Read Online The Finder: A Novel by Colin Harrison - Free Book Online Page B

obvious, not to mention subject to SEC security regulations, that the law firms generally went to great lengths to destroy their paper. Publishing and media companies, by contrast, had absolutely no value. Retail banking was useless. Insurance companies were useless too, except if they had a corporate liability department, which had the potential to be a gold mine if documents revealed a company facing huge undisclosed problems, such as product lawsuits. The companies underwriting corporate bonds had some value, since they evaluated the underlying creditworthiness of the companies whose debt they peddled. Pharmaceutical companies were good, when you could find one with interesting product research, but the best offices were financial services firms, which evaluated stocks, because what she wanted most was time-perishable information that immediately affected the price of a publicly traded company—stock prices generally reacting to information faster and more dramatically than do bonds. The information had to be so good, so privileged, that the analysts, journalists, stock pickers, inside leakers, and anyone else interested didn't already have it.
    The global stock markets ran on the quaint theory that they were efficient, that is, that crucial information about publicly traded stocks was available very rapidly to any interested party; the reality, of course, was different. Companies lied, cheated, inflated profits, hid debts, booked phony business, and smilingly pretended that their exalted leaders were not dying or ineffective or irrevocably insane or, most typically, widely hated by insiders. Companies "smoothed" their data to appear more steadily profitable, developed products that bombed, suffered internal wars between personalities, between divisions, between the directors and management, between management and therank and file, between stockholders and management. Internal disagreements could be mild, festering, explosive, litigious, even potentially violent. As one of Jin Li's professors at Harbin Institute of Technology had said, no matter how large and bureaucratized, no matter how rigid and repressive, corporations were ultimately just collections of human beings, subject to everything that both afflicted and elevated them—not unlike, the professor had reminded them, the collective farms created by Mao in the 1960s which, though meant to be efficiently productive, were disasters.
    So what had been Jin Li's mistake? This was the question that had haunted her since she'd run through the rainy dawn away from the shit-flooded car and the two Mexican girls sprawled out next to it. Hurrying to the parkway and flagging down a cab on its way into Manhattan. Hunched in the back clutching her purse, terrified, smelling the excrement on her clothes and skin, trying to keep her sobbing quiet. Someone must have seen what she was doing. Who? This would take some analysis. Every night she received the blue bags culled from the night operations, each bag tagged by floor and company and day. These were trucked to the building in Red Hook, where by day Jin Li and three trusted other Chinese women separated them into their respective piles, arranged by company. One night's trash was usually useless, but as the record accrued, a context was revealed. Jin Li watched divisional struggles, executives attacking each other, results exceeding expectations, projects being canceled or accelerated—everything that happened in a corporation. As conflicts heightened, or as she became more fully aware of their possibilities, she focused the paper collection on the respective desk, office, or floor. Perhaps a dozen time-lapse narratives played out continuously on paper. Often there were gaps in information and she would have to infer what had happened. She kept notebooks on each company and updated these regularly, and included newspaper stories and chat room conversations that confirmed or conflicted with the inklings revealed in the corporate