Free The Prince of Risk by Christopher Reich

the button for the seventeenth floor.
    Astor waited for the doors to close, then asked, “Did you know my father was planning on going to D.C. this weekend?”
    “No, sir, I did not. I’m only required to provide security here at the Exchange and for official trips. I spoke with your father Friday morning as he was leaving the office. He told me he was spending the weekend at his home in Oyster Bay.”
    “Taking off on a Friday morning? That doesn’t sound like him. Did he seem preoccupied with anything? In any way out of sorts?”
    “It’s not my place to say, but as far as I could see, no. We had a trip planned to Atlanta early in the week. Your father didn’t much like dealing with the new owners. Nothing special about that. But preoccupied? No.”
    In December 2012, the New York Stock Exchange had been purchased by IntercontinentalExchange, or ICE, a giant multinational concern active in the trading of futures and derivatives. Astor didn’t think the new owners were the problem. It was his father’s arrogance. Edward Astor didn’t like reporting to anyone but himself.
    The elevator slowed. The doors opened. Thomasson zigged and zagged down a series of corridors. Astor stayed at his shoulder. It was his first time in the executive quarters of the Exchange and he was feeling like a rat navigating a maze. Thomasson was right to refer to it as a labyrinth. The corridor emptied into a large, high-ceilinged anteroom with blue carpeting and photographs depicting the Exchange’s history.
    “Here we are,” said Thomasson. “Your father’s office is inside. Mrs. Kennedy, his secretary, is expecting you.”
    “Thank you.” Astor shook hands. “Tell me something, what did you do before taking this job?”
    “Twenty-five years in the Secret Service. My last post was heading up the PPD—the presidential protective detail.”
    “Still have friends in the service?”
    “Lots.”
    “You know what went down last night. What happened?”
    “Word is that the driver lost control of the vehicle.”
    “The car was making a run across the South Lawn. That’s a little more than jumping a curb and running into a tree.”
    “Yes, sir, it is.”
    Astor thought Thomasson knew more than he was letting on. “Well?”
    Thomasson leaned in closer, as if vouchsafing a secret. “When I said ‘lost control,’ I didn’t mean that he was driving too fast or that it was in any way his mistake. I meant that the driver was no longer able to control the vehicle in any way, shape, or fashion.”
    “Then who was?”
    Astor waited for an explanation, but Thomasson said nothing more. Before Astor was able to press him, a petite, birdlike woman emerged from her office, walked directly to him, and hugged him. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.
    Astor returned the hug gently. He could feel her sobbing and he held her until she stopped.
    “Please, excuse me,” she said, stepping back and wiping her eyes. “I’m Dolores Kennedy. I worked with your father for the past five years.”
    Kennedy was a kindly-looking brunette with short hair and a schoolmarm’s inquisitive gaze.
    “I’m afraid we weren’t close,” said Astor.
    “Oh, I know,” she said, as if the estrangement pained her. “But he talked about you.”
    Astor didn’t comment. He didn’t think he’d like to learn what his father had had to say. He thanked Thomasson, then followed Dolores Kennedy into a large suite of offices. “May I look around?”
    “The FBI phoned first thing. They requested that none of his belongings be disturbed until their team arrives.”
    “I won’t touch anything.”
    The secretary shot a glance over his shoulder. Thomasson nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Right in here.”
    The office was palatial, with high molded ceilings, dark carpeting, and a desk that would have done a robber baron proud. Photographs of his father ringing the opening bell with various businessmen, entertainers, athletes, and political figures