The Trust (20 page)

Nobody likes surprises, least of all members of a charitable board, good people who care about their philanthropic mission. I decided to report my findings to Claire and JoJo, the fact that Maryknoll had never heard of Father Ricardo or the Catholic Fund. It was better to share the information first, test reactions and gain trust, rather than surprise them in front of a priest.

Somebody’s lying.

Tomorrow’s confrontation would be tense, I had no doubt. But today the three of us would join hands and become one. We were all staring down the gun barrel of the same federal investigation. And the only wrinkle, as far as I could see, was tax fraud. If JoJo or Claire knew something, then our alliance would collapse.

“Is Claire upstairs?” I asked Jill, our receptionist.

“Playing hooky.”

“Hooky?”

“Packing her things for the move to Palmer’s house.” Jill leaned forward, her body language conspiratorial. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Charleston’s gossip had already kicked into overdrive.

There were at least twenty messages for me on Palmer’s desk. Riffling through the stack, I called my office first and reached Zola. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anybody where I am.”

“I got your back.”

Pumped and ready to fight, I bounded downstairs to JoJo’s office. Holly was lying on an ancient oriental carpet. The dachshund jumped and started yapping, until Palmer’s wife declared, “Friend.” Then it was the cute dog thing: Holly lying on her back, making nice, inviting me to scratch her belly.

“I’m buying lunch, under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You pick the spot.”

I tried to play it cool. It’s best to ease into a tough conversation. The question I really wanted to ask: “Who the hell is Father Ricardo and what have we done?”

“Anywhere is fine.” JoJo took my arm. “As long as it’s not one of those ‘eat all you can’ spots.”

“All you can eat?” I knew what she meant. Her rework of the colloquialism was cute.

“That’s what I mean.” JoJo blushed through her golden tan. She grabbed her handbag, hugged me hello, and instructed Holly to stay. “I have good news.”

Glad somebody does.

“Tell me.”

“Our lawyers say we can get all one hundred and fifty million into the foundation by Friday.”

“Huitt’s okay with that?” I asked.

“Totally fine.”

“I’ll call him this afternoon and ask whether he needs anything from SKC.”

“Palmer’s account with you?”

“Right.”

JoJo glowed as we spoke. She brimmed with strength and happiness of purpose, driven by the desire to bring closure to her husband’s last wishes. I decided, one more time, that Claire had been wrong in the garden on Legare Street. Dead wrong. Her stepmother would soon become my first ally in the imminent fight. There was no way we were sending another dime to the Manila Society for Children at Risk.

Not on my watch.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, all smiles and sunshine.

*   *   *

Two hundred million dollars is stupid money. With $10 million you fly first-class. With $50 million you fly private, NetJets or one of its competitors. With $200 million you’re wondering where to park your Citation X in Monte Carlo. And whether to take the superyacht, three decks and 180 feet long, for a night cruise around the harbor.

Somehow, JoJo had risen above the consumptive spiral of more, more, more. Her $10 million trust account, a fortune by all reasonable standards, amounted to a $190 million lifestyle haircut. She took it in stride, though. She never complained, when it would have been so easy to whine about flying first-class.

I saw no anger in JoJo, no bitterness over her eviction from her residence on South Battery. I never heard a peep about the trust fund that would maintain the house into perpetuity. Taken together, those two bequests signaled one irrefutable truth. The Kincaid bloodline, sixty-one cemetery plots ready for generations of action, mattered more than Palmer’s second marriage.

Through the years, I have grown to believe trust funds are oxymorons. There is no trust in trust funds, only acrimony among related parties. It surprised me that my mentor had missed the obvious implications in his will. Maybe Palmer and JoJo had talked things through.

Doesn’t matter.

For here, in the Palmetto Foundation’s elevator, I saw a woman who appreciated her lot in life. Not that she had a right to complain. Ten million dollars and a beach house on Sullivan’s Island—that’s big-time in the real world. Everybody’s dream.

*   *   *

Outside, JoJo and I steered toward Magnolia’s restaurant on East Bay. She pulled close as we walked, her talking and touching so intertwined, her perfume more invigorating than an ocean breeze.

I liked the way she made me feel. There’s something about a pretty woman hanging on your arm, no matter how grim the surrounding events. And I suspect that JoJo appreciated my support. Charleston’s uneven sidewalks can be treacherous. They ripple like harbor waves and rock even the most graceful women in heels.

“What’s the surprise?” In the elevator, I had avoided all discussion. My reticence was, I suppose, force of habit from New York City. You never know who’s listening.

“Today calls for a celebration.” JoJo sparkled, her teeth dazzling and white, her manner flirtatious.

“Why’s that?”

“Claire and I are moving the Palmetto Foundation’s accounts to you.”

“I’m flattered but—”

“We’re making the change this week.”

I didn’t feel much like celebrating, even though a $150 million account meant at least $300,000 in my back pocket, before taxes of course. The whole world is before taxes. I faced bigger decisions, like the recommendation from an attorney I couldn’t hire:

“Cut a deal.”

At our table JoJo ordered a 2007 Kistler “Cuvée Cathleen” chardonnay. Before I could blink she raised her glass, took one look at me, and abandoned the toast. “Your eyes look like plates.”

“I can’t manage our money and serve on the board. It’s a conflict of interest.”

JoJo placed her wine on the table. Never took a sip. “I’m sure we can do something.”

“Five to ten.”

“Percent?”

“Years.” The regulatory environment was toxic. Financial impropriety, even a whiff of it, would land me in Club Fed.

“You’re exaggerating.” JoJo squeezed my hand. And for the first time I noticed that hers, while small and delicate, was somewhat coarse to the touch. Blue-collar. Competent. The imperfection appealed to me.

“We can get another team from my shop.”

“It won’t be the same, Grove.”

“I’ll find somebody we can trust.”

“You seem distracted.”

“We have a problem.”

JoJo pushed her shellfish and grits around her plate, thinking, not looking up. “Watch your sleeve.”

“What?”

“You’re about to drag it through your buttered beans.”

“Er, thanks.” I can never figure out why women mother me.

“So what’s the problem?” she asked, now that my sleeve was safe.

“How long have you known Father Ricardo?”

“About two years.”

Annie once told me I tilt my head left when speaking. I could feel myself doing it now. “I mean really known him.”

“That’s a weird thing to ask.”

“Maryknoll has no record of Father Frederick Ricardo.” I described my visit to Ossining and discussions with Biscuit, every last detail.

“He said they would deny his existence.”

“I don’t buy it. And I refuse to wire another cent to his project. Not until we get some answers.”

“He’s good people.” The expression “good people” sounded odd coming from her lips.

“Did you ever see the safe houses?”

“Of course not.” Same tone as Claire. She rubbed her earring, an emerald-cut ear stud. I guessed Harry Winston, six figures, and life with Palmer.

“Did you ever review any of his organization’s paperwork?”

“We’re a charity. Not an auditor.”

“Did Palmer ever express misgivings about Father Ricardo?”

“No way. Two martinis together, and they behaved like twins separated at birth.” JoJo grabbed my hand again and squeezed hard, really hard. “Why are you so worked up?”

“The Catholic Fund owns part of an adult superstore in Fayetteville. So does the Manila Society for Children at Risk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have no idea who Father Ricardo is.”

“He’s a decent man who’ll have a good explanation.” JoJo fidgeted with her earring. It made me wish she would take the damn thing out.

“I hope so. Because the alternative sucks.”

“Which is what?”

“Prison. Frozen bank accounts.” I spent ten minutes describing the Patriot Act: Know your client, and what happens when you wire money to the wrong people. But tax fraud—I steered clear of that discussion. If Palmer had been cheating on his taxes, JoJo would have benefited directly. And I couldn’t risk alienating her.

“You think he’s a terrorist?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We can’t take the chance.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“That’s not fair to Father Ricardo. He may have a good explanation.”

“What can I do?”

“Ask questions tomorrow. Push him hard. Me too. Make sure I’m being fair. But afterward, once all the talking is done, vote with me. Follow my lead.”

JoJo got the math. “You think Claire’s a problem?”

“No. But Claire’s out of the office. And I’m counting votes today. What’s it going to be?”

She drummed her fingers and then reached across the table for both my hands. “This is exactly why Palmer named you a trustee. I’m with you.”

We left, and the white wine stayed behind, a good bottle half empty. I had done a perfectly good job of ruining JoJo’s meal. And the discomfit showed, her happiness gone. “I’m taking the afternoon off.”

“You okay?”

“I want to spend some time at our place on the beach.”

“Let me walk you to the garage.”

Afterward, I headed back to the Palmetto Foundation. I felt bad about upsetting JoJo. But strangely, I felt the relief that accompanies action. From fighting and setting things straight. I had thrown the first punch, and it felt cathartic. That’s the thing about dropping your guard. You never recognize a mistake until you’re facedown on the mat.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE HOT SEAT

“There’s a woman waiting for you upstairs.” Our receptionist at the Palmetto Foundation likes to gossip. But here in the lobby, dusty from old money and Confederate ghosts, Jill spoke with the urgency of a 911 call.

“Where, in Palmer’s office?”

“She said you’d understand.”

Like hell,
I thought. Guests wait in lobbies or conference rooms, not people’s offices. Suddenly I did an attitudinal 180. “Is it Annie?”

“She’s from the FBI.”

Two floors up, Agent Torres was inspecting the photo of Palmer and Pope Benedict XVI. Her features were Hispanic, the color of coffee and milk. Her body was hard and angular, chiseled either from granite or long hours in the gym. Torres stood about five foot six, was in her late thirties, and had the demeanor of a scorpion tail.

Stress turns me into a smart-ass. It’s a defense mechanism I owe to Wall Street, where each and every day is an outing with the unhinged. After Agent Torres introduced herself, I was stressed. “Don’t you guys travel in packs?”

“No.”

“I thought cops have partners.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“You know what I mean.”

“We’re not here to discuss FBI procedure.”

In my business, we learn how to size up people in a nanosecond. Who’s decent? And who’s a jerk? There was no mystery where Torres fit on the spectrum. “How can I help?”

“Stop interfering with a federal investigation.”

“Excuse me?” The blood was pumping to my head and heating my face.

“Where were you Friday afternoon?”

“What’s this about?” It was an honest question. I wasn’t trying to be combative.

“Let’s set some ground rules.” Torres walked around the desk and sat in Palmer’s chair. “This won’t be hard. I ask the questions. You answer them. Are you ready to cooperate, or should I repeat steps one and two?”

Cooperate!

The C-word scares everybody in finance. It’s code for being in deep shit with the SEC or those bombastic Senators that investigate everything and agree on nothing. “Can’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Another question. You’re not too bright, are you?”

“Look, Ms. Torres.”

“Agent Torres.”

“What’s with the attitude? I can always call my lawyer.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood up and swept her hand toward Palmer’s phone. “In my experience, it’s lawyer up today and Miranda rights tomorrow. Or better yet, if you don’t like due process here, we can get you on a treaty violation. Deport you to South America for a taste of theirs. I wonder if they do house arrest in Colombia.”

Scared? You could say that. American justice is one thing. But I had no idea what treaty violation Agent Torres was wielding like a club. I sat down. She sat down. And after considerable silence, me wondering how the United States could deport one of its own, I rolled over. “I was at Maryknoll headquarters on Friday. Now will you tell me why you’re here?”

“You met with Father Ford?”

“Were you following me?”

“All these questions.” Torres stood to leave.

“Yes.”

“What did you discuss?”

“I was doing my job. Know your customer, right?”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

Oh shit.

“You talked about Father Ricardo. Am I right?” Torres inspected her fingernails, long and sharp. She had the world’s most lethal hands for squeezing somebody by the balls.

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That Maryknoll doesn’t know him.”

“When are you meeting Father Ricardo again?” The agent drilled me with her eyes.

“Tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“For the board to tell him our decision.”

“What decision?” she pressed.

“Whether we’re funding the Manila Society for Children at Risk.”