by Owen Parr
Marcy asked, “How about being single again?”
Jack wiped his barbecue-sauced hands. “As you know, Marcy, my married time was great until it wasn’t. Now, I don’t want to get hooked up again. As a matter of fact, I’ve come up with some rules, and while I know you’re not going to appreciate rule one about dating, it’s worked so far.”
“Oh, what is it?” Marcy inquired curiously.
Before Jack answered, I exchanged glances with John, and I smiled, knowing what was coming.
“All my dates come with an expiration date,” Jack replied without blinking.
Marcy's face changed immediately. “That’s outrageous. Very chauvinistic of you. You’re right, I don’t like it,” she expressed in a wrathful way.
Jack smiled. “It is, isn’t it? But it's worked so far, and I’m upfront with it. To be honest, most of the ladies I’ve dated take it as a challenge. No one wants to get into a rut. So, we enjoy ourselves until we don’t.”
“Marcy,” I began, taking a chance, “it's not a normal occurrence to get home and have your wife tell you she needs her space and you’re nowhere in it, right?”
Marcy looked at me as if she were going to bite my head off. “I guess that must have hurt. I just hope that never happens to us.”
“Look,” Jack cut in. “I’m sure I’ll find someone to be with without an expiration date. Right now, I just want to be cautious. But, enough about me, tell me about you guys.”
“How much time do you have?” I asked, smiling. “Let’s put it this way, with Marcy being kidnapped by a serial killer, being shot in the shoulder by a terrorist on a plane at Newark Airport, and me being shot recently, we’ve had our share of misfortunes. But we’ve been blessed with a child, and we’re looking forward to that.”
“Congrats,” John said. “Boy or girl?”
“We don’t want to know at this stage. Maybe as we get closer,” I replied. Not knowing added some mystery and excitement to it.
“I’ve missed the pub. How’s it going?” John asked.
I beamed. I loved any chance to talk about the pub. “We celebrated its seventieth anniversary last year. And, we took over Dino’s Deli next door, cleaned it out, and opened a cigar club, which is growing every day.”
“How about Father Dom? How’s he doing?” John asked.
I smiled at the mention of my half-brother. “Father Dominic O’Brian is doing quite well. He’s now the pastor at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn. He’s pretty much out of the management of the pub, but very involved in our private investigation business.”
Father Dominic and I shared a mother, Briana, who lived in The Villages in Florida after leaving New York.
“Joey, when did you grow the beard?” Jack asked, studying me.
“Hah,” I said, rubbing my hand through my short-cropped beard. “That was a case I worked in Barcelona. I need it as a cover.”
Jack gave me a pointed look. “But you didn’t shave your head as you’re asking me to do for this case.”
“Jack, your goldilocks will grow right back, and your surfer look will be reestablished soon enough. Nothing to worry about,” I replied, laughing.
“Easy for you to say,” Jack grumbled, and we all laughed.
“What about these cases you’ve been working on for the Miami Beach Police?” I asked, taking a paper towel to wipe the barbecue sauce from my fingers.
Jack grabbed his beer bottle. “It’s been fun, and I’ve turned both into novels, which have done very well. Now that you mentioned it, I called Detective Robert Logan at the MBPD to help us with this case. He’s become a good friend. And, interesting enough, he’s investigated the case. He should be here in a few minutes.”
Just as he said, Max got up from his position next to Jack, after being the benefactor of a few pieces of baby back ribs, and ran to the deck’s starboard side, wagging his tail.
“That must be Robert now.”
A deep voice bellowed from the deck. “Coming aboard, Captain Jack!”
The boat shifted to the starboard as Robert stepped onto the boat. Robert Logan was a biracial, blue-eyed, middle-aged man with wraparound sunglasses worn on the top of his crew cut. His full mustache matched the brown hair above his broad smile. He wore leather sandals, khaki cargo pants, and a tight blue t-shirt that outlined his well-built upper body.
“Good evening to you all,” he said, walking down to the salon. “Here.” He handed Jack a six-pack of Fat Tire beer. “I figure we could use reinforcements.”
Jack went on to introduce John, Marcy, and me, and we all sat around the salon. Small talk ensued, and we found out Robert had been Special Forces and served four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, after which he had done a stint with the San Diego police prior to joining the MBPD.
“What can you tell us about the case, Robert?” I asked.
Robert looked at Marcy. “Are you here on assignment from the FBI?”
“Oh, no,” Marcy replied. “Simply taking a few days off. No FBI involvement at all. By the way, would you care for something to eat? We have plenty.”
Robert smiled. “Oh, thank you, Marcy. I just had a big dinner.” Turning to me, Robert went on. “Jack mentioned you had read the police report. Frankly, I have nothing much to add to it. Dark blue or black four-door sedan hit the motorcycle, causing it to swerve and crash into a van. Our victim died on the scene from blunt force trauma to his head. The sedan sped up and left the scene. No license plate number and no description of the driver.”
Right. We knew most of that already. “You talked to witnesses at the scene?”
Robert leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “No. I wasn’t there after the accident. Uniforms got the initial call—a code 18, hit-and-run. They did the initial fact-finding. I’ve reviewed the case and visited the club where our vic had been to.”
“And that’s where you found out about this girl that our vic was supposedly hitting on?” I asked.
Robert nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Were you the officer that informed the father, Ed Wells?”
“No, the uniforms did that the same night. I visited with Sergeant Wells the next day to follow up on his theory.”
“And what’d you think of it?” I asked, watching his response.
“Joey, I wanted to find a connection to ease this man’s suffering, but frankly, it’s quite the stretch, man," Robert said bluntly. "From an accident to a premeditated murder? Based on suppositions and some notes the boy had made. I mean, I felt like shit, but I couldn’t tie these things together.”
“But you’re still looking for the perp that caused the accident and scooted, right?” asked Jack.
Robert nodded, shifting in his seat. “We are, and of course he’ll be charged if we find him. But, premeditated murder? I don’t know about that one.”
John Landers broke in quietly. “What do you prefer? Robert or Bob?”
Robert laughed. “Actually, most call me Logan.”
“Okay. With what you know, there’s no way to tie anything together. But let me tell you the backstory…” And Landers went on to fill Logan in.
After which, Logan spread his hands in invitation. “Well, if you can connect those dots and find more than circumstantial evidence, I’ll be happy to open the case again.”
“Your buddy here,” I said, pointing to Jack, “has agreed to infiltrate the hedge fund company and gather the evidence.”
Logan smiled. “The SOB has written two novels based on cases I’ve given him. Now, you’re handing him a third. I think we should get royalties from his sales. Don’t you?”
“Wait a second, our second case fell in our laps while we were taking a cruise to nowhere. No royalties for that one,” Jack replied, laughing.
This was going to be a different experience. Normally, I worked with my half-brother, Pastor Dominic O’Brian, in our investigations. I was the alpha male, while Dom was the beta male. But, don’t mistake that fact. Dom and I were always butting heads. He was
cautious, not wanting to take risks, staying in the proper lanes. While I went out of the prescribed lanes, took risks, and while cautious, I tended to think out of the box. Now, I was working with Jack Ryder, a free-willing, very intuitive person, much like me. I worried that there was no one applying the brakes.
5
Jack Ryder ~
This wasn’t my choice of cases to assist in. No, I enjoyed writing murder mysteries, and frankly, the last two cases I worked with Detective Logan, well, they were murder mysteries. This case felt as if I were there to spy. Granted, I considered myself a good analytical thinker, and as Joey said, I had a keen eye and deduction capabilities.
So, why did I take it?
Before I finished the question, I knew the answer. There were too many bad apples in the security industry that gave it a bad rap. Insider trading and stock manipulation were some of the worst examples of cheating. It made the cheater, in many cases a hedge fund manager, look like a god. And I had a deep resentment for these people who made themselves out to be Nostradamus. You see, these people walked into a restaurant like the Four Seasons in New York with a look of arrogance, as if they were, in fact, the kings of the hill. The very worst offense to me, though, was a Ponzi scheme, as in Bernie Madoff, who stole money from clients and promised unrealistic returns.
Insider trading was said to be a victimless crime since, supposedly, no one got hurt. Which was why our politicians were exempt up until 2012, when the law changed on trading with inside information. It always boiled my blood to see these people in Congress work for a low six-figure salary, and within ten years or less, they were millionaires. And, they were still doing it. They were just hiding it better.
***
The briefing this morning at the offices of the SEC was very thorough. Indeed, they had an extensive file on Fönix Securities, but at the same time, Jan Bobal, part-owner of Fönix, had prepared a very complete and somewhat convincing response to the investigation. His claim that technical analysis and momentum trading, plus various forms of studies, gave them a heads-up as to when to buy long or sell short the various stocks they traded just before the release of the earning’s report.
What made them suspicious, as John Landers had said, was the fact that they seldom, if ever, made a mistake and got on the wrong side of a trade.
I waited a day to meet with the principal at Fönix Securities, giving my new facial growth time to sprout beyond the five o’clock shadow. Shaving my head wasn't something I enjoyed, but I suppose it was necessary. My lunch appointment with Jan Bobal for one thirty in the afternoon at Smith and Wollensky’s steak house in Miami Beach was set. I was being highly recommended by a client of Fönix Securities with whom the SEC’s Miami office had strongly suggested he do so as a result of his own suspicious activities in selling his company shares ahead of bad news. Call it a little forced agreement between the parties.
***
The steakhouse was located on the waterfront on what was called Government Cut, the entry-exit point for cruise and cargo ships into the Port of Miami.
As I walked in, having seen pictures of Jan Bobal in the SEC’s file, I immediately recognized him sitting at the bar on the left side of the restaurant. Bobal was thirty-eight years old, wore small round-rim glasses, and had black hair, complete with a receding hairline. He was dressed casually in a dark brown jacket over light brown slacks, loafers, and no socks.
“Are you Mr. Bobal?”
Turning to greet me, Bobal replied with a smile, “Yes.”
“Mr. Bobal, I’m Arthur Hastings. A pleasure to meet you.” That was to be my nom de guerre while on this little caper.
“Ah, Arthur, please call me Jan. Join me for a drink before we go to our table,” he said with a pleasant smile and a firm handshake.
“Thank you,” I said, and turning to the bartender who awaited my order, I told him, “I’ll have a Tito's with tonic and a lime, please.”
“Have you been to this restaurant before?”
I could have walked here from my boat and had, in fact, been here many times. “A couple of times. I love the view of the boats and ships going in and out. It’s very relaxing.”
Bobal smiled. “So, your timing is perfect. I was ready to hire someone a couple of days ago, but our mutual friend, Sid, told me I had to meet you before I pulled the trigger on the other candidate.”
“That’s very nice of Sid. But in all honesty, we don’t know each other. He happens to know my previous employer and what I did for them.”
Opening a file in front of him, Bobal scanned whatever was inside. “That would be the Mooney family, correct?”
This was the legend prepared by the SEC for me to assume. “Yes. I was managing the family office and all securities purchase for them until the patriarch Randall Mooney passed, and all assets were distributed to the heirs.”
“How active were you in the market?”
“Very active," I said easily, falling into my persona and my rehearsed answers. "The family was aggressive in their style and we not only bought and held securities, stocks, bonds, and some derivatives, but we also traded and were quite active in the options market.”
“And you did all the research and trading?”
“I did. Other parts of the family assets, real estate and so forth, were handled by someone else.” I wanted to turn the questioning around, so I asked, “Tell me what you do.”
Bobal closed the file. “Sure. We manage assets for a select type of client. Very wealthy individuals and some institutions, both domestic and foreign. Our specialty is mid-cap and large-cap stocks. We do options and CDFs at the same time. Have you traded CDFs?”
Contracts for future delivery. "No, I have not.”
CDFs were contracts for a future delivery of an asset. It could be stocks, commodities, or other.
Bobal rapped his knuckles against the table. “Exactly. You won’t have any issues picking up on how they trade.”
“What type of research do you use?”
“Ah, that’s our secret sauce." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "We have a proprietary software program that we use. All kinds of algorithms to analyze technicals on the stocks.”
“Great. I’m looking forward to seeing how that works.”
“In that case, you’ll be disappointed. We don’t share that program with anyone in the company. Only my partner and I have access to that. Your job is to put in the trades as we call them. Is that going to be a problem?” He studied me closely, and I kept my features strictly blank, giving nothing away.
“No, not at all. The job description is clear. A trader. I’m fine with that.”
“Besides being a trader, on occasion we want you to call the clients and communicate and sell our ideas to them. Although we have discretionary capabilities with most clients, some require that we call them before pulling the trigger. But, don’t worry about that. Ninety-nine percent of the time, they go along with our recommendations.”
The maître d' approached us, then. “Mr. Bobal, your table is ready.” As he said that, he stared at me for a few seconds. Could he possibly be recognizing me from my numerous times here or my book covers?
Quickly getting up from the stool, I said, “I need to use the restroom a second. Go ahead and sit, I’ll be there in a moment.”
After rushing to the bathroom and splashing water on my face to kill some time, I returned to a table overlooking the busy Government Cut. A cargo ship was making its way out, filled with colorful metal containers.
As I sat, Bobal asked, “Can you work under pressure?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What I mean is, most of our trading takes place during earnings reporting season. So, we bunch many trades into a few hours. Our program flags opportunities before the report becomes public, and it gets frantic trying to put in all the orders. That’s what I mean. Can you do that?” His eyes roamed over me, looking for any hint of weakness.
My mouth twitched at the corners. “I would thrive on that. N
o problem.”
He nodded once, as if satisfied with my answers. “Okay. We’ll head over to the office after lunch. I want you to meet James Roth, our head trader. If he gives me the thumbs-up, you can start tomorrow. Earnings season starts in a couple of weeks, and I need to fill the position right away.”
Our waiter, Mario, approached with a pitcher of water and refilled our glasses. I waited, reaching for a piece of bread and buttering it.
“Good. We haven’t discussed my earnings. Can you give me an idea?” If I were going to take this seriously, I needed to play the part well, and any normal person would ask about the pay.
“I was waiting for you to ask. You’ll have a salary of one-hundred-fifty thousand dollars. Plus, quarterly, depending on our profitability, you’ll get a bonus, about twenty thousand. Is that acceptable?”
Shit. That was a lot more than I expected from a small firm like this. I guess they were really making good money.
“Yes, that’s quite acceptable. Thank you.” Not that I would be at this job long enough for the money to matter, but he didn't need to know that.
Beaming, he clapped his hands. “Let’s finish our steaks and we'll head to the office. We’re very close to it from here.”
“All right that sounds good. Let me ask you, am I a replacing someone or is this a new position?”
Bobal placed his knife and fork down, rubbed his nose, and replied, “Unfortunately, you’re replacing someone. Nice young kid, Gene. This was his first job out of school. He had a very promising future. Very bright and quick learner.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, leaning forward and looking straight at him.
Bobal’s forehead furrowed. “Shit. He was a victim of a hit-and-run accident a few blocks from here on MacArthur Causeway. He had been at a club or two here on South Beach, maybe had too many drinks. Anyway, he was hit by a car and died on the scene. Very sad.”
“Ouch! That is sad. I’m sorry to hear that.”
***
An hour later, I followed Bobal to an office building on Meridian Avenue, one block north of Lincoln Road, and parked in an underground parking lot servicing the building. As we walked into the building itself, I said, “Great location being so close to Lincoln Road.”
