Reckless (10 page)
Authors: Andrew Gross
He passed the house and pulled up to a stop about a hundred yards down. “What do we do, Ro?”
“There’s no way we’re going in there, Kev.” His wife shook her head, fear in her eyes.
He nodded. He bit his lower lip and punched in 911 on the Bluetooth. A female duty officer answered on the second ring.
“Greenwich Emergency.”
“This is Kevin Mitman. I live at 2019 John Street,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes. “We just came back from a hockey game. I’m outside in the car.” He took a breath and grabbed his wife’s hand. “I think someone’s broken into our house.”
I
t wasn’t them.
The two stunned burglars, clad in athletic sweatshirts and jeans, were descended upon by the Greenwich police—lights flashing and guns drawn—carrying a plasma TV up the Mitmans’ driveway, heading back to their van.
The two robbers were barely adults. Yemeni kids from Norwalk. One was twenty-two, the other nineteen. They were shaking in their boots. An hour’s interrogation back at the station had them giving up who they had felt up in the fifth grade. They owned up to several of the break-ins. The McLains. The Polashes. The St. Angelos. They gave up the whereabouts of a basement apartment where the police still could find much of the stolen cache.
It wasn’t them.
They got their prospective locations through another cousin who delivered the local paper each morning. That’s how they knew when homeowners planned to be away. Neither of them had much of a record. The older one had been pinched for shoplifting. The nineteen-year-old was actually enrolled in Norwalk Community College and this was his first arrest. The older one had a gun on him, an old, passed-down Beretta .22 that he’d bought on the streets. More for show than any real effect.
No match for the Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter that had been used on the Glassman family.
When they were confronted with the murders, everything started coming out of them. They even had an alibi for that night. The younger one’s cousin was having a betrothal celebration in Passaic, New Jersey. He had spent the night at the cousin’s house.
The older one had spent the night at a bar in White Plains. Until two A.M. Closing time.
They were stupid and out of their league, and it was good to finally shut their little operation down.
It just wasn’t them. Hauck knew. It wasn’t the two who murdered Marc and April Glassman.
That morning, he caught Chrisafoulis on the phone as he was scrambling between news briefings. “You got one minute,” the head of detectives snapped. “You see what’s happening out there, don’t you?”
Hauck said, “Yeah, I see it.”
What he was talking about were the ten news vans that were backed up like cattle cars onto Mason Street outside the station. CNN, Fox, the local Connecticut stations. Reporters surrounding anyone who came out who looked like they might have some connection to the case. The Glassman murders were page-one news—the grisly scene, the rich suburban family murdered in their secluded home, the calm of Greenwich shattered. And it had brought down a Wall Street icon too.
“It wasn’t them, was it?” Hauck pressed. He doubted the motive was robbery from the start.
“Ty, you know I can’t keep doing this. I only have so much room.”
“Steve…”
His voice was insistent. “Were they the ones who did the job?”
“They admitted to
several
jobs,” the detective said evasively. “The two out on North Ridge and Willow. They told us where some of the loot was stashed. How they staked out the homes…”
“You said that one of the Glassman perps had long reddish hair. You said he had some kind of tattoo on his neck.” Hauck knew he was going further than he should. “You said they wore work uniforms. You found tire tread marks on the street. The gun that killed the Glassmans was an H and K nine-millimeter. C’mon, Steve, you know damn well what job I’m talking about.”
He waited a beat before Chrisafoulis replied. And when he did, it was short and under his breath. “No. They copped to the other break-ins. But not the Glassmans. One of them is nineteen, the other twenty-two. The guns didn’t match up, or the tire tread. Or the descriptions. You should’ve seen them; shit came out of their pants—”
“Are you buying?”
“They said they set up the jobs through a friend who handled the local paper route. That’s how they knew who was away. The Glassmans—they didn’t even get the
Greenwich Times
. These guys also had solid alibis for the night of March sixth. We’re getting confirmation, but there was a gas receipt in the car that already put one of them on the Jersey Turnpike around that time…
“Yeah, I’m buying.” Chrisafoulis sighed resignedly.
Hauck let out a grunt of disappointment. But not surprise. He never thought this fit the pattern of a burglary. It may just have all been a diversion. The safe left open, the drawers rifled through. It may have all been to mask what they were really there for.
Who would have wanted Marc Glassman dead?
“You know where this is leading, don’t you, Steve?”
“You’re driving around in a BMW now, Ty. You don’t have business of your own to spend your time on?”
“Glassman sank the firm. I don’t know who would’ve had anything to gain, but I know what the result of all this is, and it’s sitting there on the front page of the
Wall Street Journal
today.”
The detective paused. Maybe he was thinking it over. “You never used to read the
Journal,
Ty. You never made it past the sports.”
“I guess things change.”
“No, they don’t,” the detective said. Hauck wasn’t sure what he was talking about. But he didn’t think it was the paper. “They don’t.”
They hung up. Hauck stared at the bold headline of the
Wall Street Journal
on his desk: FED WEIGHING BAILOUT ON WERTHEIMER; HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD FIRM COULD LEARN FATE TODAY.
Marc’s still at Wertheimer. Doing great,
April had said.
He balled his fists and dropped them against his desk in frustration.
Who had something to gain?
His line rang again and Hauck waited before picking up, lost in that question. When he did, on the fourth loud ring, the caller surprised him.
“Mr. Hauck, it’s Merrill Simons.”
“Ms. Simons…” Hauck hadn’t contacted her yet with what he knew. He didn’t want to cause her any real hurt until he had put it all together. “So far I haven’t heard back on much yet. What can I do for you?”
“The last time we spoke…,” she said, hesitating. Then she cleared her throat. “I have those other things on Dani you asked me for.”
R
oger Cantwell stared out at the dark Manhattan sky. The illuminated spire of the Chrysler building shone brightly a few blocks south. It had been a week since the initial disclosures on Marc Glassman. A week of hell. Sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Cantwell had poured himself a tall Springbank single-malt, his favorite. It had been poured many a time to toast a successful deal or an acquisition.
He couldn’t believe it had come to this.
Wertheimer Grant was one of the most respected names on Wall Street. It had weathered
twenty
financial downturns. Led the recoveries on the way back up. The firm’s commercials—
“Your future is our future”
—were broadcast during the Super Bowl. Just a year ago they had a market cap of a hundred billion.
How could no one be coming to their rescue? How could there be no fix?
It was insane.
He had made a final pitch to Tom Keating at Treasury. Christ, they had known each other for thirty years, used to get hammered together to celebrate their deals. Both of them had started as bond salesmen. Wertheimer was far too important to ever fail. Yes, Cantwell realized, life would clearly change for him. The cushy bonuses were gone. And the plane. His legacy would forever be scarred by the company’s having to accept public money. He didn’t look forward to how it would play—in the papers or at his golf club. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure if he’d be able to even stay on.
Still, they had to keep themselves in business.
They were Wertheimer Grant, for God’s sake.
He threw back another hard swig. The scotch, smooth as it was, burned, and that felt good on the way down.
Frigging Glassman…
That little prick had brought down the whole firm. Whatever their fate, the market was going to tank six hundred points tomorrow!
No,
Cantwell thought, gazing out at the city he was once such a commanding force in; if he was honest, the bastard had only been the last indefensible boot that had pushed them over the edge. It had been years of the belief that nothing could stop them. More arrogance than greed. The end came so suddenly it hit them like a truck. No one had seen it coming. Not the risk managers, not the rating agencies, not the press. A giant with muscles, as someone had described it once, stuffing itself with cake.
That’s what they were. Accountable to no one.
Well, now the giant was about to take a mighty fall.
Cantwell rolled the scotch around his tongue, his mind drifting to a time years before when he was just starting out, wet behind the ears. They had this bond issue from Texas from a basically bankrupt town no one could sell. He was twenty-six, thrust into a job he had no training for, with a boss, Charlie McAfee, a real bastard, Cantwell recalled, who was happy to throw him to the wolves.
“Sink or swim up here,” the fat fuck said, grinning, puffing on a cigar. “You know how to swim, Roger?”
Asshole didn’t know who he was dealing with.
Roger Cantwell chuckled.
He swam. With the goddamn dolphins, he swam! He sold it. He got it done. Every last share. Damn thing ended up oversubscribed. He took it across the country, to pension funds and small brokerage houses. He wrapped the purchase into a twofer with solid triple-A’s. Three hundred and fifty million dollars. That night, he had a feeling of self-importance he would never forget. He’d puffed on his first Cuban cigar. Screwed a hot waitress at Doubles like he was some kind of porno star.
Six months later he had the old fart’s job.
Cantwell drained the last of his drink.
Funny,
he thought now,
two years later the bond defaulted.
They all knew it would. Blamed it all on Charlie.
It had made his damn career.
There was a knock at his door. Cantwell turned. Ronald Wu, his CFO, with Brenda Pearlstein. They’d just been finishing up with Treasury and had come to give him the painful news.
“Come on in,” Cantwell called, resigned. He came away from the window and sat on the long walnut conference table. “So what are the terms?” he inquired. “Just how much flesh do those vultures want us to give up?”
Wu was a brilliant financial mind and over the years had negotiated many tough acquisitions. But this time he was somber.
“
Terms?
There are no terms, Roger. They passed.” He came up and collapsed in a chair at the end of the conference table. “No more discussions. I’ve alerted the attorneys.
We’re done
.”
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
Once-Mighty Wertheimer Collapses as Treasury Department Declines Bailout; Wall Street Stunned
Once one of Wall Street’s most historic companies, Wertheimer Grant was forced to shut its doors as last-minute options for the troubled firm, including a prospective bailout by the United States Treasury, failed in the wake of the damage done by a rogue equities trader recently murdered in his Greenwich home. The beleaguered firm was also the victim of a balance sheet weighted down by questionable mortgage-backed assets.
Wertheimer, whose shares last summer traded at over a hundred dollars, sold off in heavy after-hours trading last night for under fifty cents a share.
The once-defiant CEO, Roger Cantwell, who is said to have spent the night in constant talks with potential partners from around the globe, was unavailable for comment. Ronald Wu, Wertheimer’s CFO, released a short statement saying the firm “is committed to protecting the interests of its loyal account holders and investor base and right now is studying all available options, including selling off its assets.”
Employees of the hundred-year-old firm came to its forty-eight-story glass headquarters on New York’s Park Avenue in shock, let in to collect their personal belongings by security personnel. Secretaries and analysts huddled on the street in disbelief.
“The ship sank,” one veteran hedge fund manager said. “Since the news of that trader, there’s been a weeklong run on the accounts. They no longer had the reserves to fight it off.”
The firm succumbed to a balance sheet eroded by heavy investments in toxic subprime mortgages and hurt further by the recent admission that one of their most highly regarded traders had lost as much as twelve billion dollars through unauthorized activity. These latest losses only came to light in the wake of the Glassman family shooting deaths, thought to be a robbery at his spacious Greenwich, CT, home, but now questions have arisen as to whether it was indeed part of a recent home break-in spree there.
“They were too big, too brash,” one Wall Street insider said. “They didn’t see the oncoming train. How fitting that it was being driven by their own star.”
For the fifth straight day, the stock market was expected to tumble to new lows, dragging the financial sector farther down. Shocking revelations of losses and malfeasance have become part of daily life on Wall Street, and the biggest concern, given the loss of reserves and the increasingly questionable value of all mortgage-related securities, is no longer whether Wertheimer Grant will survive, but which “unsinkable” Wall Street icon will be next.
