Black Market

“I doubt it's the Libyans we're looking for,” Carroll remarked casually. His darker eyes held Hotchkiss's pale blue ones for an extra beat as he sipped his Sam Smith. He was going to attack.

He leaned forward, softly nudging a finger into Freddie's pale blue shirt, seeing a faint expression of surprise float across the man's puffy face. It amazed Carroll that such a face was capable of expression.

“I'd like to cut out the chitchat bullshit, okay? You're an hour late, and we're pressed for time. I have absolutely no personal interest in you, Freddie, you understand that? I don't think I like you, but that doesn't matter. I'm only interested in a man named Michel Chevron.”

“He's not one for small talk, Freddie.” Caitlin threw a quick glance at Carroll, and he thought it was the most intimate thing he'd experienced in years.

Freddie Hotchkiss, meanwhile, seemed to have stopped breathing. He looked down at Carroll's finger sticking in his chest. “I'm not sure… I don't think I understand. I mean, I've heard of Michel Chevron, of course.”

“Of course you have,” Carroll said.

“Tall, austere-looking French gentleman,” Caitlin intervened. “Plush Louis Quatorze offices on rue de Faubourg in Paris. Very affluent digs in the heart of Beverly Hills.”

She flipped open a leather-bound notebook.

“Let me see if I can jog your memory. Mm, oh, yes… on February nineteenth of last year, you visited Michel Chevron's Beverly Hills office. You stayed for approximately two hours. On March third, you visited the Los Angeles offices again. Also on July ninth, July eleventh, July twelfth. In October you visited Chevron's Paris office. You had di

Freddie Hotchkiss had slowly begun clasping and unclasping his plump, hairless hands. The watery eyes were even more watery.

“We've known for over two years that Michel Chevron is the largest stolen securities and bond dealer in Europe and the Middle East. We also know he has a personal relationship with François Monserrat,” Caitlin continued. “We know a great deal about your own security-trading abilities as well. Right now we need to know exactly who else Chevron deals with, and we need a rough idea of the nature of these deals, a general feel for the Euro-Asian black market. That's why I thought we all should have lunch.” Caitlin Dillon smiled.

Right then, Freddie Hotchkiss found the strength to frown derisively. He began to snap back, to rally strongly.

“Really. You don't expect me to talk about private and absolutely legal business dealings here in this restaurant? You had better have all your subpoenas and your Justice Department lawyers ready, if you believe that will happen. I can assure you, it won't be done over lunch… Good afternoon, Caitlin, Mr., uh, Carroll.”

Arch Carroll sat up very straight. He leaned across the dining table and flicked his finger three times very hard against Freddie Hotchkiss's starched white shirt collar.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“Just sit tight now, okay? Just put your nice soft ass back down on the chair, Freddie. Try to relax. Okay?” Hotchkiss was so astonished, he obeyed.

In a soft voice, which to Carroll's ears sounded mildly seductive, Caitlin said, “February twenty-first-you deposited one hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars in Geneva, Switzerland. February twenty-sixth-you deposited another one hundred and fourteen thousand. April seventeenth-you deposited… is this a typo?… four hundred and sixty-two thousand? April twenty-fourth-thirty-one thousand. Small potatoes, that one…”

“What Caitlin has been politely trying to point out to you, Freddie, is that you are a second-rate thief!” Carroll leaned back and smiled at Hotchkiss, who now sat as expressionless as a ventriloquist's dummy.

Carroll raised his voice above the restaurant's usual buzz. “Poor Kim, the kiddies, wintering down in Boca Raton. They have no idea, I'll bet. Te

Other diners in the expensive restaurant had stopped eating. In a state that resembled a communal hypnotic trance, they stared across the room.

Carroll finally lowered his voice. He pointed toward a corner table where two men in dull gray suits were seated. “Those two guys? See them? They can't even afford to eat the nibbles here. See, they're sharing a three-dollar ginger ale. That's the FBI for you… Anyway, they're going to arrest you, right here and now… or, Fred, you're going to tell us a long and very convincing story about Michel Chevron. It's absolutely your move. And yes, it's going to happen right here in the restaurant.

“Then, in that second case I mentioned, you get to go home absolutely scot-free to the pied-a-terre on Park Avenue. No problems, 'cause then you're my main man, see.”

Arch Carroll dramatically crossed his two fingers. “We're tight, like that. Except, of course, you're the finger on the bottom.”

Freddie Hotchkiss slumped pathetically at the table. He hesitated, then slowly began to tell yet another Wall Street horror story

This one was about Monsieur Michel Chevron. It was a truly fascinating story of the most exclusive rat pack of thieves in the world. All of them very respected bankers, high-priced lawyers, successful stockbrokers. Every single one of them was in a position of absolute public trust.

Was this Green Band? Arch Carroll couldn't help wondering.

Was Green Band a powerful international cartel of the richest investment bankers and businessmen in the world? What would be their motivation?

Carroll finally signaled to the two FBI guys patiently waiting at the corner table.

“Read him his rights and arrest this guy now… Oh, and Freddie? I told a white lie about letting you go scot-free… Have your lawyer call my lawyer in the morning. Ciao.”

Mike Caruso was outside the restaurant when Arch Carroll finally appeared. Carroll's lieutenant, a devotee of summer who never embraced the winter season, was wearing a garish beach shirt beneath his overcoat. He beckoned to Carroll. Both policemen huddled at the far edge of the sidewalk.

“I just got a report on our friend Isabella Marqueza,” Caruso said. “Somebody murdered her in Bendel's. She was shot four times. At point-blank range,” he added in the offhand ma

“Yeah, I'm sure it would.” Carroll was silent a second. He tried to imagine Isabella Marqueza dead. “Somebody thought she talked too much. Somebody was keeping close tabs on her.”

Caruso nodded. “Somebody who knew all of her movements, Arch. Or yours.”

A ragged wind blew down East Forty-sixth Street, whipping discarded newspapers around. Carroll plunged his hands inside the pockets of his coat and stared at the cold, grim city surrounding him. He liked this investigation less and less.

He pointed to the doorway of Christ Cella. “Nice place to eat, Mickey. Next time you want to blow a couple of hundred on lunch.”

Caruso nodded. He tucked in a flap of his flowered shirt. “I already had a Sabrett.”