“As many of you will have heard by now, this morning, in the United States Southern District Court, Timothy Callahan, the former CEO of Parmadin Asset Management, was found guilty on nine counts of conspiracy and securities fraud. This follows an exhaustive two-year investigation by my team as part of our increased focus on insider trading, something I promised you when I took on this role five years ago.” He paused long enough to scan the room for any approving nods. There were none. What did he expect from a bunch of cynical journalists? “I expect more indictments to follow in the coming months as we escalate the resources we devote to this particularly pernicious crime. I am determined to maintain New York’s leading position in global financial markets by making it clear to corrupt money managers and other members of the criminal fraternity who think they can game the system that they will be caught and punished.” He stared right at the TV camera in the center of the room. If the skeptical hacks in the room didn’t appreciate him, he’d make sure the TV audience at home did. After all, they were the ones who really mattered. “Your greed and crooked practices have no place here in this great city. You will not be tolerated.”
The media conference lasted another half an hour, most of which was taken up by a question-and-answer session. How much money had Callahan made from insider trading? Would he be forced to give it back? How many other suspects did Caravini’s department have under investigation right now? When could they expect to see more criminals brought to book? Why was it that, in spite of countless securities laws and SEC rules, so many on Wall Street still believed they could cheat the system? Then the question he’d been waiting for: when was he going to announce his candidacy for mayor? The good people of New York needed a Rottweiler like him to clean up other areas of the city.
Afterward, Caravini returned to his twenty-third-floor office overlooking Federal Plaza.
“Another great performance,” said Abi, his leggy, blond personal assistant when she brought through his usual strong coffee. “I’ll make sure to watch it again on this evening’s news. I’m so proud of you.”
She had one of those voices that made her raise the intonation at the end of each sentence, making statements sound like questions. Caravini found it irritating, but he’d never say anything.
He grabbed the coffee. “Thanks. I’m not sure I’ll have time to catch it.” In truth, he’d already telephoned his wife before the conference to make sure she recorded the live broadcast. Provided she didn’t deliberately screw it up, he’d watch it several times over when he got home and then again at the weekend before filing it away with all the other recordings.
Abi flashed her bleached white teeth. “Is it true they want you to run for the mayor’s office?” She had no idea Caravini had planted the mayor question by leaning on one of his journalist contacts, who owed him a favor.
“We’ll see. I need to give it a lot more thought. My work here is not done yet, but if the people come calling…”
“You’d make a great mayor.” Abi widened her eyes and held his gaze. “Do you need anything else before I go?”
“No, thanks,” he said, automatically brushing his hair back with his fingers.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Floyd wants a word.”
“Okay. Send him right in.”
She turned, and he watched her tight, round butt as she cat-walked to the exit.
A moment later, Floyd Crouten thumped on Caravini’s door. A stranger to exercise, but not to saturated fat, Crouten was a flabby field agent in his late twenties. But looks could deceive; Caravini had lost count of the times people had underestimated Crouten from his sloppy demeanor, only later to be stunned by his massive intellect and penetrating mind. Crouten was his go-to agent if an investigation required a big brain to be applied to a complex financial crime investigation. His skillful, behind-the-scenes legwork made Caravini look good.
Crouten didn’t stop to check if it was okay to enter. He barged in and flopped into the armchair to the side of Caravini’s desk.
“Do come in, Floyd,” said Caravini, emptying his coffee. “Don’t worry; you’re not interrupting anything.”
The sarcasm was lost on Crouten, who patted down his loose-fitting suit jacket until he found his smartphone and then used his fat thumb to turn it onto silent for this meeting. “I wanted a brief word,” he said in his rural Kentucky drawl.
“Yeah, I got that much. Abi mentioned it.”
Crouten’s attention was disturbed by a text message flashing up on his phone.
“What did you think of the news conference?” Caravini asked.
Crouten continued scrolling through the message. “Didn’t see it.”
“Everyone else was there. They seemed to think it was important enough to attend.”
“I had a lunch meeting out.” Crouten put his phone away and then focused on his boss.
Caravini screwed his face. “Must have been a late lunch. You do realize the Callahan conviction represents the biggest success this unit’s ever had? Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t make the presentation.”
“If I have time, I’ll try to catch it on the news tonight.”
“That would be real peachy of you, Floyd. Now, what do you want to see me about?”
Crouten shifted his weight, making himself more comfortable. “A couple of things have come up on the Grannis investigation I thought you ought to know about.”
“I don’t want you wasting too much time on that one. He’s a small fish.”
“Maybe, but I think he can lead us to some pretty big sharks.”
“Listen, what we need now are quick wins. I want scalps this year—more Parmadins.”
“I hear you.” Crouten unwrapped a stick of gum and threw it in the direction of his gaping mouth before offering the pack to Caravini.
“No thanks.”
“I may have a scalp or two for you on Grannis.” Crouten made a slapping sound as he chewed on the gum with his mouth open.
Caravini pursed his lips, finding it hard to ignore the noise. “Go on.”
“I’ve had Brad Kaminski watching the Grannis building for me.”
“Who’s Kaminski?”
“He’s one of my new guys. He’s very keen. Bright with it, too.”
“So what’s he come up with?”
“He’s been checking out who their visitors are and whatnot. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, he followed a young guy into their building on Cedar Street. He went up to the floor where Grannis has his offices and then left a few minutes later. Kaminski says the man didn’t actually go into Grannis’s suite, just sort of hung around outside.”
Caravini exhaled loudly through his nose. “Is this actually going anywhere? I don’t have all day.”
Crouten ignored the question. “Kaminski says he got a good look at the visitor’s book downstairs when he signed in. He came up with something real interesting.” He paused and used a middle finger to pick at a piece of gum stuck to one of his molars.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Turns out the young visitor in the smart suit was called Glen Towers.”
Caravini shook his head no. “Means nothing to me.”
“It won’t. He’s just a first-year associate.”
“Associate? Where?”
“This is the bit I thought would interest you. He’s a rookie at none other than Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton.”
“You’re certain he went to Grannis’s floor?”
“Positive.” Another pick at the gum.
“What’s an associate from a blue blood firm like Dudek’s doing mixing with that lowlife?”
Crouten beamed from ear to ear. “Same question I had.”
“Okay, Floyd. I want you to keep watching Towers. See if he turns up there again. This could lead us somewhere.”
“I’m already onto it.”
“You look so handsome, honey.” Cindy poured two more mugs of coffee from the glass jug and brought them to the breakfast table. “I wish I could have been there
to see the whole thing live.”
Caravini reached for the TV remote and turned up the volume so he could hear the rerun of his news conference over his wife’s prattling. While he’d watched the recording several times last night, there was something special about seeing himself live on the breakfast news, complete with all the analysis by the TV pundits.
“Don’t it ever make you sick?” Cindy said before filling her mouth with non-fat yogurt and granola.
“What?” Caravini turned up the volume some more to drown out her crunching.
She waited until she’d finished chewing. “The money all these people make.”
“What people?”
“All these investment bankers and their lawyers and accountants earn more in one year than you do in ten. Doesn’t that bother you?” Another mouthful of granola.
“No. Why should it?” Caravini shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“You went to Wharton and you were a lawyer at the SEC. You could have been making their money by now.”
“I’ll tell you what makes me puke,” he said, giving up on watching the news conference in peace. He’d watch the recording of this one later, too. “When I see some of these people cheating the system to make millions more. I don’t get it. Already they earn the kind of money most people can only dream of, and then they go and break the law to make more so they can go out and buy…what? Another yacht or a third home in the Hamptons? It’s their smug arrogance that gets to me, as though the laws are there only for the little people. That’s what makes me sick.”
“Then stop talking about it and go run for mayor. You can do something about it then.”
“I’m working on it. All I need is another trophy indictment like the one we had yesterday.” He pointed to the TV. “More of that kind of publicity, and I’m on my way.”
“That’s more like it.” Cindy smiled at him. “You know, the mayor’s wife has a nice ring to it.”
Caravini picked up his BlackBerry and pretended to scan his e-mails. Maybe Cindy would stop bitching about the money he wasn’t making if he made it to the mayor’s office. Maybe, too, he’d have a chance to poke in the eye some of those conceited Wall Street clowns she seemed to look up to so much.
Chapter 12
TUESDAY EVENINGS, MICHAEL STILL TAUGHT the adult literacy class at Westport Community College, though, with the pressure of work, he wondered how much longer he’d be able to continue with it. Starting not long after they first had Hannah six years ago, he and Caroline had tried to make Wednesdays their regular date night. Unfortunately, the moment he became a salaried partner, this went out of the window, and they were lucky now if they made it out one Wednesday in every two months.
Tonight, however, Michael was able to escape the office in time, much to Caroline’s shock when he telephoned to say he’d already booked the restaurant. Her sister, Jo, turned up at seven thirty to look after the girls while Caroline finished getting ready. As soon as Michael arrived home just after eight, they set off to The Atlantic Bar & Grill on Hillspoint Road, overlooking Compo Cove.
He ordered the striped bass but, when Caroline opted for the Singapore chili crab salad, he wondered about changing his order to the same thing. On reflection, Caroline’s did sound more appealing, but he’d only be accused of copying her if he switched, so he stuck with his first choice. Besides, he figured he could always have a taste of the crab when it came. Caroline wouldn’t mind.
“Have the police been in touch since last Friday?” she asked after the waiter disappeared with their menus.
Taking some time to sip his chilled Prosecco, Michael thought how best to answer. Whatever he came up with would have to be a lie, so the less said the better. “No, but I don’t expect them to find anything that quickly. I think the men who jumped me were a just couple of opportunists hanging around the station car park. They’ll have moved on by now, knowing the police are likely to be monitoring the area. We’ve never had any trouble down there before.”
“If they’re not, the police certainly need to be patrolling the station. I still can’t believe those men pulled a gun on you.” Caroline reached over and squeezed his hand. “You could have been hurt.”
“They won’t be back. They’d have to be mad to do that.”
She smiled at him, as if to say: “Make sure you are careful, and don’t ever do anything stupid again,” and then took a sip of her drink. “How have your first few weeks as an equity partner been? I love saying that, don’t you? Equity partner.”
“The truth?”
Caroline nodded.
“Really hard work. This telecoms deal I have on is soaking up pretty much all my time. And it will continue to do so for another couple of weeks. I’m hoping things will calm down a bit after that.”
“I hope so, too. I’m not used to you being like this.”
“Like what?”
“So tired and exhausted. Since your promotion, you’ve been looking dreadful.”
“That’s nice.”
“Well, it’s true. Are you still making time for the gym at lunchtimes?”
“I haven’t been in weeks.”
Caroline pursed her lips in disapproval. “You can’t work the hours you’re putting in without looking after yourself. That’s why you hear stories about people dying of a heart attack at forty. Be careful, Michael.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking of buying a running machine for home. One of those Life Fitness treadmills the gyms have.”
Michael made that up on the spur of the moment to distract Caroline from digging too deeply. Focus on the cure, rather than the cause. He could hardly tell her the real reason he looked like a piece of shit, that it had nothing to do with his work or lack of exercise. Who wouldn’t look bad, having to deal with the blackmail pressure from Rondell and the near-death experience he’d had a few days ago? How long could he continue blaming the stress of work before Caroline started to suspect something else was going on?
“Let’s do it. I’d use it, too. You know I can’t stand going to gym with all those pretentious types.”
Thankfully, the waiter brought their meals and took the heat off Michael, and soon the conversation moved on to their daughters and where they might go on vacation later in the year, if he could spare the time. By ten o’clock, they were enjoying a decaf coffee, and the restaurant was almost empty.
Caroline glanced at her watch. “We need to be heading back soon. I promised Jo we’d be no later than ten thirty.”
Michael reached into his jacket for his wallet. “I’ll get the check. I have another busy day tomorrow anyway.”
“So what’s different about that?” Caroline looked over Michael’s shoulder toward the bar area, as if something had caught her attention.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a man, appearing out of nowhere from behind Michael moments later.
Caroline frowned.
“I’ve been sitting with friends in the bar all night,” said the man, tapping Michael on the shoulder, “and I’m sure I recognized you.”
Michael flinched and then spun round. There was something very familiar about the man’s voice.
Suddenly, Rondell was standing over him. “Aren’t you from Chicago?” he asked, beaming from ear to ear.
Caroline looked at Michael, her face full of confusion.
Terror consumed Michael’s brain, freezing out all capacity to think. He stared at Rondell, motionless, eyes wide open. His mouth gaped, but he could find no words. What was he doing here?
Rondell rolled his head. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Caroline forced a polite smile. “Do you two know each other?”
Rondell threw his hands wide open. “Know each other? We practically grew up together.” He grabbed a chair from the empty table next to them, pulled it up to theirs, and sat down.
Michael remained frozen. “I’m not sure I—”
“Danny Boy, it’s me, Rondell.”
“Rondell.” Michael�
��s face was impassive. “Of course. My goodness.”
“Man. It must be at least twenty-five years.” Rondell soft-punched Michael in the chest. “You haven’t changed a bit, my friend.”
Michael patted his stomach. “Well, maybe a bit more weight.”
What was this maniac doing here? His men said he had until Friday to start delivering information on the first deal. Had Rondell lost patience and changed his mind? Was he about to be exposed? Already he’d mentioned Michael’s childhood name and Chicago. What must Caroline be thinking, hearing all this?
Jesus.
Rondell laughed. “Weight? Hey, that gets to us all.” He looked at Caroline. “And who is this beauty?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is my wife.”
“My name’s Caroline.” She reached across the table and shook Rondell’s hand. “Michael here seems to have forgotten my name as well as his manners.”
“You did well, Danny Boy. She’s a stunner.”
Caroline’s face turned red, and she looked away.
“I bet you’re going to tell me next you’ve got a couple of beautiful kids, as well.”
Caroline’s face lit up. “That’s right. Two daughters.”
“How lovely.”
“Why do you call him Danny?”
Rondell screwed his face. “Because that’s—”
Michael’s pulse shot up and his brain went into overdrive. “That was the nickname I had as a child,” he said before Rondell could finish his sentence. Short of running out of the restaurant, how the hell was he going to get out of this?
Once a Killer Page 7