Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  Warren let the air hang silent for a long moment as Malcolm rotated in his chair and looked Warren square-on for the first time since they’d started talking.

  “I hate to have things happen this way,” Warren started, “but I think you’ll be happy with the job I do. Last night, after dinner, I dropped Barbara off at her hotel, and we had some great ideas on what to do next. I know that I can keep the state a top account. And I’ve been spending a lot of time working with the rest of the list. In fact I’m going to the Knicks game tomorrow night with Teachers Insurance, and we had dinner planned on Thursday with Morgan management. I know I can make this work out for the firm.” Warren was laboring to appear earnest and humble, his heart pounding at this huge opportunity. JT was a third-year associate who was clearly going nowhere. Warren had blown by him in a few weeks. Bill Dougherty had averaged about a million and a half take-home pay a year, after taxes. His account package was now effectively becoming Warren’s, and the burgeoning assets of the investment funds meant that the size of trades and the commissions were sure to grow rapidly.

  “Well, then, good luck. I’ll check in with you a couple of times a week to see how you’re doing. In the meantime, the police department had a man here this morning, and he left his card for you to call him. I told him I thought you were at the AC last night, and he said he’d want to interview you.” Malcolm handed Warren a thinly embossed card belonging to Detective Dick McDermott of the Homicide Division.

  “I’ll call him right away.” Warren stood up.

  “Good. They’ll announce the services for Bill probably tomorrow. Tell everyone we should put in a good showing.”

  “I will. Thanks, Malcolm, I’ll pick up the slack.” Warren left the office and returned to his seat. He immediately dialed the number on McDermott’s card.

  The voice on the other end was mild and answered with two words: “Homicide. McDermott.”

  “Detective McDermott, this is Warren Hament from Weldon Brothers. My boss told me to call you, that you might have some questions about last night.”

  “Hament? Oh, yeah, Hament. Hey, sorry about your friend. That was a tough way to go. I hope he had insurance. Listen, if you want this to wait a while, we can talk later on. But it’d be better while it’s fresh in your mind.”

  “No. If I can help in any way, I’d like you to catch whoever did it. Bill was a friend and did a lot for me. What can I tell you?” Warren sounded anxious to somehow be of use.

  “Listen, Mr. Hament, we normally like to do these interviews in person. If it’s not too much trouble, I can come up there in a few minutes.” McDermott didn’t sound particularly flexible.

  “How long do you think you’ll need? I’ve got a lot of calls to make for Bill.”

  “I’d say twenty minutes or so.”

  Hament glanced up at the clock on the ceiling beam. “Can you be here in the next half hour?”

  * * *

  “Well, why don’t you just give me a rundown on what you did last night, starting with leaving the office.” Lieutenants Dick McDermott and Roger Wittlin had settled into comfortable chairs in the syndicate conference room, which was dominated by a mahogany table easily capable of seating forty people. Foam cups of coffee steamed on the table in front of them. McDermott, about six feet, heavy, and rumpled, led off the questioning. Wittlin, a few inches shorter, sat back a little farther, dressed neatly, thin, hair slicked back, and with a far more intense manner. He had laid a notebook on the table.

  “Okay. Let’s see … we had the dinner set up with Barbara Hayes from the Wisconsin Employees Retirement Fund at six thirty at the NYAC. I was writing up tickets—trade tickets—from the day and putting them into our logbooks until it was time to go. Bill stayed because he didn’t feel like going home first, and he and I caught a cab up to the AC, where we met Barbara. We were maybe five minutes late and met Barbara in the lobby.”

  “So you’d say you got there around six thirty-five,” Wittlin said, taking notes.

  “Roger wants you to know he can add,” McDermott cracked, and grinned at Warren. Wittlin gave McDermott a bored glance.

  “Close. Yeah, about six thirty-five.” Warren reciprocated with a thin smile. “So, we had a couple of drinks at the bar and then went to dinner. We spent a long time going over the big trade we just completed for the fund, and we showed her a bunch of exhibits Research had worked up, so dinner took a while. They drank a lot—Barbara likes to be wined and dined, and it was a celebration—so after the first course, the conversation kind of got off business. Anyhow, after dessert, Barbara said she was pretty tired and she’d talk to us some more when she got home to Madison.”

  “That’s Wisconsin, Roger. About what time was that?” McDermott glanced up at Warren. “It must have been eleven or so, and we headed back down to the bar for a last drink.”

  “You said they drank a lot. Did you drink much?” Wittlin cut in.

  “I had one vodka gimlet before dinner, which I didn’t finish, maybe two glasses of wine, and one or two sips of cognac after. For me, that’s more than enough. I’m a lightweight.” Warren could never handle too much liquor. It tended to make him sick. He’d perfected nursing drinks while clients got tanked, and he’d used the practice well the previous night.

  “So, they went down to the bar after dinner for another drink.” Wittlin waved his hand like a bandleader.

  “That wound up being two drinks, and we were all pretty tired by then. So we decided to call it a night.”

  “Yeah. What then? Who left how?” McDermott picked up the line.

  “Well, Bill offered to have me drop Barbara off on my way home, since she was staying over at the Carlyle. He said he’d get a cab later, that he wanted to shoot a rack or two of pool. So, we said good-bye at the bar, and Barbara and I went down and got our coats. Then we got a cab. We got one heading the other way, but he made a U-turn. I dropped her in front, on Madison Avenue. Then I took the cab over to Columbus and Eighty-First. I got some milk at the Koreans’ for my morning coffee on my way, and that’s about it.” Warren was surprised the detective hadn’t interrupted him or slowed him down.

  “You didn’t see Bill talk to anyone else at the club while you were with him?” McDermott now sounded bored.

  “He did wave to one or two guys. I think he said one was a former partner of his at Merrill or something like that. But he didn’t have any conversations with anyone.”

  “Do you know what time you got home?”

  “Yeah, about eleven fifty or twelve. I looked at my watch when we left the AC, and it was around eleven forty. It couldn’t have taken me more then fifteen minutes to get home. I also know I was in bed by twelve fifteen. Oh, yeah, I had a message on my machine from work. Pete in Research had called with some questions about the final computer runs he was doing, so I tried to get him in the office, but he was gone. I got his machine, but I didn’t leave any message.”

  “Your Research guys usually work that late?” Wittlin chimed in.

  “Sometimes. If it’s important.”

  “This was important?”

  “Oh, yeah. We just traded several billion dollars for their portfolio. But I guess Pete got them done—the runs—or quit. I don’t know, because I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I just want you to think about coming out of the AC.” Wittlin leaned in a little. “Did you see anyone or anything that made you notice them? Also, can you tell me anything about the cab or cabdriver? Maybe he saw something.”

  “Well—the cab was just a regular one—not a new car or a Checker or anything. The driver was foreign, maybe Indian or something. It had a partition in it. And it smelled pretty bad. Barbara might remember more, she doesn’t … Oh, Jesus! Has anyone told her about this yet? Wow! She’ll be pretty shocked.”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’ve already spoken to her. She saw it on the morning news. She took it okay. Didn’t remember much about the cabbie either, but we’ll be able to find him by hi
s log.” McDermott glanced up at Warren to watch it sink in that they were comparing his story to Barbara’s. No wonder they’d been in a hurry to interview him. “Listen, I may ask you to come in for a more complete interview later on. Just to see if one of our guys can’t help you remember any tiny details. We want to find this guy before he gets anyone else.” McDermott’s voice had shifted from bored to hurried—he wanted to get going. He hadn’t touched the coffee.

  “Okay, Detective, sure. If you need anything at all … do you have my home number?”

  “Yeah. I got it from your boss. Listen, think hard. I’ll be talking to you.” McDermott got up and shook Warren’s hand.

  “Thanks for your time,” the smaller man added as he pushed back his chair.

  “No problem. Good-bye, Detective Wittlin.”

  Wittlin nodded and tapped his forehead, then shook Warren’s hand, almost as an afterthought. He put his card on the table. He seemed preoccupied. “If you can’t get either of us, we check in every half hour. Leave a message.”

  * * *

  Warren went back to his desk a little dazed. Growing up in the Hamptons and Millbrook, where the local cops seemed to live to harass the summer people and to persecute their own ex-schoolmates, Warren had never been involved in anything more than a speeding ticket. He was glad his dad was in town for dinner that night. He always made Warren relax. Ken Hament used the same phrase his own father did whenever one of his boys would start whining about something: “That’s too bad aboutcha.” It made you realize that there were generally far worse things people had to endure than whatever was bothering Warren or Danny. Talking to the cops might not be fun, but it beat lying in a cold drawer at the city morgue.

  twenty-two

  As he climbed the stairs to exit the subway, Warren was thinking how jealous he was of people who worked in midtown Manhattan rather than the downtown Financial District. He made a left at the top, rather than the habitual right—he was having breakfast with Neal Faber, a friend from his first semester at Columbia, an attorney he’d met at a party he’d gone to with Chas Harper. They’d played tennis on occasion, and met every few months for breakfast, to compare notes—Neal was working at a major securities law firm, and moving up fast. He and Larisa had gone out with Neal and a long line of gorgeous, intelligent women he never seemed satisfied with.

  Seven-Thirty Broad Street, Viner and Goulet’s offices, was not a particularly distinguished building, but the firm handled some of the most complicated securities deals, asset transactions, and even mergers and acquisitions work for the Street. At the security desk, the guard called Neal’s extension. He was given a name tag and sent up to the 6th floor. Neal was waiting at the elevator bank when he got off.

  “Hey, buddy! Welcome behind the Wizard’s curtain!” Neal was incredibly thin, his head seemingly oversized for his body. The close-cropped, almost shaved hair gave him a skeletal look, but his generally happy personality softened the overall impression of intensity.

  “Yeah, I might steal all your ideas!” Neal’s specialty in exotic structured bonds and in how to create financing vehicles for distressed assets—like mortgages in default, or even bankrupt companies, was considered the province of the most mathematically gifted rocket scientists on the Street, and they needed extremely sharp lawyers. “But, seriously, is it okay for me to be here?”

  “Dude, don’t worry! Just don’t tell anyone, okay?” Neal slapped him on the back. “You gotta hang out for a bit—I have to finish something, and it’s taking a little longer than I thought it would, so I told them to send you up. Is that okay?”

  “No problem.” They were walking past an open lounge, and Warren smelled coffee. “Can I grab a cup?” He pointed at the large silver urns lined up along a counter in the room.

  “Hey, sure. You know what, why don’t you just grab a chair in there? I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. You have a Journal?”

  “I don’t leave home without it!” Warren pulled the folded paper out of his bag. “I don’t have to be in until nine thirty, so take your time.” Stacks of paper cups were next to the urns, and Warren filled a large one, splashed in some milk, and plopped down in a chair along the wall of the big room. He couldn’t help but notice how shabby and crummy the space was. Weldon’s lounge on the trading floor was softly lit, carpeted, and comfortable. The coffee was tended by staff from the executive dining room, always fresh and rich. The law firm’s version was thin and acrid. Conover had always said that coffee was the fuel that ran the floor, and it should be the best possible—to help keep everyone overworked and caffeinated.

  The front page offered nothing of much interest, so Warren dug the Post out of his bag and flipped to the sports pages. After a few minutes, a small group of men came in, and he recognized Les Bergeron, one of the Street’s best-known traders, as well as Tim Saturnino, the founder of Bastille Investments, one of the most aggressive hedge funds around. Their specialty was buying up portfolios of distressed assets and mining gold out of them that no one else recognized. Saturnino was medium-height, with long, prematurely gray hair that fell across his forehead, and moved at almost laconic pace. The two other men were very different—one an extremely tall, rotund fellow with bristly black hair, a pug nose, and thick, black-rimmed glasses. The rapid, jumpy way he moved and talked somehow reminded Warren of a wild boar—or at least what he imagined a wild boar would look like, since he’d never seen one. He was whispering to an even taller man, easily six-six, who wore no glasses, but had what appeared to be a perpetual squint, his eyes thin slits above a large nose and thick lips set in his puffy face.

  “Listen, Tim, this is in the bag—it’s no issue.” The feral-looking fellow gesticulated animatedly with both hands as he spoke. “They hired us to tell them what to do, and they’re gonna do exactly what we tell ’em!”

  Tim shook his head and shrugged. “Well, if we can keep this out of competitive bidding, it’s gonna be a grand slam, I promise you!” He looked at Bergeron, who nodded and slapped Tim on the shoulder.

  “That’s what we’re here for, right? We told ’em that you guys are the best in the business, you’re the only shop prepared to step up, and they better not blow this meeting or it’ll cost ’em at least twenty points! Oh, this is gonna be sweeeeeeet!” All four men chuckled.

  “God, could you imagine if Rainwater or Cooperman or even Kravis had any idea this stuff was for sale, what would happen?” Bergeron had a nasal voice and an unctuous manner.

  One of the men Warren didn’t recognize spoke up. “Listen, guys, Les is gonna have to get a massive disclaimer and indemnity in his engagement letter. Let Grolier draft it, then we’ll mark it up and ‘discuss’ it for a while. We’ll be sure everything gets brought down to the buyer. It’ll be clean as a whistle.”

  Warren easily deciphered what they were saying. Some company had hired Bergeron’s firm to sell assets for them, and they were directing them to Bastille as the best buyer. Bastille was going to get a steal on the pricing—there would be no competition. The other three mentioned—Richard Rainwater, Leon Cooperman, and Henry Kravis—three of the biggest names in private equity—would all have loved to bid on the assets, but they weren’t going to get the chance. Warren was dumbfounded. This was completely immoral—and probably illegal. The firm was obliged to get their client the best price in the markets. Meanwhile, the lawyer would be sure the legal documents absolved both of them from any claims in the unlikely event the seller of the assets ever figured it all out. Oviously, Grolier, another major law firm, was in on it as well.

  “You all set for the meeting?” The tall man had spilled a little coffee on his tie and was blotting it with a napkin. “You need anything else?”

  Tim waved his hands, and a smug smile creased his eyes. “Noooo, I think we’re all set. We’ve got everything. Don’t worry. We’ll even bring the sheep’s clothing!” This prompted hearty laughs all around.

  “We’ll tally it up when we do the secondary offering for you guys and
adjust the net,” Faber said, and they didn’t even notice Warren as they strolled past him on their way out, coffee cups in hand. Warren waited until they were gone, then laid his paper down.

  “Jeezus!” he couldn’t help blurting out loud. What he had just overheard was “epic” in Jed Leeds’s parlance. These men were conspiring to bilk a banking client out of what must be a huge amount of money, and then to split the profits by adjusting Bergeron’s firm’s fees on another deal—possibly through a sale of stock for the hedge fund later in the year. It would be impossible to connect, even if someone were looking for it. Saturnino’s joke was spot-on—these were wolves in sheep’s clothing. It also explained how his firm always seemed to buy assets so cheap—they were paying off sellers’ financial advisers to give them the inside track. No one would ever suspect it. As Warren sat there absorbing all this, Neal came around the corner with his jacket on.

  “All set, dude! What do you say to Harry’s for an omlet? I’m starving! How’s Larisa?”

  Warren got up and put his paper away. “Give me a sec.… Damn! You wouldn’t believe…” Warren hesitated. What good could telling Neal possibly do?

  “What? How hot Larisa is for me?” They were already at the elevators. “I always knew it!” Neal’s gap-toothed smile reminded Warren a little of Chas Harper’s. The two could not be more different.

  Warren waited and recounted the basics of the story to Neal over breakfast at Harry’s.

  Neal just shrugged. “Dude, in the time I’ve been here, believe me, I’ve seen things that make that look like the minor leagues. Those other two must have been Paul Stevens and Jimmy Salinger. Stevens is unbelievable. He advises the group that invests money for Bergeron and the partners of his firm. There is nothing Bergeron wouldn’t do. I met his mother at my parents’ cocktail-party benefit for Central Park. You know what she said? It was like ‘My relationship with my son wasn’t good until I came to terms with the fact that he would, absolutely, sell me for a dollar!’ Can you believe that? His own mom! Then she told me about how he flies her and all their family around on his G-IV jet. She’s a piece of work. Two-fisted drinker, too.” Neal was devouring his omelet, two orders of bacon, a plate of hash browns, toast, juice, and anything else within reach.