Mothers everywhere, nowhere to be seen thirty minutes earlier, scattered from the area. They pushed their baby carriages, to the left, to the right, anywhere to dodge the melee spoiling their morning at the Bronx Zoo.
“You got shit,” taunted Leeser, his nose trickling. He circled and jabbed again.
Cusack slipped most of the shot. Not all. Leeser’s fist knocked hard against his ears. The glancing blow stung like a thousand bald-faced hornets. Jimmy concentrated, summoned his old neighborhood. He was back on the streets of Somerville.
“Nothing,” repeated Leeser, circling left, his head bobbing and weaving.
Cusack jabbed once and popped Leeser in the mouth. He jabbed again and connected. The two blows cracked smart and sharp, but not hard enough to take Leeser down.
Cy wiped the gruel of snot and blood from the bottom of his face. His coal-black eyes burned, angry and crazy. “After this is over,” he sneered, “I’m coming back for your wife. Think she’ll recognize me?”
“I do now,” replied Emi. “Love your long hair, Cy.”
“Huh,” Leeser stammered.
Emi stepped through a crowd of mothers, circling, dialing 911 on their cell phones by the dozen.
Cusack saw the opening. He popped Leeser’s head to the right with a quick jab. He followed with a right hook. Through the pain of the two quick blows, he heard three words from his wife.
“Stand back, James.”
That’s when a muffled bang rocked Somba Village. Everyone in the village gasped. A few mothers flinched. Most stopped talking on their cell phones as a startled silence swept through the park.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SOMBA VILLAGE …
Two probes sailed through the air. Thin power lines trailed behind. The C2’s specially marked confetti burst from the Taser, raining triumph across Somba Village and echoing like a firecracker. The tiny missiles whizzed toward Leeser’s groin, found their mark, and completed the circuit. He lurched backward from the impact.
Cusack turned to see his wife, her lips pursed, her face masked in concentration. She focused on the target and ignored James. Leeser’s head jiggled like a jackhammer, his eyes rolling white and inside out as one probe landed to the left of his zipper and one to the right.
Emi had never read the online manual. She had no idea the probes could penetrate two inches of clothing. Nor did she care about the other specs. Her sole objective was to point a pink pistol.
Fifty thousand volts jolted through Cy Leeser’s unhappy gonads, the thirty seconds an eternity of current. The electricity pulsed through the fine lines. It surged and buzzed, crackled with the hideous sounds of a frying crotch.
“Bull’s-eye,” thundered Emi, furious and angry but steady as a surgeon’s hand.
With his muscles spasming from the electricity, Leeser toppled backward. He collapsed over a wire barrier and into a shallow gulch, which separated the Baboon Reserve from the rest of the park and made visitors wonder why the geladas never escaped.
After thirty seconds, the pink C2 Taser spent its electrical load. Leeser’s body shuddered in the water. He quivered and jerked and miraculously staggered to his feet. He was stunned. He was spent. He was alive. He lurched unsteadily up the rocky slope, tripped, and fell to the ground—out like an empty light socket.
From the top of the hill a band of six or seven geladas roamed down the slope in Leeser’s direction. One was a male. The rest were females. They all moved toward Cy with purpose, with something on their minds.
“Do they bite?” asked Cusack. He moved toward the railing. He was ready to hop the fence, slog through the water, and carry Leeser back to safety.
“Totally harmless,” replied Emi. “They graze on grass.”
The baboons circled Leeser, who lay on his back, his eyes closed. The male darted left then right and made a funny face.
“What’s it doing?” asked Cusack.
“See how he’s flipping his lips?” replied Emi. “That’s what geladas do when they’re unsure about something.”
From the left side of the Cusacks, two mothers pushed their strollers toward the railing. The danger was over. But the women parked their babies well shy of the fence and walked forward. A redheaded woman pointed at Leeser and asked, “Isn’t that the guy from the YouTube video?”
“Absolutely,” replied an auburn-haired mom.
Redhead: “How can you be so sure?”
Auburn hair: “See for yourself.” She held out her iPhone for the redhead to inspect an Internet photo of Leeser.
One of the geladas squatted over Leeser’s face and urinated great yellow streams into his black hair, slick and suddenly greasy, growing wetter by the moment. The once-immaculate locks turned ragged under the shower of kidney mousse, mixed with twigs and other debris from the hillside.
A big bass voice boomed behind Emi and Jimmy. “Are you folks okay?” It was Shannon, bruised but not beaten.
“We’re fine,” replied Emi.
“Your baby?” the big man asked.
“Fine,” Emi echoed, rubbing Yaz instinctively.
“I suppose you have questions,” said Shannon.
“Yeah,” agreed Cusack. “Who are you?”
Emi watched Leeser like a hawk. He was moving. He was struggling to his feet. “He’ll get away,” she warned.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Shannon, his eyes turning toward Leeser. The big man was calm, his voice a deep and soothing elixir, his arms like tree trunks. “The police will arrive any second.”
“What makes you so sure?” Emi demanded.
“I phoned NYPD,” Shannon said, “and told them to beat feet over here.”
At that exact moment, almost on cue, a new voice joined the conversation. “We’re here now.”
Shannon, Jimmy, and Emi turned to find two blue-uniformed police from NYPD. One was short and broad like a plank, the other tall and lean as a willow. The short cop was the one who had spoken.
The tall cop asked, “Is he the problem?” The officer pointed to Cy, who was standing unsteadily and grimacing like he had swallowed bad milk.
“‘Problem,’” parroted Emi. “You could say that. That bastard tried to throw me into the polar bear pen.”
“What did you do?” asked the shorter officer.
“Tased his lights out,” she said, sounding matter-of-fact.
With that, the two officers hopped over the fence into the gelada reserve. They waded through the ravine. They cuffed Leeser and read him Miranda rights as a crowd gathered. Try as he might, Leeser never managed to stand entirely straight. When he walked, he limped.
“What happened to the woman dressed in black?” asked Cusack.
“Her name is Rachel Whittier,” answered Shannon. “And let’s just say she lost her brain housing group.”
“But who is she, Shannon?” Emi insisted on knowing.
“We believe Whittier was Leeser’s paid assassin. We know she’s an investor in LeeWell Capital.”
“Why didn’t you shut them down sooner?” asked Cusack.
“We didn’t have anything that would stick.”
“That still doesn’t explain,” Jimmy continued, “who you are.”
“I’m with a private detective agency,” explained Shannon. “Several insurance companies have suspected Cy Leeser for some time. They hired my firm to investigate. We never had anything solid. Until today.”
“But how do you know about Daryle Fucking Lamonica?”
“Your brother Jude is in Iraq with the Hundred and First,” replied Shannon.
“What’s he got to do with LeeWell Capital?”
“I was in Iraq, too.”
“Do you know Jude?” asked Cusack.
“No. But I learned about him during my background checks on you. I called my army buddies in the Hundred and First for information.”
“Anybody ever tell you he has the disposition of a pit bull with gout?”
“Heard it all the time,” laughed Shannon. He ges
tured to the two-star pin on Cusack’s lapel. “So we never forget.”
“So we never forget,” echoed Emi. She smiled at the hidden meaning.
“Your brother,” explained Shannon, “is a big-time Pats fan. Knows the franchise history, everything about the team—scores, players, won-lost records against opponents. He references Daryle Fucking Lamonica every so often.”
“Lamonica isn’t exactly a household name.”
“Raiders fans might take issue,” contended Shannon.
“You a member of Raider Nation?”
“Born and bred in the Bay Area.” Shannon smiled broadly. “I used Lamonica’s name to signal help was on the way. Never thought you’d confront me in front of Cy.”
“The letter. The call to Emi. You’ve been watching my back?”
Shannon smiled a yes.
“You knew Leeser was buying life insurance policies and killing the insured?” asked Cusack.
“Not at first. We thought he was clean-sheeting.”
“What’s that?” Emi raised the question, but her eyes never left Leeser.
“It’s a type of insurance fraud,” Shannon explained. “People buy life insurance without disclosing their illnesses.”
“Like not disclosing you have a heart problem,” said Emi. “Or AIDS.”
“Exactly,” the big investigator agreed. “Usually, third parties buy ‘clean sheet’ policies right after they’re underwritten. Their returns are huge because the insured die soon afterward.”
“The difference,” Cusack observed, “is that Cy purchased insurance policies from people who were healthy.”
“Or their ailments were known,” clarified Shannon. “At least one of his victims had asthma. His death was the one that really made us suspicious.”
“Why’s that?” asked Emi.
“It was a twenty-million-dollar policy,” answered Shannon. “It’s hard for third parties to buy policies that big.”
“And it’s no coincidence that Em’s father is in the insurance business,” observed Cusack.
“Right,” agreed the big man. “We think Leeser began killing people as early as 2002 and 2003, when LeeWell Capital first suffered market losses.”
“Did he kill his partner?” asked Emi.
“We don’t think so,” replied Shannon. “But there was a ten-million key-man policy on Stockwell.”
“Bailed Leeser out?” asked Cusack.
“‘Made’ him who he is today.” Shannon used his fingers to quote the word “made.” “The insurance payment was like a how-to guide the next time LeeWell Capital had a problem.”
“Those first few years were tough,” Cusack observed. “Bad years for the markets.”
“Right,” agreed Shannon. “The fund was far smaller then. Leeser started his business with fifty million dollars under management. A few five-million-dollar policies could make a big impact on performance.”
“But we started the year at eight hundred million in total assets,” countered Cusack. “It’s harder to affect performance.”
“Right,” Shannon confirmed, “which is why the Bentwing shorts created absolute havoc. Leeser was losing so much money the life insurance payments couldn’t fix his problem fast enough.”
“The market is picking up where the Qataris and Icelanders left off,” Cusack noted. “I don’t see the Dow’s slide stopping any time soon.”
“What’s this got to do with my father?” asked Emi.
“Leeser needed bigger and bigger life insurance policies,” explained Shannon, “to affect his performance.”
“He hired me to get to Caleb?” asked Cusack.
“I’m sure that was the plan.”
“Bastard,” Emi decided.
The two policemen, Leeser cuffed and in tow, passed the trio at that moment. The Greenwich money manager looked disheveled, wet from the gulch and baboon piss. His hair was matted, riddled with leaves from rolling across the autumn ground.
“You got nothing,” bellowed Leeser, again, as he walked past. “You wouldn’t have a job, Cusack, if it weren’t for Phelps.” He trudged ahead, defiant and angry.
Jimmy ignored Leeser. “I’m still surprised,” he ventured to Shannon, “you didn’t nab Cy sooner.”
“He’s cagey,” the big man replied. “Cagey about everything. He wanted a huge fund, for example, but borrowed money instead of finding new investors. He thought they’d ask too many questions.”
“That explains all the debt,” said Cusack.
“James had less to do with finding investors,” said Emi, “than buying my dad’s company?”
“That acquisition was a dream come true,” replied Shannon. “But we think Leeser initially wanted to source life settlements through your father.”
“Why’d you film me at the Foxy Lady, Shannon?”
For the first time ever in Cusack’s memory, the big man looked uncomfortable. Out of character. Almost remorseful. “I’m sorry,” said Shannon. “We were getting close. And Cy was leaning on me hard. It was either film you or blow my cover. I bet Bianca will—”
“I’ll call her,” interrupted Cusack, moving on. “What about Victor?”
“What about him?”
“Is he involved?”
“We weren’t sure at first.” Shannon shrugged to emphasize his uncertainty.
“And now?” asked Cusack.
“We don’t think so.”
“What about the weird behavior?”
“You tell me,” said Shannon.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a hedge fund thing,” the big man replied.
“What are you talking about?” Cusack was confused.
“Victor read that women make better traders.”
“I remember the article on his desk,” agreed Cusack.
“He’s taking estrogen tablets, Jimmy.”
“Is he crazy?” exclaimed Emi.
“Maybe he needs an intervention,” Cusack offered helpfully. “You know. For hormone abuse.”
Emi looked at her husband. Shannon studied him, too, Cusack’s bloody face, his bent nose. The big man finally said, “Let’s take you to the hospital and get you checked out.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
LEEWELL CAPITAL …
Victor Lee was frozen. He lacked Cy’s approval to sell. He was paralyzed in a “tough tape,” Street jargon for bad markets. Just as he predicted, the Dow had already fallen under 10,000. Cy’s lack of focus would cost LeeWell Capital plenty—and something even worse:
“My bonus.”
The capital markets, it appeared, were hacking up phlegm from too much leverage and too many bad loans. News stories scrolled nonstop on the left LCD, one after another, each reporting the demise of Western civilization. On the middle panel, LeeWell’s portfolio prices confirmed all the doom and gloom to the left. And on the right, CNBC’s talking heads filled the screen. They took turns panting about the latest disasters.
Victor grabbed a spray bottle of Windex and began wiping the right LCD. He needed Leeser’s permission to trade. Cy was the general partner. Cy called all the shots. Cy was the one who insisted on all the debt. Lee hoped cleaning would make him feel better, that getting rid of dust was his antidote for a bad move. That was when CNBC broke the story that changed his life.
“Just when you think things can’t get worse,” the anchorwoman reported, “we have bizarre news from the Bronx Zoo. A woman is dead, the victim of a polar bear attack. Authorities have arrested Cy Leeser, an emerging star in the hedge fund industry.”
“Ack!” exclaimed Victor, dropping the Windex.
“That’s right, Erin,” agreed a reporter from the Bronx Zoo. “We have a film clip of the bear’s attack, recorded by a visitor to the zoo. The footage is disturbing so we caution viewers.”
“What does the polar bear have to do with Cy Leeser?” Erin asked the on-site reporter.
Victor Lee never heard another word. He was too busy. He had all the authority he nee
ded. He dialed Numb Nuts over at Merrill Lynch and barked, “Lose ten thousand shares of Bentwing Energy at the market. Call me when you’re done.” Then, he dialed Goldman Sachs and HSBC and all the other houses he used to book trades. The message was always the same, “Sell.”
“I’m back,” Victor announced inside the trading room, eyeing the Windex streaks on his terminal. “I’m bigger and fucking better than ever.”
* * *
“Let me drive you to the emergency room?” offered Shannon.
“No thanks,” said Cusack. “I’m fine. We’ll grab a cab.”
“What about your car, Jimmy?”
“There’s a tow truck coming.”
“What will happen to LeeWell Capital?” asked Emi.
“Who knows?” replied Shannon. “It’ll shut down. Insurance companies will sue. And families of the victims will file civil lawsuits.”
“Like the ones against O.J.,” observed Emi.
“Exactly,” the big man replied. He smiled to reveal the gap between his teeth. In that moment Emi and Cusack forgot the fierce expression super-glued to his face.
“You should smile more often,” observed Emi.
“And why’s that?” asked Shannon, looking perplexed rather than fierce.
“Because I’ll never forget your face for as long as I live.”
“And that’s saying something,” observed Cusack. Both Emi and he laughed.
“What?” asked Shannon, confused.
“It’s a long story,” explained Cusack. “Are you coming into the office tomorrow?”
“Probably. Assuming the police let us in.”
“See you there.”
Emi kissed Shannon good-bye with a monster peck on the cheek and said, “Thanks.”
When Cusack and Emi were alone, she asked, “Why are you going into the office tomorrow?”
“The clients know me. It’s my reputation. I’ve got to clean up this mess before moving on. And I’ve done it before.”
“I wish you’d forget about Cusack Capital.”
“That’s what your dad says.”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 35