The Prince of Risk A Novel(52)

“Bleu?” Grillo asked with friendly disbelief.

“Comme vous l’aimez.”

Grillo cut into the steak. The center was dark red, essentially untouched by heat.

“Eh bien?” asked the waiter.

“Parfait,” said Grillo.

Content, the server bowed and left.

Grillo cut himself a piece of meat. Strangely, he could not bring himself to take a bite. He had lost his appetite.





35




Astor needed a drink.

He needed a drink to get over his father’s death. He needed a drink to deal with the meltdown of the position. He needed a drink to soothe his conscience for failing to report Penelope Evans’s death. Mostly he needed a drink because he needed a drink. Having a drink meant he was in control. When he put the glass to his lips and let the liquor flow into his mouth and down his throat and felt the wonderful, healing warmth spread through his limbs, the first joyous step to oblivion, he knew that he, Robert Astor, was in charge, and the world was no longer a threatening place, and if everyone would please just give him a little time, if they would just back off and chill, he would fix everything.

“Lights.”

Astor stepped off the elevator directly into the foyer of his home as the overhead lights came to life. His primary residence in the city was a two-level penthouse on Tenth Avenue in Chelsea, just across the street from the High Line and no more than a mile from Alex’s office. He walked into the kitchen and selected a bottle of mineral water and a large lime from the refrigerator. He cut the lime and dropped it into a highball glass, then poured the mineral water. The glass had to be stout and heavy, the lime fresh, and the mineral water carbonated and with a dash of salt. Those were the rules. He grasped the glass in his fist, took a long sip, and the craving vanished.

He was safe.

Astor gazed across the living room. Not 20 feet away stood a fully stocked bar. He could see it now, the bottles of Stolichnaya and Bulleit and Grey Goose and all the others glittering like forbidden treasure. The bar was his jailkeeper. He had made himself a promise a year ago, when Alex had confronted him and threatened to bar him from seeing Katie. If he ever cracked a bottle, he would go away. He would do his time at a facility. His colleagues would know and the Street would know. Alex would know and Katie would know. And finally, he would know.



Astor lugged his satchel upstairs and set it on the floor of his bedroom.

“Music,” he said. “Sinatra. In the Wee Small Hours.”

A moment later the rich, melancholy horns of the Nelson Riddle Orchestra drifted from the concealed speakers.

Astor took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. The house was wired top to bottom. Lights, climate control, appliances, entertainment system, security: all could be controlled by voice or remotely, either from the Net or from his phone.

“Softer.”

Sinatra began singing “Mood Indigo.” Astor dug the annual reports he’d taken from Penelope Evans’s home out of the satchel, then kicked off his chukka boots and lay down on his bed, arranging the pillows to ensure he sat up straight. Windows made up two of the walls, and he looked across the Hudson River toward the lights of northern New Jersey.

“Air conditioning. Sixty-eight degrees.”

Astor began with the journal titled Information Technology Today that he’d found on Evans’s bed.

Our configurable software frameworks extend connectivity, integration, and interoperability to the millions of devices deployed in the market today and empower manufacturers to develop intelligent equipment systems and smart devices that enable collaboration and communication between the enterprise and edge assets. Our platforms allow for building and managing complex monitoring, control, and automation solutions, including applications for building control, facility management, industrial automation, medical equipment, physical security, energy information systems, telecommunications, smart homes, M2M, and smart services.

Penelope Evans had been the executive assistant to the CEO of the New York Stock Exchange, and as far as Astor knew, “managing complex monitoring, control, and automation solutions” was not in her purview. Nor could he find any connection between such a technology and his father’s murder. Edward Astor had sought out the counsel of the chairman of the Federal Reserve and the secretary of the treasury, not the secretary of defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.



Again he keyed on the mention of the firm leading the drive in this field. The company, Britium, based in Reston, Virginia, was in talks with two private equity firms for an imminent sale. The firms were named Watersmark and Oak Leaf Ventures.

Astor shifted his attention to the annual reports. He set the stack beside him on the bed and divided them into two piles, one for the firms that had recently been taken public and one for the firms that were no longer publicly traded. He began with the publicly traded firms.