The Gods of Greenwich Read Online Free PDF

Siggi?”
    “Hafnarbanki,” he answered. “What’s the big deal?”
    “When did this happen?”
    “December.”
    Ólafur blinked. His blue eyes turned black, his glare sharper than a fish hook. The stare pierced Siggi’s skull and came out the other side. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
    “You don’t discuss your clients with me, Ólafur.”
    “My clients don’t spread false rumors.”
    “I had no idea—”
    “Is your client,” Ólafur interrupted, “Cyrus Leeser, by any chance?”
    “How do you know?”
    Ólafur’s eyes cut through the haze of fermented potato pulp and caraway seeds. “We hear his name all the time.”
    “Cy’s not the kind to spread rumors,” Siggi stammered, defending a client through his cousin’s scowl.
    “His name surfaces everywhere.”
    “We had a few drinks. I showed Cy my gallery. There’s nothing else.”
    “You should have told me, Siggi.”
    “Remember that when my clients need art loans.”
    Ólafur signaled the bartender for another round.
    “Hanna’s expecting me,” the art dealer protested, rising from his stool, not too steady on his feet.
    With his left palm flat, Ólafur reached over to Siggi and pushed down on his cousin’s shoulder. He handed Siggi a cell phone and said, “Tell your girlfriend you’ll be late.” With that the inquisition began:
    “What did Leeser say about Hafnarbanki?”
    “Do you remember the names of Leeser’s friends?”
    “Did Leeser describe his fund?”
    “How often do you speak with him?”
    “Did Leeser discuss his portfolio?”
    Ólafur signaled for one drink after another, waterboarding Siggi with svarti dauði. The banker’s questions never stopped.
    SUNDAY , MARCH 9
    Rachel sat in her apartment on East Eighty-third, alone and surrounded by the absence of color. White curtains. White furniture. White area rug. She kept things simple and crisp.
    Maybe too simple. Rachel was annoyed with her savings. They were not growing fast enough. For a while she toyed with the idea of finding a partner, somebody to source new business and figure out whether prospects were serious or just kicking the tires. A partner could land clients. A partner could negotiate contracts and get the $25,000 down payment up front. A partner could ferret out the Feds.
    Or bring problems. A partner kept 20 percent of every contract, which meant $10,000 minimum. Rachel doubted the deal made sense. Ten grand was serious coin. And finding somebody reliable, somebody who would keep their mouth shut, was risky business.
    Cops were always patrolling undercover. They could disguise themselves as willing accomplices and nab her. Or they could masquerade as prospects and grab the partner, who would cough her up like a hairball when threatened. Advertising through Soldier of Fortune, she decided, was the only way to prospect—equal risk and so much cheaper.
    Rachel’s existing employer was reliable. She had to give him that. His business was steady, which more than compensated for his occasional bouts of ill temper. He paid well and promised her the moon. But his assurances were talk. Empty talk. Rachel would not be satisfied until she was sifting through Parisian nightclubs for guys or chumming for adventure at the bottom of three highballs on the Rue de Martyrs. She needed to diversify.
    The cell phone interrupted Rachel’s reverie. She recognized the number and let it ring just to mess with the caller’s head. Sipping from her glass of red wine, she punched the Talk button and greeted her employer, “I was just thinking about you, Kemosabe.”
    “I’ve got something for you. I want you to take your time and do this woman right.”
    The comment annoyed Rachel, who prided herself on doing everyone right. She checked her temper and said, “It almost sounds personal.”
    “In my business, Rachel, everything is personal.”
    “How old is she?”
    “Does it make a difference?”
    “No. But I’m curious if she’s like the others.”
    “She’s