Claire dragged the mouse across the screen, fairly resigned to let the professionals handle things. But just as she was about to close out QuickBooks, the driving mystery behind the entire Mikey-Leaks operation practically leapt up and announced itself to her. She froze, staring at the first entry for the month of November—a deposit for 3.2 million dollars wired from Janus Capital. She swallowed slowly, and moved forward through the month. There was a 4.8-million-dollar check to the San Diego condo LLC, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar check to a Wincor Technologies, and another loan payment to Wells Fargo. She reread the information, feeling foolish for assuming that Janus had been some real estate deal, and clicked on various subheadings looking for a brokerage account statement from the investment firm. But there was none.
With her eyes burning and brain at capacity, Claire went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, trying to recall any discussion of an account at Janus. But she knew they didn’t have one. Had he been accumulating assets in a hidden account, as the Hamster Wheel book had warned? And why was this Mac person asking for information? The whole picture seemed even murkier than before. But what was imminently clear was that their extremely comfortable life had become a house of cards. And that Michael really couldn’t be trusted. She pressed a hand towel to her face, exhausted by all that he had been hiding. A week ago she would have wondered if her involvement with Andrew had pushed Michael into silence about the state of their financial affairs. But Claire now understood that silence and secrecy had long been his true MO. She walked back into the kitchen and stared at the USB drive, thinking of crystal balls and all the inconvenient secrets they held.
“It’s a mess, is what I’m saying. A huge, convoluted mess between the affair and the financial disarray. And what I really need right now is some distraction. Tell me something good, Mother. Please. I just want to turn my brain off until tomorrow.” Claire lay in her bed fully aware of the irony that she was curled in the fetal position and looking to her mother for a few moments of grace.
“Okay.” Cora paused before softly continuing. “Remember when you were a little girl and Daddy would take you out for malted milkshakes and hot dogs for breakfast on Sunday mornings?”
Claire warmed at the memory, missing her adventures with her father and the confidences she could always discuss with him.
“I got you all to myself during the week after Jackie was big enough for school, but I knew how special your weekend time was with him.”
“I miss him so much.” Claire closed her eyes remembering her father’s strong hands wiping mustard from her chin, his upbeat voice suggesting a trip to the record store with the friend she’d accidentally angered.
“So do I, honey. And if Daddy were here, he’d do everything he could to help his little girl out of trouble, and to make that cheating BASTARD pay for what he’s done.” Cora’s voice shook with anger and loud, clear regret.
“Mother, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you swear.” Claire stretched her legs out under the covers and put her free hand on her belly, feeling it rise and fall.
“I just may call him worse,” she seethed. “I can’t even begin to comprehend why he would run around with some . . . woman when he had you.”
Claire found a strange comfort in Cora’s fury, while wondering just how much presence and comfort Taylor had provided her husband.
“And I certainly don’t understand why, with all the money his family has, Michael’s gotten himself into this financial pickle, whatever it is. Paul and Margot could give him a loan until everything gets—”
“Michael would never ask them for money.” Claire reiterated the Montgomery philosophy of not spoiling the children with anything so gauche as cash or, God forbid, emotional support. And how, for the most part, it had worked beautifully. “All the boys have been wildly successful. Screwed up and dysfunctional, but very rich. I thought Michael had dodged that bullet, but apparently not.”
“They’d always seemed like such lovely people.”
“Well, they’ve been good to Nicholas. And to me, before the accident. Michael just preferred to keep some emotional distance. Goes back to the lack of cozy memories.”
“Oh,” Cora said softly.
“Paul would invest in his deals, but it was always business between the two of them. No friends-and-family favors. In fact, Paul is one of the investors on the San Diego deal I mentioned, and I suspect Michael’s desperate to turn that one around for more than just the sake of his equity. There’s nothing he loves more than sending daddy a nice fat profit check. A negative return would not go over well.”
“So Michael’s up against the wall and he’s cashing out everything you have to salvage his deals. I’m not condoning his behavior, but I can see how—”
“Mother, don’t,” Claire said, sensing the inevitable slide into plotting mode. Her head throbbed. “There’s no excuse for what he’s been doing, not to mention the fact that it looks like he may be hiding assets.”
“No, of course not. This so-called husband of yours is full of CRAP, and I’m sorry. And I want you to know that if you need any money for lawyers, or anything, I can send you a check. I can come out there to be with you, too, Claire, to help. Whatever you need, sweetheart.”
Cora’s supportive words pushed Claire past her capacity for surprises, and she started sobbing full stop into her pillow, while the unsinkable Cora Dunn continued to swathe her in memories of warm Ovaltine in bed and the news from Burlingame. No rationalizations, no outlandish schemes. Just the protective and unflinching support of a mother. Claire closed her eyes with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder.
“You know,” Cora said, “now that I think about it, maybe you should come out here for a weekend visit instead. A little dose of your city by the bay would be such good medicine, dear.”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Claire whispered, teetering on unconsciousness. “I love you, Mama,” she said, meaning it. “And I’ll figure it all out somehow.”
“Can’t you goggle that man, or whatever it is you do on the Internet?”
“What man?” Claire said, through a yawn.
“The man who called about Janus.”
Claire opened her eyes, annoyed at her own negligence. “I am such an idiot.”
CHAPTER 40
“God, I think my vagina’s broken,” Gail said as she pushed past Claire with a slight hitch in her step, and placed a portable printer on Claire’s kitchen table.
Carolyn followed close behind with a fruit tray and began untangling and plugging in cords. “Miss Pilates Thighs couldn’t hold the stud at bay with her quads?” she asked with barely concealed jealousy.
Claire watched the scene in her bathrobe, confused and still groggy from sleep and two Advil PMs.
“Jackie called early this morning with some concerns from your mother,” Gail explained. “Most notably that there’s so much crap—and crap was the word Mama apparently repeated with such frequency and venom in her voice that your sister is ready to get her a T-shirt with the word emblazoned on it. Anyway, she was worried that Michael’s shit trail was overwhelming you, and that you could use some help. She couldn’t get out of school, so here we are.”
“Crap triage, at your service.” Carolyn took a ream of printer paper out of her Chanel satchel and loaded it into the printer tray. “We’ll help you print and organize all the data for Jack, so he can prepare for the forthcoming . . . what was it?”
“Legal crapendectomy, I believe,” Gail said, taking Claire’s hand and walking her over to the table. “I had no idea Cora had such a wonderful way with words.”
“Neither did I.” Claire checked her cell and found three worried text messages from Jackie. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and wrote back to thank her for sending in the cavalry, noting that it really wasn’t necessary. There was also a voice mail from Andrea announcing an opening at 4:00. “I need to call Nicky and get cleaned up a bit before we . . . do anything,” she announced to the chip
per posse.
“This is a sweatpants and dirty-hair day, sweetie. Don’t waste your time on a shower,” Carolyn said, pointing to her ponytail and cashmere tracksuit with fur-trimmed hood.
Claire excused herself to the bedroom, and reached Nicholas on his cell phone. He and Ray had plans to work out with the new therapy bands and do laundry. He sounded tired and unenthused, but perked up when he remembered that he was also driving downtown with Ray to meet Michael for lunch.
“That should be nice,” Claire said, straining to keep the acrimony from oozing through her words. “And then maybe you can drive us to an appointment we have later this afternoon with a tutor?”
“Okaay.”
She hated trying to discern Nick’s temperament and expressions through the phone, and hated that she had to spend her morning sorting through the fallout of his father’s lies. But she sent a message to Michael about the appointment, asked Nick’s social worker at Craig to forward copies of his files to Andrea, and got dressed.
“So, Ashton’s back in town?” Claire asked, helping herself to some kiwi, and dreading any sort of rehash about what she’d discovered in Michael’s files. She appreciated her friends’ concern and willingness to jump right into the muck with her—loved it, in fact—but still, she wondered if any possible financial improprieties were best kept private. At least until she fully understood them.
“Yes, Austin was in town for the night, and I couldn’t resist the call. It’s pitiful, I know. He still wears his boarding school T-shirt and ball cap, but the boy’s got a tireless tongue, God love him.”
“Ugh, you’re killing me,” Carolyn said, curling up into the club chair. “I can barely remember the last time Robert and I even had sex, much less when there was any tongue involved. Not that he would be my first choice. And you get to have your pick between Pool Boy and the Hedge Funder?” She kowtowed with one hand toward Gail. “You’ve made a superb comeback since the last divorce.”
Claire sat down in front of the computer, pleased that they had gotten lost in the detour. She typed “Mac Kessler” into Google.
Gail sat down, too, but quickly stood and began stretching her lower back. “I’ve gotten married and unmarried so many times, I’m perpetually in comeback mode.”
“Well, you seem to have mastered it. And I’m beginning to think I should jump on that train.”
“Oh, hon, my not-so-lasting loves are hardly the answer. The Hedge Funder is very mediocre at foreplay.” She folded herself into a downward dog, the diamonds on her watch flashing morning light across the room. “But he is excellent at jewelry, I have to admit. Which basically gets me to the same place. Anyway, the point is,” she said through her legs, “that it’s never perfect.”
“I guess we can all vouch for that.” Carolyn looked over at Claire. “You okay, sweetie?”
Claire was reading the screen intently. “Mm-hmm. Just give me a sec.”
“In fact,” Gail continued, reverting to upright and studying Claire’s face, “I think I’m finally swearing off marriage. You know the old saying about fish and bicycles.”
“Uh, sometimes a fish does need a bicycle,” Carolyn said, chewing on a cuticle. “And not the battery-powered kind.”
“Or maybe the perfect massage,” Claire mumbled, envisioning a pastiche of her therapist and Richard, and just as quickly dismissing the thought. She had found Mac Kessler at a Boulder business called Flat Irons Consulting, which advertised itself as a pension plan administration firm. Mac specialized in third party pension administration for small businesses. Like Michael’s.
“My God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice long bicycle ride,” came the sigh from the chair.
Gail retrieved a container and silverware from a small bag and handed it to Carolyn. “Here, hon, try this. It’s Eric’s bread pudding with caramel sauce, and it’s sex in a spoon. I’ve already eaten about a gallon of it.”
Carolyn skipped the spoon altogether and dipped her finger in, several times. “Oh my God, that’s . . . orgasmic,” she moaned. “You have to taste this, Claire.” She brought the dessert to the table, dipped the spoon in the sauce and held it to Claire’s lips.
Claire took the spoon and sucked on it mindlessly as she read about the various administrative services Flat Irons provided for its clients: record keeping to maintain plan compliance with IRS requirements, filing of government reports, distribution of participant statements.
“Okay, hon, what’s going on?” Gail asked. “You look even more stressed than you did the last time we were here.” She came up behind Claire and started rubbing her shoulders.
Claire quickly closed the laptop and leaned into Gail’s hands. “I’m concerned about both of your vaginas. And I need to get reading glasses.”
“Seriously,” Carolyn said, kneeling next to her. “What are you looking at?”
Claire ladled the spoon through the caramel and began eating it like soup as she moved the Janus puzzle pieces around in her head. “What do you know about pension plans?” she finally asked, more as a stalling tactic than a question.
“Don’t have one,” Gail said. “But Warren did. It was pretty healthy, as I recall. Why?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Michael may . . . have some kind of trouble with his company’s plan.”
“Well, Robert didn’t like how ours was performing, so I remember him moving it to some new fund last year. I don’t remember the details, but I can ask.”
“No,” Claire panicked. “I don’t want to arouse any—wait, you haven’t said—”
“Of course not, sweetie,” she said, taking back the spoon. “Don’t worry. Robert has no clue how I spend my days.” Her tone was surprisingly benign.
“Hello?!” Gail shouted. “From what Jackie mentioned, Michael’s business is in the crapper, he’s got deals and creditors screaming for cash, he’s likely squirreling away assets in some mystery account—all unbeknownst to you. And now you think there’s a problem with his corporate pension, never mind the mysterious caller and the bimbo? Rats bite, Claire. It’s time to lay some traps.”
Claire closed her eyes, knowing she needed to get to the bottom of whatever Michael was doing. There was no point in arguing or postponing the inevitable. So she reopened the computer and searched Michael’s documents for the word pension. Seconds later the three women were reading a letter from Michael to someone’s assistant at Janus Capital in Denver, dated November 5 of the previous year.
As trustee for New Haven Investments’ employee pension plan, I will be making a change in the disposition of the plan assets. Please liquidate positions today, and upon settlement, wire transfer the funds at your earliest convenience to the account below. It was Michael’s business checking account.
As the printer surged to life and spat out more hard truths, another revelation-soaked morning slogged toward afternoon.
Nicholas drove them to Andrea’s office just a few miles away, earnestly observing stop signs and speed limits, and asking for directions only once. Claire watched him in profile, trying to remember when the last remnants of baby fat had disappeared from his face, leaving him with the angular jawline of a man. The accident had stolen much of his boyishness over the last months to be sure, but the young man she was looking at now exuded a nascent maturity, a lifetime away, it seemed, from the boy who had struggled so mightily with his toothbrush. Nick cranked the radio version of Cee Lo Green’s “Forget You” and began singing the unsanitized lyrics. And for the first time since his hospitalization, his fuck yous were joyful and not personal. She smiled in approval of his skills, and car danced to the groove the way they used to when his favorite songs would come on, while all thoughts of treachery—financial and otherwise—floated away on the lightness of the mood. He pulled up to the converted Denver Square office building just as the song ended, and glanced sidelong at her. And for an instant Claire saw the old familiar flashes of her father, not just in his sparkling quarter moon grin, but in the way he cocked his head and seemed
to read her thoughts.
“You’re not gonna dance inside, are you?” he asked with a time-honored eye roll.
The absolute typical teenager-ness of the interaction washed over Claire, and she closed her eyes and savored this blast from their playful past. “Maybe,” she said.
“Please . . . don’t.”
They found Andrea’s office on the second floor. Nick had gripped the banister and taken the stairs two at a time. His forehead was shiny and his mood still ebullient as they sat down in the waiting room and talked about his PT group’s ski trip on Monday. A few minutes later Claire heard a voice in the hall, and she felt her serenity fade. Michael walked in, putting his phone in his pocket, and sat down across from them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. His left knee bounced rapid-fire, like a child who had to go to the bathroom.
Claire painted her Sara Lee smile back in place and greeted him impassively.
“Jeez, Dad. You look like . . . you just ate Grandmother’s . . . liver sauté thing.”
“Busy day, pal. No worries.”
No worries, really? She clenched her teeth.
Nick studied both of them carefully. “What’s with the two of you? I’m the one with—with the brain . . . damage. Just . . . get the divorce already.” His tone was composed, and he smirked, as if conveying the obvious to the ignorant. “I’ll survive.”
Claire swallowed her shock and gaped at Michael, her eyes asking, “Now what?” Michael pinched his lips between his fingers, looking equally stunned and miserably faking the cool veneer she’d completely lost. She could almost hear him say, “Punt.” But he remained silent.
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