“You don’t like them,” I said, thinking the understatement might detour Larry’s favorite lecture topic. I didn’t disagree; my own history kept me on the skeptical side of caution when the justice system was the subject. And Larry had the greater experience. He had begun his career working for the FBI before switching to the U.S. Attorney’s Office as an Assistant United States Attorney—AUSA—for five years. The abuses he had witnessed firsthand had been the catalyst of his transformation into one of New York’s top federal criminal defense attorneys.
“Two out of three are probably okay. The trouble is that the organization is sick. It rewards the one out of three. Paranoids, sociopaths, and crooks. Look who started the thing. All those secret files? You don’t think they threw all that stuff out, do you? They’re the secret police. They will lie on the stand, plant evidence, and assassinate inconvenient witnesses. And juries love them.”
I told him about the conversation. “Brady had the decency to be embarrassed. He brought them there, but he didn’t seem very happy about it.”
“What do you know about penny stocks?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot.” I filled him in on my aborted investigation and its terminus. “I doubt that Aimee Devane will do anything with it. She’s very good at what she does, but she defines her role narrowly.”
“She’s since my time. She worked four years for the U.S. Attorney before going to work on the street. I checked her out with old colleagues. She made her mark there and moved on. They say she was good, but maybe not as good as she thought. Her nickname was ‘Am I Divine.’”
“Two years at Goldman. Then Bear Stearns until the crash. Virgil’s father brought her in as number two in compliance. Virgil gave her the top slot when he reorganized.”
Larry nodded as I spoke. No doubt he already had the information. “She’s tough, Jason. Don’t underestimate her. If she changes her mind, she will be on the case like a redbone coonhound. Don’t be caught standing between her and the bad guy.”
“And the FBI?”
“Call me, of course, if they come back. I’ll talk to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and try to head this off. Meantime, it would be good to continue your investigation. On your own. These guys aren’t going to back off and it might be beneficial to have something to trade.”
“Virgil won’t like it. He wants me full-time on the buyout rumors.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be busy, then.” He stood up. We were done. “Regards to Wanda.”
13
It was time to bring Virgil up to speed. I had nothing for him on the takeover, but hearing that the FBI had an interest in the firm’s penny stock trades might get his attention. Before I got in to see him, though, I had to outfox the bridge troll. Virgil had a new gatekeeper.
“Jason! What can we do for you?”
James Nealis had been installed in the office next to Virgil. His door was open. Virgil’s was closed. Nealis had been hovering between the two when I came off the elevator.
“I’m just here to have a chat with Virgil,” I replied.
“He’s in the middle of something right now.” He said it as though he were the one who had assigned Virgil a specific chore. “Let me have a word with you, if I may. Got a sec?” He was already moving away into his office, his back to me.
I considered not following him, just continuing on my way and knocking on Virgil’s door, as per my usual. But maybe I was reading too much into his rudeness. If Nealis had something to tell me, it might be worth my while to hear it. I followed him in and took a seat.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” he began. “I’ve been trying to get a clear picture of reporting lines, and maybe you can help me.”
“I don’t know that I can,” I said. “I’m not on the flowchart and most of the department heads will only speak to me with express orders from Virgil.”
“I was under the impression that you are the chief investigator for legal and compliance. Nothing gets by you.”
He was fishing and I couldn’t understand why.
“No. I work for Virgil.”
“And what does he have you working on now?”
“I think you’ll have to ask him that question, Mr. Nealis.”
“Jim.”
“Okay, Jim. You should ask Virgil.”
“So, what’s your relationship with compliance? Devane? That’s her name, isn’t it? Are you her secret agent?” he asked with a goofy grin. He was making a joke. Now we were best buds and co-conspirators.
“Devane runs compliance. It’s her job to see that the firm operates within all regulatory limits, that all personnel are adequately trained and licensed, and that the firm responds quickly and completely to all our regulators’ requests for information.”
“And your role?”
“I don’t do any of that.”
“So how do you interface with Devane?”
I had a friend in B-school who had shown me that an interface is that bit of mesh fabric inside the folds of a well-made tie. We had taken a vow never to use the word as a verb.
“She runs compliance. I don’t. I thought you were here to run banking. Moving us up the ladder in IPOs, underwriting, structured finance. Why this interest in my job? Or Devane’s, for that matter.”
I was careful to make my voice sound as nonconfrontational as possible and to let the words speak for themselves. I wanted him to back off, but I didn’t need him resentful. He surprised me. He laughed it off.
“I get carried away. So sorry if I have offended. I came here to make a difference. This firm could be in the top five in a few years and I plan on helping it get there. I could have stayed where I was and been running investment banking at a top-tier firm in a very short time. But I wanted the challenge. I wanted to build something from the ground up. For that, I need to know the players—the big hitters like you, as well as the sergeants who keep the troops focused on the job at hand.”
I didn’t much like speeches and I had heard that one before. Nealis had offered a couple of variations, like unnecessarily stroking my ego—I had not been a “big hitter” since long before going to prison—but it was the usual new-hire bull. And I would have loved to see the expression on Aimee Devane’s face if she ever heard herself described as a “sergeant.”
“Jim, I’m so glad we had this chance to open up. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” I stood up and left without shaking hands. “Don’t see me out. I know the way,” I called back over my shoulder.
“Hold up,” he called before I had a chance to finish making my escape.
I stopped inside the doorway and waited. He came around the desk and produced a small cardboard flyer from his pocket.
“I’m having a small get-together at my place this evening. A chance to meet all the major players in a more relaxed setting.” He handed me the card. Drinks at seven.
“Thanks, Jim, but I’m a single parent with responsibilities. Maybe next time.”
“Just stop by. I’m sure your babysitter will stay on an extra hour or so. Bring your fiancée.”
“Again, thank you. But my fiancée,” I almost stuttered. Skeli had twice denied my proposal of marriage, but calling her my girlfriend—or even less comfortable, “lady friend”—seemed to belittle the relationship. I knew that this point was going to become infinitely more important as the birth of our child approached, but I still had no better idea of how to resolve the issue. “My fiancée,” I repeated, “works later hours. Let’s try to set a date for some time in the future, shall we?”
“I’m in her neighborhood. Just stop by. One drink.”
I looked at the card again. The address was in SoHo, just a block and a half from Skeli’s clinic. I stopped myself from asking how Nealis knew that. The fact that he knew it was much more important—and told me much more—than the how of it. Why he knew it might have been int
eresting, but I knew he wasn’t going to be straight with me. It was all both intriguing and just a touch scary.
“Okay, then,” I said. “We’ll see you later.”
14
I knocked on Virgil’s door. There was no answer. I took out my phone and texted him that I was outside his office and needed to talk. I waited. A moment later he answered.
News?
I wrote him back. Nothing yet.
Then?
FYEO.
Come.
I walked in. Virgil was at his desk, looking tired and strung out. He had a phone in one hand and a pen in the other and a yellow legal pad on the desk with a long list of names, some checked, some crossed out, some scribbled over. He was busy.
“I’ll make it quick,” I said.
“I’m trying to round up support. You don’t happen to have a bil or two that I could borrow to fight off a hostile takeover, do you?”
“I’m a little short this week.”
“So, what’s For My Eyes Only?”
“The FBI. They came to my apartment this morning to ask about penny stocks.”
He waved a hand in front of his face. “I told you to pass this over to compliance.”
“Aimee’s not going to do anything, Virgil.”
“If she thinks we’re in the clear, I’m okay with that. I have bigger problems.”
“There’s a grand jury.”
“And we’ll hear from them through channels. Eventually.”
“They told me that one of their witnesses was murdered. Actually, they used the word ‘assassination.’ It’s the kind of word that gets your attention. Like ‘tortured’ or ‘dismembered.’ It freaked me a bit.”
He smiled. “I seriously doubt that anyone is getting dismembered over penny stock trades.”
His phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. “I’ve got to take this. Get me something I can use to fight this off. ASAP. I need a miracle. Or an angel with deep pockets.”
I wanted to ask him about Nealis and whether he would be attending the cocktail party, but my moment was gone. Virgil was busy trying to persuade another billionaire to take a substantial position in the firm. He sounded relaxed and confident. It was a good act. But billionaires, in my experience, are by nature a skeptical lot. I mouthed “Good luck,” and left Virgil to his dwindling list of resources. He was scratching out another name when I closed the door behind me.
I hit the button for the elevator and stood in front of the doors farthest from the executive offices. I didn’t want to run into Nealis again. For all I knew, he was totally legit and would help Virgil take the firm into the top tier just as he said, but I didn’t like him. It wasn’t just that he was remarkably in love with himself, but I had the feeling that beneath his combination of surface charm and arrogance there lay a core of cold ambition and arrogance. And he would gladly sacrifice anyone—even Virgil—to promote his own agenda. But maybe I didn’t like him just because I didn’t like him.
15
Skeli did not try to beg off on the cocktail party, though she did point out that, as neither of us was drinking alcohol, we weren’t going to be the life of the party. She also mentioned that she was tired, her feet hurt, and she was both ravenously hungry and suffering from gas.
We walked the two short blocks to Nealis’s building. The SoHo streets were still busy, crowded with shoppers and tourists all speaking in a dozen or more languages, sounding like the survivors of the destruction of Babel. We may have been the only New Yorkers on the street. I filled her in on my meetings with Larry and Virgil and the somewhat bizarre few minutes with Nealis that had ended with the invitation.
“We’re in, we’re out,” I said.
“We’re sauerkraut,” she said. “Will Virgil be there?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because then I will know at least one person who will talk to me about something other than the market.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you. Most of the people here won’t talk to me anyway.”
“So tell me again, why are we going?”
“We’re here.”
There was a line of Town Cars and limos waiting to discharge their cargo of wealthy New Yorkers while a pair of Filipinos in dinner jackets attempted to keep the horde of traders, managers, lawyers, politicians, minor celebrities, bankers, and all their plus-ones moving across the sidewalk and into the lobby of a six-story loft building. I ignored the line and guided Skeli directly to the door. A woman in an ankle-length fur began to make an objection to our cutting the line, but her companion—a senior trader from the structured loan desk—shushed her with a murmur in her ear. Her eyes widened as her mouth closed. Some days being the Darth Vader of Becker Financial wasn’t so bad.
“You know, sometimes you are such a jerk,” Skeli whispered as we shuffled onto what had once been a freight elevator but was now a mirrored mini-palace that rose with barely a whisper.
“Why? Because I cut in front of those people?”
“You could have charmed them. Instead, you just convinced them that their opinion of you is the right one.”
“That presupposes that anything I could do would ever change their ideas about me.”
“You miss the point. You can be a nice guy anyway, simply because it feels good. You don’t have to be a jerk just to please them.”
I opened my mouth to respond and closed it again. There wasn’t much I had to say that would have stood up to such emotional logic.
“Think about it,” Skeli said.
“I will,” I heard myself respond.
The doors opened directly onto an anteroom that would have easily held my whole apartment. Two identically dressed Japanese women—white tights and leotards with pink crinoline tutus—took coats and directed the throng through a set of double doors wide enough to admit grand pianos without fear of scratching the finish. We surrendered Skeli’s London Fog and entered the upstream flow.
Nealis stood just inside the doors, greeting everyone by name—a feat that became less impressive when I realized that the woman just behind him held a tablet and wore a Bluetooth device. She was feeding him lines over his shoulder.
“Jason! Great you could come. Thanks so much. Wanda, isn’t it? I hope we haven’t taken you from your clients. Pain management? I’m right, aren’t I? That’s your specialty. Great work. There’s someone here you must meet.” He turned to an attentive young woman who was hovering a few steps away. “Jill, make sure Dr. Tyler is introduced to Doc Pettis.” He turned to Skeli and spoke quietly, as though imparting some great secret. “Get him talking about his Chihuly collection. He’s a bore, but he’ll send you more referrals than you’ll be able to handle.”
And with that he turned to the couple behind us, and we found ourselves following the perky-eyed Jill through the crowd. There must have been three or four hundred people and yet the space didn’t feel overcrowded. The loft took up half a city block.
“Doc Pettis?” I asked Skeli as I struggled to keep pace.
“Spinal guy. One of the best. He did the Olympic high-diver two years ago. You read about him.”
I hadn’t to my knowledge read about anything like it, but I kept my mouth shut. One learns more from listening than asking questions.
“All his patients go through PT and rehab before he’ll cut. He’s one of the few surgeons who believes in alternative treatment.”
“Ahh,” I said.
“Champagne, sir?” A male model in a tuxedo had appeared at my side.
“Pellegrino?” I asked.
“Certainly. Two?”
“Thank you.” He moved off through the crowd.
“So, what’s a Gilhooly?” I asked Skeli.
“Chihuly. Blown-glass sculpture.”
“How do you know this?” I said.
“Because I read.”
“I read,” I said.
“Something other than the Journal and the Post.”
An unfair description of my reading habits. I also read books on autism. Nevertheless, her point, though phrased for effect rather than accuracy, was well taken. My knowledge of modern art and culture kept safely within boundaries. Though I enjoyed a plethora of musical styles, I tended to listen to work by artists who had first recorded more than twenty years ago. When I read for pleasure, I leaned toward books on baseball. And when I visited art galleries or museums, I gravitated toward the classical realists who painted pictures that looked something like the subject matter. That and the occasional nude.
“I’d guess this artist has never been arrested, right? Otherwise I would have read about it in the Post.”
Jill stopped us by a small group surrounding a tall, slightly stooped man in his sixties. She introduced Dr. Wanda Tyler to the group and left us. The sparkling water arrived and I handed a glass to Skeli. She flashed me a quick smile and went back to work charming the white-haired doctor. I saw a plate of crab cake appetizers moving through the room and began edging in that direction. No one noticed me leaving.
The crab cakes were good. I wrapped six in a paper napkin before the twenty-something server managed to get away from me. I wandered around looking for someone who might not be terrified to be caught speaking with me. Aimee Devane saw me across the room and gave me the kind of smile that says, Yes, I see you, but you don’t really need to come any closer. I kept moving.
I saw an ex-mayor of New York, a well-known British actor who had just closed a limited run on Broadway, and an obese New Jersey politician who was pumping every hand he could grab as though unable to stop running for office. I avoided him.
“Whaddaya say, Stafford? How’s biz? Whatayagot? What’s up?”
Michael “Mickey the Mouse” Moskowitz had been one of my brokers when I first entered the foreign exchange markets. He had wrestled for years with a combined alcohol and cocaine problem, which had finally sidelined his career. Despite having been out of the markets for a decade, he still maintained his connections. The Mouse prided himself on always having the most au courant gossip on Wall Street.
Saving Jason Page 8
