The Key

Peter was hunched over the computer when I returned. “Any luck?” I asked.

He sounded frustrated. “I’m not as much of a geek as I thought.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing,” I said, perching on the arm of the chair beside him.

“All I could figure out is that he’s using an e-mail resend service. It’s pretty sophisticated, too. It’s not a commercial service but a program that some hard-core techies set up for themselves.”

“So you think he’s a hard-core techie?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just friends with one. Either way, I can’t get to any information about where the e-mail may have originated. Usually you can track down the various stops a message makes as it goes over the Internet, but the service he used erased all that. I’m afraid that the only way we’re going to find out more is if you e-mail him back.”

“I’m tempted to. But it’s a bit of a quandary, in terms of professional ethics.”

“If the deal is dirty, don’t you have an obligation to find out how?”

“I think I’d be supposed to report it to Winslow, Brown’s legal department or the Securities and Exchange Commission or something. But I don’t even know it’s dirty, and if I make a stink at the office without any proof, Gallagher will probably try to have me fired. He’s already gunning for me.”

“Maybe this guy can give you some proof. Would it be such a big deal to e-mail him and ask for more detail? You wouldn’t be sharing any privileged information.”

I was torn. The easiest thing to do would be to delete the e-mail as if it was another piece of spam, but I was too curious to do that. The by-the-book thing to do would be to show the e-mail to the firm’s legal department, but I had no desire to incur further Gallagher wrath. And the tempting thing to do was to e-mail Man of the People back.

“You know, there are ways to cover your tracks,” said Peter.

“You’re like the little devil guy standing on my shoulder, trying to lead me astray.”

“But I cook like an angel.”

I had an idea. “Maybe I should call Jake and tell him about this. Get his opinion.” Peter was used to the more rough-and-tumble startup world, without the bureaucracy and lawyers and regulatory oversight. Jake had a better sense of the context than Peter, and he would also have an appreciation for my concerns about things like Gallagher and the SEC.

“Jake? Jake from work?”

“Maybe he’ll know what to do.” I checked my Black-Berry for his cell phone number.

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Of course I can trust him.” Jake and I had been friends even before we’d started working on this deal; several grueling days spent under Gallagher’s command had further cemented that bond. Besides, I would never have told him about Gallagher’s pass if I didn’t trust him, and Jake had been kind and supportive, eager to rush to my defense while also being discreet.

But I couldn’t explain all of that to Peter without opening up a whole can of worms I’d prefer to keep closed. “One mysterious e-mail and suddenly you’re suspicious of everyone,” I said instead.

“You barely know him.”

“I know him well enough. He’s a really good guy.”

It didn’t matter anyway. Jake’s phone went straight into voice mail. I hesitated but didn’t leave a message. It was late—he was probably asleep.

When I disconnected, Peter was looking at me, his fingers poised over the keyboard. And I was still torn.

“When you said there are ways to cover my tracks, what did you mean, precisely?”

chapter eight

I found myself back in Gallagher’s office first thing Tuesday with a strange sense of déjà vu. Yet again, it was way too early for a meeting, and yet again, I hadn’t gotten anywhere near enough sleep.

It had been close to one by the time Peter had set up a new e-mail account for me at a free service and we’d e-mailed Man of the People via the same resend provider he’d used. The e-mail—a simple and noncommittal request for more information—had been the easy part. It was the tracks-covering part that had taken so long. Peter had run a number of different programs he promised would erase all traces of Man of the People and our response from my computer. I’d never realized that paranoia could be so time-consuming.

“I feel like a criminal,” I’d said.

“Look, this guy is probably a crackpot and it won’t amount to anything. But it’s not like you’re telling him anything you shouldn’t, and if you do find out there’s something corrupt about this deal, you’ll have the facts you need instead of just pissing off Gallagher.”

“He’s already pissed off.”

“Well, instead of pissing him off more.”

What Peter said made sense, but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. The very act of track-covering was an admission that I was fully aware what I was doing was wrong on some level, even if Gallagher’s attitude left me with little choice.

By the time we got to sleep, it was after two, and it seemed as if the alarm went off only a moment later. It made me cranky that Peter got to roll over and go back to sleep, and it made me even crankier to have to take my things into the bathroom to get ready so I wouldn’t wake him again.

The bathroom was a small room to start with, and for a man without much vanity, Peter had a lot of toiletries—toiletries that were taking up a disproportionate share of space in the shower and on the countertop. It had been handy to have him around the previous night, to have his help in figuring out how to respond to mysterious e-mails and hide the traces of my potentially criminal actions, not to mention the homemade meal, but there was nothing like accidentally taking a big slug of aftershave (the bottle of which bore a sly resemblance to my mouthwash) to bring home the practical realities of sharing an apartment in New York.

Given that he’d set the meeting time, Gallagher evidently didn’t mind the hour; besides, his face was always haggard. At least he’d actually shown up on time today. Jake looked like he’d just returned from a month of lounging on a Tahitian beach, and Mark was his usual bland self, but I was all too conscious of the dark hollows under my eyes and the bitter taste of aftershave in my mouth. We were in our same seats from the previous morning, and my hands had already assumed their tight grips on the armrests of my chair in anticipation of another dose of verbal abuse. Gallagher didn’t disappoint.

“This is crap,” he announced without preamble, tossing his copy of the materials we’d spent most of the previous afternoon and evening preparing into the trash. In obscenity-laden detail, he began enumerating the changes we’d need to make before the conference call he’d scheduled with Perry for later that day.

The buzz of the intercom interrupted him. He hit a button to put the phone on speaker. “Yeah?”

“It’s your lawyer on line one,” said Dahlia.

“Got it. And brew a fresh pot of coffee. The stuff you brought me tastes like crap.” Gallagher hit another button on the phone. “Barry? How are the papers coming along?”

“We’ll be ready to file in a couple of days,” answered the disembodied voice.

“Let me know when the delivery’s confirmed. Not that I won’t hear from her the second she opens the envelope.” The lawyer said something in response, and Gallagher said something back, and I settled in for another session of listening to Gallagher charmingly air his dirty laundry.

I managed to tune out most of the conversation, but when he selected a pencil from the silver mug and rammed it into the sharpener, I couldn’t block it out. Nor did I trust myself not to laugh if I caught Jake’s eye after yesterday’s discourse on “the pencil thing.” Instead, I kept my gaze fixed stolidly ahead and tried to think about sad things, like abandoned puppies and global warming.

Sure enough, Gallagher inserted the newly sharpened end into his mouth and sucked on it, long and hard.

I dug my nails into my palms, trying to distract myself with the pain. Beside me, Jake made a weird noise that somehow combined a snort and a cough. Even Mark was pressing his lips together tightly, as if trying to ensure that no sound escaped.

Gallagher didn’t seem to notice. He hung up a moment later and resumed his critique of our work as if there’d been no interruption.

“That’s it,” he said finally, after thoroughly ripping to shreds everything we’d done thus far. “I want to see another draft of everything by noon. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” answered Jake.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Get out of here.” Hardly inspiring words, but anything that involved leaving his office sounded good to me.

We were almost out the door when he called us back. My earlier sense of déjà vu returned. At least today he wanted us all and not just me.