Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(59)

Steve taps his fingers on the desk, then leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly and studying me.

I wait. I’ve learned that pushing people to speak before they’re ready rarely leads to good things.

He leans forward and exhales. “I want you to hear this from me first.”

My mug is halfway to my mouth, but I lower it again, dread uncurling in the pit of my stomach. “Okay . . .”

He riffles around the piles on his desk until he comes up with an envelope. He hands it to me. “I’m delivering this later.”

I reach out and take the envelope, pulling out the paper within. I recognize it immediately. A run-of-the-mill subpoena, just like the ones we issue for formal investigations . . .

I go very still when I see the name.

I look up. “What is this?”

His expression is regretful but also resigned. “I told you from the very beginning how this was going to play out, Lara. Ian Bradley’s guilty.”

“You didn’t see my report, then,” I say, putting the paper back in the envelope and handing it to him with a calm that belies my clammy palms.

He holds my gaze. “I saw the report. Just because there’s no evidence at Wolfe doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty.”

“The United States judicial system says differently,” I snap. “Hell, Steve, this office says differently. What do you know that you’re not telling me? Why are you so convinced that he’s guilty?”

“Why are you so convinced that he’s not?”

“Because there’s no—”

“Evidence. Yeah. I saw the report. I’ve also met this guy once or twice, so I’ve seen him in action.”

I clench my teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve sighs as though I’m being obtuse. “It means that from here on out, you’re off the case. You did good work, I know you did your best, but—”

“No ‘but,’” I interrupt. “I did good work, I did my best, and there’s no evidence. You only have your anonymous source. To ensure the case goes our way, we’d need another witness. And that’s if your source even agrees to testify—”

“He’ll testify. Regardless, it’s no longer your problem.”

“But—”

“The conversation’s over, Lara,” Steve says, with more irritation than he’s ever directed at me. “I’d have thought you’d be happy with this. Even though I’m taking over the case myself, your participation in the early stages means your name will be associated—”

“I don’t want it to be associated.”

“If you want into the FBI, you sure as hell better.”

I sit back, stunned at the implication.

He stands. “If you care at all about your career, you’ll drop this case.”

I stand as well. “Or what?”

Steve blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I drop this case, or what?”

“Lara, you don’t want to cross me on this.”

“See, that’s the thing, Steve. I think I do,” I say, setting my palms on his desk. “I’ve played by the book every step of the way, and I expect the same from everyone I work with.”

He laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You’re what, twenty-eight? You don’t know shit about the way the world works.”

“Then enlighten me,” I say. “Explain to me why, without a shred of evidence, we’re launching a formal investigation.”

“Evidence can be . . . uncovered.”

I’ve never understood the phrase blood running cold before, but I get it now, because that’s absolutely what happens when he says those words.

“What are you not saying?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady.

When he looks back at me, he seems defeated and completely unlike the man I thought I knew. “Just stay out of it, Lara. The world’s not going to fall apart if we make an example out of a slick Wall Street suit.”

“No. I’m not going to sit back and let you take down an innocent man.”

He runs a tired hand over his face. “Please. I’m asking you to do me a favor. You don’t have to lie. Just keep your mouth shut and bide your time until I get can you into the FBI.”

I stare at my boss for a long moment, my heart sinking as I realize what I have to do.





29

IAN

Week 5: Monday Afternoon

“So, how was it?”

I don’t look up from my computer. “I’ve been ignoring Matt. I can ignore you, too.”

Matt grunts from where he’s been sitting in the chair across from me, tossing and catching a baseball for fifteen minutes.

Kennedy reaches out, nabs the ball, studies it. “What’s this?”

“I caught it at the game on Saturday.”

Kennedy flicks it back at Matt. “Who won?”

He doesn’t have to ask which game. All three of us are Mets fans, although Matt’s the one who makes the most time to get up to Citi Field for a game. Kennedy’s too busy doing whatever it is he does (visiting museums?), and I’m too busy barhopping.

Historically speaking.

“She put out?” Kennedy asks Matt unsubtly out of the corner of his mouth.