“Look, we both knew this was coming. And you’re practically running the show as it is.”
What does he say to that? He can hardly agree. “Yes, but without you, without-”
“Yeah, yeah, stop it.” Vaughan pauses, then clears his throat. “So, is this what they’re all talking about there? Where’s the old man? What’s going on?”
“Actually, no, it’s not.” Howley glances over his shoulder. “This thing down at the Rygate has everyone pretty exercised at the moment.”
“Right. Well, sure, it’s a big story. Three strikes. There’ll be no getting away from it now.” A short silence follows. “Craig, we’ll make this quick. We’ll set it up, put out a statement.”
Howley nods. “Okay, Jimmy.”
“Call me in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
“And in the meantime, I might send some stuff over for you to look at, some notes.”
“Okay.” Howley furrows his brow.
Some notes.
When he turns around to face the room, he feels weirdly self-conscious, as though he has somehow pulled a fast one. But the feeling doesn’t last. He hands the phone back to Angela and takes his drink again.
He joins a small group and within less than a minute has subtly steered the conversation around to the subject of bringing private equity companies public.
“So,” someone eventually asks, “what about Oberon?”
“Well,” Howley says, as though the question had never occurred to him. “I’m of two minds, really.” He raises his glass and drains what’s in it. “But not for long. One way or the other, I’ll be making a decision about it very soon.”
THREE
It was at a reception in Cardinal Spellman’s residence prior to attending the Al Smith Dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria in October of 1948 that William J. Vaughan was introduced to the young congressman from Massachusetts. The two were spotted later that night by Walter Winchell at El Morocco “cupiding” a couple of girls from the chorus of Brigadoon.
– House of Vaughan (p. 103)
7
ON THE WAY BACK UPTOWN IN A CAB, Ellen replays what she has on her phone. It’s blurry and chaotic, but it’s all there-except for the first few seconds. It was only when she spotted Scott Lebrecht coming out of the revolving doors of the hotel that she lifted her phone, flicked it to camera mode, and started recording-by which point, of course, the action was already under way… young guy rushing forward, arm outstretched, bulky doorman mounting a counterattack. But from that point on she pretty much caught the whole thing.
As the city blocks flit past outside now, she makes a couple of calculations. One, this surely confirms her theory. Whoever those guys were, they weren’t professional, weren’t military trained, certainly weren’t any kind of “special ops.” And they weren’t jihadis, either. From what Ellen could make out they looked like… just two young white guys. One of them was wearing a gray zip-front hoodie and jeans, and the other one had on a heavier coat, jeans, and a woolly hat.
Her second calculation is that she won’t have been the only one back there quick on the draw with a camera phone. She might have been the first, but there’ll have been others-and there’ll have been CCTV footage as well, no doubt-which means… no way this doesn’t get out, no way this whole story doesn’t undergo a serious retrofit.
Which in turn, of course, leaves her high and dry.
Because what else has she got?
Given how these two guys have left themselves so exposed-dozens of witnesses, cameras, possible forensics-Ellen can’t imagine they’ll be remaining free for very long.
That’ll wrap the whole thing up. And with zero input from her.
She looks out the window.
At least she won’t have to deal with the guilt of having allowed, or enabled-or, at any rate, refused to prevent-the killing of Scott Lebrecht.
She’s assuming here that the limo driver makes it.
He was still on his feet. There was no blood.
Ellen decides to get out at Eighty-ninth Street and walk the remaining four blocks. As she’s turning onto Ninety-third Street her cell phone rings.
“Hi, Max.”
“Holy shit, Ellen.”
“What?”
“You were right.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s everywhere.”
“It only happened forty minutes ago.”
“They have footage of it, from someone’s phone. It’s on MSNBC.”
“I knew it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was there. I got it on my fucking phone.”
“What?”
Standing outside her building, glancing around, she explains.
“Jesus, Ellen.”
“What?” Feeling defensive all of a sudden. “You think I should have reported this? I was going to. I was on my way in to see you.”
“No, I mean you could have been hurt. Those guys had guns.” He exhales loudly. “It’s insane.”
She bites her lip. “Did they mention the limo driver?”
“Er… not specifically. What-”
“There was a single shot discharged. One of the limo drivers took the bullet.”
“All they’re saying is that one person was wounded, no details.”
“Wounded.” She pictures him standing there, the look on his face.
“You want to write this up, Ellen? We can put it on the website, upload your footage. Tweet the shit out of it. Maybe draw in a few hits.”
“Listen to you.”
Then she goes silent, thinking about it.
“Ellen?”
“How do I explain what I was doing there?”
“You were covering the equity conference.”
“I don’t know, Max. Let me look at it again and I’ll call you back.”
She heads inside.
The air is stuffy from last night. She opens all the windows and puts on some coffee. She transfers the footage from her phone to her iMac and watches it a couple of times. Then she turns on MSNBC to see what they’ve got. Alex Wagner and a panel of talking heads discussing payroll tax cuts. She goes to their website and sees the clip there.
Hers is better.
Longer, more detailed, clearer, less jumpy. But theirs is alright. It gets the point across. The report that goes with it is sketchy, but she can already see the shape of what’s emerging.
Her version, basically.
Or what her version would have been if she’d managed to get it out there. But it’s too late now. Because these guys will be in custody within hours. She’s convinced of that.
She skips the coffee and lies down for a while, exhaustion catching up with her.
When she opens her eyes again it’s after five.
Groggy and stiff, she rolls off the side of the bed and sits there with her head in her hands. What a weird, misshapen day it’s turned out to be.
She gets up and checks the usual news sources.
No developments, just a heightened realization that this is actually a huge story. The Yemen thing is mentioned again, and there are sidebars about corporate executives upping their security details. “Citizen” journalism is dissected, and the phone footage is shown endlessly.
She flicks around all the channels and websites, checks Facebook and Twitter, and aggregates the various reports in her head. The banner here is that Wall Street is under attack and no one seems to have the first clue who the attackers are.
Or no one is saying.
Because Ellen presumes the police are making headway with what they’ve got. It was Broadway, after all, and in broad daylight, so there’ll be CCTV footage from every angle. Witness statements, ballistics, prints, fibers, particles.
A DNA deposit, maybe. On the doorman.