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“Video cams?” Hamilton’s skin prickled. For weeks now, his quant, Jackson, had been asking for in-house data, digging deeper and deeper. Hamilton had had a feeling that Jackson had discovered something.
This wasn’t in Ricks’ wheelhouse. But he’d heard rumors of a good security company that, for the right price, could be persuaded to do whatever you needed. For the right price. Music to his ears. He’d contacted Sierra Security Services and the vice president of operations hadn’t turned a hair. Toby Jackson had been taken out of circulation smoothly and quietly.
After the tenth, he’d be dumped on his doorstep with pharmacological amnesia and no clue where he’d been. They’d wiped his work computers. With no incriminating evidence, it would be too late for him to say anything. If he hadn’t figured anything out … well, he’d had a vacation of forced rest. Hamilton had even planned on giving him a hard time for going AWOL from the job and then firing him. Because Toby wouldn’t have anything like a legitimate explanation and would never suspect his boss.
“All video cams were down for half an hour. That’s including all along the street. It was someone who knew what they were doing, both with the cams and in overpowering the two operators.”
This was awful. “So, we’re talking one person or several people?”
Ricks’ voice was sober. “No clue, boss. But definitely someone with serious computer skills and capable of getting the drop on two experienced operators and getting a captive man out slicker ’n snot.”
Hamilton ground his teeth. Ricks could sometimes be distressingly redneck.
This was potentially very bad news, so close to Day One. Hamilton tried to soft pedal it in his head. Because pushing the panic button, so close to victory, could be disastrous. Should he tell Marin? Hamilton entertained the thought, briefly.
We had a small hiccup, sir. One of our quants has gone … missing. He hasn’t reported in for work in five days and no one knows where he is. He might, ahem, have drawn inferences from some of the data coming from …
No. It was unthinkable. Toby had nothing, nothing concrete.
Maybe Hamilton had overplayed his hand, actually. Maybe he should have just let Toby be. What could Toby have done, after all? Contact the authorities? Who? The SEC? Hamilton had been very careful not to break any laws. Short selling was, yes, frowned upon, particularly at the scale he’d done it, but it wasn’t illegal. And anyway, no one could trace the trading back to him anyway.
For all anyone would know, a couple of trillion dollars would be sucked out of the system, down a black hole no one could follow.
Even if Toby managed to interest someone in his story – maybe some financial blogger – it was too late now. He could yap all he wanted afterward. No one would believe him anyway. Or … maybehecould be accused of some of the short selling.
Now that was an idea. Set up some accounts in Toby Jackson’s name, put some money in his accounts, gently nudge the SEC in his direction…yes that would tangle him up in knots, and the more accusations he made, the more the authorities would think he was covering up his own work.
Hamilton turned his voice mild. “Well, Ricks, keep me informed. And keep an eye on his apartment. And continue keeping an eye on Emma Holland. She is his friend and she didn’t turn up for work, either.”
Holland was as smart as Jackson and perfectly capable of adding two and two and coming up with five as well.
“Grab her tomorrow, interrogate her …”
The relief in Ricks’ voice was audible. There’d been a screw up. He wasn’t responsible in any way but screw ups had a tendency to tarnish everyone close by. And he had been given a new mission.
“Yessir. Will do, sir.”
They droveto the address Colin gave them and parked outside. It was a steep road and he had to park on a slant. Any vehicle Black Inc provided would have perfect brakes, but still.
Emma stared at the building that looked like it could have housed the Addams family, except it was in various pastel colors. “A Painted Lady,” she said, surprise in her voice.
Raul looked around. No ladies in sight, painted or otherwise.
Emma laughed. “That’s what they call these Victorian homes in San Francisco. Wooden homes built during the Victorian era in the Queen Anne style. They are usually painted in three colors or more.”
All Raul saw was a façade that looked rickety, with gables and turrets, fussy and over decorated and yes, painted in light blue, dark blue and yellow and green. He had no idea what Queen Anne was and didn’t care. The place looked like where the witch took Hansel and Gretel. Like it would blow over in a strong wind.
He glanced over at Emma so they could make fun of it together, but she had stars in her eyes.
“Colin lives in a Painted Lady,” she sighed.
Chicks.
You had to walk up a steep stoop to get to the door, which seemed to Raul weird right there. A curtain twitched, he saw Colin’s pale face and the door opened.
Raul walked behind Emma, turned and took a good look around the street while she greeted Colin. He knew how to look and what to look for. He searched the street in quarters, 180°. A quarter view, blink to black, another quarter view, blink to black. Nothing suspicious, nothing overtly out of place. Very few people on the street. A middle-aged man walking a remarkably ugly dog with a fancy sweater, a kid skateboarding, an elderly Chinese gentleman carrying bags of vegetables, tufts of green poking out of the top of the bag.
Most people were working. No one had tailed them coming here, he’d made sure of that. They were good to go. He turned back around.
