Black Fridays

by Michael Sears

  “Names?”

  She shook her head. “And he was still moving funds around. All over. Hundreds of accounts. Then they relocated us here. Three years ago. I never knew why. But they bought the house for us. Paid for Alana’s school.”

  “Sweet deal.”

  Her nostrils flared slightly as though she smelled something rank. “They treat the help well.”

  I kept digging. “I imagine there’s a lot of money to go around.”

  “I don’t know how the money works. Geoffrey had a big expense account—they never questioned it. They paid for the boat to be brought over from England. The summer rental on Nantucket and the vacations at the Bitter End on Virgin Gorda. And he got paid more than he ever would have made as an ops guy. But nothing like what a trader gets who was supposedly clearing a couple of hundred mil a year.”

  Two hundred a year. I must have looked stunned.

  “That’s what he said.” She sighed. “Of course, that was before he started lying to me. About everything.”

  “You never met any of the Arrowhead directors?”

  “No. I went along on some of the client outings, but Geoffrey never bothered to introduce me to his bosses.”

  “The client outings? The casino trips?”

  She looked away before she answered. “Once or twice.”

  There it was. She was holding something back, but she wasn’t going to give it up easily.

  “Well, if that’s it, I will be going. Thanks for your time. And I sympathize. I’m divorced myself.”

  She visibly relaxed.

  “My, you are in a hurry. No time for a drink?” She shifted one leg a fraction of an inch and instantly changed from someone’s angry ex to a hungry predator. The glasses came off. My body was having a very primitive response.

  “Can I get a rain check?” I stood up, reluctantly.

  She made a moue of disappointment. “Rain or shine. But you better hurry. I plan on spending Christmas with my daughter. In Gstaad.”

  As she rose off the couch, she managed to lean forward just enough for me to see she must have made a habit of sunbathing topless.

  We were face-to-face across the coffee table. The room felt very warm. I fought my way through the fog of pheromones. Pieces shifted and suddenly fit. Sanders’ diary. His scorecard. DH/AC. Diane Hochstadt—Atlantic City.

  “Just one more thing.” I looked directly into her eyes. “How well did you know Brian Sanders?”

  For a split second, her guard came down and she looked as though she’d been slapped. She wrapped her arms around her elbows and glared back at me.

  “I can’t see how this is any of your business.”

  “People tell me he wasn’t a gambler. So what was he doing while his buddies were hitting the tables? What were you doing? You were there, weren’t you?”

  “You should leave now.”

  “You know you’re in his diary. You and a lot of other women.”

  “Brian Sanders was a pleasant diversion. He was energetic, experienced, and endowed. But he was not a nice person.”

  “But dying on your husband’s boat must have been an odd coincidence. I wondered if you thought so, too.”

  She looked angry, afraid, and vulnerable. “Please. Go.”

  I took my time moving toward the door. “I mean, they were the only two on board and your husband manages to swim to safety and a kid twenty years younger doesn’t make it. You see? It keeps bugging me.”

  “Good-bye, Jason,” she said, swinging open the front door. “Please don’t come back.”

  My rain check was canceled. I put my hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry to have disturbed you. I’m gone.”

  I was almost down the steps before she spoke again.

  “Ask Geoffrey about that night.”

  I stopped and turned back to her. Her hair was brushed back by the breeze and the aura from the porch light backlit her body, emphasizing each curve. I saw what had attracted a player a decade or more her junior.

  “Diane, I’m sorry. I hope things work out for you.”

  “Yes, well, I hope things work out for you, too. These are not good people. Watch your back.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “There was a third person on board that night. Ask Geoffrey about that, too.” She closed the door and turned off the light. The night air felt a lot colder than when I had gone in.

  —

  I SPOKE INTO the phone as I walked to the car.

  “Everybody listening? Are we all here? Tape rolling? You guys have got to be the biggest bunch of fuckups I ever had the bad luck to meet up with. How did you not know that Hochstadt doesn’t even live here anymore?”

  I wrenched open the door of the Town Car and threw myself into the backseat.

  “How’s my son, Senior Agent? Has anyone checked on him lately?”

  Brady turned to me and handed me his two-way radio.

  “Easy,” Maloney said. “It wasn’t a wasted trip. And you rattled her nicely at the end there. She knows more. We’ll go back and lean on her again. Nice work. We learned a few things. Now we go to Greenwich and pin the husband. Pick me up out front. I’ll ride with you.”

  I leaned back into the soft leather seat. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As I handed the radio back to Brady, I heard Maloney’s last words.

  “And this time, try to stay on script.”

  HOCHSTADT LIVED in a little condo community down by the water. It looked like middle-aged-divorced-guy headquarters. Every apartment was a duplex with a water view from the top floor, a small balcony on the first, and a carport underneath. And every carport held a recent-model middle-aged-guy’s fantasy of a chickmobile—a Jaguar XK convertible, a Porsche Boxster, a BMW 650. The Boxster shared the space with a big Harley. The spot under Hochstadt’s apartment had a bright yellow Hummer. It practically screamed issues of inadequacy and compensation.

  Each balcony had an almost identical pair of plastic chairs and table and small hibachi grill. I could just imagine the wild Saturday nights with a line of balding, lonely men grilling up their rib eyes, popping the top on another tallboy, and wishing there was someone sitting in the other chair.

  “I could become suicidal living here,” I said.

  “Save it and get going,” Maloney said.

  “Morituri te salutant,” I said quietly.

  “What’s that?” Brady asked.

  “The gladiators’ motto. It works for traders as well.” I got out of the car and hurried over to the front door. The intercom buzzer appeared to work.

  “Who is it?” His voice was fluty with a hint of an affected British accent. Already I didn’t like him.

  “Geoffrey Hochstadt?”

  “Who is this?” He sounded like someone born to grievance.

  “My name is Jason Stafford. I’m an investigator for Weld Securities. I need to talk to you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I can’t help you. Good night.”

  I hit the buzzer again.

  “You can talk to me or talk to the cops. Your choice, Mr. Hochstadt.”

  “I know who you are.” He tried to make it sound like a threat.

  I gave him the frat house whine. Traders use it on each other all the time. It is surprising how often it works.

  “Come on, Geoffrey. Don’t be a pussy. I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you. Come on, let me in, it’s getting fucking cold out here.”

  The door buzzed. I pushed through.

  Geoffrey Hochstadt was a tall, thin man with big hands and an Adam’s apple that made him look like he was having trouble swallowing a brick. His thick glasses magnified his dark eyes, giving him a look of constant surprise. I couldn’t imagine him at the helm of a big sailboa
t—he looked like he would blow away in the first stiff breeze.

  He stood back from the door and watched carefully as I entered the apartment. The place was almost bare. A white card table and two folding chairs sat in the middle of the dining area. One of the chairs was strategically placed to face the single piece of furniture in the living room—a huge flat-screen TV, perched on top of the box it had come in. On the far wall was the missing artwork from the house in Darien—a four-foot-tall portrait of Geoffrey himself, looking almost elegant in a white windbreaker and captain’s hat, standing at the helm of a heeling sailboat, foam swirling up along its side. A crew of strong young men, who seemed to have been selected from a Ralph Lauren catalog, pulled on ropes or cranked winch handles. Serenity. It was the boat from the New York Post article. The one that had smashed up in Greenwich harbor. You could probably see the rocks from an upstairs window. It was the only decoration on the walls.

  “Nice painting.” I smiled. “Anyone we know?”

  Hochstadt pulled himself up, unintentionally mimicking the pose. “I had it commissioned when I ran the London office.”

  I nodded. “And now you run the New York office.”

  “The U.S. subsidiary. What is it you want with me?” The accent became more pronounced when he tried to sound in control.

  I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.

  “Maybe we could do this over a beer?”

  “I don’t drink,” he said.

  “Anything? How about coffee? Tea? Water?”

  He tried to stare me down—for maybe a full second. Then his shoulder fell and he dug out glasses and poured water from a Brita pitcher. He was holding himself together so tightly he practically vibrated a high C. He sat facing me.

  “What is it you want?” he asked again.

  “I spoke to your wife this evening. She told me where to find you.”

  He took a sip of water, hiding behind the glass.

  “She mentioned that we have some mutual acquaintances. Who would that be? Old friends? New ones? Not many of my old friends want to know me these days.”

  His eyes blinked once.

  “All right,” I said. “I will get to the point. I’m conducting an investigation into a possible trading scandal at Weld Securities. But you probably know that.”

  He put the glass down and examined the blank table.

  “When I started, I really didn’t think they wanted me to find anything. Or rather, they wanted me to find nothing. They can’t afford to be anything but squeaky clean in front of this merger.”

  Hochstadt tried to lift the glass again, but looked like he didn’t have the strength.

  “But I found something. I found a very clear pattern of skimming by a group of traders.”

  He made an attempt to brave it out. “I don’t see what this has to do with me. I think you should leave.” It was sad. He wasn’t a fighter.

  “Hear me out. Please. When I’m done, if you still think there’s nothing to talk about, I will just get up and go home.”

  He turned his head and stared at the windows. It was a dark night, there was nothing to see but our reflections.

  “Come on, Geoffrey. If I give them everything I’ve got, they’ll have to give it to the regulators. I’m just trying to see what works best for everybody.”

  He looked at me and smiled skeptically.

  “All right,” I said. “Best for me.”

  He gave a slight nod.

  “They wanted me to look into one trader only at the beginning. Brian Sanders.”

  He nodded again.

  “Only that led to more. The trips to Atlantic City. Foxwoods. I followed the whole trail. A whole group of junior traders.”

  He gave a dismissive little laugh. “All the little shits.”

  “But there’s more. Lots more. Hundreds of millions. Am I right?”

  He shrugged. “You tell me.”

  I laughed. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Another day or two and I’ll be ready to name names. And when I do, it all gets rolled up. It will be too late for you and your partners.”

  “And what do you get, Mr. Stafford? Job satisfaction? Give me a proposal and I will pass it on. These people are businessmen—they’re used to cutting deals.”

  “Sorry. I thought I was talking to a decision-maker. If you’re not the guy, tell me who is.”

  He smiled. “Do you think you can provoke me? Petty little jabs insinuating that I am insignificant? I know what I am. I know what I’ve already given up. What I’ve lost.”

  I wasn’t shaking any revelations out of him. He was becoming more comfortable, not less. I wanted him back on the ropes.

  “Nothing like what Sanders lost.”

  His eyes went flat. “An accident.”

  “When did you find out he was screwing your wife?”

  There was a brief flash of anger, before his eyes clouded again. “My wife is a good person, no matter what you’ve heard. Brian Sanders was not.”

  I wasn’t getting to him. He was too depressed to be rattled.

  “Tell me who I’m dealing with. The old Case crowd. Your partners. Who’s pulling the strings, here?”

  He shook his head—a lot more times than was necessary. “Do you have a proposal? I think I want this conversation to be over.”

  I leaned into him. “Two mil. And I want to meet with them. Him. Whoever. Set it up.”

  “I assume you’ll want the money offshore somewhere?”

  “That’s what you do, right?”

  “I’m one of the best,” he said. “I’m surprised. Considering the scale of all this, I would have expected you to be more aggressive. Or acquisitive. I doubt the money will be a problem. As for the meeting? We’ll see.”

  “That’s not negotiable,” I said.

  He handed me his card. “Call me tomorrow morning. Use the cell-phone number.” He stood up and walked me to the door.

  I had nothing for Maloney but a vague possibility. If I didn’t pry something out of Hochstadt, I was doomed to have the FBI in my life for days to come. I stopped just outside the door. A small cloud of moths fluttered around the big floodlight, taking turns immolating themselves on its surface.

  “One last thing, Geoffrey.”

  He stepped back as though I had swung at him.

  “I know there was someone else on board that night. I know who it was. When I can prove it, I’m going to want more. A lot more.”

  It was completely off script. And it got a reaction.

  Hochstadt darted his head out the door, as though he expected someone to be hiding behind the boxwood hedge. His voice was a hissing whisper, equal parts anger and fear. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t threaten him. He doesn’t make deals. He cleans up problems. He’ll find a way to get to you.”

  He slammed the door, locked it, and turned off the light, leaving me and the moths in the dark.

  —

  I PULLED MY jacket closed. The temperature was still dropping. We could have the first frost of the season if it got much colder. I hustled over to the car.

  Who was this “he” Hochstadt had threatened me with? This was something beyond a conspiracy of traders, skimming a little extra for their own pockets. Hochstadt was scared. Terrified.

  “What the hell was that?” Maloney was fuming when I got in the car. “Where did that come from? Christ! I gave you a simple enough game plan. Push him a little. Then tease him with the blackmail. Get him talking.”

  “Well, he wasn’t talking, was he? He was more afraid of me before I started talking. The only time he lost it was at the end there. Look, if he gets me the meeting with one of the head honchos, you guys will have what you need.”

  “Who was he talking about? Who’s this fixer?”

 
“The other man on the boat? No idea. And I’m not looking forward to finding out.”

  The lights in Hochstadt’s apartment went out and a moment later he appeared briefly in the doorway.

  “What is he up to now?” Maloney said.

  Neither Brady nor I had an answer. The yellow HMV pulled out with a screech of tires and swung by us. Hochstadt was at the wheel.

  “He never even looked our way,” Brady said.

  “Give the other car a heads-up,” Maloney said. “Have them stay on him. We’ll follow.”

  Minutes later, we were hurtling south on I-95, with Hochstadt and the yellow Hummer boxed. The agents in the other car were slightly ahead of the big vehicle, we were fifty yards back. Brady kept to the middle lane where most of the limo drivers avoided speed traps, and did his best to keep up without blowing his cover.

  Hochstadt was a terrible driver—all over the road. He sped up until he was practically riding the bumper of the car in front of him, and then slowed back down as soon as the highway immediately in front of him was empty. He changed lanes—without signaling—to gain any advantage, even just a few feet. And he was a two-footed driver, his brake lights lit even as he accelerated up behind a smaller vehicle.

  “Christ, he’s worse than my ex,” Maloney said.

  Just past the big green sign for Exit 18A, the highway opened up in front of us and the Hummer took off. For a moment, Brady hung back.

  “Goddamnit, don’t lose him!” Maloney yelled.

  Brady sped up. Suddenly, Hochstadt veered from the far left lane all the way to the far right, into the exit lane and down the ramp. Brady cursed and tried to follow, but the Town Car was hemmed in by a row of road warriors jockeying for supremacy in the right lane. He hit the brakes and spun the wheel. The Town Car slewed sideways down the center lane while horns blared at us from all directions. I was too scared to speak. A pair of headlights seemed to be aimed right at me, approaching at seventy miles an hour. In that moment of desperate panic as my brain prepared for death, I remembered that I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I was two hours late to meet Skeli for dinner at Danny Meyer’s Shake Shack on Columbus. My obit would read: “He died while helping the FBI with an investigation.” What a fucking waste.