Black Fridays

by Michael Sears

My neck was stiff and my eyes ached before I discovered the three non-trading accounts.

  The first was a recent addition—less than a year old. There was a single payment of $1 million to a bank in the Caymans, followed by monthly payments of $100,000 each. When I clicked on the bank account number, a name came up. I wasn’t surprised.

  The other two accounts dated back to the beginning. The amounts varied each month and it took me some time to figure out the system. A week after closing out business for any given month—and after having made payments to all of the active traders—these two accounts split whatever remained after expenses. The smaller share—about 10 percent of the net—went to a numbered account in Switzerland. I scanned down quickly, estimating, truncating, adding. It came to over ton million. I clicked on the name. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. FBO Diane Hochstadt. Geoffrey had put all his tax-free profits in his wife’s name. When he lost her, he had lost it all. I knew how that felt.

  The last account was a puzzle. When I clicked on the account numbers, nothing happened. No drop-down window revealing the name of the mastermind. Hochstadt would not need a reminder of who had first envisioned the whole operation. The man who had recruited him and all of the major producers. The driving force behind it all who kept it running with tact and diplomacy, hidden behind a mannered veil of secrecy. Not a greedy man, either. His cut was modest—though it came to well over a hundred million, but only because the scope of the fraud had been so large, and had gone on successfully for so many years.

  But years ago, when the system was first put in place, the man had traded with Arrowhead. Probably testing the system, I thought. Once it was running, he had stopped. Why shouldn’t he? Why take the risk, when he was getting a cut of every trade that went through anyway?

  I searched through the files for the earliest trades and lined up all those I thought were his. The trades all took place in London over a six-month period. I stared at them until the pattern emerged. A picture of the man shaped itself in my mind. I knew who it was. I just couldn’t prove it. Yet.

  —

  “I TOLD YOU there’s nothing I can do until Monday.” Brady sounded beyond exhausted.

  “You’re still tied up?” He wasn’t the ideal candidate for what I had in mind, but he was all I had.

  “This is going to take months.”

  “Could you get away for a couple of hours?” I said.

  “Not a chance. They’ve got me checking bank transfers. In eight different time zones. It’s a twenty-four-hour operation.”

  “How about on a Sunday morning? Before the Far East opens.”

  “I was hoping to get three or four hours’ sleep sometime tonight.”

  “I can hand you the killer. Gift-wrapped.”

  “I don’t handle violent crime, remember? I push paper. Now, let me get back to it.”

  “No! You owe me. You know it.” I took a breath and tried to calm down. “I’m not crawling or begging, Brady. I’ve got something to trade. Something good. I’ll set it up. You show up with a posse and nab this guy and you’re a hero. Maybe they even transfer you out of pushing paper and give you a real job.”

  The clicking of gears into place as he thought it through was almost audible. I was only taking the physical risk—he was risking his career.

  “And what do you get out of this?”

  I had him. “You make one call for me. I have to go to Louisiana for a day or so. You clear it with my P.O.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And don’t let this guy kill me, if you can help it.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  —

  I STOOD AT the window, watching a soft rain turning the streetlights on Broadway into a mirrored kaleidoscope. I wasn’t savoring the end of the chase—I was afraid and not ashamed to admit it. I couldn’t afford a mistake. From the moment he answered the phone and heard my voice, I was all in. No hedged bets. No chance to deal again. I had to play my hand against a wary, intelligent killer. And I had to win.

  I found his card in my wallet and dialed.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.”

  I MADE THE KID’S bed before I left. I used the SpongeBob sheets. As far as I knew, he had never watched the show, but he loved the sheets. Just one of his million mysteries.

  Roger had left all the little die-cast cars on the bureau, wrapped in a towel. He had rescued them from the four corners of the room where they had been scattered by the intruder. None were broken or chipped. The Kid might miss a car if it disappeared, but he would have had a major meltdown if it were damaged.

  One by one, I inspected them and placed them carefully on the shelf by his bed. Halfway through, I stopped to stare at the line of cars. Then, without giving it any more thought than where I would place the fork when setting a table, I moved the London taxi and placed it behind the Mustang. The rest of the cars followed. For twenty minutes, I stood there, placing them all in perfect order. Time well spent.

  When I stepped out on the street, I was glad I had dressed for a fall run—long-sleeved sweatshirt and pants. The air was crisp. The FBI’s cell phone/transmitter was in my pocket, along with a set of keys. I carried a manila envelope containing most of the flash drives.

  Brady had said they would be watching for me on Broadway. “Take your time. Let him see you. We want him comfortable. Let him follow you down to the park. Don’t worry. We’ll have him boxed.”

  I was going to worry, no matter what he said.

  The Sunday-morning crowds were just beginning to fill in. The used-book vendors were all out, lining the sidewalk in front of Loehmann’s. A handful of early Fairway shoppers were waiting at the bus stop, plastic bags surrounding their feet.

  I looked for undercover policemen, masquerading as street vendors, or young mothers with strollers—packing heat and wearing odd-shaped earphones. Improbably, I identified dozens of them. For the past two years, the man in uniform was the enemy—as dangerous, unpredictable, and unreliable as any convict. Now he was my ally.

  At Seventy-third I turned right, toward the river, and began an easy jog, just enough to loosen up, and not much faster than a brisk walk.

  The light was against me at West End and I fought the urge to look over my shoulder. Somewhere back there, I was sure, was a murderer and right behind him—I hoped—was a crowd of armed cops.

  A dog walker with five or six leashed animals was blocking the sidewalk as I approached Riverside. I slowed to a walk. When we reached the corner, the dogs all stopped to sniff the fire hydrant. I jogged on by.

  Once inside the park, I cut down past the dog runs and sped up through the tunnel under the West Side Highway—I always thought it would be a great place to stage a murder. Then I held up for a minute on the overlook on the far side. There was a long, sloping trail to my right, leading down through a stand of trees. Too hidden. Too isolated. I jogged down the steep staircase instead, heading for the esplanade along the river.

  Two pairs of screeching ravens were fighting for dominance over the crab apple tree at the end of the path, though none of the big birds, nor any of the sparrows or other smaller birds that flitted about, seemed interested in eating any of the fruit. Brown and ruby-colored apples were being knocked to the ground as the huge birds jumped from branch to branch, their neck ruffles open like those spiked collars on pit bulls and Goths. Their beaks were as thick and sharp as hunting knives. I gave the tree a wide berth.

  The walkway was busy with weekend traffic—spandex-clad, helmeted bicyclists, runners from plodders to sprinters, speed walkers exaggerating the roll of their hips as they moved, like mimes doing a forward moonwalk, and couples, singles, and families, strolling in the bright morning sun. I welcomed the safety of being in a crowd.

  The Kid loved to stand at the railing and watch the ri
ver flow around the rocks below, though the barely revealed remains of the old wooden docks, jagged black spikes peeking above the surface at low tide, caused him to groan and grunt with discomfort. Like the rest of us—he was frightened most by the unseen.

  When I reached the railing, I stopped and turned back to face the long steps. I waited.

  A tiny apple hit the pavement and bounced up almost waist high before dropping and rolling down to stop between my feet. When I looked back up again, he was standing at the balustrade outside the tunnel—looking for me. Our eyes met.

  Here was the test. Would he smell the trap and bolt, or would he follow me down to the river? How desperate was he? Fear and greed—that’s what drives markets.

  He believed he had to kill me—but I didn’t think he would do it in front of all these people. I needed him hungry, not in a panic. He had to think he was controlling the scene. Then he would be comfortable enough to make a mistake.

  Brady had almost pulled the plug when I got to this part. He didn’t trust the odds. Another dead civilian wasn’t going to win him a promotion.

  The man scanned the crowd, scenting the air. He had no reason to think I had called in the police, but he was still cautious. He believed I was capable of duplicity—he depended on it—but he thought I was just like him. Greed won out. He started down the steps.

  The benches were adorned with plaques, dedicated to the New Yorkers who gave to make the park possible. Not the Trumps or Rockefellers who need skyscrapers to frame their legacy, nor the Cantors or Sacklers who make do with a wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The benches there were dedicated to everyday New Yorkers. People who ride the subway. I sat down on the one that salutes “Mike on his 50th. Box Seats—riv vu.” I tried to enjoy his river view as I waited.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Iron Man Jack Avery dropped down on the bench beside me. The last two weeks had aged him. His hair was noticeably thinner and there was a red line of anger—or madness—bordering his eyes. He was still an imposing presence, but his face sagged and his shoulders slumped. He didn’t look like the man who had crossed the triathlon finish line, grinning, with victory in his eyes; he looked like a man running from defeat.

  But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

  “This is a gun.” He was carrying a copy of the Post doubled over his right hand. He moved it aside and gave me the merest glimpse of the weapon.

  “You won’t need it. I’m only here to talk business.”

  Was the runner by the water fountain adjusting his iPod? Or was he part of the surveillance team, adjusting an earpiece? The lady with the baby carriage might have looked my way.

  He had come; he was hooked. I took a slow breath and began to reel him in.

  “That was you who tossed my apartment, am I right? You left quite a mess. Find what you were looking for?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  I held up the manila envelope. “Not to worry. It’s all here. You just had to ask.”

  I was too flippant. It spooked him. “Pull up your shirt.”

  “Why? You think I’m wired?” I stood up, pulled the sweatshirt up and did a slow turn. No one even glanced our way. “Happy?”

  “Hold it.” He patted me down. “What’s in the pocket?”

  “Cell phone. Keys.”

  “Give me the phone.”

  I handed it to him. “Don’t turn it off, okay? I have an autistic son. I need to keep it on in case his shadow needs to reach me.”

  He looked it over and handed it back.

  “Give me the files.”

  “As soon as we have a deal. Did Hochstadt tell you what I’m looking for?”

  The ravens took that moment to escalate their confrontation with impossibly louder shrieks, drowning out thoughts as well as speech, until one pair spread wings and flew down to the next crab apple tree, twenty feet away. They’re supposed to be very smart birds. So why didn’t they think of that solution earlier?

  “Say again?” Avery said.

  I repeated the question and angled the phone in his direction. I wanted his response to be quite clear.

  “He said you want two million.” He was clear.

  “Only now I have the files.”

  “I knew you were going to be trouble.”

  “I’m not trouble, Jack. I’m your best friend. I just want value for the goods I’m offering.”

  He glared at me. I didn’t melt. He shrugged.

  “I’m authorized to go to three. You want more? I don’t think it’ll fly, but I’ll deliver the message.”

  “It’s worth a lot more, if I go to the cops.”

  He sneered. “Oh, yeah? What are they paying? Look, a word of advice?” He put a hand on my shoulder. We were pals. “Don’t get greedy. This whole thing works—and keeps working—only if everybody involved behaves themselves. That’s the hard thing for the young turks to understand. Sometimes, I’ve got to manage their expectations.”

  “Is that what happened with Sanders? You were just managing expectations?”

  “What do you think you know?” An unpleasant growl came into his voice. “Whatever it is, don’t think it. Life is too short, as it is. Understood?” The gun waved in my direction again.

  “Sanders is what brought me into this. He’s why I was hired.” I needed him comfortable and talking.

  Avery thought for a moment. He must have decided we were still pals. “The guy was a head case. He thought he was a whistleblower. The SEC came to me right after he started talking to them.” He gave a laugh that sounded like a garbage truck starting up on a winter morning. “They ratted out the rat.”

  And the SEC killed Sanders. Not according to any law, of course, but that didn’t make him any less dead. Ham-handed bureaucracy set him up. Avery just did the heavy lifting.

  “No one ever questioned you?”

  “You gotta love this laissez-faire approach to regulation. Let Wall Street regulate itself, right? These guys think they’re living in some Ayn Rand novel. Let the market rule! It’s a fuckin’ joke.”

  “But you were already on to the whole thing, weren’t you? You saw it right off.” It was like petting a lion.

  His ego was as outsized as his chest. “My first month on the job. I had my secretary run trade pair-offs for the whole firm. I was just sniffing around, not sure what I would come up with. You met that jerk who runs corporates, right? He gets sloppy sometimes—his trades stood out. I grilled him and he almost started crying. Telling me about his two daughters in college and all this, like I give a shit.”

  “But you got the names of the guys running things.”

  “There’s only one man who makes the decisions.”

  “When do I meet him?”

  “When he says.” Like any flunky, he was jealous of his access to power. “Don’t rush things. You get impatient and you make people nervous.”

  Now he was too comfortable. I was learning nothing.

  “Did I make Hochstadt nervous?”

  The eyes flared again and the gun swung back in my direction. “You are starting to piss me off, Stafford. No more questions. Keep your mouth shut, hand over the files, and you’ll get paid. Why make it hard?”

  “It was you he called the other night. After I left.” I wasn’t asking anymore. I just hoped Brady and his team were listening and ready to move.

  “Enough. Stand up.” He gestured with the gun.

  “And you were on the boat with Sanders that night, too. Did you help him over the side?” I wanted him angry enough to give me one precise admission of guilt. But I wasn’t getting it.

  “Get up. We’re done here. I don’t think things are going to work out for you, Stafford. You are just too stupid to know when to shut the fuck up.”

  “It would have been an easy swim
to shore for you, right? Even with the wind kicking up, Iron Man Jack Avery would have had no problem.”

  He jammed the gun into my stomach. “Time’s up, asshole.” He grabbed the front of my sweatshirt with his free hand and stood up, taking me with him, as easily as if I were a child. “Nobody knows who was on board that night.”

  “Nobody living, you mean? But Hochstadt told his wife and she told me and here we are. You can’t kill everybody, Jack. It’s time to fold your hand, take your winnings, and move on.”

  He slapped me with the barrel of the gun, snapping my neck around. Where the hell was Brady? Things were suddenly moving too fast. I swallowed the vomit that was burning the back of my throat.

  “You think I won’t kill you, too? I’d be happy to add you to the list, asshole. Now give me those files.” He let go of my shirt and reached for the envelope.

  Over his shoulder, I saw Brady closing in—finally. Four other armed plainclothes cops were with him, weapons drawn, shields held forward like magic talismans.

  I should have realized—Avery was watching me. The moment I lost my poker face, he moved.

  A lot of things happened at once.

  “Drop the weapon! FBI!” The baby-carriage lady and the jogger with the iPod came on, their guns seemingly pointed right at me.

  Avery swung me around, gripped my throat in one hand, and jammed the barrel of his gun into my temple. “Stand the fuck down or this citizen is meat!”

  I tried to pull away, but he ground the gun into my head. I felt a rivulet of blood run down my cheek. I stopped moving.

  The police fanned out around us. A Texas standoff.

  “Drop the weapon, Mr. Avery.” Brady tried to sound relaxed and in control. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “He dies first,” the Iron Man yelled. The manila envelope slipped from his fingers and split open as it hit the ground. The dozen or so flash drives skittered across the sidewalk in every direction.

  My son was trapped in Louisiana—probably already locked in a darkened room. If I died, there would be no one to ever lead him out of that room.