10
LARA
Week 2: Wednesday Morning
“Lara, hi!” Steve Ennis looks up from his desk, blinking in surprise to see me standing in his doorway. “Thought you were at Wolfe today.”
“I’m headed there next. I just needed to pick up a couple things from my desk.” And was hoping to catch you.
I keep telling myself I’m paranoid, but I’m fairly certain my boss is avoiding me. I’ve sent him three e-mails in as many days, and he hasn’t replied to any. Nor has he returned my two voice mails.
“You got a minute?” I ask when he doesn’t invite me in.
“Sure. Sure, come on in,” he says, closing the folder he was perusing. “Shut the door.”
The difference between Steve’s office and Ian’s is almost comical. Both are fancy but generic office settings, but one’s from lack of budget, the other from lack of caring.
The SEC is the first category. For starters, the office is on the twelfth floor instead of the millionth. Steve’s got a corner office, but instead of looking at New York landmarks, we’ve got a grade-A view of another office and an apartment building with residents who decline to close their blinds more often than not.
The inside aesthetic is different, too. Fluorescent lights, scattered paper clips, a tired chair, and the perpetual smell of stale coffee.
My boss fits right in. He’s not a bad-looking man, but the ill-fitted don’t give a shit suit does nothing to flatter his ever-expanding middle, and his thick head of salt-and-pepper hair could do well with a haircut that costs more than twelve dollars on his lunch break.
That, or maybe I’ve spent too much time with the polish of Wolfe Investments.
“What can I do you for?” he asks as I sit and cross my legs. Is it just me, or does his voice seem too booming, too upbeat?
“You got my status report on the J-Conn/Bradley case?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. Sounds like a real toughie we lobbed at you.”
A real toughie? Not being able to find any evidence after more than a week of looking isn’t a toughie. It’s called not having a case.
“He let you at his personal files?” Steve asks. “Guy like that won’t put anything on the company servers.”
“He did. And his e-mail. I’m only about halfway through, but the chances of there being any useful information in there are slim.”
“You saying you think he destroyed something?”
“No,” I say carefully. It’s not like Steve to put words in my mouth. “I think in the six years I’ve been doing this, nobody has been stupid enough to leave evidence in their personal files. You know as well as I do that requesting the files is a stalling technique.”
His gaze sharpens a bit, his smile slipping.
I’m not insubordinate—I’m known as much for being easy to work with as I am for being tenacious and thorough. But something is going on here that I’m not fully informed on, and it’s starting to piss me off. At first I thought it was just some weird gut reaction messing with my head, and I don’t put much stock in instinct. However, the facts aren’t lining up, either. There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, connecting Ian Bradley to J-Conn.
Yet, I remind myself. Nothing yet.
“Look, Steve, you put me on this case because you trust me. I was at your wedding, for goodness’ sake,” I say, gesturing to the family photo on his desk taken a couple of years ago.
His third wedding, but who’s counting.
“I need to know why you think our source is reliable,” I say. “I need to know what you know. Who gave us the tip? What specifics did he tell you?”
He’s already shaking his head. “No can do.”
“Why?” I say, dangerously close to throwing my arms up in the air in complete exasperation.
“I’ve already told you, this is a confidential informant. It was part of the deal when he came to me. I am the only one to know his identity until it comes time for testimony.”
“Steve.” I gentle my voice and try for the soothing tone I use with nervous witnesses. “If the informant is too squirrelly to come forward now, what makes you think he’ll testify? You know how often witnesses lose their nerve when it’s time to put their name on paper. Being labeled as a whistle-blower is just as damaging to a reputation as being the criminal.”
If not more so. Wall Street disdains a cheater.
But they loathe a whistle-blower.
Though I’m never privy to the actual conversations, it’s not unheard of for big players to take matters into their own hands. Rather than come to the SEC with their information, they’ll go directly to the offender with a blistering do it again, and I’ll cut you off at the knees.
It’s considered a sign of respect among peers.
Steve’s source is either significantly beneath Ian in status and has zero authority to go toe to toe with him directly or he’s hiding behind the SEC.
I don’t mind. It’s what we’re here for. But it tells me we’re not dealing with someone with much brass. And those sources are the most likely to back out when it comes time to testify.
And if that happens, guess who’s stuck holding a broken case . . .
Me.
“It’s my reputation on the line, too,” I say quietly to Steve. I’m not going to beg, but I’m not going to be a pawn, either.
Steve gives an emphatic shake of his head and stands, indicating that the conversation is over. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
I stand and meet my boss’s gaze head-on. “You essentially told me that this case could be my high-profile win to warrant Quantico’s attention. If the investigation never gets past the informal stage, it’s not going to be high profile. It’ll be dead in the water.”
“It’ll get to the formal stage,” he says dismissively, going around the desk to the door.
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I say, following him to the door and trying to hide my impatience. “So far, it’s not warranting a formal investigation. I can’t find a single piece of evidence linking Ian Bradley to J-Conn or anyone with inside knowledge of J-Conn’s impending doom.”
Steve opens the door, my dismissal clear, but not without a parting shot. “Lara, you still want the FBI recommendation?”
“Of course.”
“Then find some damn evidence.”