The Deadliest Option Read Online Free
told you lately, you’ve been a wonderful friend—and I love you.” She folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into her briefcase.
“Why, thank you, Smith.” Wetzon was amazed and just a little moved.
“Now, then.” Smith wriggled to straighten her skirt, which had crawled up to midthigh. “Back to business. I want you to let me do the talking at this meeting.”
“What—” Just then their cab came to a shuddering stop and the driver flipped his flag down. The meter read sixteen dollars and eighty-five cents.
“Give the man a twenty, Wetzon, please. I forgot to bring my wallet.” Smith opened the door and slid out of the cab.
The Luwisher Tower was one of the new granite-and-glass monstrosities rising sixty-eight floors above the Financial District in lower Manhattan. Constructed on landfill, it would have boggled the minds of the small group of traders who had gathered under the buttonwood tree at 68 Wall Street on May 17, 1792, and founded what became the New York Stock Exchange.
Any other time Wetzon might have been fuming, but on this beautiful, sunny day in June, she was in a benevolent frame of mind. Smith was Smith and even with the therapy, her basic narcissistic nature was not going to change. She looked at her watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”
“See, I told you not to rush me. You always want to leave so early.”
“I loathe being late.”
“You’re the one who should be seeing a therapist, I think.” Smith beamed at her.
“Do you want to go in for coffee?” Wetzon pointed to a terminally cute croissant shop with gingham curtains on the lobby level next to a WaldenBooks outlet the size of an airplane hangar.
“No, let’s go on up. We can powder our noses.”
A special elevator was programmed to go directly to Luwisher Brothers, which occupied the top eight floors. The construction had been a joint venture between Luwisher Brothers and an international real estate conglomerate, which occupied ten floors of the building. The remainder of the skyscraper was divided among the New York home of a major insurance company, the headquarters of Merryweather Funds, mutual funders of some repute, and Grover, Newman, one of the largest law firms in the world.
The walls of the elevator were covered with tufted brown leather like a chesterfield, and the lighting was subdued, diffused through the mottled glass of the dropped ceiling. And the elevator talked. “Good morning,” it said in a digital voice. “This elevator goes to Luwisher Brothers. Please choose your floor.”
“What floor did Destry say?”
“Sixty-seven.” Smith pressed the shiny brass square, and the elevator rose almost imperceptibly, like a hot-air balloon. The lights above the doors began blinking at the sixtieth floor and stopped when the doors slid softly open on the sixty-seventh.
To the right of the bank of six elevators, three on each side, was a small reception area carpeted in pale taupe. A wide corridor cut through left and right, seeming to run the width of the building. The ceiling, topped by a skylight, rose two floors, giving the space the look of a cathedral. Wetzon stifled a laugh. Some cathedral. Here everyone prayed to Mammon, god of gold. Goldie’s Church, some wit had called it.
The walls were painted in a paler taupe and hung with those Georgia O’Keeffe flower paintings that always made Wetzon feel she was looking at colorful depictions of female sex organs.
A real tree, with a whitish bark and beautiful silver leaves, grew hydroponically from a huge pot of water and stones, reaching its branches up to the skylight. The windows soared from floor to ceiling.
But by far the most prominent feature in the room was the sweeping marble staircase, with an open iron railing on one side. From where she stood, looking upward, Wetzon could see a battalion of pantslegs belonging to a group of men who were milling at the top of the curved stairs.
A young woman with blunt-cut,
“Why, thank you, Smith.” Wetzon was amazed and just a little moved.
“Now, then.” Smith wriggled to straighten her skirt, which had crawled up to midthigh. “Back to business. I want you to let me do the talking at this meeting.”
“What—” Just then their cab came to a shuddering stop and the driver flipped his flag down. The meter read sixteen dollars and eighty-five cents.
“Give the man a twenty, Wetzon, please. I forgot to bring my wallet.” Smith opened the door and slid out of the cab.
The Luwisher Tower was one of the new granite-and-glass monstrosities rising sixty-eight floors above the Financial District in lower Manhattan. Constructed on landfill, it would have boggled the minds of the small group of traders who had gathered under the buttonwood tree at 68 Wall Street on May 17, 1792, and founded what became the New York Stock Exchange.
Any other time Wetzon might have been fuming, but on this beautiful, sunny day in June, she was in a benevolent frame of mind. Smith was Smith and even with the therapy, her basic narcissistic nature was not going to change. She looked at her watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”
“See, I told you not to rush me. You always want to leave so early.”
“I loathe being late.”
“You’re the one who should be seeing a therapist, I think.” Smith beamed at her.
“Do you want to go in for coffee?” Wetzon pointed to a terminally cute croissant shop with gingham curtains on the lobby level next to a WaldenBooks outlet the size of an airplane hangar.
“No, let’s go on up. We can powder our noses.”
A special elevator was programmed to go directly to Luwisher Brothers, which occupied the top eight floors. The construction had been a joint venture between Luwisher Brothers and an international real estate conglomerate, which occupied ten floors of the building. The remainder of the skyscraper was divided among the New York home of a major insurance company, the headquarters of Merryweather Funds, mutual funders of some repute, and Grover, Newman, one of the largest law firms in the world.
The walls of the elevator were covered with tufted brown leather like a chesterfield, and the lighting was subdued, diffused through the mottled glass of the dropped ceiling. And the elevator talked. “Good morning,” it said in a digital voice. “This elevator goes to Luwisher Brothers. Please choose your floor.”
“What floor did Destry say?”
“Sixty-seven.” Smith pressed the shiny brass square, and the elevator rose almost imperceptibly, like a hot-air balloon. The lights above the doors began blinking at the sixtieth floor and stopped when the doors slid softly open on the sixty-seventh.
To the right of the bank of six elevators, three on each side, was a small reception area carpeted in pale taupe. A wide corridor cut through left and right, seeming to run the width of the building. The ceiling, topped by a skylight, rose two floors, giving the space the look of a cathedral. Wetzon stifled a laugh. Some cathedral. Here everyone prayed to Mammon, god of gold. Goldie’s Church, some wit had called it.
The walls were painted in a paler taupe and hung with those Georgia O’Keeffe flower paintings that always made Wetzon feel she was looking at colorful depictions of female sex organs.
A real tree, with a whitish bark and beautiful silver leaves, grew hydroponically from a huge pot of water and stones, reaching its branches up to the skylight. The windows soared from floor to ceiling.
But by far the most prominent feature in the room was the sweeping marble staircase, with an open iron railing on one side. From where she stood, looking upward, Wetzon could see a battalion of pantslegs belonging to a group of men who were milling at the top of the curved stairs.
A young woman with blunt-cut,
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