by Andrew Gross
Hybrid, he noted, impressed, watching in the rearview mirror as it went down the block.
He picked up his phone, which was sitting on the passenger seat across from him, next to his Walther P38, punching in a private number. His gaze fell to his hands. They were thick, coarse, workman’s hands.
Time to get them dirty again, he sighed.
“Plan A doesn’t seem to be moving,” he said into the phone when the voice he was expecting finally answered.
“We don’t have forever,” the person on the other end replied.
“Exactamente.” He exhaled. He started his ignition, flicked an ash out the window, and took off at a slow pace, following the Lexus. “I’m already on Plan B.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
One of the things Karen had to deal with in the weeks that followed was the liquidation of Charlie’s firm.
She’d never gotten deeply involved in her husband’s business. Harbor was what was termed “a general limited partnership.” The share agreement maintained that in case the principal partner ever became deceased or unable to perform, the assets of the firm were to be redistributed back to the other partners. Charlie managed a modest-size fund, with assets of around $250 million. The lead investors were Goldman Sachs, where he had started out years before, and a few wealthy families he’d attracted over the years.
Saul Lennick, Charlie’s first boss at Goldman, who had helped put him in business, acted as the firm’s trustee.
It was hard for Karen to go through. Bittersweet. Charlie had only seven people working for him: a junior trader and a bookkeeper, Sally, who ran the back office and had been with him since he’d first opened shop. His assistant, Heather, handled a lot of their personal stuff. Karen pretty much knew them all.
It would take a few months, Lennick advised her, for everything to be finalized. And that was fine with her. Charlie would’ve wanted them all to be well taken care of. “Hell, you know better than anyone that he practically spent more time with them over the years than he did with me,” she said, smiling knowingly at Saul. Anyway, money wasn’t exactly the issue right now.
She and the kids were okay financially. She had the house, which they owned clear, the ski place in Vermont. Plus, Charlie had been able to pull out some money over the years.
But it was tough, seeing his baby dismantled. The positions were sold. The office on Park Avenue was put up for lease. One by one, people found new jobs and began to leave.
That was like the final straw. The final imprint of him gone.
About that time the junior trader Charlie had brought into the firm just a few months before, Jonathan Lauer, called her at home. Karen wasn’t around. He left a message on her machine: “I’d like to speak with you, Mrs. Friedman. At your convenience. There are some things you ought to know.”
Some things… Whatever they were, she wasn’t up to it right then. Jonathan was new; he had started working for Charles only this past year. Charlie had lured him from Morgan. She passed the message on to Saul.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” he told her. “All kinds of sticky issues, closing down a firm. People are looking out for their own arrangements. There may have been some bonus agreements discussed. Charlie wasn’t the best at recording those things. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of that right now.”
He was right. She couldn’t deal with that right now. In July she went away for a well-needed week at Paula and Rick’s house in Sag Harbor. She rejoined her book group, started doing yoga again. God, how she needed that. Her body began to resemble itself once again and feel alive. Gradually her spirits did, too.
August came, and Samantha had a job at a local beach club. Alex was away at lacrosse camp. Karen was thinking maybe she’d look into getting a real-estate license.
Jonathan Lauer contacted her again.
This time Karen was at home. Still, she didn’t pick up. She heard the same cryptic message on the machine: “Mrs. Friedman, I think it’s important that we talk….”
But Karen just let the message tape go on. She didn’t like avoiding him. Charlie had always spoken highly of the young man. People are looking out for their own arrangements….
She just couldn’t answer. Hearing his voice trail off, she felt bad.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was September, the kids were back in school when Karen ran into Lieutenant Hauck, the Greenwich detective, again.
It was halftime of a high-school football game at Greenwich Field. They were playing Stamford West. Karen had volunteered to sell raffle tickets for the Teen Center drive for the athletic department. The stands were packed. It was a crisp, early-autumn Saturday morning. The Huskies band was on the field. She went over to the refreshment stand to grab herself a cup of coffee against the chill.
She almost didn’t recognize him at first. He was dressed in a navy polar-fleece pullover and jeans, a young, pretty girl who looked no more than nine or ten to Karen hoisted on his shoulders. They sort of bumped into each other in the crowd.
“Lieutenant…?”
“Hauck.” He turned and stopped, a pleased glimmer in his eye.
“Karen Friedman.” She nodded, shielding the sun out of her eyes.
“Of course I remember.” He let the girl down. “Jess, say hi to Mrs. Friedman.”
“Hi.” The pretty girl waved, a little shy. “Nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, sweetie.” Karen smiled. “Your daughter?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Just as well,” he groaned, clutching his back, “she’s getting way too big for me to do this for very long. Right, honey? Why don’t you go ahead and find your friends. I’ll be over in a while.”
“Okay.” The girl ran off and melded into the crowd, heading in the direction of the far sidelines.
“Nine?” Karen guessed, an inquisitive arch of her eyebrows.
“Ten. Somehow she still pushes for the Big Ride. I figure I’ve got another year or two at best before she’ll start to cringe if I ever offer to do it again.”
“Not girls and their daddies.” Karen shook her head and grinned. “Anyway, it’s sort of like a bell curve. At some point they come all the way back. At least that’s what I’m told. I’m still waiting.”
They stood around for a minute, bucking the flow of the crowd. A heavyset guy in a Greenwich sweatshirt slapped Hauck on the shoulder as he went by. “Hey, Leg…”
“Rollie.” The lieutenant waved back.
“I was just headed to get some coffee,” Karen said.
“Let me,” Hauck offered. “Trust me, you won’t be able to beat the price.”
They stepped over to the refreshment line. A woman who was running the coffee station seemed to recognize him. “Hey, Ty! How’s it going, Lieutenant? Looks like we could use you out there today.”
“Yeah, just gimme about twenty of these straight up plus a shot of cortisone in both knees and you can put me in.” He pulled out a couple of bills.
“On the house, Lieutenant.” She waved him away. “Booster program.”
“Thanks, Mary.” Hauck winked back. He handed a cup to Karen. There was a table free, and Hauck motioned her toward it and they each grabbed a metal chair.
“See what I mean?” He took a sip. “One of the few legal perks I have left.”
“Rank has its privilege.” Karen winked, pretending to be impressed.
“Nah.” Hauck shrugged. “Tailback. Greenwich High, 1975. Went all the way to the state finals that year. They never forget.”
Karen grinned. She brushed her hair back from under her hooded Greenwich High sweatshirt and cupped her hands on the steaming cup.
“So how are you doing?” the detective asked. “I actually meant to call a couple of times. When I last saw you, things were pretty raw.”
“I know.” Karen shrugged again. “They were then. I’m doing better. Time…” She sighed, tilting her cup.
“As they say…” The lieutenant did the same and smiled. “So you have kids
in the high school?”
“Two. Samantha’s graduating this year. Alex is a sophomore. He plays lacrosse. He’s still taking things pretty hard.”
“’Course he is,” the lieutenant said. Someone brushed him in the back, rushing by. He nodded, pressing his lips together. What could you say?
“You were looking into a hit-and-run then,” Karen said, shifting gears. “Some kid out of Florida. You ever find that guy?”
“No. But I did find out why your husband’s name was in his pocket.”
He told Karen about the Mustang.
“‘Charlie’s Baby.’” She nodded and smiled. “Figures. Still have it. Charlie asked in his will not to sell it. How about it, Lieutenant? You want your own American icon, only year they made the color Emberglow. Only costs about eight grand a year to take it out of the garage a couple of times?”
“Sorry. I have my own American icon. College account.” He grinned.
The PA announced that the teams were heading back on the field. The Huskies band marched off to a brassy version of Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” The lieutenant’s daughter ran out of the crowd and yelled, “Daddy, come on! I want to sit with Elyse!”
“Second half ’s starting up,” the lieutenant said.
“She’s pretty,” Karen said. “Oldest?”
“My only,” the detective replied after a short pause. “Thanks.”
Their eyes met for a second. There was something Karen felt hiding behind his deep-set eyes.
“So how about a raffle ticket?” she asked. “It’s for a good cause. Booster program.” She chuckled. “C’mon, I’m running behind.”
“I’m afraid I already paid my dues.” Hauck sighed resignedly, patting his knees.
She tore one off the pad and penciled his name in the blank. “It’s on the house. You know, it was nice what you said to me that day. About how you knew how I felt. I guess I needed something then. I appreciated that.”
“Man…” Hauck shook his head, taking the raffle slip out of her hand, their fingers momentarily touching. “The gifts just don’t stop coming today.”
“Price you have to pay for doing a good deed, Lieutenant.”
They stood up. The lieutenant’s daughter called out impatiently, “Daddy, c’mon!”
“Good luck with the raffles,” he said. “You know, it might be good if you actually ended up selling a few of them today.”
Karen laughed. “Nice to see you, Lieutenant.” She shook her fists like imaginary pom-poms. “Go Huskies!”
Hauck waved, backing into the crowd. “See you around.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It took him by surprise that night, Hauck decided as he dabbed at the canvas in the small two-bedroom home he rented on Euclid Avenue in Stamford, overlooking Holly Cove.
Another marina scene. A sloop in a harbor, sails down. Pretty much the same scene from his deck. It was all he ever painted. Boats…
Jessie was in her room, watching TV, sending text messages. They’d had a pizza at Mona Lisa in town and went to the new animated release. Jess pretended to be bored. He’d enjoyed it.
“It’s for, like, three-year-olds, Daddy.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh.” He stopped pushing it. “The penguins were cool.”
Hauck liked it here. A block from the small cove. His little two-story sixties Cape. The owner had fixed it up. From the deck off the second floor, where the living room was, you could see Long Island Sound. A French couple lived next door, Richard and Jacqueline, custom furniture restorers—their workshop was out in their garage—and they always invited him to their parties, full of lots of people with crazy accents and not-half-bad wine.
Yes, it took him by surprise. What he was feeling. How he had noticed her eyes—brown and fetchingly wide. How laughter seemed a natural fit in them. The little lilt in her voice, as if she weren’t from around here. Her auburn hair tied back in a youthful ponytail.
How she stuffed that raffle ticket into his pocket and tried to make him smile.
Unlike Beth. When her world fell apart.
Hauck traced a narrow line from the sailboat’s mast and blended it into the blue of the sea. He stared. It sucked.
No one would exactly confuse him with Picasso.
She had asked him if Jess was his youngest, and he had replied, pausing for what seemed an eternity—my only. He could have told her. She would have understood. She was going through it, too.
C’mon, Ty, why does it always have to come back to this?
They’d had everything then. He and Beth. It was hard to remember how they were once so in love. How she once thought he was the sexiest man alive. And he, her.
My only…
What had he forgotten at the store that made him rush back in? Pudding Snacks….
Jamming the van hastily into park. How many times had he done that—and it stayed? A thousand? A hundred thousand?
“Watch out, guys. Daddy’s got to back out of the garage….”
As he headed back to the garage, receipt in hand, wallet in hand, they heard the shriek. Jessie’s.
Beth’s frozen eyes—“Oh, my God, Ty, no!”—as through the kitchen window they watched the van roll back.
Norah never even uttered a sound.
Hauck laid down his brush. He rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It had cost him his marriage. It had cost him ever being able to look in the mirror without starting to cry. For the longest time, being able to put his arms around Jess and hug her.
Everything.
His mind came back to that morning. The freckles dancing on her cheek. It made him smile.
Get real, Ty…. She probably drives a car worth more than your 401(k). She’s just lost her husband. A different life, maybe.
A different time.
But it surprised him as he picked up the brush again. What he was thinking…what it made him feel.
Awakened.
And that was strange, he decided. Because nothing surprised him anymore.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December
Their lives had just begun to get back on some kind of even keel. Sam was applying to colleges, Tufts and Bucknell, her top choices. Karen had made the obligatory visits with her.
That was when the two men from Archer knocked on her door.
“Mrs. Friedman?” the shorter one stood at the door and inquired. He had a chiseled face and close-cropped light hair, was wearing a gray business suit under a raincoat. The other was gaunt and taller with horn-rim glasses, carrying a leather lawyer’s briefcase.
“We’re from a private auditing firm, Mrs. Friedman. Do you mind if we come in?”
At first it flashed through Karen’s mind that they might be from the government fund that was being set up for victims’ families. She’d heard through her support group that these people could be pretty officious and cold. She opened the door.
“Thank you.” The light-haired one had a slight European accent and handed her a card. Archer and Bey Associates. Johannesburg, South Africa. “My name is Paul Roos, Mrs. Friedman. My partner is Alan Gillespie. We won’t take too much of your time. Do you mind if we sit down?”
“Of course…” Karen said, a little hesitant. There was something cool and impersonal about them. She glanced closer at their cards. “If this is about my husband, you know Saul Lennick of the Whiteacre Capital Group is overseeing the disposition of the funds.”
“We’ve been in touch with Mr. Lennick,” answered Roos, a little matter-of-factly. He took a step toward the living room. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
She took them over to the couch.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Friedman,” Roos told her, looking around intently.
“Thank you. You said you were auditors,” Karen replied. “I think my husband was handled by someone out of the city. Ross and Weiner—I don’t recall your firm’s name.”
“We’re actually not here on behalf of your husband, Mrs. Friedman”—the South Afric
an crossed his legs—“but on the part of some of his investors.”
“Investors?”
Karen knew that Morgan Stanley was Charlie’s largest by far. Then came the O’Flynns and the Hazens, who had been with him since he began.
“Which ones?” Karen stared at him, puzzled.
Roos looked at her with a hesitant smile. “Just…investors.” That smile began to make Karen feel ill at ease.
His partner, Gillespie, opened his briefcase. “You received proceeds from the liquidation of your husband’s firm assets, did you not, Mrs. Friedman?”
“This sounds more like an audit.” Karen tightened. “Yes. Is there something wrong?” The funds had just been finalized. Charlie’s share, after some final expenses to close down the firm, came to a little less than $4 million. “Maybe if you just told me what this is about.”
“We’re looking back through certain transactions,” Gillespie said, dropping a large bound report in front of him on the coffee table.
“Look, I never got very involved at all in my husband’s business,” Karen answered. This was starting to make her worried. “I’m sure if you spoke to Mr. Lennick—”
“Shortfalls, actually,” the accountant corrected himself, clear-eyed.
Karen didn’t like these people. She didn’t know why they were here. She peered at the business cards again. “You said you were auditors?”
“Auditors, and forensic investigators, Mrs. Friedman,” Paul Roos told her.
“Investigators…?”
“We’re trying to piece through certain aspects of your husband’s firm,” Gillespie explained. “The records are proving to be a little…shall we call it hazy. We realize that as an independent hedge fund, he was not bound by certain formalities.”
“Listen, I think you’d better go. I think you’d be better off if you took this to—”
“But what is clearly inescapable,” the accountant continued, “is that there seems to be a considerable amount of money missing.”
