by Marcia Clark
But Niko wasn’t listening. He went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll take care of her, of course. Now she’ll have to let me. But this was the last thing she wanted. She’s got to be devastated.” Niko finally looked at me. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
I dropped my napkin on the table. “Don’t be silly. Let’s get going.”
Like I said. I’d been living the dream for five whole days.
I should’ve known it had to end in disaster.
TWO
I’d never met her before, but Niko’s mother barely glanced my way when he introduced us, as though even the effort to turn her head was too much for her.
And when I said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ferrell,” a look of confusion briefly crossed her face before she reflexively responded with a faint, spidery whisper, “Sophia.” Again, without meeting my eyes.
I have to admit, knowing the strong, passionate driving force that was Niko, Sophia wasn’t what I’d expected. The loose-fitting beige, chiffon maxi skirt and ivory sweater emphasized the slenderness of her frame. Her large dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and eyelashes were her visible gifts to Niko, but where his jawline was strong and his lips generous, Sophia’s chin was a bit recessive, her mouth smaller. The overall effect was soft, somewhat childlike. And the way she wore her hair—long and straight, an unadorned halo of silver and black—enhanced it.
I assumed the contrast in Niko’s features came from the paternal side of the DNA strand. But I didn’t know for sure because his father had left the family when Niko was only four years old. His mother had never remarried.
Now, seeing Sophia, I understood why Niko was so protective of her. Although I took into account the fact that she’d just suffered a terrible blow, I noticed an underlying timidity. Plus, Niko didn’t seem at all surprised by the way she looked or behaved. I got the feeling Sophia had always been a little overwhelmed by the world and that she’d leaned on him for most of his life.
That not only explained why he was so protective of her—it also explained why he was so protective of everyone else. A child whose parent never grew up has one of two options: remain a child and suffer the consequences when the parent inevitably fails to show up or become the parent himself.
Sophia’s gaze drifted over Niko’s shoulder to the window behind him, where the clatter and squealing brakes of trash trucks filled the street. Her voice was barely audible over the noise. “I gave them everything I had.” Her expression was numb as she stared out. Her lips barely moved as she said, “I’m lost.” With every word, her body seemed to cave further and further in on itself.
I felt my throat tighten with sadness. I doubted she’d ever recover from this. She was retired, and at seventy-six, with no source of income other than the thirteen hundred dollars a month she got from social security, she’d barely be able to maintain the house and pay for groceries.
Luckily, she didn’t have mortgage payments to worry about. Niko had bought the charming three-bedroom ranch house for her outright, so she owned it free and clear. But Niko said she’d prided herself on being able to pay for everything else on her own—had refused to even consider his offer to buy her a new car and put money in the bank for her to live on. That pride was her one show of strength. Now, she couldn’t afford it.
Niko leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped together, the knuckles white. “What happened, Mom? Do you know?”
Sophia shook her head. Finally, in a tiny voice, she said, “I-I’m not sure. Tom told me they made a mistake. Something they invested in didn’t . . . go right.”
Niko’s frown was mixed with confusion. “That’s what Tom said, but it makes no sense. Did you hear from Tanner or Bryan?”
Sophia shook her head. “Only Tom.” She looked up at Niko with a painfully hopeful gaze. “Maybe he’s wrong? Could he be wrong?”
Niko swallowed. I could see him struggle with the desire to believe it was a mistake. But he’d called Tom the moment we landed, and they’d spoken at length. “I doubt it, Mom.”
Sophia’s face crumbled. She dropped her head into her hands. “What will I do? I don’t know what to do.” Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs.
Niko reached out and put a gentle hand on her arm. “Don’t cry, Mom. You know I’ll take care of you. Always.”
Sophia wrapped her arms around her body but kept her head down. “You always do, Niko. And you always have. But I wanted to pay my own way. To . . . to not have to worry about money or have to ask . . .” She shook her head. “I just never can get it right. Never can. No matter what I do.” She looked up at Niko and put her hands on his face. “I’m so sorry. For . . . for everything.”
I knew she was apologizing for a lot more than this financial crisis. And it confirmed my suspicion that Niko had been forced to take the lead in the household from too early an age. But it was odd to hear her apologize for this investment disaster. She may not have been the most effectual mother, had maybe screwed up a lot. But not this time.
Then again, hearing a mother apologize for anything was an odd, almost out-of-body experience for me. My so-called mother had subjected me to some of the most searing forms of abuse imaginable, and she’d never even considered saying so much as “Oops!” Far from it. She’d put the blame on me.
Maybe that was why, watching this wrenching, emotional scene between Niko and his mother, I felt tears prick my eyelids.
Niko took her hands between his. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Mom. None of this is your fault. It’s all mine. I was the one who told you to invest in Gold Strike.”
Sophia refused to go along. “But you never told me to put in everything I had. The opposite. You told me to take it slow.” She shook her head. “No, this is all on me. I should’ve listened.”
I knew it wasn’t my place to chime in. We’d only just met. But her mea culpa was so heartbreakingly sincere—and misplaced—I couldn’t stand it. I opened my mouth to tell her that something really bizarre and unforeseeable must’ve happened and that there was no way she could’ve known, but at that moment, Niko’s phone rang—or rather, barked. His default ringtone is a dog barking. It might seem funny—he sure thinks it is—but let me tell you, it got damn annoying really fast.
Niko looked at the screen. His features tensed as he answered. “Tom, any word?” Niko listened for a few seconds, then said he was with his mother. “I’ll get on it right now. But can you do me a favor?” He asked Tom to come stay with his mother, then ended the call. “Mom, I’m going to go see if I can get some answers. Tom will be here in ten minutes; he’ll keep you company. Okay?”
Sophia sank even deeper into her chair as she nodded. “You don’t have to babysit me, Niko. I’ll be fine.”
That obviously wasn’t true, and I could see Niko wasn’t buying it. “I know that, Mom. But he lost a lot, too. I think it’ll make you both feel better.”
Niko had said she wasn’t the suicidal type. But there are many more ways to kill yourself than hanging, overdosing, or drowning. They may take a little longer and be less obvious—but they can get the job done just as effectively. It was a good idea to have someone else who was in the same boat stay with Sophia, to remind her that she wasn’t the only one who’d crashed and burned.
Tom got there a half hour later, and as we left, I told Sophia I’d see her soon. She looked up at me with a vague expression, as though she wasn’t quite sure who I was. It worried me.
And it worried Niko, too. As we got into his silver Maserati, his expression was tortured. “It’s like she’s . . . fading right before my eyes.”
“Should we get her to a doctor? Might be a good idea to get her a short-term antidepressant, just to pull her through for now.”
Niko snorted as he pulled away from the curb. “Yeah, good luck with that. She’s about as antidrug as it gets. And antidoctor. She won’t even take Tylenol.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life monitoring her every move. But I could s
ee that Niko had shifted gears, so I decided to let it go for the moment. “Where are we headed now?”
Niko gunned the engine as he turned left on Ventura Boulevard. “To get some answers.”
I saw that we were headed into the city as he turned onto Beverly Glen Canyon. I assumed we were headed for the Gold Strike headquarters. Sure enough, Niko drove to Westwood Village and pulled into the parking garage under one of the nicer office buildings.
He punched the button for the elevator and cracked his knuckles as we rode up to the tenth floor. When the doors opened, he shot out into the corridor like he’d been fired from a cannon. I had to run to keep up with him as he barreled down the hall.
Niko stopped at the second to last door on the left. Etched into a classy-looking brass plate on the wall was GOLD STRIKE, LLC. There was no window in the door, just a peephole. Niko tried the doorknob. It was locked. He knocked on the door, and we waited for a couple of minutes. No answer. Then he banged on the door with his fist. No answer.
He’d just raised his fist to bang again when a door across the hall opened. An older man in a brown suede Members Only jacket—it looked worn enough to be an original—held up a hand. “Don’t bother. They’re not there. Or they’re not answering.”
Niko’s expression darkened. I could see he was reining himself in with an effort. “So I take it others have been here?”
The man waved a hand. “Oof, felt like a hundred. Day and night they were coming. Banging and banging. And yelling. I couldn’t hear myself think. Had to take my work home. Almost got into it with one of them. Didn’t believe I was just an innocent bystander. Sounds like people lost their money, am I right?”
Niko nodded. “Have you ever seen the guys who work in that office?”
He glanced at the door. “From time to time.”
“When was the last time you saw either of them?”
The man shrugged. “Last week? Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s when. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know where else to find them.”
Niko’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well, I do. Thanks.”
He turned and headed down the hall without even a backward look. I sighed and waved my thanks to the man, then trotted down the hall and just managed to catch up as the elevator dinged. “Look, I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But could you please try and remember to be a human?”
Niko frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just . . . a little distracted.”
Ya think? But I said nothing. And as we flew out of the parking garage, I didn’t ask where we were going.
I had a feeling I already knew.
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to a Spanish-style duplex south of Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. It was one of the many beautiful—and beautifully kept—streets in this pricey neighborhood, and many of the houses and duplexes had preserved the original architecture, which ranged from Spanish style to Tudor. All the lawns were a manicured, vibrant green—no easy feat in drought-ridden Los Angeles. And very few of the cars parked on the street weren’t BMWs, Mercedes, or Teslas.
I trailed behind Niko as he marched up the brick-paved walkway and stood back as he punched the doorbell. I thought it wise to give him plenty of room. It took no stretch of imagination whatsoever to envision Niko ripping the throat out of whoever answered the door.
But no one answered the door. Niko flexed his shoulders—a very bad sign for this resident—and pounded on the door with the heel of his hand. “Bryan! Bryan Posner! Open this door. Now!”
If that didn’t scare the shit out of Bryan, he was either deaf or dead.
He was neither. Two seconds later, a tall, willowy, and very tanned man in his sixties with long white hair answered the door. “Niko?” He swept an arm back. “Come in, please. I’m so glad you’re here. I was just about to call you.”
What? Scared, I expected. Nervous, I expected. But glad?
No, this I did not expect.
THREE
We stepped into a spacious, high-ceilinged living room. The hardwood floors, crown molding, and finely cut baseboards looked original. Builders after the 1940s seldom bothered to do such detailed work, and the pristine condition of the place showed Bryan appreciated that. He also appreciated white.
The sectional couch was white, and it rested on a white rug that faced a white brick fireplace. In another house, all that white would make you feel like you were in an operating room. Or an asylum. But here, it provided the perfect canvas for the original artwork that lined the walls—the styles eclectic yet complementary—the multicolored hanging tapestry, the bronze sculptures that flanked the fireplace, and the well-tended potted palms.
I’d usually assume a decorator had made these sophisticated choices, but Bryan’s wardrobe showed that same unique yet tasteful—and expensive—flair. He wore white linen pants that screamed “designer” and blue loafers that even I recognized as Stefano Ricci’s. I knew those babies went for close to five thousand dollars.
As we moved toward the couch, a much younger man, who looked like he was in his thirties, entered from the hallway that ran to the back of the duplex. He wasn’t as tall as Bryan, and he was a little more solid. But he was equally as handsome, with brown puppy-dog eyes and thick, dark hair cut in a fade. He was well dressed, in high-quality khakis, a Hugo Boss long-sleeve T-shirt, and Ferragamo loafers. Not cheap, but nowhere near in Bryan’s league.
Though his expression was distraught, he managed to exude charm as he gave me a lopsided smile and extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I assume you’re Samantha. I’m Tanner Handel. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
A good handshake is key to a good first impression, and Tanner had it knocked. Firm but not a knuckle crusher, just long enough to be warm, not so long you start to plan your escape. And although I’d heard the line about “wonderful things” a million times, no one had ever delivered it quite so convincingly. In short, Tanner was good. Very, very good.
Bryan was no slouch, either. He gave me a soft, fatherly smile as he gestured for me to take a seat on the couch. “Can I get you guys something to drink? Are you hungry? I can put something together. Or I can order in if you like.”
That was hella hospitable for someone who was on the brink of total ruin. “No thanks, I’m good.”
Niko shook his head and sat down across from Tanner and Bryan, his expression dark. His voice was low, but there was a palpable underlying menace. “What the hell happened? I thought we were diversified. How could all these accounts crash at once?”
Bryan’s features sagged. His hands hung limply beside his legs. He suddenly looked ten years older. “About a month ago, we got an incredible tip on a slate of new cryptocurrencies.”
Tanner leaned forward and spread his hands. His speech was rapid, and he exuded an intense energy that was both mesmerizing and a little unsettling. “It was a sure thing, Niko. Projected to triple our investment in less than six months. And all the indicators were solid gold.” His expression was earnest, pleading. “You’ve seen what’s been going on with Bitcoin and Ethereum.”
I didn’t know much about cryptocurrencies, but I had heard of those two. What I’d never heard was a description characterizing those investments as “solid gold.” But what did I know? I defended murderers, not stock traders.
Niko cracked his knuckles, his jaw set. His voice was low, but fury boiled under his words. “So you went all in—with everyone’s money—without telling anyone. Not even me. What the fuck were you thinking?”
Bryan drew back, but he sounded more sad than fearful as he answered. “I was thinking that if word leaked out that we were buying big, there’d be a run on the market, and it’d drive up the price before we could move all the money.”
Tanner chimed in. “Our source said he’d sell the tip to someone else if we didn’t pony up with the whole amount within forty-eight hours.”
“So how did this sure thing go bust so fast?” Niko demanded.
>
Tanner shook his head. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out. I’ve got a call in to our source. There must’ve been something hinky with the currencies, but whatever it was, they hid it well. I vetted them upside down. It looked for real.”
Bryan’s voice broke as he said, “We’ll get this straightened out, Niko. I swear we’ll make it up to you.”
Niko glared at him. “Forget about me. I’ll survive. How do you plan to make it up to everyone else? Especially all the people I brought in—like my mother? My friends?”
Tanner held up his hands, his voice calm, reassuring. “Come on, Niko. Think about how much money we’ve made for all of you.” He looked into Niko’s eyes. “We’ve doubled your investment, haven’t we? We’ll find a way to get everyone’s money back . . . and then some. You can trust us.”
Niko wouldn’t be mollified. “You did well by my mother and me. And most of my friends, as far as I know. But this disaster wiped it all out—not just the profits but their initial investments, too. They’re completely broke.” Niko leaned forward, his eyes hot. “So tell me, how do you plan to fix that?”
Bryan looked stricken. “I . . . don’t quite know. Yet. But . . . we will.” He glanced at Tanner, then down at his lap, where his hands were clasped together in a solid ball. “I feel terrible, Niko. Believe me.”
Niko ignored his plea and turned to Tanner. “How about you? Any bright ideas?”
Someone else would’ve broken a sweat under the intensity of Niko’s gaze, but Tanner met his gaze with nothing more than calm concern. “It only just happened, Niko. So no, I don’t know how I’ll get the money right at this moment. I can only promise you that I will. Somehow.” He put his hands on his knees and blew out a breath. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. What can I get you?”
Niko set his jaw. “Nothing.” I shook my head. As Tanner stood up, an oval-shaped bronze coin fell out of his pocket onto the rug next to my feet.
Tanner was headed toward the wet bar and didn’t seem to notice. I picked it up. Engraved around the edge were the words From Shame to Grace. When Tanner came back with his glass of what looked like three fingers of scotch, neat, I held it out to him. “You dropped this.”