The Key. Jennifer Sturman

annoyed that I felt guilty. A nasty little voice in my head was saying that Peter should know well enough by now what my job was like, that he couldn’t expect me to drop everything whenever he called. Just because he had a key to my apartment didn’t mean that he had a key to my entire life.

      And the very existence of that nasty little voice made me feel all the more guilty.

      chapter four

      J ake, Mark and I took the single flight of stairs up to the designated conference room a few minutes before ten. “Where should I sit?” asked Mark nervously, setting the stack of bound presentations on the table. Client meetings were still pretty new to him—he’d joined the firm only a few months ago after graduating early from an undergraduate finance program, opting to start work immediately rather than use the extra time to travel or take a few electives.

      “I wouldn’t just yet,” I advised. “I’m sure Gallagher has some master plan about how he wants to position us.” Like kneeling at his feet, awaiting his next command. Jake smiled as if he knew what I was thinking, and he probably did.

      Gallagher arrived a moment later, deep in chummy conversation with his companion—Nicholas Perry, presumably. Next to Perry, Gallagher looked especially mousy, as Perry was well over six feet and bore a striking resemblance to George Hamilton, albeit dressed in a pin-striped suit rather than a Zorro costume.

      Jake stepped forward and introduced himself, shaking Perry’s hand.

      “Hello, Jake,” Perry said.

      “And this is Rachel Benjamin and Mark Anders.” I had the feeling that Jake didn’t trust Gallagher to get the names of his minions right and had preempted the introductions accordingly.

      “Nice to meet you.” He turned to Gallagher. “This is quite a group you’ve assembled here, Glenn.” There was something oily about his tone, or maybe it just seemed that way because he looked so slick, from his shining tasseled loafers up to his sleekly barbered hair.

      Gallagher shrugged—he saved his chumminess for old college pals—and glanced at his Rolex. “Ready to get started?”

      “Let’s do it,” agreed Perry with a glance at his own Rolex.

      Sure enough, Gallagher did have strong ideas about seating. In my case, it was at the end of the table farthest from Perry. For once I was happy to be marginalized.

      “We’ve run the numbers,” he told Perry as we took our places. “And the bond department is raring to go—we should be able to get this done in a couple of weeks.”

      “The faster the better,” said Perry.

      Gallagher began walking him through the materials we’d put together, with Jake, Mark, and I adding the occasional clarifying detail when called upon. The mechanics of the proposed buyout were fairly straightforward. Perry would purchase all of Thunderbolt’s shares, financing a small part of the acquisition with fifty million dollars put up by his investor group. The remainder would be financed by bonds that Winslow, Brown would issue and sell. The bonds, in turn, would be backed by Thunderbolt’s future earnings. Perry’s investor group would then own a company worth five hundred million dollars after putting up only ten percent of its value.

      It was risky but perfectly legal. And Winslow, Brown would net a cool three or four million dollars in fees for a few weeks’ work, a healthy chunk of which would be deposited directly into Gallagher’s pocket. It was good to be a partner, and especially good to be a senior partner.

      “The only thing standing in the way is getting the new union contract signed. Did you wrap up the negotiations?” Gallagher asked Perry.

      “We finalized everything over the weekend. Kryzluk, the chapter president, is a bit bull-headed, but the last thing he wanted was layoffs—he had to cave on benefits.” He said this as if the decline in Thunderbolt’s business was a plus, because it meant that the union had to yield on its demands to ensure that employees kept their jobs.

      “Good,” said Gallagher, who probably didn’t spend much time pondering the fate of industrial laborers in a rust-belt town. Concern about that sort of thing would be a liability in his line of work.

      As I listened, however, my unease only increased.

      The whole deal smelled. As I’d tried to point out earlier, Thunderbolt was in bad shape. I didn’t understand what Perry or his anonymous co-investors were thinking—sure, the buyout would leave them in control, but with massive interest payments that the business couldn’t support with its declining revenues.

      When Gallagher paused to draw a breath, I spoke without thinking. “Are there any new contracts in the pipeline?” There must be a reason that Perry was so interested in owning the company—the man may have been slick, but I doubted he was stupid.

      My question met with an awkward moment of silence. Then Perry turned to me, peering down the length of the polished mahogany table as if noting my presence for the first time.

      “I don’t think we need to worry about that,” he said with finality.

      Gallagher shot me a look that suggested he wished looks could, in fact, kill before changing the subject. A few minutes later he was chummily walking Perry down the hall to the elevators.

      Gallagher had, of course, guaranteed Perry we’d have a revised set of numbers ready the next day, which meant that the rest of today and much of the evening were shot. I knew I couldn’t face diving back into work without a short break—preferably one involving food—and Jake and Mark concurred. We agreed to reconvene in ten minutes for a quick lunch and headed downstairs to our offices.

      I was at Jessica’s desk, retrieving messages, when I heard the panicked voice of Bert, the guy who manned reception, from across the floor.

      “Ma’am? Ma’am? You can’t go in there! I need to make sure you’re expected—”

      Jessica and I both turned to stare. The woman Bert was trailing ignored his protests. “Don’t worry—I’ll find my way, thanks.”

      She was average height and in her late forties, with the sort of face people describe as striking rather than pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was wearing a smart navy pantsuit. We watched, curious, as she surveyed the open space of the floor, its center crammed with the low-walled cubicles that housed junior bankers and assistants, and the offices for more senior bankers lining the perimeter. Her eyes landed on Dahlia, seated at her station in front of Gallagher’s own corner office.

      “Hello, Dahlia,” she called, threading her way through the maze of cubes.

      “Naomi!” Dahlia’s tone was surprised. Bert hesitated but seemed to take the greeting as proof of the intruder’s legitimacy. With a shrug he retreated to reception.

      “It’s been a long time,” said Naomi as she reached Dahlia. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Glenn and I signed the divorce papers. Is he in?”

      “He had a meeting, but he should be back soon. I didn’t know you were—I mean, do you have an appointment? Did he know that you were coming to see him?” Dahlia’s polite smile began to give way to a more apprehensive expression.

      “I think we’re both aware that he would never agree to see me in person.” By this point the two women had the attention of everyone within earshot. There wasn’t much drama during the course of a normal day at Winslow, Brown, but it looked like we were all in for an unexpected treat.

      “Oh. He’s not going to like this,” said Dahlia.

      Naomi shrugged. “Too bad, isn’t it? Look, here he comes now.”

      “What the hell are you doing here?” The acoustics on the floor were pretty good, but it still may have been a strain for some of the eavesdroppers to make out what Dahlia and Naomi had been saying. Gallagher, however, could be heard easily since he was shouting.

      “I was getting sick of