Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (9 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

ShorePoint Investments was in an office tower on the west side of Third Avenue just past Fifty-second Street. Doug Lee was the founder and CEO and met me in reception. He was a wiry guy with a lot of energy.

“Whoa, ho,” he yelled when I walked in. “We got us a big old celebrity sighting, right here in little old ShorePoint.”

“I see the advanced ball-busting training has paid off.”

“Any more dead anchors to tell me about, ya bastard?”

“No, but I’ll keep you updated,” I said.

Lee walked me down the hall past the small trading floor with about two dozen trader types hunched over their Bloomberg screens, watching numbers flashing for the dollar, bond, metals, and Lord only knows what else.

Lee’s office was big and sunny, and up here on the twenty-first floor he had a view clear across the East River. In the distance a plane rose sharply as it took off from LaGuardia, banked to the right, and moved on. Lee closed the door and sat behind his desk; I took a seat on a white leather couch.

“So, what the hell do you want now?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks. It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.

“Like I give a crap how you’re doing,” he said.

“I’m hurt. But then again, I’d expect nothing less from a successful hedge fund manager.”

“You make us sound callous and uncaring as a class.”

“Sorry, I overlooked all of your charitable contributions.”

“Yes, you did.”

“To Saks, Tiffany, and the contracting community in Great Neck who built the mansion.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s nice to get your due. And remember, I could have made you a gazillionaire if you had taken me up on my offer way back when.”

“I was happy being a thousandaire.”

“Yes, that whole do-what-makes-me-happy argument. My seventeen-year-old is giving me the same crap.”

“Smart kid,” I said.

“He’s going to follow his heart, as he drives off in his shiny new BMW.”

“Which I’m sure he saved up for.”

“Yeah, right. Working weekends at the ice cream shop.”

Lee looked good. Successful. Trim. With neatly cut silver hair, a light blue shirt with gold cuff links, and a gold-and-blue-striped tie. He had founded ShorePoint fifteen years ago and made a killing.

“What do you know about your old friend Buck McConnell?” I asked.

“You mean, What the Buck McConnell? Stupidest CEO in the damned country.”

“That’s a crowded field.”

“But he stands out. Sleazy bastard is what he is. Why you want to know about him?”

“I got handed some of Jack Steele’s stories to follow up on,” I said.

“The dead guy?”

“Yes, he is dead.”

“What’s McConnell got to do with him?”

I shrugged.

“Not sure. Maybe nothing. Jack was going after IT&E, saying they were unpatriotic because some of their crappy equipment wound up in Iran, or Syria, or somewhere.”

“Anything for a buck, so to speak,” he said.

“You shorted IT&E a while back,” I said.

“Oh, did I ever.”

“Read about it in the
Journal
.”

“Made close to half a million. And that wasn’t even the best part.”

“Pissing off McConnell was more fun?”

“Big-time. Bastard came after me with all he had.”

“And?”

Lee spread out his arms to take in the office.

“I’m still here, ain’t I?”

Lee glanced at his four Bloomberg screens and tapped a few keys while talking to me. Trading seemed to be a good business for adults with ADD.

“Didn’t take a genius to see how IT&E stock was going to sink,” he said.

“Think you can enlighten me?”

“Geez, you TV types really are thick.”

“Otherwise we’d all be traders.”

“Heaven forbid. Look, IT&E is down sixteen percent on the year, was down three percent last year. Probably going to keep on falling as long as Buck is involved.”

“Lousy CEO or lousy business conditions?”

“He’s very good at being an idiot. Daddy and Granddaddy built him a nice business, handed him the keys. And now he’s driven the damn thing off the road and into a tree,” he said. “With their revenue flat, it’s no wonder their crappy equipment shows up in terrorist states. A dollar is a dollar even when it’s not called a dollar.”

It took me a second to sort that one out.

“He under any pressure to leave?” I asked.

“Hah,” he said. “The board is a bunch of daddy’s buddies who aren’t going to say boo. They already made a fortune from when Old Man McConnell ran things, so as long as Junior doesn’t completely destroy the place they’ll keep quiet.”

“Even when you came along pointing out his flaws?”

He spun around in his chair to face the cabinet that ran along the wall behind his desk and grabbed a slim white binder with no markings on it. He opened it and flipped through its pages.

“‘Hedge fund manager Lee shorting IT&E. Says revenue trends, mismanagement to send shares lower,’” he said, reading from a page with a newspaper clip. “That was in the
Journal
.”

He flipped to another page and read again.

“‘Lee calls McConnell inept, says stock has further to fall,’” he said. “That was a Bloomberg piece.”

“Why’d you sugarcoat it?” I asked.

“Okay, you think maybe, just maybe, the board would wake up after headlines like that, right?” he asked.

“But no?”

“They circled the wagons. Protected Buck. Said current market conditions were unfavorable.”

“But they weren’t?”

Lee raised his voice to where he was almost yelling. “The sector was up seven percent at the time, for Christ sakes. How the hell could Buck be losing money when everyone else was making it?”

“Hard work and practice?”

“Exactly. You got to really work at it to lose money in that environment.”

“And here you come, screaming about him being an idiot.”

“And you know what old Buck does? He unloads on me like nobody’s business. First his little PR man—”

“Stuart Ripley.”

“That’s him. The Dweeb King. He rips into the reporters writing the stories. Tells them I’m just a sleazy short seller trying to drive the price down.”

“But you’re so much more.”

“I show Ripley and the reporters the top ten holdings of ShorePoint. We’re long eight and short two. How do you get notorious short seller out of that?”

He was worked up now, reliving the fight.

“When Ripley couldn’t handle me, he went and hired some private dick to dig up dirt on me. I come out one Saturday morning and there’s this asshole in a car across the street taking pictures of me and my kid.”

“You don’t scare easily,” I said.

“Get this. Guy around the corner from me used to be the special agent in charge for the Feds in the New York office. I called him, said I needed a favor. Said there’s some guy taking pictures of my twelve-year-old daughter. He calls the FBI, the locals get in on it, and a half hour later this clown finds himself surrounded by guns pointed at him.”

“Scared him off?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Called up Ripley and said, you want to screw with me, you better be ready because I’ll return fire.”

“A hedge fund manager with attitude.”

“Here’s the thing with guys like McConnell. He’s a card-carrying member of the Lucky Sperm Club. He’s not used to being in a street fight. I had guys calling me up, classmates of his from Harvard, telling me they loved watching me screw with him.”

“Probably wished they could.”

“Exactly. He always been used to bullying or buying his way out of trouble, and if that didn’t work he’d call in the heavy artillery.”

“Daddy?”

“And his lawyers. Had one guy tell me he could help me take him out for good if I wanted to.”

“You chose not to?”

“Why bother?”

He turned and checked the Bloomberg screens again, tapped at the keyboard some more. Screens were flashing and changing colors, and though he seemed absorbed in them, he heard every word I said.

“You still involved with IT&E?” I asked.

“Nope. Made my pile and got out. That’s not to say I won’t revisit if I feel like pissing them off again.”

“Of course. How well you know the company?”

“Probably better than Buck, but then again he’s only the CEO and busy getting ready to run for president.”

“Ever hear of Gulfway Energy?” I asked.

“Nope. Should I have?”

“Little unit of IT&E.”

“What does it do?”

“Not quite sure,” I said.

“If it mattered to their business, I would have discovered it. We don’t miss a lot,” Lee said. “If I’m going to risk big money on a stock, I like to know everything the company is up to, which is why we research these places months before we make a move.”

“Is it possible they could have a subsidiary tucked away somewhere out of sight? Somewhere that even you couldn’t find it?”

Lee was slapping at the keyboard again.

“Absolutely, but only if they wanted to keep it secret,” he said.

“And the reason for that would be?”

“Maybe it’s up to something they didn’t want anybody to know about,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Three

One of the last people to talk to Jack Steele on the last night of his life was Manny Torres.

Torres had been Steele’s driver for the last seven years, and he wanted to meet at the Bronx Zoo, so the Bronx Zoo it was.

It was Saturday morning and Freddie and I drove up the FDR and onto the ramp to the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge.

“You know what really puzzles me?” I asked as we passed through the toll plaza in an E-ZPass lane.

“Probably the same thing that’s been bugging me,” Freddie said.

“Which is?”

“What an investment banker sees in you?” he said. “Thought they were supposed to be smart and savvy.”

“She is. And that’s not what’s bugging me,” I said. “I’m wondering why you’re driving this beat-up thing. What is this seven, eight years old?”

“Reliable and tough. Just like me,” he said.

“I remember you having a sports car.”

“Still do. Classic Porsche. Keep it garaged. It’s for special people and events,” he said.

“I’m offended.”

“It’s for the ladies. Weekend trips. You know, the romantic getaways. Type of things you should be doing with Liz. Treat her right before she drops your ass.”

“Thanks for the love advice.”

“Anytime.”

I was quiet while Freddie took the curve onto the Bruckner Expressway too fast.

“So, why would this guy pick the zoo?” I asked.

“Maybe likes animals,” he said.

“You know any of the exhibits?” I asked.

“My information sign lit up again or something?”

“Just thought you might know, that’s all.”

“Like I work for the city tourism department.”

“You could, you know. You’d be good at it, I mean, if you cleaned up a little bit. Maybe shaved the scruffy beard.”

“That’s for intimidation purposes. Puts a little scare in people,” he said.

“Much like your driving.”

Freddie changed lanes without signaling and we sped along in the left lane. We jumped onto the Bronx River Parkway, and fifteen minutes later we were pulling into the zoo’s Bronx River entrance. It was just before ten in morning and it was already blistering hot and humid. I looked back at the line of cars paying and entering the zoo for a black Mercedes. Nothing even close.

We paid, walked up the winding concrete pathway to the American bison area, and stood next to the waist-high fence, looking out over a dusty expanse. There were already knots of tourists on either side of us dressed in shorts and T-shirts and sneakers. I overheard German and Spanish and some French. Families with kids in strollers passed by us.

“See him?” Freddie asked.

“Nope. He said he’d find us around the bison,” I said.

There was murmuring and pointing among the crowd, and everyone looked out toward one of the large lumps of brown that rose from the ground off in the distance, in the far end of the bison’s living quarters. Even from this distance the animal looked dusty and hot, its thick brown coat covered in the tan of the dirt where it had been lying.

I heard Freddie speaking Spanish and turned to see him talking to a guy as big as he was but older. The guy had broad shoulders and was dressed in white dress slacks, casual brown leather loafers, and a patterned short-sleeved shirt.

Freddie and he spoke a bit more, and then Freddie turned to me. “This is your guy right here,” he said, introducing us.

I shook hands with what felt like a catcher’s mitt, and Torres pointed toward a little area set back on the other side of the walkway. It was a shaded strip with a few benches.

“Let’s sit over there,” he said.

We walked over and took a seat and Freddie excused himself and took up a spot down the pathway to keep watch. Manny’s eyes scanned the area, watching people, as he spoke. He was businesslike and serious and had the feel of ex-military, or maybe ex-cop.

“Robbie said you wanted to talk to me,” he said.

“She tell you what it was about?”

“She did.” He had large dark eyes that moved like they were used to doing a lot of watching.

“What do you think?” I asked.

He turned and looked me square in the eye. “I think she’s right.”

I looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. When I turned back, he was still staring at me.

“You don’t think he killed himself?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“What do you know about that night?”

“Just what Robbie told me,” I said.

“Which was?”

“That Jack was tired and worn out and canceled his appointment with Andrew Webber. Then sent you home. She went to bed, and sometime after eleven, maybe around one, Jack goes out, goes downstairs, gets a cab, and isn’t seen again until the garbageman sees him floating in the water.”

We were quiet as a couple moved past us speaking French. He was in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. She was in shorts that appeared to have been stretched for her to squeeze into. Ditto for the little T-shirt she wore. They examined a map, pointed a lot, and after a few seconds off they went.

“Robbie’s version of events add up to you?” I asked.

“That’s the way it happened.”

“What do you know about this Webber guy? He legit?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. There were a lot of guys who had a piece of Jack. My job was just to drive him there and make sure he got to where he was going next safely.”

“I went by the doc’s office. Didn’t seem to have a lot going on.”

“Who else you talk to?”

I told him about my other conversations, and he sat and listened and looked straight ahead for the most part, except when he looked up and down the pathway at the people coming and going.

“You’re really poking around in this,” he said.

“I am.”

“And your friend, Freddie, he’s watching out for you?”

“He is.”

“Good idea. You keep snooping around, you don’t know who you’re going to piss off.”

“So I’m finding.”

“I’ll do what I can to help you,” he said.

“How about tell me about that night? Jack cancels, then what?”

“Calls me, says he’s tired and just canceled his Webber session. Tells me that’s a wrap and I can head home.”

“So you take off?”

“Not right away,” he said.

“Why not?”

He hesitated and looked off toward the crowd in front of the bison. Then he turned to me. “Wanted to see if he was going out on his own.”

“He was your responsibility.”

“I got paid a lot of money by Cal Daniels to make sure Jack’s ass was tucked in at night.”

“So you’re afraid he’ll pull an end run on you?”

“Again,” he said.

“How many other times?”

“Once. About a month ago he pulled a stunt like this. Went out late and hopped a cab when I was on a dinner break. Came back about an hour later.”

“Girlfriend?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so. He and Robbie hadn’t been together long enough for him to be bored. Plus, you met her. She’s very …”

“Attractive,” I said.

“Yes.”

“How’d you find out he took off?”

“Eddie. Overnight doorman,” he said.

“Nice of him.”

“I keep him on my payroll. He gets a big Christmas tip; I get any info I need on Jack.”

“What happened the night he died?”

“Eddie goes on his dinner break about a half hour before Jack leaves.”

“And the guy covering for him?”

“Some kid who doesn’t know the drill,” he said.

“All comes down to timing,” I said.

“Next thing I know, I get a call from Robbie at three in the morning,” he said. “She’s frantic, asking if I know where Jack is.”

I looked out at the crowd that was building, coming into the park. The parade of young families and strollers had begun. They clogged the walkway between us and the dusty living quarters of the bison, getting to the zoo before it became too hot.

“Wonder why Robbie never mentioned him sneaking out,” I said.

“She didn’t know. Still doesn’t, as far as I know.”

“How’d Jack manage that?”

“She was at her mother’s place out in Ohio,” he said.

“You ask him about it?”

“The very next day. I said, Anything new going on? He says no. Same old.”

“And you knew he was lying?”

“Yup.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“No idea. Jack was a restless man at times,” he said. “I tried asking again, kind of in a roundabout way for a few days, but he didn’t give me anything.”

“What about after that? Anymore end runs?”

“Only other thing was a trip to a motel in Jersey the week before that. One night after his show.”

“I thought you said there were no girlfriends.”

He shook his head. “There weren’t, as far as I know. Jack said this was for a story.”

“What was the story?” I asked.

“Don’t know. We sat there for a bit in the parking lot of the motel and waited in front of the room he was supposed to go to, but no one showed up. Left after forty-five minutes.”

I looked over at Freddie. He was leaning against a low black railing and drinking a bottle of water, pretending to be just another zoo goer taking a break.

“So you got Jack Steele sitting in a car in the parking lot of a motel in Jersey waiting to meet a source who stands him up?” I said.

“That’s the way it happened,” he said.

“And you don’t know what the story was or who he was supposed to meet?”

“No.”

“He make any calls, e-mail anyone, text anyone, while you were out there?” I asked.

“No. He sat in the back staring across the parking lot at the door to the room. And he was looking around, trying to see what cars came and went.”

“And he never followed up? Never went back out there?”

“Not that I know of.”

We sat there in silence for a bit and Manny scanned the crowd heading into the zoo.

“A story, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” Manny said.

“You think maybe someone was setting him up? Then he shows up with you and they bail on him?” I asked.

“Anything’s possible,” he said.

“Then maybe they try it again last week. Get him over to the East River by himself.”

We sat in silence for a moment and watched the tourists.

“What do you make of the note?” I asked.

“That’s the part I can’t figure out,” he said.