James Grippando

by Money to Burn

  Scanning the room, he avoided making eye contact with any single individual, and his gaze came to rest on some Legos atop a trader’s desk. Someone had decorated his workspace with a toy tower of colored plastic bricks—just like the ones that study teams built on the first day of classes at Harvard Business School. It was a Day One collaborative ritual that Volke knew well, and seeing that playful reminder of his alma mater brought back a flash of memories. The thrill of the acceptance letter. The horror of the first “cold call” in the lecture hall. The “up-yours” letter he could have mailed to the first-year accounting professor who’d told him he wasn’t going to cut it. Volke didn’t fancy himself a historian, but he had lived through “New Yorkonomics,” having arrived on Wall Street when the city was suffering from the exodus of manufacturing to cheaper places. He witnessed a spectacular resurgence fueled by innovations in financial services—everything from junk bonds and leveraged buyouts to mortgage-backed securities and hedge funds. It was all a product of the remarkable concentration of smart people in New York City, each learning from the other how to get rich. Saxton Silvers was once a shining example of success, and it was painful to end up as the poster child of “how not to do it.”

  He ditched his prepared words and took an entirely different tack.

  “There was a time when the kings of Wall Street were not the commercial banks,” he said, “but entities far less regulated. They controlled ungodly sums of wealth, and the more they controlled, the more investors fed them. The average American still lived off the sweat of his brow, but the rich sure got richer. The Wall Street creed was to make money. Big money. Fast money. Rules were bent. Ethics were relative. Laws were swallowed by loopholes. It was all okay; Adam Smith told us so. It all came crashing down, of course. The stock market suddenly lost almost fifty percent of its value, and banks simply stopped making loans.”

  He paused, his gaze sweeping across a sea of perplexed faces.

  “That was 1907,” he said. “I guess we didn’t learn much.”

  He drew a deep breath, then let it out. “The doors will lock at five o’clock. I’m sorry,” he said, eyes lowered, “especially for you young people. I’m very, very sorry.”

  Suddenly a bagel flew across the room and nailed him squarely in the chest.

  “Fly home in your helicopter and fuck yourself sideways,” someone shouted. “You and Michael Cantella both.”

  A security guard went to the president’s side, but no one else moved. No one said a word. The indignity of silence simply hung there.

  Volke brushed the crumbs and traces of cream cheese from his Hermès tie, then turned and left the room.

  Ivy Layton rose from the couch as Volke returned to his office on the executive floor.

  “Thanks a ton for telling me to go with the 1907 mea culpa speech,” he said as he tossed his stained necktie onto the chair. “Went over like a mink coat at a PETA convention.”

  “Maybe the apology didn’t come across as genuine,” said Ivy.

  “Maybe I don’t have anything to apologize for,” he said.

  Ivy didn’t go there. All across Wall Street, it was someone else’s fault.

  Volpe went to his closet and found another tie. He spoke with his back to Ivy, using his reflection in the window as he knotted a perfect double Windsor.

  “You can’t hide here forever,” he said. “The bankruptcy team will be inventorying my office in about four hours.”

  “I know. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent more than one night in any one place anyway.”

  He turned to face her, straightening the knot. “Any longer than that and I’d have some explaining to do to Mrs. Volke.”

  “I understand. I’ll go. But I need your help.”

  “What now?”

  “I have nowhere else to turn,” she said. “No one else has the power to bring down Kyle McVee.”

  “Don’t you watch FNN? He’s already kicked my ass.”

  “I want you to tell the FBI that it’s him, not Michael, who’s killing the firm.”

  “I already have. It’s falling on deaf ears. I know you’ve been away, but now more than ever, Wall Street is like the Wild West, no sheriff in town. Players like McVee do as they please.”

  “Then you have to make the FBI understand what kind of man Kyle McVee is. Make them realize that he’s capable of murder.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  Ivy paused, then forced out the words. “I want you to tell the FBI about me.”

  “Tell them you’re alive?”

  “Yes. And why I disappeared.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “Have you lost your mind? I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “For starters, I helped fake your death. That’s a felony.”

  Helped was almost an understatement. Eric had arranged for payoffs to the Bahamian medical examiner and DNA expert who had linked Ivy’s name to the decomposed “remains” found in the belly of the tiger shark.

  “I was just watching television,” she said. “A warrant has been issued to arrest Michael for the murder of Chuck Bell.”

  “That’s not my fault. In fact, I protected Michael. The FBI was very interested in knowing what he said to me in our phone conversation before Bell was shot, and quite honestly, Michael’s words could have been used against him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Something to the effect that he was going to put a stop to Bell ‘one way or another.’”

  “I’m sure Michael didn’t mean kill him.”

  “I know he didn’t. That’s why I kept that conversation between us.”

  “One of us has to tell the FBI what’s really going on.”

  He went to her, his expression deadly serious. “That was not our deal,” he said. “I helped you disappear with the understanding that you would never come back, no matter what.”

  “Things have changed, Eric. I tried running, and I’m out of options. If you won’t go to the FBI, I will.”

  He stepped away, running his hand through his hair. But he didn’t push back the way she had expected.

  “You’re right,” he said. “The only way to derail Kyle McVee is to make the FBI understand that, in his twisted mind, bringing down Saxton Silvers is secondary to finding you.”

  “Everything is secondary to finding me. I should have told the FBI that four years ago.”

  “The FBI couldn’t protect you then. And they won’t be able to protect you now.”

  “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Michael and my mother.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “You got their backs?”

  He nodded. “McVee will never find them. I don’t care what it costs. I may have lost my shirt in Saxton Silvers, but thankfully, money will never be an issue for me. I’ve still got WhiteSands.”

  Eric was talking about the investment management firm he’d founded in the 1980s, before his rise to power within Saxton Silvers. Some said it was the proverbial tail wagging the dog, with over a trillion dollars in assets under management, yet 49 percent owned by Saxton Silvers. Eric, individually, was still a major shareholder.

  “Thank you, Eric.”

  He nodded. “I don’t regret the way I helped you four years ago. And, of course, we all want to help Michael. You just have to figure out a way to do it without throwing me under the bus.”

  She knew he was right. She gave him a quick hug, then stepped away.

  “Good luck, Ivy. And for the last time: good-bye.”

  52

  IVY TOOK THE EXPRESS ELEVATOR FROM THE SAXTON SILVERS executive suite to the garage and left the building through the rear entrance. She walked toward Columbus Circle, weighing her options. Somewhere above the plywood tunnel that said POST NO BILLS, a demolition crew outshouted their jackhammers in a heated Mets vs. Yankees argument. A delivery truck blocked the cross street as fishmongers tossed tonight’s sus
hi over their shoulders and hauled it down into a restaurant cellar. On the sidewalk alongside the newsstand, hip-hop dancers whirled on their heads like spinning tops, all for a few bucks that passersby tossed into a hat. A bus pulled up, hydraulic brakes hissing. Every square inch of it, including the windows and door, was a mobile advertisement for Jersey Boys, “winner of four Tony Awards, including best musical and best actor…” They’d missed out on best actress.

  Should have gone to Ivy Layton.

  She missed living in the city. Ironically, she never would have returned, had it not been for Ian Burn. Their chance encounter at a restaurant in Florence last fall changed everything. She wasn’t certain that he had recognized her, but the exchange had been too dangerous to ignore. Ivy knew how McVee operated. If Burn was able to convince him that Ivy was alive, McVee would target Michael or her mother to draw Ivy out of hiding. She had to warn them, or at least keep her finger on the pulse of the situation, which meant returning to New York. She’d arrived in February—right about the same time Mallory’s friend Andrea moved to the Upper West Side. It had occurred to Ivy that the timing was no coincidence.

  Speaking of “best actress.”

  Ivy jumped in a taxi and rode up to Le Pain Quotidien near Columbus Circle, where Mallory met Andrea for coffee almost every morning after her Pilates class. As long as Ivy had been watching them, Andrea always arrived ten to fifteen minutes early and snagged a table in the café away from the bakery, surrounded by other skinny women who tried not to get too close to warm loaves of pain au chocolat or—Andrea’s morning favorite—the organic hazelnut flûte. Andrea usually scarfed one down before Mallory arrived. And there she was now, enjoying one with coffee at her usual table when Ivy approached.

  “Wow, coffee and a pastry. How’d you get the bureau to approve that in your undercover operation budget?”

  “Excuse me?” said Andrea.

  She extended her hand, still standing. “Hi, I’m Ivy Layton.”

  Andrea showed surprise but stayed in role. “Michael Cantella’s first wife?

  “That would be me.”

  More surprise, but now it was coming across too thick. “But you’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Careful, girl,” said Ivy. “They don’t give Tony Awards for overacting.”

  Andrea was suddenly speechless. Ivy smiled, then turned serious.

  “Let’s clear that up right now. I’ll stop pretending to be dead, and you stop pretending that you’re not an FBI agent. Deal?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Andrea.

  “Oh, come on,” said Ivy. “It takes one to know one, and I’ve known about you for quite some time.”

  Andrea paused, clearly coming to realize that the jig was up. “It’s a crime to impersonate an FBI agent.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally. I just recognize an undercover agent when I see one. It’s the little things. The way you always show up early for your eleven o’clock meeting with Mallory, probably to run through the conversation in your head and figure out what information you’re going to pry out of her. The body language that tells me that you’re only pretending not to listen whenever Mallory takes a call on her cell—that you’re trained to make Mallory think you’re reading the menu or checking your BlackBerry when, in fact, you’re all ears. The way you hang on every word that Mallory utters, always encouraging her to say more.” She tugged at the chair. “May I?”

  Andrea didn’t say anything, so Ivy took a seat.

  “I’ve been watching Michael for years,” said Ivy, “keeping my distance, of course. That’s how I found out his wife was cheating on him. And that’s how I knew you were an FBI agent working undercover.”

  Andrea still said nothing.

  “I understand,” said Ivy. “You can’t confirm or deny. But let me guess. The federal investigation into the manipulation of Saxton Silvers stock is now in its…fifth month? Sixth? The FBI was counting on Chuck Bell to crumble under subpoena and reveal the confidential source who fed him the false rumors about Saxton Silvers. Michael Cantella was one of the short sellers who profited from the rumors. Bell could have exposed a chain of players that led directly back to Michael—motive enough, perhaps, for Michael to have Bell silenced before he could testify before the grand jury.”

  The women locked eyes.

  “Am I even close?” asked Ivy, but Andrea met her with more silence.

  “I thought so,” said Ivy. “So here’s the truth. Eric Volke told me that he’s already laid out these facts for you, but maybe you’ll believe him if you also hear it from me: Michael is innocent. Kyle McVee is your man. He set up everything to make you think exactly what you’re thinking about Michael.”

  Andrea considered it, and Ivy knew she finally had her engaged.

  “Why would Kyle McVee single out Michael Cantella?”

  “Because of me,” said Ivy.

  “That much I’ve figured out. I need specifics.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  Andrea’s stare tightened. “You don’t seem to understand. Anyone who fakes her own death has defrauded the IRS, created a false Social Security number, used a phony passport, committed fraud and perjury in connection with identification documents—the list of federal crimes goes on and on. You have no choice: You have to do better.”

  Most of what Andrea described was Eric Volke’s doing. Even if Ivy had wanted to tell the FBI everything, she couldn’t sell out the man who’d put himself at risk to help her create a new identity and disappear—effectively saved her life.

  “Compared to the financial crimes you’re targeting in the undercover operation, that’s all very petty stuff,” Ivy tried.

  “Petty? You’re looking at one to ten years of imprisonment for each offense.”

  “Okay. But before you haul me in, hear me out. Like I said at the beginning: I’ve known about you for quite some time. Which should make you wonder: Why have I kept it to myself? Why didn’t I just come right out and tell Eric Volke or Michael or my mother that Mallory Cantella’s friend Andrea is an undercover FBI agent?”

  Andrea was trying to show no interest—but was failing.

  Ivy almost smiled. “I decided to keep my mouth shut until I needed a favor. And that time has come. It’s a simple one, but without it, I can assure you of this: The world will know by sunrise that you are an FBI undercover agent. Then you can watch months of undercover work go up in smoke with no payoff.”

  Ivy let her chew on that one for a while, and finally it drew a response.

  “And if I agree to grant you that favor?”

  “Then I’m willing to tell you more than Eric Volke has already told the FBI. I’ll tell you exactly why Kyle McVee wants me dead.”

  Andrea gave her an assessing look. “All right,” she said, extending her hand. “You good on a handshake?”

  “I am if you are, Andrea.”

  “Call me Andie,” she said as they shook.

  “Okay,” said Ivy. “You may want to call me Vanessa.”

  “So start talking, Vanessa.”

  Ivy leaned closer. And then she told her.

  53

  I WAS INSIDE THE CLOSET, TAPPING ON THE BACK WALL WITH MY knuckles.

  Our motel room was like every other I had ever seen. The front wall facing the parking lot was a prefabricated door and window with a built-in climate-control unit. The room had no other way in or out. In the back was a small bathroom on one side, a Formica counter with a mirror and vanity setup in the middle, and a step-in closet on the other side.

  I tapped again on the back wall of the closet.

  “What are you doing?” asked Olivia.

  “One of my clients once bought a motel chain. I remember him telling me that the rooms don’t back up to other rooms. There’s usually a service corridor that runs the length of the building.”

  “So?”

  “So if it’s true that we’re being watched, all we have to do is bust through this back wall, le
ave through the service corridor, and they’ll never know we’re gone.”

  Olivia came into the closet and knocked. “But it’s a wall.”

  “Not a bearing wall,” I said. “It’s hollow. And these studs are twenty-four inches apart, not sixteen.”

  “It’s still a wall.”

  I took a wire hanger from the rack and straightened it out. Holding it with both hands, I pressed the tip to the wall and pushed. It went right through, like a poker. This was going to be even easier than I’d thought; there was wallboard on only my side of the studs. The service corridor on the other side was obviously unfinished, the studs exposed. I pulled out the hanger, placed the tip an inch above the previous hole, and pushed again. Olivia caught on to what I was doing, straightened out another hanger, and started on the other side of the closet. In ten minutes we had the dotted outline of a punched rectangle on the wall.

  “Stand back,” I said.

  Olivia stepped aside. I got a running start, jumped at the rectangle, hit it squarely with both feet, smashed right through it—and landed flat on my ass on the concrete floor of the dark service corridor, covered from head to toe with broken bits of wallboard.

  “Owww—shit.”

  Olivia appeared in the opening, gazing through the dust. “Are you all right?”

  My breath was gone. “This never happens to Jason Bourne.”

  Olivia climbed through the hole and helped me to my feet. I brushed the debris from my shirt as I looked around. One end of the corridor was blocked by laundry carts that were over-flowing with towels and linens. The door at the other end was clear.

  “This way,” I said, leading her down the hall at a medium jog. The door was unlocked, and we stepped into a sunny courtyard. It took a moment to get my bearings. If the entrance to our room was being watched, we were out of view, no longer right on busy Tonnelle Avenue. I led Olivia around the building, away from our room, to the opposite side of the motel. A cab was parked beneath the carport. We hurried toward it and jumped in the backseat.