Reckless. Andrew Gross

got their prospective locations through another cousin who delivered the local paper each morning. That’s how they knew when homeowners planned to be away. Neither of them had much of a record. The older one had been pinched for shoplifting. The nineteen-year-old was actually enrolled in Norwalk Community college and this was his first arrest. The older one had a gun on him, an old, passed-down Beretta .22 that he’d bought on the streets. More for show than any real effect.

      No match for the Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter that had been used on the Glassman family.

      When they were confronted with the murders, everything started coming out of them. They even had an alibi for that night. The younger one’s cousin was having a betrothal celebration in Passaic, New Jersey. He had spent the night at the cousin’s house.

      The older one had spent the night at a bar in White Plains. Until two A.M. Closing time.

      They were stupid and out of their league, and it was good to finally shut their little operation down.

      It just wasn’t them, Hauck knew. It wasn’t the two who murdered Marc and April Glassman.

      That morning, he caught Chrisafoulis on the phone as he was scrambling between news briefings. “You got one minute,” the head of detectives snapped. “You see what’s happening out there, don’t you?”

      Hauck said, “Yeah, I see it.”

      What he was talking about were the ten news vans that were backed up like cattle cars onto Mason Street outside the station. CNN, Fox, the local Connecticut stations. Reporters surrounding anyone who came out who looked like they might have some connection to the case. The Glassman murders were page-one news—the grisly scene, the rich suburban family murdered in their secluded home, the calm of Greenwich shattered. And it had brought down a Wall Street icon too.

      “It wasn’t them, was it?” Hauck pressed. He doubted the motive was robbery from the start.

      “Ty, you know I can’t keep doing this. I only have so much room.”

      “Steve…” His voice was insistent. “Were they the ones who did the job?”

      “They admitted to several jobs,” the detective said evasively. “The two out on North Ridge and Willow. They told us where some of the loot was stashed. How they staked out the homes…”

      “You said that one of the Glassman perps had long reddish hair. You said he had some kind of tattoo on his neck.” Hauck knew he was going farther than he should. “You said they wore work uniforms. You found tire tread marks on the street. The gun that killed the Glassmans was an H and K nine-millimeter. C’mon, Steve, you know damn well what job I’m talking about.”

      He waited a beat before Chrisafoulis replied. And when he did, it was short and under his breath. “No. They copped to the other break-ins. But not the Glassmans. One of them is nineteen, the other twenty-two. The guns didn’t match up, or the tire tread. Or the descriptions. You should’ve seen them; shit came out of their pants—”

       “Are you buying?”

      “They said they set up the jobs through a friend who handled the local paper route. That’s how they knew who was away. The Glassmans—they didn’t even get the Greenwich Time. These guys also had solid alibis for the night of March sixth. We’re getting confirmation, but there was a gas receipt in the car that already put one of them on the Jersey Turnpike around that time…

      “Yeah, I’m buying,” Chrisafoulis sighed resignedly.

      Hauck let out a grunt of disappointment. But not surprise. He never thought this fit the pattern of a burglary. It may just have all been a diversion. The safe left open, the drawers rifled through. It may have all been to mask what they were really there for.

       Who would have wanted Marc Glassman dead?

      “You know where this is leading, don’t you, Steve?”

      “You’re driving around a BMW now, Ty. You don’t have business of your own to spend your time on?”

      “Glassman sank the firm. I don’t know who would’ve had anything to gain, but I know what the result of all this is, and it’s sitting there on the front page of the Wall Street Journal today.”

      The detective paused. Maybe he was thinking it over. “You never used to read the Journal, Ty. You never made it past the sports.”

      “I guess things change.”

      “No, they don’t,” the detective said. Hauck wasn’t sure what he was talking about. But he didn’t think it was the paper. “They don’t.”

      They hung up. Hauck stared at the bold headline of the Wall Street Journal on his desk: FED WEIGHING BAILOUT ON WERTHEIMER; HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD FIRM COULD LEARN FATE TODAY.

      Marc’s still at Wertheimer. Doing great, April had said.

      He balled his fists and dropped them against his desk in frustration. Who had something to gain?

      His line rang again and Hauck waited before picking up, lost in that question. When he did, on the fourth loud ring, the caller surprised him.

      “Mr. Hauck, it’s Merrill Simons.”

      “Ms. Simons…” Hauck hadn’t contacted her yet with what he knew. He didn’t want to cause her any real hurt until he had put it all together. “So far I haven’t heard back on much yet. What can I do for you?”

      “The last time we spoke…,” she said, hesitating. Then she cleared her throat. “I have those other things on Dani you asked me for.”

       Chapter Seventeen

      Roger Cantwell stared out at the dark Manhattan sky. The illuminated spire of the Chrysler building shone brightly a few blocks south. It had been a week since the initial disclosures on Marc Glassman. A week of hell. Sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Cantwell had poured himself a tall Springbank single-malt, his favorite. It had been poured many a time to toast a successful deal or an acquisition.

      He couldn’t believe it had come to this.

      Wertheimer Grant was one of the most respected names on Wall Street. It had weathered twenty financial downturns. Led the recoveries on the way back up. The firm’s commercials—“Your future is our future”—were broadcast during the Super Bowl. Just a year ago they had a market cap of a hundred billion.

      How could no one be coming to their rescue? How could there be no fix?

      It was insane.

      He had made a final pitch to Tom Keating at Treasury. Christ, they had known each other for thirty years, used to get hammered together to celebrate their deals. Both of them had started as bond salesmen. Wertheimer was far too important to ever fail. Yes, Cantwell realized, life would clearly change for him. The cushy bonuses were gone. And the plane. His legacy would forever be scarred by the company’s having to accept public money. He didn’t look forward to how it would play—in the papers or at his golf club. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure if he’d be able to even stay on.

      Still, they had to keep themselves in business.

       They were Wertheimer Grant, for God’s sake.

      He threw back another hard swig. The Scotch, smooth as it was, burned, and that felt good on the way down. Frigging Glassman…That little prick had brought down the whole firm. Whatever their fate, the market was going to tank six hundred points tomorrow!

      No, Cantwell thought, gazing out at the city he was once such a commanding force in; if he was honest, the bastard had only been the last indefensible boot that had pushed them over the edge. It had been years of the belief that nothing could stop them. More arrogance than greed.