The Darlings (34 page)

“Have you thought about going to talk to the attorney general's office directly? Or getting yourself a lawyer?”

Yvonne winced. She had a turned-up nose covered in freckles like a speckled egg. It wrinkled slightly as she sat back in her chair. “Listen, you're way ahead of me. Your call was the first time I heard about any investigation. I hadn't really thought about going to the authorities or anything. I can't just run out and get myself a lawyer. Lawyers are expensive. I should know. I send out their bills.”

A smile flickered across Owen's face. “I understand.”

“Also,” Yvonne leaned into the table, nervously fingering the cross around her neck. “Look. I've got to look out for myself here. My husband got laid off nine months ago. He worked at Bear, doing investment operations. It's been hard; there aren't any jobs. He's working now, but it's not enough. Everyone talks about these bankers and fund managers losing their jobs, but people like us are getting hit pretty hard, too. We live paycheck to paycheck.”

Owen's face was impassive
.
“Your boss is about to get indicted for fraud, malpractice, bribery,” he said. “The best thing you can do is blow the whistle before that happens.”

Yvonne nodded, her eyes cast down at her shoes, and dismembered the last napkin. It came apart easily between her fingers, and she rolled it slowly into a series of long twists, like little white cigarettes. “Sol took care of me,” she said simply. “Now I've got to take care of myself. I'm not talking to the media out of the goodness of my heart.”

Duncan pulled a pen out of his pocket. On a napkin, he wrote a number. He pushed it across the table. “Your story has value. I get that. What we want to do is a piece in the
Wall Street Journal
now, then a longer follow-up in
Press
. An exclusive. You only talk to us.”

Yvonne stared at the napkin. “How do I know someone won't offer me more?”

“They might,” Duncan said. “But time is money. Every second you wait, your story depreciates in value.”

“And the investigation? You're sure it's happening?”

“We're sure.” Owen said. They both nodded.

She looked at the number, then back at them. When she spoke, her voice was heavy with resignation. “There's a guy named David Levin. At the SEC. They're setting him up. Sol and Carter, I mean. Or they have, it's done already. They wire transferred to an offshore account in his name, and made it look like he was on the take. The wires are backdated so it looks as though it happened a few months ago.”

Duncan could barely breathe. “How do you know this?” he said. “Are you sure what you're saying isn't some kind of mistake?”

“I'm sure,” she said, “because I'm the one who set up the transfers.”

Later, when it was over and Duncan had paid the tab at the bar, he asked her what made her do it.

“Set up the transfers?” she said.

“No, agree to talk to us.”

“I told you. I've got kids. If I'm going to lose my job, well, I've got to take care of them somehow. You guys better be ready to pay me pretty quick.”

She took a fresh pack of Camels out of her pocket, and pulled the gold cording so that the wrapper came off in two expert halves. She withdrew a cigarette from the pack. Owen offered a light and waited as she took a long drag. “What kills me about this whole thing,” she continued, “what really got me about it, was that they set up Paul. You know, Carter's son-in-law. I don't know him real well; no idea if he's a decent guy. I met him a couple times, at firm Christmas parties and baseball games, that kind of thing. Seems nice enough.” She shrugged.

“Why would that upset you more than their setting up anyone else?”

“Because he's family. They were willing to sell out family, to save themselves. That's a line,” she said, “that I just don't ever want to cross.”

“You ready to talk to the AG's office now? I know it's been a long day.”

“It's been a long fourteen years,” she said.

After he spoke with Alexa, Duncan stared at his phone, debating. “One more quick call,” he said to Yvonne. Marina answered on the first ring. “I'm in a cab on the way to the NYAG's office. How quickly can you get there? I can pick you up on my way, if you'd like to join us.”

“I'm already there,” she said.

SUNDAY, 8:58 A.M.

A
black Escalade pulled up in front of 120 Broadway and out popped Neil Rubicam, looking fresh as a daisy. Carter had never seen Neil looking anything but. He was always slightly tan and seemingly well rested, which irritated Carter even though he knew the man hardly slept and never took vacations. There was a slickness to Neil that made him come off more like an actor playing the part of a big-shot attorney than an actual attorney.

Most lawyers whom Carter knew cared little about their appearance, but Neil cultivated his. He liked his power tie and his custom-made suit; he made a show of checking the time whenever he had a new watch. Neil wasn't exactly handsome but he was well groomed. He had the kind of kinetic charisma that people took notice of. Women loved him. The last time Carter checked, he was divorcing Wife Number Three and had already tee'd up Wife Number Four. Carter wondered how he had time for it all.

As he strode toward him, Neil flashed Carter a brilliant smile. One thing that always struck Carter about Neil was his height. At six foot four, Carter wasn't used to meeting anyone eye to eye. Also, Neil's teeth were improbably white and he smiled easily, even when someone was trying to screw him. Today, Carter found his smile oddly reassuring. For better or worse, Neil always seemed in command of the situation.

“Great to see you, Carter,” he said, with an easy handshake. He clapped him on the shoulder and gestured toward the building. “Let's get started?”

“Thanks again for coming up for this, Neil,” he said. “Are we not waiting for Sol?”

“Sol's on his way. We can start the meeting without him.” Seeing Carter's hesitation, he added, “Not to sound ominous, but I'll be the one running the conversation today. Sol's close with Eli, but everyone understands that you'll be coming to the table with a litigator. It doesn't mean anything, except that we mean business.”

Neil seemed to be enjoying himself. That was the thing about lawyers, Carter realized. On corporate deals, the lawyers worked twice as hard and got paid a quarter as much; they handled all the unpleasant tedious details that bankers didn't have the patience to address; they did it all with a smile because at the end of the day, the bankers were the ones paying their bills. Lawyers were the team goalies. If the team won, the guys who scored got all the credit. But if they lost, the goalies got all the blame.

But in the rare situations where the deal went horribly off the rails and the ball got handed to the litigators, the tables turned. Carter may still be paying Rubicam & Penzells' bills, but he was no longer running the show. There was no going back: What was once a corporate matter was now a litigation matter. Carter couldn't have prepared for how it felt. In fact, he didn't really feel anything at all, except for an odd sense of dislocation, as though something had gone very wrong and he had been mistaken for someone else, and all he could do was feel helpless and wait for things to play themselves out.

“I understand,” Carter nodded.

They passed through building security, emptying their pockets of keys and change and wallets, removing their belts and shoes and putting them into a plastic bin as though at the airport. The halls had a dingy, depressed air about them, as though everything was coated in dust. Carter remembered them viscerally; he had been in this building years before, when Merrill was still in law school. She had interned in the Civil Rights Bureau while studying at NYU. He had met her for lunch a few times when he was downtown for meetings. She would bounce out of the dank elevators with her eyes shining, bubbling over with what she was working on that day, and the whole lobby would light up with her energy. Merrill had always wanted to be a prosecutor. She took the job at Champion & Gilmore because it was a feeder to the U.S. Attorney's office. She had promised Carter it wasn't about the money—he could give her as much of that as she needed—but rather, the right approach to the career she wanted. That was Merrill, always willing to work hard and play by the rules. As far as Carter knew, coming to work here was still her objective, though he wondered how she would feel after all of this was over. He was so proud of her, his shining star. He wondered if she would ever feel that way about him again.

The thought of what he was about to do unleashed a wave of queasiness. He blinked hard against the fluorescent lights. The room started to spin. Carter nodded when the guard asked him if he had a BlackBerry, and turned it over wordlessly for inspection. He thought if he opened his mouth he might throw up. Neil was talking, but Carter couldn't hear him. He began to feel as though he were floating. He was present, but not fully so; it was as if he had drifted out of his body and was bouncing up against the ceiling like a balloon, watching himself down below.

Carter wondered if this was how it felt before you died. If it was, it wasn't so bad. He felt light, nearly weightless, as if the fatigue and stress that had been weighing him down for the past few months had somehow evaporated. He should have been scared, or at the very least concerned, but he wasn't that, either. Instead he felt relieved. Perhaps because in some back corner of his mind he felt as though the end was finally here. He had been waiting for it, and the anticipation was worse than anything else.

The elevator lurched slightly when its doors closed, a nauseating jolt to the body.

“Jesus Christ,” Neil muttered. “Fucking government buildings. Nothing works.” He turned and looked at Carter. “How're you feeling?”

“I'm okay,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets so that Neil wouldn't see the slight tremor. “I'm ready. Let's just get it over with.”

Neil stared at the floor numbers as they slowly ascended. “Well. Nothing's gonna be over today. But let's get the deal locked up so we can start moving forward. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

The doors
ding
ed open. “You'll feel better when today is over,” Neil said, leading the way. “I promise you that.”

Down the hall, a door was propped open with a rubber-tipped kickstand. Sun came in through it and played on the hallway floor; then a figure emerged and blocked the light. It was Eli. There were other voices in the conference room behind him, but Carter didn't think any of them belonged to Sol.

“Thanks for coming,” Eli said, as they approached him from the elevator bank. They all shook hands in the hallway. Eli held the conference room door open for them and two other men rose to their feet. “This is my colleague, Matt Curtis. And I think you both know Bill Robertson.”

Robertson's face was instantly recognizable. He was all over the media; speculation of his gubernatorial bid had been simmering at a low boil for months. Carter had met Robertson a handful of times, but doubted Robertson would acknowledge that now. Though Robertson was slightly younger, they moved in the same social circles. Robertson's daughter was a senior at Spence, Merrill and Lily's alma mater. Both men had, at different times, sat on the school's board. They had several mutual friends.

Delphine Lewis, Ines's bridge partner, had thrown a cocktail event for Robertson back in September. Ines had forced Carter to stop in for a drink, not because she had any real interest in the attorney general but because she was eager to see the Lewis's Rothko, which was said to be worth around $28 million. Carter wanted to stay at the office; they had sparred about it and he had lost. Truth be told, Carter hated Robertson's guts. Everyone on Wall Street did. Robertson was a wholly political animal, in it for personal gain rather than a sense of the greater good. He used his position as attorney general to curry favor with people who would back him when he eventually ran for governor, and in the meantime, invite him to dinner at their Park Avenue apartments. But when appearances demanded it, he would take one of them down. Carter couldn't understand why someone like Peter Lewis—a fellow hedge fund manager—would allow his wife to host a party for Robertson. It was like letting a fox into the henhouse.

Still, at that moment, all Carter could think was how glad he was that he had attended that party and taken the time to shake Robertson's hand.

Robertson looked slighter and less imposing now than at the fundraiser. His hair was thinning at the temples and needed to be cut. His teeth were slightly too long, imparting his signature ratlike smile. Thin lips and limbs. Up close, his cheeks were mottled like a tufted chair, war wounds from an adolescent battle with acne. He looked thin. Perhaps the stress of the fall had caused him to lose weight. Carter wondered if Robertson was thinking the same about him.

“Sorry we weren't able to meet with you yesterday,” Eli said, when the door was closed.

“It's my fault,” Robertson said, extending his hand to Carter. “I wanted to be at this meeting myself. It's nice to see you again, Carter. You too, Neil.”

“Nice to see you, Bill,” Neil said. He was smiling casually but Carter could tell he was surprised. “Glad you could join us.”

“Ines well?” Robertson gestured for them to sit.

“She is, given the circumstances. Thanks.”

“And the girls?”

Carter paused.
How long was social hour going to go on?
“Also well. And your family? Martha is a senior at Spence now, isn't she?”

“Well, that's good to hear,” Robertson said, ignoring the question. “I can only imagine how tough the past few days have been. First Morty, then the investigation. Are they here with you in the city? I heard you were spending the holiday out in East Hampton.”

“Yes, we all came in. Well, Ines stayed to close up the house, but the girls are here with their husbands.”

“Their husbands, right.” Robertson nodded. He was still standing, his arms half folded across his chest. He crooked one finger and pressed it thoughtfully against his lip. “Paul and Adrian. Adrian Patterson. I've met his parents. And Paul Ross. Paul's your GC?”

Now Carter was uneasy. Neil was, too; he could sense it. The energy in the room had shifted, but its direction wasn't clear. “You have a good memory, Bill,” he said. “I didn't realize you had met them.”

Robertson smiled. “Oh, I haven't. Just know their names. Well, Paul's especially. In fact—” He didn't finish the thought. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. From it, he withdrew some papers. He kept them in front of him and said, “I imagine you'd like me to just get to the point.”

“Yes, why don't we,” Neil said, his impatience obvious.

“From the sound of things, your partner, Alain Duvalier, was the one overseeing Delphic's investments with RCM on a day-to-day basis. Is that right?”

“Alain oversees all of our outside managers.”

“But you had a personal relationship with Morton Reis, did you not? I think I met him with you, actually. At a benefit last year.”

“Morty was a personal friend. But I wasn't any more involved with the day-to-day management of that relationship than I was any other outside manager. I was given diligence reports and performance updates on RCM by Alain or members of his team on a periodic basis. My job is and has always been client relations. That's a full-time job unto itself.” This was a rehearsed speech, and Carter tried to deliver it as earnestly as he could. He watched Robertson's face closely, gauging his reaction.

“Of course, of course.” Robertson said, nodding. “My father was in your business, many years ago, as you may know. Lots of golf games and client dinners, right?” He threw Carter a wink and let out a good-natured laugh.

“Something like that.” Carter said, as evenly as he could manage.

“All right. So it seems like all of this came as a surprise to you. I have to say, you did a very good job of mobilizing the troops to get to the bottom of it. Particularly given the holiday. And without the help of Mr. Duvalier, who I understand is out of the country and has not been reached.” He turned to Neil. “Your office has been very responsive to mine. Sol's provided us with a lot of very useful information.”

“We've done what we can.” Neil said. “There's no choice in the matter. Reis is all over the news. They have clients to answer to.”

“Yes. And this issue with David Levin at the SEC. Obviously, there are serious implications. Fraud at RCM is one thing. Bribery of an SEC official is another.”

Carter opened his mouth to speak but Neil cut him off. “That came as a surprise to everyone,” he said. “At least, it helps explain why the SEC failed to investigate for as long as they did.”

“Were you aware that David Levin was in touch with members of your office? Alain Duvalier and Paul Ross?”

“No.” Carter said. “Well, yes. I know that he called our offices. I wasn't aware that he was also in contact with Alain. And I don't believe that Paul was, either. And I certainly wasn't aware of any wire transfers to anyone until Sol brought it to my attention.”

“Right.” Robertson slid the slim stack of papers in front of him toward Carter and Neil. “Sol provided these to us earlier this morning. These are the records of payments out of a Delphic Europe corporate account into an account that was traced back to David Levin. I know you said you weren't aware of the transfers being made. There're two copies there—take a look. Have either of you seen these before?”

“What's this about, Bill?” Neil said. He and Carter flipped through the pages that were in front of them. “He said he hadn't heard about the transfers. When did you get these from Sol?”

“Oh, I understand, Neil. I'm asking if either of you had seen these actual records, before just now. Had Sol shown these to you?” Robertson asked. He stared intently at Carter.

Arrogant prick
, Carter thought.
He's getting off on this, watching me squirm in his grasp
.

“I've never seen these before in my life,” Carter said. “Look, I built my business from the ground up. I've always trusted Alain to manage the firm's investments so I can focus on the client side of our business. That has never changed. My plan had always been to retire at the end of this fiscal year; anyone at the firm will tell you that I've been consciously reducing my involvement with firm's management for several years now. I regret—now very deeply—having put my trust in my partner, but it's ludicrous for me to have to defend myself against the actions of a single rogue individual. We have over fourteen billion dollars under management. It's a big operation. There has to be some sort of division of labor.”