by Rickie Blair
“I guess. But how?”
“My job is to follow the people, correct?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“What are you planning?”
“Never mind. I’ll fill you in later, if it works.” She looked out the window, humming.
I’ll fill you in later? He didn’t like the sound of that. Ruby was way too impulsive. Perhaps he should mention another source they could tap. It might do more harm than good, but if it distracted her from more dangerous avenues, it would be worth it.
“There is another way.”
She turned to face him. Hari took a deep breath.
“We know someone who could tell us more about Fulton. Someone who worked with him years ago. A protégé, in fact. But he won’t speak to me.”
“Who do you mean?”
He raised his eyebrows.
Her smile disappeared.
“No, not in a million years.”
“But Fulton and he were business colleagues. That’s what he told me, anyway.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Years ago. I can’t remember why Fulton’s name came up or what we were talking about at the time, but he knows a lot about him. He could have valuable insights.”
Her face had gone pale.
“You bastard.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s drop it.”
She muttered something, but the only word he could make out was “bastard,” followed by a big sigh.
“Okay.”
“You’ll do it?”
She sighed again and closed her eyes.
“It’s a good idea, Ruby. Besides, you can clear the air. You need to move on.”
Her eyes snapped open to glare at him.
“I need to move on?” Her voice rose. “Why does everybody keep telling me that?” The taxi pulled up alongside her building and she scrambled out before it had completely stopped.
Hari caught up with her at the back of the cab, where the driver was getting her bag out of the trunk.
“Ruby, I’m sorry.”
She turned to him and he winced at the look on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s okay.” She put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re right. I just—” She looked at the ground and sighed heavily.
“I know.”
“I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Need help you with your bag?”
“I’m fine.” She turned and walked into her building.
Hari watched her go with a lump in his throat. He should have left well enough alone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gage looked up as Leta walked into their shared office and sat at her desk.
“Fulton’s been looking for you,” he said.
She nodded, switched on her computer and waited for it to boot up.
“Aren’t you going to text him?”
“I’ll be there in a minute, he can wait. Any chance you’re going out for coffee?”
“I’m not your errand boy. That was Cole, remember?”
“Pretty please?” She smiled at him.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll get your coffee. But only because I want one myself.”
Leta watched as he walked out, then she pulled a USB stick from her purse and plugged it into her computer. She copied several files, deleted those files from her hard drive, and dropped the USB stick back into her purse. The program she had set up to scan each day’s trades and copy them to her computer was working perfectly.
After her admission to the Fund’s inner sanctum, Leta had soon learned it was not closed to new investors as everyone believed. New money poured in from feeder funds across the U.S. and Europe. And Fulton solicited more investors at private meetings with trust fund managers and super-wealthy individuals.
So far Leta had attended two such meetings, where she listened attentively to Fulton’s pitch and collected the necessary signatures. Fulton told the potential investors that the legendary Castlebar Fund, with its decades of reliable above-market returns, was closed to new clients. But because a close friend had recommended that day’s candidate, he would make a rare exception. It was a limited-time offer, however.
Few turned down that offer, even though Fulton never divulged his trading strategy or explained exactly how the fund beat the market year after year. It had beaten the market, and that was all they wanted to know. For years they had gritted their teeth while others crowed about the fantastic returns they enjoyed because they were ‘with Fulton.’ Now they could do some bragging of their own.
Leta was not so gullible. The adjustments Fulton demanded from the IT department bordered on fraud. And she had been taking notes.
Her office mate returned and placed a tall black roast on her desk. She winked at him as she picked up the cardboard cup.
“You’re a sweetie, Gage.”
“Hell, don’t let anyone hear you say that.” He scowled, but she detected the hint of a smile on his face as he sat and turned to his monitor.
Her phone beeped and a text message popped up.
Whr the hell r u?
Gage twirled a hand in the air without looking at her.
“Told ya.”
She stood, gulping her coffee, and left the cup on her desk.
Fulton scowled as she walked in.
“We’re having a problem with our Depository Trust Company hookup. It’s not displaying properly. And it’s not coming up fast enough. The regulator’s coming in next week, and we need to show him our trades at the clearing house without glitches.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Set up a parallel system that we can switch to when the link is slow.”
“A parallel system?”
“Software that shows the Castlebar account at DTC as it should look, as it would look if we could access it.”
“Where do I get the trading data from?”
“From me. I’ll give you a list every day and you’ll input it.” He held out a document.
Leta hesitated. Fabricating trades, even temporarily, contravened several regulations.
“It’s only a backup, for God’s sake.” Fulton shook the paper at her. “Get on with it. I want the trades input every day by eight a.m..”
The paper rustled in her trembling hand and she pressed it against her chest. Fulton looked at her, wrinkling his forehead.
“Is there something else?”
She shook her head and turned to go.
“Wait. Any new information from Bhatt?”
“No.”
“Does he know you went to Paris?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Why were he and Delaney there?”
“Madame de Montagny says they asked her about an old photo.”
“What photo?”
“I’m not sure. Some family photo, she said, taken in Southampton years ago.”
“Go.” He flicked a hand at her.
* * *
After the door closed behind Leta, Fulton opened his desk drawer, pulled out the manila envelope that had arrived in that day’s mail, and emptied it onto his desk. A faded photograph, of smiling picnickers on a beach, fell out. There were three men in the picture. Fulton, de Montagny, and their former partner Edwin Gavan. Fulton studied the photo for a moment.
Then he fed it through the shredder beside his desk.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Put your personal effects there.” The uniformed matron pointed to the small wooden cubicles that lined one wall. “Including your watch and cellphone.” Ruby placed her purse in a cubicle and extended her arms to show they were bare of jewelry.
“Earrings, too.”
Ruby slipped off her sterling silver studs and placed them next to her cellphone. She knew from a previous visit that objections only made the process lengthier and more irritating. There were no violent criminals within the cinder block walls of this medium security prison on a green-hilled estate in Connecticut. There were no
guards perched atop a forty-foot tower, pointing machine guns at a walled exercise yard. In fact, the prisoners worked out in a well-appointed and air-conditioned gym. Ruby smiled blandly at the matron, wishing she could ask what the prisoners would do with her tiny earrings. Melt them down and make thumbtacks?
The matron did not return her smile.
“Follow me,” she said.
They walked into the adjoining room where another uniformed woman, her hand resting on a gun in the holster at her side, motioned Ruby through a metal detector and then ran a beeping wand up and down her body. Satisfied, she nodded to a third guard, who pushed a button. Double glass doors slid open and Ruby stepped through them. She waited before a second set of glass doors while those behind her closed with a thud. At the end of the pale blue corridor beyond, a guard ushered her into the interview room. She sat on a plastic chair at one of a dozen white laminate tables. A young woman with curly brown hair sat at a table to her left, two rows over, running her hands along its edge.
Ruby glanced at the wire-meshed windows placed six feet above the floor, and at the surveillance cameras in the ceiling. There had been similar cameras in the anteroom, the screening room, and the corridor. The prisoners bunked four to a room and shared all resources, including the bathrooms. There was no privacy, nowhere that anyone could be alone. For the prisoner she had come to see, it must be unbearable. She sighed, crossed her hands on the table, and waited.
Ten minutes passed. An electronic lock whirred and clanked, a door in the opposite wall opened, and an armed guard walked through and stepped to the side. Antony Carver, Wall Street financier-turned-fraud artist, money launderer, and liar, walked into the room.
His golf course tan had faded, his graying hair was raggedly cut, and a beige short-sleeved shirt and trousers, bare wrist and sneakers had replaced his bespoke suit, Patek watch and Ferragamo loafers. But the crooked smile that had always melted Ruby’s heart was unaffected.
The guard moved away and stood by the far wall, under the windows, with one hand clasping the nightstick at his waist. Antony sat opposite Ruby at the table, smiling. Her heart raced as she looked into his calm gray eyes and felt his familiar presence. Memories of their years together tumbled back. Not all of it had been bad. In fact, until Lily died … she shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Antony had always had that effect on her. Total confusion.
Leaning back in the chair, he drummed his fingers on the table.
“This is an unexpected pleasure. I don’t believe I’ve seen you since … the trial?”
An image of him standing over her on the Apollonis, his face red with rage, intruded with brittle clarity. Ruby shook her head.
“Not true, Antony. You insisted I bring the divorce papers in person before you would sign them, remember?”
He nodded and looked away, casually assessing the room.
“I’d forgotten that. Not our finest hour, was it?”
“You look rested, at least. How are the accommodations?”
“The wine list needs a complete overhaul. Other than that,” he spread his hands, “it’s fine.”
She tried to smile at his joke and failed. Antony deserved his fate. She longed to ask if he regretted his actions, if he was ashamed of what he’d done, or if he was ready to apologize. Biting her lip, she glanced at the guard.
“I’m sorry you have to be here.”
Antony shrugged and looked at his hands. The electronic lock in the door whirred and clanked again. A young man with tattooed forearms walked into the room. Ruby watched him sit opposite the woman with the curly hair who smiled and leaned over to kiss him.
“No contact,” said the first guard, stepping away from the wall.
The couple parted.
Ruby turned back to Antony, who slumped in his chair, not looking at her.
“Hari said to say hello.”
Antony sat up and scowled.
“That Judas.”
“He tried to help you.”
“By testifying against me?”
“Let’s not go over that again.”
He rested his forearms on the table and leaned over them.
“You two a couple now?”
“No, we’re not a couple. We never were. And considering you and I are divorced, your irrational jealousy is even more irrational than usual.”
“You must be seeing someone.”
“If I were, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”
“So, you are seeing Hari?”
“For heaven’s sake, Antony. He nearly died because of you. Give it a rest.”
“Just because your first husband screwed up doesn’t mean the next one will.” He sat back, crossed his arms and stared at her intently. “Maybe you’ll meet the love of your life. God knows it wasn’t me.”
Ruby pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling.
“That’s not fair, Antony.”
He pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses, and screwed his eyes shut.
“I know.” With a sigh, he readjusted his glasses and looked at her. “Why are you here? It’s not because you missed me.”
“I need your help.” She took a deep breath. “I hoped you could shed some light on a case that Hari and I—”
He scowled.
“—that Hari and I are working on. Raymond Fulton’s name came up and Hari remembered that you knew him. He said you told him Fulton was a mentor.”
“So?”
“I wondered how much you knew about his early days. Do you recall any mention of fraud?”
Antony folded his hands on the table and leaned in.
“Raymond Fulton is one of the best-known names on Wall Street. He’s a legend. He helped me get financing for my first company when no one else would. I won’t participate in any witch hunt of yours targeting Raymond Fulton.”
“Which means there were allegations or you wouldn’t have mentioned a witch hunt. Tell me.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because you owe me. And because you want to.”
He stared at his hands, but said nothing.
She leaned across and put a hand over his.
“I am sorry you’re here, Antony. Please believe me.”
The guard took a step in their direction. “No contact.”
Antony picked up her hand and pressed it against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady through the coarse prison shirt. He looked into her eyes and she met his gaze without flinching.
The guard took another step. “I said—”
Antony smiled crookedly and she smiled back. Everything else grew dim until they were back on the Capstone, the salt air brushing a lock of hair against Antony’s forehead as he gazed into her eyes.
The guard thwacked his nightstick on their table with a loud crack.
Ruby jerked back, the connection broken. Antony released her hand and she pulled her arm away. The guard backed off. Ruby looked down, her heart pounding, and drew a ragged breath.
“You know I’ll do what I can to help you, whether you tell me about Fulton or not.”
Antony leaned back with a sigh.
“The Castlebar Fund has provided above-average returns for decades, during good markets and bad. People wonder how Fulton does it, but no one’s ever proved anything.”
“What do you think?”
“Front-running, probably.”
“Front-running?”
“Capital Street Management runs its own brokerage, which means they trade stocks for other companies and individuals. But if the Castlebar Fund knows in advance about those transactions, and makes trades based on that information, then that’s front running.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s supply and demand. Every stock on the market has a finite number of shares. The more people who want those shares, the higher the price will go. Like an auction.”
“Okay, I know that much.”
“So if someone makes a v
ery large purchase—very large, as in millions of dollars worth—of a stock, the price will go up.”
“And?”
“What if you knew in advance about that purchase? You could buy the stock for your own account, wait for the trade to go through and the share price to rise, and resell your shares immediately afterward at a profit.”
“Are you saying the Castlebar Fund gets advance notice of trades from Capital Street’s brokerage arm?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Is that legal?”
“Of course not. In fact, there should be a so-called ‘Chinese wall’ in place at Capital Street to prevent it. The Castlebar Fund should never know in advance what the brokerage arm of the business is doing.”
“If people think Fulton is front-running, why don’t they report him?”
“Why should they? They’re getting the benefit with none of the risk. And it’s not as if anyone knows for certain CSM is front-running. If it turns out to be the case, they’ll be … shocked.”
“And appalled.”
“Exactly.” The corners of his mouth twisted into a smile.
“Didn’t Benjamin Levitt uncover something?”
“Levitt tried to prove the Castlebar Fund’s returns were impossible.”
“Did he?”
“No smoking gun.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one knows what Fulton’s investment strategy is. Even people who work for him don’t know it. There’s talk about options trading and other complicated tactics, but that’s a smoke screen. Levitt worked out dozens of scenarios to prove that no investment strategy could have provided those returns given the stock market conditions at the time. But that’s not good enough. Show that analysis to the average investor and they’ll tell you that obviously the fund did provide those returns, so Levitt must be wrong.”
“Is there a smoking gun, then? Do you know what it is?”
“I told you, I won’t participate in a witch hunt.”
“When the judge asked for character witnesses, I didn’t see your former mentor in the courtroom.”
He winced and looked away.
“I’m sorry. That was unkind.”
“Don’t worry about it. You had your faults, Ruby, but you were never unkind.” He studied her a moment. “How’s the drinking?”
