Chapter 19: She Stays

Juno's POV

"They froze us at six forty this morning," Marcus said.

It was 7:50 on Friday morning, and he was standing on my stoop with a court order in a plastic sleeve. He had come to Carroll Gardens himself. Marcus Webb, Ronan's head of deals, forty years old, had never once in two years delivered paper by hand.

"Judge Vance?" I asked.

"Judge Vance. Ellison Group's complaint says Harbor Point was built on stolen research." He handed me the sleeve. "Until the hearing on Monday the sixteenth, nobody pours concrete and no bank releases a dollar."

I read the first page standing in my doorway. Twelve exhibits. Every one of them had Sloane's signature on it.

"Stolen from who?"

"Grant. By you." He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "Ronan wants you on the pier at ten. Wear a coat."

"He wants me at the site with the board?"

"He wants the board to look at you while they decide how they feel." Marcus glanced at the street. "Did he stay last night?"

"He left at two."

"Then why does your window have a camera pointed at it?"

I looked down. At the curb across the street, a gray plastic housing the size of a lunch box sat on a lamp post, aimed at my bay window. It had not been there on Thursday.

"Marcus," I said. "Find out who installed that."

"Already texting."

"Is Ronan angry?"

"He hasn't said a word since six forty." Marcus opened my gate for me. "That's worse."

The Harbor Point site was an empty concrete pier jutting into the East River, and at ten o'clock the wind off the water was cold enough to hurt. A white notice had been zip-tied to the chain-link fence overnight. WORK STOPPED BY ORDER OF THE COURT.

Seven members of Sayer Capital's board stood on the concrete in dark overcoats and white hard hats. Ronan had brought them here on purpose. He wanted them standing on the thing they were about to lose.

My hard hat was two sizes too big. It slid down over one eye, and before I could push it up, Ronan crossed the pier, took the strap under my chin, and pulled it tight.

"Better?"

"I can see."

"You're pale."

"There is a bucket on my head, Ronan."

His fingers stayed against my jaw one second longer than the strap needed. All seven board members watched it happen. Then he went back to the front, and I saw two of them notice the scabbed knuckles on his right hand and look away.

A black car stopped on the street side of the fence. Sloane got out in a cream coat and red lipstick. A thin man in a raincoat climbed out behind her with a brown envelope.

"Don't mind me," Sloane called. "I'm just here to deliver the mail."

The man came through the gate and walked straight to me. "Juno Whitlock, also known as J?"

Every head turned.

"Yes."

"You've been served." He pushed the envelope into my hands.

Sloane smiled over the fence at the board. "She's a very busy girl. My brother's files. Mr. Sayer's bed. I thought you should all put a face to the name."

"Sloane," Ronan said. "You're on private property."

"I'm on a pier with a court order in my bag, Ronan. Which one of us is trespassing?"

Nobody laughed. Carol Kessler, at the end of the line, closed her eyes. "Sloane," she said. "Please."

I opened the envelope and read Sloane's sworn statement in the wind. Page three said I had taken Grant's Harbor Point research from the safe in his home office the night I left. I read that page twice, and I kept my mouth shut. Sloane had made one mistake in it, a date she would have to repeat under oath, and I was in no hurry to point it out.

I turned to the exhibits instead.

Exhibit F was a photograph. Grant stood on the front step of my building at night, one hand over his mouth, blood between his fingers. Under it was a typed line.

On Thursday, November 5, at approximately 9:10 p.m., Ronan Sayer assaulted Grant Ellison at the residence of the respondent.

I walked it across the concrete and put it in Ronan's hand.

"She had someone on my street," I said.

He looked at the photo for a long time. "That's the sedan."

"That's a witness with a lens. And now it's in a court file."

"Let it be." His voice was flat. "I'd do it again."

"Ronan."

"Juno, I would do it again."

Behind him, a man cleared his throat. Lowell Brandt was fifty-eight, with silver hair and a camel coat that fit him better than anyone else's fit them. He had backed Sayer Capital since the year Ronan started over, and when he spoke, everyone on the pier stopped to hear him.

"Ronan, I liked that video," he said. "I restarted my money last night because of it. But she's just been served in front of all of us. The judge froze us because of her. The banks froze us because of her." He smiled at me, polite and warm. "Nothing personal, my dear. The answer is simple. Let her go today, put out a statement, and we're pouring concrete by Christmas."

Two board members nodded.

Ronan looked at me. I tipped my head toward the far end of the fence, and he followed me over the concrete until the wind covered our voices.

"Sunnyside rail yard," I said. "Ellison Group is bidding on it next month. Harlow Street Partners is the lender behind that bid. It's Brandt's fund."

"How do you know that?"

"A friend who reads Ellison's paper. Page two of their plan. If Harbor Point stays frozen and I'm gone, you can't bid against Ellison. Grant gets the yard, and Brandt gets paid."

Ronan's hand closed around the fence wire.

"He isn't protecting your company," I said. "He's protecting his loan."

"Who's the friend?"

"I can't say."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Ronan. Look at Brandt, not at me."

He held my eyes for two seconds. Then he walked back to the board.

"Lowell. How's the Sunnyside bid coming?"

Brandt didn't blink. "I'm sorry?"

"The rail yard. The one Harlow Street is financing for Ellison." Ronan slid his scabbed hand into his pocket. "You do very well if Sayer can't bid next month. Say, if we're frozen, and I've just fired the one person who keeps beating Ellison."

A gull screamed over the water. The other six board members turned to look at Brandt.

Brandt's face stayed pleasant. "I hold a great many investments. It would be strange if none of them touched Ellison." Then he looked straight at me, and his pale gray eyes stayed there too long. "Your assistant is remarkably well informed."

The cold that went through my stomach had nothing to do with the wind.

"Let's vote," Carol Kessler said. "Whatever Lowell's reasons are, she's named in a lawsuit."

"All in favor of ending her contract," said Brandt.

Four hands went up. His was the last.

Ronan looked at each hand in turn, then at the empty pier, the gray river, and the notice snapping on the fence.

"Your vote is advisory," he said. "I own fifty-two percent of this company. She stays, or I go."

"Then Harlow Street withdraws its eleven million at close of business," Brandt said pleasantly. He didn't raise his voice. "I assume Mr. Lund and Ms. Aiello will do the same."

The two board members beside him nodded without looking up.

"Do it," Ronan said.

They walked off the pier in a line. Brandt went last. At the gate, he turned and touched two fingers to his forehead in a small salute.

"Get me the numbers," Ronan said. "All of them. Tonight."

"Tonight," Marcus said.

Marcus waited until the cars were gone. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie, which he only did when the number was bad.

"How bad?" Ronan asked.

"Eleven from Brandt. Nine from Lund and Aiello. Frozen accounts on top of that." Marcus put the glasses back on and looked at me, not at Ronan. "Payroll, interest, and legal fees. We have forty-one days of cash, J."