Chasing Victoria

Chapter 2

Chapter 2The GE building's Byzantine lobby transports me to another era. Rippled-pink-marble walls, vaulted-golden ceilings, and hidden wall sconce's diffused sunburst remind me of a perfect sunrise. On the thirty-eighth floor, pristine, marbled halls and a crystal chandelier lead me toward Wheaton Asset Management's imposing bronze double doors. I pause in front of the gilded entry and press my thumb on the security console. The door unlocked prompting a deep inhale and exhale before I enter.

As always, I'm struck by the window view up Park Avenue to the George Washington Bridge, adjoining New York to New Jersey's jagged cliffs like an artistic mural. Morning silences the opulent reception area, décor styled for Wheaton's wealthy clientele. The room feels empty without Amber the receptionist who I've grown fond of the last three years, a female presence I appreciate among Wheaton's Ivy League men.

Past the reception area, I'm surprised to see the owner of the firm, Bruce Wheaton, seated with a guest in the conference room. He's rarely in the New York office, except for special meetings, and rarely sees clients before the market opens. His guest, seated across from him at the conference table, hasn't removed his trench coat, and I assume the meeting will be short. With his back turned toward the door, only his profile is visible, but the distinct slant of his eye reveals his Asian heritage.

The Asian man pounds his fist on a thick manila folder and slides it across the table. Bruce opens his mouth with angry words silenced by glass walls. His eyes catch mine as I hasten down the hall toward male voices emanating from the trading room. I attempt to pass unnoticed, but Bob O'Connor turns his head before I cross the door.

“Hey, morning Vicky…”

I pause, leaning on the door frame. “Morning, guys.”

Two lethargic responses trickle through the door.

“Morning…”

“Morning, Vic.”

Wheaton's three traders sit back-to-back, monitoring trades in the medium-sized room overrun with computer consoles. Bob O'Connor, seasoned head trader, has been with the company since its inception. Born from one of the wealthiest families in Greenwich, Connecticut, his persona speaks of old money. His dusty-gray hair has lost its youthful, golden color, but a hint of attractiveness remains. When will he decide he's had enough of this life of thirty years? Loving Wall Street's hectic pace, he'll probably work past retirement, although, he could have retired years ago.

“How was your run this morning?” Bob asks.

Bob's engaging personality and genuine concern for colleagues always engenders admiration. A family man with three grown children and a pampered wife, I suspect he uses his career to escape marriage's confines.

“Endorphins still pumping, you should try it one morning.”

“I'll pass, but my wife would like nothing better than to see me in running shoes,” he says, jiggling his belly with his hands.

I picture his ticker and organs smothered by fat but forgo my opinion; certain he's heard it before from others. “How is Linda?”

“Linda is Linda, always got her hands in some new endeavor. Last week it was the New Age Health Spa in the Catskills, and now she's on some cleansing diet.”

I remember Amber mentioning Bob's wife started a holistic diet of juicing, and the green drink on his desk is probably her concoction.

“More of Linda's juice?” I ask, tilting my head in the drink's direction.

“Yep, and it's God-awful,” he says with a cringe. “I don't know what's in this stuff, but it's like drinking swamp water and smells worse.”

I chuckle, not because of the drink, but his bitter expression. “Hold your nose and just chug it down. Linda just wants you healthy Bob,” I say, knowing he'll discard it or place it in the company refrigerator until it grows old with mold.

“Or she wants to kill me.”

“Shush, I wouldn't voice that so loud,” I say with a wink.

Dennis swivels his chair in my direction. His mischievous eyes roam my body then he grins lasciviously. I frown and narrow my eyes in disgust. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Dennis Fahey has been Wheaton's Bond-Trader for twelve years. Unmarried, he lives a playboy life in Manhattan with days of stressful trading followed by nights of countless women and drinking, some mornings you can still smell nocturnal pursuits on his clothing—heart attack material, perhaps before his 40th birthday. His expression signals crude, provoking remarks forming on his tongue.

“Linda doesn't want to kill you, Bob, she just wants to control you, man,” he says with a sneer. “You know how you women are,” he says, challenging me with a stare.

His misogynistic ways make me shudder. With too many girlfriends to count; his s****l objectification of women is disturbing. Many times I've heard his sneering contempt for women. His air of superiority is annoying, and I rarely tolerate his sexist jokes, but sometimes it's better to ignore him. However, this morning, I can't help biting back. “Ooh … And we don't want to do that now do we? We know how all that female power scares you,” I say with an eye roll.

Alex, sitting behind Dennis hisses and shakes his head in disgust. “Man, this is why you can't find a wife. You're so disrespectful.”

“Uh-huh, well, I only take my cues from them. Disrespect gets them all hot and bothered,” Dennis says with a wink in my direction then swivels toward the computer.

“Don't mind the i***t in the room, Vic. We forgot to put him back in his cage,” Bob says throwing me a look of compassion.

Alex hisses between his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. I give him a grateful smile, banish Dennis' remarks, and ask, “How's it going, Alex?”

“Busy day with the ZyTech IPO,” he says with a hint of anxiousness.

Straight out of Princeton University, Alex Ferrara is the youngest of the group. He seems misplaced in this room. At five-feet-seven-inches, he appears a boy beside Bob and Dennis's six-feet frames. His raven hair smoothed back with gel makes his aquiline nose more prominent. He's always on edge, and the constant frown will soon remain permanent if he doesn't learn to relax. I sense trading isn't what he'd hoped, and sometimes catch him sneaking out of the office, taking private calls in the stairwell—perhaps headhunters calling, offering him a less stressful position.

“Well, guys, good luck with the IPO,” I say and turn to leave.

“Your legs look hot in that dress, Vicky,” Dennis yells before I take a step down the hall.

I know what he's doing, trying to get under my skin, the bastard. I imagine a nasty retort, but let it go and continue down the hall toward Andrew Kelly's unusually quiet office. I peek my head inside, surprised the room is empty. As CFO of the firm, Andrew's always in before seven in the morning and never misses a day of work.

A few doors down, an impressive golden-lettered plaque proclaims Kayla's title, Jr. Compliance Analyst. I'm still in awe how far we've come in our short careers. She's in early, and I wonder why. Peeking inside her office, I find her bag and trench coat strewed across her desk. She must be getting coffee.

Two doors down, a golden plaque proclaim my role—Victoria A. Powell, Equity Research Analyst. The cream office where I spend most of my waking hours, glows from light off St. Bartholomew's golden dome through the window. I relish the morning serenity before my day commences.

More rituals begin the moment I slide behind my desk and power on the computer. I grab two Zen meditation balls from my desk, exhale deep and open Bloomberg, Wheaton's position screen, and Outlook. Contemplatively, I roll the Zen balls in my palm and scan my daily calendar. Eight o'clock research meeting. Ten o'clock conference call with management. Lunch with analyst Chip Meyers. Two o'clock meeting with Rawlins Corporation. Daily tweaking of financial models and research reports. When does it end?

Putting the Zen balls aside, I prop my chin on my hand, gaze at the beach screensaver, and imagine an impromptu island getaway with a willing partner. Chase's sculpted legs and alluring scent come to mind. A voice jars my reverie.

“Uh-oh … I know that look.”

Quickly, I dispel the ambiguous expression and wonder how desire looks on my face. I contain a laugh and lift my gaze to Callum McKenna, a young intern and mathematical genius from Columbia University.

“How's the Queen of Biotech,” he asks, running his hand through his sandy brown hair. “Busy day ahead?”

“God, it never ends, Callum.”

Grasping the door frame, Callum leans back, stares down the hall, and then swings his body forward with a baffled expression. “Something's going on this morning. Andrew is MIA, and did you see the action in the conference room?” He asks, sitting in the chair facing my desk. “Man … Bruce is pissed!” He says elongating each word. “I've never seen him so angry. Who's the man with him in the conference room?”

“I don't know, but those were my exact thoughts.”

Callum's brows furrow. “I swear I've seen his guest somewhere. Hmm, it'll come to me,” he says and twists his lips.

Suddenly, I remember Callum's new status. “I heard you accepted the offer. Congratulations Mr. Junior Quantitative Research Analyst!” I exclaim and high-five him across the desk. “I'm impressed,” I say, admiring his impeccable tailored suit and Rolex watch, ceratainly a present from his father.

“I'm psyched,” he says, rolling the research report around his well-manicured hands. “It was a tough decision between Wheaton and JP Morgan Chase. But dad convinced me this is a good place to work.”

The spark in his eyes reminds me of the excitement Kayla, and I felt when Wheaton recruited us off campus. We were surprised to be hired by one of the most reputable hedge funds in New York City. “So, will you still commute from Greenwich?”

“I just signed a lease,” he says with a tug of his magenta tie. “On Fifty-Second Street.”

Smiling into my hand, I jest. “Ooh, look at you, your own place … Mr. All-Grown-Up.”

“Hmmm, we're practically neighbors, Vic.”

“Yeah, right, with thirty blocks between us,” I say with a smirk.

“Well, I'll come by if I need to borrow some beer.”

“Ha!” I screech, wondering if he'd just pop by without a warning.

“Anyway, are you excited about the ZyTech IPO?” He asks with eager brown eyes.

“Well, they're expecting a hot market for this one.”

“By the way, good research Vic,” he exclaims, raising my monthly research report. “You mentioned ZyTech. So the FDA gave the green light on the clinical trials. I know how important given your mom's…”

“Cancer,” I say, noticing his unease. “It's okay, Callum; I've been fine with Judith's death for a while,” I say, turning my gaze toward the computer. After a year of assuring others I'm fine, my reply feels rote. Callum's unease is one I recognized when people wield uneasy condolences, a look that causes me to smile reassuringly or look away as I had just now. “Anyhow, ZyTech's drugs been in the pipeline a long time and the IND has only just been approved. It could take years before the d**g makes it to market.”

“Let's hope this one makes it through trials swiftly,” he says with earnest intent. “Wow, I can't believe the number of drugs these companies bring to market,” he states, staring at the research report.

“It's called competition, Callum. Novelty is the name of the game. If they're not continuously developing drugs—”

“Then they're acquiring smaller-cap companies,” he says abruptly finishing my words.

“Exactly!” I exclaim with a smile.

“By the way, I heard you have a meeting with Rawlins' management today. That should be interesting.”

“Well, if you consider listening to medical terminology, and clinical trial results interesting, well then, I guess so,” I say, glancing at my wristwatch. Turning my attention back to Callum; I notice his eyes have left my face. I follow his gaze to my n*****s protruding like two pebbles through my dress—hardened by the air-conditioner.

Nervously, shifting in his seat; he lifts his gaze back to my face while lowering the research pamphlet in his lap.

God, Callum, I thought with a silent chuckle, they're only n*****s. Casually, I reach for the cardigan on the back of my chair, wrap it around my shoulders, and feign a shiver. “Is it cool in here?” I ask, all the while wondering what Judith would have done—throw the young man a smile while teasing him with her assets. I suppress a laugh at his obvious embarrassment but wonder what he was thinking the moment he noticed my hardened n*****s.

He clears his throat to conceal discomfort. Silence spills across the room, but only for a moment when Chris Brannon appears in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” Chris says, clearing his throat to catch Callum's attention. “Good morning, Vicky. Can I pull this young man away for a while?”

“Morning, Chris. He's all yours,” I say with deference and a smile. My mentor, Chris Brannon, is a well-respected Analysts and Economists on the street. As a regular speaker on CNN Finance, he's unaffected by his status, maintaining a humbleness I've always admired.

“Callum, I'll be in my office,” Chris says as he turns to leave.

“There in a second, Chris,” Callum replies and rises from the chair nervously. “Well, Vic, I better get going; wouldn't want the boss screaming at me the first day on the job.”

Screamed at? I doubt management will yell at their latest acquisition, not at a wealthy kid whose family is as well-connected as his. I've heard his family is old friends of the Wheaton's, and probably have a financial interest in the firm. “Oh, don't forget the Goldman Sachs' healthcare conference at noon tomorrow.”

“I haven't forgotten,” he says, pausing for thought. “Now, I remember where I've seen Bruce's guest. His brother was three grades ahead of me at Brunswick in Greenwich.”

“Ah! Then maybe he's a friend of Bruce.”

“Or adversary,” he whispers. “From what I remember of that family, they were a strange lot. They keep their distance from many of the locals, but he could be Bruce's client. I doubt he's a friend.”

“Hmmm…” Remembering Bruce's angry scowl, Callum might have a point.

“Well, see you at the morning meeting,” he says, winking with a boyish grin.

He's cute, but I would never acknowledge his crush or lead him on. I return to Outlook, skim thirty new emails, delete office junk, and highlight current biotech research from sell-side analysts and Bloomberg alerts. Inhaling deeply, I glance at my research notes for the morning meeting, realizing Kayla hasn't made her usual morning coffee visit. Unable to start my day without our morning chat, I leave my office, searching for her whereabouts.

* * *

Past the cafeteria and mailroom, I find Kayla stretched over the middle drawer in the file room—fingers moving across files frenziedly.

“Hey, there you are.”

Startled, she jumps, banging her head on the upper drawer. “Ow! Vic, you scared the crap out of me,” she howls, pushing the top drawer closed with a bang while rubbing the top of her head. “I was coming by in a few minutes, but I'm having trouble finding a file,” she explains and pushes a folder back in its cramped space. Reddish tresses fall into her eyes as she rummages through the drawer. Her skin is paler than usual, making her signature freckles appear darker. She's wearing a conservative tan pantsuit and simple flats—not her usual designer dress, high heels, and pearls. It seems she dressed in a rush—no jewelry or makeup, only a slight hint of gloss on her lips.

“Kayla, why don't you let your assistant pull the file?”

“I can't wait till nine when he arrives. I need it now,” she says with a sigh of exasperation. “Darn … I just had it last night,” she says while thumping her hand on the center of the files. “I put it right here in the fifth drawer. I even put a yellow sticky on it so I could eye it easier.” With scrutinizing eyes, she stares at the drawer as if willing the folder to materialize. Flabbergasted, she sweeps falling strands from her mouth and stands akimbo with shifting hips. “Okay … It's gotta be somewhere; it can't just disappear into thin air.”

“Maybe someone else pulled it,” I say with an allusive raise of my brows. I remember the thick file Bruce held in the conference room and wonder if it's the file she's searching for.

“No, can't be,” she states with an elevating voice, her pale skin now a crimson shade. “I was the last to leave the office yesterday and the first to arrive this morning. No one else could have the file.”

“Okay, calm down Kayla. You're going to burst a blood vessel,” I say with a smile, but realize she's not finding the statement funny. “Anyway, what's so important about this file?”

Her eyes meet mine as if deciding to let me in on the cause of her angst. With narrowed eyes and tight lips, she fans her hand and shakes her head. “It's nothing. I just hate misplacing stuff.”

Concerned by the dark circles under her emerald green eyes, I wonder if she's been sleeping. “Kayla, you look exhausted. What's going on? Is everything okay in the office?”

“I…well …You know, with law school and work, I'm just not sleeping enough lately. It's tough.”

I detect a lie, but let it slide, concerned more about her agitation than her elusive demeanor. I've known Kayla since freshman year of college, and nothing has ever gotten her this riled up. A behavior I don't recognize replaces the composed exterior she always exudes as she searches through the files. “Let's get some coffee. Maybe getting some air and caffeine will clear your head.”

With a peculiar squint and rub of her forehead, she closes the file drawer. “Alright, let's go.”

Whatever's in that file must be important. But her manner tells me more is going on than the missing folder.

In the conference room, Bruce Wheaton and his anonymous guest are now standing. I assume they're wrapping up their heated meeting. As we pass the conference room, Bruce peers at Kayla and the strange man cast a furtive eye, sending shivers down my spine. I glance back just as the man passes Bruce a file. He extends his hand, but Bruce rudely declines a handshake. What's that about?