“No,” I said adamantly. “He may have worked there, may even have made trips, but Joe wasn’t the kind of person who would have been mixed up with drugs.”
“I can imagine this is hard for you to accept,” she said, not unkindly. “He was your friend, but Jesso was a key player in the Shore organization. He knew what he was doing. The question now is did the organization know what he was doing with you?”
“I’m not following you.”
“Jesso’s bank accounts were at Shore, with the exception of the account at Northern Trust he used for his activities with you. What I haven’t been able to determine is where the money in the Northern Trust account came from.”
“I’m still not following you.”
“His accounts at Shore had regular activity—deposits, withdrawals. I didn’t find any transfers to Northern Trust. The Northern Trust money was deposited to the account in large chunks, sixty-to-seventy thousand each, over the two-year period before he retired. I can’t find where that money came from. It just appears there.”
I didn’t like where this was headed. “Are you saying it wasn’t his money? That it was stolen?”
She took a sip of her soda, nodded, set the can back down. “I think it’s possible he took those funds, yes.”
The knot that had been forming in my stomach yanked tight. “How can we find out?”
That got a small laugh. “Well, we can’t call D’Onifrio and ask if he’s missing any money.”
“I realize that, but what can we do?”
“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t do anything. We don’t know for sure it was Menendez money. If it was, they may not know it’s missing.”
“Isn’t that taking a hell of a chance?”
“I think poking around in this—in any way, shape, or form—would be taking a hell of a lot bigger chance. As soon as I saw what was happening, I backed away. Fast. I don’t want one of D’Onifrio’s men visiting me in the middle of the night.”
“That’s what they do?” I surprised myself with how frightened I sounded.
She smiled. “I don’t know what they do. I was just saying I don’t want anything to do with those people.”
“Well, even if it is stolen money, even if they find out he invested it with me, the money is in Joe’s estate. There’s nothing I can do about that.”
She smiled again. “That’s the other problem I need to tell you about.”
Chapter 8
“Maybe you already know this.” She gave me another one of those quizzical looks. “I made the assumption, because you know so little, you wouldn’t know this either.”
The lady really knew how to dish out a compliment. “Know what?” I asked peevishly.
“You’re executor of Jesso’s estate.”
Boom. Blindsided again.
She read the bewilderment on my face. “You didn’t know.”
“No. He never mentioned anything about that. I knew he had very specific thoughts about where he would leave his money—a cancer institute in memory of his mother, a burn hospital, Meals on Wheels. He never shared anything about my being his executor.” An interesting thought hit me. “I’m surprised I’m executor. You’d think he’d have named Nevitt or his wife. In fact, knowing what we know about her, you’d think she’d have insisted on it.”
“They were married only what—a week? She probably didn’t have a chance to get it changed. This probably caught her by surprise, too. Another reason I think his death really was from natural causes.”
That made sense. I nodded.
She studied me for a minute. “Are you going to be able to deal with this?”
I knew where she was going. As executor, my job would be to hand over Joe’s assets to Janet. I was going to be working for her. The thought made the knot in my stomach pulse.
She drained the last of her Diet Coke, closed her notebook, tucked it in her briefcase, and stood. “Well, that’s all the good news I have to share today.” She smiled. “Looks like it’s all the good news you can handle.”
She was right. I didn’t need any more.
“If I hear anything else, I’ll give you a call. But I think my inquiries are finished. I’ll send you a memo along with an itemized statement.”
“That’s fine,” I said wearily.
“Call me if you need anything else.”
I nodded, only half hearing her, my mind scrambling for answers. Why hadn’t Joe told me I was his executor? He’d hidden his background from me; what else was he hiding?
“I’ll see myself out.”
How much trouble was I going to have with druggies from Shore Bank? How much from Janet? That reminded me of something. “Tory, before you go, I have one other question. Were you able to find out how Joe and Janet met?”
She stopped in the doorway. “They met at A.A. Usually sat together. Often went out for coffee together after meetings.”
Alcoholics Anonymous. Great place to find a vulnerable older man. “Thanks.”
She continued to watch me. “You okay?”
“Just a lot to deal with. I’ll be fine.”
She left.
Eddie knew I was low. He came over and put his head on my thigh, stared up at me. I reached down and rubbed his ears. “We’ll get through this, Eddie. We’ve been through worse.”
Rosemary stuck her head in the door. I motioned to her. “C’mon in.”
“I hope you’re not mad at me,” she said, sitting in the same visitor’s chair Tory had just vacated.
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“I left the intercom open and listened in. I heard every word. It’s horrible.”
“I’m shocked. I still can’t come to grips with Joe being involved in drugs.” I faltered, not knowing how to put what I was feeling into words.
“I know you two were close, and I know it looks bad. But as me mum used to say, ‘It’s always darkest before the dawn.’ Things will get better; I’m sure of it.”
“What worries me is something my dad used to say.”
“Oh?”
“For things to get better they must first get far worse.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”
I had the feeling my dad knew more than her mum.
Chapter 9
That night I didn’t sleep well. I had new things to give me nightmares. Somewhere around two-thirty in the morning, as I paced the condo, one brilliant idea did come to me: call Julian and see if he could get me out of being executor. That was the only bright spot in a bleak night.
Unfortunately, Julian wasn’t sitting in his office waiting for my call. I tried him early, mid, and late morning, at lunchtime. He was in meetings, depositions, then court.
By two that afternoon, hope was all but extinguished. I gave up on him.
“Hold the fort,” I told Rosemary as I headed out. “The Power Squadron is holding a memorial service for Joe. I should be back by four if anybody needs to talk to me.”
“The Power Squadron? What would that be?”
“Tell you later,” I said as Eddie and I went out the door. It would have taken too long to explain. The Power Squadron was a good-boating-practices service organization. Although Joe had never owned a boat, he’d belonged to the organization for years. I suspected it was an excuse for a group of geezers to get together, swap stories, have a few highballs, feel important. I knew Joe took the organization very seriously. He had served on the luncheon, welcoming, and burial-at-sea committees.
Power Squadron headquarters turned out to be a white, one-story, flat-roofed, concrete-block building with few windows and fewer nautical touches. On the plus side, it did have a generous parking lot. I cruised the lanes looking for a spot, my Saab an alien in the land of Florida Fords. I parked and followed a stooped man with a cane into the building.
Inside, I found a large, dimly-lit room, two dozen older men and one or two women, all chatting and milling about. Card table chairs had been set up in rows facing a lectern. I’d entered at the back
of the room. As I glanced around, getting my bearings, I saw Janet Wakeman and Greg Nevitt talking to a bald man in what looked like a naval uniform complete with insignia and ribbons and gold braid on the sleeves.
I watched as he motioned Janet and Greg to seats in the first row and stepped up on the raised platform and walked to the lectern. He adjusted his glasses, got them to his liking, surveyed the audience. Apparently, he found it to his liking also. He banged his gavel on the lectern. “Please take seats and we’ll get started.”
I found a seat in the back and counted heads. Thirty-two.
“We’re here to pay tribute to one of our own, Joseph Jesso, a sailor who has made his final voyage. We’ll begin with a prayer. I call on Chaplain Richard Greier.”
The Chaplain stepped up and recited—in a high, sing-song voice—the seaman’s prayer.
I joined in the “Amen” at the end, sat back, and listened as the guy in the fancy uniform stepped back to the podium and delivered a few terse remarks. He kept glancing past me. I looked back and discovered what he was watching for: the bar was now open.
He quickly finished his remarks about “our shipmate Joseph,” presented a proclamation encased in a cheap, thin wooden frame to Janet, and declared the memorial service adjourned. He strode confidently from the podium toward the bar, shaking hands as he went.
That was enough for me. I stood and headed for the door. I was just reaching for the doorknob when a hand on my shoulder pulled me to a stop. I turned. Nevitt.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Seattle,” he said with a sneer. “But it saves me the trouble of calling you. I’m having you removed as executor. I want you to know that.”
The confrontational way he said it made me angry. I took a deep breath, forced myself to reply calmly. “I can understand that as a lawyer, you’re probably more qualified to handle things. That’s fine with me. Give my condolences to your sister.” I turned to go.
“I want the money back you cheated Joe out of,” he said belligerently. “You ripped off the old guy. You’re not getting away with it.”
“What are you talking about?” A crowd was beginning to form around us.
“You kept buying and selling his stocks so you could run up commissions. You made a lot of money at his expense. You stole his retirement.”
“I did not.”
“Yeah, right. Tell that to the N.A.S.D.”
Mention of the National Association of Securities Dealers hit me like a Mike Tyson uppercut. They were the group that looked into securities fraud. With them, you were guilty until proven innocent. “Tell what to the N.A.S.D.?”
“I filed a complaint charging you with churning, and I demanded damages. You’re not going to get away with preying on the elderly.”
Some of the geezers in the crowd were beginning to nod, say, “Yeah.”
“I didn’t do anything Joe didn’t want done,” I said defensively and left.
I got in the Saab, drove out of there. I was too agitated to drive while I was using the car phone, so I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and dialed Julian’s number. Amanda, his assistant, answered.
“Amanda, I need to talk to him. This is an emergency.” In a moment, Julian was on the line.
“Listen, I know I should—”
“Forget about that. I’ve got big trouble. Nevitt just told me he’s filed a complaint against me with National Association of Securities Dealers.”
“What kind of complaint?”
“Churning. He’s demanding damages.”
“What’s churning? Why is he demanding damages?”
“Churning is when a broker buys and sells stocks rapidly to make more commissions. The faster the portfolio is churned, the more money is made. Accusations of churning are reviewed by a mediator who has the authority to award damages.”
“Okay, I understand what it is. But you didn’t churn this guy, Matt. What are you worried about?”
“I bought and sold a lot of stocks for him. He liked to get in and out of things quickly. Could be close to 400% a year. If it is, I’m dead. The N.A.S.D. automatically pulls your license.”
“Oh.”
“Even if it isn’t, I’m going to look guilty. This is bad. Really bad.”
“What do you think he’s looking to get out of this?”
“That’s easy—money. I think he’s going to try and get back every commission Joe ever paid me and then some.”
“Has he already filed charges?”
“He said he had. He said he was going to get me removed as executor and had filed charges with the N.A.S.D.”
“Removed as executor? He said that?”
“He sure did.”
“That’s what this churning charge is all about. He’s going to use that as grounds to have you removed. Hang on a minute.”
He was gone a long time. I watched traffic whiz past, aware that my life had come to a screeching halt.
Julian returned. “Here it is—removal of a fiduciary. There are sections of the revised code that require probate court to ‘remove a fiduciary found guilty of having concealed, embezzled, conveyed away, or been in the possession of moneys, chattels, or chouses in action of the trust estate.’ That’s got to be what he’s up to.”
“Julian, I don’t care about being executor. I’d prefer not to be. But these N.A.S.D. charges scare the hell out of me. They could put me out of business.”
“Let me look into it,” he said soothingly. “Maybe we can get them dismissed.”
“Can’t you file a countersuit or something?”
“Let me look into it. He’s trying to scare—”
“He’s succeeding.” Nevitt was at least two steps ahead of me. His sloppy appearance had caused me to underestimate a devious mind.
“Stay tough,” Julian said and hung up.
I replaced the car phone in the cradle. Eddie, in the passenger seat, watched me. “We’ve got to stay tough, Eddie.” I gave him a pat on the back, put the car in gear, and headed back into traffic.
Going to the memorial service had been a bad idea. I was the one who got buried.
Chapter 10
Three days later, at two in the afternoon, the N.A.S.D. arrived at my office. There were four of them: two suits, two grunts. Eddie took one look at them and wrinkled his nose, his way of letting me know they were trouble.
One of the suits introduced himself as Jack Fowler. He was a thin man with a thin, taciturn-looking face, thinning hair. He was wearing a dark blue pin stripe. The suit in charge.
“Mr. Seattle,” he said politely, “we’re from the N.A.S.D. I’m assuming you know you’ve been accused of securities violations?” He gave me a thin smile.
I was so nervous I could hardly talk. “Violations? I knew about the churning accusation. I didn’t know there were more.”
Second suit—a younger version of Fowler—said, “Try and stay calm, Mr. Seattle. This isn’t a witch-hunt. We’re not here to frighten you. We’re only here to expedite an adjudication.”
“In matters like this,” Fowler continued, “our role is to collect data, which means we’re going to need your transaction records.”
Second suit nodded in agreement. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate with us fully. While this isn’t a witch-hunt, in these types of situations you are guilty until proven innocent.”
“I’m going to cooperate,” I assured them eagerly. They’d reduced me to an obedient child. I wanted them to like me, to tell me it was going to be all right. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t have anything to hide. Tell me what records you need and I’ll get them for you.” I hated myself for being so frightened.
Fowler gave me another of his thin smiles, plopped a wad of papers in my hand with a slap. “It’s all detailed in there. Nothing personal, you understand. We’re just doing our jobs.” He looked over at the grunts. “Start with the computers. Then the paper files.”
I’d expected them to ask me for Joe’s account file.
The grunts unplugged Rosemary’s computer. Rosemary began to cry.
“What are you doing?” I demanded anxiously. “Why are you taking that computer? I’ll get you copies of the records you want.”
Eddie, who had been watching the strangers, must have heard the concern in my voice. He growled. Low, threatening growls.
Second suit eyed Eddie carefully.
“It’s okay, Eddie,” I said. The growling stopped.
Second suit gave me a patronizing smile. “Those documents,” he indicated the wad of papers Fowler had handed me, “are a court order. It’s all spelled out in there. We have authorization to take all your files.”
The grunts went back to work. I stared at the top sheet of papers. It was a subpoena. I didn’t look further. I felt sick as I watched them carry Rosemary’s computer out the door to their truck. The two grunts came back in, found my office, and disconnected my computer.
“Why do you need to take both computers? They have the same information. You don’t need them both.”
“Please, Mr. Seattle, don’t make it worse than it has to be,” Fowler said in a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip tone.
“When will I get my stuff back?”
Fowler frowned. “Hard to say. Depends on the arbitrators, what they decide.”
The grunts began wheeling out my lateral files.
“How do they expect me to service my clients when you’re taking away everything?”
Fowler came over, stood very close to me, said, “Mr. Seattle, our job is to make sure abuses within the brokerage industry are curtailed. It’s not our fault your customers are being inconvenienced. I’ll remind you that it was your customer practices that triggered this investigation.”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. I lost it. “You pompous bastard, how dare you accuse me of bad practices. The fellow I made these trades for approved every one of them. If you were doing your homework instead of harassing me, you’d have found out this is a totally false, self-serving complaint by an outsider who didn’t know anything about these trades.”
Fowler never blinked an eyelid. “Are you finished?”
“Of course, I am,” I shouted in his face. “I can’t do anything if you take all my records.”
Jay Giles Page 4