“At two o’clock in the morning?” It was the second time I’d asked that question in the past ten minutes, and this time Olivia wasn’t there to say, “Don’t ask.”
“They’re gearing up for battle,” said Darwood. “With rumors flying that Saxton Silvers is filing for bankruptcy in the morning, everyone’s banging on the door-figuratively, except for you guys-to get whatever information they can about the short sellers.”
“Then I guess we’re not asking for anything out of the ordinary,” said Kevin.
“Give me a break,” said Darwood. “DTC fights to keep that information secret even when we get hit with a subpoena. Why do you think our lawyers are here? If they see me with you, I will lose my job.”
“We’re not on a fishing expedition,” said Kevin. “We want very specific information. Just help us confirm the identity of the offshore corporation that used Michael’s money to go short on Saxton Silvers’ stock.”
Darwood paused, then said, “I can’t do it.”
Kevin’s voice took on an edge. “We agreed that you would.”
“I said I would help, if I could. I can’t.”
Kevin looked at me, as if it were somehow my fault that the guy had changed his mind. I wasn’t sure if he was upset because I wasn’t getting the help I needed or because Darwood had blown Kevin’s opportunity to be the one who gave me that help-a fine distinction that only brothers could understand.
I looked at Darwood and said, “Would it help if I told you that it was a matter of life or death?”
“Cut the bullshit,” said Darwood. The expression on his face was truly pained. I had no way of knowing what attorney-client pressure point Kevin had pushed to get us in the door, but it was obviously tormenting this poor guy.
What would Darwood do if Mr. Burn came calling?
“You guys are looking in the wrong place anyway,” said Darwood.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“People are always blaming the DTC for every problem in the marketplace that could conceivably be caused by short sellers. Wake up, guys. When Saxton Silvers goes down, the really big profit isn’t going to be from short sales.”
“I still don’t know what he’s talking about,” Kevin said to me.
I gave Darwood a careful look. He was sweating, but I sensed he wasn’t lying. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to help-the faster to get us out of there.
“He’s saying that if we want to know who’s really behind the attack on Saxton Silvers, we need information he doesn’t have access to.”
“Exactly,” said Darwood.
“Who does have it?” asked Kevin.
“Honestly,” said Darwood, “I’m not sure there’s anyone at DTC who can provide it. But if we can, it’s in the Deriv/SERV Warehouse.”
“Deriv what?” my brother said.
“Let’s go, Kevin,” I said.
“Wait. You got an address for that warehouse?”
“It’s a database, not a building. I got all I need. Let’s go.”
Darwood leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. “Please. Go. Before I-”
“I know, I know. Lose your job,” Kevin said.
Darwood made sure the coast was clear, then led us out of the men’s room, down the hall, and to the exit. The glass doors locked automatically behind us.
“Why did you let him off the hook?” Kevin asked me as we headed down the sidewalk.
“Like I said: I have what I need.”
Oliva’s car pulled up at the curb, and again the passenger’s-side door flew open.
“Get in,” she said.
“He’s going home with me,” said Kevin.
“No, he isn’t,” said Olivia.
“He needs to be in my office by nine, and then we have arraignment at eleven.”
“Can’t do that,” said Olivia.
Kevin chuckled. “Thanks for tracking him down. But unless he wants the cops to haul him in wearing handcuffs, he’s leaving with me.”
“Then he’ll never see Ivy.”
Her words chilled me.
“That’s not a threat,” she said. “That’s just a fact.”
Kevin grabbed my arm. “Michael, do not let her push your buttons about Ivy, and do not get in that car.”
“Ivy’s alive,” I said.
“Stop it!”
“I talked to her on the phone tonight!”
Kevin froze.
Olivia said, “Do you want to see Ivy or don’t you?”
“Michael, I don’t know what kind of crazy shit’s going on here, but we have a deal with the D.A. If you don’t show up, you will be a fugitive.”
“If you do show up, you’re dead,” said Olivia. “Don’t you understand, Michael? They only let you live because they think you can lead them to Ivy. If you’re in jail, you are of no use. They will kill you,” she said.
My mind was humming.
“Who are they?” asked Kevin.
I looked at him and said, “I think I know. And I have to go.”
I climbed in the car and slammed the door, my head snapping back against the headrest as Olivia burned rubber.
47
AT SIX A.M. ANDREA AND HER FIANCÉ WERE SEATED AT THE DINING room table for an emergency meeting with their operations supervisor.
Overlooking the old sheep meadow in Central Park, Andrea’s Upper West Side apartment was by far the nicest place she had ever lived. In February, when she’d moved in, she could watch the ice skaters in Wollman Rink from her window, and every night the Midtown skyline was a spectacle of lights. Of course, this ten-million-dollar dream apartment was way beyond Andrea’s personal budget. Formerly owned by a Colombian drug lord who’d fled the country and forfeited his U.S. assets in lieu of standing trial on racketeering charges, it was currently on loan from the Drug Enforcement Agency to the FBI for special assignment.
“We need to arrange protection for Mallory Cantella,” said Andie.
Special Agent Andie-“Andrea”-Henning was in the fourth month of her Saxton Silvers undercover assignment, and her tenth year as an FBI agent. Hardly a lifelong dream of hers, the bureau had been more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker. At the training academy, she became only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Her first major undercover operation had been the infiltration of a cult in central Washington. Her supervisors saw her potential, but she’d resisted doing more undercover work until the Wall Street assignment came up.
Since autumn, law enforcement had suspected that Saxton Silvers was being targeted by a particularly ruthless band of short sellers who would apply any means-legal or not-to bring the firm crashing down. Andie thought she’d be immersed in the high-stakes business world, trying to find out who was working on the inside. Instead, her undercover “fiancé” enjoyed the daily stimulation of sleuthing around Saxton Silvers’ risk-management division while Andie played the sometimes mind-numbing role of a Saxton Silvers significant other. “Wives talk” was the underlying rationale, and Andie had proved to be an effective plant.
So effective, in fact, that within a month, she’d managed to completely shift the chief focus of the investigation away from short selling and toward something far more evil.
Her supervisor, Malcolm Spear, drummed his fingers atop the mahogany table as he considered her request for protection.
“Our operations budget is not unlimited,” he said, his expression deadpan. “I can’t even get headquarters to approve full-time surveillance on Michael Cantella, and you want round-the-clock protection for his wife?”
“Have you listened to the tape of Michael’s nine-one-one call? He doesn’t know it, but the victim he’s describing is clearly Mallory’s lover.”
“Agreed,” said Spear. “Nathaniel Locke’s apartment was searched this morning. It would appear that he has gone missing.”
&
nbsp; “Which only reinforces Michael’s conclusion,” said Andie. “Mallory could be in danger, too.”
“Sounds like you are taking everything Mr. Cantella said at face value.”
“I was standing right beside him when he called nine-one-one. I was sitting at his wife’s side when he literally pleaded with her afterward. In my judgment, yes, he was sincere.”
“You were also in the apartment when a search warrant turned up an envelope with Tony Girelli’s phone number written on it. Local homicide detectives are beyond confident that the five grand inside was Girelli’s fee for shooting Chuck Bell.”
“To me, it smells suspiciously like a plant, especially if it’s true that Girelli is now dead.”
Spear shook his head. “Your undercover role has brought you too close to the Cantellas.”
“My judgment has not been compromised.”
“Really?” said Spear. “Just yesterday you called Cantella to tell him that the FBI was turning up the heat on his first wife. What was that about?”
“I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already heard from his grandfather. That was a no-lose way for me to earn his trust, which I need to do if I’m going to play my role effectively.”
Spear seemed somewhat persuaded on that point, but he held his ground. “Look, we’re in agreement that Nathaniel Locke is the victim of foul play. But we have a fundamental disagreement as to the perp’s identity.”
“I don’t know who killed him.”
“Consider this possibility: Michael Cantella.”
“Why?”
“Two motives. One, the man was sleeping with his wife. Two, Nathaniel Locke was the anonymous source for Chuck Bell at FNN who brought down Saxton Silvers.”
The second point was news to Andie, and it took her aback. It was Andie who had picked up the telephone after Bell’s “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t Michael Cantella” remark, dialed Malcolm Spear, and pushed to subpoena Bell-First Amendment issues be damned. But Bell’s death had derailed that plan.
“I thought the name of Bell’s source died right along with Chuck Bell,” she said.
“Turns out that Chuck Bell kept a file on his source,” said Spear. “FNN shared it with us after his death, thinking it might help find his killer. In it we found e-mails and photographs that Locke had given to him, which made it abundantly clear that Mallory was sleeping with him.”
“I don’t follow the logic. Bell’s story had nothing to do with infidelity.”
“Apparently Bell had enough integrity not to broadcast rumors about Saxton Silvers unless he had a credible source. Locke’s credibility was tied to his status as Mallory’s lover. Michael trusted his wife enough to confide in her, and Mallory shared those confidences with Locke, who in turn shared those golden nuggets with Bell.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Bell may have paid him. We haven’t confirmed that yet.”
Andie considered it, but before she could speak, Spear closed the loop on the FBI’s analysis.
“It’s a fairly simple equation,” said Spear. “Sleeping with Michael Cantella’s wife gave Locke all the information he needed to be Bell’s source on Saxton Silvers. Bell was murdered after sending his lawyer an e-mail that said he was on his way to meet an even ‘higher source’ from Saxton Silvers. Now Locke-the original source-is also dead. Girelli, the trigger-man, is dead, too. The only logical step for the FBI at this point is to work with local law enforcement to bring Michael Cantella into custody immediately.”
“Your whole theory crumbles unless Michael made up the story about being abducted and taken to a garage in New Jersey where he saw Girelli’s body and witnessed a man being tortured.”
“Michael Cantella is a Wall Street liar,” said Spear. “That’s the worst kind.”
Andie shook her head. “I believe he was being truthful about what he saw. The same goes for his first wife’s being alive.”
“Whom he was suspected of killing,” said Spear.
“He passed a polygraph.”
“Many sociopaths do. Many of them also claim that their wives are still alive, even though they’ve been missing for years.”
“It’s not just Michael who’s saying it. I’ve gotten to know Mallory well. She believes it, too.”
“Like I said: You’ve let yourself get too close to the Cantellas.”
“With all due respect, sir, I think something is going on that the FBI doesn’t fully understand. And I’m requesting permission to continue my undercover role until I get to the bottom of this.”
“Permission granted, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“As far as the FBI is concerned, it’s full speed ahead in bringing Michael Cantella into custody. You are to take no action that is at odds with that objective.”
Andie hated those broad edicts. She’d worked for too many bosses whose idea of supervision was to tell his subordinates to “do everything that needs to be done.”
“You have my word,” said Andie.
48
I FELL ASLEEP IN THE CAR AND WOKE IN A BED. THE SIGHT OF A woman seated at the foot of the mattress scared me into the jackknife position.
“Who are you?”
“It’s okay,” she said as she turned to look at me.
I quickly realized it was Olivia-and that last night had not merely been a bad dream.
“Where am I?”
“North Bergen.”
“New Jersey?”
“On Tonnelle Avenue, to be exact.”
The street noise was so loud that I wondered if we weren’t literally on Tonnelle Avenue. I sat up in bed, still wearing last night’s jeans and sweater. Only my shoes had been removed. A sliver of morning sunlight was streaming in through an opening between drapery panels, and I noticed Olivia’s car parked right outside our motel room. One of the local morning shows was playing on the television atop the bureau, but the volume was too low to hear it.
“What time is it?”
“Not yet seven. When we got here last night, you woke up just enough for me to help you in from the car, but you were out like a drunk the minute your head hit the pillow.”
I’d needed the rest, to be sure, but the lingering effect of whatever Burn and his men had injected into my body undoubtedly had more to do with it.
“You want coffee?”
“Black, thanks.”
She poured some from an in-room machine. There was so much I wanted to ask her, but I figured I’d go right for the home run.
“Why does Kyle McVee want Ivy dead?”
I expected a show of surprise, maybe even shock-at least a reaction of some sort. Olivia simply handed me the plastic coffee cup and sat on the other bed, facing me.
“How did you know it was McVee?”
“He was the last person Ivy worked for before she disappeared.”
“You were the last person Ivy married before she disappeared.”
Clearly she was playing devil’s advocate.
“McVee has the kind of capital it would take to short-sell Saxton Silvers into the ground and make it look like I did it.”
“So do dozens of other hedge-fund gurus.”
“McVee is into credit-default swaps in a big way. That’s the point my brother’s friend at the DTC was making tonight: Credit-default swaps are where the huge money is going to be made when Saxton Silvers files for bankruptcy today.”
“Credit-default what?” she asked.
In another six months, even Papa would have a working knowledge of the esoteric derivative products that investment geniuses like Warren Buffett had labeled “financial weapons of mass destruction.” But at this point, not even Wall Street fully understood the dangers.
“Credit default swaps,” I said. “They’re not technically insurance, so there’s no government regulation to speak of. But in essence they are a form of insurance that investors cash in if Saxton Silvers can’t pay its debts.”
“So if you borrow money from me, I w
ould buy a credit default swap that would pay me off in case you defaulted?”
“Correct, assuming you and I are major financial players. And what’s really interesting is that if you loan me money, Tommy Ho in Hong Kong or Crocodile Dundee in Australia or Hansel and Gretel in Germany can also buy a credit default swap that pays them off in case I default on your loan.”
She did a double take, as if not quite comprehending. “So total strangers basically place a bet that you’re going to default on my loan to you?”
“You got it. On six billion dollars of debt, it wouldn’t be unheard of for there to be sixty billion dollars in credit default swaps. Of course, no single person really knows how much is tied up in the swaps, because they’re not sold through the stock exchange. It’s an over-the-counter market.”
“Isn’t that a problem?”
“Hell yes, especially when you tie in other strategies. Think of it this way: Buying credit-default swaps on Saxton Silvers’ debt obligations and then going short on Saxton Silvers stock is kind of like buying a life insurance policy on your neighbor and then running him over with your car.”
“So when Saxton Silvers goes bankrupt, McVee cashes in.”
“Big-time. On an investment bank like Saxton Silvers, he could conceivably be sitting on a billion dollars’ worth of credit default swaps.”
“That’s incredible,” she said.
“It is. But it’s also a little beside the point.”
“How do you mean?”
“Let me ask you again: Why did McVee want Ivy dead?”
She tasted her coffee, then rose and went to the Formica counter beside the closet. “I don’t know exactly,” she said, adding more sweetener to her cup. Then she turned and looked at me. “But this much I am certain about: It’s not what you think. McVee’s reasons for wanting Ivy dead have nothing to do with credit-default swaps or short selling-it has nothing to do with business at all. This is personal.”
“It’s about me, isn’t it?”
My words seemed to confuse her. “Why would you say that?”
I told her about the black SUV that had run me off the road before the trip to the Bahamas. “I think it was a warning,” I said. “I ignored it at the time. And I think Ivy paid the price.”
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