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  On the way in, he’d caught the news. Beeston said it was engaged in heated talks to save the company. They were now admitting Donovan had cost them billions. Pundits were speculating that he had started to panic when the scandal at Wertheimer hit, knowing he could no longer keep the lid on his own giant losses. Now the only momentum on the Street was toward outright panic. Wertheimer was history. Beeston Holloway could be next. The whole financial sector had zero support.

  Hauck winced. The Dow had tumbled to its worst level in eight years yesterday.

  The precinct station was on East Fifty-first. Hauck went upstairs and asked a woman sitting behind the duty desk for Detective Campbell.

  The woman pointed toward a portly, red-haired man at a desk against the window in a V-neck sweater who was on the phone. “Over there.”

  Hauck walked over and waited for the detective to finish up. Campbell was scribbling notes on a pad, his foot up on an open drawer. “Gimme a second,” he said, signaling Hauck with a look that told him to wait. His desk was piled high with open files and paperwork; against the wall he had two framed pictures of his kids. There was a wooden chair next to his desk and a couple of books stacked on it. Hauck took note of one: The Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Wall Street.

  He chuckled.

  When the detective finally got off, he wheeled around in his chair to face Hauck and crossed his legs. “Shep Campbell, sorry…”

  “My name’s Hauck.” Hauck draped his sport jacket across his arm. “I used to be in homicide with the one fourteen in Queens, and later at the DOI, under Chief Burns.”

  Campbell nodded, jabbing his finger in recognition. “Yeah, I know you, don’t I? Didn’t you get your face on the tube for some big case you had up there? The Grand Central bombing, right? That guy who wasn’t dead…You’re Hauck.”

  “That’s it.” Hauck took out a card and handed it to him. The detective pursed his lips and blew out a frowning chirp. Cops who jumped ship to the private sector generally weren’t esteemed by those who had stuck around, worked out their time on a city salary. They came across a bit like sellouts.

  Campbell took note of Hauck’s firm and put the card down. “Went over the wall, huh? Can’t exactly blame you. You found your ticket. Kids gotta go to school.” He cleared the books off the chair next to his desk and motioned for Hauck to sit down. “Bet yours are in some fancy academy up there now, right? What brings you back down?”

  “The Donovan thing.” Hauck ignored the rest. “I was hoping I might ask you a few questions.”

  Campbell sighed loudly. “Topic of the day.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if there are any links to that other thing that took place up in Greenwich. That trader who was killed with his family.”

  The detective nodded, grabbing a bag of pistachios, not offering one to Hauck. “I see. That thing was connected to a home break-in ring up there, wasn’t it?”

  Hauck shrugged. “That’s what it was deemed at first.”

  “Then I’m sure you read that this one was deemed to be a suicide.” He split a nut and tossed the shell into his trash bin. “What sort of similarities are you looking for?”

  “Two money managers dead under suspicious circumstances? I was wondering if you had a chance to look over the victim’s phone records yet.”

  “Phone records?”

  “Or maybe at the building’s security cameras. I assume they have them.”

  “For what?”

  “For anyone who might’ve entered close to the time of death.”

  “Security cameras…” The detective popped the nut into his mouth and looked at Hauck’s card again. “Hauck, right? Talon… Heard of it. Big firm. This says you’re a partner up there. I know it’s hard to turn down these kinds of opportunities. Maybe if something came my way…We all have to make a choice. You mind telling me just what is your particular point of interest here?”

  A pushy ex-cop from out of town. A well-paid one at that. Coming around and sticking his nose into an active case. No particular jurisdiction. Hauck expected the response. “I knew a member of the Glassman family who was killed up there. I’m just following up to see if there’s any link between these two cases. Two rogue traders. Lots of losses. Two Wall Street firms driven over the edge. You heard the news today?”

  “Yeah, it’s all here on page one oh six, right in my trusty bible.” Campbell picked up the Wall Street manual, smirking. “I assume you’re not buying into the home-invasion angle?”

  Hauck shrugged. “All I’m buying is just to follow up. For a friend.”

  Campbell nodded again, mock-sympathetically, but his gaze stayed on Hauck, then shifted again to his card. “Hmmph, you know, maybe this is my ticket out.” He snorted. “I’m not exactly Warren effing Buffett, y’know…Not much ever came my way. Listen, Mr. Hauck”—he made the name sound like “cancer”—“I know you’ve got some time in. You seem to have a personal interest here, and I don’t want to be nosy. I also know what it’s like when you leave the force.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know, you leave early, miss the action. You probably deal with a lot of corporate stuff up there. White-collar clients. Like to keep your hands on the tiller.”

  Hauck didn’t respond. The suffering-cop routine was starting to wear thin.

  “But the facts are, Mr. Hauck, Mr. Donovan left his apartment in the night around three fifteen A.M. Like he was prone to doing lately. His wife woke up and took note of the time. Fell back to sleep. He had a key to the super’s office in the building, which is likely to get the poor sucker canned in this environment. The fingerprints on the door handle to the office were his and his alone. He used electrical wire the super kept in the storage closet there, which he slung over the ceiling pipes. The guy had a recent history of being upset. Not sleeping. He was on mood stabilizers. People at work said he was wired like a fuse. Not exactly a big surprise when someone’s lost the equivalent of the GNP of Belarus.” Campbell chuckled. “You notice how nothing less than a billion even makes the news today? Even his wife suggested the man was acting a little off lately. Forgot birthdays. Walking the dog at three A.M. You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to see the guy was depressed. Even his firm’s not pushing that anything was screwy on this. So why would we need to check his phone records? Or any video? Just who should we be looking for?”

  Hauck could have answered, Maybe for a connection to Dani Thibault, or for the man April Glassman’s son had taken a shot of, with the braided red-brown hair, tattoo on his neck. But he didn’t want to bring up Thibault as a topic until he had something more to go on. Or until Foley gave him the green light.

  And this guy was just trying to clear cases. And this one didn’t require much work.

  “Like I said, just following up for a friend,” Hauck said, taking his jacket off his arm.

  “You said you knew him, huh?”

  “Knew whom?” Hauck wrinkled his brow, not sure who the guy meant.

  “Donovan,” the detective said. “The vic.”

  “I didn’t say I knew him. I said I knew one of the persons killed in Greenwich. A minute ago you didn’t seem to imply he was a vic.”

  “No dealings with him at all?” the detective asked, removing another pistachio from the bag.

  “No dealings.” Hauck looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just trying to get things straight. That’s all.” He held up Hauck’s card. “Talon, huh? Mind if I keep this? May need some advice someday, if my ticket ever comes in.”

  Hauck stood up and folded his jacket back over his arm. “Be my guest.”

  “You know, maybe I will,” Campbell said, standing up as well; his gut was round and he was five inches shorter than Hauck. “Check out those phone records after all. Like you said. You never know what might turn up. If I did, you have a name I should be looking for?”

  “You’ll let me know when you do,” Hauck replied, “and I’ll see if one comes to mind.”

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  On the way home, Hauck took a chance and stopped on East Fifty-third Street, at the building where Donovan had lived.

  He was met by the doorman at the entrance and asked to speak with Donovan’s wife. The man, who’d clearly been alerted to keep the press and any interested outsiders at bay, looked over Hauck’s card as if there was a secret code in the paper stock. Hauck convinced him to call upstairs. “He says he was a policeman from Greenwich,” the doorman said into the phone, “that he’s following up on some things pertaining to some other case up there. He said it would only take a minute, Ms. Donovan. You want me to let him up?”

  The answer was apparently yes, and, eventually, the doorman directed him to an elevator bank on the far end of the lobby. The lobby was a full walk-through with a rear entrance that led onto Fifty-second. Hauck spotted a security camera perched on the wall above the rear door.

  As he passed, it occurred to him he’d like to have a shot at checking out that film.

  When the elevator opened on fifteen, he was met by a dark-haired woman with a pained demeanor in a black dress, her hair tied back in a bun. She introduced herself as Deena Wolf, Leslie Donovan’s sister. “We just buried my brother-in-law yesterday,” she said, as if to dissuade him. “My sister’s already spoken several times with the police…”

  “I’ll only take a second,” Hauck promised. “It’s important.”

  The woman nodded, looking harried. “Please…”

  Inside, about a dozen people were gathered in the foyer and small kitchen. Sounds of laughter and food being served mixed with the somber looks and hushed replies. A couple of young kids ran through the living room chasing a white bichon with their parents yelling after them.

  “My sister’s in here.”

  She took him into a small room that looked like a combination TV room and study. Wood shelves filled haphazardly with books and brochures. Financial documents all around. A leather couch and a wide-screen TV. Leslie Donovan sat on the couch. She had thick dark hair pulled back tightly and a pale complexion, and was dressed in a dark burgundy sweater and skirt.

  “I appreciate you seeing me,” Hauck said. “I’m sorry for your loss. I won’t take up much of your time.” He’d been in these situations many times and didn’t want to impose.

  The woman nodded a little blankly. She was pretty, with a small nose and high cheekbones, though the stress was apparent. “It’s okay. Carlos said you were a Greenwich policeman?”

  “I was in charge of the detective unit up there for six years. Now I work for a private security firm.” Hauck sat down across from her and put his card on the coffee table. She picked it up. “You’re familiar with the Glassman murders that took place up there a month ago?”

  “Of course we’re familiar with it, Mr. Hauck. Everyone in the industry followed it. That was when Jim first started acting a little strangely.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He grew agitated. Withdrawn. He stopped sleeping. Got up at night. What is your connection to these murders, Mr. Hauck, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “I was close friends with one of the family who was killed. I’m looking into whether the two incidents might be connected in any way. Two traders, two Wall Street firms collapsed. I just have a few questions.”

  “That poor family.” Leslie Donovan sighed, shaking her head. “Terrible. But my husband took his own life, Mr. Hauck. Surely you know that. What do you mean, ‘whether the two incidents might be connected’?”

  Hauck removed a photo from an envelope. The photo Merrill had given him. Dani. “I was wondering if you know this person, Ms. Donovan. Or if anyone by the name Thibault had ever come up with your husband. He’s Belgian. Dieter Thibault, or maybe Dani?”

  Donovan’s widow took the photo. “No. I don’t recognize him. I don’t know the name at all. Should I?”

  “I don’t know.” Hauck shrugged, knowing it was a long shot. “He’s someone who had a connection to Marc Glassman that I came in contact with. Is there any chance his name might be in your husband’s phone log, or maybe somewhere in his records or on his desk? Here, or at work?”

  “If you believe there’s some kind of connection between those murders and my husband, why don’t you just tell the police?” Donovan’s widow asked. “Detective Campbell of the local precinct has been very helpful. I’m sure he’d see you.”

  “Already had the pleasure,” Hauck said. “But I didn’t mention this man. I’m just not at that stage. And I don’t want to upset you unnecessarily, until I know something more. You said the Glassman murders seemed to agitate your husband. Did he discuss the incident with you in any way? Was he unnaturally focused on it? Any special importance to it you can recall?”

  “Of course he was focused on it, Mr. Hauck. They had similar jobs. The same kind of pressure. And now…” She wet her lips, shook her head. “With what’s come out, those losses…It only seems more so.” She took her thumb and forefinger and pressed them into her brow. Her sister sat down beside her on the couch and put her hand on Leslie Donovan’s knee. She drew a deep breath and shook her head, not, it seemed, in response to anything.

  “Did your husband seem afraid in any way?” Hauck asked her. “Recently. Did he ever give you the impression someone might be threatening him or out to get him?”

  Donovan’s widow stared at him. “You don’t think those poor people were killed in a break-in, do you? Or Jimmy…”

  Hauck looked back at her and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s hard enough for me to think that Jim actually could have done these things they’re accusing him of”—she pressed together her lips—“without having to think that maybe he was…” She didn’t finish the phrase. “Just what is it you are trying to say? He wasn’t sleeping. He would sometimes take calls late at night. Anyone who handles money knows what that is like. Of course, he showed a lot of stress. Of course, he wasn’t right. Look at what’s come out, Mr. Hauck. Just the other night…”

  She covered her face with her hand. Not crying. Almost hiding. Her sister put her arm around her.

  “Just the other night…Jim went downstairs. Took Remi out. At three A.M. I woke up when he came back up. He sat on the bed. He looked like he had seen a ghost. He started to tell me how he was afraid, what the losses he was suffering might mean to his career, to our family. I mean, everyone had losses. What he was hiding, I had no idea…He kept saying he’d seen the same car outside…I saw what he was going through. I wanted to help him in some way. I sat up with him for an hour. Yes, he seemed afraid. Yes, he was worried about things. But now he’s dead. It’s over. What difference does it make now, anyway?”

  Hauck asked, “Do you think your husband killed himself, Ms. Donovan?” knowing it was more than he should have said.

  Her sister looked up at him like That’s enough now. It’s time. Hauck collected the photo. He put it back in his sport coat. He stood up.

  “Do I think he killed himself?” Donovan’s widow shook her head. “I didn’t think Jim was capable of any of the things they say he did. But take his own life? No. I can’t believe that, Mr. Hauck. I don’t think I ever will. He loved us far too much. If not me, then Zachy. His son was everything to him. So, no.”

  “Why do you think your husband had a key to the superintendent’s office, Ms. Donovan? Seems to me he could have taken calls from here. It’s private, no matter what time of night.”

  “I don’t know.” Leslie Donovan shook her head, tearing up. “I don’t know.”

  Hauck figured he’d stayed long enough. “Thanks for your time. If you happen to look through his phone records, or any of his things, and come across that name—Thibault”—he pointed to his card—“you can reach me at that number.”

  He went to the door and was about to say “I’m sorry” again, when he turned back. “One more thing…Do you remember what kind of car it was?”

  “Excuse me?” Leslie Donovan looked up, surprised.

&nb
sp; “What kind of car your husband said he saw. Outside. That he thought might be following him.”

  “Some kind of SUV,” Leslie Donovan replied. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it was important. Black, I think.”

  Hauck nodded. A black Suburban was the vehicle Evan Glassman had snapped a shot of outside his house.

  “You know you’re the second person to ask me that question today?” Donovan’s widow looked up. “The make of the car.”

  “Who was the first?” Hauck asked. Maybe that’s what Campbell had been hiding. That he knew something he didn’t share.

  “A woman,” Leslie Donovan said. “She was up here earlier today. From Washington.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Hauck finally made it home at close to ten. He noticed Annie had let herself in, and it hit him then how he had promised to cook a meal for them tonight, her night off, curl up on the couch, and watch 24.

  Soon as he came through the door he knew he was in some trouble.

  “Nice meal,” Annie called out from the living room couch, her voice ringing with sarcasm.

  Oh shit.

  One glance at the kitchen told him she had done her best to resurrect what he was supposed to have put together: the flank steak that had been marinating in the fridge, along with one of her favorite weekday staples, spaghetti in oil and crushed black pepper-corns. He saw that 24 was finishing up on the tube and Annie was in PJ bottoms and a T-shirt with a plate perched on her lap.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry,” he muttered, tossing his jacket over a chair. He came over and sat beside her. “Work.”

  “I called work,” Annie said. “Brooke said you left early and went into the city.”

  “Right.” Hauck cleared his throat contritely. “I left word. Would it make me out to be more or less of a heel if I told you how great everything smells?”

  “More,” Annie said, not letting up. “So don’t try.” She put her plate down on the old trunk that doubled as Hauck’s coffee table. “You know, I take one night off a week, Ty, and it’s a night Jared stays up at school, and it would be nice if I was able to maybe spend it with the guy I’m supposedly involved with. Especially when he makes the big hunter-gatherer gesture that he’s going to cook.”