by Rickie Blair
“Mr. Bayfort and Mr. Cohen are here,” she said.
Fulton, smiling broadly, stood and extended his hand.
“Jack. Steve. It’s great to see you both.” He shook their hands one at a time, laying his other hand on top of theirs in a warm squeeze. “Please sit.” Fulton gestured to the four leather armchairs around a glass coffee table by the windows.
“May I get either of you a coffee?” Irene asked.
“No, thank you,” Cohen said, settling his long limbs into an armchair. At six feet, he towered over his partner by nearly a foot. Bayfort, whose brown hair was shorn close to his head, perched on the arm of another chair with one foot on the floor, and shook his head.
Irene nodded and left the room, closing the door.
“Thanks for making time for us on a Sunday,” Cohen said. “We know how busy you are.”
“I always make time for old friends like you, Steve. Can I interest either of you in something a little stronger than coffee?” He pointed to the liquor cart by the windows. “Macallan?”
“This isn’t a social visit, Raymond.”
Fulton braced himself. Here it comes.
“We wanted to tell you personally that we’re taking the Bayfort Trust out of the Castlebar Fund,” Cohen said. “We’ve had reservations for some time and—”
Bayfort broke in.
“We want you to know we didn’t make this decision lightly, Raymond. We’ve been under pressure from our audit committee and our compliance people. They say they’re not getting the cooperation they need. That they can’t get certain questions answered.”
Fulton’s neck flushed hot and he resisted the urge to run a finger under his collar. He settled into an armchair and waited for his breathing to steady before replying.
“This is news to me, gentlemen,” he said in a modulated tone. “What questions do you have?”
The visitors glanced at each other. Cohen spoke first.
“Basically—and I stress we’re talking about our compliance people here, not Steve or me—they don’t trust your returns. They can’t seem to come up with any trading models that would replicate them.”
“I should hope not, otherwise I’d be out of business.” Fulton’s voice rose. “If any Tom, Dick or Harry with an accounting degree and a stick up his ass could replicate my returns, they’d be here, wouldn’t they? Instead of that rabbit warren of an office over on Cedar Street.” He stood and marched to the liquor cart, poured himself a single malt and sipped it, staring out the window with his jaw clenched.
“We don’t mean to be insulting, Raymond,” Cohen said. “We need a bit more information about your trading model, that’s all.”
Fulton turned to look at Cohen, assessing his unlined face and the way he sprawled in his chair, legs wide. Insolent bastard. Fulton studied the Scotch in his glass, swirling it in his hand.
“Do you know how many years I’ve been here on Wall Street? How many people I’ve made into multimillionaires during that time? How many letters I get from investors thanking me for changing their lives?” He looked up from his glass and stared at them intently. “Changing their lives, gentlemen. Do you have any idea how many Castlebar investors come up to me in restaurants, at charity events, even on the street, just to shake my hand?”
He downed his Scotch and clunked the glass back onto the cart.
“Not one of them knows our trading model. It’s proprietary, and it’s that way for a reason. If everyone knew what we do here, then everyone would do it. And then it would no longer work.”
“We know that, Raymond, but—”
He held up a hand. “How much are we talking about?”
“Seventy-five,” Bayfort said.
Seventy-five-million dollars. Cash. Fulton’s stomach lurched. Impossible. He turned to the cart and poured another finger of Macallan with his back to the room to hide the tremor in his hand. After replacing the bottle he walked over and sat in an armchair. He took a swallow and placed his glass on the coffee table. His hand was perfectly steady.
“You can have it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Raymond. We appreciate it,” Cohen said.
“But I hope you realize your firm will be barred from investing with us ever again. Naturally, if your clients are unhappy with the returns that you’re able to get them without the Castlebar Fund, we’ll be happy to take them on individually.” He picked up his glass and took another sip.
The two men shifted uncomfortably.
“Raymond—” Bayfort said, but he stopped talking as the door opened and Leta Vaughn walked into the room. Bayfort’s lips parted and he jumped up, thrusting out his hand. Leta accepted it with a smile. Cohen scrambled to his feet, banging his shin on the coffee table, and extended his hand as well.
“Leta Vaughn, gentlemen,” Fulton said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thank you for joining us, Leta. Please update Jack and Steve on our new European strategy.”
She handed them stapled reports warm from the printer, apologized for not having prepared a PowerPoint, and detailed the opportunities she had discussed earlier with Fulton. When she was finished, he motioned her to take the fourth chair. Leta sat and crossed her long legs.
Fulton smiled warmly at Cohen and Bayfort.
“Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t give you this research, since you’re planning to leave us. But it’s a small sample of the analysis we do every day.” He turned to Leta and raised an eyebrow. “Jack and Steve are pulling their clients’ money from the Castlebar Fund.”
“Really?” She focused her intense blue eyes on Bayfort, then Cohen. “You found something better?”
Bayfort stared at her a moment before speaking. He blinked.
“Not … yet.”
She cocked her head at him.
“Shouldn’t you wait until you do? It’s not my business, of course, but is that best for your investors?”
The visitors shifted in their seats and Fulton pounced.
“Ms. Vaughn has a point. If you take your clients into cash, your quarter-end returns will be abysmal compared to the previous … let me see … how many years have you been with us? Five? That’s twenty quarters of reliable, above average returns, compared with,” he turned to Leta, “what are T-bills paying these days? Less than one percent?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
The men exchanged glances and Fulton held his breath.
“Are you prepared to assure us everything is fine?” Cohen asked. “We have nothing to worry about?”
“Your clients’ money is safe, gentlemen.”
“Your word is good enough for us, Raymond. We’ll leave it for now. But our investment committee meets in two weeks,” Cohen rolled his eyes, “and you know how they are.”
Fulton rose to his feet with a slight shrug and shook their hands. After the door closed behind them, he turned to Leta.
“That was quick thinking. Good work.”
“Thank you,” she said, beaming. “But I only told them the truth.”
After Leta left, Fulton flopped into an armchair, breathing hard, and waited until his heartbeat slowed. He reached for his glass and tossed back the Scotch. Then he walked around his desk and buzzed Irene.
“Get me Jourdain.” Might as well get it over with. He couldn’t duck his partner’s calls forever.
Irene buzzed back a few minutes later, and he picked up the phone.
“Bonjour, mon ami. How are things in Paris?”
“Bad.”
“Bad? What’s happened?” Unease twisted Fulton’s gut. Jourdain de Montagny was never this direct. They had been partners for twenty years, and yet every call he made to his colleague in Paris was prefaced with at least five minutes of pleasantries. Jourdain would describe the weather, his grandchildren’s latest triumphs, new additions to his wine cellar, vacation trips his wife had planned. Fulton usually put him on speaker and scrolled through emails while he listened.
Not today.
“The Michaud family
came here this morning. They want to withdraw their funds. And they were hardly out the door when Monsieur Leclerc called. The trust wants to do the same.”
Fulton made rough calculations in his head. Thirty million. In one day, the Castlebar Fund had received redemption requests totaling over one hundred million dollars.
“We can’t do it.”
“But we must.”
“We can’t. You’ll have to stall them.”
“I tried.”
“Try harder. Cohen and Bayfort were just here. They want to withdraw all the Bayfort Trust holdings. I delayed them for two weeks, but then we have to come up with the cash.” Fulton squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the heel of his palm across his forehead. His head was pounding and two shots of Scotch had done nothing to relieve it. He hit the speaker button and replaced the handset.
Jourdain’s voice echoed through the room.
“We can pay them, non?”
Fulton snapped his head up.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
A heavy sigh came from the phone. His partner spoke again, more slowly.
“Thérèse and I were looking at old photos the other day. You remember that summer when all three of us were in the Hamptons?”
Fulton exhaled sharply. They were facing a crisis; there was no time to reminisce.
“What about it?”
“Edwin was right. We should have listened to him.”
“Edwin was a crook. He betrayed us and nearly took the firm down with him. We did the only thing we could. Why are you bringing up ancient history?”
“We’ve had a good run, Raymond. I’m getting old, Thérèse is getting old. Merde, you’re getting old, even if you don’t want to admit it. It’s time to wrap up the business. Time to retire.”
What the hell? Fulton snapped the speaker button off and picked up the handset.
“Retire? Are you out of your mind?” He leaned over the desk and rubbed his forehead.
“I’m tired, Raymond. Aren’t you tired?”
“No. And neither are you.”
“I can’t do this any more.”
“Jourdain, listen to me. This is crazy talk. Do you want me to come to Paris? Talk to the Michauds? I can be there tomorrow.”
No reply.
“Jourdain? Look, I understand, I do. But here’s the thing—who would we turn the business over to?” His voice rose. “Who would take over for us? For you? And if someone could take over, how would you explain things?”
“What things?”
“You know perfectly well what things,” he shouted, pulling open his desk drawer and fumbling for his antacids. Fulton held the phone away from his ear as he popped a tablet into his mouth. Count to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Jourdain spoke again. Fulton pulled the phone back to his ear.
“…so when does it end? Must we do this forever? I want to retire, Thérèse wants me to retire. Before it’s too late.”
“Jourdain, calm down. You can retire. But we’re facing a crisis at the moment. I need you to buck up and help me deal with it. Retirement will have to wait. Thérèse will understand. And once we’ve put out these fires, we’ll find a way for you to leave.” He took a deep breath. “Now, do you want me to come to Paris? I can be there tomorrow.”
Fulton glanced at the cellphone on his desk. The flashing text message icon clicked over to thirty. As he waited for Jourdain to reply, the icon clicked to thirty-one, and then thirty-two. How long would it be before Bayfort Trust’s decision became public? How many messages would he have then? Fulton pushed back the panic rising in his throat.
“Jourdain,” he said into the phone, enunciating every word, “do you want me to come to Paris?”
“Non. I will take care of it. I know what has to be done.”
“Don’t worry, mon ami. This will all be over soon.” Fulton clicked off the phone and crunched down on the antacid tablet. He had ignored the Jourdain problem for too long. Way too long.
Chapter Five
“Come in, gentlemen.” Hari held open the door of Ruby’s Upper West Side apartment to the three men from Global TradeFair. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here,” he said as the visitors filed through the small foyer. “It’s best during an internal investigation if the staff doesn’t know we’re involved, at least in the beginning.” He closed the door and motioned them to go through.
“Our office is upstairs,” he pointed to a spiral staircase on their left that curved through the ceiling, “but let’s sit here for now.” Hari led them to an overstuffed sofa and two armchairs arranged in the pool of sunlight that filtered through sheer white curtains.
A trim black man in a classic navy suit swept his eyes over the kitchen’s granite topped island, white leather-backed stools, and framed pictures and awards before extending his hand.
“Gregory Keller. Nice office. Do you live here?”
“My business partner does.” As Hari shook Keller’s hand, his gaze drifted to the man’s suit. Custom-made, it was worth about four thousand dollars. He felt underdressed in his hoodie and jeans, but the last time he’d seen his own Savile Row suits they had been leaving in the arms of the bailiffs. He glanced at the other two men.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
A heavyset man in a blue suit wheezed before extending a pudgy hand.
“Sorry. Afraid I’m not used to three flights of stairs. I’m Martin Burke, Global TradeFair’s president and CEO. Gregory is our comptroller.” He turned to the third man. “And this is Alfred Durand, head of our audit committee.”
A tiny man with raggedly cropped gray hair and owl-rimmed glasses held out a hand and blinked repeatedly as Hari shook it.
“I’m sorry about the elevator,” Hari said. “Two families are moving in this week. Normally that doesn’t happen in the middle of the month.”
Burke settled into an armchair and, with a grunt of effort, rested one foot on the opposite knee. “Not a problem. And no coffee, thanks. We’d like to wrap this up as quickly as possible.”
Keller and Durand sat on the sofa. Keller opened his briefcase and pulled out files which he placed on the coffee table.
Shaking his head, Hari raised a hand.
“We haven’t agreed to take your case yet.”
Keller looked up sharply.
“Our lawyer—”
“Asked us to take a look. I didn’t promise we’d do anything more.”
Burke uncrossed his leg with a grunt, placed both hands on his knees and leaned into the group.
“If you ask me, there is no case.”
Durand shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and glanced at Keller, who sighed.
“Martin,” Keller said, “you know the Sarbanes-Oxley Act requires us to investigate anonymous tips. Ignoring this is not an option.”
“The Sarbanes-Oxley Act.” Burke gave a snort of derision. “Damn stupid regulation if you ask me. Why should we investigate this? There’s not a word of truth in those allegations.”
“Nevertheless, Martin, we must—”
Hari cleared his throat and the three men turned to face him.
“Your comptroller is correct. If you’ve received an anonymous tip you must investigate it. What have you found so far?”
Keller opened a folder, pulled out a document and handed it to him.
“We got this email a week ago. It alleges someone is embezzling funds from TradeFair. Alfred,” he nodded at Durand, “interviewed our employees to find out who wrote it.”
Hari, careful to keep his expression blank, studied the email.
“Sarbanes-Oxley also requires you to protect whistleblowers. Weren’t you worried about tipping off the embezzler?” He looked up at Burke.
“We didn’t worry about tipping off the embezzler because there is no embezzler other than—”
“Martin, please,” interrupted Keller. He turned to Hari. “The audit committee thought if we could question the whistleblower, it would be the fastest way to determine i
f there was any truth to his allegation.”
What you mean is, ‘the fastest way to shut him up,’ Hari thought, giving his watch a sideways glance. How quickly could he decline this case and yet assure their lawyer he had given it his full consideration? He had a three-hour presentation to prepare for a conference in Chicago next month and this wasn’t getting it done.
Fidgeting in his chair, he reached for a file folder titled Levitt, Benjamin and flipped it open. The photo inside pictured a thin man with a large nose and untidy brown hair who stared wide-eyed at the camera as if surprised by the flash.
“Did Ben show you any evidence of embezzled funds?”
Keller shook his head.
“No. There was no chance before he—”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Since last week. Since the day after,” Keller looked uncomfortable, “the interviews.”
Hari looked at Burke, who stared at the ceiling.
“Last week? And you’re only checking into it now? Has anyone reported this?”
Frowning, Burke sat up.
“Report what? To whom? If funds are missing—and we don’t know for certain—Levitt’s the one who took them. He’s always been a pain in the ass, reporting this, reporting that.”
On the sofa, Durand looked from Burke to Keller and back again, blinking behind his glasses.
“Here’s what I think,” Burke said, jabbing a finger in the air. “Levitt got pissed off. We didn’t pay enough attention to him, so he dipped his hand in the till and blamed somebody else. Hell, he’s probably in Mexico by now.” Burke flopped back in his chair with a sharp exhale.
Hari narrowed his eyes and stared at him for a moment.
“Whom did he blame?”
“He didn’t specify,” Keller said from the sofa, “other than it was a member of senior management.”
“Ridiculous,” Burke said.
Hari closed Levitt’s folder and dropped it on the coffee table with a shrug.
“What do you want me to do?”
Burke jerked his head up and his eyes widened.
“We want you to find Levitt and get our money back.”
Hari stared at him and then laughed.
“That’s not what we do. I can comb through your financial records to determine what’s happened, but as to recovering the cash, or finding Levitt, those are matters for the police.”
