“One other thing,” said the night manager. “Your credit card was declined.”

I was sure it had something to do with the fraud alert sent out today on my credit report. I offered up another card, but after hearing the words “fraud alert,” the manager insisted on cash in advance.

“Do you have an ATM in the hotel?”

“It’s broken.”

He agreed to hold the room for thirty minutes while I went out and searched for an ATM-provided that I leave him the last two hundred dollars in my wallet as a nonrefundable cash deposit. What a guy. I was crossing Third Avenue, walking through a cloud of steam rising up from a manhole cover, when Eric Volke rang my cell. He’d watched Bell’s round-table discussion.

“Michael, I want a straight answer: Are you Chuck Bell’s source?”

“No way, no how.”

“The FBI found a bug in Sonya’s car.”

“I told you they would.”

“Which has the FBI wondering how you knew it was there.”

That one had me reeling. “What? Did you show the FBI the text message? That’s how I knew.”

“That may be. But I’m telling you there’s a black cloud over you right now, and you just keep making it darker.”

“Eric, for the last time: I am not Bell’s source.”

“Are you denying that you met with him tonight in the lobby of his building?”

“Are you having me followed?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Shit. I should have realized that a face-to-face meeting with Bell might look bad. One crisis piling up after another was clearly clouding my judgment.

“I was trying to get him to admit on the air that I wasn’t his source. And then he pulled this stunt. The guy’s a sleazebag, and one way or another, I’m going to get a retraction out of that son of a bitch.”

“You’re playing with fire, Michael.”

“You can say that again,” I said, thinking of yesterday’s flaming package.

“And I can’t stand by and watch this whole thing blow up in your face and mine. You have confidentiality obligations to this firm. If you breach them, you will be fired, and you will be sued. Do you understand?”

Never before had Eric used that tone with me. He was obviously still steaming over my Bell Ringer debacle. “I would never betray you or the firm.”

“Then don’t make me have another conversation with you about this. Because there are people here who want you gone. Saxton Silvers will go down if I have to waste another minute going to bat for you. I’ve always been your biggest supporter, and I hate having to talk to you like this. But we’re in crisis mode. I can’t defend people who fan the flames.”

He hung up after a clipped “good night.”

I tucked away my phone and took a deep breath. It was after midnight, and the night was turning cooler, downright cold. My sport coat wasn’t enough to keep me warm, but the only clothes I had were those I’d worn to dinner with Papa. I didn’t even have a toothbrush, and the last two drugstores I’d passed were closed. I spotted a bank marquee on the next corner: Forty-two degrees. Chilly for early May, but not unheard of at this hour. I buried my hands in my pockets and walked into the wind until I reached the bank’s ATM. I looked around quickly to make sure I wasn’t going to be mugged; that would have been all I needed. With the two-hundred-dollar deposit I’d given the hotel manager, I needed another three hundred to pay for that ridiculously overpriced room. The machine churned and clattered, then spit out a receipt.

Non-sufficient Funds, it read.

I tried two hundred, one hundred, and then twenty fucking dollars.

Non-sufficient funds.

This was my joint account with Mallory at a bank wholly unrelated to Saxton Silvers. Even though we had taken steps to protect it this morning, I had the sinking feeling that Mallory might be at risk, too. I dialed her cell. No answer. I dialed the landline, and it kept ringing.

“Come on, pick up.”

I knew the message I’d left earlier-“I just wanted to let you know that I love you”-had been too much and was probably keeping her from picking up now. I had originally resolved to leave her alone until the morning, but now I needed to get past the answering machine.

“Mallory, I’m standing on the street at the bank trying to get cash. If you can hear this message, please pick up. It’s an emergency.”

She picked up, startling me.

“What is it, Michael?”

It was the same cold tone she’d used when telling me to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I quickly told her about the nonsufficient funds notice from our checking account.

“I withdrew everything this afternoon,” she said.

My response caught in my throat. “You what?”

“It’s what my lawyer told me to do, Michael.”

Her friend Andrea hadn’t lied: Mallory had a lawyer, and her lawyer already had a plan.

“Can we slow down a little?” I said. “This isn’t necessary.”

“If you didn’t see it coming, I’m sorry, but you should have. I’ll e-mail you my lawyer’s phone number. Please don’t call here again.”

She hung up, and I was standing alone on the sidewalk. But not for long.

“Hey, pal.”

I turned and saw a man wearing a camouflage jacket, torn blue jeans, and old tennis shoes. The thing on his head threw me, but finally I realized it was a metal colander that he’d strapped on like a helmet and fastened beneath his chin with a pink-and-purple bungee cord. He held out his hand.

“Dude, you got a dollar?”

I looked at him and a pathetic smile creased my lips. I couldn’t help laughing as I answered.

“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”

24

CHUCK BELL SIGNED OFF THE AIR AT MIDNIGHT. TONIGHT’S ROUND-TABLE discussion was his first appearance on one of the big four networks, and he was riding high.

“Great show, Chuck,” said the producer.

“I know,” he said. “And this is only the beginning.”

Ratings for Bell Ringer were off the charts, and Bell was clobbering every other financial show on television. Going on a much bigger network only confirmed that his broadcast persona was growing. Everyone wanted to know what his confidential source was going to reveal next about the impending demise of one of Wall Street’s premiere investment banks.

Bell didn’t want to go home. He was too excited, and too many ideas were percolating in his head as he walked out of the NASDAQ building. The glow of a billion colored lights had him soaring. The north face of One Times Square was behind him, the building famous for the dropping of the New Year’s Eve ball, and Bell glanced over his shoulder to see nine hundred square feet of Bill O’Reilly on the Fox News Astrovision Screen. Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer were on the even larger ABC SuperSign at Forty-fourth Street. Chuck Bell was on his way.

His cell rang as he passed a guitar-pickin’ cowboy wearing only a Stetson, snakeskin boots, and Calvin Klein underwear. Bell pulled the spent chewing gum from his mouth and dropped it into the singing cowboy’s open guitar case on the sidewalk.

“Chuck Bell,” he said into his phone.

“I want to meet,” the man on the line said.

Bell stopped and pressed a finger to his left ear to drown out the sounds of the city. “What?”

“Listen to me,” the man said. “I’m telling you that I want to meet.”

The strange voice was distorted by an electronic device, sounding like one of those anonymous informants on TV who talked from behind screens that concealed their identity.

Bell’s pulse quickened. “Who is this?”

“Someone who knows the real Saxton Silvers story. Meet me outside the FNN Studio. I’ll tell you what I know as soon as you get there.”

The call ended.

Bell looked at his phone in disbelief, hardly able to comprehend his good fortune. He thrust a fist into the air, nearly airborne, he was so excited. This was getting so cool-midnight phone calls, disguised voices, the stuff of big-screen movies.