He keyed in the sell order for the entire block of Triton shares. His finger hovered over the execute button. What if she was wrong? The thought paralyzed him. If he sold now and the raid did not happen, he would lose the potential billion-dollar profit. He would look like a coward who folded because of a rumor. His reputation would be tattered. He needed to know who she was.
“Get me security at the Gilded Talon,” Victor barked at his personal assistant, who had just run in, looking disheveled in her pajamas. “Sir?” “Call the restaurant. I want the personnel file on the waitress named Selena. Now.”
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was the manager of the restaurant, sounding terrified to be speaking to Victor Callaway. “Mr. Callaway, I’m so sorry if the service was lacking. We can—” “Shut up,” Victor hissed. “Tell me about Selena, the waitress in the west section. Who is she?” “Selena. Selena Clark.” The manager paused. “She’s, well, she’s new. She started three months ago. Very quiet. Excellent references, though.” “References from where?” “Let me check her file. Here it is. Previous employment: housekeeping staff at the Pierre Hotel. Before that, a diner in New Jersey.”
Victor frowned. Housekeeping. A diner. It did not make sense. A housekeeper does not know how to analyze a derivative swap. “Is there anything else?” Victor asked. “Well, there is one odd thing,” the manager noted. “She refused direct deposit. Asked to be paid in cash or physical check. Said she didn’t have a bank account.” “No bank account,” Victor repeated. “In 2024.” “And, oh, this is strange. Her emergency contact. It’s a law firm.” “Which firm?” “Kravitz and Moore.”
Victor froze. Kravitz and Moore was not just a law firm. It was the law firm for white-collar criminal defense. They represented the biggest wolves on Wall Street. When the feds came knocking, they charged two thousand dollars an hour. Why would a waitress with no bank account have a high-powered criminal-defense firm as her emergency contact? “Thank you,” Victor said, and hung up.
He looked at the clock. Four a.m. Four hours until the market opened. Four hours until the EPA raid. If Selena was telling the truth, he looked at the execute button again. He could not do it. Greed, that ancient heavy anchor, held his finger back. He needed confirmation. He needed to see her again.
“Brad,” Victor said, turning to his friend, who was passed out on the office sofa. “Wake up. We’re going back.” “Back where?” Brad groaned. “To her apartment. I had the private investigator run her plates from the staff parking-lot footage while we were driving. We’re going to Queens.”