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Zusatztext 49551372 Informationen zum Autor Michael Sears was sixty-one when his first novel, Black Fridays , took the Shamus award and was short-listed for the Edgar and three other major awards. After nine years as a professional actor, he got an MBA from Columbia University and spent more than twenty years on Wall Street, rising to become the managing director in the bond trade and underwriting divisions of Paine Webber and, later, Jefferies & Co., before heeding his father’s advice: “When it stops being fun, get out.” He did so in 2005, and returned to what had always given him the greatest joy—writing—studying at NYU and the New School. He is married to the artist and poet, Barbara Segal. Together with the not-altogether-domesticated cat, Penelope, they live in Sea Cliff, NY, within sight of the towers of New York. Klappentext The latest Jason Stafford novel from Michael Sears! author of the highly acclaimed Long Way Down and Black Fridays. Jason Stafford used to be a hot Wall Street trader! went too far! and paid for it in prison. Now a financial investigator! he's been asked to look into rumors of a hostile takeover of his firm! but he has no idea it will turn his whole life upside down. Suddenly embroiled in a grand jury investigation of Mob-related activities on Wall Street! and threatened by some very serious men! he is thrust into witness protection with his young autistic son. And then his son disappears. Has he been kidnapped! or worse? With no choice but to act! Stafford has no choice but to come out of hiding and risk everything to save his son! his firm! his pregnant girlfriend-and himself. 1. The center lane of the Long Island Expressway was a solid line of steel all the way to the horizon. One large truck after another, all rolling along at ten miles over the speed limit. The right lane was reserved for the undocumented immigrants driving landscaper’s rigs, the not-quite-legally blind, and senior tax-dodgers in cars the size of small yachts with Florida tags. The far left lane held everyone else. From the guys who just want to get where they’re going to the truly insane who drove as though possessed of a death wish. I didn’t count the HOV lane where minivans maintained a steady sixty, while SUVs and the Hampton Jitney did eighty. My shoulders were aching from the strain of keeping every other car on the road at something more than arm’s length and my knuckles were so white they would have glowed in the dark. I have always had a special hatred for the Long Island Expressway. I was there on a long shot. My job was not– usually – a taxing one. After serving two years of a five-year sentence in federal prison for an accounting mistake that I had let snowball – if they don’t get you for the crime, they’ll get you for the cover-up – my job prospects back on Wall Street were limited. Most of my old acquaintances wouldn’t take my call. But I had carved out a niche as a freelance fraud investigator and done quite well. One thing had led to another, and now I worked directly for the CEO of a mid-sized investment bank, conducting the kind of investigations that the Legal and Compliance departments found inconvenient. Virgil Becker ran the firm his father had almost destroyed. I had been instrumental in salvaging some of the pieces and thereafter I collected a ridiculously large annual paycheck for performing what was, in effect, a part time job. Occasionally, someone or other would object to having their felonious secrets unearthed and I had found myself fighting for my life, or mourning the loss of another. But more often, the greatest danger I faced was the threat of backache and eyestrain from staring at a computer screen for hours on end. Sometimes I just needed to get out of the office an...
