“Doesn’t matter.” Halek was boiling now, anger overriding his trademark calm.
“The Monthly Nut won’t do a thing,” I cautioned. “No sac.”
“You got that right.” He paused, ratcheting back his wrath. “She’ll blow herself up, Grove. It’s a matter of time.”
You say the same thing about Romanov.
“I’m trying to figure out how to light the match.”
“Just do what all advisers do in your shoes.” He sounded more cerebral now, the everyday Cliff, the calculating strategy general.
“What’s that?”
“Arrange an intervention.”
“What do you mean?”
“Get the client involved. Works every time.”
“It has to wait until Monday.”
“Suit yourself. But ask yourself one question.”
“Which is?”
“You think Patty is waiting until Monday?”
I was all set to call Crain and Cravath, yet again, when Annie delivered a fresh cup of coffee. Chloe mouthed the words,
My treat
. She was listening to someone on the phone.
It was clear Annie wanted to gossip. Gabfests were Wall Street’s exhaust, the inevitable fumes from our culture of ambition and relative youth. “Did you hear about Gibson?” He was one of the older brokers in the office, a fifty-something guy who lived in Bronxville.
“What happened?”
“He was drinking at the Whiskey Bar last night.” That watering hole
was a trough for bad behavior. It had spawned numerous office legends, which grew in hyperbole each year as we retold our stories and embellished them with slightly different twists each time.
I know where this is going.
“He staggered out of the bar around one A.M. last night,” she continued. “Blind drunk.”
“Been there before.”
“Not this bad,” Annie countered. “He went from happy to ripshit in five seconds flat.”
“What was the problem?”
“No cabs.”
“What’d he do?”
“Hired one of those horse-drawn carriages, like the tourists get, to take him home. All the way up Broadway.”
“That’s fifteen miles,” I noted, not believing my ears.
“The ride cost him eight hundred dollars,” she confirmed. “The guy’s a rock star if you ask me.”
Just as the day turned better, the pleasures of Annie’s stories, it turned worse. “
New York Post
on your second line,” Chloe interrupted.
“You’re in luck,” Mandy Maris announced over the receiver.
“You too.”
“Why me?” she asked, taken aback by my response.
“I’m not hanging up on you. I didn’t realize it was Sam Kelemen who put you onto me.”
“So you’ll do an interview?”
“Not sure yet. Why am I in luck?”
“We’re not running the story on Charlie Kelemen until the middle of next week.”
“What’s lucky about that? Anybody but a cobra fucker would leave his widow alone.”
Wrong thing to say.
“It seems to me,” she replied, ignoring my jab and setting the bait, “I’d want to clear my best friend’s name. Set things right. But that’s just me.”
“What do you mean, Mandy?”
“His investors are starting to worry about their money. The Kelemen Group has no bench strength.”
“Are you free early next week?”
“I’m free now.”
“Not happening, Mandy. I need to get somebody from our PR department to join us.”
Advisers don’t talk to the press.
Patty’s chair was empty over in Estrogen Alley. Halek’s words still gnawed at me: “
You think Patty is waiting until Monday
?” Perhaps she was sitting in JJ’s office right now.
No way I’m calling him before Monday.
Instead, I dialed Charlie’s auditors. This time a guy answered. “Crain and Cravath.” His voice sounded twenty-something.
“Let me guess,” I replied sarcastically. “Crain is at the Jersey Shore. And Cravath is in the Hamptons.”
“May I help you?” he asked. He sounded distant and aloof, enough composure to put me over the edge.
“I’ve been waiting for a return call since Friday,” I bristled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “May I take a message?”
“Sure, but first I want your address. Then you can tell Crain and Cravath that I’m camping outside their doors until they speak to me.”
“You’re welcome to visit, sir. But they won’t be here.” Ice water coursed through the kid’s veins. He was unflappable.
“Why’s that?”
“We’re an answering service.”
I should have known.
“Do you have a number where I can reach them directly?”
“We don’t give it out.”
“May I speak to the manager?”
“Sure,” he replied. “What would you like?”
“To speak to the manager,” I repeated, losing patience. “What is it you don’t understand about speaking to the manager?”
“I’m the manager. We don’t give out client phone numbers. Is there anything else?”
“Forget it.” I hung up. Exasperated, I called Betty Masters.
“Grove, it’s good to hear from you. How are things?”
“Some progress,” I reported. “I’m working my way through Charlie’s laptop. The filing system is a mess, but I found a record of your investment.”
“That sounds like good news,” she replied brightly.
“By any chance, did you find a second audited statement?”
“You have what I have. Is there a problem?”
“I’m still looking for the master list of his funds. And I don’t have access to Charlie’s office.”
“Have you asked the police for permission?”
“No,” I admitted. “The lead cop—”
“Fitzsimmons?” she interrupted.
“He’s been out to see you?” I asked.
“Both Fitzsimmons and his partner,” she confirmed. “Nice men.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Fitzsimmons was a crusty New Englander, and Mummert was nothing more than his echo.
Sensing my disagreement, Betty counseled, “Just tell them what you want, Grove. You never know.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Thirty seconds later, I reached Fitzsimmons on his cell phone.
“Do you have something for me?” he asked. Right to the point.
“I’m hoping to gain access to the Kelemen Group’s files.”
“We’ve already been through this,” he replied.
“Is that a no?”
“You catch on fast.”
“I thought you were trying to understand his financial affiliations, Detective Fitzsimmons.” I remembered how he had grilled me about the referrals.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sam Kelemen has no source of income until she unwinds the Kelemen Group. And Charlie’s investors are starting to bitch.”
Thank you for that pearl, Mandy Fucking Maris.
“I still don’t see why you need access,” Fitzsimmons said.
“You interrupted. I need the Kelemen Group’s financial statements to start liquidating the portfolio. I’m kind of stuck.”
“You’re not touching my evidence,” he barked. “And what do you mean you’re stuck?”
“The files on Charlie’s personal computer are a mess. I haven’t found anything yet.”
Wrong thing to say, the sequel.
“What computer?”
“Charlie had a laptop.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Fitzsimmons growled.
“I was trying to help Sam Kelemen. Betty Masters, too.”
“You really are a chowdahhead,” Fitzsimmons replied, annoyed no end.
“What’s with the attitude? I might be able to help you as well. Finance is my world, not yours.”
“Let me worry about that. In the meantime, you’re withholding evidence. Where’s the laptop now?”
“My office.”
“We’ll be over in thirty minutes.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically.
“One other thing,” he added.
“Yes?”
“You keep holding back on me. I don’t get it. I don’t like it. And you’re becoming more interesting to our investigation all the time.”
We hung up. I should have been scared. Fitzsimmons had all but called me a suspect. I didn’t kill Charlie, though, and without guilt I was unafraid. Just pissed.
“Hey, Boss,” Annie said.
“Can’t talk,” I snapped. She recoiled, and I immediately regretted my foul humor. “I need to buy a hard drive. And fast.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The visit from Fitzsimmons and Mummert proved anticlimactic. They impounded Charlie’s laptop in our reception area. I returned to my desk without a word about the backup copy on my new hard drive.
The real trouble started that evening. Lila Priouleau and I met at the Reebok Sports Club on Columbus Avenue. Like everybody in their early thirties, she joined a gym to stay fit and stave off the coming onslaught—droopy triceps, love handles, and other cruel tricks of the body. The Reebok Club offered four weight gyms, crack squads of private trainers, and a lap pool. It guaranteed access to the latest and greatest exercise machines.
The club also boasted one of the hottest singles scenes in New York City. From the moment the doors opened, it buzzed with young professionals. Buff men honed their six-packs. Fetching women meditated through yoga and free-weight combos that kept busts up and pounds down. Amid the smell of perspiration and the moist exchange of phone numbers, it paid to look good.
Lila wore skimpy neon yellow running shorts to the gym. Every man with a pulse checked out her legs. Every woman took a long, hard look. I strained not to gawk at Lila’s cleavage. Her breasts, like gifts from Botticelli, poured from a black top and cast shadows across a ribbed jersey. Her green
eyes, tomato-red hair, and Mediterranean tones completed the pièce de résistance.
Next to Lila I looked piggy. Soiled medical tape held together the remnants of my ancient mesh-and-leather Rivat shoes. Black cycling shorts and a Harvard sweatshirt, cropped just above the elbows and soft from a thousand spins through the washing machine, hardly qualified as haute couture.
The Body Nazis in our spin class favored the spandex billboards worn by professional cyclists. I would never understand why anyone voluntarily chose to wear brands of butter emblazoned across their butts. People should stink when they exercised, not care whether they owned the same rubber-band suits as Mario Cipollini, the great Italian sprinter with movie-star looks.
Our spin teacher was an ex-Marine with a devoted following, the Reebok Club’s answer to Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in
Full Metal Jacket.
He tailored “jodie” calls, otherwise known as military cadence, to his indoor cycling classes. At first Lila and I spoke little as we listened to his bullhorn voice.
“Biker, Biker, where you at?
Come on out and lose some fat!
Is it whiskey? Is it wine?
Or is it lack of PT time!”
It proved impossible to stay silent all through the class. Lila and I had not seen each other since Charlie’s funeral. After fifteen minutes of hard-core pedaling, she volunteered, “We’re moving back to Atlanta.”
That’s why she wanted to meet.
“Really?” Lactic acid screamed from inside my legs. “Why?”
“For one thing, I haven’t found the right guy. And I want Katie Anne to spend more time with her grandparents.”
“Well, that’s direct,” I said. “I’m surprised you moved here in the first place.”
“I don’t want him to see Katie Anne.” Lila wheezed from either exertion or revulsion when she said “him.”
“You mean Hurley?”
“No. I mean Osama bin Trailer Trash.”
“Won’t he still be in Atlanta when you return?”
“Hardly. He can’t seem to keep a job.” She smirked.
“Why’s that?”
“You don’t piss off Cash Priouleau on family turf. Let’s just leave it at that.” Lila’s Southern accent could sweeten the thump of a guillotine.
“Got it.” Steering toward business, I said, “That’s some conversation you had with Crunch.”
“He’s a riot.” She panted as she spoke. Lila’s cyclometer registered ninety-five revolutions per minute. Even through the olive skin tones, her face burned red from exertion. “I’m glad we spoke.”
“I didn’t bring any paperwork.”
“I mean about Charlie,” she said, pedaling harder.
Ease off the sales pitch.
“Crunch and I spoke about the Web sites . . .” I paused for effect. “And other things.”
“It almost doesn’t matter,” she huffed. “Tell Sam he was gay, end of story. I want to discuss the Kelemen Group.”
It was only a matter of time.
“I know Cash and you invested ten million dollars. But that’s about all I know.”
“You make it sound like a big surprise, Grove.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve known for months.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t believe my ears.
“Don’t be goofy,” she puffed. “You heard.”
Alarm bells erupted inside my head. “I learned two days ago, Lila. Your name was on a spreadsheet.”
“Hang on, fellow.” Lila’s voice grew terse. She stopped pedaling. Her wind returned miraculously. “I invested in the Kelemen Group partly because of the letter you sent. It’s just business, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
