Strike Suit

By Edward G. Caputo

It was the grand finale of the 20th century, and the dawn of a new era, a new industry, a new profession and ... a new motive for murder. ‘Dot-com’ emerged as the money buzzword, and Internet companies commanded huge share price premiums, driving the stock market to record highs, week after week in a raging bull market that was unstoppable. Investors loved the dot-com story, and they bought it: hook, line, sinker, rod, reel, and boat!

The Internet revolution spawned a ‘perfect storm’ when the development of the World Wide Web, and technology to buy and sell stocks instantaneously on personal computers converged with a superheated stock market. The Wall Street Journal compared it to Las Vegas calling it: ‘Casino Trading’ and Barron’s magazine labeled it a ‘Wild West’ gambling environment.

This pervasive paradigm-shift to Internet-based trading fueled greed and the consequential corollary, a fear psyche that was both addictive and delusional. The hyper-frenzied, speculative atmosphere that emerged signaled the beginning of the end -- that could ultimately trigger the bursting of the dot-com bubble and the birth of a new breed of speculator: the day trader.

Day traders took unimaginable risks, betting huge sums of money, sometimes their entire life savings, based on fictitious insider information, wild tips, and misleading data across the Internet. Their stocks were pumped through wild gyrations, as rumors and emotions relentlessly changed the direction of trading. Usually they lost money and frequently they lost a lot of money, sometimes resulting in bankruptcy.

And, when they thought that mismanagement by the chief executive officer of the company had caused their losses, their revenge turned personal.

#

Bradley J. Burke is on top of the world! As the song goes, ‘He did it his way.’ Bill Gates could have done no better.

The launch of his IPO for his Internet company: Webstar, was an overwhelming success, and he's in love with the woman of his dreams. He had but three concerns: One, the woman of his dreams is married to his best customer, mentor and chairman of the board of directors. Two, there is a crazy assassin Day Trader killing CEOs of publicly held companies when their stock falls. Three, for no apparent reason Brad's Webstar stock suddenly crashes and he is in the cross hairs of the unknown.

Wrapped up in all of this, Brad is caught in a web of deceit and he has no clue that the Green Shoe has dropped.

Amid a maelstrom of success, a maelstrom of jealousy, mystery, and murder, Brad's life is about to change forever. The question is, will his company survive and will he come through it alive? Brad isn't so sure, and others are determined he won't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward G. Caputo
• Release date: Oct 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311053565

Edward G. Caputo

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Edward Caputo originally studied to become a lawyer. After graduating at the top of his class from college, he sought a summer job prior to attending law school. As fate would have it, Ross Perot scouted the college campus looking to hire top graduates as employees for Electronic Data Systems. That summer job was a career changing course for Edward. As Ross had done with IBM, Edward broke from EDS after working there for five years and formed Command Systems, taking the company public in 1998 with over 500 employees and five branches, including an international development center in Bangalore, India.While Edward has a degreed as Bachelor of Science: Business Administration / Computer Science, New York Institute of Technology, and graduated: Summa Cum Laude, he has adapted Entrepreneur as his official title and was awarded 'Entrepreneur of the Year' in 1996. He developed a wide variety of technology businesses, and contunues to find, develop and promote the next "big" idea.He divides his time between Florida and Connecticut, enjoys scuba diving, boating and writing.

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Prologue

March 13th 1998

Greenwich, Connecticut

The Riverside Country Club was magnificent, even on this morbidly gloomy afternoon. Perfectly groomed lush green rolling hills, expertly pruned trees with meticulously manicured shrubbery lined the freshly mowed fairways and sculpted sand traps. A wandering brook divided the front nine holes from the back nine, and an elaborate terracotta footbridge connected them. The sounds of water rapidly churning over cobblestones echoed in the background as it flowed inevitably to the vast Atlantic Ocean. A trace of rock maple smoke wafted from the wood-fired oven in the clubhouse restaurant.

The lone golfer drove the stolen British racing-green Jaguar slowly down the tree-lined entrance toward the massive brick and granite clubhouse. He maneuvered around the line of vehicles unloading golf bags, and parked three rows down from the valet parking lot.

He knew he would fit in perfectly, with his Stanley Blacker periwinkle checkered sport jacket and beige Polo Ralph Lauren slacks, as he strolled nonchalantly to the clubhouse hunting for Glen Chandler. He had a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a dignified mane of thick black sheared hair. He was just another C-level executive, playing golf at this exclusive, ritzy country club on the periphery of the financial capital of the world . . . except that he wasn’t!

Hiding his garishly tattooed right hand in his jacket pocket, he scrutinized each and every prosperous-looking businessman, as they paraded from luxurious automobiles, bemoaning the condition of the drizzly golf course. All successful titans of industry, in designer sweaters and custom tweeds, holding huge multicolored umbrellas over their heads while caddies unloaded their custom-stitched, monogrammed golf bags onto polished electric golf carts.

He didn’t see Chandler among them! The loser is still on the course, he mumbled.

He returned to the Jaguar, opened the trunk, put on his golf shoes, and hoisted his golf bag onto his shoulder. To conceal his black and bright red snake tattoo, he slipped his right hand into what appeared to be a fingerless tan leather ‘golf’ glove. In truth, the glove had a much more lethal history.

He scanned the perimeter of the golf course off into the distance, searching … searching for Chandler. He was sure Chandler was out there somewhere! He could feel it; he could sense it, his instincts combat honed. He was like an animal stalking his prey, but he didn’t see him … yet.

He started walking the course, tracking from the first tee forward, golf club in his gloved right hand, occasionally hitting a ball toward the green, to look the part. After a few mock mulligans, he finally spotted Chandler putting on the twelfth hole, laughing heartily with his foursome despite a slight drizzle. They putted out and moved onto the thirteenth tee.

"The thirteenth tee on Friday the thirteenth! Hell, thirteen must be my lucky number." He grinned and melted into the woods.

The specious golfer found a perfect spot in a copse of trees, shielded from the drizzle, virtually invisible from the thirteenth tee. He removed the number-one driver sock from his rifle and slipped the weapon out of the golf bag.

He lay prone on the cold grass, enjoying the damp, holding the rifle steady. He tweaked the focus of the scope to sharpen his site, as Chandler took his turn at the tee box. The hand with the fingerless tan leather glove caressed the trigger with a cool grace.

Chandler casually bent down and perched his ball on the tee. He took the usual practice swings to limber up before getting serious about lining up his shot. He studied the fairway through the misty drizzle and then looked back down at the ball a couple of times, shimmied his hips to find his alignment, and positioned his feet precisely on either side of the golf ball. Addressing the ball with much practiced deliberation, he smoothly brought the golf club high above his head in an arc that described the outer edge of a target, with his head right in the middle. Without delay, he swung his golf club around.

At the exact moment Glen Chandler’s Callaway Big-Bertha titanium driver struck his premium Titlist Pro golf ball, the assassin golfer squeezed the trigger of the Springfield M21 sniper rifle. The silencer-muffled ‘POP’ sounded like the opening of a cork from a bottle of champagne.

"Fore," he snickered to himself; an evil grin crossed his lips.

It was a perfect shot. Glen Chandler’s ball flew off the tee and landed in the middle of the fairway, at the same time his head exploded in a burst of crimson red. Chandler crumbled to his knees and fell forward onto his golf club as his body went limp.

The drizzle turned into a steady rainfall.

Maybe it was one of those Vietnam War syndromes? Or maybe it was a disease that he had caught in the jungle while soldiering around killing gooks, or maybe it was too much Agent Orange? Or maybe he was just plain crazy?

He didn’t know, and he completely didn’t care.

Chapter 1

Five-Hours Earlier

Wall Street, New York City

BANG! The Day Trader slammed his fist down on the desk and hurled the earnings report across the room. He twisted his head around, and screamed wildly at the stock chart on his computer screen, DAMN IT, CHANDLER! THIS IS THE END! YOU’RE FINISHED! The chart resembled a kamikaze death spiral in an old, grainy World War II suicide attack movie. Except the fiery explosion into allied warships hadn’t occurred … yet.

Enraged, he stood up, marched toward the formidable weaponry in his gun case, stared silently for a few tense seconds, then suddenly wheeled, whipping his steel-toed military boot around, and smashed a jagged hole into his gray metal desk. BANG! It wasn’t the first.

The Day Trader was like a bull in a china shop, thrashing around, transfixed in furious pursuit, his black eyes searching for his next victim. He was bleeding red ink, and wanted to hunt down the cause of his losses. His heart filled with hatred, his soul restless to exact vengeance, but he had no heart and he had no soul.

He reached for his smoldering joint in an ashtray, inhaled the potent drug deep into his lungs, holding it captive for a moment, trying to cool his temper, then exhaled twin plumes of smoke slowly out of his nostrils, dragon-like. The distinctive odor permeated the room.

He picked up the telephone receiver and dialed.

Connect Internet Corporation, how may I help you? The receptionist answered the phone bright and cheery.

Glen Chandler, he ordered. He clenched the fist that had pounded his desk, watched the black snake tattoo slither on the back of his right hand, then stretched out his fingers admiring the bright red forked tongue flicker. His hand was sore, but not broken.

Please hold. I’ll transfer you to his office.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and took a long, hard swallow.

The Day Trader got most of his ‘insider’ information through management harassment or coercion, hiding under a false identity and berating naive company employees on the telephone, then browbeating the gatekeeper into letting him get through to the CEO.

Mr. Chandler’s office, this is Julie. Who’s calling, please? She had a steely edge to her voice and a no-nonsense attitude.

Morgan, William Morgan. Put Chandler on the line. NOW! The Day Trader had done his homework. He hired a private investigator to stake out Chandler’s business and personal activities, and he knew that Chandler’s secretary had invested several of the best years of her life trying to seduce her boss away from his wife of twenty-plus years. He had a complete dossier, including audio and video, and was running one of the videos in his mind. He pictured the pink La Perla lace lingerie falling gently around her ankles, the red stilettos and the black mask that she wore while having sex with Chandler.

I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler is out of the office on business.

Damn it, the stock is getting slaughtered and he’s out of the office! He scowled at the stock price cratering on his computer screen and yelled, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?

I beg your pardon, she retorted.

He measured her response, and pulled another toke on the reefer stub through his crooked, discolored teeth. There was that attitude again. Let’s cut the damn theatrics - he pressed his lips closer to the receiver and stretched out her name - Juuulie.

Excuse me, but I don’t appreciate your tone of voice, and I don’t know who you are. She was trying to maintain her executive secretarial composure.

The Day Trader, on the other hand, knew who she was! He imagined her long dark hair and large firm breasts as she spoke to him. Her soft moans and sighs as she headed toward climax echoed in his mind. I am a major shareholder in CIC, and I have detailed knowledge of your company-paid trips to the Bahamas with Glen Chandler. I don’t like it, and before I send your vacation snapshots to Mrs. Chandler and post them on the Web for shareholder discovery, I demand that you put him on the phone. NOW! Before I lose another nickel.

Mr. Morgan, I really don’t have to listen to your threats. Goodbye! She slammed down the phone and glared at it, as she tried to compose herself.

Seconds later her cell phone buzzed in her purse. She was startled as she reached for it and hesitated at the ‘blocked’ number but answered it anyway, Hello.

Don’t you ever hang up on me again or I will kill you! Do you understand me? The Day Trader screamed, I WILL KILL YOU!

Shaken by his sudden death threats and the intrusion into her personal life, Julie objected, How did you get my private cell phone number?

The same way I got photos and videos of you and Chandler screwing!

Julie’s voice was now trembling, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You … you have a lot of nerve, making these accusations!

But he could tell by the change in her tone, that she was getting concerned about what he really did know. "I’m talking about Suite 312 at the Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island. I’m talking about room service and iced champagne. I’m talking about my private investigator’s video camera positioned to record anything that moved in that room.

You, Julie. You moved! In fact, you moved quite often … and quite erotically. He could visualize her reaction on the other end of the phone, pouting with those full red lips of hers, as she considered his allegations. Her finely manicured, polished fingernails tapping fiercely on the desktop.

You’re out of your mind, she gasped.

He knew he had her! His private investigator was able to get his camera into the most intimate positions. He went in for the kill. Black mask and red stilettos, Julie - very kinky!

What the -- She faltered and was silent for a moment, dumbfounded. When she did speak, her voice cracked. Go to hell!

"She finally got it!" Morgan chuckled. Look, honey, cut the crap. I have it all, complete with audio and video. Tell me where the hell he is? NOW! I’m losing my patience!

Oh, my God! What kind of person are you?

He was evil, the devil incarnate and he had no tolerance left. Time’s up. Tell me where he is right now, or I make you famous! He suddenly screamed into the receiver at the top of his lungs, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?

She broke down. He … he’s at the Riverside Country Club in Greenwich, Connecticut. He’s golfing with some very important clients and can’t be disturbed. He could hear her sobbing. I’ll get a message to him, he’ll call you right back.

Don’t bother! I’ll get the message to him myself. He slammed down the receiver.

#

Thinking hard about payback, the Day Trader grabbed the bottle of Johnny Walker Red and took another mouthful.

He walked over to his gun case and picked out his favorite weapon. It was a Vietnam-era Springfield M21 Marine Corps sniper rifle. He ran his fingers up and down the well-oiled gun barrel adoringly and raised the weapon up to his shoulder, feeling the weight. He opened the drawer in the cabinet, loaded five 7.62x51mm rounds into the chamber, and then carefully screwed a silencer onto the gun barrel. It felt good to be getting back into action.

"Semper Fi! Just like the good old days in Nam," he thought, relishing his vivid memories of the war. The conquests of combat echoed in his mind.

Tracking the enemy in the hot as hell jungle, sweating into the site, wiping it away, seeing the mark - then the gentle, ever so gentle squeeze, and thwack - the sound of lead tearing through flesh. Oh, how he loved that feeling: the dry-throated thrill of the hunt pounding in his ears drowning out jungle noise, the ecstasy of the conquest, and the slow, slow easing of his heart.

The Day Trader opened the door to his coat closet, hauled out his golf bag, and slid the gun in, donning it with a light-blue number-one driver sock for camouflage. He took the cosmetics bag from the top shelf of the closet and brought it into the bathroom.

In front of the mirror, he stretched a rubber skullcap wig of thick black hair onto his baldhead and glued a salt-and-pepper beard to hide the hideous scars on his chin leftover from countless barroom brawls. He inserted special contact lenses to transform his piercing black eyes to brown, then took tanning cream, rubbed it onto his arms, hands, and face to make his pasty pale complexion, darker. Last, he slipped into his golfing attire.

He drained the bottle of scotch and admired his extreme makeover in the mirror. For a borderline freak of nature, he almost looked normal, he even smelled like a barbershop.

It started to drizzle, as he stowed the golf bag, shoes, and most importantly, his fingerless tan leather ‘shooter’ glove into the trunk of a Jaguar that he ‘borrowed’ from a neighbor, by jumping the starter wires.

He pulled out of the crowded, narrow street, heading toward the FDR Drive on the East Side of Manhattan.

His destination: the Riverside Country Club in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Chapter 2

Customs at the JFK American International Terminal had been crammed and slow, and the chairman and chief executive officer of Webstar Corporation knew that the thunderstorm would double the time for his trip to Manhattan.

Bradley J. Burke gazed out the rain-streaked window of the sleek black stretch-limousine as it splashed through bone-jarring potholes, leftover from never-ending airport construction. His view of the world outside the window crawled along in slow motion, as if it had been transformed into an alternate, parallel dimension.

He was exhausted and disoriented from his ‘Road Show’ tour of the world’s financial capitals. It had been a brutal month-long schedule and whirlwind kaleidoscope of airplanes, cities, boardrooms, and presentations that had just come to an abrupt conclusion, as though someone had suddenly stepped on the brakes while he was still hurtling through the air at full speed.

He felt on top of the world, but at this point, he was running on fumes. I can’t believe we’re really done, he thought. No more one-day stands in forgotten cities. No more practice sessions in hotel rooms. No more sleepless nights. No more need to be ‘up’ and ‘on’ for the next presentation or meeting with potential investors or stock analysts. It was a difficult and demanding journey, but we did it! We really did it!

He reached for the bottle of champagne chilling in an ice chest on the right side of the limousine’s interior and read the label aloud. 1985 Dom Perignon. He mused, The year I started Webstar.

His mind flashed through the history of personalities and problems like an old-time silent movie. The hundred-hour workweeks, lost weekends, deals made, disasters avoided, little triumphs, late nights. Good guys who turned out to be jerks when the going got tough; jerks who turned out to be heroes and saved the day.

In the dim glow of the overhead lamp, he found a gold leaf embossed, formally addressed card attached to the bottle:

-------------------------------

March 13th, 1998

Bradley J. Burke

Chairman and Chief Executive Officer

Webstar Corporation

Dear Bradley,

Congratulations on a remarkable achievement. You’re now the CEO of a public company. We are all enormously proud to be associated with you.

Best Regards,

Clayton R. Logan, Esquire

Senior Partner

Norwood, Thornton, Higgins and Associates

Attorneys at Law

-------------------------------

"Clayton R. Logan, Esquire," Brad thought, shaking his head. Everything is remarkable and enormous to him, too funny. These lawyers’ fees were remarkable. They made out like bandits from the enormous fees they collected. Ha, they can afford a whole truckload of this champagne.

He popped open the Dom Perignon with an unusually loud ‘POP’ and poured the champagne into a glass. Then leaned back into the plush leather seat and drolly toasted his reflection in the limousine’s window, reveling. This Dom’s for you!

Startled by the sound of the cork popping, the driver quickly turned around, Are you all right, Mr. Burke? He wore a dark blue professional chauffeur cap that was slanted stylishly toward the right, and he spoke with a slight Spanish accent.

Brad leaned forward. Yes, I’m fine. I’m just celebrating back here with a little champagne. Feeling foolish now, he smiled modestly. Really just talking to myself.

Sorry, sir. The cork startled me. It was so loud, it almost sounded like a rifle shot back there. The driver returned to his view of the traffic-snarled streets.

Ha! No rifles back here, just me celebrating. I’m really glad to be home again.

The driver peered at the backseat through the rear-view mirror, his eyes searching. What happened to the other gentleman?

Brad looked over at the Chief Financial Officer of Webstar, curled up sleeping on the seat next to him. The other gentleman is sound asleep. We had a very long and tiring trip.

Well, welcome home and congratulations.

Thank you.

#

It was Friday the thirteenth, a dreary, drizzly, damp and musty March afternoon, with the threat of another approaching thunderstorm. Although notoriously unlucky, this day had been extraordinarily lucky for Brad, as well as extremely profitable.

Webstar, his small start-up company that he founded with $1,000 in cash was publicly trading on the ‘NASDAQ’ stock exchange as of today; the ticker symbol was ‘WEBS.’ All the trials and tribulations, all the mistakes and near failures, all the close calls with bankruptcy were a thing of the past. The rocket rides, from rags to riches, crash and burn back to rags and then back to riches again, had finally paid-off.

Bradley J. Burke was divorced, in his mid-forties. A workaholic. He exuded a quiet confidence that always made it appear as though he were completely in control of every situation, though he obsessed about every aspect of running his company. He was the master salesman, Mr. personality.

He kept his dark brown hair trimmed short enough to expose his lightly graying temples, his serious deep blue eyes were feathered with what others called laugh lines but in his case they were due to the degree with which he studied plans, reports and financial records. He couldn't call his features chiseled but he was lean through the face and his expression typically earnest, sort of like, James Bond, hot on an international crime investigation for MI-6. His athletic five-foot-eleven-inch frame was built to carry a heavy briefcase in one hand and a two-suiter in the other, while dashing for the last plane out of LaGuardia.

He had conceived, built, and now brought public a highly successful Internet technology company in an era in which the Internet was beginning to permeate every facet of human existence. Webstar Corporation was in the right place at the right time. The Webstar IPO had taken full advantage of the ‘dot-com’ glitter, and it sparkled brilliantly through Webstar’s sky-high share price multiples. Bradley J. Burke had worked hard to achieve his surging stock market wealth.

And he looked the part.

Chapter 3

Brad took another sip of the champagne while watching his CFO sleeping on the opposite side of the limousine with disdain. Thankfully, the trip was over, and I won’t have to spend another intolerable day, or night with him.

The chief financial officer of Webstar Corporation snored with his shoes off, tie undone, and head resting on his twenty-plus-year-old battered briefcase. The underlying metal casing had worn through the leather corners, and the stitching on the handle was frayed and unraveling from years of use. It looked like a pile of old jewelry. In a strange, sentimental way, Tyler L. Martin cherished the tattered graduation gift from his former college roommate. It was his ‘blankie.’

He watched as a little stream of drool dripped down the corner of Tyler’s mouth and slowly flowed across his cheek, heading toward the venerated briefcase. Tyler stirred slightly from the sound of the bottle of champagne cork popping, and instinctively wiped his face with his fingertips just before his saliva touched the engraved brass tag. Brad strained to read the engraving:

-------------------------------

My dear friend and roommate Tyler,

Onward and Upward to the Future!

Together we shall prevail!

Congratulations,

James

-------------------------------

He thought about James in retrospect, and the peculiar relationship that James Palmer had with Tyler Martin. They had been college roommates and close friends, very close friends. To Brad, their relationship was too close, almost amatory. Together we shall prevail!

Then Brad entered the picture: the proverbial ‘third wheel.’ The three of them had worked together tenuously, in a dysfunctional triumvirate building Webstar. That is, until Palmer went into a ballistic jealous rage over a business award that Brad won. He resigned from the company in a bundle emotional jealousy.

Brad recalled the tempestuous relationship that they'd had. The rivalry was constant. Palmer continually tried to one-up Brad, and of course, Tyler always sided with Palmer.

"How would James Palmer be feeling today since he left Webstar and missed out on all the wealth generated by the IPO? Jealous? Resentful? Murderous? Probably all of the above!"

Tyler drowsily nudged himself out of the fetal position, hugged his briefcase tightly as if awakened from a dream, and slowly opened his eyes with a slight grin.

Brad wondered if he had been dreaming about Palmer? He tilted his head sideways to look into Tyler’s face. Do you want some champagne, Tyler? It’s an eighty-five Dom. Anticipating the answer he held out a glass anyway.

Tyler gradually lifted his head from the seat cushion and shifted his feet to the floor. He sat up and gingerly fingered his thin film of hair back into place, marginally covering his lumpy head. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled. His wire-rimmed glasses were cockeyed, and his pockmarked complexion was paler than usual.

Still half asleep, he replied sarcastically through a yawn, Nineteen-eighty-five Dom Perignon. Isn’t that special! He rubbed his watery eyes. No thanks, Bradley. You know I don’t drink. Never will.

Brad took another sip of the champagne. His way of putting up with Tyler’s neuroses great and small was to taunt him whenever they were stuck together for too long. The alternative would have been to go for his throat.

"But, Tyler, this is a special occasion. We’re celebrating! How often do you get to go public? And besides, it’s from Clayton R. Logan, Esquire." He accentuated the ‘Esquire’ mockingly.

Bradley, I’m still trying to recover from a month of sleep deprivation, he said, sniffling. Plus, I’m catching a cold from all of this wet weather, and the putrid-smelling air conditioner in this limousine isn’t helping.

Suddenly his head jerked and he urgently reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief. He sneezed hard into it. Then he sneezed again.

God bless you, Brad offered.

Tyler wiped his nose, pushed his glasses to his forehead, and looked at Brad with contempt. Please, Bradley, let’s not go there. He continued sniffling and blew his nose loudly.

It’s just a courtesy, Tyler. You don’t have to get all upset about it.

It’s not just a courtesy, Bradley! Tyler continued wiping his nose as he whined, It’s a silly, religious superstition that I do not subscribe to and I do not appreciate.

Oh, Tyler, lighten up. It’s not that big a deal. Brad brushed his hand in the air trivializing Tyler’s remarks. Smell the roses and enjoy the moment.

Bradley, you can believe whatever you want, but don’t force your beliefs on me. He repositioned his eyeglasses and peered back at Brad.

Brad shook his head in utter disgust and conceded, Fine, whatever.

Tyler sneezed again, gushing into his handkerchief. A few unruly wisps of hair dangled across his balding forehead defying the hair sprayed comb-over. He shoved them back into place with his fingers.

Brad knew Tyler was an atheist but needled him further anyway. Well, may someone bless you?

That’s idiotic, Bradley. Tyler pouted. It’s a silly habit, and superstitious nonsense. Next you’ll be waving a voodoo doll in front of me to cure my cold.

Some say it works. Tyler was always looking for the smallest detail to pick a fight over. Brad was sick and tired of it. He downed the rest of his champagne and chose to ignore Tyler for the rest of the trip.

The driver glanced back at Brad in the rear-view mirror with a look of disbelief at the exchange. Brad acknowledged his expression with his eyes and reached for more of the Dom.

Tyler’s pompous attitude always cranked up the tension between them. The bickering was constant. It was a miracle that they had survived being together continuously, all the way through the grueling, seemingly never-ending Road Show. They’d argued over every detail of the presentation, and Tyler often upstaged him in ways that nearly subverted Brad’s carefully orchestrated meetings.

Tyler L. Martin was not someone you’d choose to spend a month running around the world with, but he was born to be a CFO. He could lecture anyone, anytime about the meaning of the numbers of the company. He was meticulous to the point of absurdity when it came to anything having to do with Webstar’s financials, and he could ‘out-grip a tick’ when it came to holding onto a nickel. If you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it, he would say.

That always gave Brad a headache.

Unfortunately, Brad had to tolerate his annoying behavior because Tyler had ingratiated himself with Webstar’s board. No matter what visionary leadership Brad offered, the board would always turn to Tyler for a ‘reality’ check. And Tyler would always produce reality by crunching the numbers.

"I’m not just responsible to you," he would lecture. I answer to the board of directors and I have made it crystal-clear that as CFO, I have a fiduciary responsibility to always be one hundred and fifty percent accurate!

That always gave Brad a migraine.

He turned his attention back to the world going by outside the luxurious stretch-limousine.

His head began to throb!

Chapter 4

The drizzle suddenly turned into a heavy downpour, thunder rumbled loudly throughout the blackened sky. Occasional bolts of lightning shot to the ground behind grungy apartment buildings, radiating the undersides of the dark, ominous clouds overhead. Rush-hour traffic on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway slowed to a crawl, and lines of cars, with brake lights flashing, went on for miles as commuters weaved in and out of lanes desperate to get home for the weekend or downtown for dinner and a play. Road rage reigned. Maddened red-faced drivers shouted obscenities, displayed vulgar hand signals and blared horns incessantly.

In the midst of the all this commotion, a man appeared like an apparition in the rainstorm, pushing a shopping cart in the breakdown lane alongside the high stonewalls of the expressway. The cart overflowed with dark green and brown plastic bags, probably containing all the man’s worldly possessions.

He shuffled along, dressed in tattered trousers and several layers of worn-out sweaters and coats. Occasionally he picked up the wreckage from a long forgotten collision: a hubcap here, a spear of chrome there. Above his grimy, unshaven face, hair stuck out in all directions, propped up by dirt and grease accumulated from too many nights sleeping on the ground.

"He appeared to have nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there."

Gridlock stopped the limousine completely in a traffic jam and the vagrant turned to scrutinize the limousine as it sat a few feet in front of him. He had a strange, contemptuous grimace on his face and peered into the wet, darkened glass, unwittingly meeting Brad’s eyes. Brad stared at the man apprehensively; he could almost smell the stench of his body.

Twisting his cart away, the vagabond returned to his task, his attention shifting to the smashed headlight of what must have been a fine Mercedes-Benz at one time. It reminded Brad that life could take some odd twists and turns, and he wondered how the man outside his limousine window had allowed his life to deteriorate into this hollow shell of an existence. He tried to imagine where the man had come from and what might have happened to him over the years to force him to live in deprivation on the streets of New York City.

The limousine resumed its journey alongside the East River as the congestion eased. The river currents churned and thrashed as a fierce wind whipped up whitecaps. Frigid sheets of rain gusted sideways across the turbulent water.

Even on this dark, overcast afternoon, the glimpses of the Manhattan skyline were spectacular. As they worked their way across the Brooklyn Bridge, the colorful lights illuminating the Empire State Building glittered out of the gloom, like a beacon in the center of the jagged landscape of glass and steel buildings spread out across the island.

In the distance, the very essence of New York City’s financial dominance stood proudly. The World Trade Center Twin Towers reached up from the financial district to touch the clouds, like two tall exclamation points proclaiming the hub of the world’s wealth and power.

The ferocity of the storm and flashes of lightning added an eerie dimension of strength to a city already revered as the epicenter of the business world. It looked as though the storm was not above the city but emerging from within.

Brad was a happy man. Wall Street was booming and the bulls were running. Bring on the champagne! Bring on the Cuban cigars! Bring on the caviar! Webstar’s timing was perfect; an IPO in the leading industry sector during the strongest bull market in history.

"How could anything possibly go wrong?"

#

Suddenly, the driver turned around from the front of the expansive limousine, Mr. Burke, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you might want to hear this. He turned the volume up high:

"… killed today on a golf course in Greenwich, Connecticut.