Stephen Frey

by Trust Fund

  “This is crazy!”

  “Really?” Jimmy Lee asked cynically, nodding subtly in Teddy’s direction. “Then why don’t we get some objective testimony.”

  “ ‘Testimony,’ ” Bo said. He watched Teddy walk dutifully to the study door. “What, am I on trial now?”

  “We are all constantly on trial,” Jimmy Lee snapped as Frank Ramsey followed Teddy into the room. “Sorry to interrupt your day, Frank. I know how busy you are at Warfield.”

  “No problem,” Ramsey answered respectfully, taking a seat between Teddy and Paul.

  “I want to hear about what happened two nights ago, Frank,” Jimmy Lee demanded.

  Bo tried to catch Ramsey’s eye, but Ramsey kept his focus on Jimmy Lee.

  “Bo and I went out to dinner,” Ramsey began, his voice hushed, acting as if it troubled him deeply to have to answer the question.

  “Then?”

  “Then we went to a bar not far from my apartment on the Upper East Side. Bo drank quite a bit of—”

  “I don’t understand what this is supposed to accomplish,” Bo cut in.

  “Let him finish!” Paul shouted. “Go on, Frank.”

  “Bo’s got quite a way with the ladies,” Ramsey went on, shaking his head in mock admiration.

  “Careful, Frank. You’re going to have to face yourself every morning in the mirror. Is it really worth the lie?”

  “Quiet, Bo!” Jimmy Lee ordered.

  “He and this little redhead were getting very friendly in a dark corner,” Ramsey went on, his voice becoming louder. “She had her hands down his—”

  “That’s a lie!” Bo yelled. The bastard was willing to say anything to get his chance to run Warfield.

  “Go on,” Paul urged.

  “Then they went outside to a limousine I had called for Bo.”

  “That’s another lie, Dad. I never went outside the bar until we left for good, and there was no limousine. We took cabs all night. You can check.”

  “About ten minutes later,” Ramsey continued, his voice rising, “I went outside. The limousine driver was leaning against the building smoking a cigarette. He told me that Bo had ordered him out of the car. I opened the back door and”—he gestured at Bo—“Bo and this woman were going at it on the backseat. There were clothes everywhere except on their bodies. Hell, they were both so drunk they didn’t even realize I was there until I pulled Bo off the woman and made her put her clothes back on.”

  “This is incredible,” Bo muttered.

  “This is the problem, Dad,” Paul said. “This kind of behavior is exactly what I’m worried about. It could kill me in the press during the campaign. The reporters will make me out to be like Bo and try to claim that I’ll be as irresponsible as he is if I’m elected.”

  Jimmy Lee nodded, worry clouding his face.

  Bo held up his hands. “I’ll admit that I take a drink too many once in a while. Maybe place a bet on the ponies or a ball game every so often just to relieve the tension of my day. God knows I shouldn’t feel any pressure. I’m only dealing with billions of our dollars on a second-by-second basis, not to mention the money of the other families and the institutions.”

  Jimmy Lee pointed a gnarled finger at Bo. “We all have our crosses to bear, Bolling. I too have—”

  “I’m sorry,” Bo interrupted, immediately ruing his attempt to evoke sympathy. “But Frank is lying. I never touched that woman and she never touched me. We never left the bar.”

  “You have a track record,” Teddy sneered.

  “I do not,” Bo said adamantly. “Those stories about me are just rumors fabricated by jealous people.”

  “Drink makes a man weak,” Jimmy Lee said.

  “I’ll control my drinking from now on, Dad. I’ll come back to the estate every night by seven and work from my home office in the evening.”

  “No.” Paul interrupted, not giving Bo the slightest opening. “You’d still go out, and our family is too well known. You’d be recognized in Manhattan before your shoes hit the pavement.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Bo assured them. “I’ll punch a time clock in the guardhouse,” he promised, trying to ease the tension. So much of his self-esteem was tied to his success at running Warfield Capital, and he could feel it all slipping away. “I will make that promise to you, Paul,” he vowed, adopting a respectful tone. It was difficult to do, but necessary at this point, he realized.

  “You might behave for a while,” Paul conceded, “but then one night you’d slip up and do something dangerous.”

  “I’d do something dangerous?” Bo asked, and watched Paul shift uncomfortably in his chair. “Me?” As far as Bo knew, Jimmy Lee had no idea what had happened to Melissa that night fifteen years ago. Bo had taken care of it for Paul. Taken care of it for the family, as his father had preached all these years. Kept the drowning a secret and shouldered the guilt alone. He had never told Paul that he had buried Melissa in a remote corner of the estate, and Paul had never asked.

  “You might very well do something dangerous—or at least unwise,” Jimmy Lee asserted. “You don’t display the same discipline in your personal life as you do in selecting investments. For that reason I have taken steps to address the situation. You and Meg will leave Connecticut tomorrow for the West.”

  “You weren’t serious about Montana, were you?” Bo asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about Warfield?” Bo’s mind was racing, trying to understand how a father could turn so quickly against a son who had done exactly what had been asked of him all these years, and done it well. He tried to bring the situation down to money, a factor he believed his father would relate to. “Let’s be honest here, I’m the driving force at Warfield.” He glanced at his oldest brother. “Teddy couldn’t begin to tell us what’s in our portfolio. How am I going to manage Warfield from a remote location like Montana? Telephones and the Internet are fine, but you know I need to be at the office to manage the people. I can’t just—”

  “Bolling, for as long as you are in Montana you will have no contact with anyone at Warfield Capital,” Jimmy Lee interrupted coldly. “None at all.”

  Bo’s voice was hushed. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Frank will take over your position,” Jimmy Lee said, nodding at Ramsey. “He will become executive vice president and chief operating officer and be responsible for Warfield’s day-to-day operations. He’ll continue to report to Teddy, who will remain chief executive officer.”

  Bo stared at Jimmy Lee, cursing himself for not paying more attention to Ramsey’s hire. He should have seen something coming, but there were only so many hours in a day to manage the fund. But why should he have expected anything like this? Warfield was performing better than it ever had. There was no need for a change. “Frank is an outsider. Making him chief operating officer violates everything you’ve ever taught me. Never give an outsider any control, let alone hand him the reins of the family business. How many times have you said that to me, Dad?”

  “There are exceptions to every rule,” Jimmy Lee said calmly, “particularly in extraordinary times. We must prioritize. We must put Paul’s needs above yours. Besides, Teddy will be spending more hours at Warfield now. He will keep a close eye on what’s going on.”

  “Frank will lose Teddy at the first turn and never look back. You can’t trust him,” Bo urged, pointing directly at Ramsey.

  Ramsey moved forward in his chair. “Hey, I—”

  “What about our investors?” Bo asked, cutting Ramsey off. “The insurance companies and the pension funds will scream bloody murder if I leave. They’ll smell something rotten. They might even pull out of the fund.”

  “Leave the investors to me,” Jimmy Lee replied. “I’ll take care of them. Besides, they have confidence in Frank. I’ve already spoken to several of our largest partners about this situation and they have given their blessing.”

  Bo looked blankly at Jimmy Lee, a helpless feeling sinking in. The bastard had already gone
to the lead investors, working in the shadows, and prepared them for the transition. It was a done deal. He had nothing left to negotiate with and his father knew it. “I . . . I won’t leave.”

  “You have no choice,” Jimmy Lee said firmly. “I’ve often counseled you about the need to put the family’s goals above your own, about sacrifice and duty.”

  “What if I—”

  Jimmy Lee held up a hand. “There will be no more discussion. The decision is made. You brought this on yourself, Bo. This is your day of reckoning. You may be in your forties, but you can still learn from your mistakes. Remember what I’ve always told you, Bolling. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.”

  “Please, Dad,” Bo said quietly. “Don’t do this to me.”

  “And I warn you,” Jimmy Lee added, “don’t call some two-bit reporter and tell him about this. When they try to contact you, don’t answer. We stand together. The outside world will detect no dissension within our family. Am I clear?”

  Bo said nothing. He was numb.

  “Bolling, am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A few minutes later Bo stood on the hillside in front of the mansion, hands jammed in his pockets, gazing down at the beach where Melissa had died.

  “Don’t take it so badly.”

  Bo whipped around. Paul stood on the brick path leading from one of the mansion’s side doors to a driveway where his limousine was parked.

  “How am I supposed to take it?” Bo asked softly.

  Paul glanced at his driver, who was leaning against the vehicle reading a magazine, then moved across the lawn to where Bo stood. He put a hand on Bo’s shoulder and smiled broadly, as if working a fund-raiser. “You want to see me succeed, don’t you, Bo? You want to see me in the Oval Office.”

  Bo pressed his lips together tightly.

  “Of course you do,” Paul continued. “So think of your stay in Montana as a tiny contribution to my opportunity.”

  “I’d say it’s a big contribution. More like taking a bullet than a trivial inconvenience.”

  Paul thought for a moment. “I suppose it is.”

  Bo gestured at the beach below. “When do people stop taking bullets for you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul snapped.

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. “What happened on the beach that night, Paul?” He’d been waiting fifteen years to ask the question. “What really happened?”

  Paul rarely lost his composure, but now he flinched, as if he’d been struck in the face. It was the first time either of them had spoken of the incident since that night.

  “Tell me what happened to Melissa,” Bo demanded, rage gripping him. “I want to know.”

  “She drowned,” Paul muttered. “You know that. It was her own damn idea to go down to the lake. She was drunk and she drowned. That’s all there was to it. She was already dead when I found her in the water.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you pull her to the beach? Wouldn’t that have been the natural reaction?”

  “I was scared out of my mind, and blind drunk. I didn’t know what was going on, thanks to you. Thanks to all of that alcohol you made me drink.”

  “There were bruises on Melissa’s neck,” Bo said, remembering her blood-filled corneas as well.

  “We had sex. She begged me to give it to her rough. Said she liked it that way. Then she went down to the lake alone to take a swim.” Paul shook his head regretfully.

  “I don’t buy that. I don’t think she liked it rough. In fact, I don’t think she liked it at all.”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t really care what you think.”

  “Why would she take a swim in the lake? The water would have been ice cold in April, just like it is now. There’s a pool inside the playhouse. Why wouldn’t she have gone swimming there?”

  Paul moved to where Bo stood. “I don’t know why she chose to swim in the lake instead of the playhouse pool,” he hissed, towering several inches over Bo and jabbing one finger into his chest. “And I don’t care. All I care about is getting you as far away from here as possible so I can win an election and not have to worry about you screwing things up.”

  In their years growing up they had never had a physical confrontation, and the question of who would win still lingered in Bo’s mind. Paul was bigger, but Bo had always sensed that Paul lacked the stomach for a real fight. Paul would wage war in the political world, working deftly behind the scenes to destroy an opponent, but his appetite for a fistfight was minimal. It might mar that pretty face. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Bo said, shoving Paul’s hand away.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You just don’t want me around.” Bo watched Paul’s left hand clench and unclench. There was a large brown birthmark covering the third knuckle. “You’ve never wanted me around. I’ve always known that.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Paul said loudly, jabbing Bo’s chest again.

  Bo grabbed Paul by the lapels of his suit coat, lifted him into the air, then threw him to the ground.

  Paul scrambled to his feet quickly and took a step toward Bo as if to attack, then stopped. He realized that his younger brother wouldn’t back down. He could have been Goliath and Bo wouldn’t have backed down. He forced himself to smile. “This just isn’t worth it,” he said.

  Bo smiled back. He’d been right after all. Paul was willing to wage political war, but was unwilling to put his body at risk. “You know something?”

  “What?” Paul asked, through gritted teeth.

  “All things done in the dark eventually come to light.”

  “More words-to-live-by?” Paul had regained his composure. “You never stop with those asinine things, do you?”

  “This time the words aren’t mine,” Bo said.

  “Whose are they?”

  “It isn’t important, not to you anyway.” Bo took a deep breath. “I once loved this estate so much,” he said, turning toward the lake. “You ruined that for me, Paul, and I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Get over it, little—”

  “More important,” Bo interrupted, “a woman died down there on that beach. Someday I’ll find out what really happened to her. I owe Melissa that much.”

  Joseph Scully eyed the man seated on the other side of the café’s outdoor table. Jim Whitacre was the second-highest-ranking executive at Global Media, the largest information technology company in the world. Global Media’s operations included local, long-distance, and wireless communication systems as well as satellite operations. It operated the largest cable television footprint in the United States, was a dominant Internet service provider and a owned cutting-edge software developer. Whitacre was a high-profile corporate officer, easily recognizable in the United States and Europe, but not here in Korea. Which was exactly why Scully had chosen to meet at this out-of-the-way place on the outskirts of Seoul.

  “What are we going to talk about tonight, Mr. Scully?” Whitacre asked. He had known Scully for six months and liked him even less now than he had the first time they’d met. “What is so urgent that you have to come find me during the middle of a very important week of meetings in Asia?”

  Whitacre was too sure of himself for a man who had never put himself at risk in the name of a cause, Scully thought. Scully had spent his career in the intelligence shadows, constantly one small misstep away from being spirited off to an enemy interrogation camp and certain torture. Scully was the type of man the United States government would never acknowledge knowing if he found himself in hot water. He had sacrificed family, friends, and monetary gain for his country. He was certain the only cause Whitacre had ever sacrificed anything for had its roots firmly planted in the dollar.

  “We’re going to talk about something near and dear to your heart,” Scully said. “The money.”

  Whitacre snuffed out his cigarette in a dirty porcelain ashtray. He liked coming to Asia because you could smoke whenever and wherever you chose. “What about
it?”

  “It’s time to move it.”

  “Is the infrastructure ready?”

  “Yes.” Scully was aware of Whitacre’s disdain for him, but it didn’t bother him at all. The feeling was mutual. He had expressed his displeasure at the prospect of working with Whitacre to the higher-ups, but the decision to use Whitacre for the operation was final.

  “Have we decided which pocket the money will come from?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much will be transferred?”

  “A billion initially, then another billion later. It’s a lot, but thanks to our contacts no one will ever realize what’s happened.”

  “And the destination is no problem?”

  “The final details have been worked out,” Scully said proudly. He had been proposing this plan for years, but until recently no one had paid attention. Eighteen months ago the higher-ups had finally understood the incredible opportunity. Predictably, they were now claiming the idea as their own, but he didn’t care. He derived an immense amount of satisfaction because he knew down deep who was responsible, and he was patriotic to a fault. “Everything is ready.”

  Whitacre lit another cigarette. “The reach of this thing seems to grow every day.”

  Scully leaned over the table. “Does that scare you?”

  “No,” Whitacre replied hesitantly. What scared him was Scully.

  “Good.” Scully said, checking his watch. “Your CEO will be here in a few minutes, according to our people.”

  “Right,” Whitacre muttered. He felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. At least he was capable of remorse, he thought to himself. He knew Scully had none.

  “Have you ever been under fire, Mr. Whitacre?” Scully asked, a thin smile on his lips. “Ever had someone attack you brandishing a deadly weapon with the intent to kill?”

  Whitacre shook his head. “No,” he said. “Why?”

  “Just curious.” Scully pointed at a dark window above a grocery store across the street. “I’ll be right up there.”

  Whitacre realized the cigarette between his fingers was shaking and he quickly placed it in the ashtray. “It’s going to happen here?” he asked, swallowing hard.