I kept looking, but nothing seemed out of place. Had the paranoia I’d felt in the past few weeks become a permanent part of my psyche? Or was it Jonathan Teivel’s barely veiled threat: You feel safe on the Bowery?

I checked the windows and opened one, all sorts of odors wafting in: booze, garbage, gasoline.

One more tour through the loft produced nothing, so I shrugged it off as paranoia. What else could it be?

I finally sat down at my computer and did the Google search I’d intended to do when I’d first come in. I typed Brearley yearbooks, did the math, then typed 2008 and 2009.

I skimmed the 2008 yearbook, then took my time with the seniors, each girl with her own yearbook page. But no Alex. I did the same for 2009. Again, nothing. I tried 2010, skimmed through alphabetically arranged photos, and stopped at the G’s. No Greene. I was disappointed but kept going, stopped dead at a page of photos. Alexis Verde.

Less than a minute to get the connection: Alexandra Greene. Alexis Verde.

Verde: the Italian word for green.

I went to Facebook, typed in Alexis Verde, and there she was, the small photo unmistakable. But the only way I could see more was to “friend” her, and though I considered it, I knew it was a bad idea.

A little more digging and the internet white pages produced a listing: Alexis Verde, New York City, age 24–30.

I thought about investing in the $9.99 Intelius search, but did I really want to find her when she so clearly did not want to be found?

Alex/Alexis. Who had lied to me about her name and where she had gone to school.

What else had she lied about? And why?

89

Richard Baine Jr. looked to be in his midsixties, about my height with a full head of pure white hair.

When his assistant had called to say she’d relayed my message and her boss would be happy to see me, I thought: No, I promised Smith I’d give it up. Then I did a quick Google search, found no background on Baine, other than the fact that he’d created one of Wall Street’s most successful investment firms, and I was intrigued.

So much for promises and resolve.

Now I stood in his thirty-eighth-floor office, its cool white walls hung with old master prints, a view of the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings and a wide swath of the Hudson River.

Baine stood behind a marble-topped desk that had nothing on it but a computer, not a single paper, folder, pencil, or pen, everything about the office pristine. The large screen on the opposite wall, rolling market information, was silent.

“So you’re a self-made man,” I said.

“What makes you say that?” he asked with an affable smile.

“There was just so little background on you. It was as if you were born on Wall Street.”

“Not quite.” Baine laughed, exposing bright-white teeth. “So you’ve done some research.”