by Brian Finney
“A billion dollars? Legit?” Todd asks skeptically.
“You don’t know the racing game well, I take it?”
“No. I only gamble on the stock market,” Todd laughs.
“Champion horses sell for millions of dollars. As for betting, more than a hundred million dollars is bet on the Kentucky Derby alone. It doesn’t take much to reach a billion in the racing business.”
“By fixing races? Doping horses?”
“We don’t need to resort to tactics like that to make our money.”
“Which doesn’t mean that you don’t do so.”
“Even if we did, you wouldn’t want to know that.”
“Okay. Okay. Make the electronic transfer first thing in the morning. And don’t forget the $100,000.”
What’s he talking about? I ask myself.
“How much have you raised for Bluerim so far?”
I remember reading that Bluerim is the name of a new hedge fund that Todd had launched earlier this year.
“With your contribution it is now well over three billion.”
“And how safe?”
“Our similar 2007 hedge fund, UWM Distressed Mortgages, returned 29.5 percent last year.”
“Not bad,” Jorge replies.
“We can’t expect to make what you make.” Jorge raises his eyebrows. “But then we’re legit,” Todd ribs him. Both men laugh.
“We’re just two businessmen doing our best to turn a profit,” Jorge says as he prepares to leave. “Different kinds of business. Same corporate world.”
“I’ll have the paperwork ready for you on Monday,” Todd says.
“Adiós, Todd. It’s a deal,” Jorge says as he makes for the door.
The recording switches off. I rewind it to the start of the conversation, but that consists of nothing more than greetings.
Jorge’s voice is strangely familiar. It sounds identical to that of
“Manuel,” the guy who left a message on Susan’s phone machine, offering to drop off a package from Todd.
He may also be the Jorge on the agreement at Total Surveillance. Why would a major private investor in Todd’s funds want to bug his entire house? Doesn’t Jorge trust him? After all, Todd’s the CEO of the second-largest fund family in the US. Can this really have anything to do with Susan’s disappearance?
I call Felicia.
“Hola?”
“Felicia. It’s me, Jenny. I’m looking through those recordings from Todd’s house.”
“You mean the one from the kitchen?”
“It’s not just the kitchen. Every major room in the house is being bugged.”
“Dios mio! Why?”
“I wish I knew.” I tell her about finding the tapes at Total Surveillance dating back to early August, commissioned by this guy called Jorge Valdez. After describing the taped conversation I heard between Todd and Jorge I ask Felicia whether she knows anything about him.
“Sí. Bad man. I’ve seen him at the house. I don’t understand why Mr. Granger make business with a man like that.”
“How often have you seen him at Todd’s house?”
“Maybe twice. Mr. Granger, he meet him at the door each time and take him straight to the den. I bet he’s a capo of some sort.”
“A cartel boss?”
“Maybe a capo, maybe a lieutenant or something.”
I consider this. “That would explain some of the things they said to one another on the recording.”
“What’s this to do with Susan?”
“I think the man who left the message on Susan’s answering machine is Jorge. And the recordings start the day after Susan left Todd. Could that be a coincidence?”
“No lo entiendo. Is a mystery. But you clever, Jenny. You’ll find the truth.”
“You have more confidence in me than I do,” I say. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”
There I go dissing myself again. Assuming I’ll fail. Tricia has no difficulty overstating her business expertise to her clients. And it pays off. Why do I insist on minimizing mine? Am I protecting myself in case I fail? Or am I just trying to be honest?
✽✽✽
I realize that I need to know more about Bluerim, the hedge fund into which Jorge was presumably depositing his billion dollars—A BILLION DOLLARS! One thousand million dollars! I can’t begin to comprehend the size of that figure in the context of my own life. Let’s see. Based on my pitiable current income of $30,000 a year, Jorge is depositing into Bluerim the equivalent of around 740 lifetimes of my income.
I do a Google search for Balboa Wealth Management Corporation and see that its customer assets have risen from a mere $200 million ten years ago to over a trillion dollars in 2010.
According to Bloomberg.com, in the last five years it has raised over $6 billion from institutional and individual private clients to buy up troubled mortgages and bonds backed by real estate loans that the government has forced banks to sell. Bluerim, a new private fund launched this year, is targeting smaller banks and lenders. A similar hedge fund launched last year made 29.5 percent in its first year (as Todd told Jorge).
Aren’t all US funds supposed to declare their financial status and returns to the Securities and Exchange Commission? I go to the SEC’s website. Surprise! It turns out that private hedge funds are exempt from the law requiring all other public funds to register and deliver prospectuses to all their shareholders. The SEC does have an online search system called EDGAR. When I enter “Bluerim” EDGAR shows that the corporation has filed what is called a Form D: Notice of Exempt Offering of Securities. The only information I can glean from this shining instance of nondisclosure is that Bluerim has already sold two billion dollars’ worth of shares. But no clues as to whom it sold them. Another dead end.
What other leads are there? The only contact that I remember Susan mentioning was the director of the Coalition for Immigrant Rights. She used to do voluntary work for them once a week—
I hear the front door open and close, then Tricia getting something from the frig before turning on the living room TV. Chris Wallace, the host of Fox News Sunday, is talking about Dan Granger’s bid to become Republican governor of California:
“To date, Granger has outspent Brown $173 million to $36.5 million. I predict another Republican will be keeping this left-leaning state in check for the next four years.”
Another partisan panelist chimes in: “State Senator Granger has offered to take a polygraph test to prove that he was unaware that the construction worker he employed was illegal. Isn’t that enough to dispose of this red herring and allow voters to concentrate on the real issue—the scandalous number of illegal workers living in California?”
Why does Tricia listen to this right-wing propaganda?
I abandon my online research and walk into the living room. Tricia is lounging in a trendy new chair in the shape of a cupped hand with colored digits providing the back and sides. Not my idea of comfort. We nod at one another.
She’s sipping a glass of lemonade through a colored straw. On the screen Dan Granger addresses supporters at a rally: “My number one priority is jobs, jobs, jobs. Let’s get rid of all the illegal workers and give their jobs to legitimate citizens.”
“This,” I remark, “from someone who employed an undocumented construction worker himself. What a hypocrite!”
“What do you expect?” Tricia snaps back. “He’s a politician. Get real.”
“If he wins, after he’s thrown out all the undocumented workers he can find, half the fresh produce in the supermarkets will get too expensive for ordinary people like me to afford.”
“So. Do something with your life.”
“Like what?”
“Like taking a job that pays real money.”
“That’s your answer to everything.”
“And what’s yours? Socialism?”
“Socialism isn’t a dirty word, you know.”
“This is America, the greatest capitalist economy in the world. We bel
ieve in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That means each of us can pursue our idea of happiness without being forced to give up part of our income for slackers too lazy to work for a living.”
“I thought we stood for taxes with representation,” I say.
“Taxes! Look at the ridiculous ways the government spends our money. To hell with taxes.”
“What about policemen or firefighters? What would you do without them?”
“Private security?”
“And for people who can’t afford it?”
“Tough shit. Everyone needs to work for what they want. That’s what America’s about.”
“It’s also about justice—fairness for all.”
“Do you know how much taxes I paid last year?”
“No. But I bet it was a lower percentage of your income than I paid.”
“Typical! What a loser! Choose low-paid work and then complain about how little you earn.”
“As usual, you’re distorting what I’m saying. I was talking about unequal tax rates.”
Tricia snatches up the remote and turns off the TV. “You live in an unreal world. No wonder this country’s in such a mess, with supposedly intelligent people like you spouting garbage.”
I remind myself that Tricia and I have covered this ground many times before, and it’s never made a bit of difference. I change the subject. “So how did your evening work out?”
Tricia’s shoulders drop. “Leap of Faith was fabulous. But Ralph drank so much sake at Kagaya, he slept through half of the show. When we got back to his place he switched to scotch. He passed out on me in the bedroom.”
“Was that a happy escape for you? Or a letdown?”
“I needed to get laid. I thought we might get around to it in the morning, but he was already dressed in his biking outfit when I woke up. He belongs to some all-male bike club that puts in like fifty miles on Sunday mornings before stopping for breakfast . . . So I rang Rodney and we’re taking his motor yacht out from the Marina to spend the rest of the day cruising down the coast.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“It’s really cool, like a floating condo with living room, bedroom, bathroom, every electronic device you could ever want, and an autopilot.”
Tricia extricates herself from the upholstered fingers of her chair. “Got to get my sailing outfit together.” She disappears into her bedroom.
Time for me to get moving. I phone the Coalition for Immigrants’ Rights and ask to speak with the director. The receptionist informs me that his name is Eduardo Muñez. Surprise—I’m put straight through. After establishing my connection to Susan, I ask if I can come to his office to talk to him about her disappearance. He says that he too has been puzzled by her abrupt disappearance and that he’d like us to share what we know. I’ve just got time to make it there by 11:30, the time he suggests.
✽✽✽
I’m rushing east on Olympic Boulevard in my trusty Corolla, to make the appointment. Actually, “trusty” isn’t the most accurate descriptor; last time I brought my car in for service, the mechanic told me that all my tires were shot. I just didn’t have an extra $250 to replace them, which leaves me constantly anxious while I’m driving, praying my tires won’t explode on the freeway. So I tend to stick to the inner lane in case I need to make an emergency stop.
Sunday morning traffic is pleasurably light, and I’m listening to Pink’s Funhouse album. The last number, “Sober,” makes me think of Tricia. I’m not sure how deeply she was into drugs in high school.
I do know that to this day Tricia uses designer drugs when she is socializing, especially on weekends, but I don’t know which drugs she uses, or how regularly she uses them, or where she gets them. Nursing a habit might account for her frequent bouts of depression.
Tricia and I have frank talks about our boyfriends, our parents, and our jobs, but they skim the surface of our lives. Despite sharing an apartment and a gene pool with Tricia, there’s an awful lot I don’t know about her. And the reverse is also true.
✽✽✽
I enter the Coalition for Immigrants’ Rights offices and ask the Latina receptionist for the director.
“You must be Ms. Carter,” she says. “Please follow me.”
We walk through a corridor lined with posters of Central American men and women performing various kinds of skilled work and crafts. In a sunlit office Eduardo rises from behind his paper-strewn desk and shakes my hand reassuringly. He probably offers the same feeling of reassurance to all his clients, most of whom likely badly need it.
Eduardo is decidedly handsome in an unassuming way, with a thick head of black wavy hair, a short-trimmed moustache, and a tanned face. He’s wearing cream Levi’s, a maroon shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and blue high tops with dark red laces.
“Ms. Carter. So you’re a friend of Susan Kirby’s.” He waves me into a comfortable armchair. “Susan was a big help to us here. She used to come here for volunteer work almost every Wednesday. But we’ve not seen or heard from her for about three months now.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about, Mr. Muñez.”
“Please call me Eduardo.”
“As long as you call me Jenny.”
“Fair enough.”
“You say you knew Susan through your employer?” he asks.
“That’s right. She was his live-in girlfriend.”
“‘He’ being Todd Granger?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“By repute. I know more about his brother who stands for everything I am fighting against.”
“Yes, his campaign has been stoking fear of an immigrant takeover. What surprises me is that it is such a vote catcher. I can’t stand him.”
“You’ve spoken to him?
“At Todd’s house, yes.” I decide not to hold back. “He’s a creep. He makes constant sexual innuendos. Snide comments. Leering looks when he thinks nobody’s watching him. But he’s too fixated on becoming the state’s next governor to risk anything overt.”
“Actually I’m hoping the Gomez incident might be enough to undermine his stance as an anti-immigration champion.”
“Ah yes, Gomez, poor guy,” I remark. “Shipped out of the country double quick.”
“If only he’d got in touch with us.” Eduardo sighs.
“To get back to Susan,” I say, “Todd’s housekeeper, Felicia, is so worried about her disappearance that she has asked me to try to trace her.”
“Trace her?”
“Oh, I work part-time reviewing surveillance recordings at Total Surveillance. Felicia thinks that gives me magical powers to find Susan.”
“Do you think Susan needs tracing?”
“She really does seem to have disappeared under strange circumstances.” I tell him about Susan’s moving out of Todd’s house, her disappearance, her apartment in Palos Verdes, the strange rent checks, and the message on her voice mail.
Eduardo frowns. “It all sounds uncomfortably familiar.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“If she were Latina I’d think she was mixed up with one of the cartels.”
“Funny you say that. Felicia thought that the man who has had Todd’s entire house bugged must be a leading member of a Mexican gang.” I explain what I’d discovered by copying and playing back the SD cards.
“Who’s the guy who commissioned the bugging?” Eduardo asks.
“Jorge Valdez.”
Eduardo’s eyes go big.
“Do you know him? Felicia thought he might be a capo.”
Eduardo nods. “Not exactly a capo. But he is the brother of Pablo Valdez, the boss of the Baja Cartel. Look!” he says and points to a face on a Mexican government poster hanging on the wall behind him listing the country’s ten most-wanted. “That’s the brother.”
“He looks like Jorge.”
“Yes. Jorge is believed to be responsible for the Cartel’s finances. Unlike his brother, he’s clean as far as the law is concerned.”
Glancing at the poster Eduardo adds, “The Mexican government is offering a reward of thirty million pesos for Pablo Valdez’s capture. That’s more than two million dollars.”
I’ve never paid much attention to Mexico’s drug war. It never directly impacted my life. Now I am feeling embarrassingly uninformed. “And the Baja cartel smuggles drugs?”
“Drugs are their most profitable item. But I know about them because they also make millions of dollars smuggling Mexicans and Central Americans across the border.”
“Is that so?” I say.
“They imprison the illegal immigrants in holding houses along the border until their families come up with a fee that’s often more than their lifetime’s savings. Once the immigrants are in the US, they frequently also demand a percentage of their wages here for years.”
“Which side of the border are the safe houses on?” I want to know.
“Both.” Eduardo gets up. “I can see this is all very new to you. Listen, Jenny, I’m starving. If you want me to fill you in more you’re going to have to eat lunch with me. The restaurant’s just around the corner.”
“I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,” I say to stop myself immediately accepting his offer, even though I’m dying to spend more time with him.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“Nope,” I respond.
“Then please join me.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
I feel mesmerized by Eduardo. He’s so different. I’m happy for the opportunity to know him better.
✽✽✽
Eduardo is obviously a regular at Paco’s Grill. The genial host greets him by name and asks whether he wants his usual table on the patio.
“Sí, Hernandez. This is Señorita Jenny Carter. Ella es una private eye.”
“Mucho gusto,” Hernandez says. He shows us to our table in a secluded corner of the patio, prettily shielded from the midday sun by overhanging red bougainvillea. He hands us each a menu.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks me. “A margarita perhaps to keep you cool?”
“What are you drinking?” I ask Eduardo.