by Owen Parr
Lincoln Road was an open pedestrian mall brimming with restaurants, bars, stores, and other businesses. A touristy place, but frequented by locals who wanted to shop, eat, or just hang out.
“Yeah. Our people enjoy happy hour after work. Great place to people watch, it’s so diverse. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” Bobal said, pressing number five on the elevator.
The elevator opened into a hallway that led to offices. His office was a large room, like the trading rooms in New York’s Wall Street firms. Four private offices framed the trading room, two on each side of the room. Three of the offices had glass walls from which you could see the activity taking place, but I noticed one office did not. Bobal walked me around the room without introducing me to anyone until we came up to a young fellow maybe in his late twenties.
“Arthur, say hello to James Roth. James is our head trader and he’ll be training you if we go forward.”
James was a good-looking guy, brown hair, maybe six feet tall, and wore thick, black large-rim glasses with considerable magnification, which made his blue eyes pop out. Wearing worn jeans and a short-sleeved beige shirt, he looked casual and agitated at the same time.
“Pleasure to meet you, James,” I said.
“You as well,” he replied, shaking my hand. Not an alpha from the handshake. Weak and cold it was.
Bobal handed him a folder. “James, here’s the file on Arthur. He has considerable experience, as you’ll see, and comes highly recommended. So far, he has agreed to join us and take over for Gene, but, as usual, I want your input. Why don’t you guys go sit in the kitchen and get to know each other?”
We did as suggested, and I proceeded to give James my background story. He occasionally glanced at the file and asked a few questions. James was a smart fellow, but not necessarily a good interviewer. He avoided eye contact and asked the right questions, but fortunately didn't drill down on my background too much. Which was good. After about twenty minutes of back and forth, our interview reached an end point.
“Man, I’m sorry to hear about Gene. Did you know him well?” I asked, studying his reaction.
“Yeah, I got to know Gene well. He was a little younger than me, but we hung out together. Did you know he died in a car accident?”
“Mr. Bobal just told me. What else can you tell me?”
I needed to be cautious and deliberate with my questions. Nothing too direct. I didn’t want to sound like a cop.
James shifted in his seat. “As a matter of fact, I was with him the night of the accident.”
That piqued my interest. “No shit. Wow, that must have been terrible. Did you see the accident?”
“So, no. I left the club a few minutes before he did. He was trying to pick up a young lady. I guess, fortunately for her, she turned him down.”
“Terrible. Was he drunk, you think?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“I think so. I saw him drinking beers and doing a few shots,” James replied, avoiding eye contact.
“So, the accident was his fault?”
James became a little fidgety. He looked around the empty small kitchen we were sitting in. Lowering his voice, he replied, “I think so.”
“Really? Any reason someone would want to kill him? This girl he was moving in on, was she with a boyfriend or something?”
Replying in a hushed voice, he said, “No, no. The girl was with another girl. Both from West Virginia here on vacation.” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “I think we need to get back. Hang by my desk, and I’ll go give Mr. Bobal the thumbs-up on you.”
I watched James as he entered Bobal’s private office and stood in front of the desk, giving him, I hoped, a thumbs-up on my interview. I looked around the trading desks, noticing everyone working and making calls. I was curious about one of the four private offices that wasn't enclosed in glass, but was, in fact, very private with a sign on the door that read "No entry." I made it a point to ask James about that.
A few minutes later, James returned. “Mr. Bobal says to be here tomorrow at seven in the morning. Congratulations, you’re in.”
Seven in the freaking morning. Are you kidding me? Somehow, I held in my grumbling. “Great, thank you. I guess you’ll be training me?”
“I will. We need to get you ready for earnings reporting season coming up in two weeks. That’s when we really get busy around here.”
From my briefing with the SEC about their suspicions on how these folks got their information, I knew why it was busy time during corporate earnings report, but I played dumb. “Yeah? Why is that?”
“The company’s proprietary software program will be spitting out names of companies the program signals for rapid movement after the earnings come out. Some we’ll buy for clients and our own accounts. Others we’ll sell short. Then, within hours, or a day max, we’ll reverse those orders and close out the positions. It’s a hectic time.”
“Sounds exciting. Are you familiar with the software?”
James quickly shook his head. “Oh, no. That’s kept very secret. Bobal’s partner, George Newton, runs the program he developed. No one has access to it. We just follow his orders and call clients, although most clients have given us discretionary ability to trade their accounts without calling.”
“So, I’ll be assigned some clients to trade their accounts?”
“You’ll be working Gene’s client book. There’s plenty there to keep you busy.”
“I see," I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. "How’s the program worked in the past? I mean, do we get good results on the trades?”
James looked around, and lowering his voice, he replied, “It’s spooky, man. I don’t know how the program works, but shit, we almost bat one thousand on every trade.”
Spooky, huh? “Are we allowed to buy for our own accounts? I mean, shit, if it works so good, I want in on the action.”
“No. We aren't allowed to buy for ourselves," James said firmly. "That’s the bad news. However, the good news is that Mr. Bobal trades an omnibus account from which he allocates trades to his clients. One of those is a house account where he bonuses profits to each of us. It’s been a winner.”
“Sweet,” I said. So, everyone was fucked if there was insider trading going on. We were all participants. That's what I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “That’s very nice. All for one, one for all.”
“Listen, I got stuff to do. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here. By the way, who works behind that private office marked ‘No entry'?” I kept my tone as inconspicuous as possible.
James glanced around again and hesitated. “That’s Mr. Newton’s office. Never go in there.”
I wanted to test something and took a chance in asking, “Did Gene ever go in there?”
“Why would you…?” James began with a look of a deer in headlights and stopped cold. “Just never go in there. I gotta go.”
The little mystery got my attention. What was in there? And, why the fear on James' face when I asked about Gene? There was definitely something going on here.
6
Jack Ryder ~
I walked out of the office and took a stroll on Lincoln Road. Joey had texted me to call him as soon as I was done. Looking at my phone, I dialed Joey. On the third ring, he picked up. “Joey, what’s up?”
“How did it go?” he asked.
“I start tomorrow. We’ll see what shakes out. Where are you?” I squinted at the bright sun overhead.
“I’m at the Apple store across the street from you. Walk over.”
I crossed the street and walked about one hundred yards, spotting Joey at the back entrance of the store. "So, what’s next?”
“I made an appointment with Sergeant Ed Wells. He’s off and home today. You want to go?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I do. What time is the appointment for?”
“One hour from now.”
“Is Marcy joining us?” I asked. If so, that didn't seem like the smartest idea.
“No.
She’s staying at the hotel. I don’t think we want an FBI agent involved, right?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Exactly, that’s why I asked. Let’s drop my car at the marina.”
***
Joey drove to Miami Shores with me giving him directions. On the way there, I brought him up to date on my interview and new duties, mentioning the secret office and my suspicion that Gene had violated the "No entry" sign on the private office.
A huge Bougainvillea tree with bright orange flowers created a magnificent canopy over the home in question. We spotted a middle-aged man mowing the lawn. Sergeant Edward Wells, about six-three in height. Short-cropped blonde hair on the sides. Ink all over his right arm. He was wearing nothing but shorts, a teal Miami Marlins baseball cap, and sneakers. His sweaty upper body was solid, on full display, and showed the results of lifelong workouts. It was obvious that Wells was proud of his workout regimen. He sported broad shoulders and thick biceps.
We parked the car in front of his home, making sure not to park on his freshly cut lawn.
Turning off the loud little engine of the mower, he wiped his hands on his shorts and extended his right hand to Joey as we stepped out of the car. “Gentlemen, thank you for stopping by,” he said with a warm smile.
“Sergeant Wells, sorry for the circumstances in which we meet. I’m Joey Mancuso,” Joey said, then turning to point at me, he offered, “This is Jack Ryder, a friend and consultant to the MBPD.”
“Sergeant,” I said, looking in his icy-blue eyes, and shaking his sweaty hand.
Noticing his hands were wet, Wells said, “Mr. Ryder, sorry about that. When I start sweating, it's like the Niagara Falls nonstop until I cool off.”
“No problem,” I said, removing the handkerchief from my pants pocket and wiping my hand dry. “May we call each other by our first names? Mr. Ryder was my dad, I’m Jack.”
“Works for me, I’m Ed. How about a bottle of water?” he said, reaching down to a Yeti ice chest as he wiped his sweaty forehead with the index finger of his left hand, flicking the sweat outward.
“And, I’m Joey. Water would be fine.”
“Make it three,” I said.
“Let’s sit in the shade,” Ed said, pointing to four chairs on the front porch of the home. “What questions do you have for me?”
I sat down, looking around at the neighborhood. Older Spanish-style homes with the architectural arches and red barrel tile roofs. All well-kept with manicured lawns. The Bougainvillea trees, each with their own orange, yellow, and red flowers, formed a canopy over the streets and framed the scene rather nicely.
“As you know, MBPD is investigating the hit-and-run accident,” Joey said.
“Sorry, but that’s bullshit. I don’t believe it was an accident,” Ed replied sternly.
“Well, the hit-and-run is a criminal offense, and they’re working on that,” I said.
Ed shrugged as he looked at both of us. “Not the same, fellows, not the same…” His voice trailed off.
“I tend to agree, but they don’t have much to go on. There’s the blue or black four-door sedan, but that’s about all they have,” Joey replied.
“Was there a reason someone would want to hurt Gene?” I asked. Maybe that answer would lead to some clues.
He swallowed a sip of water and looked at me in surprise. “You agree this wasn't an accident?”
Oops, I didn’t want to give Ed the wrong impression. This was far from over, but we had no clues of any real substance at this point to think otherwise. “We don’t know. I’m just trying to cover all the bases,” I said carefully.
Ed bowed his head. “Who would want to hurt a young kid? I don’t think he’s had enough time to make any enemies. Shit, he had a good job, and like many millennials these days, he was living at home and saving his money.”
“Was he happy at work?” I asked.
“He was making a ton of money for a twenty-three-year-old. I mean, much more than I make, and I’m a veteran of the force.”
“Did he share with you anything about his work?” I asked.
“I know he made a friend, some other young guy by the name of James. But I don’t think he was happy, as you asked. It was work and good money. I told him to be patient. He was just out of school. Who knows where he would end up,” Ed said as his son’s death suddenly hit him and his eyes teared up.
“Ed, we’re sorry to bring this up again,” Joey said, sympathy coating his words.
“It’s fine,” he said, fighting back the tears. “It’s just that a father should never have to bury his son.”
I wanted to ask a few more questions, but I waited for the moment to pass by asking an unrelated question. “How long have you been with the Miami Shores Police?”
“Going on seventeen years. I joined after I left the NYPD where I met your friend, Captain Johnson,” he said, glancing at Mancuso. “You were NYPD, weren’t you, Mancuso?”
“Detective with Midtown South precinct, yes. Which precinct were you at?”
“I was at the forty-fifth precinct in the Bronx,” Ed replied.
I interrupted the reunion before it could go any further. “If you don’t mind, I just want to ask a couple of more questions and we’ll get out of your way.”
“No problem. Today is my honey-do-day. After the lawn, I’ve got to fix the pool filter next. I’m sorry, guys. I didn’t offer you anything other than water to drink. Would you like some iced tea or maybe a soda?”
“We’re fine, Ed,” replied Joey, smiling slightly.
“Was Gene suspicious of anything at the company?” I inquired, getting back to the matter at hand.
“That’s what the MBPD is ignoring. Gene kept telling me how successful these guys were with their trades. Even though he was a newbie in the industry, he couldn’t believe the success they achieved. I remembered he would say, ‘It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.’”
“I’ve been in the industry, and trust me, it’s never that easy,” I said dryly.
There was no scenario in the stock market that trading stocks would be like shooting fish in a barrel, as Gene had said. What was the old cliché? If it was too good to be true, it probably wasn't. So, maybe there was something going on here.
“Do you think he uncovered something fishy? And they found out?” Ed asked with concern.
“We don’t want to jump to any conclusions, Ed, but we’re going forward with our own investigation. If there was foul play, we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Joey reiterated slowly.
Ed raised his face as his eyes narrowed. “I just want the bastard that hit him caught, that’s all. Ever since the incident, I’m looking at every dark blue and black sedan with suspicion. It’s driving me crazy.”
“That’s understandable," I said quietly. If the same happened to me, I'd probably feel the same way. "But, don’t do that to yourself. Detective Logan and the MBPD will reopen the murder investigation if we find evidence of foul play. Can we look in Gene’s room?”
Ed turned to look at the front door. “It was murder and we need to catch the bastard.” He paused. “Sure, come on in. We haven’t touched anything in the room since…” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, apparently unable to say the words.
Joey and I stood at the invitation. “What about his personal belongings that he had with him the day of the incident?” I asked.
“Those are in a plastic bag in his room,” he said as we walked in the house. “My wife is at work. She’s trying to get on with her life as best she can. I’m worried about her. She has a heart condition. Here,” he said, opening a door on the right side of the hall. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be outside.”
“Before you go, would you happen to know the code to unlock Gene’s phone?” Joey asked as we both noticed the phone in a bag on the dresser.
“It’s 061518. The day he got hired, he walked down on Lincoln Road to the nearby phone store and bought himself the newest phone,” Ed replied in a somber tone.
&
nbsp; The moment Ed walked out, I went to the plastic bag on the dresser and opened it. There was a cloth wallet with eighty dollars in the billfold and two single packages of condoms, two credit cards, his driver’s license. A plastic FOB keycard, which I assumed might have been to his office building. A keychain with what looked like house keys and a bike key. A folded receipt from a South Beach club with a phone number written on the back and the name Alberta. His new phone with a broken screen, and a worn leather bracelet.
“Let me open the phone, Joey,” I said, sitting on a corner of the bed. “Why don’t you look around the room and see what you find?”
After turning on the phone and unlocking it, the first thing I did was tap on the notes app. I wanted to see if he kept anything there that could be of help. There was a whole series of notes with titles that looked like dates. The first one was titled "072518." In it, all I found were initials in all caps. Because of my background, I immediately knew they were stock symbols. This one had: AMZN- for Amazon, CAT- for Caterpillar, FB- for Facebook, TWTR- for Twitter, and NFLX- for Netflix.
“Look here, Joey, I think Gene was keeping track of the trades he did.”
Joey came over to me and examined the notes. “What about the hyphens?”
I thought for a minute. I knew the symbols were stock symbols. Then, I shared my assumption with Joey. “I bet you those refer to negative signs, for selling short?”
“English, please. Couldn’t those be hyphens?”
I sat back on the edge of the bed, and putting the iPhone down, I replied, “Right. Maybe. But I think not. If there were plus signs, that would tell me he traded the stock and bought it with the expectation it would go up. Thus, buying long. However, the minus on all, I think means he, or the program these guys have, instructed him to sell them because they were going down. So, selling short means he sells the stock now, even though they don’t own it, then when it goes down, they buy at a lower price and close the trade, ensuring a profit.”