by Adam Mitzner
Maria got up from the secretarial station as soon as she saw Will approach. “Donna Schwartz was looking for you,” she said.
“Any idea what about?”
“No. But she asked that you get right back to her.”
Will nodded that he would, but first he needed to reach Eve. If the FBI had visited her right after him, they might have left by now. Unless, of course, they had her in custody.
He went into his office, shut the door, and dialed her number. This time Eve answered right away.
“It’s Will, Eve. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Obviously, she hadn’t had the pleasure of the company of Agents Benevacz and Rodriguez, after all.
“As soon as I left you this morning, right outside the building, two FBI agents ambushed me. I thought that they had gone straight from questioning me to you. I tried calling you right away, but it went to voice mail.”
“I’m sorry to have worried you, Will. I didn’t hear the phone.”
Will told himself to get a grip. Why hadn’t he thought of that as a possibility rather than put himself through the last twenty minutes of imagining Eve in handcuffs? Why would the FBI even be interested in Eve? They were looking into the financial stuff, not investigating Sam’s death.
“When it rains, it pours, I guess,” Eve said. “What did the FBI want?”
“They wanted to know the last time I’d heard from Sam.”
A momentary silence and then: “What did you tell them?”
“I told them what we agreed on. That I hadn’t heard from him in a few months.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Yeah. They asked if I knew if anyone else had spoken to him. That’s when they mentioned you.”
“And?”
“And I kept to the script. Told them that I didn’t know whether you had or hadn’t.”
He decided not to share with Eve that he didn’t think the FBI agents had believed him. Instead, he was fixated on why they hadn’t gone to see Eve right after questioning him. Even if they didn’t think she was involved in the money laundering, they knew her name. They must have thought she might know how to contact Sam.
Will’s office phone rang an hour later. The caller ID indicated it was from the Cage.
“Hi, Donna,” he said. “I know I owe you a call. What’s up?”
“We got a request from the account holder over the phone to transfer funds out of a dozen or so accounts under your name. Total AUM . . . $687 million.”
That was everything in the FOSA accounts. And the figure was exact enough that whoever was withdrawing it had to have previous knowledge of the account balances.
“Who called you?”
A momentary pause from Schwartz. “Samuel Abaddon.”
Sam Abaddon had not climbed out of the morgue and then, as his first order of business back in the world of the living, called Maeve Grant to transfer out nearly three-quarters of a billion dollars.
“Did you verify that it was Abaddon?” he said. “Because he didn’t say anything to me about moving his funds. I . . . thought he was pleased with the performance of the portfolio.”
Will knew he was saying things he shouldn’t be. Admissions that could come back to haunt him later.
“The caller had the security code,” Schwartz said, referencing the password that clients are given just in case they can’t reach their brokers and need to execute a trade immediately. “I can put a freeze on it if you think it’s suspicious.”
Will’s career was now over. And that meant that Maeve Grant would demand repayment of his loan—$10 million he didn’t have. On top of which, the moment the funds left Maeve Grant, the firm would file a SAR—Suspicious Activity Report—with the Department of Justice. That meant if the FBI didn’t already realize his role in all this, they would soon enough.
Still, freezing the account solved none of his problems; it only made them significantly worse. Although the funds would stay at Maeve Grant for a while longer, it was only a matter of time before the firm had to let them go. And by requesting the freeze, Will would be admitting that he was suspicious of the withdrawal. That would be in direct contradiction to everything he’d said to the FBI and to Maeve Grant. It might be enough to impute that he was aware of criminal conduct.
“Am I free to wire it out?” Schwartz asked.
After a deep breath, Will said, “Yes.”
32.
Will was surprised he was still employed at the end of the day. He had expected Mattismo to receive a ping on his computer the moment the money was transferred out, and that he’d be fired on the spot. But that didn’t happen. At market close, he left for the day as if he were still someone with a future, even though he most certainly was not.
He couldn’t even wrap his mind around what had happened. The obvious explanation was that someone had taken over Sam’s organization, and that person’s first order of business had been to fire Will.
As bad as that was, it wasn’t what worried Will most. The question that haunted him was whether the funds had been withdrawn because the “new Sam” knew of Will’s involvement in Sam’s death. If that was what was going on, being fired wouldn’t matter in the least. Dead men don’t need jobs.
Gwen’s birthday dinner was at Baby Moon, her favorite restaurant. It was much more understated than the over-the-top expense-account restaurants that Will was frequenting these days. The place was small, twenty tables at most. There was a wood-burning oven in the back, out of which came the thinnest-crust pizza that Will had ever had. Each table had a starched white tablecloth and a single candle burning in a silver holder.
Will asked Angelo, the manager, to seat him even though Gwen had not yet arrived. Once there, Will ordered a very nice bottle of her favorite champagne. Angelo himself attended to filling the two flutes and then placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket beside the table.
Although it was a tall order, Will was determined to put today’s events behind him and focus all his mental energy on Gwen. No amount of obsessing was going to make the FBI go away or reveal who’d contacted the Cage today with Sam’s password. But if tonight went well, perhaps at least one thing in Will’s life wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster.
He arranged the blue Tiffany box atop the white china plate on Gwen’s side of the table, placing the card in an unsealed envelope beside it. Looking at it now, Will wondered how on earth he was going to pay his American Express bill when it came due.
“Tiffany’s!” Gwen said as she approached the table and saw the box.
Will stood and kissed his girlfriend on the lips. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“Do I open the present first or drink the champagne?”
“Neither,” he said. “Give me a second just to look at you.”
She blushed. “I guess that means the present first.”
She reached for the box, slid off the white satin bow, and removed the lid. Then she gasped upon viewing the diamond-and-sapphire pendant inside. It was the reaction the sales clerk at Tiffany’s had said he was guaranteed to receive.
“Oh my God. Will . . . It’s beautiful.”
Gwen removed the necklace from the box and dangled the chain from her fingers. The light danced off the stones, shimmering like the blue at the top of a flame.
Then her eyes caught the key that he’d placed underneath the necklace. “It’s time,” Will said. “You can keep your place if you’d like, but I think we should make the move-in official.”
She smiled at him. “Your apartment doesn’t have a key.”
He laughed. “It’s symbolic. Although, truth be told, there is a key to the elevator, but I couldn’t find mine to copy that one, so I just put a random key in the box. I think it’s to my old place, actually.”
She laughed. “Well, I love both my gifts. Thank you.”
“Let me put the necklace on you.”
Gwen unclasped the gold chain she was wearing. After putting it
in her purse, she handed Will the Tiffany necklace. Leaning over her, he pushed her hair to one side and slipped the necklace around her throat. After locking the clasp, he brushed his lips against the top of her spine and saw the goose bumps rise.
When he returned to his seat, he got a good glimpse of his gift. As he stared, Gwen placed her hand over it, as if concealing it out of modesty.
“Thank you again, Will.”
“Not every day you turn twenty-nine.”
“That’s true. In fact, this is going to be the only one.”
Will raised his champagne flute to eye level. “I love you, Gwendolyn Lipton. I’m humbled and grateful to be with you at the start of your twenty-ninth year.”
She laughed. “Thirtieth, actually. The first year is zero.”
“Right. I should have known that.”
“Well, I know you’re not very good with numbers . . . I have some very exciting news to share that’s not birthday related. You’re looking at the newest member of the Jasper Toolan trial team.”
Will knew that had been Gwen’s professional goal since they’d met. He reflected on the oddness of the timing, wondering whether Gwen had been told about her selection at the same moment he had been informed of the withdrawal of nearly all his AUM, effectively ending his career.
“Amazing, Gwen. And not just for you either. That Jasper Toolan is as good as a free man now.”
She laughed. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here. I’m just going to be taking notes and pulling documents for the more senior people at the counsel table. But, yeah, I’m really excited about it. I’ve always admired how you’re so passionate about what you do. About everything in your life, really. I like to think that some of that be-like-the-dog philosophy has rubbed off on me. So thank you for that. And for my presents too.”
When the alarm clock went off the following morning, Will was momentarily confused. He threw his arm onto Gwen’s side of the bed—only to have it hit the mattress. She never woke up before him. Lawyer days started at the extremely civilized time of ten. He looked to the bathroom, figuring that was where she was, but the lights were off.
“Gwen?” he called out.
Nothing came back. He rubbed his eyes, hoping that they’d adjust quickly to the breaking daylight. When they did, he wished that they hadn’t.
Dangling from the table lamp on the nightstand was her sapphire-and-diamond Tiffany pendant. Beneath it was the key.
Will rolled over to the table, assuming there must be a note accompanying the returned gifts. But there wasn’t.
He reached for his phone. Before he could ask Siri to call Gwen, he saw her text.
I know that breaking up by text is the coward’s way. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t work up the courage to tell you. I didn’t want to ruin the evening, which was truly lovely. And for that I thank you. I also thank you for the last four months. I’ve loved every minute of it and . . . I love you too, Will. I truly do. I’m sorry. I wish only good things for you. G
She didn’t cite a reason. The lawyer in Gwen, careful not to leave a paper trail. But she didn’t have to document why she’d ended it. There was only one explanation that made sense: Gwen was running away. From him. From what she saw as his future. A future she was smart enough not to want any part of.
He could hardly blame her. He wished running away from himself were an option for him too.
Will stayed in bed the rest of the weekend. He emerged only to eat some cold cereal for lunch, and then to help himself to another bowl for dinner.
He resisted the urge to call Gwen and ask for another chance. To promise that her fears wouldn’t come true.
But he couldn’t say that. At least not honestly. Not while Sam Abaddon’s body sat marked John Doe in a morgue in a drawer. Not while the FBI wanted to know the last time Will had spoken to him. Not while someone close to Sam was withdrawing hundreds of millions of dollars from Maeve Grant. Not while the NYPD was still investigating Robert Wolfe’s death.
Will wasn’t the kind of man who talked to his father aloud. He’d been so young when his father passed that he couldn’t even remember what the man looked like from his own memories. Instead, when he thought of his father, the image that came to mind was one depicted in a photo that had sat on the piano in his home in Cheboygan. In it, his father was wearing a white, short-sleeved button-down shirt and skinny black tie, as if he were a 1960s NASA employee, even though the picture was likely snapped in the late 1980s. Will didn’t even know what occasion would have had his father wearing a tie, which he’d rarely done.
Nonetheless, at this moment, when his life was caving in on him, Will was overwhelmed with the need for paternal advice. He ventured out onto the terrace, as if being outdoors would improve the connection to his father. All that did, however, was bring his sins to the fore.
He was standing almost precisely on the spot where Sam Abaddon died. He had scrubbed the blood out of the cement thoroughly with bleach—on more than one occasion—but he was certain he could still see its outline, even though he repeatedly told himself that it was all in his imagination.
“Aren’t you proud of me, Dad?” Will said with a chuckle. “I obviously didn’t take to heart the life lessons you imparted about what truly mattered. Do me a favor, will you? If it’s at all possible, try to shield Mom from what I’ve done. I . . .”
And with that, Will began to sob.
33.
Gwen couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so alone. As if she was starving and at the same time was sick to her stomach.
It was a far different sensation from when she’d ended things with Peter. Then she’d held the self-righteous moral high ground. “How could you?” she kept yelling at him, and there was really nothing for him to say, which was probably why she kept yelling it at him.
But Will had never been anything but a loving and supportive partner. What made matters even worse was that a part of her felt she shared some of the blame for Will’s predicament. She knew that a shrink would tell her that Will made his own choices. Yes, he had information that she wasn’t privy to, but Gwen had been with Will in real time as his relationship with Sam progressed. She hadn’t raised a red flag with Will—not when Sam made his initial deposit, not when the Pretty Woman shopping spree occurred, not when he entrusted Will to manage hundreds of millions of dollars. No, she did not say anything until she learned how Sam had engineered the purchase of Will’s apartment. And even then, she wasn’t Paul Revere, shouting from the rooftops about the coming danger. Instead, she had accepted Will’s explanation at face value, putting aside the voice in her head that told her that everything was not as it seemed.
One of the things that Gwen loved about Will was that he was such a romantic, and at a time when that type of unbridled belief that good things would happen to those who worked hard seemed not only quaint, but downright mad. He believed that fate had touched him at that hockey game and was rewarding him for the hard work he’d put in every second of every day until that moment.
The cruelest blow of all was that the cynics were proven right. Will’s dedication and perseverance hadn’t paved the way to success. Instead, his dreaming had blinded him to the cold reality that dreams don’t just come true, and there is a Sam Abaddon around the corner, lying in wait for anyone who thinks otherwise.
Sadly, that wasn’t even the cruelest part, after all. It was that Gwen, knowing that Will was pure of heart, cut him loose anyway. As much as she wanted to be one of the romantics, she had proven herself to be a cynic too, in the end.
Gwen would have preferred to wallow in self-pity, but she had a 10:00 a.m. with Jasper Toolan. So she pulled herself out of bed, showered, and within the hour was sitting in a conference room at Taylor Beckett, awaiting her client’s arrival.
Toolan had been granted his own building pass and key card, so Gwen was not provided any warning that he had arrived; he simply opened the conference room door. It was the first time she’d be seeing him in the flesh.
The image she had in her mind was one from his Wikipedia page, which she’d nearly committed to memory, but in the photograph Toolan was dressed in formal wear, most likely at an awards ceremony or premiere. Today he was in jeans and black suede loafers, a black collared sweater, probably cashmere, and a sports jacket of almost the exact same hue, likely also cashmere. His hair was long and shaggy, but not quite touching his shoulders, and his beard was at three-day-stubble length.
In other words, he looked exactly like an A-list director suspected of murder meeting his attorney on a Saturday morning. The one part of the picture that didn’t exactly mesh was that he was holding a shopping bag.
“My mother taught me never to come to any meeting without food, so I brought us some breakfast and coffee. I didn’t know how you took yours, so I also have some milk and assorted sweeteners.”
Gwen had assumed that Jasper would live up to his reputation as a charmer. Although he was out of her age range—fifty, at least according to Wikipedia—he was certainly handsome, and there was a confidence in his bearing that she knew drew people in.
She came to her feet and extended her hand. “Thank you for breakfast, but you didn’t have to. We can order in food in the future.”
“I figure I’m paying for it either way, so might as well get out from under the delivery fee and tip.”
Gwen smiled. She was sure he knew that the delivery fee and tip might have saved him ten dollars at most, and his quip, plus the time he was taking to arrange the breakfast pastries in an appetizing way, would cost him seventy-five in billable lawyer time.
Gwen accepted a coffee with milk, no sugar, but declined the pastry. Meeting clients was a little like being on a first date; it was best if they didn’t see you eat.
“Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Mr. Toolan.”
“Jasper, please. And may I call you Gwen?”
“Of course. Thank you for coming in on a Saturday, Jasper. Benjamin thought it was best if we did this on weekends to eliminate any rubbernecking.”
