Stephen Frey

by Trust Fund

  Bo put down the memo and picked up a second piece of paper detailing all the long-distance telephone calls Jimmy Lee had made from his office on the day Mendoza claimed to have flown from Washington, D.C., to Wyoming. Mendoza had claimed that Jimmy Lee called him while he was waiting to take off from Reagan National Airport, Bo recalled, certain he was remembering the conversation accurately. His memory rivaled Laird’s and he was certain Mendoza had described a call from Jimmy Lee, not to. Bo examined the paper line by line. There was no call from Jimmy Lee’s office phone to Mendoza’s cell number.

  The last item he studied was a breakdown of what Warfield Capital and all other Warfield entities had paid Bruce Laird since he had resigned from Davis Polk eight years ago to join the Hancocks. The family controller had put the numbers together. Bo shook his head as he reviewed the document. Laird had been paid two hundred thousand dollars a year since joining the Hancocks. No more and no less. There had never been a raise and there had never been a bonus. “It doesn’t make sense,” Bo muttered to himself. Laird must have been doing very well at the high-profile Manhattan law firm before accepting Jimmy Lee’s offer to come into the Hancock fold. “Two hundred thousand is nothing to sneeze at, but he would have been making much more as a Davis Polk partner. Why would he have left for this?” The intercom buzzed on Bo’s desk, interrupting his analysis. “Yes?”

  “A Mr. Taylor is here to see you.”

  “Please show him to my office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A few moments later Allen Taylor sat down in the chair in front of Bo’s desk. He was a private investigator whom Bo had known for two decades, unrelated to Hazeltine Security. Taylor’s specialty was fraud detection. He was a heavyset man with thinning dark hair, bushy sideburns, a beard, and a heavy New York accent.

  “How was Europe?” Bo asked.

  “Fine.” Taylor was as abrupt as Laird. “I have information for you, Bo.”

  “That was fast.”

  Taylor glanced around the office warily. “Do you think it’s wise to talk here?”

  Taylor was as cool as they came, but today he seemed distracted. “Yes, why?”

  “Just wondered.” Taylor got up and went over to a stereo system installed on a bookcase near the window. Bo often listened to classical music during stressful periods of the day. Taylor flicked on a CD, then turned up the volume before sitting back down.

  “What the hell is wrong, Allen? Why so secretive?”

  “As you instructed, I traced the flow of funds on the new equity that came into Warfield Capital three months ago.” He was still being evasive. “The two billion.”

  Four days ago, after confronting Frank Ramsey, and before heading for the bar on Forty-eighth Street, Bo had sat down briefly with the family controller, whose office was at Warfield. Besides the compensation records for Bruce Laird, he’d gotten all available details of the European equity investment Ramsey had mentioned during their meeting. With that information in hand, Taylor had immediately hopped a plane bound for London. Taylor had warned Bo that the process of trailing the money would take at least a week, but he had already returned. “What did you find?” Bo demanded.

  “A brick wall.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Taylor shifted in his seat. “I’ve been tracking money for years and I pride myself on being able to locate the origin of any wire transfer. My network of back-office employees in major moneycenter banks all over the world is immense. It’s strong in secondary cities too.”

  Bo nodded. Taylor was the best. He was the man Bo had called the night Fritz Peterson and Teddy had panicked about Warfield’s gold position. “It’s true, Allen. You’ve got more moles than the CIA.” Taylor could confirm or refute even obscure rumors in minutes.

  “But I couldn’t crack this one, Bo,” Taylor said. “The trail ended at a bank in Italy like an abandoned railroad spur. One minute I’m rushing along on the express train certain I’m about to find out who sent Warfield two billion dollars, and the next minute the engine comes to a grinding halt.” Taylor sat back in his chair, an odd expression on his face. “It was eerie, Bo. I haven’t had that experience in years. Back then it was because I didn’t have the contacts. This time . . .” His voice faded.

  “This time what?” Bo asked.

  “Either people were too scared to talk, or they really didn’t know the origin of that last inbound wire,” Taylor answered. “I can’t tell. I’m still working on it,” he said, handing his report to Bo. “But I can’t promise that I’ll be able to get any further.”

  Bo took the report and slid it into the envelope containing the material he’d been reviewing before the intercom buzzed. “What about the other thing?”

  Taylor brightened. “It turns out Bruce Laird had a little problem when your father came calling eight years ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Laird had a massive malpractice suit staring him in the face to the tune of hundreds of millions. Davis Polk needed to get rid of him quietly and it looks like Jimmy Lee was doing them a favor.”

  Bo nodded. Now the two-hundred-thousand-dollar salary without a raise or a bonus was beginning to make sense. “Look, I want—”

  The office door burst open and Ramsey strode into the room. “Here’s your damn sheet,” he announced loudly, tossing the report down on Bo’s desk. “Up-to-the-minute,” he said, eyeing Taylor suspiciously. “Who’s this?”

  “That’ll be all, Frank.”

  Ramsey waited for Taylor to introduce himself. When he didn’t, Ramsey headed straight for his office to place a call.

  Bo watched Ramsey rush from the office, then relaxed into his chair and rubbed his eyes. Tomorrow he would bury his father and brother.

  They had nailed the guy crawling out of Reggie Duncan’s Harlem campaign headquarters early this morning but, as yet, had been unable to identify him. The detective eyed the suspect sitting calmly in the holding cell of the precinct. It was strange. The man was too composed.

  They had been unable to pry any useful information from the suspect during three hours of interrogation. He had been carrying no identification, just a few papers in a jacket pocket, with an address and telephone numbers, and he refused to say a word. Now he sat on the cot, smiling confidently from behind the bars of the cell, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Hey, look at this!” The detective’s partner rushed up the hallway carrying a note.

  “What is it?” the detective asked, snatching it.

  “We traced the address and the telephone numbers the guy in there had in his jacket pocket,” he answered, pointing at the man in the cell. “Can you believe it?”

  “Jesus,” the detective murmured under his breath, seeing the name on the note. “What about this?” he demanded, holding up the note so the prisoner could see the name. “Got anything to say about this? You can help yourself by being cooperative.”

  The man shrugged. He had no intention of being cooperative. He’d done his job and he’d been instructed to say nothing.

  “We’ve got to make certain this doesn’t get into the hands of the press until we’ve figured out what’s really going on here,” the detective warned his partner.

  “I know. This thing is the fuse to a ten-thousand-pound keg of dynamite.”

  “Nothing to say?” the detective asked the suspect again.

  The suspect shook his head.

  “Oh, by the way.”

  “What?” the detective asked, turning to his partner.

  “The guy’s already made bail.”

  The detective’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t allowed him his phone call yet.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It had been a double funeral. Jimmy Lee’s and Teddy’s closed dark-wood coffins were positioned side by side before the elaborate main altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral—a massive Gothic structure whose spire towered twenty stories above Fifth Avenu
e in the heart of Manhattan—with hundreds of mourners looking on and thousands more holding vigil outside. The Hancocks were Protestants, but out of respect for a family that had contributed great sums of money to many of New York’s most important causes, city officials had persuaded the Catholic archdiocese to allow St. Patrick’s, as Manhattan’s most visible religious landmark, to be used for the momentous occasion.

  Tom Bristow’s funeral had taken place the day before in a tiny church outside Boston, near Concord. The only Hancock to attend had been Catherine, accompanied by Bruce Laird.

  The two-hour service for Jimmy Lee and Teddy had been attended by senior Washington officials, CEOs of American and international industry, and a long list of Wall Street and Hollywood executives. The crowd grew so large it spilled down the cathedral’s steps and out onto Fifth Avenue, washing wavelike into the street through a long line of black limousines that awaited the two caskets and the family, friends, and honored guests, and wreaking havoc with traffic.

  Socialites accustomed to front-row seats were relegated to the back of the cathedral, but they didn’t care because this was an event not to be missed. An event by which one’s standing in society would be judged for years. The closer to the coffins the better, but being inside the cathedral was enough.

  Jimmy Lee and Teddy were buried in a small graveyard shaded by majestic oak trees and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence in a remote corner of the Hancock estate. It was a hallowed site reserved for immediate family members, including Teddy’s great-great-grandfather, Blanton, who had founded the Hancock dynasty with a cheap and timely investment in a Pennsylvania oil rig. The investment had paid huge dividends and allowed the family to invest further in oil and railroads, amassing a huge fortune in the process. Bo, Meg, Paul, Paul’s wife Betty, Catherine, Bruce Laird, and the minister were the only people present at the burial service, besides the workmen who struggled mightily with wide canvas straps to lower the caskets carefully into graves. Catherine dropped a bouquet of black roses onto each casket and the ceremony was concluded.

  The mourners rode back together to the reception at Jimmy Lee’s mansion. Paul and Catherine had decided not to hold the reception at the playhouse, which could more comfortably have accommodated the throng of people visiting the estate to pay their last respects. The playhouse had always been used for festive occasions and it felt inappropriate in these sad circumstances.

  For the first time the family had an ugly pall hanging over it. The patriarch, Jimmy Lee, had been taken with little warning, and succession was muddied, though Paul had unilaterally declared himself the new leader. Teddy had been taken in his prime—which hadn’t happened to a Hancock in Blanton’s line for generations. And he had been taken violently in a horrible fire along with his brother-in-law. Most people attending the funeral knew that while Jimmy Lee’s coffin contained his body, Teddy’s coffin was virtually empty. The explosion which had rocked the Porsche at the bottom of the quarry had been so powerful and the after-fire so intense that authorities sifting through the wreckage had found only a few charred body parts that they could identify as Teddy’s.

  Before the limousine transporting the funeral party had slowed to a halt at a wide stone path leading from the circular driveway to the mansion’s main entrance, Bo pushed open the vehicle’s back door, not waiting for the dark-suited attendants who had been hired for the day. After stepping from the car, he turned and held out his hand for Meg. “Come on,” he urged.

  “You’re in quite a rush,” she said quietly as she emerged.

  It had been torture for Bo to share the limousine from the graveyard with Paul. Harder still for him to mourn the fact that Teddy was gone—though he felt great guilt about this—even as the workmen began shoveling dirt onto the casket. Though not blood brothers, they had lived together as a family for many years. There should have been sorrow in his heart, Bo knew. But he could not forget how much pleasure Paul and Teddy had taken in telling him of his adoption. When they’d made it clear to him at the hospital that he was not truly a Hancock, they had reveled in the moment, and he had hated them for it. He would honor Jimmy Lee’s wish and do his best to protect Paul from whatever snakes lay hidden in the grass, but he would not relish the task.

  “Are you all right?” Meg tugged on Bo’s arm gently as they walked toward the mansion.

  He smiled at her, overcome by the compassion he saw in her eyes. “I’m fine,” he assured her.

  “You look very handsome today,” she murmured. “A rugged man in a crisp dark suit and a starched white shirt. Very gallant. You’ve always been my knight in shining armor, Bo, and you always will be.” She knew he was having difficulty with the situation, and that he needed her support.

  Bo had never gone out of his way to show Meg affection in public. It wasn’t his style, but today it felt right. He took her hand tightly in his and, stopping on the path, kissed her forehead. “I love you,” he said. “You’ve always been so good to me.” He hesitated a moment. “Am I worthy of your love?”

  “That’s a silly question,” she whispered.

  “Am I worthy of this?” he asked, looking up at Jimmy Lee’s mansion, which loomed over them. He hadn’t told Meg about his adoption yet, and he wasn’t certain why. Perhaps it was because he still hadn’t fully come to grips with it himself, or because he was afraid of what she might think. She loved him dearly—there was no question about that—but down deep he was troubled that somehow it might alter their relationship.

  “How can you even ask that?”

  “Do I represent the Hancock family as well as Paul does? He is so impressive, Meg, so much like Jimmy Lee. Do people look at me and wonder, ‘What happened?’ ”

  “Stop it,” she said firmly. “Stop putting yourself down. I hate it when you do that.”

  “What are you talking about?” A slight breeze drifted over the wide, freshly mowed lawn, blowing Meg’s hair across her face and bringing the sweet smell of cut grass to them. Bo reached out and pushed her hair back. “I don’t understand.”

  She caught his rough fingers and kissed them. “I mean that you’ve always felt as if Paul and Teddy were better than you.”

  “No, I haven’t,” he answered without conviction.

  “Yes, you have. You’ve always put yourself down and at the same time tried desperately to please them. You’ve always been willing to be the one toiling in the background while they get all the credit. Warfield Capital is a perfect example.” She shook her head disgustedly. “It’s been that way ever since you were young. I’ve seen the home movies of you as children. It was always them against you, whether it was a snowball battle or a touch football game. And the few times you were on the same side, you were the one doing the blocking while they got the ball and scored. I hate the way they’ve taken advantage of your willingness to be a team player. It’s always infuriated me that they’ve bullied you into doing the dirty work. And they know I hate it. That’s why they’ve never liked me.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’d like to say that I’m sorry Teddy is gone, but I can’t. I never cared for him, or Paul.”

  “Meg, I wasn’t aware that you—”

  “I’m being honest, Bo,” she interrupted. “I’ve held back all these years, but I won’t anymore. I’m telling you what you need to hear. They’ve never treated you with the respect you deserve.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to say that on this of all days. I’m so, so sorry, but it’s time you heard the truth because you need to take charge of the family. You must take control of not only Warfield but everything else too.” She took a deep breath. “Catherine can’t run things, she’s too weak. She’d be lost, even with help from a team of advisors. Everyone knows that. Paul can’t do it either. He has to focus on his campaign. It has to be you, Bo. You need to take the helm. It’s your time.” She touched his ruddy cheeks. “I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.”

  Bo gazed at her for several seconds, aware that the others had emerged from the limousine and were headed toward them on th
e path. “Why haven’t you said these things before?” he asked.

  “I didn’t feel it was my place. But when Paul and Catherine wouldn’t let you address the congregation at the funeral, I had to say something. I don’t like them, Bo, especially Paul. He fools everyone with his charm, but he’s evil.”

  Bo’s expression turned grim.

  “Didn’t you want to say something to the people in that church?” Meg asked. “Didn’t you want to say something to your father in front of them?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Paul and Catherine didn’t even ask if you wanted to speak, did they?”

  He lowered his eyes. “No.”

  “And you didn’t demand to.”

  He wanted to tell her why. He wanted to tell her that as an adopted child he hadn’t felt it was his right to demand equal time with the blood children before the assembled mourners. That it wasn’t his right to demand any time.

  She lifted his chin and gazed into his eyes. “No matter what happens, I love you. You know I haven’t stayed by your side all these years because of the money,” she said, nodding at the huge home. “I love you because of who you are and what you mean to me. Deep down you are the most decent man I’ve ever known. I could be happy with you in a broken-down tenement.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “But there’s something I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “When I met you at Penn Station a few days ago the last thing in the world you wanted me to do was return to Warfield Capital. Now you want me to take control of everything. What has changed?”

  “Nothing, everything. I love you as much as I always have, maybe more, but now your father and brother are gone.” Meg looked up into the trees. This was difficult. She would rather have him to herself, but she knew that was impossible now. “You must take control, Bo. Without you the Hancock family is vulnerable. I don’t know Frank Ramsey very well, but I know enough about him not to trust him.” She hesitated. “Most of all, I want the best for you.” She motioned toward the immaculately kept grounds surrounding them. “This is where you belong. You love running Warfield and you should. Just don’t forget me.”