AHMM, September 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I glanced through the window and saw the guy with the cast slip furtively out of the ambulance, tucking a bulky plastic sack under his sweatshirt. He turned the corner and disappeared just as the EMTs came out.

  "Don't waste any time,” said McClellan. “And try not to cause a ruckus."

  "You'll never know I was there,” I said.

  * * * *

  I left the weapons behind, not that it mattered. I spend most of my time in New York, so the level of building security in Boston struck me as quaint. I had to sign in, but the guard barely glanced at my ID and just waved vaguely at the elevators. Back home he would have been an off-duty police officer, the employees would be carrying smart-card badges, and I'd need a time-stamped VISITOR sticker to get through the turnstiles. The farther you are from Ground Zero, the less effect it seems to have had.

  I dodged a phalanx of men dressed variously in white buttondown shirts, blue button-down shirts, and chinos. Even their shoes seemed all to be the same casual oxfords. They get all defensive when you bring it up, but Boston natives really do dress like hayseeds. That made it easy to blend in, of course. I straightened the tuck of my new Marshalls shirt, smoothed my flat-front khakis, and stepped from the elevator into the seventh floor reception.

  Loreta Danieli broke the rule, being dressed in an edgy hand-tailored suit and five hundred—dollar shoes. About thirty, average size, but a handshake like a dockworker, with the kind of calluses you get working a heavy bag. She strode off, leading us to a tiny conference room completely filled by three chairs, one tiny table, and a whiteboard that someone had carelessly marked up with permanent ink.

  She closed the door, sat down, and didn't bother with any preliminaries. “You're not from Institutional Investor. They've never heard of you."

  "Ah ... I'm a freelancer."

  "Really?"

  "Okay, I stretched it a bit—I'm doing the story on spec, but I'm sure they'll buy it. You're a rising star."

  She actually laughed at that. “I'm quitting. Gave notice this morning."

  I looked at her. “Oh. Why?"

  "I figure you're from McClellan. Sending in an amateur like you is just what he'd do."

  Hmm. “This is going to be a hard meeting, isn't it?"

  "No, just short.” She shook her head. Her eyes had that striking blue you get from either contacts or Nordic parents. “He could've just asked, of course. But that would be too, I don't know, easy. What a jerk."

  My brand-new shirt itched. You should always wash them first, God knows what toxic chemicals the Chinese textile factories use, but I'd only bought it thirty minutes earlier. “You're an analyst, right?"

  "Not for...” she looked at her watch, “the last two hours and thirty-eight minutes. They've already locked down my accounts, but I get until five o'clock to clean out my cubicle."

  "Is that necessary?"

  "No. The stuff that's important to me would fit in a shoebox.” She hesitated. “Oh, you mean the security. Nah, they're just yanking my chain. So, you a private dick or what?"

  I leaned back. Outside the room's window I could see sunshine and clouds. I was thinking how it might have been helpful if I'd brought the Sig after all.

  "Forensic accounting,” I said.

  "Yeah? Where'd you certify?"

  "Self-taught. Look, you want to talk or not? Maybe I should go beat up the next guy on the list."

  "Let's arm wrestle."

  "Huh?"

  "Or maybe not. I can whip all the young bucks here, but, truth is, you look like you might be a little more trouble."

  The interview just wasn't going as planned. “Tell you what, I'll meet you at the gym later, we'll go a few rounds. Why are you quitting?"

  "Friend of mine raised ninety million for a hedge fund, now he needs another trader. It'll be fun."

  I sighed. “You're out of my league, honey."

  Her cell phone rang and she palmed it out, glanced at the screen, and clicked it off. A moment passed in silence.

  "They were stealing,” she said, surprising me. “All three of them."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Not together, but doing the same kind of things. They probably traded tips at the strip clubs after work."

  "I didn't think it was that easy to skim. Freeboard's big enough to have good controls."

  "Nothing that crude.” She looked disappointed in me. “Soft dollar kickbacks, to start with—they were executing stock trades through these third-tier brokers, partly for higher commissions, partly for lousy spread fills. Either way the broker was coming out ahead, and some of that cash was finding its way back here."

  My turn to frown. “That's not against the rules. Be honest—the funds do it all the time."

  "Sure, but you're missing the point.” She leaned forward. “They were keeping the money for themselves."

  "Oh, I see—stealing from the company, not the customers."

  "A far greater sin.” Her mouth twitched.

  "Let me guess. Offshore accounts in the Caymans?"

  "South Pacific, actually.” She smiled for real. “Vanuatu. One of the guys—I forget which—even bought himself a passport."

  "No wonder their returns were in the basement."

  "Well, it might not have mattered if they hadn't been such awful stockpickers. Not to mention the level of churn. Anyway, there were stale-price exploits too. They were market timing their own funds."

  I thought about that. “SEC involved yet?"

  "Letter of inquiry, ten days ago. Some coincidence, huh?"

  Someone tapped on the conference room's glass door, catching me by surprise, and I twisted around, coming out of my chair halfway into a combat stance before I remembered where we were. Embarrassing.

  "Easy there, big guy.” Loreta waved and the door opened, while I stood all the way up and tried to pretend I was just being courteous.

  "I think I have the room reserved?” A young woman looked curiously at both of us.

  "We're just finishing up.” Loreta nodded at me. “Right?"

  "If you say so."

  "Yes."

  "See you at the deposition.” I winked. “Say, what floor is Compliance on?"

  * * * *

  The cops have Internal Affairs, and you know what they're like. Financial companies have compliance officers—or, in the case of an entity as large as Freeboard, a thirty-person department—with much the same task. Forget to fill out your annual conflict-of-interest disclosure? “Carelessly” open a personal trading account at a different firm? Own stock in a company you cover? Compliance will be right over, separating you from your ill-gotten gains, writing career-killing memos, and generally wielding the elephant shovel. Obviously it takes a special kind of person to last in such a job, let alone enjoy it. There are few psychic rewards when the kindest emotion you'll get from other employees is annoyed disdain.

  So it didn't surprise me when no one in Freeboard's compliance group would give me the time of day. In fact, it was only about fifteen seconds before I saw the guy in the front cubicle, clearly disbelieving every word I said after “Hi,” signal to the next woman over. When she picked up her phone, eyes on me, I shrugged and walked away, back out to the elevator bank.

  As the doors binged open, I stood aside while two men exited with the kind of alert, purposeful stride I never like to see coming my way. One in a simple black uniform, one in a nice suit. I checked automatically for weapons, though it would have been astonishing to find armed guards in an environment like this, and indeed neither was carrying. Still, they were clearly competent, wary, and suspicious. High-grade security for a white-collar office. I was glad to leave.

  I'd gotten what I came for, though: a good look at the faces of as many of the Compliance employees as I could see. I didn't really expect to get far inside, but now that I'd seen the herd, maybe I could cut one of them out. I settled down in a coffee shop across the street—seven bucks for a hot chocolate? Good God, as bad as Manhattan—and watched through the window, checking e
veryone who left the Freeboard building.

  The first few possibilities were traveling together, so I waited some more, and finally one guy came out with the lunch rush. He separated from the pack immediately, carrying a small, brown paper sack in the direction of Post Office Square. I didn't even have to keep him in sight, just took my time and caught up to him ten minutes later. He had folded his windbreaker neatly on the grass of the small park and was working on a square whitebread sandwich, a copy of Banker and Tradesman in his lap.

  I glanced at the ID badge hanging around his neck, both to confirm that he was from Compliance and to get his name. “Hey, Richard. Peanut butter again? Don't you ever get tired of that?” I said, sitting down next to him.

  He looked at me, looked at his sandwich, and placed it carefully on the newspaper, wiping his hands. He must have been about forty, basic wire glasses, big funny ears.

  "I have tuna on Friday,” he said. “Who are you?"

  Other lunch-hour picnickers were spread over the lawn but not many, since the weather was a bit breezy and cool for sitting out. The closest pair was twenty feet away. It felt private.

  "Doesn't matter,” I said. “What does matter is that I'm investigating the three killings, I have full board authority on this—” no need to mention McClellan “—and right now, right here, is your one chance to cooperate."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You're going to answer some questions."

  "Oh.” He didn't seem to notice that I was threatening him. “Why would I do that?"

  Good point. He was probably a Compliance lifer, so it figured he'd be used to having people violently angry with him. I could see him draw breath, ready to blow me off.

  "Don't make a mistake, Richard.” With one hand I grabbed his left little finger and bent it back just to the breaking point, and with the other, knuckle-punched his diaphragm. All very quick and smooth, if I say so myself. No one seemed to notice. He gasped and wheezed and would have flopped around but for the immobilizing pain of the lock. I gave him a minute to lose the blue color.

  "Full authority,” I reminded him.

  He was having trouble getting words out, but I was in no rush now.

  "Why would I know anything?” he finally managed to gasp.

  "Loreta Danieli thinks all three of them were cranking their funds. Your lot should have been on top of that."

  "Loreta?” He almost growled. “She's your source?"

  "Yes..."

  "You're an idiot. Ow!” He swore and dripped some tears.

  "Don't make me break it."

  "She's no more reliable than, jeez, she slept with all three of them, didn't you know that?"

  "Huh?"

  "Well, two for sure, everyone was talking about it. Not that she was being particular. She went through the whole damn office. If it had two legs and a five o'clock shadow, she'd try to pummel it into submission."

  I found this revelation more disappointing than you might expect.

  "Not you?"

  "I wasn't interested."

  He had ten more minutes of sordid gossip, and by the end I'd released his hand and he was still singing. Everyone likes a good listener. Nothing added to the case, though. Loreta seemed to be quite the office whirlwind—you had to wonder how any work got done around there at all.

  "What about the SEC's letter of inquiry?” I finally asked.

  He abruptly clammed up.

  "Come on, it's a matter of public record,” I said. “Or it should be, if you're filing your 8-Ks on time."

  "They heard something, they sent the letter. Doesn't have to mean anything. It's like an audit. Most people dig out the paperwork they forgot the first time around and that's it, no harm, no foul."

  "I've done audits, Richard.” He looked skeptical, and I added, “Of a sort. They tend to go faster if someone's bleeding out on the floor."

  He nodded, taking it seriously. A technique to add to the playbook.

  "Loreta's the nexus, though,” he said, using that prosecutorial lingo. “She had enough people crazy mad I'm surprised the whole section didn't kill each other."

  A pigeon on the ground was eyeing Richard's forgotten sandwich, circling warily about four feet away. I thought about luring it close, then snatching it barehanded. But I wasn't a showoff kid anymore.

  "Why didn't they just fire her?"

  "She did good work. Made a lot of sharp calls. Contrarian, of course.” Indeed. “But that's best in this kind of market."

  He didn't have much else to say, and I couldn't think of anything useful to ask. I stood to go, and Richard peered up at me.

  "If you take her down,” he said, looking almost wistful, “could I be there?"

  "No.” I thought about Loreta and shook my head. “I don't think that would be safe."

  * * * *

  Maybe I was coming at the case from the wrong angle. All kinds of motives and plenty of suspects were in play at this point—too many possibilities to plod through like some clock-punching flatfoot. On the other hand, the kills themselves were distinctive, especially the drive-by. Hire a handful of thugs out of a Charlestown taproom, you wouldn't get the job done so neatly. Someone had access to the kind of skill set you don't normally find in the money management world. Maybe I should start there.

  A few calls confirmed that Freeboard handled their security in-house. There's a guy I know in Boston, my kind of work, though he does more in academia—apparently rich, arrogant universities jam themselves up just the same as rich, arrogant corporations. He had some good stories. Like, you don't think the president of Harvard—Harvard, the wealthiest, most powerful university on the planet—you don't think he'd resign just because a few professors thought he was uncivil, do you? Anyway, my friend, who may or may not have had something to do with that particular episode, he told me that Freeboard's security department had a reputation for good pay, demanding requirements, and an extremely thorough vetting process.

  "And once they get hired, the guys'll never talk to you again,” he said. “Not about the job. They'd get fired straightaway, and they know it."

  "So they're pretty good, huh?"

  "Their chief prefers ex-SOF. The word is they'll pay as good as Blackwater, if you qualify, and you don't have to go shoot it out with the jihadis. Why, you're tired of being an independent contractor?"

  Well, I couldn't resist a challenge like that, and anyway, I'd pretty much had it with the upper-floor suits. This time I collected all my accessories before I went back to Freeboard's main building. It made me feel better.

  The operations office was where I expected it to be, in the basement off the underground parking garage. My guys, they never get the penthouse view, you know? In fact, I was so confident I had it right I didn't even sit in the rental car for a while, watching the door—not after I saw two crew-cuts walk in carrying gym duffels, and a uniformed guard walk out. It was on the first parking level, next to the glassed-in elevator lobby, unmarked but also unlocked. Probably the inner perimeter was the serious one, semiauto and steel bulkheads.

  Or maybe not. So far I hadn't seen anyone carrying even a token sidearm. It's not like they were guarding money in a bank. An institution like Freeboard is all about reputation, making their customers feel safe and secure and reassured, and trigger-happy commandos drawing down on preppy businessmen might undercut the image. Reputation is a wasting asset—use it up and you don't get it back. My friend said their security chief was sharp, so he'd understand that.

  Once I'd convinced myself there wouldn't be an army inside, I put away my accessories again. No need to escalate unnecessarily. On the other hand, everyone might benefit from a little action, just to ward off that post-lunch sleepy hour. I retied my shoes—once you've tripped over your laces in a firefight, you never want to again—and walked on over.

  It was fun. I went in hard, kicking the door and leaping through, two steps and right over a metal desk, knocking the guard off his chair. The room was small, little more than a vestibule, with a si
ngle door of dented metal leading out again. I scanned backward, saw a large red button on the guard's side of the desk, and pushed it just as he clambered up and pulled out a ... Holy Christ, an MP5, where did he have that holstered? He was yelling, the inner door was buzzing, and I banged on through in a tuck roll, wincing as a three-round burst hammered the door behind me as it closed. No uncontrolled auto emptying the magazine, nice.

  Now, a hallway: an open door on the left to a locker room, closed door on the right with a frosted glass window, more doors farther down, a freight elevator at the end. Two black uniforms appearing in the locker room, a man down the hall turning my way, gun barrels swinging into play. I took a second to check the right-side door—locked—and someone shouted, “Don't shoot!” Me or them, who knows? I smashed the window glass with my elbow, glad I'd put my jacket back on, reached through, and opened the knob.

  Another dramatic entrance, and ... jackpot, it looked like the commander's office, a big wooden desk and some comfy chairs and a six-foot-tall floor plan taped to the wall. Plus a stern-looking gent in shirtsleeves holding a Model 1911 straight at me, his eyes on my hands, the desk telephone's receiver hanging where he'd dropped it. Sudden silence.

  Apparently guarding a white-shoe investment firm in downtown Boston was a lot more dangerous than I thought.

  "Routine security audit,” I said.

  His gaze was unblinking. I heard shuffling and grunts in the door behind me, but no one was dumb enough to enter their captain's line of fire, so they couldn't get close.

  "Did we pass?” he said slowly. The handgun didn't move.

  "Oh sure.” I kept my hands out and still. “You'd probably like to check, right? Call McClellan."

  The captain dialed one handed, listened for a moment, then handed me the phone. “Wants to talk to you,” he said, putting away his pistol. “Stand down,” he called to his crew, and there was more shuffling and grunting, disappointed this time.

  McClellan was a little upset. I held the phone away from my ear, and after a while the captain cracked a smile, watching. Finally I got a word in, and McClellan hung up.