Money to Burn by James Grippando Page B

today’s trip to Chicago, where I was supposed to consult with a group of real estate lawyers, bankers, and architects to make sure their multiuse building qualified as green. It was a nine-figure deal put together by our Investment Banking Division, and by missing a key meeting I ran the risk of some engineer making a decision that would throw the whole thing out of LEED compliance—no more green stamp of approval for the socially responsible class of investors I was trying to make richer. One successful green project had a way of blossoming into more, so it would hurt to lose this one, but not nearly as much as losing my entire personal portfolio.
    I checked the call, let it go to voice mail, and peered through the beveled glass door. Eric was pacing from one end of his silk Sarouk rug to the other, speaking into the headset of his hands-free phone. The signs of stress were all over his face.
    Eric was my mentor, the man who had hired me out of business school. Two years ago, when ditching Wall Street and changing careers had seemed like a good idea, it was Eric who’d convinced the firm to let me split my time between production and management. It sounded like two jobs, but it was more like twenty. In theory, putting Saxton Silvers’ Green Division on the map meant training investment advisors across the country to “think green,” but all the training in the world wasn’t going to convince them to make less money for the pension funds, retirees, and other investors who counted on the brilliant minds at Saxton Silvers to maximize their returns. Expanding “green” beyond charitable trusts and other special investor groups that were either required or predisposed to go green meant assembling and supervising an investment strategy team like no other, and then traveling across the globe to identify and nail down socially responsible opportunities that would actually make money— lots of money. “ Show them —don’t tell them—that green belongs in their portfolio,” was Eric’s charge to me. His own career had soared since then, and for the past thirteen months he’d served as president of Saxton Silvers. Subprime fallout had made the last three hell.
    “Does he know I’m here?” I asked his assistant.
    “Yes. It’ll be just a few minutes more. Mr. Volke wants to see you as soon as he hangs up.”
    I returned to my seat, and my phone buzzed again. It was Mallory, who was still at the Pierre Hotel. This was the third time she’d speed-dialed me since I’d called to tell her about “a little mishap” in the elevator.
    “Why is there a security guard outside my door?” she asked.
    I could hear the strain in her voice, and I tried to reassure her. “Honey, it’s like I explained earlier: The lawyer thinks somebody might be trying to even an old score with me. It’s better to be safe than sorry, so I asked the firm to arrange for a bodyguard.”
    “Michael, you’re not telling me everything. Juan called over here from the front desk to see if I needed a ride home. According to him, everyone in our building is talking about the package that burst into flames and almost burned you alive in the elevator. The FBI was even there.”
    It had been a mistake not to tell Mallory the whole story, but my intentions had been good. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to freak you out. I’ve already talked with the FBI, and the security guard outside your door is just a precaution. This is going to be okay.”
    “How can you say that? Somebody tried to kill you!”
    “Nobody was trying to kill me. Even the FBI said so.”
    “What?”
    “It was just a stunt. The only reason it was dangerous was because I happened to open the package inside the elevator, where the smoke got to me. There was no way the sender knew where I was going to open it.”
    “Well, I suppose that’s true. But it could have killed you. And whatever it was, it sure wasn’t a love note.”
    “You’re right. Someone is definitely trying to