Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(6)

As you might imagine, there’d been a lot of “How the hell did you know?” thrown around, but nobody outright accused me of getting a tip.

Until now.

Joe shares my incredulity. “J-Conn? That was nearly a year ago. Why now?”

My mind is reeling.

I get why people had to ask about J-Conn back when it all went down—even Matt and Kennedy had gotten screwed by that one, and they’re the best in the business.

In that particular case, I was just . . . better.

After months of waiting with everyone else for J-Conn to make the rumored “groundbreaking” technology announcement, I’d called bullshit. I’d sold when everyone else was buying high.

Risky as hell, but it had been a risk that paid off.

Call it intuition, call it brains—hell, I’ll even take dumb luck. But what I won’t accept is cheating.

“We can only assume the SEC’s received new information,” Sam says, seeming to choose his words carefully without looking at me directly. “We don’t know for sure that it’s J-Conn, but there’ve been whispers about Ian and that deal for months.”

“Nothing but playground gossip,” I snap. “There’s no new information, because there’s no information to be had. I didn’t—”

Samantha quickly holds up her hand. “Stop right there.” She blows out a breath. “Ian, you’re one of our best, but if we were to have to testify . . .”

I close my eyes. Testify. This can’t be happening.

“I get it,” I say quietly. “Plausible deniability.”

We’re not there yet, but . . . we could be, and that’s what worries me.

The only silver lining in all this is that the SEC is still at the informal investigation stage. If they weren’t, Lara McKenzie would have come at me with a subpoena yesterday instead of a courtesy call. Informal is good, in that it means they don’t yet have the evidence they need to launch a full-blown case against me.

But it’s also bad, in that they don’t have to tell me the details of my “crime.”

I run my hand through my hair. “J-Conn?” I ask again. “Seriously?”

Samantha sighs and shrugs, managing to pack a wallop of disdain into the small gestures. If I had to describe Samantha Wolfe in a word, it’d be hard-ass. She’s fiftysomething, attractive in a polished, perfect-lipstick kind of way.

Her husband’s the opposite, at least in looks. He’s got a small stature, balding head, and, no matter how straight the tie, how expensive the suit, he always manages to have a slightly rumpled quality about him.

Sam clears his throat. “We’ll know for certain soon enough. You know how these things go. We’ll be able to tell what she’s after by the people she talks to and the questions she asks.”

“We’ve guaranteed Ms. McKenzie our full cooperation. I’m sure you’ll share our policy of cooperation,” Samantha continues with a pointed look at me.

The instructions are clear: Play nice.

I run my hands over my face. This fucking blows. Objectively, I know the SEC has a job to do. I understand their function; I can even respect it. But this feels like a goddamn witch hunt. That they can come in here, ask us to cooperate, all without telling us why or when or what . . .

I don’t want to play nice.

I want to fucking fight it.

Joe seems to read my thoughts. “We need to let this die before it’s a formal investigation, Ian. The best way to do that is to—”

“Roll over? Hand them whatever they want based on their unfounded accusations?” I don’t bother to disguise my anger.

They don’t bother to calm me down.

There’s a pregnant pause before anyone speaks again.

“Ian, you’ve been with us a long time,” Sam says, taking a sip of whiskey. “We like you. Consider you a friend.”

“Likewise,” I grunt with a nod.

“We’ve got the best attorneys in the business,” Samantha says. “They’re here to protect the company and everyone in it, and that includes you.”

I meet her gaze. “But?”

“But,” she says with the faintest smile, “if it comes down to you or the company . . .” She looks at her husband.

“You’ve got to get independent counsel, Ian. For your own sake,” Sam says.

It’s sound advice. No matter how good Wolfe’s lawyers are, if the SEC decides to pin something on me, the company would—and should—cut ties with me, thus severing access to their lawyers.

I need my own.

I’ve known this. I’ve known it since the second Lara McKenzie said the words “SEC” and “investigation.” But hearing it from my bosses makes it all the more real. And serious.

Joe thumps my shoulder in solidarity, but it’s an empty gesture. I’m not sure what grates more, the fact that none of them is confident I’m innocent or the fact that I’m getting the distinct sense they’ll hang me out to dry if I’m not.

Sam clears his throat, and I realize that the meeting’s over. They’ve done all they can do, said all they can say. They’ve also covered their own asses while giving me plenty of fair warning, which I guess I can appreciate.

I set my glass aside and stand. “Thanks for the time. And the whiskey.”