He watched them closely, waiting for them to veer to the left or right, toward the pavilion of retail shops flanking the entrance. The group steered a course toward the smoked-glass doors. Leaving his position by the jewelry store, Bolden strolled briskly across the lobby. A young woman trailing the pack caught his eye. “Just move in?” he asked, catching up to her.
“Me? Oh, I don’t live here,” the woman responded.
“But you should,” he said. “The views are marvelous. On a clear day… well, you know how the song goes.”
Ahead, the leader of the group waved to a guard who had already swung the door open and was ushering them in.
“The top floors are a must,” Bolden prattled on. “Cost a fortune, but the way I see it, if you’re going to break the bank, why not go all the way. What’s this, a birthday party? Someone get a raise?”
He was the bullshit artist he’d always despised, throwing one line of garbage after the next. To his horror, he saw that it was working. Not only was this serious, reserved-looking woman giving him the time of day, she seemed flattered by the attention.
“A celebration,” she said. “We just won a commission. Champagne at the boss’s place.”
“Congratulations, then. I’m sure you did all the work.”
The woman smiled self-consciously. “Only a little.”
“You’re lying. I can tell. Your cheeks are turning red. You did it all.” Bolden never removed his gaze from the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the guards giving every member of the group the once-over, doing a head count as they passed. It was then that the woman stumbled. Her heel caught on the carpet and she turned an ankle. As Bolden put out a hand to steady her, he bumped into the security guard holding the door. The woman cried out briefly, caught herself, and laughed. The entire group stopped as one, and turned to check that she was all right. The boss, an older man with a long iron gray ponytail, insisted on escorting her to the elevator. The group ambled down the hallway, their voices merry.
Left alone, Bolden turned and smiled at the guard. He was waiting for the hand to fall on his shoulder and ask him who he was, and just what in the name of God did he think he was doing trying to fake his way into the apartment building. Instead, he received a gracious “Excuse me, sir,” followed by “Have a nice evening.”
And then it was over. He was through the doors, strolling across the muted gray and polished-silver lobby, past the oriental antiquities and faux Bayeux tapestry.
He caught up to the group and they all filed into the same elevator. The architects got off at fifty-five. Bolden waited until the last had gone, then pushed seventy-seven. The penthouse. Gossip around the office was that it had gone for a cool twelve million.
“On a clear day,” he whistled, for the security camera and for himself. Reaching into his overcoat, he pulled out his baseball cap. A few calls had established that Schiff was at home, waiting to be picked up by Barry, his chauffeur, and driven out to Teterboro Airport to fly down to D.C. for Jefferson’s Ten Billion Dollar Dinner.
The elevator opened and he stepped into a cool beige corridor. Beige carpeting, beige paneling, dim lights. A door on either side of the corridor led to the penthouse apartments. Schiff’s he knew faced east, toward the park. Bolden rang the bell. He stood with his shoulder to the door, his head cocked to obscure his face. Just then, he heard a buzzer. The latch turned automatically. A voice issued from an invisible speaker. “That you, Barry?”
“Yes sir.”
Bolden pushed open the door.
Mickey Schiff rounded the corner of the entryway. He looked tanned and dapper, dressed in evening attire. Bolden rushed forward, took him by his collar, and slammed him into the wall.
“Get out of here,” said Schiff. “I already called security.”
“If you called security, you wouldn’t have let me in.”
Bolden pushed Schiff in front of him, guiding him into the living room. The condominium was decorated in a bachelor’s style, with sleek, arty furniture that didn’t look particularly inviting, the living room dominated by a sixty-inch plasma screen and a very large Picasso from his Blue Period. A bachelor worth a couple of hundred million dollars, that is.
“Sit,” said Bolden, pointing to the couch.
Reluctantly, Schiff lowered himself onto a cushion.
“You going to the Jefferson dinner?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
Bolden sat down on a matching couch across the coffee table. “First thing you have to realize is that you’re screwed.”
“How’s that?” Schiff asked, brushing dust from his tux.
“Let me lay it out, just so we’re clear, Lieutenant Colonel Schiff. I’ll keep it simple. Your last act as a marine supply officer was to steer a seventy-five-million-dollar contract to Fanning Firearms, a company owned by Defense Associates, an LBO firm James Jacklin set up in 1979, right after he left the Pentagon. In exchange for handing Fanning Firearms the contract, he paid you over a million dollars. Three hundred twenty thousand went for the down payment of the house in Virginia. The rest, he wired to your new account at Harrington Weiss. In addition, you received a cushy job at Defense Associates and a starting salary of five hundred thousand dollars. Even today that’s a lot for a guy with no banking experience. Back then it was a fortune.”
“I did no such thing,” spat Schiff. “That’s a shameless lie.”
“Numbers never lie.” Bolden removed a sheaf of papers he’d stuffed into the rear of his waistband and threw it onto the coffee table. “It was the first thing you taught us in our training class. Anyway, you’ll find all the details there.”
Schiff examined the papers. “Where did you get these…” he began, then dropped the papers on the couch. “That was twenty-five years ago. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“Who’s talking about pressing charges? I’m going straight to The Wall Street Journal with this. I can’t think of a reporter that wouldn’t kill for this scoop. Hell, Mickey… it’s not an article. It’s a book. Besides,” added Bolden, “integrity’s mandatory for running a Wall Street firm. The statute of limitations never runs out on that.”
“You want to believe that, go ahead.”
“You know something? I do want to believe that.”
Schiff considered the information, his eyes darting from the papers lying on the coffee table to Bolden and back again. He ran a hand across his mouth, alternately frowning and pursing his lips. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “What do you want?”
“What do you think? Your help.”
“And then?”
“I’ll tear up the papers.”
“Your word?”
“I can’t destroy the records, but I’ll give you my word that I won’t turn you in. But you don’t get HW. I won’t do that to Sol.”
“Sol? Is he the saint now?”
“You weren’t the first person Jacklin bribed to get a contract, and you certainly weren’t the last. It’s his modus operandi. Five’ll get you ten that half of Jefferson’s counselors are on the take. All I’m asking is for you to help me take a look.”
“And for that you’ll forget everything you know about my involvement with Defense Associates?”
“Not quite. You’re going to the police and telling them that I didn’t kill Sol. You’re going to say that as a witness you are willing to swear that I wasn’t holding the gun when it went off. You’re also going to write a memo informing everyone at the firm that I didn’t touch Diana Chambers.”
“Anything else?” asked Schiff.