The Vulture Fund

by Stephen W. Frey

  Jensen rambled for several moments about real estate investment trusts and their tax advantages vis-à-vis typical investment structures. Mace allowed the man to continue speaking for a short time, but his explanation was neither as succinct nor as accurate as Rachel’s discussion of mortgages. Finally Mace put him out of his misery. “Thank you, Mr. Jensen.”

  Aware that Mace was not impressed, Jensen stopped in mid-sentence.

  “By the way, there’s a large REIT in trouble out in California. Anyone know the name?” Mace asked.

  The class was silent.

  “Come on. It hasn’t been front-page news anywhere, but it’s been in the second section of the Wall Street Journal each of the past couple of days.” Mace scanned the students.

  Again there was only silence.

  “A prerequisite for any good investment banker, for any business person at all, is to read the Journal every day, religiously. You’ve got to know what’s going on in the—”

  “The name of the REIT experiencing trouble in California is the East Orange Limited Partnership.”

  Mace glanced up at the speaker, but he had already recognized the voice. He smiled at Rachel for a few moments. “You seem to have all the answers, Ms. Sommers.”

  Rachel did not respond.

  “That’s exactly right, Eastop.” Mace used the nickname the traders had given the REIT. A name neither Rachel nor the rest of the class could have read in the Journal. It demonstrated that he was on the inside and they were on the outside.

  “There’s an outfit in Cleveland, a big outfit, that’s about to have trouble also, and once that story breaks, Eastop will be a memory. The firm in Cleveland will make it to the front page.” Rachel offered this comment unprompted.

  Mace stared at her. There were only two big REITs in Cleveland, and as far as he knew, both were on solid financial ground. At least they had been the last time he had checked several weeks ago. He smiled up at her as she stared back down at him from the sky deck, not showing the slight consternation he felt at this revelation. He had recently recommended that a good client of Walker Pryce invest in the limited partnership interests of one of the firms. “And what is the name of that firm?”

  Rachel’s expression turned into the sly smile. “Mr. McLain, you wouldn’t really expect me to give you that kind of information, would you?”

  A chorus of whistles and jeers filled the room immediately. The prospective M.B.A.’s suddenly sensed that the investment banker might somehow be exposed in the Cleveland situation, and they were enjoying their classmate’s advantage vicariously.

  Mace McLain nodded at Rachel Sommers, then broke into a wide grin. Perhaps Walker Pryce had just found this year’s top prospect from Columbia Business School.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later Mace was sitting in Dean Fenton’s office. It was expansive, piled high with hundreds of business textbooks, which rose like small skyscrapers toward the ceiling, creating miniature cities on the floor and the assorted tables furnishing the office. On the walls were the monuments to Fenton’s career. Diplomas, honorary degrees, and awards covered the plain white paint. On the front of his desk were several pictures. They faced strategically from his seat and toward the visitor. In them he was shaking hands with recognizable business types: Warren Buffett, the CEO of Berkshire Hathaway; Stanley Gault, the CEO of Goodyear Tire; and Lewis Webster, the senior partner of Walker Pryce.

  Mace watched as Fenton attempted to end the telephone conversation. He was probably on the phone with a Wall Street executive. They constantly contacted him for advice.

  Finally Fenton hung up. “These late nights are going to kill me.” He winked at Mace from behind the desk.

  “Charlie, you love having these guys run to you for your opinion.” Mace smiled.

  Fenton waved a hand as if all the attention were a pain in the neck. “So how was your first day in the classroom? Did you see anyone you liked? Anyone Lewis Webster will want for Walker Pryce?”

  Mace eyed the picture of Fenton and Webster sitting before him on the desk. “There was one,” he acknowledged.

  Fenton smiled. “Let me guess: Rachel Sommers.”

  Shadows made by the flames of the fireplace on the far side of the office played on Mace’s face. He could not mask the grin that tugged gently at his mouth. “Maybe.”

  The dean laughed. “I thought I saw you look in her direction a few times as I was introducing you.”

  Mace shook his head, but the grin would not release its hold on him.

  “And if I’m not mistaken, I think she was busy looking at you when you weren’t looking at her.”

  Mace forced the smile from his face. “Charlie, my interest in Rachel Sommers is purely professional.”

  “Sure, sure.” The dean leaned back in his chair unconvinced.

  Mace ignored Fenton. “You told me beforehand that all the best finance prospects are in that class. As far as I’m concerned she is head and shoulders above anyone else in there. Plus, another woman at Walker Pryce always helps our little ratio problem.”

  Fenton nodded.

  “So tell me about her, Charlie.” Mace paused. “It sounds crazy, but her name seems familiar.”

  “It ought to be. She was the subject of a Wall Street Journal article a couple of weeks ago. You know, the middle column of the front page where they try to do a human-interest story or something other than hard financial news.”

  “Of course. I remember now.” Mace sat up in his seat. “She runs some kind of small equity fund for the school, and it has outperformed all the stars at Fidelity and Vanguard.”

  “Yep. Those guys say it’s easier for someone like Rachel with a relatively small amount of money to exhibit strong returns for a while when they’ve got so much to manage, but I think that’s hogwash. They’re just jealous. We give the finance club ten thousand dollars at the beginning of each school year to manage. It provides the students with some real-world experience, as opposed to managing some sort of paper portfolio using imaginary money in portfolio theory class. At the end of the year we donate what’s left in the fund to charity. Usually it isn’t much. But Rachel’s been chief strategist the last two years, and things have been different.”

  Mace was extremely interested now. No wonder Rachel had known about the REIT in Cleveland. She was in touch with the market constantly. And she had probably made some very strong contacts along the way, contacts that could prove useful to Walker Pryce. “What’s her background?”

  Fenton laughed caustically. “That’s where she might run into a problem. Her blood isn’t exactly blue, and that’s usually a prerequisite for employment at Walker Pryce.”

  “That doesn’t matter as much anymore. You know my story, and that didn’t seem to bother them.”

  “You were a special case.”

  “I think she is too.” He hesitated. “Where is she from?”

  “She’s from across the East River in Brooklyn. Her family’s pretty poor. She went to Queens College after attending public school, then picked up a job on the government bond desk at Merrill Lynch as an assistant. Somehow she made her way into the analyst program there. Now she’s here on the strength of recommendations from her bosses at Merrill. I think they’ll want her back when she’s finished here at Columbia because Merrill’s not quite as concerned about lineage as Walker Pryce. They seem to think she’s pretty smart. And you know how deadly a woman can be on Wall Street when she’s smart and beautiful.”

  Mace rolled his eyes. He knew. “Everyone will want her.”

  Fenton shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway, I decided to let her into Columbia, even though there was some question of how she’d pay for all this.”

  “She’s paying for it just like everyone else, by borrowing,” Mace said.

  “Yes, but a lot of these other people have mommies and daddies with money
who’ll cosign the loans. It wouldn’t matter if hers cosigned or not. They’ve got nothing.” Fenton paused. “But she’s current so far.” He stopped speaking for a moment and brought a hand to his chin. “Enough about Rachel Sommers. How are you doing, Mace?”

  “Oh, I keep on trying, Charlie, but there’s a long list of smart people out there, you know?”

  Dean Fenton did not respond. That was true. There was a long list of smart people out there. And Mace McLain was right at the top of it. Now in his fourth year at Walker Pryce he was generating enough income for the firm that he was almost forcing Lewis Webster to name him a managing director, the last step before making partner, despite the unwritten rule at Walker Pryce that no one made MD until at least his seventh year. He might even make partner before the mandatory tenth year. “You’re being modest.”

  “Am I?”

  Fenton laughed. “Yes.”

  “Thanks.” Mace said the word sincerely but paid little attention to the compliment as he watched the flames. He was concentrating on Rachel Sommers. He wanted to know more about her, much more.

  The phone on Fenton’s desk rang and interrupted Mace’s thoughts. The dean picked up the phone. “Hello. Of course.” He leaned across the desk and handed the receiver to the younger man. “It’s for you. It’s Webster’s secretary.”

  Mace shook his head as he took the phone. Walker Pryce’s senior partner was going to drive Sarah Clements, his executive assistant, to an early grave. It was after ten o’clock, and the woman had probably arrived at the firm by eight this morning. But Webster was a workaholic; therefore so was she. “Yes, Sarah?”

  “Mace, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important. Mr. Webster needs to see you first thing day after tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. And please don’t mention this meeting to anyone else. He will be meeting with just you.”

  “Did Webster say what the subject of the meeting would be? I’d like to prepare.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Mace nodded. Of course the old man hadn’t mentioned any details about the meeting. He would simply expect Mace to be perfectly conversant in any topic on which he chose to focus. That was Webster’s style. He expected that from everyone at any time. “All right.”

  “I’m glad I caught you,” Sarah said in her maternal tone. “Thank you for keeping your schedule so up-to-date on your computer calendar.”

  “You’re welcome. Good night, Sarah.” Mace handed the phone back to Fenton. So the senior partner wanted to see him. Alone. He had worked with Webster on several transactions, but always along with another partner. Never alone. “Don’t mention the meeting to anyone else.” Sarah’s words. This could prove interesting.

  * * *

  —

  It was late when Rachel slipped into Columbia’s library, and the tables in the great room were completely unoccupied. Everyone was at home sleeping or at an East Side bar drinking. Coming here at this hour was silly, she thought. She laughed to herself. Screw it. Live a little. God knows, you deserve it.

  “We’ll be closing in a half hour,” an elderly man yelled from behind the front desk as Rachel moved through the doors.

  She waved calmly at the man as she made her way toward the back of the stacks of books but said nothing. This wouldn’t take long. She hoped.

  “Hi, Chad.” Rachel smiled as she leaned into the communications room, a small space off the main library floor furnished only with several on-line information systems—Lexis/Nexis, Telerate, and Bloomberg, all a good M.B.A. candidate needed to get ahead. Unfortunately Chad Maddux, a fellow second-year M.B.A. student and the only other person in the room at this late hour, was using the system she wanted, the Bloomberg system.

  Chad turned in the seat positioned in front of the screen. His expression brightened immediately. “Hi, Rachel.” He leaned back and ran long fingers through his shaggy black hair. It was a student’s haircut, screaming of irresponsibility.

  Rachel nodded at him. “You better get that mop clipped pretty soon. Interviews begin in a couple of weeks.”

  Chad began to stretch, groaning as if he had been cramped over the terminal all evening. His biceps flexed obnoxiously under the short-sleeved T-shirt.

  It was all for her benefit, and she knew it. Men were so predictable.

  “What are you doing here at this hour, Rachel?” Chad finished stretching and brought his hands to rest on his thighs. His gaze focused momentarily on her chest, trying to determine the shape of what lay beneath, but he was unable to do so because of the baggy sweater she wore.

  “I’ve just got to analyze a stock for the portfolio,” she lied, “and this is the only time I’ve got.” She noted the direction of his gaze.

  Chad snorted. “You and that portfolio.” He shook his head. “Oh, well, I guess if I had a front-page Wall Street Journal article written about me because of a portfolio, I might watch it like a hawk too.”

  “Chad, I really need to use the Bloomberg terminal for a few minutes before the library closes.” She was becoming impatient. “Would you mind terribly?”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “I get to walk you home.”

  “Sure.” She smiled at him. It wasn’t a bad idea to have a male escort walk you home at this time of night in New York City. But if he expected anything at the end of the walk, he would be disappointed. “That would be nice.”

  Chad rose to give her the chair.

  “Would you be a sweetheart and get me a Diet Coke?” Rachel asked. “I’m really thirsty.” The soda machines were outside the library, so it would take him a few minutes to run the errand.

  “On my way.” He was out the door immediately.

  Rachel turned toward the Bloomberg terminal and made her way quickly into the who’s who section of the system. Her fingers flew over the keys. She did not want Chad Maddux to see her true objective. That was why she had sent him for the drink. “Come on.” The system seemed to be taking longer than normal.

  Finally it was prepared for her inquiry. She typed the letters carefully, M-C-L-A-I-N, and then pushed the enter button. The screen filled with McLains. Abigail, Adam…She scrolled down. Mace William McLain. Immediately she moved the cursor to his name and pushed the enter button again. Instantly his image filled the screen. He was dark like Chad, with jet black hair, but he seemed infinitely more mysterious. She stared at the gray eyes, sculpted cheeks, and a half smile. She laughed and shook her head. The technology available today was incredible. Anything you wanted right to your computer monitor. Even Mace McLain.

  Rachel paged down through the system. She was looking for one thing. She swallowed and felt the flutter in her stomach. God, this was silly. She was acting like a teenager, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to know. There it was. At least as of six weeks ago, the last marked update of his biography. Marital status: single.

  “I didn’t see a ring on his finger in class tonight.” The voice came from behind her.

  Rachel spun in the seat and was instantly face-to-face with Chad. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

  Chad handed her the Diet Coke. “Of course I’m sure you noticed that too.”

  4

  Bob Whitman, president of the United States, hurried after several members of his staff down the narrow corridor toward the White House press room, his attention riveted to the pad on which he had scribbled brief notes just minutes before. He would read the hastily prepared statement, answer only a few questions from those reporters he knew to be unfailingly amicable toward his administration, then get to Camp David as fast as possible. The decision was controversial. There was no doubt. And after almost seven years as the country’s chief executive he knew that the best strategy in a situation such as this was to drop the bomb with little warning, make a quick getaway, then watch the dust settle from a safe distance. He drew in a long breath as he ma
de the last turn toward what he knew was a packed house.

  “Mr. President.”

  Whitman glanced up from the notepad as the vice president, Preston Andrews, slipped between members of the entourage until he stood directly before the president, blocking his path to the press room. Whitman’s eyes narrowed. He had hoped to avoid this confrontation until after the Camp David vacation, until after the dust had at least begun to settle. But this announcement was going to have a dramatic impact on the vice president. So the fact that Andrews would try to stem the tide even as Whitman was going into the press room to make the announcement came as no surprise. The president gathered himself. “Yes, Preston.” He made his irritation obvious.

  Andrews paid no attention to the tone. “Mr. President, are you really going to give the CIA permanent responsibility for fighting domestic terrorism?”

  “Yes.” Whitman was curt. The decision had been made and would not be altered.

  “You could have at least let me know that the decision had been made.”

  “There wasn’t time,” Whitman said matter-of-factly.

  “But Malcolm Becker is their leading candidate.” Andrews lowered his voice. “He’s already a lock for the Republican nomination. All this attention you’re giving him might push him over the top in the November election.”

  “That’s a gross exaggeration.”

  Andrews ignored the barb. “You’re killing our party, not to mention me.”

  The president rolled his eyes. “This has nothing to do with the party, or you, Preston.”

  “It has everything to do with me!” the vice president whispered intently. “And it isn’t right either. The FBI should maintain responsibility for domestic terrorism.”

  Whitman glanced around at his aides. They were becoming nervous at this unanticipated roadblock. His focus returned to Andrews. “Did you see what Malcolm Becker’s Wolverines did to those people out in Los Angeles yesterday?”

  The vice president swallowed hard, then nodded.