Graveland: A Novel Page 7

  She shakes her head.

  The Tea Partiers want to be the bankers, not to kill them, and the Occupiers are too wooly and amorphous for anything as decisive and proactive as an assassination program.

  So she keeps coming back to her first instinct on this.

  They’re amateurs.

  Stray dogs.

  Doing their own thing.

  And where do people like this find inspiration? Where do they get their ideas from? Where do they meet, and hang out, and exchange information, and chat? Her heart sinks.

  The fucking Internet, of course.

  She stares at the tiled wall in front of her.

  What’s she going to do? Instigate a search?

  Without the full resources of an Echelon-style intercept station or fusion center, Ellen knows very well how pointless this would be. She pulls the plug and gets out of the bathtub. She dries off and puts on sweats and a T-shirt. She orders up pizza.

  Not having eaten all day.

  She turns on the TV. Even there they’ve sort of given up and are discussing instead the witness currently on the stand in the Connie Carillo murder trial.

  Joey Gifford.

  The celebrity doorman.

  Jesus wept.

  The thing is, for all she’s got, for all she’s pulled out of the hat, she may as well give up too, and sit around like the rest of them, waiting for the next target, the next vic. She flicks through a few channels, but doesn’t want to watch anything. There’s no one she wants to talk to, either. She checks Twitter on her phone and glances at the time. Pizza won’t be here for another fifteen minutes. She looks over at her desk.

  It couldn’t hurt.

  Three hours, the pizza, a bottle of wine, and two bananas later she’s still at her desk, bleary eyed, near to tears, scrolling down through forums, discussion groups, and comment boxes. Each new post she reads, or thread she follows, seems to hold out the promise of something, an insight, an angle, a revelation even. In discussing stuff like fractional reserve banking, the creation of the Fed, the Glass-Steagall Act, Keynes, the Chicago School, subprime, securitization, the bailouts, there’ll be an initial hint of reasonableness, a striving for clarity—for the holy grail of a coherent point—but sooner or later, and without fail, each contribution will descend into ambiguity, internal contradiction, and ultimately gibberish.

  On some sites things can get pretty heated, and shrill, especially when they focus on the bankers themselves, on the voracious, lying, bloodsucking zombie motherfuckers who’ve effectively been RUNNING THE COUNTRY FOR THE LAST HUNDRED YEARS …

  But it’s at about 3:00 A.M. that she comes across something she thinks is significant. Though she can’t be sure, because by that stage she also suspects she might be hallucinating.

  It’s deep, deep into the comment box of an archived blog post on a site called Smells Like Victory. She doesn’t remember how she got here—through what circuitous route, or when exactly she veered off topic—because the post itself, go figure, is a half-scholarly account of the effects railroad construction had on the economy of pre–Civil War America. The discussion in the comment box leads with a fairly polite disagreement about the relative importance of railroads over canals in the antebellum North, and this soon degenerates into a testy spat about how unsuited the “heavy” imported British locomotives were to the supposedly “lighter” American-engineered track systems. But after close to a hundred comments—and as is so often the case these days, online and off—the subject somehow ends up being about the current crisis. A comment is posted claiming that the likes of Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, and John D. Rockefeller shaped modern America, and pretty soon a discussion is in full swing about the relative merits (or demerits) of the nineteenth-century robber barons over today’s one percenters.

  After a few more posts, someone called Trustbot37 says, “People forget that back then these guys were hated every bit as much as the bankers are now. I mean, Gould was routinely referred to as the Mephistopheles of Wall Street.” Sans-serif says that Trustbot37 is missing the point here—that okay, sure, people resented these Gilded Age fucks for their money and their fifty-room summer “cottages” in Newport, but at the same time they admired them and essentially approved of what they were doing, which was building up huge new industries and transforming the country in a thousand different ways. Whereas today, Jesus … today people are incandescent with rage at what they see as the wanton bleeding dry and tearing down of this same great country. John Fuze says we should bring RICO charges against these bastards, that that’s what the damn thing was enacted for back in 1970, to combat organized crime, and what is the Great Global Debt Bubble if not the most highly organized crime in human fucking history …

  It goes on and on like this, and with multiple references—of the kind you see pretty often now, even on mainstream sites—to pitchforks, tumbrils, and guillotines. Then someone called ath900 takes up the theme and runs with it, but without the grim jocularity, without the slightest hint of irony. “Look,” he says, “these people need to be eliminated for real, and it needs to be systematic. If it was up to me I’d start with someone from each of the three pillars of this rotten temple, i.e., from an investment bank, a hedge fund, and a private equity firm. I’d do it like that, make a statement—just pick three institutions and pop the top guys. Maybe do a test run, start with some of the second-tier outfits—say, Northwood Leffingwell, Chambers Capital Management, and Black Vine Partners…”

  Ellen stares at this last sentence in disbelief.

  Then she scans the screen, looking for a date.

  The comment was posted over a year ago.

  ath900?

  She reads his last sentence again, then the whole comment. She goes over the five or six comments that precede it and skims through the five or six that immediately follow it. It seems to be his only contribution. And within three or four comments anyway the discussion has moved on to a fine-point dissection of a recent SEC fraud settlement.

  She goes back.

  Pop the top guys?

  Holy shit.

  She slumps in her chair, hand still on the mouse.

  It’s the middle of the night, muffled Upper West Side traffic noise outside, muffled techno beats coming from the guy next door. In a state of shock and frost-brained exhaustion, Ellen lets her gaze slide from the screen to the debris around her on the desk—scribbled notes, empty wineglass, oil-stained pizza box, shards of crust, banana peels, crumpled napkin …

  Then she shakes her head and shifts forward in the chair again.

  It may well transpire that she’s wasting her time here, but she has to keep going. This is only the beginning. There’s so much more to find out.

  Like who ath900 is.

  She moves her hand from the mouse to the keyboard.

  Like who the fuck—more crucially right now—the top guy at Black Vine Partners is.

  6

  “IT’S A HOTEL,” Scott Lebrecht says, glancing out of the car window, Harlem flickering past. “In Marrakech. I stayed there a couple of years ago.”

  The assistant clacks on his laptop.

  “The … Mamounia?”

  “Maybe. Go on.”

  “Er … traditional Moroccan riads, seven and a half thousand square feet, each with its own courtyard, terrace, and pool.” He pauses. “Ten grand a night? Just under.”

  “Yep, that’s it.”

  “You want six nights, early June?”

  “Yep.”

  “Got it.”

  Clack, clack.

  “So, this British journalist, she’s at what time?”

  “Eleven,” the assistant says, “right after the event.”

  “Tell me about her. Is she cute?”

  “So so. Petite. Fortyish.”

  “Hhmmm.”

  “Not my type.”

  “Who gives a fuck what your type is, Baxter? Jesus.” A pause. “I could do petite and forty, no problem. So long as she’s got a halfway presentabl
e face.”

  “Well … she’s got good bone structure.”

  “Right.” Lebrecht rolls his eyes. “Who does she work for?”

  “Sunday Times. Of London. Business section. She’s on the private equity beat.”

  “They have a PE beat? How fucking sad is that?”

  “She’s doing a piece on the increased pressure CEOs are under these days from their private equity bosses. You know, to perform, to succeed.”

  Lebrecht laughs out loud at this. “To perform? Damn right. They be my bitches, nigga.”

  “Maybe not the line she’ll be expecting, but—”

  “Shut up.” He takes out his phone and starts fiddling with it. “What line should I give her? The unvarnished truth or some kind of scented bullshit?”

  “I’d go with the scented bullshit. In a piece like this she’s bound to find someone who’ll break ranks, but there’s no reason for it to be us.”

  “Right.”

  “So…?”

  “What? You want me to rehearse? Fuck. I don’t know, er … we manage companies efficiently and profitably, we deliver higher returns, not just for the wealthy but for pensioners as well.”

  “Good.”

  “And we create more jobs than the stock market. Sure, CEOs are under pressure, but when was that ever not the case?”

  “Okay.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said that’s okay.”

  “It’s okay?” Half turning. “It’s fucking okay? What’s that meant to be, Baxter, your seal of approval or something? I know you’re experienced, you’ve been around the block a few times, but I can do this shit on my own, you know. Jesus.” Turning back. “Could do it in my sleep.” Distracted now, composing a tweet.

  I’m on a panel this morning at this year’s—

  On a panel soon at this year’s …

  He glances out the window.

  Hundred and Tenth Street, at last. John the Divine. Central Park.

  Global Equities Conference … in Manhattan’s …

  At Manhattan’s … Herald Rygate.

  At the Herald Rygate.

  How many does that leave?

  Sixty-one.

  The things we do for love.

  Thirty-four.

  Tweet.

  A moment or two later, Baxter puts a hand up to the side of his head. “Er … I’ve got Teddy Schmule for you.”

  “Oh.” Lebrecht shifts in the seat and adjusts his earpiece. “Yo, the Schmulemeister.”

  “Scottsdale. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I’m in New York, at a conference. I’m down for a nine-thirty slot, panel discussion. Couple of things after that, then I’m heading out to the coast. You get Shem Tyner? Are we good?”

  “Meh. We’ll see. You’ve got to play a long game where Shem is concerned.” He pauses. “Shem is Shem, you know.”

  “Yeah, but Teddy … tell me he’s at least read the script. That he’s psyched.”

  Teddy Schmule snorts at this. “Oh, he’s psyched alright, and he loves the script. It’s just that by the time he gets through with it … well, you might have a hard time actually recognizing it.”

  “Fuuuuuuck.”

  “Shem always does this. It’s one of his things.”

  “We don’t have the time.”

  “The one thing you’ve always got in this business, Scott, believe me, is time.”

  “No.” He clenches his fist and bangs it against the window. “No. Fuck him. We can scale it down, go with someone else, someone who’s hungry. This is my third time out, Teddy, and I feel it, it’s the big one. I’m not going to let a little shit like Shem Tyner take the reins.” Shaking his head. “No way. This is a Black Vine production.”

  The pause that follows is long and weary.

  “Okay. Let me get back to him.”

  “You do that, Teddy Schmule.”

  Outside, they’re canyoning into midtown. A few moments later, they pull up outside the Herald Rygate.

  Reaching for the door, Lebrecht pauses and turns to Baxter. “Okay,” he says, “so I’ve got this thing now, right? Then Reet Petite. Then … where am I having lunch?”

  * * *

  Frank Bishop checks the time, drains his coffee and heads for the bathroom. Over the course of four or five minutes in there—quick dump, hands, teeth—he doesn’t look in the mirror.

  Doesn’t look at himself.

  Not even once.

  Is that weird? Maybe, but it’s become a habit lately.

  It seems easier.

  Avoidance.

  In the car on his way to work, however, there’s something he can’t avoid. It’s been bugging him for the last two days.

  He stares at the road ahead.

  After his little snit on Monday, he never got back to the regional manager, and the regional manager never got back to him. And that has to mean trouble. What kind of trouble exactly, Frank is unwilling to contemplate.

  But it’s not just that.

  It’s the humiliation.

  A further run-in is inevitable—on the phone, face-to-face, whatever—and he’s dreading it. This is because he knows he cannot win, or come out ahead, without groveling, without begging to keep his job. And all for what? Because he didn’t feel like taking shit from some pimply-faced little motherfucker at the head office? Because he decided to speak his fucking mind?

  So it would seem.

  The other source of anxiety for Frank this morning is Lizzie. He hasn’t heard back from her yet, either. He called again yesterday afternoon and left a brief message. Then, a while later, he thought about sending her a text.

  He’s thinking about sending her one now.

  But he knows that in Lizzie’s book that would probably qualify as harassment.

  He’s sure she’s fine. She wasn’t fine on Saturday evening when they spoke, he knows that, but Saturday evening is probably ancient history already as far as she’s concerned.

  He takes the wide bend at Cedar Bay Drive, and the enormous, creaking mall heaves into view.

  He gets to the parking lot, turns in, and crosses its vast, mostly empty expanse. He finds a space near the main entrance. On his way inside he takes a detour to the Walgreens on the lower level to get some Excedrin and maybe make eye contact with that gorgeous Asian woman who works there, maybe even get served by her.

  Kickstart his day with a little squirt of serotonin.

  But it’s not to be.

  He doesn’t see the woman anywhere and gets served instead by a skinny black kid called Felix.

  * * *

  It’s just after nine thirty when Ellen Dorsey rolls over in the bed.

  Shit.

  She didn’t fall asleep until nearly five, her muscles knotty and aching, her head buzzing with facts—with the fact of these facts.

  The weight of them.

  And as her eyelids grind open now, these facts are first to greet the light. His name is Scott Lebrecht. He’s thirty-three. He’s from Philadelphia. He’s worth a billion dollars. He’s the CEO of Black Vine Partners.

  He’s on a hit list.

  He’s next.

  She sits upright in the bed.

  Or at least that’s how it all seemed last night.

  She looks across the room, through the open door, her desk in the living room partially visible.

  No matter how she spins it—that it was random, a coincidence, the kind of spooky but ultimately meaningless shit the Internet throws up all the time—there’s no escaping the key fact here: Two of the three people mentioned in that post are already dead.

  Popped.

  So it’s only logical to assume that before long number three will be, too.

  She slides off the bed.

  She puts on a pot of coffee, tidies up, takes a shower, and gets dressed.

  Through all of which she grapples with the central dilemma here.

  Shouldn’t she be passing this on to the police? Isn’t she required to by law? If she doesn’t, and some
thing happens, wouldn’t she be an accessory?

  It’s a tricky one.

  Because it’s not as if she’s protecting a confidential source and could be subpoenaed for discovery.

  Who was your source, Ms. Dorsey?

  The Internet, Your Honor.

  Sipping coffee, she reads the comment again, more than once. Foreknowledge of a crime. Is that what this is?

  She vacillates.

  It is, it isn’t. It might be, it might not. The notion is plausible, the notion is ridiculous.

  She massages her temples, to ward off an incipient headache. Outside, it’s overcast, dull and gray. Is it going to rain?

  She looks from the window to the floor.

  Actually, she decides, the notion is ridiculous. Jeff Gale and Bob Holland were killed twelve hours apart. This is four days on from that and Scott Lebrecht is still alive. There’s no discernible pattern here. So, seriously … who would take her seriously?

  No one.

  She looks up.

  The thing is, she can talk herself out of this, no problem—but deep down she wants it to be true.

  Not even deep down.

  She gets up from the desk, walks around, stretches.

  But then … let’s say it is true, that there really is a story here, what happens then? First, she’d have to bring Max Daitch in on it, and he’d have to run it by legal. Chances are that a fear of civil or even criminal liability would stop the whole thing dead in its tracks right there, with the lawyers advising Max to pass the info up the corporate chain or possibly straight on to the police.

  So … what? She just hands it over? Before she gets a chance to work it, even a little?

  Raindrops start pelting against the window.

  She sits down again and reaches for the coffee. She’ll give it some thought. Go over her notes.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Black Vine Partners.

  Scott Lebrecht …

  He founded the company six or seven years ago with the assistance of two guys from a New York–based hedge fund called Reilly Asset Management. They provided Lebrecht with a substantial chunk of capital and a revolving line of credit, which he then very successfully used to focus on investments in the power and energy sectors. More recently, he has set his sights on Hollywood by creating Black Vine Media and signing a five-year production deal with Sony Entertainment. So far, this has only led to his involvement in a couple of poorly received mid-budget thrillers, but Lebrecht is said to be very determined and is busy raising cash for a third, considerably more ambitious project.