there'd be no point in calling the police.