Stephen Frey

by Trust Fund

  “He’s got to win the election.”

  “I can’t believe you can be so supportive after the way he’s treated you over the years.”

  “It’s what Jimmy Lee wanted,” Bo said. “He made it very clear on his deathbed that I was to do all I could to help and protect Paul. I made a promise and I don’t break my promises.”

  “No, you don’t.” Mendoza shook his head. “You’re a good man, Bo. I don’t think I could conjure up such positive sentiments about a brother like yours.”

  “You once thought about running for president, didn’t you Michael?”

  Mendoza flicked a piece of lint from his dark gray suit. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “I overheard you and Jimmy Lee discussing it one day at the estate. It was probably six or seven years ago. You asked him for his advice, and his help.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Whatever happened?”

  Mendoza folded his arms across his chest. “Your father was very supportive regarding my ambition, but the opportunity never materialized. With something as huge as that, all of the planets have to align, and they didn’t for me.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t, but life has worked out pretty well. I’m a senior senator of the United States of America. Without your parents’ support so long ago, I’d probably be a common criminal, and that’s the truth. I’ll never forget what Jimmy Lee and Ida did for me.”

  Bo put the cigarette in his mouth for a moment, then quickly removed it. “Why would Catherine talk directly with Bruce Laird?”

  “Excuse me?” Mendoza said.

  “Catherine called Laird last night while I was at his apartment. I saw her cell phone number on the caller ID screen. I’ve been trying to figure out all day why she would call him.”

  “I don’t know,” Mendoza answered. “Why are you so concerned?”

  Bo started to answer, then held back.

  “Do you think Catherine is having an affair with him?” Mendoza asked.

  Bo waved the question away. “No. I mean, it seems unlikely, don’t you think? In the first place they aren’t compatible physically.”

  Mendoza reclined in the chair. “It’s never been my impression that Catherine cares much about physical compatibility.” He chuckled. “If she did, I doubt she would have married Tom Bristow, God rest his soul.”

  “You and I both know that marriage was arranged by the families.” Bo was silent for a few moments. “I’m very worried about the picture you showed me in Wyoming,” he said, his mood turning dark as he recalled the image of Tiffany on top of him. “The one of me with the stripper.” He was about to tell Mendoza how he had seen Tiffany outside Penn Station yesterday, but he stopped himself. For some reason he didn’t want to relay that information yet. “And I’ll bet there are more. I don’t know what I’d do if Meg saw them.”

  “You might have thought of that before you—” Mendoza interrupted himself. “I’m sorry, Bo.”

  “I’ll admit that it was stupid of me to let the woman in my Jeep, Michael, but I swear to you it was completely innocent. As I told you in Wyoming, I was just having a little innocent fun.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  Bo’s look turned distant. “Someone is planning to use those pictures against me.”

  “But who?” Mendoza asked.

  “I wish I knew.” Bo looked up at Mendoza. “It would kill Meg if she saw those things. She’s fought through the stories all these years.”

  “I’ll do some checking, Bo,” Mendoza volunteered. “I can call some friends of mine over at the Bureau. They’ll be quiet about it.”

  “Thanks.” He’d been waiting for that offer. “Once again you’re taking care of me.”

  “And it’s a job I enjoy, Bolling.” Mendoza watched Bo turn the cigarette over and over in his fingers. “Along those same lines of taking care of you, do you think it’s a good idea for you to go into Warfield right away? Maybe you should ease back into things. My God, you’ve lost Jimmy Lee and Teddy on the same day.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Sometimes people don’t sense the emotional pressure they’re under and they need others to point it out to them. You look very tired, Bo,” Mendoza said. “This is one of those times. Why don’t you wait another week before you start?”

  “I told you, I’m all right.”

  “The place has survived a year without you,” Mendoza pushed. “I’m sure it will be okay for one more week.”

  “What’s your problem, Michael?” Bo asked, irritated. “Why don’t you want me to go in there?”

  “You and Ramsey can’t stand each other,” Mendoza replied calmly. “That and the responsibility of managing billions of dollars will be very stressful for you. That’s all.”

  Bo stared at Mendoza for several moments. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m looking out for you, Bo.”

  Once more Bo thought about pressing Mendoza on the conversation he had claimed to have with Jimmy Lee. “You know, Ramsey couldn’t handle a market attack if it came.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Warfield has plenty of enemies.”

  Mendoza’s baritone laugh rolled out into the lobby. “We all have enemies,” he said, passing a hand through his silver hair.

  “But with Jimmy Lee gone, Warfield is vulnerable to those enemies,” Bo said quietly. “Before, they couldn’t touch us. Now they can.”

  The smile faded from Mendoza’s face as he straightened in his chair. “Why?”

  “Jimmy Lee’s network of contacts was immense. No one would have dared attack us while he was alive. If he ever found out who launched an attack, he’d crush them. I watched him do it a couple of times. He was vindictive as hell.”

  “What do you mean by ‘attack’?”

  “The Street can figure out pretty easily if you’ve got a significant position in something, say a particular stock, bond, or commodity.” Bo thought about the night a year ago when Fritz and Teddy had been so worried about the gold position. Someone out there had found out about their situation and tried to hurt Warfield, but hadn’t had the strength. “By working in concert, they can hurt you by artificially driving the price down until you have to sell, or simply not trade with you and force you to get out at a loss.”

  “But Warfield Capital is so big. You would be able to withstand something like that.”

  “We’re a hedge fund and we use massive amounts of debt to leverage our investments. If the value of something in our portfolio drops hard and fast, our equity is quickly eroded and the banks and the insurance companies come looking for their money, just as they do with individuals on margin calls.”

  “You have your own network,” Mendoza pointed out.

  “Mine’s stale, and it’s nothing compared to what Jimmy Lee’s was.” Bo pursed his lips. “If Ramsey has been irresponsible with the portfolio, the Street will find out and our enemies will strike. It could be a bloodbath. That’s why I have to get in there quickly. I have to be able to dig through the portfolio.”

  Mendoza rubbed his chin. “Have you been able to get in touch with Ashley?” he finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure you’ve tried to call her.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “You and Ashley were always very close. I’m certain she would be on your side concerning any vote of Warfield’s new executive committee. Now that Teddy is gone, that would give you no worse than a deadlock on anything you brought to a vote. You need to find Ashley now and get her home.”

  Ron Baker relaxed into his huge black leather chair, surveying the glistening skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles from his top-floor office. “I’m very busy.”

  “I appreciate that,” the other man said respectfully. “A presidential campaign must be grueling.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I won’t take much of your time, I promise.”r />
  “All right.” The demands of a tough campaign could be pushed aside for a few minutes in the name of an attractive business proposition. The man on the other side of the desk had come to Baker’s office soliciting an offer to participate with a prominent New York family in a high-profile Manhattan real estate project. Manhattan was a market Baker had never been able to crack from the West Coast, and he wanted to hear more. “The family you represent comes highly recommended by people I know in New York.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Joseph Scully cracked a thin smile. “I want to tell you a story.”

  Baker looked up from the small bag of sour cream potato chips he’d been rooting through. “I just told you I don’t have much time.”

  “This won’t take long, and I think you’ll find it most interesting. It involves child pornography and an abortion.”

  Baker felt his mouth run dry.

  “We have detailed records of certain Web sites you have visited over the last two years, and the material you’ve downloaded.”

  Too late, Baker realized what was happening. “Get the hell out—”

  “Through a vast Web network and cookie technology, we have tracked your movements on that computer right there,” Scully pointed to the unit on Baker’s desk, “as well as the one you have at home. You have been downloading illegal pictures of underage girls. You have also been exchanging pictures with individuals who are known by federal authorities to traffic in child pornography,” Scully continued matter-of-factly. “I’m willing to believe that you had no idea the girls were underage, but the public won’t care. I think you know that.”

  “I ought to throw you out the window—”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that, Mr. Baker. If I don’t call my people in an hour, not only will the newspapers be filled with reports of your activities on the Internet, but there will also be accounts detailing the fact that your wife had a very secret abortion several years ago.” Scully smiled triumphantly. “There was no indication that the fetus was brain-damaged or had any physical deformity that might have prevented it from growing up normally.” Scully paused for effect. “You simply didn’t want another child. It’s safe to say that a candidate running on a platform as conservative as yours will be dead in the water soon after that kind of information is released.”

  “My wife was raped,” Baker whispered.

  “Maybe, but you never reported the crime. We checked. There is no record anywhere of her being attacked. If you use that explanation, people either won’t believe you or they’ll feel sorry for your wife and hate you for using her to save your campaign. It’s a no-win situation.”

  “Who do you represent?” Baker’s voice was barely audible.

  “I’ll let you figure that out. Meanwhile, I’ll give you detailed instructions on everything you are to say and do within the next twenty-four hours.” Scully stood up to leave. “By the way, the real estate transaction is legitimate. As long as you play ball, you will be a partner with the family I mentioned on the phone in that Manhattan real estate project, and you will profit handsomely.”

  Bo entered the antique-filled Park Avenue apartment, took Catherine by the hands, and kissed her gently on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Really okay.”

  Bo nodded. It was as he had described to Michael. Catherine seemed very controlled for a woman who had just lost her husband, father, and brother. “I’m glad you’re holding up.”

  “But you can’t understand it.”

  “Well, I—”

  Catherine pulled her hands away. “Jimmy Lee made me marry Tom Bristow. It was all in the name of greed, Bo.”

  “Now is no time to be bitter. We all have to—”

  “I hadn’t been intimate with Tom in five years. I felt nothing when I heard he was dead. I know how dreadful that sounds but it’s true.”

  Bo gazed at Catherine. He was well aware that the marriage had soured, but until now had had no idea how badly.

  She turned so that her back was to him and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Tom and Teddy were lovers for years, Bo.” For the first time since she had received the phone call from Paul informing her that Tom and Teddy were dead, emotion overtook her and tears began streaming down her face. “For a long time I lived with it, but you can be lonely for only so long.” She wept gently into her hands. “I’ll probably go to hell, but I needed companionship. I needed someone to love me.”

  With that, she fled the room and Bo’s questioning look.

  Tonight’s mission was out of the ordinary, but he had learned long ago not to question directives. It was a more mundane operation than he was accustomed to—he had enjoyed killing Tom Bristow and the Hazeltine Security employee—but he had learned not to complain either. They took good care of him.

  He had easily penetrated Reggie Duncan’s campaign headquarters without tripping the alarm that was connected to the window through which he had entered. Now, as he stood beside a motion sensor and deliberately passed his hand back and forth in front of it, he smiled. The police would be here in a few minutes and his superiors would be pleased. Perhaps, once they had bailed him out of jail, they would give him one of those assignments he enjoyed. If not, he’d have to do it for no reason. He was becoming addicted.

  Satisfied that the alarm had been tripped at the local precinct, he sat down in a desk chair to wait. When the police arrived, sirens blaring, he’d have to make it look like he was trying to escape.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Bring me the private equity sheet,” Bo demanded, glaring at Ramsey from behind the bank of computer monitors on his desk. The private equity sheet listed, by amount and date of transaction, every investment Warfield Capital had made in a nonpublic company. Each of Warfield’s ten departments, from commodities to equity arbitrage, maintained similar sheets—updated hourly by the firm’s central network—so that Bo could quickly determine exactly what lay in the firm’s huge portfolio. He allowed his department heads wide latitude in managing their specific portfolios, but when he noted something that seemed amiss—concentration in a particular sector or an unhedgeable security—he was quick to step in and buy or sell accordingly. Portfolio management came naturally to him, even with two hundred billion under his control. Even with a year’s layoff.

  Ramsey glared back from the office doorway. He had been certain that, despite Teddy’s death, Paul would somehow manage to block Bo’s return to Warfield Capital. Ramsey was fairly sure that Paul didn’t understand the full scope of what was happening within the firm or who was pulling the strings now that Jimmy Lee was gone—as Ramsey did not either. But he knew that Paul understood quite well the critical need to keep Bo from Warfield’s records. He knew that Paul understood how quickly his campaign could unravel if Bo were allowed unrestricted access to everything in the private equity portfolio. “Did you discuss all of this with Paul?” Ramsey asked.

  “All of what?” Bo wanted to know. He could see Ramsey’s intense discomfort, and it elated him. He had come to detest the man during his exile in Montana, but only now did he realize how much.

  “This,” Ramsey stammered, gesturing around the office.

  In the last two days Bo had made the office his again by removing most of Ramsey’s decorations—the expensive furniture and the paintings. Now papers and reports covered tables and chairs, and the six computer monitors on Bo’s resurrected desk—brought out of storage yesterday—were blinking madly with financial quotes. The office no longer resembled a museum. Now it looked the way it should, Bo thought. Like the nerve center of a two-hundred-billion-dollar hedge fund. “I don’t need my brother’s approval concerning how to maintain my—”

  “I mean working at Warfield Capital,” Ramsey interrupted icily. “I’m not talking about your lack of taste.”

  “Four days ago you were so certain that I wouldn’t be back, weren’t you, Frank? You were so certain Paul would be able to keep me away from here
.”

  “I was certain Paul and Teddy would be able to keep you away.” Ramsey hesitated, aware that he should keep his mouth shut. Aware that Scully would be furious with what he was about to say. But he couldn’t stand the smug expression on Bo’s face. The hatred was mutual. “But Teddy was killed. Now he isn’t around to help Paul. Quite convenient for you, isn’t it?”

  Bo glanced up from one of the screens. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

  “You heard me.”

  “I heard you, but I’d better have misunderstood the implication.”

  “Misunderstand what you want, but let me make one thing very clear. I think the timing of Teddy’s death is extremely convenient for you.”

  “Get out of here, Frank,” Bo snarled, standing up. “Get out of here and go get me the damn private equity sheet. I’d better have it in the next ten minutes. And close the door behind you,” he ordered.

  Ramsey stood his ground for a moment, then darted away as he saw Bo starting to come out from behind the desk.

  “Asshole,” Bo muttered, striding across the office to close and lock the door himself.

  When he returned to his seat, he removed a legal-size envelope from the credenza and spread the contents of the envelope out before him. The first piece of paper he picked up was a detailed memo from Michael Mendoza to Jimmy Lee, outlining a plan to alter Warfield’s partnership agreement. The proposal, to be drawn up by Bruce Laird and effective in the event of Jimmy Lee’s death, mirrored the new voting structure that Laird had described four nights ago in his apartment.

  The words blurred in front of Bo’s eyes. Michael Mendoza had proposed the structure and Jimmy Lee had implemented it. It wasn’t Paul, Teddy, or Ramsey after all. It was Michael Mendoza who had been behind a reorganization of the partnership agreement that would effectively freeze Bo out of Warfield. After his meeting at the Waldorf with Mendoza, Bo had discovered the memo stuffed in a box stowed in a third-floor bedroom closet of Jimmy Lee’s mansion. The box, and two others sitting beside it under a sheet, had been filled with his father’s personal papers and effects, all thrown haphazardly into the three containers as if someone had been hurriedly trying to hide something.