CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 PETER ARRIVED HOME SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER THAN USUAL. Henry greeted him at the door. “Hey, dude,” Peter began. “Sorry, Henry. I’m starting to sound like Stuart. How you doing, old man?”

Peter looked around his new place. Cool temperatures marked the month of November, but once the morning fog burnt off around eleven a.m., the days brightened and the evenings remained clear. Through the sliding glass door facing south and west, he had a dual view of the finish line at the Del Mar Thoroughbred Club and the white waters of Dog Beach. Living more than a dream come true, Peter sometimes felt the need to pinch himself.

“Can you imagine living on the East Coast, Henry?” he asked. “Temperature’s near zero. I’m complaining about fifty degrees, and they’re at zippity-do-dah.”

Peter walked by the gas fireplace and inhaled the odor of wet lacquer. His interior decorator—borrowed from Stuart—had decided to apply a maple finish to his pine mantle. It didn’t look any better than before, Peter thought, only darker and smellier. Through the kitchen door, he traipsed to his refrigerator, opened, and grabbed a beer and a pack of processed meat. Henry stared in at the shelves, his green eyes locking on a half-gallon of milk.

“Yeah, you too,” Peter said, balancing the milk, an imported beer, and a package of chicken slices.

Setting everything on the new kitchen table, Peter slipped off his sports jacket and laid it over a reclining chair that faced his fifty-inch high definition television. He opened the curtains to a window showcasing the mountains. In the mornings, in the east, he had the explosion of sunrise through one vantage point. In the evenings, he could watch the sun, sinking below the horizon, in a furious blaze to the west. One hundred and eighty-degree views of paradise. Peter had always assured himself, in the unlikely event he ever came into the chips, he would never change his lifestyle.

Now that he had money, he understood the psychological underpinnings of that rationalization: it was something people with nothing said to control their envy. Having a view to end all views and owning new, wonderful toys wasn’t necessarily an evil thing. Kate Ayers was a perfect example. She had an expensive Jaguar, grew up in a mansion with everything laid in her lap, and yet she was as good and pure a person as existed on this earth. Suddenly, thinking about purity, the image of Peter’s mother filtered through as a dose of reality. Drew had often said that Hannah was the purest person he had ever known. Peter agreed. And he suspected she wouldn’t completely approve of the way he currently lived. The excess. The extravagance.

Peter turned the twist cap on his beer. Foam crept over the lip as he tipped and gulped. He then rolled several skinny slices of salty, processed meat and bit just as Henry purred.

“I know—your turn.” Peter poured a generous helping of whole milk into Henry’s bowl, then sniffed. “Litter box is smelling a tad ripe, old man—even from here.”

He set his beer on the oak coffee table and went to the second bathroom. Henry’s bathroom. Peter held his breath and lifted the litter box. Exiting the front door, he proceeded down the six steps, around the corner of a storage building, and across the driveway he shared with four other condos—attached in pods of two—to a dumpster.

Finishing his litter disposal task, he retraced his steps. At his door, a black man, wearing a Charger football cap finished off by graying hair, stared through the open crack in Peter’s door. The man was stooped, even hunched, as if he carried an invisible sack of rocks on his neck and back. He began calling in a tentative voice, “Mr. Neil? Mr. Neil? You home, Mr. Neil?”

When Peter got to the bottom of his steps, he heard: “Mr. Neil, it’s Charles Jefferson. Guy living in your mama’s house.” Jefferson craned his head and neck though the front door.

Until he heard those words, Peter hadn’t been conscious of how tense he’d become. Remnants of his earlier brush with violence, he guessed.

“Mr. Jefferson,” he called.

The man spun, a wide-eyed look of fear on his face.

“Thank the Lord it’s you, Mr. Neil. I was afraid you gone and left your door open and somebody think I tryin’ steal your stuff.”

“What’re you doing here? Rent’s not due. Is everything okay at the house?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neil. It look good as you can believe. I got me a part-time job—nothin’ much, but at a nursery, movin’ stuff, waterin’ plants and all. Maybe turn into full-time after a month. But I got me half-price on some plants. I put ’em into the ground—they look good. You don’t like ’em, you can take ’em out, y’know.”

“No, no. I’m sure they’re fine. Let me pay you for them.”

“No way. You the kindest man I ever knowed. No. If I get full-time, I gonna pay you more rent money.”

“Forget it.”

Peter noticed Jefferson’s beat-up car in one of the visitor’s spots along the outer boundary of the condo common grounds. He owned a VW bug, and not of the recent retro variety either. Primer and rust spots highlighted jagged holes in the body, and random cracks webbed the windshield. On the bumper, a sticker read, God is Great.

“Are the bushes the reason you drove all the way out here?” Peter asked.

“Huh? Uh, no. This.”

Peter climbed the steps and stood next to his tenant. Charles Jefferson held something in his thick hands—the hands of an honest worker, Peter decided. Callused with split nails. Jefferson, probably not quite forty-five, had gnarled and arthritic fingers. His bristled cheeks had three or four nicking scars, looking like pink worms against his pitch-black skin. He extended an envelope for Peter to take.

“You brought a letter?” Peter asked.

“It was addressed to your mama. Said urgent, final notice on the outside. I was afraid it was a bill and you might get your car or TV or something else taken by the repossessors.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jefferson. How about you come in and join me in a beer or a cup of coffee?” Peter skimmed the outside of the envelope. The letter had been sent from a mailbox business in Carlsbad.

“No, I couldn’t. But thank you, sir. I gotta go to work now. Working just east of here at the mall on Via de la Valle.” He pronounced the name of the street phonetically, so that Valle came across as valley instead of vayeah.

“I know the place,” Peter said. “Good luck, Charles. And please, call me Peter. I hate being called Mister Neil.”

“Thank you, sir.” Charles said. “Come by sometime. See the house. Stay for dinner. Please.”

“I’d like that, Charles. Say hello to the family.”

Charles nodded, then plodded down the steps. Peter watched him amble to his car. It took several tries before the engine coughed itself into ignition. They waved goodbye, then Peter, stepping inside, opened the letter. It read:

This is a final notice. Your mailbox, number 408, has a balance due of $23.77. If you wish to maintain this mailing address, please contact our office no later than November 23. After that date, we will no longer accept letters on your behalf. Any mail already in your box will be held for two weeks, then returned to sender.

A name and phone number accompanied the note. He had two days before they would close his mother’s account. Why, Peter wondered, had she leased a mailbox in Carlsbad? That was at least a twenty-minute drive from her house. It made no sense. Carlsbad? His mother had died in Carlsbad. Was that a coincidence?

Peter phoned. He learned that his mother had rented an oversized space with a rental rate of just over twenty dollars a month, before tax. She had paid in advance for seven months. The seven months ended a week ago.

“Is there anything in the box?” Peter asked.

“I do not know. I will check.” The woman had an East Indian accent. She had indicated that she and her husband owned the franchise and hated to close out an active box and disrupt a person’s mail. They understood people often forgot when their leases ran out. That’s why they always sent notices and allowed a grace period.

A few seconds later, she returned. “Yes, Mr. Neil. There is mail. Two registered envelopes. It appears we signed for them and your mother saw them, but put them into her box. That is a strange procedure.”

“I don’t get it,” Peter said. “The registered mail arrived at your office?”

“Yes, it was many months ago—in late March. I noticed when I peeked into her box for you just now. We signed and notified Ms. Hannah Neil. The letters still rest there.”

“Anything else in the mailbox?”

“Oh, yes. A letter, also. It is addressed to you, in care of Hannah Neil. And some pizza ads and all.”

“Thank you. How do I get the combination to the mailbox?”

“Oh, no. Not a combination. A key.”

“My mother is dead. How do I get into her box if I don’t have the key?”

“Oh, my. I do not know. Perhaps a court order, unless you have the key. If you have the key, you just put it in the lock, turn, and open. It is simple. I cannot give you another key—that is very against the law. A court order, perhaps.”

“Would you do me another favor?” Peter asked.

“If I can, though I hope this means you will pay the overdue bill.”

“Yes. I’ll pay. Can you check the date of the postmark on the letter addressed to me? Also the return address on the envelope.”

It took a few minutes for the singsong voice to return. “It has a postmark of May the twenty-five. The return address is Clairemont.” She recited his mother’s address.

Peter hung up.

Thursday, May the twenty-fifth?

That would be the same May twenty-fifth stamped on Hannah Neil’s death certificate.

Peter prepared for his nine p.m. trading rendezvous with Morgan with as much of a nap as he could manage. When he woke at eight o’clock, he had just enough time to get ready. He felt better, but still had nagging concerns. His mother had sent him a letter the same morning she met him outside his workplace, to a mailbox he had no knowledge of until today. And registered letters, tucked away for months. Why? None of it made any sense.

It was dark outside and, with the window open, Peter’s room felt clammy cold. His boxers and tee-shirt provided him marginal insulation as he lurched out of bed, feet hurting as if he’d wandered an entire day and night in search of something lost. His hands shook and his jaw vibrated in a futile attempt to generate enough energy to ward off the chill. A few moments later, steam filled the shower. Peter slapped his forehead into the palms of his hands, using the heel of each hand to grind his temples.

Thoughts of the letters brought to mind Charles Jefferson, and the image haunted Peter. It disturbed him that this kind man had so much enthusiasm for every small blessing—happy for a shitty part-time job, and excited about working on someone else’s house. On top of that, he had a God is Great sticker plastered to his decrepit car bumper. What great things had God done for Charles Jefferson and his impoverished family lately? None, was the answer. Poor, ignorant man didn’t even know enough to be miserable.

“Stop it.” Peter lifted his head in time to see Henry arch his back in reaction to those echoing words. “Sorry, Henry. I was scolding myself. Charles Jefferson isn’t the stupid one.”

Henry left the bathroom humidity. Peter kicked the door closed, pulled his shirt over his head, removed his slippers, and stood, facing the steamed mirror. He smeared the condensation with the ball of his fist. Through the streaks, he barely recognized the reflection staring back.

Forty-five minutes later, Peter grabbed his keys and started to bound out. He felt better. Refreshed.

“Melancholy gone,” he said to Henry. “A blue funk brought on by . . . nothing. See you tomorrow, old man.”

For the thousandth time since someone stole it, Peter rubbed his finger and thumb together, imagining he still possessed his father’s gift. When he got close enough to his car, he pressed the button on his key chain. It produced the beep that locked and unlocked the door: lock, unlock, lock, unlock. The action triggered something in the underbelly of his subconscious. What was it? He bounced and jangled the six keys up and down. He climbed into his car, shut the door, and felt for the ignition key.

“Not that one,” he said, working to the next key. “Not this small one, either . . .”

Suddenly, the ripples of an obscure memory spread, reaching finally to a specific time and place: his mother’s kitchen, next to the answering machine, the afternoon of the day he learned of her death. He had discovered two keys—one to her destroyed car, the other smaller. At the time, Peter had assumed the second key unlocked a drawer or box somewhere in her house. Turning on the car light, he ran his finger along the jagged edge, recalling his conversation with the Carlsbad mailbox woman. She had said, “Not a combination, but a key” opened the mailbox. Inside was some registered mail and a letter addressed to him.

Needing to hurry, Peter put his curiosity on hold as he inserted the car key and listened to the low hum of his precision engine. Fifteen minutes later, he parked under the bright lights and cameras at Stenman’s offices. Two minutes after that, he signed in. Another forty-five seconds and he entered the hallway leading to Morgan Stenman’s office. As unobtrusively as possible, he walked in. There, a series of pulsating lights from an endless row of machines—each one tied into some important event, somewhere in the world—greeted him. The show both dizzied and captivated his imagination.

Within the hour, he had dismissed the relevance of his mailbox discovery. He was too busy making history.

In her office, Stenman had one other trader present. An old guy, looking maybe seventy, and skinny as a skeleton, sat in a corner. The man’s name was Hans. He handled currency trades.

Hans had no social graces.

Before tonight, Peter hadn’t even realized that Indonesia’s currency was the rupiah. Since he’d arrived two hours ago, Stenman and her trader had bought and sold rupiah in mind-numbing quantities—over a billion dollars’ worth. It seemed hectic, but this was nothing compared to what she expected later, Stenman explained.

“We’ve only trickled the marketplace—we will shortly flood the worthless piece of shit currency—when it serves our purposes. We are toying with, testing, the Indonesian Central Bank’s moronic resolve.”

It was as long an explanation of anything he had ever gotten from Stenman, and he doubted she was even aware of speaking to him. When phone extension 4666 flashed, Peter punched the button before the second flash. Stenman’s earlier instructions filled his head: “Answer the phone, listen, then repeat everything back to me. Exactly as said.”

The accented voice whispered rapidly against his ear, “They are near panic. They’ve used a billion in hard. U.S., Euro, and Yen—two hundred of each left. Gold sales completed two hours ago. Our meeting set to begin in ten.”

The line went dead. Peter feared he hadn’t been able to listen and note-take as fast as the man had spoken. It was as if he were listening to a non-stop message left on an answering machine, but without the luxury of a replay button.

“Let’s have it, Neil,” Stenman barked, her features screwed in a tight ball. “Exactly as said. Do not miss a word.”

Peter had scribbled the confusing parts on a slip of paper: billion in hard, U.S. and Yen and Eur under two hundred each.

He began: “The man said: ‘They’re panicked. They’ve spent . . .’ no, he said: ‘they’ve used a billion in hard.’” He studied Stenman, hoping this made sense. It seemed to, so he continued, “U.S. and Yen and . . .” he hesitated, unable to decipher his own handwriting. Guessing, he continued, “and Euro under two hundred. I mean, under two hundred each. Definitely each.”

He filled his lungs. It was two hundred each, he prayed.

“Anything else?” Stenman asked, her impatience a guillotine hanging over his head.

“Yes. Gold sales completed two hours ago . . . the man then said: ‘We have a meeting set to begin in ten.’”

“That is all?” Stenman asked, her voice intolerant.

That was all. Right? He asked himself.

“Yes. Nothing else,” he answered.

“Good. Hans, offer five hundred U.S. equivalents. Let’s see how that affects their thought process.” Stenman licked her crusty lips, then put the filter tip to her mouth. She inhaled, then exhaled in several tiny bites, filling the room with nicotine vapor.

Peter continued to stare at 4666.

A moment later, Hans said, “They bought. Man unhappy.” Dutchman Hans, on the other hand, laughed like a hyena picking on antelope bones.

“Unhappy? Yes, I think the poor man is filled with nuclear angst,” Stenman said with a voice soaked in manic hyperbole. “After eating your offering, that leaves less than half a billion hard,” she continued. “They have just flatlined.”

Hans nodded. “No IMF. No U.S. Treasury. No bailout. Maybe they call you to ask for advice.”

“They aren’t going to need me. Devaluation, austerity, fiscal responsibility, economic upheaval. Shit happens.”

Hans nodded. “We make money from the inevitable,” he said.

Fifteen minutes passed. Extension 4666 flashed a second time. Peter pounced.

The same mysterious voice whispered, “One last request to the IMF for ten billion. Treasury already no. If not, a big, big percent.” Again, the line went dead and again the man had set a world record for fast-talk.

“Goddammit, Peter! Spit it out!” Stenman yelled.

Peter had yet to put the phone down. In a rapid run-on, he blurted, “A last request to the IMF. Requesting ten billion. The Treasury said no . . .”

Peter hesitated for a long second. He had misspoken. It wasn’t “The Treasury said no,” it was “Treasury already no.”

“If not—” he concluded, praying to God the slight error had not been meaningful “—a big, big percent.”

Stenman picked up an outgoing line, and dialed. “Transfer me to Mauritius.” Fifteen seconds passed. Then she said, “Scramble this line.” Another few seconds. “Patch me through to . . .” she recited a lengthy international number. Finally, she said, “They received the request?” She listened, then continued, “Just as you promised. Good. Nothing.”

Stenman hung up and asked Hans: “How much rupiah do we have left on this loan?”

“One point two U.S.,” he said.

“Offer it all. We break the bank, now.”

A minute later, Hans turned, flashing bright yellow teeth. “They no longer pay the support—the rupiah is bullshit. Look,” he said, pointing to his currency screen, “chaos. It has happened.”

A little later, Peter studied his Reuters. The headlines read:

INDONESIA DEVALUES RUPIAH

INDONESIA TO ANNOUNCE CUTBACKS IN
GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED PROGRAMS—
INCLUDING LAYOFFS

CAPITAL FLEES INDONESIA

“That’s it,” Stenman celebrated. She then said something in German.

Hans laughed at her words while Peter smiled and nodded and played along as if he too spoke German and understood. Maybe he didn’t get the literal meaning of things, but he did understand, and he did share in the joy of the moment. He had arrived, finally, at the top of the mountain and, he discovered, the mountain was made of piles and piles of U.S. greenbacks.

As Peter continued to watch and listen to Hans, he put the mathematical side of his brain to work. He had overheard Hans mention they had borrowed a total of eight billion dollars in rupiah over the past two weeks. With now-current levels of devaluation, that meant Stenman Partners stood to clear something like $2 billion in profit by buying the Indonesian currency back at discounted prices and repaying the loan. Good work if you can get it, he mused.

Half the night later, Stenman said, “Peter, pick up the phone. Hans will feed you the words—you will learn new lessons.”

Hans looked at Peter as if he were toilet throw-up. “You,” he said to Peter, “call Bank of . . .”

For the remainder of the night, Peter learned his new lessons. He sat, spoke, yelled, and did everything they told him to do within the rarified confines of Morgan Stenman’s office. He learned the meaning of previously nonsensical words like “pips” and “cross-rates” and “interest-rate differentials.” He bought, then sold, then bought back currency at lower prices. Nobody in the markets understood what Stenman and her traders— including a new guy, Peter Neil—were up to. Stuart had said that they used smoke and mirrors in every major transaction. It now made complete sense to Peter. He was a magician confounding the masses.

When he finished with the rupiah in London’s panicked marketplace, several hours later, Peter reached a decision: he was happy. His former life was a million miles away. He had participated in bringing down a country’s central bank, and watched his employer make two billion dollars. Two billion was two thousand million dollars. Two million thousand dollars. He no longer had debts. Had money in the bank. He had made good in a tough world. His career would soon whiz past his friend Stuart’s, and maybe soon he would be out from under Howard Muller’s control. Agent Dawson was a clown. No longer a concern. All was good. Very, very good. It couldn’t get any better than this. Soon, he’d be making some of these decisions. Have important people afraid of what was on his mind.

Peter couldn’t help himself. He grinned until his face hurt.

“Adrenaline ought to be sold in bottles,” Peter said to Stuart as he folded himself into his desk chair at six a.m., having come straight from Morgan’s office. “Best damn drug in the world.”

The euphoria had yet to subside, and Peter fidgeted with the aftereffects.

“Where you been?” Stuart asked.

“Making history. You hear about Indonesia, overnight?”

“Do I look deaf, dumb, and blind? Of course I heard, dude—it’s got the world topsy-turvy. Latin American markets are going to get crushed— the usual ripple effect. The Crash of ’87 is going to be a pancake breakfast in comparison. By the by, we’re short those markets: lucky, eh?” He meant his grin to be conspiratorial. “Everyone’s assuming that the domino effect will force other developing markets to devalue. U.S. Treasuries: up two points in a flight to quality. Fortunately,” Stuart winked, “we were also long Treasury futures up our assholes.”

The statement reminded Peter of Oliver Dawson’s comments. He’d made a similar reference to Treasuries when describing his aborted investigation of Stenman.

“Whatta you know about the rupiah situation?” Stuart asked.

“Nothing,” Peter lied. “I reckon Stenman Partners might be a player, is all.”

“Already on the news wires, Sherlock. Everybody’s calling this another of Morgan’s brilliant plays. A few politicians are crying rivers, though.”

“Why should they care?”

“These flaming liberal a-holes say that with unemployment and flight of capital out of these countries after they devalue, their economies are going to circle the drain and the poor people will get poorer, blah, blah, blah. It’s bullshit. All Morgan does—at least this is the party line—is speed up the inevitable. Push governments to do what they should have done in the first place.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“Sure, Petey. Truth. We’re a bastion of truth, justice, and the American way.” Stuart swiped his nose.

“You’re getting an earlier and earlier start with that shit, Stuart. Market’s not even open yet.”

“An appetizer. Enough to give me a mental edge. Look . . .”

He pointed to a news story indicating that market rumors suggested that Brazil would devalue the real against the U.S. dollar within forty-eight hours. Their debt, according to the text, had traded down to forty cents on the dollar, and they had applied to the U.S. Treasury and the IMF for loans to support their currency. According to the wire service reporter who wrote the story, receiving aid was unlikely.

“This’ll be interesting,” Stuart said. “Guy advising the Brazilian government used to work for Morgan as an economist.”

“Stenman and Muller—they seem to be connected everywhere. Or am I overstating things?” Peter asked.

“Nope. The answer is: everywhere. And I mean, everywhere. By the way, we should have the Uhlander Pharm thing covered by end of day. You want me to handle your end?”

“Sure. Makes more sense to consolidate our order.” Peter stamped and filled out a buy-ticket. He handed it to Stuart. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have gotten so hot yesterday when you mentioned the takeover. You saved me some significant money.”

“Not that you need it after all the money you made on the PC play. Maybe in an hour or two—you know, as a little payback for my looking after you all the time—you could cover for me while I take a conference room recess.”

Peter agreed, but not before advising Stuart again to take it easy. “You’re going overboard with that shit.”

“No such thing, dude.”

By two in the afternoon, Peter’s all-nighter had caught up with him. He headed home with jelly-legged exhaustion one hour after the market closed. He zipped past the state park and the stretch of beach heading north from Stenman Partners’ La Jolla location. Although mentally burned-out, he purposely passed the turn to his co-op and made the decision to continue up the coast. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the mail depot where his mother had an address. What was her box number? Four hundred and something—405 or 406? For reasons he didn’t understand, his fatigue had vanished.

Once inside the mailroom, he looked for the larger rental boxes. He spotted them along a bottom row, near an exit. He stooped and tried 405. The key didn’t fit. He worked his way down. When he got to 408, the key slid in and spun. He pulled the door open, listening to the chirping of hidden hinges. The narrowness of the mailbox had bowed the two registered envelopes—sent to Hannah Neil from Hannah Neil—requiring Peter to tug hard to free them from their home. Flattening them out, he hesitated to read the handwriting on the envelopes.

What were you up to, Mom? he thought.

Peter then grabbed the scrunched-up wad of junk mail that bunched half-in and half-out of the box. He carried the handful to the trashcans, but went through the sheets one at a time, making certain he discarded nothing significant in the tangled mass. He separated out the mail he’d come for and tossed the rest.

Closing the mailbox, Peter paid the bill and prepaid, in cash, for another six months.

He went to a corner of the office and set the mail on a countertop. He began with the letter to him, from his mother. His hands trembled as he unfolded the typed page and read:

Dearest Peter,
I do not expect you will ever read this, and I don’t know why I am writing you. Only that I am nervous. When I heard about . . .

At this point in the letter, his mother had written Jackson Securities and crossed it out, not quite enough to hide the words. She continued:

 . . . certain recent events, I knew I was responsible. I sent some things to a man at the SEC, someone I thought I could trust. He must have leaked the information. I want to believe it is all an unfortunate coincidence, but I cannot.

In these registered envelopes are documents that would implicate certain people in a massive conspiracy. I have breached legal ethics by making copies of these confidential papers. I do not know what to do with what I know.

Do not open the registered envelopes. The date and seal will prove to any interested party that you have not made copies of the contents.

If you are threatened, you must return the envelopes to Jason Ayers, in their current sealed condition. He loves us and will protect you, just as he has provided for me over the years.

I wish I had not embarked on this insane crusade. It has already brought so much misery, and I now realize there is no way to win. These people are too powerful.

Love always,
Mom

Against his cheek, the pages felt warm, and his mother seemed alive.

Momentarily distracting him, a thick man in a brown suit pushed his way past, nearly brushing against Peter’s shoulder. The man stopped and stared less than five feet from where Peter stood. Had he been followed? Peter felt a wave of panic flush his face. He thought about his next move— flight or fight?

In the midst of Peter’s confusion, the other man’s face suddenly turned soft. “You look upset,” he said. “You okay, mister?”

With those words, Peter realized that tears had rolled down his cheek. He wiped them with a sleeve and answered, “Yeah. Just a letter from someone I love . . .”

The man nodded like he understood. “Love can be a bitch,” he said, and exited the mailroom.

As he recomposed himself, Peter debated whether to take the personal letter home with him, but decided not to. He placed everything back into the mailbox and re-locked it. His mother’s hiding place had proven effective for this long. Why not a while longer? The temptation to open the registered mail quickly passed. His mother emphasized he should not. Filtered through his taut nerves, her advice seemed brilliant. Sometimes, he convinced himself, ignorance was bliss—at least relatively speaking.

When he arrived home half an hour later, Peter had two phone messages. The first was from Drew Franklin: “White Bread. Long time no hear. Baby’s due soon and she’s gonna be a girl. Yippy. Monica and I want to name her Hannah. I hope that’s okay with you? Don’t forget your friends. I’ve left a couple messages and not heard back from you. We still love ya, guy.”

Henry jumped into Peter’s lap as he pressed the play button for the next message. Peter’s smile disappeared the moment the man’s words filled the room.

“I was fired from the SEC yesterday. My investigation was unsanctioned, as you know by now. I will leave you alone, of course, since I am no longer a government employee. All I can do is wish you luck. You’re gonna need it.”

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Peter felt a fresh bout of anxiety coming on. Dawson fired? He disliked Dawson. Or did he? He didn’t believe anything the agent had told him. Or did he?

“How much does it cost to bribe a dirty cop?” the agent had asked. With the information in the letter from his mother, Peter fought against the feeling that fresh meat hung on the carcass of Dawson’s arguments. It had all turned into a confusing mess.

“Dawson got what he deserved,” Peter said to Henry. “The man is dangerously misguided.”

One thing, however, stabbed at Peter’s rationalization. If only former Agent Oliver Dawson had never asked: “How much does it cost?”