by Green, Carey
He swung onto the West Side Highway and made his way towards upper Manhattan and the Bronx. He passed though Westchester as he made his ways towards the Taconic Parkway. Soon he was snaking down the highway with the Hudson River in view. The road was calm for a Friday evening, and the car was precise and smooth underneath his hands. He took the late cut-off and made his way towards Southern Connecticut.
Dylan found himself driving through bucolic country estates, pristine countryside only one hour from the city. Huge castle-like homes were off in the distance, both pristine and grotesque in their size and scope. It was hard to imagine how so few had amassed so much when so many had so little. He finally came to the she small discreet sign that listed no name or street. It simply said: 12. Dylan made the left turn and began down the small private road that was the entryway to Ray Corbin’s lair.
The mansion that Ray Corbin occupied had been built entirely from scratch. It consisted of a main house, pool house, and several satellite guesthouses that were each large enough for a family of five. From what Dylan had been told, Ray Corbin had been on hand to supervise much of the construction and had even been known to occasionally lend a shovel. The house featured 23 separate rooms, an indoor pool and an Olympic-sized outdoor one, a movie theater and a bowling alley. It was an oversized extravaganza whose construction the neighbors vehemently opposed. No doubt Ray had found a way to grease the hand of the local politicians, not to mention putting half the local construction companies on his payroll.
The circular driveway was a large oval that enclosed a garden. Plants and shrubs of various sizes marked the perimeter of the garden. The garden had a classical symmetry and set of lines that was marked by several large Greek statues. The Greek theme had been extended to the front of the house where two imposing columns marked the entryway, though the exterior of the house was done in red bricks. The house was an odd, hodgepodge of themes that could only have been built by a hedge fund manager. Dylan drove his car to the front of the house, and got out of his Porsche.
Dylan went to the door to knock. There wasn’t even a doorbell. He knocked on the door and could hear a large hollow side from inside. He then tried the door itself and found that it was unlocked. He entered the house with a hint of trepidation.
Dylan walked through the foyer to the living room. Several pieces of large, minimalist art hung on the wall. The furniture was futuristic and modern, like a Californian home in the back of a style magazine.
Dylan explored the first level of the house, then made his way up the second. Though Ray had been in the house for well over a year, it seemed to have an incomplete feel to it. Many rooms were still empty, with pieces of furniture still in various states of assembly. The vacant house, weighted down with expensive objects, felt bereft of any charm or true homeliness. He felt like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’
Finally, he came to a closed door upstairs and entered. From what he could tell, the room was a library, with rich mahogany bookshelves all around. There were several deer heads and one of a moose. A collection of different guns in cases lined the room. There were also several intricate models of clipper ships, enclosed in glass cases. It seemed to be the room of a captain of industry, the type of space where a man like Ray Corbin might kick up his heels after a long day on the trading floor.
The room faced the front of his estate. Dylan could see the lights of the gates that he had driven through. A large captain’s desk occupied the area in front of the window. The desk was large and sturdy. The horn of some animal lay across the desk. Dylan went over to touch it, and tripped over the near lifeless body of Ray Corbin.
Chapter 31
Dylan nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the body lying in the prostrate position below the window. An empty bottle of pills was lying on the floor. When he checked the body, it was almost lifeless. A breath of life was still clinging to Ray, but barely; his pulse was so light that Dylan had a hard time detecting it. Dylan’s adrenaline was racing as he tried to perform CPR. Ray’s body did not respond, and Dylan used the phone on Ray’s desk to frantically dial 911. By the time the call was complete, Ray’s pulse was completely gone.
Dylan ran downstairs to wait, and the ambulance arrived almost five minutes later. His shirt was drenched with sweat. He couldn’t believe how gingerly the two paramedics were moving.
“Hey!” Dylan shouted, “The guy is almost dead! Can you hurry!”
The two paramedics looked at each other, then at Dylan.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs! Dylan shouted. “Quick! I don’t think he has much time left!”
The paramedics rushed upstairs. Dylan watched as they attempted to revive Ray with both CPR and defibrillator paddles. Neither of the two worked. After a few minutes, they took Ray down the elevator and into the waiting ambulance. Dylan watched the ambulance drive away as the two police cars drove up.
Two of the police officers headed directly into the house, along with the housekeeper. The other two stayed behind. They walked over towards Dylan and began talking.
Both cops were the spitting image of each other. They could have been brothers. Both appeared to be in their late twenties, jet black hair, uniforms polished to a tee. They were a local version of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
“Are you the person who called 911?”
“Yes,” Dylan said. “I called.” Dylan went to extend his hand, but the officer reached for his pad instead.
“Who exactly are you?”
“I work for Ray Corbin, in Manhattan. I’m a trader.”
“I see. My name is officer Frank Deveraux. This is my partner, Pete. Pete Harper.”
“Gentlemen.”
“What brought you out to the house this evening?” Dylan hesitated for a moment as he tried to synthesize an excuse.
“I had a meeting with Ray Corbin.”
“Oh, he was expecting you?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Peter the shy cop, spoke up.
“So you just drove on out from Manhattan thinking you would pop in for a coffee?”
“Yes. I happened to be in the area. Mr. Corbin always preaches about an open-door policy. I finally thought I’d take him up on that.” Both cops looked at each other. Pete, the one with the pad, continued writing.
“And you found the body upstairs in Mr. Corbin’s study, correct?”
“Yes. He was just lying there. I attempted to perform CPR on him, but it already seemed to be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“He seemed as if he had already stopped breathing.”
“Excuse us for a moment.”
The men stepped away and huddled together. In the meantime, another police vehicle had arrived, bringing the total to four. Both of the new cops had gone directly upstairs. After a moment, Deveraux and Harper walked back over to him.
“I think we need to take you down to the station. You see, the maid was downstairs sleeping because it was her vacation day. She’s saying that even she didn’t know that Ray Corbin was going to be here tonight.”
“So,” Dylan asked, “what does that have to do with me?”
“So if she didn’t know, how the hell did you know?”
“The company computer had logged his location as here. That’s how I knew he was home. So it must be a coincidence.”
“Well, we take coincidences a little bit differently in our line of work than you do yours. That’s why it’s best if you come down with us.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Hey,” Deveraux said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “It’s up to you. You can go voluntarily, or not. You make the choice you feel is best.”
“Can I drive my own car?” Dylan said as he pointed towards his Porsche.
“Don’t worry,” Peters said, sarcastically. “It’s validated.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said as he began to walk towards their squad car.
The ride to the police station took under five minutes. The roa
d was littered with mansions, many on the scale of Ray Corbin’s. Dylan sat silently as he watched the gilded world of wealth float by his passenger side window.
The police station of Cos Cob, Connecticut looked like a fire station or camp lodge. It was a one story structure done up in white columns and red bricks. Dylan tried to remember the last time he had seen the inside of a police station. It was probably the time that he had lost his wallet and needed to file a police report to have his driver’s license expedited.
The quaint exterior of the police station exterior differed sharply from the inside. The station consisted mainly of one large, open room, with various hardwood benches scattered around a hodgepodge of desks. There were at least ten different cops assisting ten different groups of people. The myriad of civilization seemed to be present in that room: young and old, rich and poor, as if crime excluded no one. Deveraux walked him to a bench, and Dylan took a seat.
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Sure. You haven’t been arrested,” Deveraux said, his mouth twisted slightly in a sarcastic smile. “Use your cell. Just don’t leave.”
“Thanks. I won’t.”
Dylan got up from the bench and strolled to a quiet corner of the room. He dialed Vanessa and her voicemail immediately picked up. Dylan left a message explaining briefly the nature of the situation and his present location. He hung up the phone and tried to remember if he had left out any of the relevant details. He hoped desperately that she would pick up the message and phone him back.
Deveraux walked back over to him with a clipboard in his hands. “You’re going to visit with the captain. When he’s ready, he’ll send for you.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said.
Dylan waited on the bench for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, a deputy came out to see him. She was a black girl, tall and thin and still in her twenties. Her slim body seemed to be busting out from the uniform. She spoke loudly as she read from her stack of papers.
“Are you Dylan Cash? I’m Deputy Lucretia Thomas. Captain Martins is ready to see you.”
“A captain, huh?”
“Absolutely,” she said, a big smile plastered across her lips. “Follow me this way.”
Dylan followed her through the large inner room down a sterile hallway of cell-like offices. Each office door had a window, and Dylan found himself looking into each as he walked down the hall.
“First time here?”
“Yes,” Dylan said. “And hopefully my last.”
“I hope so too.”
She stopped in front of an open office door, and held out her arm as if to guide him in. “This is the captain’s office. Good luck.”
“Hopefully I won’t need it. But thanks.”
Dylan walked past her and entered the captain’s office.
Captain Richard Martins was what one expected in a detective. His wavy brown hair was purposely unkempt, and his jacket and tie were regulation police tweed. The first thing that Dylan noticed was that his lined and weary face gave nothing away, except that most of his night had been late ones, and they had been punctuated often by nightcaps. He said nothing as Dylan entered and took a seat in front of him. Dylan introduced himself and the captain simply nodded.
“Hello, Mr. Dylan Cash. So what were you doing out at the Corbin house?”
“Truthfully, detective, it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Well, Binky, my assistant at the firm is missing. I wanted to speak with Ray Corbin about it. He was very concerned about Binky’s disappearance.”
“He’s missing? Has a report been filed with the police?”
“It just happened today.”
“What makes you think he is missing, if it’s only today?”
“I went to his house and the place had been searched. This comes after Binky and I found some rather interesting information in Mr. Corbin’s computer system.”
“Did he authorize you to look at this information?”
“I was an employee.”
“Still, were you authorized?”
“No.”
“And what is this friends of yours name again?”
“Binky.”
“Binky?”
“Yes: a prep school thing. Charles Bannister is his real name.”
He looked at Dylan skeptically. “Well, Mr. Cash. You have a very colorful story. I’m not really sure what the hell it means right now, but it is colorful. Mr. Corbin is officially dead. We did speak with a woman named Martha Thomas who identified you as a key employee Mr. Corbin’s firm, so based on that, and an apparent suicide note, you are free to go. For the moment.”
Dylan quickly leaned forward in his chair. “There was a suicide note?”
“Apparently there was. I guess you didn’t see it. It was on his desk, written in black inky using an 18th century pen.”
“I didn’t see it. What did it say?”
“This is still an investigation, so I can’t get into details. But I would hope for you, and I do hope, that whatever Mr. Corbin died of, that you are not involved.”
“I understand.”
“So do me a favor. Leave all your information with the girl outside, OK? And, if you happen to be going to Puerto Rico or New Jersey, you let us know. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Have a nice evening. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Dylan exited the office without looking back. He found officer Deveraux who drove him back to his car.
Chapter 32
The news of Ray Corbin’s death spread like wildfire through the financial newspapers and websites. It was a major event. All the great hedge fund managers gave tribute. George Soros gave a quote to the Times, and Warren Buffet even sent flowers. As often happens in death, people were loath to say nasty things about Ray, even if it was their true desire. Many strove to say something kind. Of course some did not, blasting Ray in death much as they had during his life. Even as he was lowered into his grave, Ray was a polarizing figure.
Ray’s death had been ruled a suicide, though the coroner’s report was unofficial. A note had been found. The circumstances of his death, combined with Ray’s notoriety and status, had led many to believe that Foul play have been involved, though as far as Dylan knew, no criminal investigation was moving forward. Of course this was mostly speculation. It was hard for him to obtain information; he had not been into the office since the day of Binky’s disappearance.
Binky had been missing approximately five days. He had not spoken to Josh or anyone at Corbin’s office. Everything was in limbo. Conroy had been so tight-lipped that he had told Dylan not to call him for several weeks. Vanessa had told him very little. Now that he was no longer with Corbin, he knew that he had little value to the FBI. Whatever he was going to find out, he would have to dig him up on his own.
Dylan thought carefully about whether or not to attend Ray’s funeral. The funeral originally had been marked for family only, but Ray’s wife, Jocelyn, had eventually opened it up to a larger assortment of friends and colleagues.
The funeral was to be held in Christ Church of Cos Cob, Connecticut, a small neighborhood in the wealthy section of Greenwich. Dylan drove out early that morning. He found the church rather easily, and the funeral crowd was already gathering on the steps of the small white church. The church looked like it could hold no more than a few hundred people, and Dylan wondered why Ray Corbin’s family had chosen such a piece of small town Americana. Dylan found a parking spot around the corner, and made his way towards the church.
A hundred or so people had already gathered inside. Dylan could see the coffin up front, a shining silver basket adorned with gold decorations. The casket was sealed. Family members were taking their positions at the front of the church. Dylan located a seat in the back and waited for the service to begin. Soon, the organist began to play a prelude from Bach.
The minister was the first to speak. Dylan searched the front r
ow. He saw various individuals who were no doubt members of the extended family. The traders, office staff and others were seated in the first five or six rows. Martha was there dressed in all black. Dylan studied her closely. She was grieving more than the wife. Josh Corbin sat alone near the second row aisle.
He watched as various members of the financial community got up and spoke favorably of Ray’s life and all that he had accomplished. He had been, in his prime, a genius in the world of math and finance. Now, he left behind a legacy of sorrow.
Afterwards, the church procession led down the stairs and out onto the street. Dylan stood in the background as the casket made its way down the church steps and into the hearse. Richard King and Steve Wong were both pallbearers. The family took their place in a white stretch limo parked in front of the church. Dylan headed to his car and got in.
Dylan had decided to drive back to Manhattan, but something intrigued him. He made a U-turn in his car and drove around the block. He could see the funeral procession start to form approximately one block in front of him. He waited for the procession to start moving, then he followed. He lagged slowly behind, maintaining a distance of about one block.
The procession entered the highway, and traveled for a period of about two miles. After they turned off, they headed down a small road into the countryside.
The cemetery was located about a mile down the road. It was a small cemetery that looked to be the type open only to families who had relatives or connections to the area. Ancient looking tombstones marked the location.