“Make that Fifty-seventh and First,” I told the driver.
Chuck Bell had been featured two months earlier in New York magazine, with several pictures of him in his penthouse apartment. It turned out that we were practically neighbors. The cab dropped me in front of the building, and I asked the front desk attendant to ring Bell’s apartment for me.
“Tell him it’s Michael Cantella.”
Three minutes later, Chuck Bell and I were alone in the cavernous lobby, seated facing each other on matching chrome and strap-leather chairs. He seemed energized-hopeful that another Saxton Silvers insider was about to spill his guts.
“Can we talk off the record?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll make you the same promise I made to my other source: I won’t reveal your identity.”
“That’s actually what I’ve come here to talk about: your source.”
He was suddenly cautious. “What about my source?”
“I’m asking you to go on the air and state in no uncertain terms that Michael Cantella is not your source.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you know who your source is, and you know it’s not me.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m a journalist. I’m never going to reveal a source, not even under a court order.”
“I’m simply asking you to reveal that I am not the source. Even Woodward and Bernstein were willing to do that much when they confirmed that Al Haig and others were not Deep Throat.”
“And they were lucky it didn’t blow up in their faces. I’m not interested in playing a public process of elimination that will inevitably lead to the disclosure of my source. Besides,” he said with a wry smile, “how do I know you’re not a source for my source?”
I watched him closely, wondering if he was merely taunting me or trying to tell me something. Bell rose, and so did I. He took a business card from his pocket and wrote a number on the back of it.
“This is my cell,” he said. “Call me if you decide we should talk.”
I didn’t take it. He placed it on the glass-topped table between us and left it there.
“Be sure to watch me again tonight at eleven-thirty,” he said. “This story is getting so much bigger than FNN. I’m hosting a round-table discussion about Wall Street on network television.”
He turned and headed to the elevator.
When he was gone, I took the card with his cell number and tucked it into my wallet. I didn’t want to take it, but he’d managed to make me feel as though I’d need it-a feeling that triggered a sinking realization as I left his building. Chuck Bell was poison. Rat poison.
And I was the little mouse running blindly through the maze.
22
ANDREA WAS DRESSED IN HER PAJAMAS, STANDING BEFORE THE BATHROOM mirror and confirming her suspicions: too much of her dark roots were showing. Michael Cantella had seemed fixated on them at the restaurant.
All her life Andrea had been an “exotic beauty,” turning heads with the high cheekbones and raven-black hair of her Native American mother and the striking green eyes of her Anglo father. The idea of going blond for the first time in her life had been kind of fun. The maintenance, however, was a pain in the ass. And a cheap-looking blond dye job wasn’t in keeping with her assumed image.
There was a knock at the door. She pulled on her robe and let in her “fiancé.”
“How did it go today?” he asked.
Phil Shores was a smooth-talking James Bond wannabe who had managed to convince someone in a position of power that he could pull off playing an internal compliance officer at Saxton Silvers. He certainly wasn’t unattractive, but he was nowhere near the eye candy he thought he was-not at all Andrea’s type.
“Not great,” she said. “It seems the word is out that we don’t sleep together.”
“According to whom?”
“Mallory Cantella told me.”
“The ditz is smarter than we thought.”
“She’s no ditz, and she’s not the only one who knows. Our maid let it slip.”
“The maid? She came only once before we were told a housekeeper wasn’t in the budget.”
“Apparently once was enough.”
He leaned against the bathroom door frame, arms folded across his broad chest. “Well, we could always put the rumors to rest-and have a good time doing it.”
“In your dreams.”
Andrea switched off the light, breezed past him, and went to her bedroom. She knew Phil had been kidding, but not completely kidding.
The jerk would nail anything blond.
Andrea climbed into bed and grabbed the remote. She was tired of listening to Chuck Bell, but her last assignment of this very long day was to watch his round-table discussion at eleven thirty P.M. The guy was to Saxton Silvers what the National Enquirer was to celebrity breakups.
Andrea watched as the show opened from Times Square with a shot of the famous high-tech display that wrapped around the cylindrical NASDAQ building. Saxton Silvers was a NYSE-listed company, but as if to underscore the pervasive impact of the story, the firm’s name was all over the NASDAQ marquee that lit up Broadway with up-to-the-minute financial newsflashes. The image switched abruptly to an interior shot of the NASDAQ MarketSite. Electronic screens inside the digital broadcast studio carried live updates from markets that were open for trading on the other side of the world. Finally, the introductory credits and voice-over stopped, and Chuck Bell took over from his seat behind the news desk.
“Good evening, and welcome,” he said.
The host of FNN’s hit show Bell Ringer-he mentioned it twice in thirty seconds-was grinning widely as he introduced his panel of experts: a hedge-fund manager, a retired member of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal, and two other “experts” for whom Andrea had missed the introductions while struggling with a too-short strand of dental floss. This wasn’t FNN-not the usual shouting on the set-so she increased the volume and listened to Bell “get the ball rolling” with the latest revelation from his source.
“It seems that Michael Cantella didn’t just unload his holdings in Saxton Silvers the night before the stock dropped through the floor,” said Bell. “My source tells me that Cantella was actually betting against his company with short sales that could net him eight figures-literally overnight. And the number just keeps getting bigger as the stock continues to drop.
“It’s a short-selling frenzy,” said the hedge-fund hotshot. “All it takes is one or two multibillion-dollar hedge funds to jump on the short-selling bandwagon of a failing investment bank worth seventy-five billion, and Cantella’s personal profit is going to look like peanuts.”
Bell said, “That’s precisely the reason I have been so careful with my reporting. I trust my source.”
The print journalist jumped in. “There are those who would say that Michael Cantella is your source.”
Bell smiled and shrugged coyly, saying nothing.
Another chimed in. “Come on, Chuck. Give us a clue.”
Andrea kept watching as she reached for the telephone.
Bell continued, “All I have to say on this subject is maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t Michael Cantella. This journalist will never reveal his source.”
Andrea smiled flatly and said, “We’ll see about that.”
She dialed from memory the number she could never write down anywhere, then bounced an idea off someone much smarter than Phil the phony fiancé.