Money to Burn (16 page)

“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 S
AXTON
S
ILVERS
. 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

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, I
WAS HEADED FOR
L
ONG
I
SLAND
. T
HE
I
VY
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
M
ANHATTAN 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 bank 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—T
HE
H
ONORABLE
S
IDNEY
S
TAPLETON
—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.”

“This is a scam, Judge. Mr. Cantella knew that his wife had uncovered his secret and was about to file for divorce. That is when Mr. Cantella cooked up this identity-theft scheme and conspired with his lover to hide his assets from his wife.”

“What?”
I said, sounding like my brother.

“Mr. Warfield, I warned you—”

“I didn’t say anything!”

It was just like old times, my kid brother blaming me.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I said, but I was looking at Mallory as I spoke. “It’s just that my wife knows this isn’t true.”

Her eyes were cast downward, not even a glance in my direction.

“Mr. Warfield, please control your client. Mr. Highsmith, I’m warning you as well. I am not going to turn this hearing into a mini-trial on Mr. Cantella’s alleged infidelity.”

“Understood. For purposes of this motion, I have just three e-mails for the court to consider.” Highsmith brought out three poster boards, one for each blowup. “Mr. Cantella received the first e-mail on the night of the birthday celebration his wife Mallory had planned for him—the same night that his equities were liquidated and moved into the secret account. The message simply reads: “Just as planned. xo xo.”

I whispered to my brother, “I showed that one to Mallory and gave it to the FBI.”

Highsmith said, “Clearly the ‘xo xo’ suggests that this plan was from someone who had an intimate relationship with Mr. Cantella. The second and third e-mails are more recent, coming after my client asked her husband for a divorce. Read together, these two recent e-mails propose a secret meeting at the Rink Bar at four o’clock today. These messages are signed JBU.”

Kevin looked at me, but I was dumbfounded. My tech guy had already removed the spyware. “I have no idea how she got those,” I whispered.

“Objection,” said Kevin, rising.

“This isn’t a trial,” said the judge.

Highsmith jumped on it. “Exactly, Your Honor. And at this preliminary stage of the proceedings, I believe we have made a sufficient showing to warrant the relief requested—a temporary freeze on Mr. Cantella’s assets and a full accounting of every penny that was transferred offshore.”

Kevin said, “Mr. Highsmith should at least be required to establish the authenticity of those e-mails. We have no idea where he got those last two about this supposed secret meeting.”

The judge looked at Highsmith and said, “How did you get those e-mails?”

Highsmith smiled, and the hand went back into the pocket, reaching for the brass balls. “As the court knows, I’m a very resourceful trial lawyer.”

“So resourceful,” said Kevin, “that Mr. Cantella’s wife planted spyware on her husband’s computer.”

I cringed. Kevin had pushed the wrong button, as was evident from the judge’s sour expression.

“Stop the sniping,” the judge said. “Let me just get to the bottom of this question of whether the e-mails are authentic or not. Mr. Cantella: Did you receive these e-mails or did you not?”

I hesitated. This was going to be news to my brother—and he wasn’t going to be happy. “I did, Your Honor. But they’re not from a lover.”

“Who are they from?

“Well…I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know
?” said the judge.

Highsmith chortled.

Kevin said, “What my client means to say is—”

The judge gaveled him down. “I told you that this is not going to be a mini-trial. The time will come for you to rebut these allegations, but for now I will grant the motion and prohibit Mr. Cantella from making any further sales or transfers of assets valued at more than five hundred dollars. Mr. Cantella has five days to submit to the court a full accounting of all assets transferred from his accounts within the last forty-eight hours.”

“That’s impossible,” I whispered to Kevin.

“Judge,” Kevin said, “that’s—”

“
That’s
my ruling. We’re adjourned.”

With one final bang of the gavel, it was over—or, as the expression on Highsmith’s face suggested, we were just getting started.

“All rise!” called the bailiff.

As the judge stepped down from the bench, I heard a muffled noise from the rear of the courtroom—someone else rising from the wooden bench seats in the gallery. I turned and looked. It was Ivy’s mother.

A sickening feeling came over me. Olivia wasn’t just helping the FBI.

Could she be helping Mallory?

Kevin pulled me out of Judge Stapleton’s courtroom and into the men’s room across the hall. He checked the stalls to make sure we were alone, and then he tore into me.

“I want the truth: Were you having an affair?”

“No.”

“Are you working with someone to hide your assets from Mallory?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then who is JBU, and why does he or she want to meet with you in secret?”

“I don’t know for sure. It’s hard to explain.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about those other two e-mails?”

I breathed in and out, wary of his reaction. “Because I knew that you and I would not see eye to eye on them.”

He folded his arms and leaned against the paper-towel dispenser, as if he had more than enough time for the whole story. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m all ears.”

“On the first e-mail—the one that says ‘I can help’—I had no idea who JBU was. But it hit me immediately when the second one came in. It was hard to ignore the fact that the meeting place was the Rink Bar at Rockefeller Center, the table right in front of the gold statute of Prometheus.”

Kevin shrugged. “What about it?”

“That was where Ivy and I had our first date.”

“Oh, no,” he said, groaning.

I could see that I was losing him. I continued, “Ivy and I had a business relationship before I asked her out. If things between us didn’t work out, she didn’t want the hedge fund she was working for to exclude her from deals involving Saxton Silvers. That’s why she chose the Rink Bar for our first date, a tourist attraction where we were less likely to see anyone we knew. But we hit it off, partly because we discovered that we were both fans of Norman Brown.”

“Who?”

“He’s a jazz guitarist, and he happened to be playing at the Blue Note the following week. We agreed to make his show on our second date, but we also agreed to keep the fact that we were dating ‘Just Between Us,’ which was the title to Brown’s debut album.”

“JBU,” said Kevin.

“Right. It wasn’t someone’s initials.”

He was with me—sort of. A look of concern came over his face. “But you don’t think that—”

“That the e-mails came from Ivy?” I said, finishing his thought. I could almost see his head throbbing.

“
Please
, Michael. Don’t tell me we’re going down this Ivyis-alive path again.”

I said nothing, knowing he would resist.

Kevin suddenly dug into his briefcase, as if an idea had come to him. He pulled out a hard copy of another e-mail—the one from Mallory that had transmitted the happy birthday video and planted the spyware on my computer.

“Just as I thought,” said Kevin. “This e-mail from Mallory has that song title in the subject line. It says ‘Just Between Us.’
Mallory
is JBU.”

“I told you we wouldn’t see eye to eye on this.”

Kevin scoffed. “Don’t you get it? The e-mails came from Mallory, who is scheming—probably with Highsmith’s help—to create a bogus paper trail that makes it look like you have a mistress.”

“I don’t think Mallory would do that.”

“Oh, get a grip, will you?”

“I’m serious. Mallory has a lot of resentment toward me—enough to put spyware on my computer. But make up evidence? That isn’t even close to the woman I married.”

Kevin came toward me, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Michael, Ivy is dead. She is not JBU.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

He knew what I meant. “If you go to the Rink Bar at four o’clock, you will be playing right into Highsmith’s hands. He will cite it as proof that you have a lover, and that the two of you are plotting to hide your assets from Mallory. As your lawyer, I absolutely forbid you to go.”

“I don’t care,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I’m going.”