James squirmed in his chair. “Too many things can go wrong.”
“They’ll provide us with cash, enough for us to get back in the game.”
“They’ll use this firm for illegal ventures. Drugs, prostitution, money laundering.”
“Once we’re back on our feet, we’ll buy them out.” Kemp looked outside his penthouse window. The blue sky was crystal clear, with only a few clouds drifting lazily across it. Fifty feet below him, in the Biscayne Bay, he watched a fifty-foot yacht heading toward the Atlantic Ocean. Next year, Kemp planned to take a three month cruise to some of the most exotic places in the world. He was used to living an exuberant lifestyle, and there was no way he was ever going to give it up.
“This is how people get killed.” James shook his finger at him. “It’s not worth it.”
“It’s better than bankruptcy, isn’t it?”
James has a line of perspiration on his upper lip. “No, it isn’t.”
“I’m going to fix everything. In fact, I’ve already arranged a meeting with Basov.”
“Count me out.”
“Basov will keep the ball rolling. It’s a brilliant plan.” Kemp slid to the edge of his seat, his elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his face. He looked at his computer screen again, this time noticing the stock market was down over a thousand points. Black Capital Investments was dropping like a rock, with no end in sight. Seventy percent of the hedge fund was comprised of bank stocks, most of which had lost over fifty percent of their value.
“I’m not going to be part of this.” James’ face hardened. “I’m resigning.”
“Don’t even think about it. Keep dressing up Black Capital Investments.”
James waved his hand. “Stop it.”
Kemp wasn’t going to throw in the towel. No matter what, he wasn’t going to let Black Capital Investments go down the tubes. “Keep doctoring the books, cooking the numbers, and showing profits.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“You had better think long and hard about what you’re going to do. There’s going to be indictments. We’re going to end up going to prison.”
“We shouldn’t have conned people out of their life savings”
“Stop arguing with me. Double down. Keep pushing the envelope.”
James glared at him. “No, I’m getting a top-notch lawyer. The best money can buy.”
“Knock it off, will you? Stop being a coward. We’ve got to see this through to the end.”
“Not this time, boss. The gig is up.”
Kemp looked at his desk, staring at a picture of himself and his beautiful girlfriend. The picture was taken in front of his beautiful beachside home. They stood side by side, holding hands, not a care in the world. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t go to jail for committing investment fraud. Determined not to let his business partner take him down in flames, he grabbed a Beretta nine millimeter from the small of his back. He rushed around the side of his desk and shot James in the side of the head—almost at point blank range. Removing a handkerchief from his suit jacket’s pocket, he quickly wiped his fingerprints off the weapon and placed it in James’ right hand.
Chapter 14
Dean Malone sat down on a park bench, at Lemon City Park, and crossed his legs. He threw bread crumbs on the ground, feeding a bunch of pigeons. Next to him sat a young woman with a black eye and a swollen bottom lip. She was wearing a light blue summer dress with orange and yellow flowers on it. When she crossed her legs, she showed a lot of thigh. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“It’s another day in paradise,” Dean said, smiling. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s absolutely beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky. And not to mention the cool breeze.”
Her face was emotionless. “It’s okay.”
“You couldn’t ask for anything more, could you?”
“I guess not.”
Dean could tell she was really upset. She looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I come to the park every day to unwind.” He tossed a few more bread crumbs on the ground. “And to feed my little friends.”
“Oh, that’s very sweet of you.”
“Do you think they’d starve to death without me?”
She looked at him and smiled. “Other people are feeding them, too.”
“It’s the curse of old age, I suppose.” Dean gestured around the park. “Everyone who’s feeding the pigeons must be in their eighties, too.”
“There are worse things you could do.”
Dean took a liking to her. He wanted to find out what was bothering her. “I suppose you’re right. Hey, my name is Dean. Dean Malone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s your name?”
She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back on the park bench, and burst into tears. “Oh, forgive my manners.” Her voice was choked with emotion. “I…I have a lot on my mind.”
“Hey, take it easy.” Dean lowered his voice. “Just tell me what your name is.”
“I’m Missy.” She took a deep breath. “Missy Benson.”
“I’m willing to listen, if you want me to. I mean, you look like you could use a friend.”
Missy wiped the tears from her eyes. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “No, it’s all right.”
Dean wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He could tell she wanted to open up to him, but something was holding back. “It’s one of the perks of being retired.” He gave her a gentle smile. “You see, I have a lot of free time on my hands.”
“I don’t think you’d understand.”
Dean decided to try to use a little humor. “You think I’m dumb, don’t you?”
“No, of course not.” Missy shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m much older than you. Old enough to be your father.” Dean reached into the plastic bag, grabbed another handful of bread crumbs, and tossed them on the ground. Several pigeons, flapping their wings, swooped down in front of them. They moved across the grass, pecking at the bread. Dean loved to watch them gobble it down.
“What does your age have to do with anything?”
“Nothing you can say will shock me.” Dean wanted to make her feel as comfortable as possible. “I mean, I’ve heard it all before.”
Missy’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you a shrink or something?”
“No, I’m not.” Dean smiled. “But everyone gets upset over the same three things.”
“Oh?”
Dean realized he had good rapport with her. He wanted to keep her talking. “Everyone worries about their finances, their relationships, and their jobs.”
Missy cupped her face in her hands and burst into tears. “I’m so mixed up right now.” She kept sobbing. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“It’s all right.” Dean patted her on the shoulder. “It’s nothing you can’t get through.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“Don’t mention it. Tell me what’s on your mind. It’ll make you feel better.”
Missy wiped the tears from her eyes. “I feel so foolish.” She fell silent for a moment. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Well, I’m married to an abusive man.” Missy’s voice shook. “He’s really mean to me.”
Dean’s heart broke for her. He could tell she’d been to hell and back. “I figured as much. That’s too bad. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“He’s mean, nasty, and violent.”
“That explains the black eye and swollen bottom lip.”
Missy’s bottom lip quivered. “He beats me all the time. Prone to violent fits of rage.”
“Do you think things will get better?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Missy gave him a worried look. “I gave up hope a long time ago.”
“Get away from him.” Dean noticed a
young couple walk past them, holding hands and talking to each other. They stopped next to a picnic table, where they embraced in a long kiss. The young man bent over, picked up a flat rock, and skimmed it across a large pond. It skipped a several times before sinking in the middle of the dark water. Dean suspected the guy was trying to impress his lady.
“I’m planning on leaving him,” Missy said. “But I think he’s going to kill me.”
“Tell the police.”
Missy turned white. “I’m scared to tell them. Plus, there’s something else, too.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I’m involved in a complicated set of circumstances.”
“Perhaps it’s not as bad as you think.”
“I’m in love with someone else.”
Alarms bells went off in Dean’s head. He knew prisons were filled with men who’d killed their wives’ lovers. “Does your husband suspect you’re having an affair?”
“Just look at my face.”
“Notify the police. Get a restraining order. All before you move in with your new lover.”
“Well, he’s married, too.” Tears glistened in the corner of Missy’s eyes. “It’s a hot mess.”
Dean was at a loss for words. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to her, so he went with his gut feelings. “Are you sure he loves you? I mean, is he going to leave his wife for you?”
“Yes, he wants to be with me. But he’s not ready to leave her yet.”
“Oh, I see.” Dean rubbed his chin. “That’s a problem.”
Crossing her arms, Missy leaned back on the park bench and took a few deep breaths. She put her head on his shoulder and burst into tears again. Dean knew she was between a rock and a hard place. Moved by her sad story, he put his arm around her, patted her on the shoulder, and hoped she would find a way to work things out.
Chapter 15
Malone and Peterson stood inside Kemp’s office at Black Capital Investments. Police officers were running crime scene tape and keeping reporters out of the room. Outside of the office, on the trading floor, employees were silent, all of them shocked that Steve James, the senior portfolio manager, had taken his life.
Malone stood in front of Kemp. “You saw him commit suicide?”
“Yes, I did, Sergeant.” Kemp’s eyes swept the room. “But I tried to stop him.”
“Go on.”
Kemp’s face was blank. “I reached for the gun, Sergeant. But he pulled the trigger.”
“Did you guys get along well?”
“He was like a brother to me, Sergeant.”
Malone didn’t believe his story for a second. If they were as close as brothers, he would have suspected that something was seriously wrong with him. “And yet he’s lying on the floor.” Malone pointed at the corpse. “His brain’s splattered everywhere.”
“I called 911 right away, Sergeant.” Kemp sounded upset. “Right after it happened.”
“Did you touch the body?”
Kemp nodded. “I touched his hand. I mean, his wrist, checking for a pulse.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve been standing right here, waiting for you guys to get here.”
Dan Henderson, the Crime Scene Unit crew chief, set down two heavy cases in the room. He had a mop of black hair, expressive brown eyes, and a heavily pockmarked face. Having spent the better part of his life in law enforcement, he was trained by some of the best and brightest the Miami PD had to offer. He stood there, issuing orders to a few techs. At once, they went to work, taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, and collecting evidence. Malone stooped next to the body, looking at the deceased. Blood pooled beneath him. He lay on his side, the gun in his right hand, his finger still on the trigger.
Malone looked up at Henderson. “What do you think?”
“Nothing good,” Henderson said, stooping to his knees. “That’s a Beretta 9 millimeter.”
“It’s not the first time we’ve seen this.” Malone thought about some alarming statistics. Not only were there more than 20,000 gun suicide each year, but is was considered to be the 10th leading cause of death in the country. Over the course of his career, Malone had seen a lot of people take their lives in this manner.
Henderson pointed at the deceased. “Look at the stippling wounds.”
“The pinpoint abrasions almost form a circle on the side of his face.” Malone leaned in closer to get a better look. “No doubt they came from the gunshot powder residue.”
“Look at the position of the star shaped wound, right below his temple.”
Malone thought it over. “The angle is consistent with a self inflicted gunshot wound.”
“His finger is still on the trigger. We’ve seen that in a lot in cases of suicide, too.”
“Does anything else stand out to you?”
Henderson gave him a somber look. “Let me get to work. I’ll let you know what I find after I’ve processed the crime scene.”
Malone stood up and faced Kemp, who was fiddling with his BlackBerry. He scrolled his thumb down the screen and typed a text message and sent it to someone. Clipping the cell phone back onto his belt, Kemp looked around his office, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this,” Kemp said, his tone grave. “It’s like a nightmare.”
“Take it from the top again,” Malone said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Steve stormed into my office this morning, ranting and raving about the economy.”
Malone shrugged. “That’s not a big deal. Everyone I know is upset about it, too.”
“It’s hard to manage money in an economy like this, Sergeant.”
“That’s not what you said last time. You said Black Capital Investments is doing well.”
“We’re up twenty percent for the year, Sergeant.”
Malone saw through the smoke screen. He knew he was lying about his hedge fund’s performance. “Oh, come on. Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Sergeant.” Kemp face tightened. “That’s up to you.”
“Why did your senior portfolio manager blow his brains out?”
“Steve was trading on his own, Sergeant.” Kemp shook his head. “I didn’t approve of it.”
Malone didn’t like the sound of that. He knew the owners of the hedge fund kept a good portion of their cash in their fund. “Let me get something straight. Mr. James was trading in his personal brokerage account?”
“That’s right, Sergeant. He pulled all his money out of our hedge fund.”
“That indicates a big problem.” Malone knew things didn’t add up. Having a solid track record of generating capital gains, the hedge funds senior officers kept a substantial portion of their money in the fund. This showed confidence in their ability to execute an effective trading strategy that maximized annual returns for their investors. However, when senior executives withdrew their money, it indicated that there were serious problems—heavy losses, insufficient operating capital, high levels of investor redemptions. In the business world, people considered this to be a red flag, highlighting that something was seriously wrong with the fund’s investments and investors should be concerned about losing their money.
Kemp straightened his red tie. “It doesn’t look good, Sergeant. I’ll give you that much.”
“It looks like your hedge fund is losing money.”
“No, it doesn’t, Sergeant. I’m fully invested in Black Capital Investments.”
“Why did your partner pull his money out?”
“He needed to cover the losses in his personal account.”
Malone smelled blood in the water. The senior portfolio manager was supposed to be an expert at making money in the stock market. “How much money did Mr. James lose?”
“His losses were staggering. Over forty million, I believe. He was leveraged to the hilt.”
“Prove it.”
“Steve came into my office this morning, carrying a 1099-B.�
� Kemp gave him a confident look. “It contains a list of all his trades.”
“Let me see it.”
Kemp opened his top desk drawer and grabbed the document. It was probably over a hundred pages long. “He told me he received a margin call,” he said, handing him the document. “That he’d lost his entire fortune in the stock market.”
“You must have had some idea about this.”
“No, I didn’t. He pulled the wool over my eyes, so to speak.”
“I’ll go over this document, line by line. And I’ll piece this whole mess together.”
Kemp raised his chin in defiance. “Go for it, Sergeant. I don’t have anything to hide.”
Malone sensed he was lying through his teeth. Since his senior portfolio manager did a terrible job at managing his own money, Malone didn’t think he could have done a better job for his clients. “I don’t think Mr. James had your investor’s best interest at heart.”
“He had a sterling reputation. He was beyond reproach.”
“I think Mr. James probably lost a fortune in your hedge fund, too.”
Kemp’s face darkened. “That’s not true, Sergeant. That’s a baseless accusation.”
“How much assets does Black Capital Investments have under management?”
“We manage over a billion dollars.”
“Define your hedge fund’s risk, low, average, high.” Malone knew hedge funds typically had a fee structure built into their contracts, both a fixed fee and a performance fee. The fixed fee was usually two percent of assets under management and the performance fee was usually twenty percent of the hedge fund’s profits. In hopes of generating greater returns, the hedge fund operator could take greater risks, especially if the hedge fund was taking heavy losses.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant.” Kemp wagged a finger. “But that’s confidential.”
“Tell me about your compensation. That can’t be a matter of national security, too.”
Kemp crossed his arms. “It’s the industry standard, Sergeant. “2 and 20” fee schedule.”
“How do you hedge against downside risk in the stock market?”
“It’s one of my greatest secrets, Sergeant.” Kemp’s face lit up. “You see, it’s why wealthy investors flock to my fund.”
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