For Money or Love

by Heather Blackmore

  Brooke’s expression soured. “That’s great to hear? You sound like a mother telling her child how wonderful he sounds on his new trombone. Get your head in the game.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try harder. She asked to meet with you specifically, and she’ll be here any minute. What the hell, Jess?”

  “Sorry. I’m just…You know the phrase ‘healthy skepticism’?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not healthy.”

  “You don’t think we’ll close her?”

  “No, it’s not Muriel. It’s…” Jess scanned the room to ensure no patrons were nearby and kept her voice down. “Have you ever wondered how our hedge fund was up more than five percent during the last bear market, when the S&P 500 was down nearly thirty-eight percent?”

  Brooke stared at Jess. Then she broke out laughing. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

  Jess winced in apology for even asking.

  Brooke waved her hand as if Jess’s question wasn’t an issue. “You wouldn’t believe how many meetings I take where I have to address these kinds of objections. In fact, Muriel had plenty herself. To answer your question, the fund is operating exactly as it should by diversifying outside the stock market to boost returns.”

  The explanation made sense. But there was more Jess needed to know. “What about its volatility? It’s astoundingly low.”

  “I hear that one all the time too. The volatility’s an illusion based on monthly and annual returns. On an intraday, intraweek, and intramonth basis, Dad says it’s all over the place.”

  Jess nodded.

  “Look, Jess, Dad’s been in this business over thirty years. We’ve invested in the best technology for low-cost execution capabilities, we have incredible proprietary stock and options pricing models, and we have market intelligence derived from the massive amount of order flow we handle every day. Hell, you know this—it’s from your own marketing material. Someone has to be the leader. That’s us.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re right.” Brooke had a solid answer for everything. Something still felt slightly off, but Jess couldn’t put her finger on it.

  She took Jess’s forearm. “It’s not unreasonable to ask questions, but now isn’t the time. We’re on the precipice of getting half a billion from Muriel—for starters—so if you don’t have faith in Dad and what we’ve built, leave now and ask questions later. Don’t sabotage this deal.”

  “I won’t.” Jess did have faith in her dad. The simplest thing was to ask him how the fund worked. Just because things weren’t adding up at first glance didn’t mean anything improper was going on. It meant they were more complex than she imagined. On a regular basis, Brooke apparently had to address the kinds of questions Jess was asking. There would always be detractors and skeptics in the industry. Jess needn’t be one.

  Brooke cocked her head, apparently unconvinced.

  “I won’t,” Jess repeated. She meant it.

  Her sister’s suddenly plastic expression signaled the end to their conversation.

  “Muriel, hi. How lovely to see you,” Jess said as she stood.

  Muriel shook Jess’s outstretched hand. “I’m sure your sister’s informed you I’m interested in transferring some of my assets to your firm?”

  As blunt as always, Jess thought. For some reason, Muriel’s candor was more refreshing than vexing. “Yes. And we’re delighted to have earned your confidence.”

  Muriel took a seat, though her eyes didn’t stray from Jess. “How is that sinfully attractive girlfriend of yours?”

  Nothing about TJ, including her looks, was relevant to the conversation. Jess ignored the question and merely smiled. “What made you finally decide to allow us the opportunity to become your investment advisor?”

  “It wasn’t a rhetorical question,” Muriel said. “Sparkling water, please,” she said to the waiter, shooing him away with her hand before he could interrupt.

  “She’s well, thank you for asking,” Jess said stiffly.

  Brooke chimed in. “As Jess mentioned, we’re very honored—”

  Remaining laser-focused on Jess, Muriel said, “And if I were to tell you my investment was contingent upon you ending your relationship and setting up a private meeting between her and me?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you,” Jess said.

  “She’s worth losing a management fee on five hundred million?”

  “You’re either interested in investing with us or you’re not. My relationships are irrelevant.”

  “On the contrary, I’m making them relevant. All I’m asking for is a meeting with a particular woman. Believe me,” Muriel practically purred, “I can take it from there.”

  This game had gone on long enough. Whatever Muriel was playing at, Jess wanted no part of it. TJ had taught her that certain client behavior wasn’t to be tolerated no matter the price. “I wouldn’t disrespect her by ending our relationship in order to further my company’s business prospects or by posing the question of whether she’d like to end our relationship for a guaranteed one-on-one with you. She’s quite capable of deciding who she wants to spend time with, and apparently it’s not you.” Jess grabbed her purse and stood, ignoring Brooke’s eye gestures that she retake her seat and pipe down. “Invest with us or don’t. We earn people’s business because we’re the best advisor in the country. If you find a better one, by all means, move your money to them.”

  Before Jess could storm off, she felt a hand on hers, preventing her departure. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Muriel said. “I wanted to know the lengths to which you’d go to close my business. I’m glad to discover the firm truly has become more queer-friendly and what I witnessed on my yacht wasn’t an act. The single most important attribute to winning my business is integrity. Magnate may be one of the top advisors, but until now I wasn’t interested in working with you because our values weren’t aligned.” Muriel pulled a card from her clutch bag and handed it to Jess. “This is my accountant. Please give him the details for the wire transfer. And give my best to that ridiculously good-looking woman of yours.” Muriel stood, nodded to Brooke, and left.

  Brooke’s mouth fell open.

  Jess dropped the card into her purse. “Cha-ching.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Panic, which had been entering Jess’s bloodstream on an IV drip all week, was now coursing through her in a torrent. Having sequestered herself in her home office for two days straight except for yesterday’s lunch, Jess had finally solved the puzzle of how Magnate achieved its unrivaled success, and it left a hole in her gut the size of Montana.

  She wanted to scream and shout and fight against the irrefutable conclusion she’d reached, wanted to attack and beat it back into shadow, into unconsciousness. If only it were a tangible thing, she could carry it to the edge of a cliff and cast it into oblivion.

  But it wasn’t to be. The truth was no less real for its being inconceivable.

  Public companies declare an ex-dividend date such that dividends are paid to holders of shares two days later. Days ago she had taken the additional step of verifying that the corresponding companies had declared the dividends listed on the client statements, all of which was a matter of public record.

  The payable dates per the statements didn’t match those of the investor relations website pages or SEC filings. Initially blaming a software bug, Jess upped her review from a handful to hundreds. Not only were many of the dates wrong, but a review of the client statements showed numerous other inconsistencies. Companies that paid quarterly dividends didn’t often change their dividend schedule. But according to Magnate statements, a specific company’s dividend would be listed one quarter, be missing the following quarter, and show up again the next. Investments in companies like PepsiCo were typically a buy-and-hold proposition, so turnover didn’t explain the gaps and inconsistencies.

  That wasn’t all. On numerous days, trades were recorded using fake values, as the prices reported for the purported trades
were outside the market-reported price range on a given day. Convertible securities were reported as being traded on days after the actual date of conversion reported by the issuing corporation. Transfers in and out of the cash-sweep account per the Magnate client statements went into a name and ticker symbol Jess couldn’t identify because it didn’t exist.

  Topping off these already uncomfortable deductions was the work TJ had done, which showed the returns per the client statements—when compared to the broader market returns—to be easily assailable. TJ’s spreadsheet listed one-, three-, five-, and ten-year investment returns as reported on certain client statements and compared them to various indexes and other funds. On an absolute return basis, the Magnate Fund wasn’t a standout. However, it handily came in first over the five- and ten-year periods if measured by risk-adjusted return.

  Jess’s math skills came in handy here. Although its annual returns were fairly high for the investment strategies utilized, they were far more conceivable than Magnate’s ability to sustain smooth, non-volatile returns over such a long period. Jess had taken a sample of the instruments reportedly invested in by Magnate and couldn’t come close to replicating the returns claimed. Jess calculated the probability of their achievement to be so statistically insignificant as to be impossible without hindsight. Others who used the same strategies achieved nowhere near the same degree of success as Magnate, and now she knew why.

  Oh, God, what had her father done? What had she done?

  Was it possible her father hadn’t created a massive Ponzi scheme?

  Everything about Jess’s world seemed suddenly built on sand, and the ground was shifting.

  Her life was built on lies.

  All her possessions had been illicitly obtained under the guise of enhancing investor wealth. What’s more, her efforts provided the silk that allowed her father to weave a wider web.

  A cold sweat broke out across her upper body, her abdomen clenched, and her throat constricted from sudden nausea. She ran to the bathroom and barely made it to the porcelain basin before unloading her stomach’s contents into the bowl.

  On her knees and holding herself up by the toilet rim, Jess couldn’t hold back the tears that started streaming forth. Her mind and body were in turmoil, pulling her in opposite directions—her staggered breathing making it difficult to take in enough oxygen, her mind wishing her lungs would stop trying. Could she go on living, knowing what her father had done? Knowing her part in it? She sagged to the floor with her head in her hands and wept as never before.

  As Jess lay in a heap, the warmth against her legs seeped into her consciousness like a black stain, providing an unwelcome reminder of the things she enjoyed on a daily basis that were paid for on the backs of Magnate’s clients. Heated tile bathroom floors were one of the luxuries Jess noticed and appreciated daily. She once admitted to her dentist that her lack of cavities was due to lingering as she brushed her teeth, allowing her feet to soak up the warmth as if she were walking barefoot on a sunny day at the beach.

  Now the warmth felt sweltering. She took stock of her surroundings. The previously wonderful spaciousness of her home felt instantly mausolean, as if she were entombed. Everything about the room made Jess’s stomach churn. Everything about the house reminded her of what she hadn’t earned, what none of the Spauldings had rightfully built.

  Her makeup felt thick and cumbersome, as if someone had decorated her face with spackle. Her clothes, like her makeup, felt heavy, as if she’d run a marathon during a summer day in New Orleans. Were they even hers at this point? Did her underwear belong to someone else? The thought was repelling, as if maggots lined her hems. Out, out, out—she needed to get out of her garments. She stripped as if they were aflame. Even when she was naked, the air around her felt heavy, as if it were wet and hot and she had to take each breath through a sodden blanket covering her face.

  She turned on the shower and stood beneath the flow of water. As it sluiced across her skin, Jess waited for the heaviness to ebb. This shower never failed to rebalance and renew her, as multiple showerheads sprayed her from head to toe. Today was different. Without opening her eyes, she turned off the valve. What right did she have to luxuriate in a spa-like setting as if the water could cleanse her sins the way it washed away the grime? Could she ever again be clean?

  No. She was dirtier than the filth beneath the fingernails of a homeless man. Her jaw trembled and fresh tears anointed her cheeks. It was as if a freight train of greed had struck her innocence on its inexorable path of destruction. Had she been a willing passenger?

  Jess wiped at her cheeks and appraised herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, her face blotchy and wet. Was this the face of a woman who could ignore the truth? She’d succeeded at putting on one kind of act of ignorance for so long, would this be any different?

  Would she ever be able to look at her father the same way?

  Oh, how she wanted to believe she’d misread and misunderstood all the evidence against him! For the first time in her life, Jess wanted to be the dimwit she’d portrayed for years. She didn’t want to know what her father had done, didn’t want to believe him capable of such nefariousness.

  All she had was questions. She needed answers. She dried her face and rinsed her mouth before entering the closet. It had been one of her favorite rooms. Spacious, well-lit, and well-organized, it contained floor-to-ceiling racks of shoes, shelves for sweaters and tops, high and low garment racks for suit jackets, pants, skirts, shirts, and shorts, and a separate taller rack for dresses. Drawers hid her undergarments while additional shelves held her purses and hats. Now she looked at the colorful clothes and footwear as if through the eyes of a stranger. These things weren’t hers. The clients whose assets had been pilfered to purchase them owned them.

  Did anything in this room truly belong to her?

  She opened the drawer to her gym wear and pulled on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, the drabbest clothing she possessed, even though they were still brand name. Anything more stylish would make her feel even more of an imposter.

  She walked through the pool area to the rear of the great house. As was her standard practice, she entered without asking because she had permission to come and go as she pleased throughout the first floor. Rarely did she make use of the open-door policy without first texting or phoning her intention to drop by. The estate was secured on all sides so the family never locked their doors, as only friends or relatives were allowed on the grounds. The only stipulation—set by her stepmother—was that no one access the second floor without prior consent. Tonight she ignored the mandate and headed straight for her father’s study. The door was always closed so she didn’t know whether her father was inside. Knocking first but not awaiting a response, she pushed open the heavy door.

  Derrick was seated at his desk. He glanced up from his work and removed his reading glasses. “What a lovely surprise, sweetheart,” he said warmly. After a quick appraisal of her, he asked, “What’s wrong?” He started to rise but heeded her open palm gesturing him to stop.

  Jess closed the door and rested her back against it. This was the man who had comforted her time and again, no matter what, from scraped knee to broken heart. In order to remain strong and not seek solace in his arms, she needed physical distance. She studied him. He was his usual good-looking self, his slightly wavy hair graying at the temples and always trimmed to within a quarter-inch of the same length. Two parallel wrinkle lines across his forehead showed his concern at her unannounced arrival. He didn’t appear to be a liar and a cheat, but then again, one didn’t necessarily look at Ted Bundy and think serial murderer.

  “How long?” Jess asked. She didn’t know where to start or how to confront him. When Derrick cocked his head, she clarified her question. “How long have you been stealing from our clients?”

  He sat back in his chair, appearing to consider how to respond.

  “And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about. The growth you’ve
been claiming isn’t possible with your purported investment strategy. The dividends don’t exist. You’ve only been able to pay them by getting new blood, which I’ve been doing my damnedest to win for you. How. Long.” The acid in her stomach was threatening to make itself known again.

  He rose and sauntered to the bar. “Drink?” he asked. Jess declined. After a few minutes perfecting his Gibson, he returned to his seat. He took a sip before setting his glass down. “Since Lilith.”

  Seventeen years. Seventeen years. Jess took a calming breath. Under such a time frame, the scale of the fraud must be astounding. “Does she know?” Jess asked.

  “No.”

  “Does Gary?”

  “No one knows.”

  Her father was the man who’d taught her right from wrong. How could he be behind this catastrophic abuse of trust? “Why? With Lilith’s resources, why would you do this?”

  He swirled his drink. “Early on, I made some poor investments with her money. I couldn’t dig myself out of the hole without coming clean to her about the extent of the losses. This way, I didn’t have to.”

  “She loves you. You could have worked through it.”

  Derrick smiled sadly. “Lilith isn’t as forgiving as you give her credit for.”

  “You decided to steal from your clients because you couldn’t face your wife?” No explanation could ever suffice, yet for some reason this was even more egregious than she was prepared for.

  “Initially.”

  He didn’t need to expand. His very public multi-million-dollar donations sprang to mind. She’d been concerned with his amplifying desire to be in the do-gooder spotlight, and it turned out she had ample cause.