James Grippando

by Money to Burn

  “Let’s shift gears,” he said. “Kyle McVee.”

  “What about him?”

  He flipped back a few pages in his notes. “You said that when McVee dropped you off this morning, his parting words to you were ‘Nothing personal.’”

  “Twice he told me that.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t think Kyle has had a ‘personal’ feeling toward anyone since his son died.”

  “What’s the story there?”

  “Marcus McVee was the heir apparent at Ploutus, about my age. Not a bad guy, actually. Completely unlike Kyle’s nephew—Jason Wald—who now seems to be next in line.”

  “What happened to Marcus?”

  I paused for no apparent reason, except that it was a subject that seemed to give everyone pause. “He killed himself.”

  “Over what?”

  “I don’t know. Is it ever just one thing?”

  Kevin stroked his chin, thinking. We’d been at this for almost an hour, and I had the feeling that my brother was about to get all lawyerly on me.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “First, I’ll call the FBI to see what’s going on with the identity-theft investigation, and also to find out if you’re a target for illegal trading of Saxton Silver stock. Second, I’ll follow up with this detective to see if you’re being linked in any way to Chuck Bell’s shooting. And then I’m going to call Mallory’s lawyer and see if we can avoid the divorce-court version of mutually assured destruction.”

  “That’s one hell of a list of problems,” I said. “Hard to believe that we’re actually talking about me.”

  “I hear that a lot from people sitting in that very same chair.”

  I was suddenly thinking about Anoop Gupta from New Delhi and the status of my credit cards. “This is going to eat up a lot of your time,” I said. “How much do you charge?”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I insist.”

  “I refuse.”

  “But I want to pay you.”

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll barter. I’ll be your lawyer, and you come for dinner with Janice and me at our place. You can even bring an expensive bottle of wine if you want.”

  My little brother had boxed me in. Papa would have been ecstatic.

  “Okay,” I said, managing a bit of a smile. “It’s a deal.”

  I hurried out of my brother’s office in plenty of time to be long gone when the next e-mail arrived from JBU—the mysterious someone who supposedly wanted to help me.

  That was the one thing I hadn’t told Kevin about. I didn’t need him thinking I was crazy all over again. I figured I’d deal with that if and when the follow up e-mail came. And it came right on schedule, at exactly ten-thirty A.M.

  Orene 52, the subject line read.

  I was emerging from the subway station on Seventh Avenue, about half a block away from Saxton Silvers’ shiny glass office tower, closer than any cab could have gotten me to the building. Double-parked media vans and news trucks blocked several lanes of traffic on the street. The sidewalk outside the building’s main entrance was jammed with reporters and camera crews jockeying for the perfect TV shot—right in front of the distinctive gold letters on the black granite wall that spelled SAXTON SILVERS. They pounced on anyone who came through the revolving doors, hoping for thirty seconds of breaking news. Through the windows on the third floor, I saw men and women dressed in business suits peering down on the frenzy. That was the Saxton Silvers foreign-exchange trading floor, normally a place of intense activity where traders were glued to their computer terminals, not standing at the window and pressing their worried faces to the glass.

  Hopefully, none of them had it in mind to find a higher floor and jump.

  Word was out that Kyle McVee had pulled the plug on Ploutus Investments’ $2.5 billion prime brokerage account. According to the latest FNN online update, two more major hedge funds were about to follow suit. The media smelled blood, and I sensed that at least a few drops were my own. It made me want to stay clear of anyone with a microphone. I stepped onto the sidewalk, found a lamppost to hide behind, and opened the latest e-mail message—the one that was supposed to tell me when and where to meet.

  Today at 4 p.m. Table for two in front of the statue of Prometheus. That was the entire message. Again it was signed “JBU.”

  “Michael?”

  I turned at the sound of the distinctive voice and saw Papa standing next to a hot-dog cart. He was wearing a bright blue University of Florida Gators tracksuit, running shoes, and a pair of wraparound Oakley sunglasses so new that the tag was still hanging from the frame. All he needed was a garbage bag filled with knock-off Gucci purses and a selection of Rolex watches up to his elbow and he would have looked just like the sidewalk entrepreneur who’d sold him the glasses.

  “What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. I was just surprised to see him.

  “I was trying to get up to see you, but I couldn’t get near the building.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  He came closer and lowered his voice. On the busy streets of New York, Papa really sounded like a mobster when he whispered. “The FBI came to see me.”

  “FBI? Why?”

  “At first I thought it was about tracking down your lost money, so I was happy to talk to them. But then they started asking me all kinds of questions about the Bahamas, about Ivy, about—”

  “About Ivy?”

  “Well, not directly. It was more about that sailing trip you were on, and that guy who was your captain.”

  “Rumsey?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name. Did you know he was dead? Killed a few days ago in Harbor Island.”

  The news took me aback, and not just because Rumsey was one of the nicest guys I’d ever met. That made two people who knew me and who’d been murdered in the same week.

  Papa said, “The FBI apparently knows that you travel down to Florida pretty often to see Nana and me. The agent was really pushing hard to find out if you ever hooked up with Rumsey on any of your trips to Miami.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I don’t know anything about that. But that’s when I started to get a bad feeling about this whole thing. So I says to him, ‘If this ain’t about finding my grandson’s money, I’m not interested in talking to you.’”

  I glanced toward the growing crowd outside Saxton Silvers’ headquarters. Suddenly it was hard for me to breathe. I knew who “JBU” was.

  “Thanks, Papa. You done good.”

  28

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I WAS HEADED FOR LONG ISLAND. THE IVY factor was growing stronger, and I needed answers.

  A phone call from Andrea had pushed me over the edge. It came just five minutes after my conversation with Papa. I still didn’t trust her, but the fact that my grandfather had also been approached by the FBI lent credence to her story.

  “Heads up from a friend,” she’d told me. “The FBI just interviewed me. They seem to be questioning all the wives and significant others, anyone who might have known your first wife or anything about her disappearance.”

  I didn’t drive often, but I loved my car. My first set of wheels in high school had been a nine-year-old Monte Carlo two-door coupe with a smashed-in fender, a broken heater, and a headlight that pointed at the moon. I bought it with my summer earnings and a five-hundred-dollar loan from Papa. When I finally unloaded it after B-school, the two-hundred-dollar CD player mounted under the dash was worth more than the entire car. The joke was that the dirt was holding it together, and it got to the point where I was actually afraid to wash it—what if it wasn’t a joke? Now I was head of the green team and drove a Mini Cooper Convertible, although it broke Papa’s heart when I took him to see The Italian Job and had to tell him that the “scoopers,” as he called them, weren’t actually Italian.

  “Hello, Olivia,” I said when Mrs. Hernandez opened the door.

 
; I didn’t know Ivy’s mother well. She was a widow who had never taken her husband’s surname, the proud Latina half of Ivy Layton’s heritage. I had spoken to her only once before Ivy’s death, and our only face-to-face meeting was at Ivy’s memorial service. I phoned her a couple of times after that, but it was clear that Olivia did not care to make me part of her life. At first I surmised that I was simply an unpleasant reminder of her daughter’s tragic death. As time wore on, however, I sensed that she actually blamed me, as if I should have been more careful with Ivy on the boat, should have noticed she was missing sooner and radioed for help, or could have done something to prevent it altogether.

  “You should have called first,” she said from behind the screen door.

  “I really need to speak to you,” I said.

  “I’ve seen your name in the news,” she said. “Not too flattering.”

  “That stuff’s not important. This is. It’s about Ivy.”

  She stood there for a moment, saying nothing. Then she finally opened the door, and I was thankful to be inside. She led me to the parlor, and I glanced around the room as I settled into the armchair. I expected to see framed photographs of Ivy and of Olivia’s late husband on the bookshelves and end tables. There were none, at least not in this room.

  “Is this about Ivy’s account?” she asked. Olivia bore a strong resemblance to her daughter—the perfect posture of a ballerina, the heart-shaped face of a classic beauty, a strong and healthy glow that must have truly shined in her youth. I couldn’t look at her without feeling my loss all over again.

  “I have some bad news,” I said, and my voice suddenly felt weak. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  I nodded, and as concisely as possible, I explained the identity theft—the liquidation of my accounts, the transfer of my cash into Ivy’s account, and the disappearance of both into the world of bank secrecy. She’d heard all of that on FNN—except the part about Ivy’s account.

  “Have you notified the police?”

  “The FBI is working on it.”

  “Are they going to get it back?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, they’d better.”

  Her tone was harsher than I’d expected. “That’s why I wanted to talk this out with you,” I said. “After Ivy’s memorial service—when I offered you the money in her account—you said you didn’t want it.”

  “I said to leave it right where it was.”

  “And that’s what I did. Until it was stolen.”

  She made a face, obviously skeptical. “Stolen, you say?”

  “Yes. Along with my entire personal portfolio.”

  “You should know how that makes me feel,” she said, her voice quaking.

  “I do.”

  “No, I really don’t think you do,” she said. “Nobody does.”

  “I understand how you never gave up hope on Ivy,” I said. “Even if it was just a one-in-a-million shot that Ivy was still alive, you were the one who insisted that it would be bad luck to touch the money.”

  “That is what I told you,” she said. “And it was a lie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The ballerina’s posture was suddenly more like a pit bull’s. “Refusing the money had nothing to do with the hope that Ivy might someday return. I have long been convinced that my daughter is dead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I left the money on the table, so to speak, because I knew the truth.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following you at all.”

  “Ivy’s money gave you motive to kill her. That was one of the reasons the Bahamian police focused on you from the beginning. I knew that was the reason you offered me the money. You wanted to eliminate your motive.”

  “That’s not it at all,” I said. I was too tired to get angry. It was too ridiculous to get angry.

  “Deep down, I have always known that if I left that money on the table long enough, someday you would take it. You would be content to let the money sit in the account and collect interest for years and then, when enough time had passed, you would grab it. And now you finally did.”

  “That’s not what happened. Her money disappeared with mine. It’s all gone.”

  “I’m not buying that identity-theft hogwash for a minute. I saw the way Chuck Bell picked you apart on his show. And the FBI told me about your marital problems. I don’t know what you’re trying to hide from your second wife, but I don’t want any part of it.”

  “The FBI has come to see you?”

  She rose and said, “You should leave now.”

  I couldn’t believe how badly this was going, but if she was siding with Chuck Bell, talking with the FBI, and taking shots at my marriage, I didn’t stand a chance.

  “We can’t leave it like this,” I said.

  “Go. Please.”

  “I loved Ivy, and I would never—”

  “Stop!” she said, her voice sharp enough to silence a soccer riot.

  She went quickly to the door and opened it angrily. I had no choice but to go, and the screen door slammed behind me as I stepped onto the porch.

  “There’s one other thing you should know,” said Olivia.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced back.

  “When the FBI came to see me, I told them exactly what I just told you—and I promised to help them in any way I can.”

  The door closed with a thud. I followed the winding slate walkway to the street, careful not to step on the daffodils—Ivy’s favorite—as I climbed into my car. I pulled away from the curb slowly, still in shock, the engine little more than idling as I passed the house. The draperies were open, and through the big bay window, I could see into the parlor.

  Ivy’s mother was alone on the couch, her face in her hands, crying.

  29

  I WAS BACK IN MANHATTAN IN TIME FOR A LATE LUNCH, BUT THERE was barely time to eat. I had dozens of calls and e-mails from my team at Saxton Silvers, and a half dozen more from reporters who were casting their nets for quotes from anyone in management about the impending demise of the firm. One in particular was spearfishing for something far more specific.

  “Michael, it’s Rosario Reynolds at FNN,” she said in her voice-mail message. “Calling to invite you onto my show. I know you were as shocked as we were by Chuck’s shooting, but it’s starting to look like he was probably on to something when he suggested a possible link between your identity theft and a bigger attack against Saxton Silvers. Love to get your views on the air. Call me.”

  I wasn’t sure what to think. But there wasn’t a minute to respond, even if I’d wanted to. At one-thirty P.M., my brother and I were in family court.

  “All rise!”

  Mallory had filed for divorce that morning, and if there had been any question as to whether it was “full speed ahead,” the answer was now clear. The bailiff called the case, and the lawyers announced their appearances and introduced their clients to the judge. The knot in my stomach was beyond description. I was living a scene I had never dreamed I’d see—Mallory on the other side of the courtroom, refusing even to look at me in the case of Cantella vs. Cantella.

  “Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “your motion had better be the emergency you claimed it was when my secretary squeezed this onto my docket.”

  “It is, indeed,” he said, rising.

  Elgin Highsmith was the go-to divorce lawyer for Saxton Silvers wives, a Brooklyn-born former cop who walked into a courtroom with a set of brass balls. Literally. It was a bizarre intimidation tactic. He held them both in one hand as he approached the lectern, and I heard those balls of brass clacking together as he worked them through his fingers before eventually tucking them into his pants pocket. It seemed comical, but there was nothing funny about this guy. Plenty of Wall Street hotshots could still hear those balls rattling around in their brain as the tow trucks hauled away their Bentleys and Aston Martins. This was the same master strategist who had told Mallory to clear out our b
ank account before I even knew what was coming.

  “May it please the court,” he said, stepping away from the lectern. He had no notes—more of the brass balls approach. “Your Honor, my client seeks to freeze all of Mr. Cantella’s assets, and she demands a full accounting of all investments that were liquidated in the last forty-eight hours and moved to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

  I nearly jumped from my seat, but my brother beat me to it.

  “What?” said Kevin.

  “One at a time!” said the judge, banging his gavel.

  “But, Your Honor, this is—”

  The judge cut him off with two bangs of the gavel, the second one so hard that it knocked his nameplate—THE HONORABLE SIDNEY STAPLETON—to the floor. Kevin started toward the bench to pick it up, but the judge again admonished him.

  “Sit down, Mr. Warfield!”

  I was beginning to wonder if Judge Stapleton had ever lost money with Saxton Silvers.

  Who are your enemies, Michael?

  The bailiff retrieved the judge’s nameplate.

  “Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “you may continue.”

  Highsmith’s hand went in his pocket, and I heard that rattling again. “Judge, in my thirty years as a divorce lawyer, I have never seen a more despicable and transparent attempt by a man to hide his assets from his wife.”

  On cue, his paralegal brought out demonstrative charts to help him explain the transfer of funds from Saxton Silvers to the Cayman Islands.

  Highsmith continued, “You will note that—with the exception of Mr. Cantella’s holdings in Saxton Silvers—many of these equities were sold at a substantial loss. Which raises the question: Why would such a knowledgeable man have such an indiscriminate investment strategy? Why was everything liquidated and sent off to a numbered account?”

  “Because it was stolen,” said Kevin.

  The judge scowled, this time pointing with his gavel. “Not another peep out of you until I tell you it’s your turn to talk. Mr. Highsmith, continue.”