Money to Burn

by James Grippando

  Wald knew he wasn’t joking. Nathaniel was cockier than a porn star with a foot-long tool-his previous job description-and more trouble than he was worth. Wald could have hired any number of handsome men to fool a rich, lonely Wall Street wife into thinking that her pleasure was this young stud’s reason for living. But there was no denying that Nathaniel had delivered the goods. He filmed Mallory’s “happy birthday” video, and it was Nathaniel who-without Mallory’s knowledge-embedded the spyware in the video before Mallory e-mailed it to her husband. The spyware monitored Michael’s keystrokes and yielded the passwords to his investment accounts. There were other ways to plant spyware, of course, but the beauty of this plan was that it hid the identity of the true spy and made the whole thing look like just another symptom of a failing marriage.

  “No bonus,” said Jason. “Especially for soldiers who hold out on me.”

  “What do you mean? I haven’t held anything back.”

  Jason glanced around the lobby to make sure no one was within earshot. He waited for two rich Kuwaitis with their six blond girlfriends to cruise upstairs to the nightclub, then continued.

  “I just found out that Michael Cantella got a message two weeks ago telling him that his wife was cheating on him. And that he should beware the naked bears.”

  “Right, the text message,” said Nathaniel.

  “You knew about that?”

  “Sure. Mallory intercepted it. She was paranoid about him finding out about me. She started checking Michael’s text messages, e-mails, and voice mail for about three weeks to see if anyone ratted her out.”

  “Did she show the text to you?”

  “No, but she told me about it. It was like you just said-a warning to Michael that his wife was cheating and that he should ‘beware naked bears.’”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Didn’t think it was important. Mallory and I even laughed about it.”

  “Laughed?”

  Nathaniel smiled and said, “I’ve never been called a naked bear before.”

  Wald smiled back. It was understandable that a guy like Nathaniel wouldn’t know that a “naked bear” was a special kind of short seller. What amazed him, however, was the number of women he knew like Mallory: a graduate of an elite school like Juilliard who was married to a high roller on Wall Street-and who knew absolutely nothing about industry terms. Neither she nor pretty boy had any idea that the warning was about a bear raid on Saxton Silvers-a short-selling scheme that was orchestrated in such a clever way that the world thought Michael Cantella was behind it.

  Wald pushed the envelope toward Nathaniel, who peeked inside. He knew better than to count money in a public place, but he didn’t have to do any math to see that it wasn’t enough.

  “How much is this?” said Nathaniel.

  “Ten grand,” said Wald.

  Nathaniel frowned. “You’re five thousand short.”

  Wald wrote a name and a phone number on a cocktail napkin and passed it to Nathaniel. “Call him for the balance.”

  “Ian Burn?” said Nathaniel, reading it. “Who’s he?”

  “Someone I can count on to get the job done. He’ll take real good care of you.”

  Nathaniel shrugged, then rose and tucked the envelope into his coat pocket. The men shook hands. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Likewise,” said Wald.

  Wald sank back into his chair, watching Nathaniel walk to the exit. He smiled thinly, confident that Burn wouldn’t simply make Nathaniel forget about the five grand he was owed.

  Soon enough, Nathaniel would beg Wald to take back the ten thousand he’d already been paid.

  43

  MY HANDS WERE SHAKING AS I RODE UP IN THE ELEVATOR TO PAPA’S hotel room.

  The phone call from Ivy had left me somewhere between total confusion and panic. Could I possibly call the police and say that my first wife-for whom we’d held a memorial service four years ago-may have just been shot? They’d think I was nuts.

  And what was that about Mallory and a man two weeks ago-in a gay bar?

  Probably just having a drink with one of her old dance pals from Juilliard.

  The elevator opened. I went to Papa’s room and delivered a firm knock on the door. He answered, dressed in pajamas-or at least as much of the pajamas that he ever wore. When I was little, it seemed odd the way Papa would never wear pajama bottoms to bed-just the top and some boxer shorts. The mystery was finally solved when my great uncle once spent the night at our house and came to the breakfast table wearing an undershirt and-what else?-pajama bottoms. It was then that I learned that Papa had grown up in a family that could afford only one pair of pajamas for the boys. Big brother got the bottoms; little brother, the top. Old habits die hard.

  “Hey, Michael,” he said with a smile, even though I’d clearly woken him.

  I entered quickly and locked the door as Papa pulled on a robe.

  “Papa, I don’t want you to worry, but it’s important for you and Nana to leave New York.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Go back to Florida tonight?”

  “No, don’t go back home. I want you to go on vacation.”

  “Michael, you’re talking crazy. This is our vacation.”

  “I’ve already bought the plane tickets,” I said, which was sort of true. I was still having credit card trouble, so I’d redeemed some of my many frequent-flier miles. “There’s a twelve-thirty A.M. flight to Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles? Don’t they have earthquakes out there?”

  It wasn’t his fault, but I had no time for this. “Papa, listen to me carefully. There’s a limo and a driver waiting downstairs. His name is Nick. A good guy-Italian-you’ll like him. I’ve used him many times. You and Nana are going to get in Nick’s limo, go to the airport, and fly to Los Angeles. I wrote out your flight information,” I said, handing him the paper, “and your hotel reservation. It’s all paid for.”

  His eyes clouded with concern. “Does this have to do with that man named Rumsey that the FBI was asking about-the guy who got killed in the Bahamas?”

  Rumsey. I’d almost forgotten about that part of the puzzle. “I don’t know.”

  I could have elaborated, but it wouldn’t have helped. Papa seemed to understand.

  “You be careful,” he said as he gave me a hug. Then he gave me another look of concern. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

  I hesitated, reluctant to tell him that I hadn’t figured that out yet.

  “You might as well use this room,” he said. “It’s paid for.” He got the key for me, then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I left as quickly as I’d come and hurried to the elevator. Papa knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t have comprehended the magnitude of it even if I’d tried to explain. My personal net worth: gone. My wife: divorcing me. My firm: worth $75 billion a week ago, now hours away from bankruptcy. Chuck Bell, the man who had cast me as the scumbag who’d short-sold his own firm down the river: dead. Ivy had returned for a moment, and now she might be dead. Again. Or not.

  Run! That had been her only advice to me. Run, or end up like Chuck Bell. But where was I supposed to go? My cell rang as I crossed the hotel lobby. It was my brother-my lawyer. Ex-lawyer. Soon-to-be-ex-law-Whatever.

  I didn’t answer, mindful of Ivy’s warning that “they”-whoever they might be-were eavesdropping on my cell. We had security seminars on that kind of thing at Saxton Silvers-how anyone with ninety-nine bucks and no fear of jail could purchase spyware on the Internet, target even the most sophisticated wireless devices, and listen to your phone conversations from across the city. I stepped outside the hotel but couldn’t find a pay phone anywhere on the sidewalk. A college-aged tourist with a backpack was texting on his phone.

  “Twenty bucks if I can use your cell for two minutes,” I said.

  He seemed skeptical, but Andrew Jackson’s f
ace was staring straight at him. “Sure,” he said, handing it over.

  I dialed Kevin, who immediately launched into the bad news.

  “I just got a courtesy call from the D.A.,” he said. “She’s giving you the option of surrendering to authorities rather than having the police come out to arrest you in the morning.”

  “Arrest?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. You’re being charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with Chuck Bell’s shooting.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “The D.A. won’t tip her hand as to the entire case, but I did find out that Bell sent an e-mail to the FNN in-house counsel just before he was shot. Said he was on his way to the studio in New Jersey to meet a ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. The D.A. is linking that message to the meeting you had earlier with Bell in the lobby of his building to say that the ‘higher source’ was you.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near the studio when he was shot. I showed you and Agent Spear the receipt that proves I was at an ATM on Third Avenue.”

  “That’s why it’s murder for hire. I’m sure the FBI gave the D.A. a heads-up to bring a conspiracy charge instead of indictment for first-degree murder.”

  “But if it’s conspiracy, they still have to connect me to the shooter, right?”

  “Apparently the police executed a search warrant at your apartment tonight and found some way to make that connection.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s the shooter?”

  “Some guy named Tony Girelli.”

  “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  “Small-time thug with mob connections. That’s all I know.”

  The tourist wearing the backpack was suddenly hovering over me. “It’s been more than two minutes,” he said.

  I waved him off, focusing on Kevin. “It’s clear somebody is trying to frame me for Bell’s murder the same way they framed me for the ‘murder’ of Saxton Silvers. You have to find this Girelli,” I said, “and make sure he tells the police that it wasn’t me who hired him.”

  “Where are you now?” asked Kevin.

  “I’m…unavailable.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Michael. You need a lawyer, and-well, I can’t leave you hanging now. I guess I’m it.”

  “I thank you,” I said.

  “And as your lawyer, my first piece of advice is to surrender peacefully tomorrow. Don’t make the police cuff you and haul you in. But if I call the D.A. tonight and tell her that we’ve got a deal, you can’t go back on it. I want you in my office at nine A.M. and we’ll go from there. You good with that?”

  I paused, then said, “I think so.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “No ‘I think so.’ A deal is a deal. Tell me now if you’re turning yourself in. Because if you’re not, they’re coming for you in squad cars.”

  “If I do turn myself in, will I get bail?”

  “I’d say yes. But it won’t be cheap.”

  “How much?”

  “You’re a rich Wall Street player. Could be a million.”

  “What?”

  “Easy, Michael. If we bond it out with collateral, you have to come up with only ten percent.”

  “My life savings are gone, my wife’s divorcing me, and I can’t even get my credit cards to work. How am I going to bond out a million dollars?”

  “It might take a few days, but we’ll work it out.”

  It was unfathomable-me sitting in jail while Ivy was on the run in New York. But this way I could at least keep the cops at bay for the next twelve hours.

  “All right,” I said. “Call the D.A. and tell her I’ll turn myself in.”

  “Good decision. I’ll see you in my office at nine.”

  “See you,” I said.

  The kid snatched his cell from my hand as soon as I hung up, and he was gone before I could thank him. Several lanes of light traffic cruised north on Eighth Avenue. I honestly had no idea where to go. I had the key to Papa’s hotel room, but going there wasn’t exactly in keeping with Ivy’s advice-Run! Ivy was at the top of my list of concerns, but convincing anyone that she was in trouble wasn’t going to be easy, especially after a murder arrest. I had to make someone believe that I wasn’t crazy, and Kevin was my only choice-I had to get some face time with him while I still could.

  I crossed Forty-ninth Street on my way to the subway station. I had the green light, but a delivery van came flying out of the twenty-four-hour parking garage on the corner. It barreled down on me like a heat-seeking missile, as if determined to T-bone me in the crosswalk. The van cut me off, then screeched to a halt, stopping half in and half out of the crosswalk. I was about to cuss out the maniac driver when the rear doors flew open. Two men jumped out and grabbed me. I tried to resist, but these thugs were amazingly strong, and they had me. They threw me in the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.

  “Don’t move,” the man with the gun said.

  I tried not to panic as the van sped away.

  44

  I HAD NO CLUE WHERE WE WERE HEADED. OR WHO HAD ME.

  Or what they intended to do with me.

  I was alone in the back of a commercial van, seated on the metal floor with my knees drawn up to my chest and my back to the side panel. There were no windows, and the only source of light in the cargo area was a dim sliver glowing at the edges of the closed door that led to the cockpit. It was so dark that my abductors hadn’t bothered to blindfold me. They hadn’t even bound my hands; the rear doors were padlocked, making escape impossible. My head was near a wheel well, and the tires whined on the pavement below me.

  I knew that Forty-ninth Street was one-way, east to west, so I deduced that the first left turn we’d made was onto Ninth Avenue, headed south. I was trying to track our travels in my mental map of Manhattan, but a series of turns confused me, until the sound of the tires changed dramatically. Noise came not just from the wheel well but from all directions. I surmised that we were inside the Lincoln Tunnel headed for New Jersey, but I wouldn’t have bet my life on it. Then again, maybe I already had.

  Is that bag what I think it is?

  My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but it was the odor that I had noticed first. It was coming from a green plastic bag-much larger than a garbage bag-on the other side of the van. Other than me, it was the only thing in the cargo area. I squinted, trying to focus, but my sense of smell dominated. It was like burned meat. Two thoughts ran through my mind.

  Don’t look inside.

  Look inside.

  I moved closer to the bag, trying not to inhale. The odor made me think of that guy who’d burned a hundred-dollar bill at Sal’s Place, and of the incendiary package that had nearly set me ablaze in the elevator. Most of all, however, I was thinking how much the bag resembled a body bag, and how the burned meat smelled not quite like any other meat I’d smelled before.

  Open it.

  It wasn’t perverse curiosity that drove me; it was the need to defend myself. I was certain that there was a body inside and that it was not going to be pretty. I needed to know what I was up against with these guys-maybe I’d even find a knife or a tool of some sort that would make these thugs sorry they hadn’t bound my hands.

  I tugged at the zipper on the bag, but it was open only six inches when the odor overwhelmed me. I was suddenly nauseous.

  The van stopped. I heard men talking in the cockpit, and their voices traveled with the sound of their footfalls around the outside of the van to the rear doors. The engine cut off, but I heard another one running-a motor of some kind, but it was hard to tell if it was another vehicle or something else. I heard more voices, then the rattling of the padlock. The rear doors swung open. The lighting was only slightly better now than it had been, but to my dilated pupils, it was blinding. I heard laughter.

  “I see you met our friend Tony,” one of the men said.

  More laughter, and I couldn’t help shutting them up
with what I’d learned.

  “Tony Girelli?” I said.

  “Whoa, Mr. Wall Street has been doing his homework.”

  The men climbed into the van and came toward me. Two guys restrained me and pulled my arms behind my back. Another bound my wrists and blindfolded me.

  “Yeah,” he said, knotting the blindfold behind my head, “poor Tony Girelli got some bad sushi at the Rink Bar today.”

  That cracked up the rest of the crew, and the smell of bourbon breath now mixed with that of burned meat.

  “Let’s walk,” the man said, but the goons practically lifted me out of the back of the van and onto a concrete floor. We walked about ten steps, and from the echoes I could tell we were in a spacious place. We stopped, and a noisy roll-down gate closed behind me. I was inside a big garage, or a warehouse.

  This can’t be good.

  Someone tugged at my blindfold, and it dropped to the floor. No one said a word during the short time it took for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and focus on the two men in front of me. The sight startled me. A young, handsome man was hanging by his wrists from a chain. He’d been hoisted up by a pulley system that was used to lift car engines. He was naked from the waist up, the expression on his face one of utter terror. The other man-a guy with burns on the right side of his neck and a deformed right ear-looked at me with a familiar stare-the stare I’d seen last fall, sitting across the table from him at Sal’s Place.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The two thugs standing behind me snickered. The man’s cold stare was more than enough to silence me.

  “The name’s Burn,” he said. Finally, he looked away and picked up a soup can from the floor, flicking something toward the hostage. A small glob of goo about the size of a silver dollar stuck to his bare chest. Then he struck a match and looked at me.

  “Call Vanessa,” he said in an even tone.

  “Who?” I asked.

  Without expression, he brought the lit match to the glob on the prisoner’s chest. It burst into flame, and the screaming was unbearable. He kicked and writhed, crying out in pain for a long time-an eternity for him, no doubt. Finally it burned out. The man hung limp from his wrists, his chest and stomach heaving with exhaustion from the excruciating pain.