“So how exactly did you know her?”
“We met at some company mixers. We went out in groups for drinks, some dinners before the recruitment BS was over and our noses got pressed to the grindstone. She was sort of a mentor to my intern class.”
“How did she strike you?”
“Talented and hard-charging. But why did you come all the way out here to ask me questions? I was there all day. I’ll be there tomorrow. And my understanding was she died by suicide, so why are the police involved?”
“It’s speculated that she killed herself. My job is to rule out all other manners of death. And you work on Saturdays?”
“In my world, Detective, it’s only the day after Friday. And I don’t see how I can help. I didn’t work directly with her. I haven’t seen her in months, in fact. Last time was a group dinner at Per Se, Columbus Circle. Over fifty people, with wine included. Must have cost the firm a small fortune. But it’s only money.”
“Impressive memory. I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.” His words were flippant, his stare was not. “And the only time I’ll ever be inside Per Se is if someone croaks there.”
“In my line of work, you tend to remember things pretty exactly.”
“You work hard at that place, I take it?”
“Let’s put it this way—I have but one set of balls to give for Cowl and Comely, and that might not be enough.”
“You’re funny for an investment type.”
“I just crunch numbers and give them to the real investment bankers, and they make all the money and get all the girls.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
Devine knew the man didn’t really need to know this for his investigation. It was very American to be nosy about the wealth of the very rich. Whole industries were built around disseminating that information to the fascinated masses.
“The firm has various divisions, and the comp and profit sharing are split differently depending on which camp you fall into. Partners on the very low end get mid–seven figures. People like Bradley Cowl? Maybe a quarter of a billion or more per year in official comp and stock options. He also gets percentages of all the profit streams, so that goes on top of his base.”
Hancock was shaking his head this whole time. “I make a hundred and ten grand a year. And I thought I was doing great till you laid that shit on me.”
“How do you think I feel? I don’t even make what you make, and I see all those dollars on the screen every day and they just pass right by me.”
The man’s eyes glittered once more, like a dog picking up a scent. “And so you resent that? Them getting all the girls and the dough?”
“I resent no one about anything. You work hard, you earn it, it’s yours. I hope to do the same.”
“And the girls? Like Sara Ewes?”
“Give me a break, okay? I can get girls if I want to. And Cowl has a strict rule against employees dating.”
If he finds out we were seeing each other, I’m screwed.
“Okay. Anything else about Ewes?”
“Like what?”
“The usual. Depressed? Ever spoke to you about suicide?”
“Probably everyone who works on Wall Street at one time or another has contemplated suicide, either in pitiful jest or for real.”
“That include you?” asked Hancock.
“Look, I saw guys shot up, blown up, and cut up right in front of me. I’m not taking my own life because a Wall Street firm busts my chops.”
“So, nothing else you can tell me?”
Devine glanced out the car window and seemed truly amazed to see the stars in the sky.