The summer after he turned twenty-one, Hanover was working as a bartender in an East Village club when he broke up a violent confrontation between a drunken young woman and her date, sobered her up, and escorted her home. His demeanor when he delivered her so impressed her father-who was CEO of one of the larger Wall Street firms-that Hanover was invited to come in for a job interview. Again the CEO was impressed, particularly by Hanover’s grasp of financial complexities, and hired him as his personal assistant. Later Hanover modestly described his knowledge as “nothing more than anybody could find out from reading the business pages and a few books.” From then on his career ran on a fast upward trajectory.
Articles I accessed about Hanover compared him to investment guru Warren Buffett-except Hanover had achieved that status at a much earlier age. Photographs on the sites I visited showed a handsome, brown-haired man with a strong jaw and intense gaze. Hanover was forty-three but looked nowhere near his age-or else he used old publicity photos. He was a skydiver and a pilot, and enjoyed scuba diving. Fifteen years ago he’d married Betsy Willis, a New York City socialite; the union had produced two children-Alyssa, now fourteen, and Trevor Jr., ten.
And then last May the success story had begun to unravel-
I was about to begin a more detailed search when Kristen Lark knocked at the door and called out. I closed the laptop, went to let her in, and poured coffee, and we sat at the table in the breakfast nook.
“So how about you and I bring each other up to speed on what we know,” I said.
Lark nodded. “Okay. Start with Boz Sheppard: he’s currently in jail in Independence, Inyo County. Got picked up in a drug sting Thursday night. We sent an officer down to interview him. He claims he left Vernon to swing the deal in Inyo County the day you saw him toss Amy out of his pickup, and hasn’t been back to town since.”
“Has he got people who will alibi him?”
Lark snorted. “Not hardly. His associates’re all criminals who’re looking for a way to wiggle out of the mess they’re in. We’ll let Inyo hold him on the drug charges-saves us feeding and housing him-and keep the pressure on. I’m going down there tomorrow.”
“Anything on Amy?”
“We’ve got BOLOs out all over the state and in Nevada, but I don’t have much hope.”
“And Tom Mathers?”
“Well, that’s interesting. The thirty-two-caliber bullet the coroner took out of him is a match for the one that killed Hayley. And it seems T.C.’s alibi isn’t as good as we thought. We’re going to get a search warrant for her house and the wilderness supply store. She certainly has access to firepower, and she’s been one hell of an angry woman lately.”
“Toward her husband?”
“Among others. She recently had something going with Rich Three Wings, but his girlfriend found out and he broke it off. There was a scene between her and Rich at the Union 76 station when they both pulled in at the same time a couple of weeks ago, and she went to Petals and got into it with Cammie Charles in front of two customers.”
“May I see your reports on that?”
“I brought copies.” Lark tapped her fingers on a file she’d set on the table. “Next we’ve got Miri Perez. Troubled lady.”
“She had reason to be.” I explained about the rape over in Nevada, and Miri’s family shunning her until she ran away.
“Who told you this?”
“Confidential sources.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you private operatives always say. It’s interesting, though, because it ties in with a local resident-Bud Smith. For years we’ve known he’s a registered sex offender, but of course the details on the underage victim are sealed. Was he Miri’s rapist?”
“He was convicted of the crime. But the general consensus, even of the prosecutor, was that he was covering for his brother.”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.” Lark paused to sip coffee. “So do you have anything else for me?”
“No.” I also wasn’t about to own up to finding Miri’s body and phoning in anonymously. And I didn’t want to hand Lark the Trevor Hanover lead till I’d checked it out thoroughly. Once an approach by law-enforcement officials is made to someone that powerful, the avenues of communication become a traffic jam of gatekeepers and attorneys.
After Lark left I went back to the computer, read accounts of the latest chapter in Trevor Hanover’s story. In May several of his investment clients had lodged complaints against him with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Excessive trading without their permission, obviously looking to score a big home run and enrich everybody, especially himself. A criminal indictment against him in August. Divorce papers served upon him in early September. Since then he’d become increasingly reclusive, going to ground in an apartment he owned in Manhattan. His family and financial empire were falling apart and, according to an anonymous friend, Hanover “wasn’t too well wrapped” these days.
I went to the agency’s search engines to dig deeper into Hanover’s background. A child named Trevor had been born to Ina and Clay Hanover on the date the bios indicated, in Erwin, Tennessee. But there were no further public records on him or his parents.
I tried neighboring states. Nothing. Widened the search. Still nothing. By then my eyes were aching from staring at the screen, and I realized it was after three and I hadn’t eaten. I also realized why I paid Mick and Derek such handsome salaries for their expertise.
I shut off the machine and went to make a sandwich.
Agency business intruded with a call from Ted. “You’ve been on the phone all day,” he said.
“Online. There’s only dial-up here. You should’ve called my cell.”
“Maybe you should check its charge.”
“Oh, hell, did it discharge again?”
“Yes.”
Ted sounded clipped, irritated. I said, “I’m sorry. I’ll charge it up right away.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing except we got a notice from the Port Commission about a big rent increase. As did all the other tenants. I think they’re trying to force us out so they can demolish the pier.”
Twenty-four and a half was one of a string of piers along the southern waterfront occupied by businesses; none of them measured up to the glitz of the refurbished Ferry Building and upscale restaurants; the city had plans for the area and they didn’t include us.
“When do we have to respond?” I asked.
“Not till after the first of the year.”
“That gives us some leeway.”
A pronounced sigh. “Shar, can I be frank with you?”
“Of course.”
“This is urgent. It’s hard to find decent space for an operation of our size in the city. And there’re other things here that need your attention.”
“Such as?”
“Adah Joslyn is fed up with the SFPD and considering a move to Denver.” Adah was an inspector on the department’s homicide detail and the live-in love of my operative Craig Morland.
“So if she goes, Craig does, too,” I said.
“Right. Also, morale is at an all-time low here. Mick and Derek have put up a sign on their office door saying ‘genius room’ and it’s pissing off everybody else.”
“For God’s sake, Ted, it’s a joke.”
“It would be if you were here. You’d put an X through the ‘genius’ and write ‘asshole’ instead, and that would be the beginning of a long string of jokes. But without you, everything’s kind of edgy. The staff meetings suck; Patrick’s so… earnest.”
They need me.
But do I need them?