Excerpt
Dead Money
Chapter 1Twenty-two days after Trevor Canon’s death In Mackenzie Clyde’s experience, there were exactly two ways of dealing with a rich asshole.
The first method was universal. It applied across the full spectrum of the rich asshole genus: CEOs, athletes, actors and influencers, micro-dick hedge funders, god complex surgeons, trust-funded Ivy Leaguers.
Flattery.
The key, Mackenzie knew, was subtlety. You had to flatter the asshole without them realizing they were being flattered. Only total idiots enjoy being pandered to.
Flattery of any kind didn’t come easily to Mackenzie. But out of professional necessity, she’d developed it as a weapon in her arsenal.
The second method of dealing with a rich asshole was far from universal.
It was a carefully tailored technique that Mackenzie had developed out of geographic, as well as professional, necessity. Mackenzie found it uniquely suited to a very particular strain of rich asshole: the young, entitled, uber-wealthy tech bros of modern San Francisco.
It was this second method that Mackenzie reflected on as she followed a hostess across the shiny wooden floor of the Battery. The Battery was a private social club in San Francisco, archetypal for the tech industry: expensive, exclusive, and utterly lacking in self-awareness. Mackenzie loathed it.
She took long strides into the Battery’s bar area, an oozy space stuffed with polished concrete and reclaimed wood, the booths all tufted leather Chesterfields. She ignored the eyes that flitted in her direction. Most of them, she knew, were compelled by simple anomaly: the instinctive curiosity that comes from something incongruous to the typical environment.
Not that it made the stares any more welcome. But after several decades, she’d learned to live with them. Mackenzie was a very tall woman.
Kevin Reiter waited in a corner booth, staring at his phone. The hostess pointed him out and slunk away, leaving Mackenzie solo for her approach.
“Hello, Kevin.”
Kevin looked up, squinting with confusion. “Who are you?”
“Mackenzie Clyde.”
Kevin blinked at her. “You’re very tall.”
“Taller than you.” Mackenzie tossed her bag into the empty side of the booth. She plopped down next to it.
Kevin frowned. “I’m supposed to meet Rebecca.”
Mackenzie settled into her seat. “Rebecca’s not coming.”
“What do you mean, she’s not coming?”
“They sent me instead.”
“Does Rebecca know about this?”
“Yep.”
“So you work with her at Hammersmith Venture?”
“I do.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a partner?”
Mackenzie tilted her head to one side. “Not exactly.”
“Another lawyer, then.” Kevin shook his head. “I’ve told you guys a million times: I didn’t go with HV so I could get Legal shoved down my throat.”
“I’m not a lawyer.” Mackenzie paused. “Well, not
really.”
Kevin sniffed. “Look, I don’t do surprises.”
“Check your email,” Mackenzie said. “You’ll have something from Roger.”
Kevin hesitated at the name. “He sent me,” Mackenzie said, waving a hand. “The email explains.”
Kevin opened his phone while Mackenzie glanced at a menu. A server approached in a uniform. It had suspenders. “Drinks?”
“Manhattan.” Kevin spoke, eyes still on his phone. “The Duniway. Up. Rocks glass. Light vermouth. Keep the twist on the rim. Don’t let it touch the Duniway.”
“Very good.” The server turned to Mackenzie. “And for you?”
She handed him the menu. “Glass of white.”
“Any preferences?”
“Anything that doesn’t come in a box.”
The server smiled and glided away.
Kevin finished with his phone. “Roger says you’re taking this off Rebecca’s desk.”
“I am.”
“But that’s all he says. He didn’t give a reason.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Roger’s not big on explaining himself.”
Kevin shifted in his seat, scowling. He wore a tight black V-neck, the type that comes free with a CrossFit membership. Mackenzie didn’t recognize the logo on the chest pocket: an arrow pointing up and to the right, bisected by another half-line of equal width.
“Why are you replacing Rebecca? I worked with her for months.”
“Yeah,” Mackenzie replied. “That’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“It’s been
months. Three of them, to be exact. And this lawsuit still hasn’t been resolved.”
Kevin bristled. “That’s not my fault.”
“No?”
“F*** no.” Kevin’s brow fell. “Go talk to my neighbors. They’re the problem here.”
Kevin Reiter was the prototypical Peter Pan, an overgrown man-child set loose in the consequence-free playground of San Francisco. He was founder of a fintech company that’d just closed its Series B, making him worth a few hundred million on paper.
Kevin was also emblematic of the latest iteration of tech bro, one that fused the new age faux-optimism of Silicon Valley with the unapologetic, old money privilege of Wall Street. Ten years prior Kevin would’ve been safely ensconced in the buffoonery of an investment bank. But now the capital had moved west, and the money hounds like Kevin had followed the scent, tails wagging behind them.
Hammersmith Venture, Mackenzie’s firm, had invested $72 million in Kevin Reiter’s company. Roger Hammersmith, Mackenzie’s boss, had personally overseen the investment. And because the gravitational laws of corporate physics require that shit always slides downhill, Mackenzie now found herself at the Battery, tasked with talking reality into a man who’d grown accustomed to creating his own.
The server arrived with their drinks. Mackenzie took a long sip of her white wine, enjoying the familiar acidity as it washed down her throat. She stared at the twist of lemon perched on the edge of Kevin’s glass.
“What does ‘not really’ mean?” Kevin asked.
“Excuse me?”
Kevin tasted his Manhattan. “I asked if you were a lawyer. You said ‘not really.’ ”
“I went to law school. I’m a member of the Bar. I joined the legal department at Hammersmith Venture.” Mackenzie took another sip. “But no, I’m not a lawyer.”
“Then what are you?”
“Someone who finds things. Solves problems.” Mackenzie paused. “Like this one.”
“So you’re a fixer.”
Mackenzie gave a thin smile. “This isn’t HBO.” She dug into her bag and emerged with a business card, passing it to Kevin. He read the text aloud.
“Mackenzie Clyde. Director of investigations.” The embossed text reflected in the Battery’s calibrated light.
Mackenzie nodded. “That’s right.”
Kevin frowned. “I still don’t know what means.”
It means nothing, Mackenzie thought. Her title had been vague for the five years she’d been in the role. Both she and Roger Hammersmith preferred it that way.
“When one of Hammersmith Venture’s portfolio companies becomes entangled in a particularly thorny knot, I find a way to untie it.” Mackenzie stared across the table. “Like I said: I solve problems.”
“So Roger put you on this because he thinks it needs to be solved.”
“Roger put me on this because it needs to
end. Roger is bullish on your company. That’s why he’s so concerned about the specter of this nasty lawsuit. It’s bad for you, bad for your company, bad for our firm.” Mackenzie sipped her wine. “Roger sent me here to do my job: Make it all go away.”
Kevin made a low snort. “And how do you expect to do that?”
“A settlement.”
“No.” Kevin’s entire face fell; he dropped his glass heavily on the table. “I told Rebecca a thousand times: I’m not settling.”
Mackenzie raised a hand. “Listen—” But Kevin cut her off.
“My neighbors are a bunch of whiny NIMBYs. They don’t
want to settle. They want to bleed me dry.”
“Stop—”
Kevin jabbed a finger on the table. “I want to
countersue. I want to take them to f***ing court.”
“
Stop,” Mackenzie said.
She took a breath and quelled her rising irritation. Stick to the game plan, she thought. “I’ve talked to Rebecca. I’ve talked to the neighbors. I know all the huffing and puffing. But that’s exactly why I’m here. I’ve put something together that will make everyone happy.”
Kevin’s scowl lightened, but only slightly. “I don’t know.”
