The Trust (24 page)

“Your goons will take the money and kill her anyway.” It was so obvious to me.

“They’re businessmen.” Father Ricardo dug his elbows into the table. “If they kill hostages, families will stop paying ransoms.”

Around and around we went, until my phone rang and “I Walk the Line” shattered the tense air. I let my boss go into voice mail. Anders dialed a second time, more Johnny Cash, more “I Walk the Line.”

On the third ring, Father Ricardo barked, “For the love of Christ, will you answer that thing?”

“Katy, I’m in a meeting. I can’t talk.”

“Fine, but get back to New York City tonight.”

“Why?” Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo stared at me.

“You’re meeting Morgan Stanley at eight tomorrow morning.”

“No I’m not.”

Before she could reply, I said, “Hang on. There’s another call coming in.”

Ordinarily, I would never put my boss on hold. But my phone said, “Blocked.” And it occurred to me—I don’t know why—that JoJo’s captors might be on the line. “Hello?”

“Hello, sweetheart.” It was Torres.

I stood up, excused myself, and walked down the stairs to the kitchenette, away from the ears in the conference room. “What do you want?”

“That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

The sarcasm was getting to me. Everywhere I turned somebody was copping an attitude, even a damn priest. “You’re right. Call me back in five. By then, I’ll be primed with F-bombs.”

“Hey, we’re partners,” she soothed. “You getting anywhere with Ricardo?”

“Hang on.”

I introduced Torres to my Hold button and returned to Anders. Not much of an uptick. She snapped, “Don’t do that again.”

“Tomorrow is a nonstarter.”

“You’re gumming up the works,” she growled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Morgan Stanley. They fast-tracked the due dilly. We don’t expect any antitrust problems. We only need to check one more box, and that’s getting brokers in front of their people.”

I looked at the freezer door and thought about what was sitting inside. I remembered how Palmer Kincaid had guided me. Helped me through the years. Been there every step of the way. Wall Street could stuff it. I didn’t care about “gumming up” a deal with Morgan Stanley. There was only one thing on my mind: JoJo Kincaid.

“You yanked Percy’s account from me.”

“Knock it off.”

“Remember the last thing you said to me?”

“No.”

“It is what it is.”

“And your point is?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the FBI?”

“Who told you?” Anders sounded uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.

“Reschedule the meeting.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Exactly.” She knew what I meant. My way. Not hers.

“You’re putting me in a difficult situation.”

“It is what it is.”

I hung up on Anders and clicked back to Torres. “I have no idea why you’re riding me. Or what I’ve done. But right now, I don’t care. Got that? I don’t care. Last time I checked, you weren’t my biggest problem.”

“What’s wrong?” Agent Torres detected something new in my voice.

And I heard consternation in hers. She wasn’t an ally. Nor a friend. I didn’t like her. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t understand why she came at me like a Mack truck the first time we met. Or my firm for that matter. I eyed the freezer door again, long and hard. I may never know what possessed me, how I found the resolve to mouth off to an FBI agent. Especially when I needed the Bureau’s help. Maybe all the hostile phone calls in the middle of a board meeting made me crack. Or maybe it was that refrain in the hostage note: “The woman dies.” Whatever. I wasn’t thinking straight.

“Frankly, Torres, it’s time you reimburse the FBI.”

“For what?”

“Salary, pension, medical benefits. That’s a start. You probably owe them interest and penalty fees too. Don’t tell me they provide you with a vehicle.”

“You need my help.” That’s the last thing Torres said before I clicked off.

Dial tone.

Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo stopped squabbling the second I returned. The reverend asked, “Everything okay?”

“Peachy. Now, about the money.” I placed my mobile on the table, but it interrupted again, vibrating with the annoying hum of metal against wood. I almost threw it out the window.

“Can’t you turn that thing off?” implored Claire.

“Sorry.” I looked down at the LCD display. It was my firm’s CEO.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BOARD MEETING

Call me cynical. But hear me out.

I work for a big investment bank, a sprawling empire of combatant egos. The best way to deal with managers is to avoid them. Their annoying memos sprout mushrooms near the bottom of my in-box. Their incoming phone calls go straight to voice mail. Caller ID has increased my productivity tenfold at the office.

Here’s the thing. I avoid the brass. If I stay out of the pasture, I can’t step in the bullshit, right? Most days the strategy works. Managers leave me the hell alone, because I deliver revenues, year in, year out. And everybody on Wall Street knows, “It’s the fees, stupid.”

Every strategy has a flaw. The one in mine is the CEO. It’s impossible to ignore him.

*   *   *

The LCD on my cell phone read
PERCY PHILLIPS.
I knew what to expect. SKC’s CEO was coming after me. A journalist from
The Village Voice
once described him as a bipolar pit bull stuck on manic. If you ask me, the guy nailed it.

For the third time that morning, I stood up and left. Which was nerve-racking because Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo continued their discussion from my previous absences. And I was missing out.

“Grove here.”

“You hung up on Anders.” Percy spoke in a controlled Chicago accent, da Bears, da brats, interrupted by the occasional burst of squeaky inflection. “Last I heard, insubordination gets you fired.”

“I have issues with a client.”

“You have a problem with me.”

Strike three. First it was JoJo’s severed pinkie. Then it was an FBI agent demanding that I snitch on a priest. And now it was the CEO busting my balls with career threats.

“We’re meeting Morgan Stanley tomorrow morning,” Percy continued. “You’re at that meeting.”

“Not happening.”

“Excuse me?”

Pawns are blind, and kings don’t negotiate. I could tell Percy was pissed. But for the first time in my career, I didn’t care what he said. Or thought. Or demanded. As long as JoJo’s life was on the line, everyone at SKC could go screw themselves. My gut said Palmer’s wife was close, that she needed me, that the next twenty-four hours were critical. There was no way I was leaving Charleston until she was safe.

Percy paused to sort through his thoughts, unaccustomed to pushback either from me or from the other minions on our floor. I could almost hear him frown at his need to shift tone. “Private Client Services does four hundred million in revenues. Your team is twenty million of the total. I need your help, Grove.”

His words sounded like another hand job from above. “Anders pulled your account. And now you want my help?”

“Morgan Stanley insists on meeting you.”

“My team’s only five percent of department revenues.”

“I doubt fifty stockbrokers in the world run a twenty-million-dollar business. Especially in this market.”

When commands fail, bosses hit the sycophant switch.

I suddenly understood Percy’s urgency. “Your deal’s on the ropes?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“You just did.”

His jaw probably hit the floor.

I was worked up. Didn’t care what happened, either to my job or to Percy’s deal. Indifference, it seemed to me in that mother of all eureka moments, was the most luscious feeling in the world. Whoever cares the least enjoys the most power, corporate titles notwithstanding.

“Why can’t our lawyers make up their minds?” I demanded.

“They have nothing to do with this.”

“The hell. Agent Torres of the FBI stormed through SKC’s doors. You recognize her name, right?”

“Grove.”

“She scared the crap out of our lawyers. Tax fraud. Patriot Act violations. Wire transfers to the wrong guys. You name it, Torres implied it.”

“I’m begging you to give it a rest.” Percy’s tone had turned sarcastic.

I pressed on, empowered by my detachment from SKC. My diatribe was gaining speed and building momentum. “MoFo comes in and distances you from me. And me from Morgan Stanley, because the hired guns think I’ll fuck up your deal.”

“I don’t have time to sit here while you get it wrong.”

That comment shut me up.

“I need your help,” Percy echoed from before. The CEO was not one to ask for anything. He usually snapped his fingers and got what he wanted.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re right about what happened. More or less. But ultimately, it was my decision to tell Morgan Stanley about your FBI problems.”

“Sounds like we need new lawyers.”

“I’ve been your client for two years. I know you make good decisions, even if you’re on a one-man mission to save all the world’s underdogs. I know you play aboveboard. That you didn’t do anything wrong. On purpose, that is.”

A little late for this, Percy.

“Are you afraid of what happens after I handle the FBI? You think I’ll sue SKC for wrongful termination?”

“Just attend tomorrow’s meeting, Grove. We’ll pay your legal bills.”

“Why?”

“SKC needs this deal.”

“You sound desperate.”

“Banking revenues are way off. Unless we sell your division, our share price tanks.”

I almost hung up on the spot. “So this is all about SKC missing its numbers?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like it’s time for you to manage expectations. Because I won’t be present tomorrow morning.”

“Come on, Grove.”

“Just do the deal without me.”

“We tried.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I advised Morgan about the FBI’s interest in you. And they want to cool things off until your problems play out.”

“Even with me out of the picture?”

“Afraid so. It’s not like we can indemnify them for bad press.”

“Then what does my presence accomplish?”

“It takes bad press off the table. You turn your business over to Zola. Morgan Stanley pays you a whopping big number to ensure your cooperation. Say twenty million. And you sign a nondisclosure agreement so nothing ever hits the press. We all make money and move on.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this at the start?”

“I tried.”

“You said I have a ‘problem’ with you.”

“I’m trying to make you a rich man,” Percy insisted. “You’ll never work another day in your life. Unless, of course, you want to open your own hedge fund. And if you do, SKC will invest fifty million and raise another fifty million from clients. That’s a hundred million, bud.”

“One of my clients was kidnapped. She may die, depending on how her family and I respond to the ransom demands over the next twenty-four hours. I don’t have the bandwidth for you or your share price or your one-hundred-million guarantee.”

“What are you talking about?”

“And for the record: selling PCS to hit numbers is a really stupid idea.” With that I introduced the chairman of SKC to my old friend in these situations:

Doctor Dial Tone.

*   *   *

When I returned, Claire was standing near the window. Her jeans were tucked into her boots. She wore a wide leather belt, cinched at the waist. Her gray cashmere sweater looked like the color of stone. In a way, she reminded me of Palmer. She had his pluck. She was pure granite, chiseled cheekbones, her vulnerable bearing gone.

“We’ve decided to pay, Grove.”

Claire swept the unruly bangs from her face. She was my friend, a great friend. But as an equal trustee of the Palmetto Foundation, I had my own ideas about our next steps. Nobody was wiring money without my approval.

“All two hundred million?” The question sounded innocuous. But I was gathering info to make my play.

“No. Fifty.”

“Are you telling the police?”

“We decided against it.”

“Who’s the ‘we’?”

“Father Ricardo and I.”

To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to look at Biscuit. He was not the foundation’s lawyer. He was smart, thorough. I wanted him in my foxhole. But he had no vote at the table. The big man, as though reading my thoughts, shrugged his enormous shoulders.

“I’m just a spectator,” he ventured. “But in my opinion, y’all are punching outside your weight class.”

“What’s that mean?” The boxing jargon puzzled Claire. It annoyed her. A lawyer, one from Fayetteville of all places, had no right to interfere in her family’s affairs.

“Contact the FBI before it’s too late.”

“It’s been lovely to meet.” Her words smacked of pralines and cream. Claire returned from the window and offered her hand to Biscuit, a clear dismissal. Nobody can say, “Get the fuck out of here” with the sugary charm of my brethren down South.

Which, of course, pissed me off. “Biscuit’s not going anywhere.”

Most times, Southerners are never so definitive. We prefer flanking maneuvers to head-on clashes. We hide behind manners, and sometimes it takes us a while to say what we mean. Charming and disarming—sure. But make no mistake: Southerners recognize disputes for what they are. Cyanide served with syrup is still lethal.

Claire blinked, a fast, almost imperceptible flutter of the eyes. She retreated to the reverend, allied with him, and said, “We don’t need another opinion.”

“Biscuit’s here by invitation, same as Father Ricardo.”

“There’s a difference,” the reverend snapped. “You have forty million dollars of the Catholic Fund’s money. If that doesn’t buy me a seat at the table, I don’t know what does.”

I ignored Father Ricardo, signaled Biscuit to stay, and addressed my fellow trustee. “What happens when the goons get fifty million, Claire?”

“They negotiate for the balance.”

“Which is a euphemism. It means we lose our money, they keep JoJo, and the Palmetto Foundation gets her body parts in courier bags.”

“I told you,” Father Ricardo argued, “one of my guys knows how to reach them. We can negotiate.”