“Kyle, I hope you aren’t making this decision based on the ridiculous things Chuck Bell has been saying.”
“Nothing to do with Chuck, God rest his soul.”
“No disrespect for the dead, but the man you’re commending to the hand of God almost single-handedly ruined my reputation on the Street.”
“Chuck called it like he saw it. And he made me a ton of money.”
“Are you saying you’re short-selling Saxton Silvers?”
“Everyone with a lick of sense is short on Saxton Silvers. Wake up and smell the coffee.”
His nephew inhaled deeply, as if literally showing me how to do it.
Such a punk.
I could have tried to convince McVee to wait and see how the market performed before making his decision, but he was finished with me. Except for one more thing.
McVee leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, “It’s nothing personal. I mean that.”
The car stopped within walking distance of the federal courthouse. My brother’s office was in the building on the corner. The driver came around and opened the door for me. McVee slapped me on the arm as I climbed out of the limo.
“Like I said: nothing personal.”
“Ditto,” said his nephew.
I watched from the sidewalk as the limo pulled away. A single “nothing personal” would probably have done it. Saying it twice was one time too many.
Ditto had almost made me puke.
I checked my watch: 8:40 A.M. The market would open in fifty minutes. I had to give Eric the news about Ploutus before disappearing into a meeting with my “big brother” the lawyer. My cell rang as I was dialing. It was the tech leader from my investment team. I had every computer-savvy genius I knew trying to figure out how the identity thief had accessed my password-protected accounts, and Elliot Katz was among the brightest.
“Breakthrough,” he said. “I think I know how they got your passwords.”
I spoke while zigzagging my way down the crowded sidewalk, weaving in and out among hurried commuters, joggers, and dog walkers. “Tell me,” I said.
“Spyware. It infected your laptop and monitored your keystrokes.”
“How did it get there?”
“I’ve seen it countless times,” said Elliot. “Even police stations fall for this stuff and get their databases hacked into. Usually somebody opens an attachment to an e-mail offering ‘free porn’ or some other goodie from an unknown source.”
“I don’t open attachments from people I don’t know.”
“I know. That’s a given. Which leads me to the jaw dropper: The e-mail attachment that launched the spyware on your computer didn’t come from an unknown source.”
“Who sent it?”
“I’ve traced it to an e-mail you received eleven days ago,” he said. Then he paused, as if reluctant to deliver the news. “It was from your wife.”
A noisy bus was pulling away from the curb, making it hard to hear. I stopped walking and plugged my finger into my other ear.
“Did you say Mallory planted spyware on my computer?”
“That would be correct,” he said.
Eleven days ago—nine days before she had gone through that charade she called my surprise thirty-fifth birthday party. I was starting to feel beyond abused. Manipulated was more like it.
“Thanks for getting to the bottom of this.” I had to get off the phone and figure this out.
“You’re welcome. And, Michael, don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word to anyone about this.”
I thanked him again, hung up, and was about to make another call when I nearly walked straight into a wooden barricade. The street was blocked off for the filming of some music video or commercial, and the crew was still packing up after an all-night shoot. The detour diverted the crowd to the other side of the street, and as I crossed, one of the crew leaned over the barricade and stopped me.
“Hey, buddy,” he said in a heavy “New Yawk” accent. He was pointing an accusatory finger at me, a giant Styrofoam cup of coffee in his other hand.
“Me?” I said.
“Yeah, you. Ain’t you the guy who was on FNN talking to Chuck Bell yesterday?”
I assumed he didn’t mean the giant bear who’d gone down on a left hook from Bell in the first round. “Yeah, that was me.”
His next move was like lightning, and suddenly his cup was empty and my shirt and suit coat were soaked with lukewarm coffee.
“That’s for making me lose my ass on Saxton Silvers, you short-selling son of a bitch.”
Online amateurs. Gotta love ’em.
I could have kicked his ass for ruining what was for all practical purposes the only clean business clothes to my name, but in a way I understood his anger. As far as he knew, I was a Wall Street jerk who had bet against my own company. It made me wonder how many more—thousands more—just like him were out there.
I shook it off and speed-dialed Eric Volke with the important news from Kyle McVee. The Mallory question had to wait. It would surely make Eric’s day to hear that our biggest hedge fund had slit our throat—and that the run on the bank had begun.
27
THE COFFEE ASSAULT FORCED ME TO BACKTRACK TO THE GYM FOR another change of clothes. I knew there were clean socks and underwear in the suitcase Mallory had packed for me, but only upon my return did I discover that it contained only socks and underwear. It was as if Mallory had yanked a drawer from the dresser, dumped it into a suitcase, and called it quits.
Man, she’s pissed.
I arrived at my brother’s office a few minutes late, dressed in the same slacks and sport coat that I’d worn to dinner with Papa. The only clean shirt in my locker had been a work-out T so faded that it was powder blue. I’d convinced myself that the jacket made it look stylish. In truth, it was like a bad pastel fashion statement from the days of Miami Vice, which of course Kevin jumped on.
“Are you supposed to be Crockett or Tubbs?” he asked when he came out to greet me in the lobby. We stood facing each other for a moment, neither of us sure if we should shake hands or embrace. Then Kevin came forward and gave me a hug. It felt a little awkward, and we both seemed relieved to have that part over with.
“Come on back,” he said.
I followed him down the hall, and he pointed out the autographed sports memorabilia on the walls, as if we were a couple of kids on the way to his playroom. His office at the end of the hall was not exactly Eric Volke’s spread, but it was nicer than I’d expected. Silk rugs, custom draperies, tasteful antiques. I would have guessed a decorator’s hand, except there were too many family photos around. I canned the decorator Mallory had hired for me: “Family” photos were allowed only if the people in them died before the Great Depression and were part of someone else’s family.
“How are Nana and Papa?” Kevin asked as he closed the door.
“Fine,” I told him, and suddenly I realized that my brother and I were alone in the same room for the first time in I couldn’t remember how long. He gestured toward the armchair, offering it to me, but I wasn’t ready to sit.
“How’s Janice?” I asked.
His answer was way too long, and as he rambled on, my gaze was drawn to those framed family photos that Mallory’s decorator would have deep-sixed on day one. Kevin and Janice. Kevin and his golden retriever. Janice in her wedding dress. The older photos were on the credenza, and I walked behind his desk and picked up the one in a silver frame. It had to be at least twenty years old. Kevin, our younger sister, my stepfather, and their stepmother. The four of them together, smiling widely and standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. I had a similar photo of me with Nana and Papa buried somewhere in a box of mementos—except that the Eiffel Tower we saw was at Epcot Center, and we spent the night at the Howard Johnson’s in Kissimmee.
Kevin walked toward me and said, “That was my middle-school graduation trip.”
“Nice.”
I placed it back on the credenza, and silence came upon us.
“Michael, let me just say—”
“I don’t want to go there,” I said.
“Please, listen to what I have to say.”
I looked away from the eight-by-ten of Daddy Warbucks on vacation with his chosen family and pretended not to know where this was going. I knew.
“Doing divorce work has given me some valuable insights,” he said. “Every family has problems. Ours is no different. We just have to get past the silly old jealousies.”
My anger shot up. “You think I’m jealous of you?”
“I think my growing up rich and your growing up poor is one of the reasons you went to work on Wall Street. Maybe you don’t call it jealousy, but it’s something.”
“I call that complete nonsense.”
“So do I. Right up there with the stupid jealousy I had for you when we were growing up.”
That took me aback. He smiled a little, clearly hoping to draw one out of me. I didn’t exactly light up, not sure where he was going.
“Did you ever stop and count how many houses I had lived in by the time I graduated from high school?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Six,” he said. “And you know why? Because Dad was always trading up. Every house we lived in was a stepping-stone to more land, more bedrooms, a better neighborhood. It was never home.”
“Nana and Papa bought their place in 1957. They only moved to Florida when I went away to college.”
“Exactly. Never once was the house you lived in up for sale. When I was thirteen, about to change houses for I think the fifth time, I remember Papa telling me the story about the developer who came knocking on your front door.”
Now I did smile. “All the farmland around us and all the old houses in the neighborhood were being bought up to build new family homes on three-acre lots. Papa was the only guy in the subdivision who wouldn’t sell. The developer finally came by with his checkbook and said, ‘Okay, old man. You win. You’re the last holdout. What’s your price?”
“And when Papa told him there was no price,” said Kevin, clearly having heard every detail, “the developer said, ‘You don’t understand: Money is no object.’”
We were sharing a smile now, as I finished the story. “And Papa looked at him and said: ‘You don’t understand: This is not an object.’”
For the first time in years, my brother and I laughed together, and I felt good about that.
“Now, can we move forward?” said Kevin.
In his mind, clearly it was “problem solved.” He didn’t seem to understand that while laughter was good medicine, medicine wasn’t always a cure—especially when the diagnosis was completely off.
“Sure,” I said, happy to shift gears. He offered me a seat again, and we each took a matching armchair, facing each other.
“Let’s start with this sequence of threatening messages,” he said, a yellow legal pad in his lap.
I gave him the longer version of the money-burning ceremony at Sal’s Place, the flaming package, the most recent text—and finally the FBI’s discovery of the listening device in Sonya’s car.
“Looks like Chuck Bell may have been right,” said Kevin.
“How so?”
“If someone is bugging the general counsel’s Mercedes, maybe your identity theft is linked to a larger attack against Saxton and Silvers. I’ll follow up with the FBI.”
“You want me to be part of that?”
“Negative. I don’t want you talking to law enforcement.”
“Did you hook up with the detective who came by my apartment?”
“I did.”
“Does he think I killed Chuck Bell?”
“I’m not sure. It may have been just a pretense, but he said the reason he went to your apartment was to follow up on the incendiary package you received yesterday morning. They have an interesting lead. It was white phosphorous, which is pyrophoric.”
“What does that mean?”
“It ignites simply when exposed to the air. The police presume it was inside some kind of vacuum-sealed plastic liner, and when you tore open the package—poof. Flames. Once it combusts, it’s hard to extinguish.”
“I’ll vouch for that.”
“Highly toxic, too. You’re lucky you got out of that elevator so quickly.”
“So what leads are the police chasing?”
“White phosphorous is very hard to get your hands on, unless you have something to do with the munitions business. Russian or Israeli, most likely.”
“Munitions business? Doesn’t sound like anybody I know.”
Kevin pulled his trusty Mont Blanc from his breast pocket, ready to take notes. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
I talked, and my brother occasionally jotted down a word or two. At nine forty-five he let me switch on the television for a quick market check. FNN was broadcasting in split-screen format, an aerial view of the Chuck Bell homicide scene on one side, the NYSE trading floor on the other, as if to pose the question, Can you name the real crime scene? We had the sound muted, but the news was clearly bad on both sides.
SAXTON SILVERS DOWNWARD SPIRAL CONTINUES IN HEAVY TRADING, read the banner at the bottom of the screen.
FNN FAMILY IN SHOCK OVER DEATH OF BELOVED COLLEAGUE, the next banner read.
Kevin said, “Tell me more about the e-mail from Mallory.”
I looked away from the flat screen. “Mallory studied drama at Juilliard,” I said.
“I think I knew that,” said Kevin.
“She has a flair for performing. Every now and then, she would send me an e-mail that was kind of sexy, kind of funny. This one was an early ‘happy birthday’ video. It was a parody of Marilyn Monroe singing ‘Happy birthday, Mr. President’ to JFK.”
“You have political aspirations?”
“No. But the joke was that she always thought I would someday have Eric Volke’s job—president of Saxton Silvers.”
“So you opened the attachment to her e-mail?”
“It was from her regular e-mail address, so I had no reason to question it. But Elliot—that’s my tech guy—tells me that’s where the spyware came from.”
Kevin scribbled a thought on his legal pad, then looked up. “I’ve seen lots of spying in divorce cases.”
“But why would Mallory plant spyware in a way that could be so easily traced back to her e-mail address?”
“Not too technically savvy, maybe?”
“Granted, she’s not a computer genius, but she’s not stupid. We live together in the same apartment. She could have just crawled out of bed one night and loaded the spyware on my laptop.”
“Maybe she didn’t think she had the technical expertise to load the spyware correctly, so she hooked up with some fifteen-year-old geek to plant it by e-mail.”
“Or the guy who sent me the text message.”
“Let’s not focus too much on how it was planted. The key point here is that if the spyware can in fact be traced back to your wife, then your identity theft claims don’t add up.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. You want people to believe that someone planted spyware on your computer, stole your passwords, wiped out your bank accounts, and masterminded a complicated short-selling scheme against Saxton Silvers in a financial scandal that has rocked Wall Street—setting you up as the bad guy. Do you actually expect me to walk over to Federal Plaza and tell the FBI that the person behind all that is Mallory?”
“She could have had help.” I didn’t know why I was pushing this angle; I guess I had nothing else.
“It seems much more likely to me that Mallory planted the spyware for the same reason most married people plant spyware: to find out if she was married to a cheater.”
He was making too much sense to argue.
Kevin said, “Did Mallory worry about another woman?”
“No,” I said, then caught myself. “At least not a living one.”
Kevin di
d a double take.
“No, I don’t mean that,” I said, then I paused. “She always harbored jealousy over Ivy.”
“Did you two talk about that?”
“Not very often. At least not until recently.”
“How did it come up?”
I told him about the passwords being tied to Ivy’s birthday and how that had set Mallory off. “She said I haven’t given up hope that Ivy’s alive,” I added.
There was silence. This was dangerous territory between my brother and me. As Kevin knew, even after the shark had been dissected, I continued to have doubts about what really had happened to Ivy. Kevin had stepped in and pushed the assumed role of “big brother” way too far, doing whatever was necessary to deliver the tough-love message: “Ivy is dead, and you need to move on.” I could have handled that, but what drove the wedge between us came later, after the police had asked me to take the lie detector test. “I’m talking to you as a lawyer now,” he’d told me. “If something happened—if you did something you regret—you can tell me. You need to tell me.”
It wasn’t so much what he’d said as the way he’d said it. It was clear to me that—at least at that moment—my brother was more than entertaining the thought that I had killed Ivy. And that was okay in his mind because he was being a lawyer. He had absolutely no clue how that changed his being my brother.
He still thought I was jealous of his family trip to Paris twenty years ago.
“By the way,” I said, reminded of something from yesterday. “The FBI asked if I would take a polygraph exam about the identity theft.”
“I’ll tell them to forget it,” he said. “If you pass, the government will say it’s not reliable; if you fail, you’re their prime suspect.”
It was another awkward moment. Kevin had made his skepticism about polygraphs clear four years ago, when I’d passed the one during the Ivy investigation.
Kevin rose and moved to the leather chair behind his desk, suddenly more comfortable with a big antique oak barrier between us.
James Grippando Page 14