Once a Killer

by Martin Bodenham

  “Thanks. I’m looking forward to the next one.”

  “That won’t be long.”

  Michael carried on looking at the PC when Towers left. The fees on this deal would take the firm’s average profits per partner into the big league, just as Art Jenks had hoped. Although Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton would be earning millions on the transaction, Michael still wouldn’t have been upset to see it abort at the last minute—anything to deprive Rondell of the illegal profits he’d be making today.

  He drained the last of the coffee from his paper cup and watched the stock price as the deal hit the news screen. Immediately, it shot to twenty-nine dollars and eighty cents. That was it; Rondell was now sitting on a huge profit, all of it as a result of Michael’s illegal tip-off. He closed the windows on the PC and stared at the blank screen. A mix of shame and resentment channeled through him. He’d allowed himself to be used, and in the process, he’d just broken the law, deceived his biggest client, and jeopardized his firm’s reputation. Because of Rondell, he was now a serious criminal and a lawyer who couldn’t be trusted. What would Caroline think of him if she knew what he’d done today?

  Half an hour later, when a call came in from Etling on his direct line, Michael’s heart sank.

  “Congratulations,” he said before she could say anything. His tone was upbeat, but hardly ecstatic.

  “Just thought I’d call to thank you and your team for a job well-done,” said Etling, her voice sounding excited and relieved. “We got there.”

  “It was tight, but we did it.”

  “Not that I ever doubted we would.”

  “Thanks for the work.”

  “You’re very welcome. Anyway, I’m going to try to get some sleep. Make sure you do, too.”

  “You worried about me? Late nights are meat and drink to us over here, remember.”

  “No. It’s just that you’re going to need it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got two more deals for you to take a look at for me.”

  “People are going to start talking.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Because we see so much of each other.”

  “Let them. You did a great job for us on Spar, Michael. I mean that.”

  He closed his eyes. In normal circumstances, he’d be thrilled with the news of further deals from a satisfied client, particularly a client as prestigious as Corton Zander. Most of his partners would give a right arm to have client relationship as strong and productive as this one. But more transactions were the last thing Michael wanted right now. They’d only end up being shared with Rondell. How else was he going to keep him off his back?

  “Thanks. Always good to have more work in the pipeline.”

  “And there’ll be plenty more after these.”

  “Sounds good. Shall I come over to see you later this week to discuss them?”

  “Yes, but there’s no hurry. Get some sleep.” Etling ended the call.

  Desperate to escape the airless office, Michael scanned his Outlook calendar—his first appointment was still two hours away—and then stood up and grabbed his jacket. He said nothing to Rachel as he rushed by her desk and took the elevator to the ground floor. After leaving the building, he walked north on Broadway, passing the Crowne Plaza hotel on his left. The sidewalks were quiet. Most commuters were already at their desks, and it was too early for all but the keenest tourists. He continued north, walking against the never-ending traffic, crossed West 49th, and took a right along West 50th. Mamma Mia was still playing at the Winter Garden. The cell phone in his pocket kept ringing, but Michael was in no mood to talk to anyone, so he ignored it. He just needed space to think.

  How was he ever going to get out of Rondell’s grip? Now that the Spar deal was live, Rondell would have seen the very real profits Michael could bring to his hedge fund. Having tasted the money on this one, he’d soon be pushing for more. And given the way Etling was talking just now, pretty soon, Michael and his team were going to be flooded with new transactions, most of which, no doubt, would involve public companies, in whose stock Rondell could trade. There was no use in him pretending he had no work on. It was realistic to assume Rondell’s people would be watching him at the office somehow, recording when he was busy on new assignments. Besides, denying he had anything to share was an excuse that could only last a few weeks at best. The pressure to deliver another Spar would still be there; it wouldn’t go away. And even if he stood up to Rondell now—called his bluff, said there would be no more, and took the risk of being attacked by his cronies—it wouldn’t end there. Not only did he have enough on Michael to ruin his marriage, but now he also had evidence that Michael had shared inside information on the Spar deal. If it ever came to it, Rondell wouldn’t hesitate to use that. He’d just given his enemy more ammunition that could be used against him. The leaked details on Spar alone would be enough to destroy his career and see him incarcerated.

  There’s no going back from here.

  When he returned to the office an hour later, Michael checked the missed calls on his iPhone. All but one of them were from Rondell, who’d also left two voice mails demanding Michael call back. He closed his office door and stood at the window overlooking Broadway. Times Square was beginning to get busy with tourists now. He hit Rondell’s number. No doubt the man was going to crow about all the money he’d just made, the last thing Michael wanted to hear at this moment.

  “What do you want?” Michael asked as soon as the call was answered.

  “That’s no way to speak to an old friend, Danny Boy.”

  “I haven’t got time for this. What do you want?”

  “Two things. I wanted to thank you for your help on the deal. You provided some great advice, and things worked out real well. Good job, counselor.”

  Rondell was shrewd. Even though the call was cell phone to cell phone, he was talking in riddles, never disclosing the real nature of the conversation. It came so naturally to him that it was clear he was used to doing this, just in case the conversation was overheard.

  “And the second thing?”

  “Well, that’s the main purpose of my call, really. I need some more help; more of the same, if you know what I mean.”

  Michael tapped his forehead against the window, racking his brain for a way out. “These things don’t come along every day. I can’t help you right now.”

  “Whoa. Is that the way you speak to your other clients when they need your help?”

  “You’re not my client.”

  “Cut the crap, Danny Boy. You know what I need.”

  “You’ll have to be patient. I can’t force the pace on these things.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m able to help you again. Okay?”

  “Not okay. In fact, it’s about as far away from being okay as you can get.”

  “Look, I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. This is not easy.”

  “All right. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

  That went better than expected. Was Rondell actually going to accept the pace being set by Michael? In that case, maybe Michael could manage the risk by keeping the deals he shared to an absolute minimum: just enough to keep Rondell happy, but not so frequent so as to raise the suspicions of the authorities.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Michael said. “If you don’t hear from me for a while, please don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

  “Just one more thing before you go.” Rondell’s tone was chatty now, almost pleasant.

  “Go on.”

  “Moving the conversation away from business for a moment.” Rondell paused. “How’s the family? How are your two lovely daughters, Hannah and Emily? It’s been a while since I saw them. How old are they now? I’m guessing six and four, but I’m probably way off.”

  A chill coursed through Michael, and the muscles in his neck constricted. Was this sicko threatening his family again? He supported his weight by leaning h
is left hand against the window. “You stay away from my family. I don’t want—”

  “I’m just being friendly. I think you misunderstand what—”

  “I know exactly what you’re trying to do. Let me spell it out for you, you sick fuck. You go anywhere near my family, and I’ll kill you.”

  Michael terminated the call and turned around. Rachel was waiting at the door with the mail in her hands.

  “Are you okay, Michael?”

  Christ. How much did she hear?

  Chapter 22

  GLASS EYE STOOD INSIDE the back entrance of 26 Cedar Street, oblivious to the smell of fried onions and chilies drifting in from the Indian restaurant next door. With one hand, he propped open the spring door, and with the other, he held a cigarette. When he finished, he threw the stub outside and let the door slam shut.

  “Right,” he said to the guard who was sitting at the security desk, reading a copy of the TV Guide. “Let’s go.”

  The guard rose to his feet and slipped on his jacket before joining Glass Eye at the front doorway. Both of them sauntered across the street and entered Curly’s, where they ordered coffees to go. While they waited, they sat in a booth a few tables back from the front window.

  Glass Eye jutted his chin toward the booth in the window. “Is that them? The two guys right at the front?”

  The guard threw a casual glance over his shoulder and then turned to Glass Eye. “The fat one, I recognize. He’s been in and out of our building a few times. I’m less certain about the young guy with him. He looks familiar, but—”

  “You’re sure about the big guy?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve seen him here a couple of times when I’ve come in for a coffee. Always takes the front seat, and always stares out of the window at our building.”

  Glass Eye hid his face behind a menu as he stared at the two men chatting and occasionally looking out across the street. The young man appeared to be nursing an empty mug while the other stabbed at what was left of his breakfast.

  “Okay,” Glass Eye said, tapping his palms on the edge of the table. “I’ve seen enough.” He stood up. “Come on.”

  On their way out, they grabbed the paper coffee cups off the end of the counter and then returned to their office across the street. Moments later, Glass Eye drove his Escalade out of the underground car park and along the one way down Cedar. As he edged past Curly’s, he looked at the two men still sitting in the front window. The big guy appeared to have moved on to a slice of pie.

  Glass Eye parked at the William Street end of Cedar, where he could watch who was coming and going at Curly’s through his rearview mirror. He settled down for a long wait by firing up another cigarette and turning on the car radio, dialing through the presets until he found something he liked. He stopped at Neil Diamond singing “Love on the Rocks” and then tapped the steering wheel as he sang along, never once taking his eye off the mirror.

  Three Marlboros later, he spotted the two men leaving Curly’s. They scanned the street before climbing into a gray van parked four vehicles behind the Escalade. Glass Eye threw his unfinished cigarette out of the window and started up his engine. He waited for the van to drive past him before pulling out and following them north on William and then left onto Maiden Lane. Six minutes later, the van took a right off Worth and into Lafayette, coming to a halt at Federal Plaza, where the big guy jumped out while the other drove on. Glass Eye decided to pull over and watch where the man headed on foot. From his demeanor in Curly’s, this one appeared to be the more senior of the two, so it made sense to trail him rather than the van.

  “Shit!” Glass Eye said out loud when he saw the man enter one of the office blocks. “These bastards are FBI.”

  He swung the SUV around and headed straight back to Cedar Street.

  Rondell was on the speakerphone to Anthony Liquorish when Glass Eye tapped on his door. His boss waved at him to come in and take a seat.

  “That’s right. Almost forty mil on one deal,” Rondell said, resting his feet on the edge of his desk. “And you can tell Prague we anticipate plenty more just like it. Tell them the big dog’s back.”

  “I knew I was right to move the Alpha monies to you,” said Liquorish from the other end of the line. “Knew it all along.”

  “We’ll find a good home for it all. You can quote me on that.” Rondell glanced across the desk at Glass Eye’s face. Never a happy man, he looked like he’d just returned from the funeral of a close family member.

  “I will. Our friends will be very pleased,” said Liquorish.

  Rondell ended the call and frowned at Glass Eye. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Broken a nail?”

  “You ain’t gonna like it,” Glass Eye said.

  Rondell took his feet off the desk and sat forward. “What is it?”

  “You remember I mentioned the guy on security last week? About the men he’d seen?”

  “Sure. He was convinced someone was watching the building.”

  “Turns out he was right.”

  “Well, put someone on it. Find out who they are.”

  “I checked it out myself today. I followed them back to their offices. Just got back.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I think we’re being watched by the Feds.”

  Rondell closed his eyes. “Fuck! That’s all we need. You heard me on the phone just now, promising things were about to get a whole lot better.”

  “Who were you talking to? The Brit?”

  Rondell nodded. “I told him he could tell the Czechs their money’s safe with us, and they’re about to see some great returns. Hell, I pretty much gave him a guarantee.”

  “Based on what? The lawyer?”

  “Yeah. Danny Boy’s going to transform our business.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “He’ll come through. I know that much.”

  “So how we gonna handle the Feds?”

  “Find out who it is we’re dealing with over there first.”

  “Want me to take care of it or put someone on it?”

  “I want you to do it. Do whatever you have to do. I want names, and I want to know how high this goes. Nothing’s more important right now. We can’t have them getting in our way.”

  “Shouldn’t take me long. Could just be they’re on a fishing expedition.”

  “That’s possible, but I don’t like the timing, right after the Spar deal.” Rondell rolled his head, as if he was trying to release a tight muscle in his neck. “This is the last thing we need. Not now I’ve made commitments to Prague.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Chapter 23

  CINDY WAS WEARING A BLACK LEOTARD under a Nike tracksuit top when she picked up her car keys to leave. “I’ll see you tonight, Honey.” She kissed Fabrizio Caravini on the right cheek. “All I ask is that you think about it, okay?”

  “Maybe next month,” he said before biting into his whole wheat toast. “I’m just too busy right now.”

  “But the show ends next weekend.”

  “I’m making no promises.”

  Cindy flashed one of her sulky looks and then turned away. “See you tonight.”

  “Enjoy your spinning class.”

  “It’s yoga on Wednesdays,” she said, shaking her head as she walked out of the kitchen.

  He spread another slice of toast with some bitter-tasting butter substitute—another of Cindy’s great ideas.

  Nice of her to mention the Parmadin case before she left. She was so self-absorbed, it didn’t even register.

  When Cindy closed the front door behind her, Caravini reached for the remote and turned up the TV volume to watch the news at the top of the hour. It was the first story:

  Yesterday, Timothy Callahan, the disgraced former CEO of Parmadin Asset Management, was sentenced to ten years for his part in the Parmadin insider trading scandal that rocked Wall Street last year. Convicted last month on nine counts of conspiracy and securities fraud, Callahan was considered the lynchpin in
this massive criminal case. The high profile conviction follows a number of other cases led by Fabrizio Caravini, head of the FBI’s financial crimes unit here in New York City…

  Caravini checked the flashing light on his TiVo to make sure it was recording the news report. He’d watch it again later this evening, after Cindy went to bed. He finished his toast and washed it down with the remains of his orange juice before heading off to work.

  “Congratulations on Parmadin,” said Abi, bringing him the mail not long after he arrived at the office. She was wearing a figure-hugging top, revealing just enough cleavage to keep his attention. “Ten years must be a record.”

  He looked up, touched back the hair behind his right temple, and treated her to a self-important smile. “Thanks,” he said, taking from her with one hand the cup of coffee she’d brought in and rubbing his fingers along her forearm with the other. “Are you still okay for our weekend?”

  She threw him a knowing look. “Just wish it was sooner. Three weeks is a long time. I can’t wait that long.”

  He watched her rear as she turned and strutted out of his office.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, swiveling round in the doorway. “Floyd would like a word.”

  “Tell him to come in now if he wants to catch me. Otherwise, I’m tied up with press interviews for most of today.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Crouten took his usual slumped position in the armchair to the side of Caravini’s desk when he came through a few minutes later.

  “There’ve been a few developments I thought you ought to know about,” he said, shifting his weight to get comfortable. He was carrying a bunch of loose papers in one hand and a half-eaten Snickers bar in the other.

  Caravini spotted the papers. “I hope this won’t take long, Floyd. I’ve got a whole pack of press people waiting to see me this morning.” He wrinkled his nose, feigning displeasure at the prospect of yet more news-hungry journalists to deal with.

  “Oh yeah? What about?”

  For an intelligent man, Crouten sure could be thick sometimes. “The Parmadin sentencing, of course. What else?”