by Offit, Mike
“Yup, that’s my best first guess. But, no B, ’cause they didn’t lock the door, remember? But everybody was getting some E.”
“Clever! Jesus, that narrows it down to thirty-two percent of the city. I can count out maybe a third of them, ’cause they’re already in the system. I figure that leaves me two, maybe three hundred thousand prime suspects. That about get it?”
“Nope. Way high.”
“Why’s that?”
“First off, this gentleman missed some valuable electronics”—Jermon pointed to a small computer and an expensive miniature stereo system on the desk—“and second, there was a Knicks game on cable tonight, so one hundred and fifty thousand of those suspects minimum were at home, with a bucket of chicken, screamin’ at the tube. That’s got to narrow it some.”
“Yeah, fine. By the way, in case you don’t already know, you’re a racist, self-hating misanthrope. But I’m wondering about something.”
“What’s that, Sherlock?”
“When the brilliant Miss Chian says she felt kind of weird and something hurt, do you figure that’s how she describes sex in general, or just the way she felt about fucking her boss?”
“Hey, Detective Officer Wittlin, you can answer that better than me, because I know you’ve been dreaming about fucking your boss for years.” The technician smiled and plucked one of the hairs from his own neat Afro and stared at it. “I am going to find you.”
thirty-six
“Warren, Carl Dressler and Pete Fowler would like to see you in Frank Tonelli’s office, right now.” Patricia Mulvey’s tap on the shoulder had caught Warren staring idly into space, thinking about the interest-rate swap option he was trying to layer on top of a currency hedge, and wondering how it was that Anson was dead so soon after Warren had decided he’d been the one who could be nailed for killing Dougherty. “They say it’s important.”
Warren was up and moving instantly, reacting to the call, swiveling his hips to slide past chairs protruding into the aisle. His stomach tightened with anxiety because he knew that this was the call he’d anticipated. Pete Fowler was the head of the Investment Banking Division, and on the executive committee of the firm. Between him and Dressler, the only person more powerful at Weldon was the chairman. Fowler was a big, genial guy, a lousy tennis player who loved the game anyway. He’d always seemed a little out of place to Warren, a bit too decent a guy for his job.
“Hey, Warren, come on in and sit down. Hope we didn’t interrupt anything.” Dressler was standing at the glass wall to the office overlooking the trading floor. Fowler was seated on the small Queen Anne sofa. Frank Tonelli stood quietly in a corner.
“No, just a little daydreaming. Only about a deal, nothing important like women or golf.” Warren plopped into an armchair. “What’s up?”
“Well, you know Anson had a very tight relationship with Golden State. And you’re the only one who really knows about the deals he’s been working on. Do you have any read on how we should pick up on it, now that Anson’s out? And what’s going on with Warner?”
That was what Warren loved about this business—Anson hadn’t been dead a day, and he was simply “out.” Gone. That almost nobody liked the man made his disappearance even more seamless. Warren took a breath and dove in.
“Sure, Carl. The deal with Warner is a little unusual, but simple. Straightforward. Anson worked out a deal with them to buy their mortgages, both performing and delinquent. It’s very promising. He’s also got a couple more deals pending with Golden State. As you know, we made about twenty million on our last deal with them, and this potential deal with Warner could be much bigger. As far as Golden State, it seems Anson wasn’t in that tight with Leahy, only with this broker, Tom Scholdice. All his business went through Scholdice as far as I could tell. Kelly Hughes at Golden State told me that they very much want the relationship to continue. I spoke to her this morning, before Goering came in.” Warren wanted Goering out of the picture completely until he could add something of value. “I think we can make this work to our advantage.”
“How’s that?” Fowler had uncrossed his legs and was leaning forward, his eyes focused intently on Warren’s.
“Well, Anson wasn’t exactly loved around Golden State. If you went out there, Pete, to introduce them to a new finance team, I bet you could wrap the whole thing up.”
“Hey, take it easy on old Anson. He may have been a psycho, but he was our psycho.” Dressler had a grin on his face.
“Yeah. Great. It seems obvious that we’ve got to keep working with Scholdice, but we should also work on building a direct relationship with the rest of the people at Golden State. Anyway, that’s how I see it. There’s a ton of biz out there, and someday there’s going to be a complete restructuring too.”
“You mean we should get in there and buy out everything we can before the shit hits the fan?” Fowler was catching on.
“Look, all the California savings and loans are going to blow up someday. Probably soon. Once they’re under a regulatory agreement, everything has to be competitive. Scholdice seems to have been able to direct a huge amount of business our way through Anson. If the bank goes under, that connection will be useless. After the regulators take over, if they want to sell assets, they have to hold an auction, and we’ll have everyone from Goldman to Lehman in there bidding ’em up. It’s got to work to our advantage that Anson had this angle to Leahy. Plus, if we do everything through Scholdice, Weldon can’t be accused of getting special treatment later on. It’s pretty amazing. Up till now, Anson had the exclusive on everything they sell because Scholdice doesn’t let anyone else even bid. Don’t ask me how, ’cause I have no idea. Dutch really hasn’t been working this side, and we should not let it slide for a minute.” Warren had thought this through, seeing an opportunity to take over Anson’s relationship with Scholdice, move Goering out of the way, and start getting the credit for all the big trades to come. He let his enthusiasm show.
“Interesting.” Fowler paused, rubbing his chin. “What do you know about this broker?”
“He’s a guy that Leahy did a lot of deals with. He supposedly gets capital from some wealthy clients and generally gets in for a quick flip on residential whole-loan trades. He was the President of a big California insurance company a while back. He started profit sharing with Anson years ago—he basically took a cut of the profits in exchange for the contact and some capital. That way he wasn’t just working for a quarter of a point, but he’d get exclusives and sometimes half of the upside.” Goering was far from an expert on the financial structure of banks and thrifts, and Warren had volunteered, as a team-oriented guy, to help out with some presentations. He’d used the opportunity to check out what Anson had been up to. Cozying up to Annlois Baker, his secretary, had helped Warren get a lot of information. He’d taken her out to dinner at La Grenouille one night after she’d worked until eight o’clock typing up the final draft. All Anson ever did was allow her to order in Chinese food. She’d been flattered by the invitation and, after a half a bottle of Burgundy, opened up, explaining the setup, and the key role of Tom Scholdice.
“How he get the exclusives? Why would anybody even give him an exclusive to broker a big trade? What’s he bring to the table?” Fowler, to Warren’s amusement, seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Look, Pete, with all the business we did the last couple years, Scholdice had to pocket twenty million easy. That pays for a lot of schmoozing. I guess Anson figured there was no upside to finding out how he got the deals. I think Scholdice might be German for goose, or golden egg, or something like that.” The conversation had played out perfectly so far. Warren was getting to demonstrate how much he knew, while at the same time casting doubt on Anson’s ethics and Goering’s ability to cover the account. Warren knew this would appeal to all the managers in the room. They loved naked ambition.
After a second or two, Fowler stood up, and started pacing as he spoke. “Okay. You’re now the senior coverage on Warner and Golden State.
If you think there’s more there, go after it. Keep Scholdice on our side. You know the salesman’s motto: ‘Dress British, think Yiddish.’”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll get the ball rolling.” Warren had to admit, as Goering would say, sometimes this shit was fucking great.
thirty-seven
“Listen to me, will you listen to me? You’re not listening to me.” Frank Tonelli had his hands out in front of him, palms to the sky. He’d put his Diet Coke down on the desk, next to the chocolate napoleon he’d been eating before Dutch Goering had interrupted him.
“I’m listening to you, Frank.” Goering stared at him impassively.
“You’re not listening. I’m not saying—”
“This is a hell of a conversation you guys are having. He’s not listening, and you’re not saying. Wow! This is just like meetings at the UN or the Paris peace talks!” Warren interrupted the two. He always enjoyed watching and listening to Dutch Goering’s conversations. Dutch’s first name was actually Anselm, but he’d gotten the nickname from Sandy Stein years before in honor of a particularly blunt haircut. Goering was, beyond doubt, the best-looking, best-dressed salesman at Weldon, if not on the Street. Warren had a tremendous respect for his accomplishments because while he seemed at first not to be the smartest guy, underneath he really missed very little. The trainees had nicknameded him “General Fucketyfuck,” in honor of his penchant for cursing, although at least two of the women in the class had slept with him, and any of them would have loved to be placed as his backup. Goering knew how to get business done and led something of a charmed life, with a beautiful wife and two perfect kids.
At that moment, Goering’s chiseled features were puckered in anger, and he repeatedly shot his cuffs, pulled at his tie knot, and adjusted his cuff links as he argued with Tonelli and Hament. “Listen, Warren, if you want to say something, why don’t you just say it.” Goering’s ice-blue eyes glared at Warren through slitted lids.
“Look, Dutch, Pete Fowler reassigned Golden State to me this morning. He did so in front of Carl Dressler, and then specifically instructed Malcolm to make the change. Or at least he sent a memo to Malcolm, because Deputy Dog hasn’t blessed us with his presence today. I know you’ve been covering part of Golden State for a long time, but that’s not the point.” Warren was sitting back in an armchair, considering how to handle this. When money was involved, Goering always seemed to have a knack for getting his share. Warren didn’t want him gumming up the works. “I’ve done okay with them on the money markets side, and I’ve gotten to know Leahy pretty well. I think it’ll work out.”
“Listen, Leahy is a good friend of mine. I guarantee you he’s not going to want the coverage change. You guys are going to fuck up a good relationship here.” Goering ran his hand through his thick blond hair and checked his watch.
“Listen, Dutch,” Tonelli interrupted, “if the relationship’s so good, how come we only did two-fifty gross on the long-term side with them last year? It’s easily a two-million-dollar account. Easy.” Tonelli could be fun when he was on your side, but Warren was afraid that this confrontation could get out of hand.
“Everyone knows the thrift business is dying. They’re on the ropes. This is horseshit.” Goering was beginning to get up a head of steam.
“Look, Dutch, I shouldn’t have been in here to begin with. You’re a good guy, and I don’t want to get in a pissing contest with you. Combes was eating your lunch with this account, and butt-fucking you with management right from the start. I was there once when he called you a brain-dead pretty boy, and I mentioned the fact that you’d grossed fifteen million last year, which is pretty good for someone without a cranium. So, I’m not looking to screw you. Fact is, I’d be happy to split the commission with you because I’m sure we’ll capitalize on your groundwork. In fact, I’d want you in with me when we’re getting near closing. You’re the best closer in the firm, and we should take advantage of that.” It was a struggle to be so pleasant to Goering, but better to placate him than rile him up. He knew that Goering would lose interest pretty soon anyway, and wasn’t worried about it. Besides, no one had promised Warren full commission on the account yet anyway.
“That’s a great approach, don’t you think, Dutch? Great idea, Warren. Super.” Tonelli’s relief was palpable—Warren had offered him an easy exit. “Yeah. Hey, why don’t you two guys strategize in here for a while. I’m going to get some of that Chinese food, okay? I’ll check back later.” Tonelli moved his bulk to the door of the office and headed over to the ledge by the windows, where an assortment of fifteen or twenty foil trays of Chinese food had been spread out, a Thursday tradition of the sales force.
“Man, when he hits that line, bodies are going to start flying.” Warren knew that Goering hated Tonelli. In fact, as far as Warren could tell, Goering hated just about everyone. “That fat fucking dago bastard. I’m sick of his fucking shit. I’m telling you, one day I’m going to get him back for this. Look at that fucking fat ass. Doesn’t give a fuck about himself. Man, I’ll bet he dies of a fucking heart attack by forty-fucking-five. Fuck him. I fucking hope he gets cancer and suffers a lot before he fucking expires.”
The soliloquy reminded Warren of an incident when a junior trader had counted 143 fucks in a single Goering joke about a pig farmer. Two hundred bucks had been bet on the over/under at 50 uses of some form of the word, with a 3:1 payout at 150. It was neck and neck.
“Hey, listen, it’s just politics. It makes Tonelli and Dressler look better if they can tell Malcolm what to do. You know I’m not out to screw you. It works out better for both of us this way.” Warren sat there while Goering digested that, and for a moment Warren felt a pang of guilt. When had he become such a Machiavellian manipulator? It felt as if it had happened overnight.
“And where the fuck is that fucking douche bag Holik? Why does he always keep his skinny fucking ass out of this shit? It’s like a fucking freak show in here. The fucking Polack beanpole and the fucking guido whale. That Polack cocksucker. His time will come.” Goering was looking at himself in the reflection off the dark wall of glass. He adjusted his tie and shot his shirt cuffs one more time. “Fucking fucker.”
Warren stifled a giggle.
thirty-eight
“Maybe it’s hunting season on Weldon Brothers bankers this year.” Detective McDermott was sitting down this time, and Wittlin was doing the talking. “What’s going on around here?”
“Detective, if it’s open season on us, I suggest you sell licenses over at Salomon and Morgan Stanley. They’ll be strong buyers.” Warren hadn’t been surprised when the two men had shown up, commandeered a conference room, and started interviewing almost everyone on the floor.
“Nah. The Mayor would be pretty mad if we started letting our best taxpayers blow each other away. Unless, of course, you’re Republicans. Hmm.” Wittlin smiled at the thought.
“Well, anyway, what can I do for you?” Warren was anxious to get this over with. The more time you spent with cops, the less comfortable it seemed you got.
“Okay. First the routine stuff. You knew Anson Combes, right?’
“Absolutely. We worked together.”
“You like him?”
“Nope. Can’t think of anyone who does, offhand. Did, I mean.”
“You know he got killed while popping a girl you used to date, right?”
“That’s very tactful, Lieutenant. We hardly dated. Two or three weeks, years ago.”
“Everyone thinks you were an item once.”
“No, everyone likes to think that. Ask Bonnie. It went nowhere. She’s way too smart and beautiful for me.”
“Why not?’
“Why does this matter?” Warren found this unbelievably nosy.
“It might. Look, there were four hundred people who were with you when the guy got his skull crushed. No one thinks you had anything to do with it. Relax. If we can find any little thing, anything at all, to figure out who might have had a reason to kill this guy, that
takes us out of a burglary/homicide and into murder by someone with a motive. It narrows the field, and maybe ties back to Dougherty somehow.”
“I see. Sure. Okay. Bonnie and I didn’t work out because she didn’t think I’d be successful enough. At that time, I was talking about doing something a little less lucrative. Once she figured that out, she was gone. Good riddance.” Warren waved his hand. Bonnie had always been one of those pretty women who figured they were destined for something special, one way or the other. When he’d said he had decided he wanted to be a teacher or a tennis pro, she’d bolted. “She liked to play with the big boys.”
McDermott chimed in, “Well, she played with a lot of them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Warren didn’t like McDermott’s tone.
“From what we can tell, she got cozy with about half the managing directors in her department. But what about Combes? What turned him on?” McDermott seemed to enjoy this line of discussion.
“I don’t know, and I know I don’t care.”
“Well, you may not know, but if you did, there’s a chance you’d care.” Wittlin had a thin smile on his face.
“How’s that?”
“I think the man had a taste for your ex-girlfriends.”
Warren sat there speechless. He felt his face flush. “What exactly are you saying?”
“Well, it seems that your other ex at Weldon, Miss Larisa Mueller, had been spending some time with old Anson the past month or so. I don’t think you two overlapped, but I can’t be sure, and the girl’s not saying.” Wittlin actually felt bad for Hament. The Mueller girl was a knockout.
“Look, I stopped seeing Larisa before I went to LA. You spoke to me when I was there. It had to be a couple of months ago. I’ve got a new girlfriend, sort of. I don’t really care who she’s sleeping with. And, don’t call her a girl to her face, or you’ll be in trouble. Woman. She’s a woman. A free woman.” He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to start up with Combes. The thought made him sick. It hurt too. It didn’t matter that they’d broken up, or even that she might have been cheating on him. It was that Combes had gotten to her. He was glad the asshole was dead.