by Adam Mitzner
Kris didn’t respond to the preamble other than to nod that the floor remained Gwen’s.
“I’ve been seeing this guy for a few months. He’s a wealth manager at Maeve Grant. He’s got this big client who, between him and people connected to him, has over the past few months given Will maybe . . . I don’t know . . . half a billion dollars, probably.”
“Will is your boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Will Matthews. Anyway, Will just came to see me. He was hauled into Maeve Grant’s general counsel’s office and interviewed this morning. Maeve Grant retained David Bloom of Cromwell Altman. Bloom handled most of the interview.”
Kris nodded at the invocation of Bloom’s name. Gwen assumed Kris knew Bloom the same way she assumed that all movie stars knew each other, as if there were regular meetings of the rising stars at big law firms that they each attended.
“It appears from the questions they were asking that they think this client might have been engaged in money laundering. Will swears to me he didn’t know anything about this. Still doesn’t, actually.”
Gwen had said her piece. She watched Kris thinking it through.
“How long has your boyfriend been at Maeve Grant?”
“Two years, about. He started as a trainee.”
“So he’s about your age?”
“Yeah.”
“And some guy has invested a half a billion dollars with him?”
Gwen knew it didn’t sound good. She was silently berating herself for being so stupid as to have ever convinced herself that what made no sense to her actually might be legitimate. “Yes.”
“How’d they meet? Your boyfriend and his benefactor.”
“At a hockey game.”
Kris couldn’t hide a soft chuckle. “I take it that the investments are made through shelf companies. Lots and lots of them.”
“That’s what Will told me. He’s a director or officer of some of them. But every penny that comes in, every account that he opens, is approved by the firm’s Compliance department.”
“They always are, Gwen. Otherwise there’d be nothing to invest, because the money wouldn’t be there. And you’d never read about big banks paying hundred-million-dollar fines. Because Compliance would have made sure that they’d never done anything wrong in the first place.”
“So you think this is a problem?”
“Well, let’s be honest. You think it’s a problem, or you wouldn’t be sitting here. And so, yes, it’s a problem. Your boyfriend would not have been summoned to give a command performance to the general counsel of the biggest investment house in the world unless there was a problem. And even a place that prints money, like Maeve Grant, doesn’t hire Cromwell Altman unless they think they have a problem.” Kris paused, and then provided a small glimmer of hope with her smile. “But there are problems and then there are problems. The question is what kind this one is. Is it a ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, but we don’t want to be in this type of business’ problem? Or maybe it could be a ‘We think you should have known your customer better, but you’re a young guy so we’ll put a letter in your file’ problem. Sliding down the continuum, it could be a ‘You’re fired’ problem, and, of course, worst-case scenario would be that it’s a ‘You’re about to be indicted’ problem. Based on what you told me, it’s difficult to discern which of those it is. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
“I guess I was hoping it was the first and fearing it was the last.”
“Yeah,” Kris said with a nod. “That’s where I’d be if I were you too. But the reality of the situation is that Maeve Grant wouldn’t have brought in a former Assistant US Attorney to handle the investigation unless they think they have criminal exposure.”
“Should Will retain counsel?”
“I assume that’s what he was doing when he came to you. At the very least, that’s what you should be saying unless you want to be a witness before a grand jury. More than that, I consider our conversation to be within the privilege too. We’re discussing your client. Right?”
Lawyers, Gwen thought. Always finding the loophole.
“Yes. I told Will that I was acting as his lawyer. Do I have to do a conflict check or anything?”
Gwen hadn’t thought this through, not fully anyway. Taylor Beckett had a rigorous procedure for taking on new clients, which involved every partner signing off to make sure that the firm’s representation didn’t run afoul of conflict-of-interest rules. She hadn’t done any of that before she told Will she’d be his lawyer.
“Let’s put a pin in that because . . . you won’t clear conflicts, Gwen. I’m relatively sure that someone here represents Maeve Grant on something, or wants to someday. I don’t see any partner willing to go to Maeve Grant to seek a waiver because of a junior associate’s pro bono representation of her boyfriend.”
Of course not. Gwen should have realized this too. The powers that be would be furious with Gwen if they ever found out that she’d prevented the firm from taking on lucrative business in the future.
“Let me ask you this.” Kris’s shift to a softer, less lawyer-like tone made it clear that she was venturing away from strict legal analysis. “How long have you been dating this guy? Did you say his name was William?”
“Will, yes. Since February.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t know.”
Gwen said that entirely for Kris’s sake, because she had already intuited where Kris was heading. The truth was that she was more than just serious about Will. She was in love. They were about to move in together. After that, get engaged. Married. Kids to fill that second bedroom.
“Okay. Second question. If one of your friends came to you with a story about her boyfriend like the one you just told me, what advice would you give her?”
Gwen had posed this question to herself the moment Will had left her office.
“To run and not look back.”
“And that would be good advice.”
28.
Will hadn’t been back in his office for more than a minute when Brian appeared at the threshold. “Hey, boss. You got a minute?”
Will knew that Brian used the “boss” moniker facetiously. “Sure. What’s going on?”
“While you were out, a Chinese guy called. His last name I guess is pronounced Chin—like on your face—or at least that’s what it sounded like he said, because the guy had an accent. He said he was looking for you, and Maria transferred him to me. He’s a FOSA.”
FOSA—pronounced like it was a word—was the internal designation for the accounts related to Sam. It stood for Friend of Sam Abaddon.
“Okay. I’ll call him. Email me his contact info.”
“Sure.” Brian hesitated. “There’s something else, though. The guy said something that was . . . strange.”
“Yeah, what was that?”
“After he told me his name and everything, I asked him who referred him, and he said that he was a friend of Sam Abaddon’s.”
“Nothing strange about that, Brian. Ninety-nine percent of our calls are from FOSAs.”
“I know. That wasn’t the strange part. Right after he said that, he said, ‘Not that that matters anymore.’”
Will tried to maintain an even keel. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No clue. I was so thrown I didn’t even ask him why it didn’t matter anymore. But it’s strange that he said that, right? I thought maybe . . . I don’t actually know what to make of it. Is Sam okay?”
Will didn’t respond at first. He was deep in thought, trying to simultaneously stay calm and figure out a way to alleviate Brian’s concern.
“Maybe you heard him wrong,” Will finally said.
“I guess. But if I did, I’m not sure what he would have been saying that sounds like that.” He shrugged. “I just thought you should know. Maybe tell Sam about it.”
Will tried to think of what he’d say if Sam were alive. “Yeah. That makes sense. Sam’s traveling, but when he gets back
, I’ll definitely raise it.”
Will had no idea what time it was in Beijing. Nor did he care.
“Wei,” he heard a groggy voice say into the phone from the other side of the planet. Apparently it was sleeping time in Beijing.
“Wei,” Will said back, fluent in the Chinese greeting for phone calls, which was pronounced way. Then he added, “Hello, is this Mr. Qin?”
“Speaking,” Qin said, transitioning into English. His accent was not as heavy as Brian had made it seem.
“Mr. Qin. My name is Will Matthews. I’m a wealth manager at Maeve Grant in New York City. I understand that you called looking for me earlier today and spoke to one of my colleagues. He said that you were a referral from Sam Abaddon.”
Will left it at that. He wanted Qin to reveal what he knew.
“Yes. That is correct.”
Then silence. Will was going to have to push a little.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to thank Mr. Abaddon for the referral.”
Qin’s response was a low, guttural laugh. Then he said, “Best of luck to you on that, Mr. Matthews.”
“Is there something you find amusing about what I said?”
Qin audibly cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Matthews. It is not amusing at all. Quite tragic, if you ask me. Now, I’m sorry, sir. I must be going, as you have called me in the middle of the night in Beijing. I would suggest, however, that you take good care of yourself.”
With that, the line went dead.
Will left work on the early side the next day and made it to his apartment’s lobby by six. In the elevator, after he’d pressed the button for the penthouse, he decided to visit Eve first.
She opened the door looking surprised, although he assumed she’d looked through the peephole, so she knew that it was him knocking. She was wearing a white terry cloth robe. It showed a bare clavicle, leaving it to Will’s imagination whether she had anything on underneath.
“I need to talk to you.”
He could see in her eyes that she understood his urgency. “Of course. Come in.”
She moved aside and walked into her home. Will followed a step behind after closing the door.
Eve lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a dining table in the foyer and a galley kitchen hidden behind the entry. The furnishings were eclectic, looking as if they came from flea markets rather than the high-end designer showrooms where she’d taken Will to buy his furniture.
This was one of only a handful of times they’d seen each other since Sam’s death. Even living in the same building, they rarely crossed paths. Will assumed that was by design—that Eve, like him, wished no reminder of what they’d done.
Being in such close proximity to Eve transported him back to the day everything had changed. How quickly he’d agreed to help Eve dispose of the body. Her suggestion that they hide Sam in Will’s rug—ironically enough, the Gabbeh that was her favorite. How easy it was for them to carry the rug, first to the elevator, and then down to the garage. Eve was smart enough to pull Sam’s car keys out of his pocket before encasing him in the rug. She hid in the back of the Mercedes, leaving Will to drive. He wore a Devils cap pulled down. The idea being that if the car was captured on any surveillance cameras, it would look as if Sam were behind the wheel—and alone.
It was also Eve’s idea to head east, toward Montauk.
“Sam has a house there,” she explained. “It’s not at all unusual for him to drive out there. And I know a place on the way where we can bury him.”
Will’s heart was beating so ferociously as he traversed the Manhattan streets toward the Midtown Tunnel with a dead body in the trunk that he thought it might burst at any moment. That part of the ride alone took nearly an hour, even though it covered less than five miles. During that time, neither of them said a word. Once they reached the highway, Eve broke the silence.
“There was someone else,” she said in a somber tone, clearly still in shock from the events of two hours earlier. “A . . . the details don’t matter, obviously. I thought I’d been careful, but Sam found out somehow. I knew Sam knew when he had the man killed. Sam made it look like an accident, but I knew that he’d been murdered. That’s when I started carrying a gun.”
George Kennefick, Will thought. It has to be.
Raindrops began hitting the windshield right about the time they passed LaGuardia Airport. “Where are we going?” Will asked.
“The Long Island Pine Barrens. It’s a state park another hour or ninety minutes from here. Lots of desolate acres.”
They drove in silence for the better part of two hours, the swishing of the wipers and the thumping of the raindrops on the sunroof the only sounds that broke the quiet. At Exit 70, Eve told Will to take the turnoff and follow the signs toward Manorville.
Every few minutes thereafter, she would tell Will when to turn, until they finally arrived in the park. Will turned the headlamps off and pulled the Mercedes onto a gravel path. He looked into the rearview mirror and confirmed that there was no other sign of life in sight. He continued to drive, now at a snail’s pace, until Eve told him to stop the car.
In the glove box, Will found a high-end ice scraper. It was better than using his hands, he reasoned. The rain continued unabated. If anything, it was falling even more steadily now. Guided by the car’s headlights, Will used the tool to scrape away the topsoil, and then to break up the dirt below. Eve reached her hands into the hole and threw dirt to the side.
It took more than four hours, which made it past midnight when Will thought the hole was deep enough. He had wanted to go four feet, but had barely gone down two.
They unrolled the rug, and Sam fell onto the mud. They both stared at his corpse.
“We should undress him,” Eve said. “If he’s found, we should make it difficult for them to identify him. His suit has his tailor’s name sewn in the label.”
The image of Sam facedown and fully clothed in the rain was disturbing enough. Will shuddered to think about how he’d feel seeing the man’s naked body in the mud.
“God help us,” Will said when the undressing was done.
After depositing Sam’s body in the grave, they spent another two hours covering him with the mud they had just dug out. When it was done, the soil was nearly level.
“I wouldn’t be able to tell,” Eve said, meaning that it was impossible to discern that this part of the Pine Barrens was now a cemetery. “And the rain is actually a lucky break. It’s going to last for a few hours more, so it’ll hide the tire tracks.”
She looked Will up and down. If he looked anything like Eve, he was a mess. Covered head to toe in mud, with clumps in his hair and on his face.
“Here’s what I think we should do,” she said. “Let’s get back in the car and drive out to Montauk. To Sam’s place. I know the security code to get in. That will make a record that he was out there, which is good because the car’s license plate will show up at the Midtown Tunnel, if anyone checks. We’ll leave the car in his garage but throw the rug out someplace on the way. We’ll get rid of his clothes someplace else. We can get back to the city by train. Hopefully it’ll be like we were never out here.”
It took another hour to reach Montauk from there. The rain had picked up intensity throughout the drive, making visibility difficult toward the end. Will took solace that Eve was right—the tire treads would be washed away by morning.
The sun was beginning to rise when Eve pointed to an extremely large stone house at the end of the street. “That’s Sam’s house. The garage is on the left side.”
It was French château architecture, which made it look out of place among the other beachfront homes, most of which were either modernist or Colonial. Will drove up the limestone driveway and then stayed to the left. Eve opened the console separating the front bucket seats and removed a remote control. She pointed it at the garage doors, which caused them to open.
Will rolled the Mercedes into the five-car garage. Inside was another car. Once they were inside, Eve smiled
as if to say that the worst part was over. Will tried to smile back, but he didn’t succeed. There were still a lot of worst parts to come.
Now, looking at Eve beside him, Will was thrust back to that night in Sam’s Montauk home. Like then, he was scared to death. He took solace in her strength.
“Has something happened?” Eve asked.
He hadn’t told her about the meeting with Maeve Grant’s lawyers—she had nothing to do with Sam’s financial transactions, after all. But if anyone knew Sam was dead, she was in danger too.
“I got a call from some guy in China. Actually, he called when I was out, so he was routed to one of my colleagues, and then I called him back. Anyway, he seemed to know about Sam.”
Eve visibly stiffened. “What did he say?”
“I said that I would be sure to thank Sam for the referral. He laughed and said, ‘Best of luck to you on that.’ So then I asked why he thought that was funny, and he said he didn’t think it was funny at all. I think the word he used was tragic. Then he said that I should be careful, or at least I think that’s what he said, right before hanging up.”
Now Eve looked frightened. In an odd way, it brought Will some calm. On the money laundering, he was all alone, but with regard to Sam’s death, he and Eve were in it together.
“Just because they know he’s dead doesn’t mean that they know I killed him,” Eve said, “or that we buried him.”
“I know. But I feel like it’s only a matter of time.”
“No, you can’t think that way. Sam was mixed up with some terrible people.”
“You keep saying that, Eve. Terrible people. What kind of terrible people?”
“I don’t know, Will. Killers. The kind of people you deal with when you’re involved in organized crime.”
“If he was mixed up with these terrible people, why were you involved with him?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“And my answer would be because I didn’t know. But you did.”
She looked at him crossly. But then, in a very calm voice, she said, “I didn’t know either, Will. At first, anyway. I mean, there were clues. Something seemed a little off about Sam. The way he didn’t provide specifics about his work. All the money that seemed to come from the sky. But it was so much easier to enjoy it all than to question any of it. Sound familiar?”
