Webb was standing when Maxwell arrived. It wasn't a gesture of courtesy; he was already thinking about what he was going to say and had stood up to say it.
When Maxwell sat down, he sat down too. He placed a printed page between them.
"The contract with Meridian Trace began on March 9," he said. "Two days before their first confirmed sighting. First the asset search, then the surveillance contract."
"Someone checked the property transaction records. My name appears on the Halstead deed."
"Correct. County record system. The deed is public." Webb pointed to the page. "The client who commissioned both the search and surveillance of Meridian is Marcus Holt. Senior Managing Director, Halcyon Capital Partners, Chicago."
Maxwell looked at the name.
He knew Halcyon. He'd been tracking the firm's real estate activity in the South Loop for six weeks; it was one of three firms whose commercial real estate moves he'd monitored in the corridors flagged by the system. Marcus Holt had appeared at three South Loop transaction firms in the past fourteen months. Old money, systematic, with the patient confidence of someone who never needed to rush because resources always supported the timeline.
"Scope of surveillance," Maxwell said.
"Find identities and patterns of activity. Confirm asset profiles. Assess commercial relevance." Webb looked at him. "He came across an unfamiliar name on a multimillion-dollar commercial property. He wanted to understand it before deciding if it was important." A pause. "The Meridian deal closed on March 22."
The day Maxwell logged the ZRX alternate route note in the Range Rover.
"He's stopped investigating."
"For now. He knows you own the Halstead property. He doesn't know the rest: you can't access the Flagstar and Fidelity accounts without a warrant, which he doesn't have." Webb picked up the page. "He's filed it away. It'll come back eventually."
Maxwell took the page, folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket. "Thanks."
Webb said from the doorway, "Holt has a good reputation in Chicago's commercial real estate business. Information, not a warning. He drives the Halcyon like a responsible person. Carefully. From the front."
Maxwell looked at him. "So do I," he said.
He went back to the Range Rover. He sat down with the printed page in his jacket pocket and looked out the windshield toward North Halstead.
Marcus Holt found an unfamiliar name in a property record and took the precaution of finding out who he was looking for before deciding what to do. It was exactly what Maxwell had done with the surveillance. Two people were looking at each other from opposite directions; only one of them knew what was going on.
He dismissed it. He had dinner in four hours, and the parking meter read seventy-two dollars.
Victor opened the door at 7:30, dressed in a navy shirt, with the expression of a man who had been waiting and had refused to do so. The apartment was ready for the conversation that was about to take place: the table was set for six, the candles were lit, and the FT had been removed from the coffee table for the first time since Maxwell moved into 2B. On the kitchen counter: a Bourgogne Premier Cru decanting into a glass. Victor had spent at least a week planning the Burgundy specifications before Daniel had written to him about the wine.
Priya Mehta sat at the kitchen island, a glass of white wine in her hand, as relaxed as if she had been there before. She regarded Maxwell with the same raised eyebrow she used for people she respected. "You need to file your LLC application by Wednesday at the latest."
"Thanks, Priya."
"Don't thank me now. Come back when you have something difficult."
Claire Vásquez arrived at 7:30 with the punctuality of someone who treated time like inventory. A woman in her thirties, owner of a real estate fund in the West Loop, possessed the serenity of a man who decided how to behave in each room before entering. Her handshake dictated how she was received. Maxwell accepted it naturally.
Thomas Adeyemi walked through the door at 7:30 a.m. with a bottle of red wine, closely followed by Richard Kwon.
Richard Kwon was 41 and had the bearing of a man who had decided that precision was more important than quantity. A Korean-American with Heitman Real Estate, he had the distinctive complexion of someone who had been in many rooms and learned to read them without moving. He shook Maxwell's hand and held eye contact a second longer than a handshake required—not out of rudeness, but as a compliment to someone who had walked into the room and found something worth adding to the list.
Daniel arrived at 7:30.
He walked in wearing a single-button navy blazer, shoulders straight, holding his Binny's Premier Crew jacket with both hands at a respectful angle: the posture of a man who had been told something important was needed and had decided to take it seriously. He immediately looked across the room for Maxwell, quickly scanned the space, and found the decanter on the counter.
His face reflected calculation. He looked at Maxwell.
Maxwell offered him nothing, because nothing was a complete and correct answer. Daniel handed Victor a burgundy mug with both hands. "Thank you for inviting me," he said warmly and sincerely, without the theatricality he would have displayed six weeks earlier.
Victor prepared a West African peanut stew with ribs, a dish that required five hours of preparation but was easy to make. Thomas began by talking about Facebook's IPO: overvalued, with a two-tiered structural problem, and with retail investors facing institutional losses. He spoke with the precision of someone who had done the calculations and firmly believed them.
Richard Kwon asked, "What is the argument against that interpretation, from a consumer behavior perspective?"
"Consumer impulse," Daniel replied.
All faces at the table turned toward him. He had remained silent for twenty minutes: listening, eating, absorbing the atmosphere.
"People use it twice a day," he continued. "The average retail buyer doesn't understand the dual-class structure. They buy something they recognize. The initial upside is already priced in, regardless of the valuation." He glanced at Thomas. "How long will it take for institutional selling to begin?"
Thomas looked at him for a second, with the expression of a private equity director trying to grasp the right question from an unfamiliar perspective. "Sixty days. Ninety from the outside."
"That makes sense." Daniel paused. "I don't understand the mechanics of institutional selling well enough to model it myself. What signals are you looking for?"
Thomas began to explain. The table followed suit. Instead of waiting his turn, Daniel listened intently. He used the same method two more times during dinner: he told them what he knew, and when he didn't know something, he admitted it and asked for their opinions. Both times, the table turned to him.
Claire Vasquez asked Maxwell about the Halsted Street corridor over dessert. Commercial real estate, genuine curiosity. He answered correctly: informed, nothing more than a talker.
"You know that area," she said.
"Exactly."
Her eyes flicked to Victor for a split second. Victor was staring at his glass. Claire filed the information away in a folder and returned to the table.
Richard Kwon uttered barely thirty-five words during dinner. Each one came at just the right moment. As Victor cleared the dessert plates, Richard glanced at Maxwell across the table. "You're going to do something important in this city in the next few years," he said. A statement, not a question.
"I hope so," Maxwell said.
Richard's face was somewhat serious and impassive. "You don't think so," he said.
The corner of Maxwell's lips curled slightly. "No," he said.
Richard picked up his glass of Burgundy and shook his head once.
Victor dismissed everyone at a quarter past ten. Daniel was the last to leave, interrupting Thomas's analysis of the IPO to talk about something he wanted to understand better. Victor listened, nodded at the appropriate moment, and closed the door.
He returned to the kitchen, where Maxwell was finishing his glass of Burgundy.
Victor remained seated. He watched Maxwell for a while. "Your friend."
"Daniel."
"He's about to master something he hasn't yet." He refilled his glass. "And everyone at this table has made a decision about you tonight."
"I know."
"Everyone has made the same decision." He briefly raised his glass; not to toast, just to acknowledge it. "Go faster, Maxwell."
"I am going faster."
Victor looked at him. "Go even faster," he said.
The system beeped, signaling him to return to 14C.
[Hidden Reward Unlocked]
[Condition: Have created the first self-sustaining professional network]
[At least 5 members. At least 3 sectors. All connected.] All real.] [Reward: 2200 shares: Brookfield Asset Management Inc. (NYSE: BAM)]
[Price, March 30, 2012: $30.44/share]
[Total Value: $66,968]
[Taxes: Managed by Ascent Protocol. Host's Liability: $0.00]
[Deposit: Fidelity Account -4471]
He read the elevator panel. Brookfield Asset Management: Canadian real estate and infrastructure. The sense of opportunity the system offered lingered.
He stepped out at 2:00 p.m. He made tea. He sat by the east window.
Marcus Holt's name was still folded in his jacket pocket, on the chair near the door. He would check it on his schedule. There was no need to do it that night. Victor said, "Go faster." Maxwell was walking faster. He probably needed to go faster than Victor had said; It was something they could discuss while sitting down.
She finished her tea. She went to bed. She slept very well.