“Sure,” said Marcus.“Yul Brinner, James Coburn, Steve McQueen…”
Mankovitz held a finger to his lips, then passed the yellowed page to Kate.
She took it from his hand and read.The headline was:The Magnificent Seven: Wall Street’s Young Turks Reshaping the Future of Finance.Seven faces stared out from the grainy photo — men in their twenties, all swagger and ambition.Brennan was in the middle, his grin sharp and confident.
“This was ’84,” Mankovitz said.“They were the golden boys.Moved markets, crashed them, moved them again.Thought they were gods.They all met up on a Friday night, in a little bar called Chez Brigitte, corner of 10thand West 58th.People would flock there, just to watch the gods party.Magnums of vintage Krug, show-girls, yards of powder.”
“And now?”Kate asked.
“Now?Two dead, one’s an addiction counsellor in Nevada, one’s doing twenty years federal time for wire fraud.That leaves three.”
“Brennan,” Marcus said.“And?”
“Alexis Aprahamian — still in the game, runs a hedge fund out of London, but flies back here when he needs a manicure.And Taylor-James McAffee — technically retired, though rumour says he’s running money through a shell operation in the Caymans.Another rumor says Brennan kept records — names, deals, who took the bribes, who faked the numbers.If those records ever saw daylight, a lot of rich men would burn.”
“So your money’s on one of them,” Marcus said.
“My money’s always on greed,” Mankovitz said.“But yeah.If anyone had motive, it’s his old crew.They’re sharks.And sharks eat their own when the blood’s in the water.”
Kate handed the clipping back, her mind already assembling connections.“We’ll need interviews with Aprahamian, McAffee, and Brennan’s assistant.”
“Assistant’s name’s Tyler Smeaton,” Mankovitz said.“Twenty-six, Stanford MBA, thinks Excel macros are an art form.I’ll get you his contact details.And I can run checks into who lost out big-time to the Seven Schmucks when they were in their heyday.Like I say, it could be a son or daughter who grew up with the consequences.”
Kate nodded in thanks.
Torres reappeared in the doorway, holding an evidence bag.“Speaking of art,” she said.“Take a look at this.”
Inside the clear plastic was a desk drawer — dark wood, polished to a dull sheen.
“Techs pulled this from Brennan’s office,” Torres said.“It was the top drawer on the right.Nothing special inside — pens, receipts, a stress ball shaped like a globe.But when they took it out for prints, they found this.”
She flipped the drawer over.On the underside, in black ink, was a small, neat inscription:
2.Green Gables.
For a second, no one spoke.
Marcus leaned closer.“Number two,” he murmured.“The verse carved on the desk was number one.”
Torres nodded.“That’s what I figured.But does that mean there’s a three we haven’t found yet?How many messages does this guy usually leave?”
“We need to pull that office apart,” Marcus said.“Look under the carpet, if necessary.”
“Being done,” Torres said.
Kate said nothing.She was staring at the words as if they’d burned themselves into her retinas.Her face drained of colour.
“Kate?”Marcus asked quietly.“What is it?”
She took a step back.“Green Gables…” Her voice faltered.She blinked rapidly, once, twice.Then she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
“Kate?”Torres moved forward, concern cutting through her usual brusqueness.“You okay?”
Kate shook her head.“Yes.”
She turned away, her breath hitching, but it was too late.The tears came — sudden, unstoppable, raw.She ran from the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
