
“Ten million dollars?” he asked Collin. “Are you out of your mind?”
“The two could be related.”
“The blackmail letter said, ‘the world will learn the dirty secret of how the Wellingtons make their money.’ It didn’t say anything about an SEC investigation.” Not that Reed would have paid up in any event. But he might have taken the letter a little more seriously if the threat had been that specific.
“Insider trading is a dirty little secret.”
“It’s also a ridiculous fabrication.”
When Reed first read the blackmail letter, he’d dismissed it as a hoax. There were plenty of lunatics out there. Then he’d wondered if some of their overseas suppliers might be engaged in unethical labor practices. But he’d checked them all out. He could find absolutely nothing to substantiate any “dirty little secret” of the Wellingtons’ wealth.
He had no dirty little secret. It was beyond preposterous to suggest he’d engaged in insider trading. And impossible to prove, since he hadn’t done it. It wasn’t even logical. The vast majority of his and his father’s and, for that matter, their ancestors’ wealth was derived from the performance of their companies. Reed did very little trading on the stock market.
And what little he did do was recreational, just to see if he could beat the odds. Where was the challenge in cheating? He didn’t need the money. And cheating wouldn’t be any fun. So why the hell would he engage in insider trading?
“They’ve got something,” said Collin as the elevator came to a rest on the second floor. “The SEC doesn’t start investigations on spec.”
“So, who do we call?” asked Reed.
As well as being a vice president, Collin was a damn fine lawyer. He inserted his key and opened the apartment door. “The SEC for starters.”
Reed glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. “You know anybody we can disturb?”
“Yeah.” Collin tossed his briefcase on the table of the more compact, one-bedroom apartment that was owned by Wellington International. “I know a guy.” He picked up a cordless phone. “You feel like pouring the scotch?”
