Neil stared at the floor numbers as they slowly ascended. “Well. Nothing’s gonna be over today. But let’s get the deal locked up so we can start moving forward. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
The doors dinged open. “You’ll feel better when today is over,” Neil said, leading the way. “I promise you that.”
Down the hall, a door was propped open with a rubber-tipped kickstand. Sun came in through it and played on the hallway floor; then a figure emerged and blocked the light. It was Eli. There were other voices in the conference room behind him, but Carter didn’t think any of them belonged to Sol.
“Thanks for coming,” Eli said, as they approached him from the elevator bank. They all shook hands in the hallway. Eli held the conference room door open for them and two other men rose to their feet. “This is my colleague, Matt Curtis. And I think you both know Bill Robertson.”
Robertson’s face was instantly recognizable. He was all over the media; speculation of his gubernatorial bid had been simmering at a low boil for months. Carter had met Robertson a handful of times, but doubted Robertson would acknowledge that now. Though Robertson was slightly younger, they moved in the same social circles. Robertson’s daughter was a senior at Spence, Merrill and Lily’s alma mater. Both men had, at different times, sat on the school’s board. They had several mutual friends.
Delphine Lewis, Ines’s bridge partner, had thrown a cocktail event for Robertson back in September. Ines had forced Carter to stop in for a drink, not because she had any real interest in the attorney general but because she was eager to see the Lewis’s Rothko, which was said to be worth around $28 million. Carter wanted to stay at the office; they had sparred about it and he had lost. Truth be told, Carter hated Robertson’s guts. Everyone on Wall Street did. Robertson was a wholly political animal, in it for personal gain rather than a sense of the greater good. He used his position as attorney general to curry favor with people who would back him when he eventually ran for governor, and in the meantime, invite him to dinner at their Park Avenue apartments. But when appearances demanded it, he would take one of them down. Carter couldn’t understand why someone like Peter Lewis—a fellow hedge fund manager—would allow his wife to host a party for Robertson. It was like letting a fox into the henhouse.
Still, at that moment, all Carter could think was how glad he was that he had attended that party and taken the time to shake Robertson’s hand.
Robertson looked slighter and less imposing now than at the fundraiser. His hair was thinning at the temples and needed to be cut. His teeth were slightly too long, imparting his signature ratlike smile. Thin lips and limbs. Up close, his cheeks were mottled like a tufted chair, war wounds from an adolescent battle with acne. He looked thin. Perhaps the stress of the fall had caused him to lose weight. Carter wondered if Robertson was thinking the same about him.
“Sorry we weren’t able to meet with you yesterday,” Eli said, when the door was closed.
“It’s my fault,” Robertson said, extending his hand to Carter. “I wanted to be at this meeting myself. It’s nice to see you again, Carter. You too, Neil.”
“Nice to see you, Bill,” Neil said. He was smiling casually but Carter could tell he was surprised. “Glad you could join us.”
“Ines well?” Robertson gestured for them to sit.
“She is, given the circumstances. Thanks.”
“And the girls?”
Carter paused. How long was social hour going to go on? “Also well. And your family? Martha is a senior at Spence now, isn’t she?”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” Robertson said, ignoring the question. “I can only imagine how tough the past few days have been. First Morty, then the investigation. Are they here with you in the city? I heard you were spending the holiday out in East Hampton.”
“Yes, we all came in. Well, Ines stayed to close up the house, but the girls are here with their husbands.”
“Their husbands, right.” Robertson nodded. He was still standing, his arms half folded across his chest. He crooked one finger and pressed it thoughtfully against his lip. “Paul and Adrian. Adrian Patterson. I’ve met his parents. And Paul Ross. Paul’s your GC?”
Now Carter was uneasy. Neil was, too; he could sense it. The energy in the room had shifted, but its direction wasn’t clear. “You have a good memory, Bill,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had met them.”
Robertson smiled. “Oh, I haven’t. Just know their names. Well, Paul’s especially. In fact—” He didn’t finish the thought. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. From it, he withdrew some papers. He kept them in front of him and said, “I imagine you’d like me to just get to the point.”
“Yes, why don’t we,” Neil said, his impatience obvious.
“From the sound of things, your partner, Alain Duvalier, was the one overseeing Delphic’s investments with RCM on a day-to-day basis. Is that right?”
“Alain oversees all of our outside managers.”
“But you had a personal relationship with Morton Reis, did you not? I think I met him with you, actually. At a benefit last year.”
“Morty was a personal friend. But I wasn’t any more involved with the day-to-day management of that relationship than I was any other outside manager. I was given diligence reports and performance updates on RCM by Alain or members of his team on a periodic basis. My job is and has always been client relations. That’s a full-time job unto itself.” This was a rehearsed speech, and Carter tried to deliver it as earnestly as he could. He watched Robertson’s face closely, gauging his reaction.
“Of course, of course.” Robertson said, nodding. “My father was in your business, many years ago, as you may know. Lots of golf games and client dinners, right?” He threw Carter a wink and let out a good-natured laugh.
“Something like that.” Carter said, as evenly as he could manage.
“All right. So it seems like all of this came as a surprise to you. I have to say, you did a very good job of mobilizing the troops to get to the bottom of it. Particularly given the holiday. And without the help of Mr. Duvalier, who I understand is out of the country and has not been reached.” He turned to Neil. “Your office has been very responsive to mine. Sol’s provided us with a lot of very useful information.”
“We’ve done what we can.” Neil said. “There’s no choice in the matter. Reis is all over the news. They have clients to answer to.”
“Yes. And this issue with David Levin at the SEC. Obviously, there are serious implications. Fraud at RCM is one thing. Bribery of an SEC official is another.”
Carter opened his mouth to speak but Neil cut him off. “That came as a surprise to everyone,” he said. “At least, it helps explain why the SEC failed to investigate for as long as they did.”
“Were you aware that David Levin was in touch with members of your office? Alain Duvalier and Paul Ross?”
“No.” Carter said. “Well, yes. I know that he called our offices. I wasn’t aware that he was also in contact with Alain. And I don’t believe that Paul was, either. And I certainly wasn’t aware of any wire transfers to anyone until Sol brought it to my attention.”
“Right.” Robertson slid the slim stack of papers in front of him toward Carter and Neil. “Sol provided these to us earlier this morning. These are the records of payments out of a Delphic Europe corporate account into an account that was traced back to David Levin. I know you said you weren’t aware of the transfers being made. There’re two copies there—take a look. Have either of you seen these before?”
“What’s this about, Bill?” Neil said. He and Carter flipped through the pages that were in front of them. “He said he hadn’t heard about the transfers. When did you get these from Sol?”
“Oh, I understand, Neil. I’m asking if either of you had seen these actual records, before just now. Had Sol shown these to you?” Robertson asked. He stared intently at Carter.
Arrogant prick, Carter thought. He’s getting off on this, watching m
e squirm in his grasp.
“I’ve never seen these before in my life,” Carter said. “Look, I built my business from the ground up. I’ve always trusted Alain to manage the firm’s investments so I can focus on the client side of our business. That has never changed. My plan had always been to retire at the end of this fiscal year; anyone at the firm will tell you that I’ve been consciously reducing my involvement with firm’s management for several years now. I regret—now very deeply—having put my trust in my partner, but it’s ludicrous for me to have to defend myself against the actions of a single rogue individual. We have over fourteen billion dollars under management. It’s a big operation. There has to be some sort of division of labor.”
“Well, it wasn’t a single individual. That’s the thing.”
“If other members of the firm were involved with either mismanagement of our assets or Alain’s dealings with this David Levin at the SEC, clearly that is unfortunate. But as of this time, I’m unaware of it. And I like to think I employ ethical, upstanding people. For the most part.”
“How about Paul?”
“Paul?”
“Were you aware that he was involved? With these, as you say, ‘dealings’ with the SEC?”
“Paul wasn’t involved in this. He came to the firm two months ago. And I resent the suggestion.”
“I’m not suggesting it,” Robertson said. His voice was at once cold and victorious. “I’m stating it.” He pushed the papers back across the table. “From the looks of what you’ve provided here, Paul was one of the signatories approving these transfers.”
Carter felt his heart plummet. Suddenly his body was cold and he shivered inadvertently. He snatched up the papers.
“Turn to the last page. See there? Right under Alain’s signature.”
“There must be some mistake,” Carter said, turning to Neil. “I need to speak with Sol. Why is Paul’s name on this?”
Neil glared at him with eyes that demanded silence. “Sol needs to be here,” Neil said, addressing Eli and not Robertson. He was visibly unnerved. “We need to at least get him on the phone.”
“He won’t be joining us,” Robertson said. “And you won’t be able to reach him. We arrested him this morning.”
Neil stood up, his palms flat on the table. “What did you just say?” He looked so angry that Carter wondered if he was going to physically attack Robertson.
Now everyone was standing and the room was spinning again. Carter thought he might pass out. He was blinking hard over and over behind his glasses, trying to stay focused, but everything was happening quickly, as though someone had pressed fast-forward on a movie he was watching, and he was having trouble processing the rapid movements of the actors on the screen.
“It’s not a nice thing to do, set up your partner,” Robertson said to Carter. “It’s even worse to set up your son-in-law. Don’t you think?”
“I didn’t—”
“Not another word, Carter. Not another word.” Neil tried to sound commanding, but there was desperate shakiness in his voice.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Eli said, and made a move to open it.
“I need to talk to Sol,” Carter said to Neil. “Paul wasn’t involved with this. He didn’t tell me that.”
“Are you challenging the validity of these documents?” Neil said, holding up the papers. He was shaking them, or maybe his hands were just shaking. Either way, he had lost his composure. Carter stared at him, terrified. His hair, usually slicked back with gel, had started to fly forward in pieces and his face was an angry purplish red.
“This is Officer Dowd,” Eli said calmly, and the room turned to see the newcomer. “Unfortunately, Carter, we’ve made the decision to place you under arrest at this time.”
“This is not happening,” Neil said.
Robertson turned to him, his dark eyes blazing. “Don’t push your luck, Neil,” he said, lip curled. “We took your partner away in handcuffs this morning. We have witnesses, from your office, who are willing to testify to the fact that these transfers are a sham, part of a setup to make it look as though Alain Duvalier and Paul Ross were bribing David Levin. I also have a former SEC attorney, Scott Stevens—you may remember his name—who’s willing to go on the record about his own experience with this case. He claims to have been forced out of the SEC for his handling of an RCM investigation a few years ago. The fact is we’ve got more than sufficient evidence against your client to merit an arrest. He’s a flight risk. If you hadn’t come in today, we would have come to you. Just be grateful the media isn’t outside.”
“For what possible purpose would Sol manufacture this? That’s rather contrived, even for you.” Neil seethed. His nostrils flared viciously as he spoke.
Robertson smiled, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “My assumption—and feel free to speak up if I have it wrong here, Carter—is that setting up David Levin was a last-ditch attempt to shift the focus away from the person at the SEC who was, in fact, protecting RCM and Delphic. It’s an interesting play. Also risky. Officer Dowd is going to take you down to the First Precinct now, and we’ll go from there. If you’d like to discuss your relationship with Jane Hewitt with us, which I suggest you do, now is the time. Otherwise, I’m sure she’ll be willing to discuss it with us when we place her under arrest.”
Carter rose to his feet. He gripped the table’s edge to steady himself; his whole body shook. He felt as fragile and insignificant as a leaf on a great oak tree; at any moment a gust of wind could stir the branches and he’d find himself in free fall.
He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak to Robertson. To Neil he said, “Call Ines. Call Merrill. Call Merrill first. Tell her what’s happened. Make sure she knows I would never hurt her.”
After his rights were read and his hands were cuffed, Carter was led into a car by the state trooper; all he could think about was Merrill’s wedding day. It had been perfectly clear. The sky was a light hazy blue, the color of her eyes, and of her bridesmaids’ dresses, and of the cummerbunds on each of the groomsmen. There had been a tent, white and crested, its flimsy walls fluttering gallantly in the evening air. They had danced all night, almost until sunrise.
Merrill had always wanted to have a wedding at Beech House. Ines had pushed for a city wedding—easier to coordinate, fancier, a big black-tie affair—but Carter had taken a stand. He wanted to give Merrill that day, exactly how she had seen it in her mind’s eye. If he could have paid for the weather, he would have. In the end, it had been perfect.
Merrill and Paul had left a day later for a honeymoon in the south of France. Carter was grateful that he had seen them off, and also that she was gone by Tuesday, when the planes hit the Trade Towers, and all was lost in New York.
SUNDAY, 11:00 A.M.
Marion lay on the bed, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited. If she waited long enough, she figured one of the following would happen: (1) she would fall back asleep and when she woke up, everything would be fine; (2) someone would call and explain to her that there had been a horrific mix-up, but that things were on their way to being sorted out; (3) the front door would open and Sol would walk through it, calling her name and harrumphing about the idiocy of the NYAG’s office. She would make him coffee while he explained away the morning’s events, a web of mistakes and confusion that had culminated in his arrest and quick release. She would shake her head and pitch in the occasional affirmation (“Just awful!” and “You really handled it so well, though”), and he would apologize for giving her such a scare. Later, they would tell their friends about the arrest in gory detail, a good war story over cocktails.
Minutes ticked by. Her heart pounded out of her chest. The longer she waited, the more anxious she became. Though she knew she was fully awake, a part of her began to insist that this was all just an exceedingly real nightmare. If she just focused hard enough, perhaps she would be able to wake herself out of it.
Open your eyes, Marion, she thought furiously. If you just open your e
yes, you’ll see that Sol is sleeping next to you, and all of this was just a very bad dream.
The phone rang, a shrill, piercing scream.
She sat up, eyes open. The first thing she saw was Sol’s pajama pants on the floor by the closet. They were splayed out in a way that made it look as though he had abandoned them midsprint. The details of the morning came rushing back, precise and horrible. Marion winced and answered the phone.
“Hello?” she said, terrified of what news might be coming. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.
“Marion?”
“Yes, this is she?”
“It’s Ines Darling. What’s happening, Marion? Sol’s been on TV! I thought he was with my husband.” Usually, Ines’s coolness unnerved Marion. Everything about Ines always appeared effortless and smooth: her straight, glossy hair, her perfectly tailored clothes, the way she carried herself and moved through a room. Though Marion knew she didn’t mean to, Ines sometimes made her feel the way she had in middle school: hopelessly plump and unkempt. Marion was forever losing her keys or having bad hair days or overindulging on bread at dinner. She couldn’t imagine Ines, perfect, glamorous Ines, contending with such trivial imperfections.
Ines had always treated her kindly, but Marion suspected she saw her as a chore, someone she had to put up with on account of business. Ines was friends with women like CeCe Patterson and Delphine Lewis; “Page Six women,” as Sol liked to call them. Marion was certainly not a Page Six woman, nor did she have any desire to be. In truth, she found them a bit dull. She was perfectly content with the friendly acquaintanceship she had cultivated with Ines; they only socialized together with their husbands and never indulged in the pretense that they might arrange to meet for lunch, just the two of them. Marion could not think of a time when Ines had called her on the phone.
“Hello, Ines,” Marion replied hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where Carter is . . . Sol . . . they arrested him this morning.”
“My God, are you all right? When did this happen?”
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