Spin Move

by David Lender

Katie decided not to tell him she’d already decided to go ahead even before he’d offered the extra 2%.

  Charlie Holden stood outside his office beside Stephanie’s desk, reading a draft of a brief she had just finished printing for him. Two of his staff members walked up and stopped in front of him. Shepherds and the new guy, Johnson or something.

  “Go on in, fellas. I’ll be right there.”

  A minute later he handed the brief back to Stephanie and said, “Fine. Send it off to Attorney General Martin with just the message in the email: ‘I think we’ve got a live one.’ ” He walked into his office and sat behind his desk. He looked from Shepherds to the new guy. “Well, I heard back from this guy James from Antigua. Same BS as usual. He swears John Rudiger is a citizen in good standing, all his papers in order, but that he’s left the country.”

  Shepherds said, “What happened? I thought James was going to play ball.”

  Holden shrugged. “Seems like he swept it under the rug, didn’t want a big scandal if he could hang everything on just one of his guys, which he did. Some Senior Sgt. Isaacs of their police force, who apparently burned himself to a crisp while torching Rudiger’s house. James said Isaacs started blackmailing Rudiger years ago once he found out we were looking into him, insisted he’d have him extradited as Walter Conklin if Rudiger didn’t pay off. Found a fat bank account in Isaacs’ name, too.”

  Shepherds said, “Probably the fat bank account because he was one of a group of guys Conklin was paying off.”

  The new guy cleared his throat.

  “Something to say, Johnson?”

  “Sir, it’s Johnston, with a T.”

  Holden just looked at him.

  The new guy said, “I don’t understand why this Minister James would expose only one of his own people as opposed to bringing down an entire network that was shielding Conklin.”

  “I guess because he had a handy set of facts. Isaacs’ situation would’ve come out anyway. Kind of hard to explain a toasted corpse with an empty 5-gallon gas can next to him in Rudiger’s house any other way. Too many people would’ve been aware of it—firemen, cops, locals—to make it go away. And exposing one bad apple was a way to spin it as a minor coup.”

  The new guy said, “Yes, but bringing in Conklin could’ve been a major coup.”

  “Yeah, but maybe James decided exposing everybody else would’ve made him look like a fool. Corruption throughout his little empire, even though he just inherited it. My bet is a bunch of Antiguan officials will soon quietly retire. This guy James doesn’t seem like a dummy.”

  Shepherds said, “So do you think Conklin’s really gone?”

  “James said that John Rudiger flew out of Antigua for São Paulo, Brazil. He sent us the records of his passport scan exiting Antigua.”

  The new guy asked, “Any other trail?”

  Holden said, “No, but my bet is he’ll find his way to Cape Verde.”

  “Why?”

  “A year ago I sent a lawyer on our staff named Katie Dolan to Antigua to try to prove Rudiger was Conklin. She came back to the States with him and we’re certain, posing as Conklin’s ex-wife, took whatever was in Conklin’s safe deposit box in downtown New York and fled the country. To Cape Verde. We tracked her there on a phony passport in Angela Conklin’s name.”

  The new guy nodded.

  “Johnson, I brought you into this case for a reason.”

  “Sir, it’s Johnston.”

  Holden waved his hand at him. “Right. Your file says you served for two years in the CIA, right?”

  “Correct, sir. Covert operations. Then law school, then here.”

  Holden looked at him. He still looked like he was only 18 years old. “Good. That’s why I want you backing up Shepherds on this one. Your CIA background in dirty tricks may be helpful. My hunch is, you’ll find Conklin with Katie.”

  “But, sir, we have no extradition treaty with Cape Verde.”

  “Just find them both, then we’ll talk.”

  Rudiger had gone to bed in the spare bedroom on the second floor adjacent to Katie’s, and woke up with the sun. He put on his workout clothes and running shoes, went downstairs and saw Frank still asleep in his Barcalounger with the television on. Rudiger felt warm inside. He really liked the guy. No pretense, no bull. Just a big easygoing Irishman. He turned off the TV and went for a run on the beach. After he got back and showered, he saw Frank was awake.

  “How about a walk on the beach after breakfast?” Rudiger said.

  “Sure.”

  Later they walked on the beach, Styles at their side, Rudiger carrying Frank’s iGo on his back in a knapsack. Frank said, “So why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Take the money and run.”

  Rudiger said, “Seemed like the only option at the time.”

  “Whattaya mean?”

  “I had a billion-dollar hedge fund and—”

  “A billion, how’d you manage that?”

  “It was the late 90s, and I’d been working at another hedge fund. I was a wunderkind in technology stocks. This was when the NASDAQ went from 1,200 to 5,000 over a three-year period. Three years running my portfolio was up 100, 150, 200% a year. So I was able to leave the fund and set up my own firm, raised $500 million. I stuck to what I knew, tech stocks. I was on a roll. So yeah, in two years I was managing $1 billion.”

  Rudiger let out a sigh. He went on. “Then, in early 2000, the tech stock bubble popped and the NASDAQ started to crash. My CFO came to me in a cold sweat and confessed he’d falsified our year-end 1999 returns. We’d done great, up 68%, but he fudged it to say we were up 100%.”

  “Why the hell’d he do that?”

  “Because I was stupid enough to bring him in for a piece of the firm. He got greedy, wanted to suck in more investors, get rich.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “I decided if I turned him in, my fund would blow up and my life’s work would be ruined. So I insisted he keep cooking the books until I could manage my way back to his inflated returns.”

  “But you couldn’t?”

  “Of course not. That’s always the story when you get stuck in a downdraft in the market. The NASDAQ kept getting spanked. And when my CFO saw that, he panicked, turned state’s evidence, copped a plea with the Feds and blamed everything on me. When I found out about it, I only had a day to get out of Dodge.”

  “That’s when you went to Antigua?”

  “No. First I went to Brazil, figuring I needed to do something about my appearance. At that time, believe it or not, I weighed about 350 pounds. I had that bypass stomach surgery, then plastic surgery on my face to change my looks as much as I could. I stayed down there for a year, had to stay out of the sun for the entire time while the scars matured.”

  “So what did you used to look like? How much of that”—he pointed at Rudiger’s face—“is you?”

  “I traded my lineman’s mug for a quarterback’s.”

  Frank laughed. “Yeah?”

  “I’m exaggerating. They can’t make you look totally different. But losing about 175 pounds, getting a new nose, chin and a different slant to the eyes does a lot. For the first few years if I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I’d see myself in the mirror and think a burglar was in my house. Still, if you saw a picture of me when I started college, before they beefed me up to 270 pounds for football at Harvard, you’d probably recognize me.”

  Frank nodded. He said, “So how much money did you take with you?”

  “Just over $40 million. And I left $50 million in bearer bonds in the safe deposit box in New York City that Katie and I went to get a year ago.”

  “Katie said you took it from one of your investors, right?”

  “Yeah. Myron Brownstein, a great guy, eccentric as hell. He’d gotten rich by inventing th
at little plastic C-shaped closure they use to seal the plastic bags on loaves of bread. His wife had passed away, he had no kids, no will and no person or place he wanted to leave his estate to. He had all his money in offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, gave me investment discretion over them. He had $40 million in my hedge fund and gave me another $50 million in bearer bonds to invest wherever and whenever I thought was appropriate.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “No. And then just as everything hit the fan with my fund, Myron up and died. My wife, Angela, by then was freaking out, because I told her what was happening right after my CFO copped a plea. Bad move. She was ready to go to the Feds herself. So I said to myself: ‘Who’s gonna miss Myron’s money?’ I skipped with the $40 million from his estate and left the other $50 million in bearer bonds hidden in the safe deposit box in New York.”

  Rudiger paused a moment, thought back to Angela. A year after he ran he’d apologized to her for the mess he’d left her with. She’d apologized to him for the affair she’d carried on for over a year with his best friend, Jerome, the idiot, who’d unceremoniously dumped her after the scandal of Rudiger’s hedge fund melting down. On reflection it was hard to blame Angela for her affair, given that he’d let himself balloon up to Mr. Bubba. They’d talked it all through, made their peace. After their divorce was final he’d even sent her money to get her started again, since the Feds stripped her of all their joint assets. He turned to Frank and said, “I’m not proud of what I did, but I can’t change it now.”

  “This was ages ago, though. Hasn’t the statute of limitations run out?”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on fraud. Sometimes when you do things, you’re stuck with them, no second chance. But . . .”

  “But?” Frank said.

  “But if I had it to do over again, I’d have just admitted to my investors my CFO cooked the books, taken my lumps and moved on.” Rudiger looked over at Frank and smiled. “I don’t think I’d be that bad at selling cars.”

  “I’d buy one from you. But that doesn’t strike me as your lifestyle.”

  “Didn’t strike me that way, either. I was used to the high life in New York. Couldn’t imagine eating macaroni and cheese the rest of my life. That’s why I did what I did.” He shrugged, got a twist of regret in his guts. “I was younger then.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Katie’s head bobbed as Xavier’s Range Rover bounced over the last few turns in the long driveway from the highway to her house. She was beat from the ten-hour trip from Geneva, but she was almost home and the air smelled great, even the dust the Range Rover kicked up. She couldn’t wait for a shower, to see Daddy, curl up on the sofa with Styles.

  They crested the last hill, started down, just past dusk, and she got a rise of excitement as she saw the house all lit up.

  What the—

  There was a giant satellite dish on the roof—it had to be at least eight feet across—where the old two-footer had been. What’s Daddy doing?

  Xavier pulled under the carport and stopped next to Flora’s Bronco. She’s here late. Katie had Xavier drop her bags on the deck and paid him. She stepped inside and stopped cold.

  She felt a flush of blood to her head, then a wave of heat down to her toes. Rudiger! He was sitting in an armchair next to Daddy’s Barcalounger, the two of them laughing at the TV, the sound blaring, Daddy slapping Rudiger on the arm and saying, “Good one,” drinks in front of them on folding tray tables. She recognized the theme song to The Rockford Files.

  Daddy looked up and said, “Katie!”

  Rudiger stood up, smiling.

  Styles darted toward her, whimpering with joy, his whole body wagging, and flopped onto his back. “Hello, little man.” She knelt and started rubbing the dog’s belly. She looked up. “Hi, Daddy. And Rudiger, look at you. My God, you’re here.”

  He looks fantastic. Those brown eyes, tanned, trim, looking cool and relaxed in Levis and a polo shirt that showed off his biceps. He no longer shaved his head; his brown hair had grown in to a crew cut. I don’t care how much plastic surgery it took to make him look like this, the man is gorgeous.

  Daddy stood and Rudiger walked to her, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Katie, great to see you.”

  She couldn’t respond. What’s he doing here? She looked up at him.

  When Styles had seen Rudiger approach, he’d jumped up and run across the room for a ball. Now he trotted to Rudiger, dropped it at his feet and crouched.

  “Not now, buddy,” Rudiger said. He turned back to Katie.

  At that moment the elevator rumbled, its door opened and Flora stepped out holding a platter of food. “Oh, Ms. Katie, welcome home.” She headed for the chairs in front of the TV. “Kale over creamy polenta with lardons and shitake, portobello and chanterelle mushrooms. Special order by Mr. Rudiger for Mr. Dolan.” She placed the platter on one of the tray tables in front of the chairs. “I get your plates,” she said and started back toward the elevator.

  “Get an extra for Katie,” Rudiger said.

  Flora waved her arm, got back in the elevator and closed the door. It thundered to life.

  Styles was still sitting in front of Rudiger, poised.

  “Go see your mommy,” Rudiger said. He didn’t move. “Go see Mommy,” he said again. The dog turned and walked back to Katie. He sat down next to her, still staring at the ball at Rudiger’s feet.

  I don’t believe this.

  Flora came back downstairs and served them their kale and polenta. Katie ate, stewing, Daddy asking her about her trip, Katie responding in monosyllables, Rudiger alternately eating and eyeing her.

  Katie ate a quarter of her portion, said, “I need a shower,” and went upstairs. When she got to her room she couldn’t help noticing that Rudiger’s bags were in the room next to hers. She felt a flash of anger. The man’s moved right in.

  After she’d showered and changed into pajamas she heard a soft knock on the door.

  It was Rudiger.

  “You might as well come in. Seems like you think you own the place anyhow.”

  Rudiger frowned. “What’s that all about? Your dad is upset. He thinks there’s something wrong.”

  She gritted her teeth. Thinks?

  “There is,” she said.

  “What?” he said, looking clueless, no idea.

  Katie said, “In the first place, you obviously talked my father into putting some ridiculous satellite dish on the roof that’s big enough to communicate with Mars. And my dog—my dog—is ignoring me in favor of you.”

  “He likes me. I like him. We play ball a lot.”

  “And you and my father, you’ve turned him into a frat boy, the two of you sitting around yukking it up, drinking and laughing at dumb-assed Rockford Files like you’re teenagers. It’s a wonder you don’t have beer cans sitting around you on the floor.”

  She paused a moment.

  “You done?”

  “And you swiped a piece of my living room furniture.”

  “I’ll put it back. I just wanted to sit and watch TV with your dad.”

  “That’s part of a matched Ralph Lauren set. Two chairs and a sofa. Saddle leather. Do you have any idea how expensive it was for me to have that stuff flown in from the U.S.?”

  Rudiger just shook his head.

  “And you’ve even co-opted Flora. You have her cooking these gourmet recipes for you.”

  “It’s not that exotic. Kale over polenta with bacon and mushrooms. Your dad said the kale by itself was getting boring. I found something called a Kalendar online. Some guys in New Jersey made a calendar with kale recipes for every week of the year. I printed it out for Flora, had her spruce up the kale for him, because I gather you’re big on him eating his organic vegetables.”

  “What the hell, Rudiger, you can’t have been here for more than th
ree days and you’ve taken over my house.” She was aware she was starting to shout now.

  “You need to calm down. Lower your voice.”

  “I don’t need to do anything. This is my house. I can yell all I want.”

  Rudiger didn’t respond, just shook his head again. That made her madder.

  “You know what you are—”

  He walked up to her, put his arms on her shoulders and said, “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I was looking forward to seeing you. I missed you, thought maybe you missed me, too.”

  “Don’t touch me!” She stepped back from him.

  “Why are you so pissed off? I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to have ever seen me like this or any other way.”

  “I think I got to know you pretty well.”

  “In what, ten days?”

  Rudiger paused. “Yeah.” He stepped toward her again. She stepped back. She wanted to smack him, but she also wanted to kiss him.

  He took another step toward her. She took another step back and her leg hit the bed and she fell backward onto it.

  Rudiger kept coming forward, lay on top of her and pushed her shoulders back down as she tried to get up. He kissed her.

  She hadn’t forgotten. Man, what a kisser.

  She kissed him back, put her arms around him. After a minute she rolled away from him and stood up.

  She adjusted her pajamas, looked at him and smirked.

  “That’s more like the Katie Dolan I know,” he said. “What was that all about, you going ballistic?”

  She felt the blood rush to her face, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Forget about it, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  After a moment Katie said, “So what’s up? What brings you to Cape Verde?”

  “What do you think? I was looking for you.”

  “So you missed me?”

  “I already told you that.” Rudiger added, “And my $30 million.”

  I knew it. She glared at him. “So that’s your game plan? Step one, get laid. Step two, poke her in the eye about the 30 million bucks.”