When the meeting was over, he asked Towers to join him in his office for a moment.
“I need you to do something for me, Glen,” Michael said, sitting down behind his desk.
“Sure. Is it to do with the Spar deal?” Towers remained standing almost to attention.
“Take a seat.”
“Of course.” Towers sat down at the other side of the desk, looking like an expectant puppy.
“No. I’ve had an enquiry about some new work, but I know nothing about the potential client. I need you to do some research on them for me.”
“Sure.” Towers’ eyes lit up. It was clear he couldn’t wait to do some work directly for a partner. It was his chance to impress. “What do you need?”
“Don’t get too excited. This is just standard client acceptance work. We do a lot of this, and it often comes to nothing.”
Towers wrote a heading—CLIENT ACCEPTANCE—on his legal pad.
“The firm’s called the Grannis Hedge Fund.” Michael pushed across a photocopy of the business card Rondell had given him. “I want to know who is behind them. Where do their funds come from? See if you can find anything out about their directors and other key staff members.”
Towers scribbled frantic notes on his pad, repeating Michael’s words as he did so. “I got it. Anything else?”
“See if you can find out what they’ve invested in, too. Find out if they have a decent track record. Use your imagination.”
Towers beamed at Michael. “I’ll get onto it right away. When do you need this?”
“It’s important you don’t sacrifice anything on the Spar deal to do this, but I really need something on Grannis by the middle of next week.”
“You’ll have it,” Towers said, standing up.
“Just one more thing.”
Towers stopped. “I’m sorry. I thought we’d finished.”
“I don’t want anyone else to know about Grannis. Okay?”
“Of course. I’ll do everything myself.”
Moments after Towers walked out, Michael took a call on his cell phone. He recognized the number and answered it.
“Danny Boy, how are you my friend?”
Michael’s stomach muscles contracted at the sound of Rondell’s voice. “What do you want?” He swiveled his chair toward the window so his voice did not carry outside his open door.
“Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”
“We’re not friends.”
“I thought I’d invite you over for lunch.”
“Can I say no?”
“Well, in theory, you could decline, but I’d be real upset with you.”
Michael breathed out through his nostrils. “When?”
“Next Friday, here.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“You won’t come empty-handed, will you? It’s customary to bring a small gift for your host.”
“I’m not—”
“Whoa. You have to bring something.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Next Friday. Twelve thirty.” The phone went dead.
Michael knew exactly what Rondell meant. The idea sent a chill through him. With the Spar/Collar deal about to happen, suddenly this all seemed very real. When he stared at the blank PC screen in front of him, his face in the reflection looked petrified.
Chapter 7
PAT SAJAK WAS ENJOYING A JOKE with Vanna White, but it went straight over the head of nine-year-old Danny Seifert, sitting cross-legged in front of the widescreen television. “He’s already at nine thousand dollars,” he said to his sister, who was doing her homework at the fold-down table crammed into the back corner of the small living room. His eyes were glued to the screen. “You have to watch this. I think he could make ten thousand. This is going to be a biggie.”
His sister ignored him and carried on, as though she was used to his running commentary while she was trying to work.
There was a knock at the front door.
“Get that, Danny,” shouted his mother from the kitchen. “And if it’s Mr. Barado, tell him I’m not in, but I’ll definitely have it for him next week.”
“She’s drunk the rent money again,” said his sister in a monotone voice, without looking up.
Danny shook his head and rose to his feet.
Another knock at the door, but this time much louder.
“Danny. I’m not going to tell you again.”
The aggression in his mother’s voice needed no further explanation. She’d already deprived him of dinner this evening for reasons unknown to him, and he was not about to give her the satisfaction of another beating. Danny slapped his forehead when the wheel spun round to “BANKRUPT” and then ran to the front door of the apartment. There was no one in view through the wire-reinforced glass-top section of the door. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to go back to the living room.
“They’ve gone, Mom.”
Then another knock. Danny spun around, unbolted the two locks, and opened the door. Rondell was standing there. He’d been hidden by the lower wooden panel.
“Danny Boy. You coming out?” he asked, rolling his head with each word.
“It’s after seven. She’ll never let me.”
“Come on, man. It’s my birthday today.”
“Hold on.” Danny turned toward the kitchen and shouted, “It’s Rondell, Mom. Wants to know if I’m allowed out.”
“You know what time it is,” said the loud voice from the kitchen. “You’ll have to see him tomorrow.”
“But it’s his tenth birthday today. Please, just a few minutes.”
“Half an hour, Danny. You know what will happen if you’re late.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Quickly he pulled the door closed and rushed out, in case she changed her mind.
Both boys started walking along the corridor toward the central block where the elevators were located. “The Seeds of Love” by Tears for Fears was blaring out of the apartment three doors down from where Danny lived.
Danny rolled his eyes. “He’s at it again.”
Rondell looked at his friend. “Don’t you get sick of hearing that?”
“You get used to it. That one’s not too bad. When he’s drunk, the Elvis records come out. Those, you don’t want to hear.”
Rondell kicked the apartment door and then ran off. Danny shook his head and followed. By the time the door opened, they had disappeared around the corner into the lobby, where Rondell pressed the button to summon the elevator. There was not a single inch of wall space free of graffiti, and the dimly lit area smelled of urine and tobacco.
“That wasn’t funny.” Danny had his hands on his hips.
“Come on. Lighten up. It’s my birthday.” Rondell pressed the button again.
“Did you get any candy?”
“Sure.” Rondell took out a Snickers bar from his coat pocket and threw it at his friend.
“Thanks.” Danny devoured it in three bites. At least that would stave off his hunger for a while. “What else did you get?”
Rondell looked down at his own feet. He was wearing a brand new pair of white Nike trainers. “What do you think?”
Danny tilted his head with approval. “Very nice. Who bought those for you?”
“My uncle. Even took me down to Walmart to let me choose them myself.”
“They look expensive.”
“The best.”
“That was nice of him.”
Rondell looked at Danny and smiled. “He didn’t buy them, stupid.” He pressed the button a few more times in quick succession.
“Come on. I think they’re broken again.” Danny started heading for the staircase.
Rondell turned his back to one of the elevator doors and kicked it several times with the sole of one of his new trainers, adding to the dents already on the steel doors. “I don’t know how you live with them not working fourteen floors up,” he said when he caught up with Danny.
“Happens every week. My mom hates it when she has
to walk up with the shopping. Well, the beer cans, anyway.”
“If we’re going to walk all the way down, I need a cigarette. We’ll stop at my place.”
They left the staircase on the third floor and walked along the corridor, past a couple of teenage boys who were leaning with their backs on the outside wall.
“Hey, Rondell,” said one of them. “Ask your uncle if he’s got any more of that shit he sold me yesterday.”
Rondell turned and flicked him the finger. “Ask him yourself.”
“I wouldn’t mess about with them,” Danny said in a low voice.
Rondell curled his lip. “I’m not worried about them. They know who my uncle is.”
When they reached Rondell’s apartment, he thumped on the door. His uncle, a wiry man in his late twenties, answered after a couple of minutes. He wore a baggy pair of dirty jeans and no top. In the middle of his scrawny chest was a large tattoo of a butterfly, and between his yellow stained fingers, he held a spliff. He looked stoned, leaning against the doorframe.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said, blocking the doorway and raising his voice above the music coming out of the apartment behind him. Fern Kinney was singing “Together We Are Beautiful.”
Rondell stood his ground while Danny edged backward. “I need a cigarette.”
His uncle shook his head no. “Your mom would kill me.”
“What would she say if I told her how you got these?” Rondell pointed to his new trainers. “I know it’s incredible, but she actually believes you bought them for me. You don’t want to disappoint her now, do you?”
His uncle swayed a little and then steadied himself against the door before reaching into his jeans and pulling out a packet of Marlboros. He opened the pack and counted the cigarettes. He took out all but two of them and then threw the box at Rondell. “That’s all you’re getting.”
Rondell caught it and then stared at him. “They’re no good without matches.”
His uncle grabbed a box of matches from the shelf behind him and gave them to Rondell. “Now fuck off and don’t come back for at least an hour,” he said before closing the door.
As they walked back toward the staircase, Rondell offered a cigarette to Danny.
“No thanks,” said Danny. “Why do you call him ‘uncle,’ when he’s your mom’s friend?”
Rondell blew out a large puff of smoke and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I always have.”
Danny headed down the stairs. “He gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too.”
A few moments later, they reached the building exit. A strong, icy wind blew into the entrance when Rondell opened the door. He took one look outside and stopped. It was beginning to rain hard. Grimacing, he glanced at his blemish-free designer trainers before shutting the door.
“You know,” he said, throwing his half-finished cigarette butt on the floor. “I have a much better idea than going out.”
Chapter 8
THE EQUITY PARTNERS OF DUDEK, COLLINS, & HAMILTON met at nine a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month in the main boardroom, which was the only space large enough to accommodate all fifty-four of them. After running through the previous month’s financial performance, most of the discussion this morning had focused on the likely financial outturn for this year now that there were only two months left to go. Much of the conversation had been about Michael’s Spar deal for Corton Zander. If he could pull off this high-profile transaction in the next few weeks, then the fat fee would fall into the current year and would guarantee record annual profits for the firm. Art Jenks, the senior partner, estimated that with Michael’s deal in the bag, average profit per equity partner would just exceed three million dollars, putting the firm within the top five most profitable law firms in New York. That would be the first time the firm had made it into the Golden Circle. That fact alone would act as a magnet for future prestigious clients.
“How did you find your first meeting?” Jenks asked Michael over the stand-up buffet lunch that followed the meeting.
“It was interesting to get an insight into the full financials for the first time.” Michael tried to contain his real thoughts. In truth, he’d never expected the profitability of the firm to be as high as he had just discovered, but he had to act as though making three million a year was something that was perfectly normal.
“I don’t want you to feel too much pressure to reel in the Spar deal.” Jenks dunked a jumbo shrimp into some bright red dipping sauce before devouring it in one mouthful.
“You know I’ll do my best to get it over the line, but if the client withdraws from the deal…”
“It would really help the firm’s profile if we could make it into the top five this year. I can’t tell you what that would mean to me. It’s always been an ambition of mine to see the firm up there.”
Michael smiled. “Don’t worry, Art. I get it. No pressure, but don’t drop the ball on this one.”
“That pretty much sums it up.” Jenks tapped Michael on the shoulder before moving on to chat with some of the other partners.
Michael stayed for another fifteen minutes before giving in to the pressure of work waiting for him back in his office. Rachel brought him a coffee, and he started reviewing some of the legal due diligence work his team had already done on the Spar deal. He asked Rachel to close his door as she left so he could block out the noise coming from the open-plan area just outside his room. When the associates hit the phones at the same time, their raised voices could be distracting.
Minutes later, there was a slight tap on his door, and Glen Towers popped his head around. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I wondered if you had a moment to go over the research on Grannis.”
“Sure.” Michael pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Grab a seat. I’d like to hear how it went.”
Michael shifted his weight and cleared his throat. While Towers was an inexperienced lawyer, he was a bright young man, not long out of Harvard Law School. Although he hoped Towers had found some interesting general background on Rondell’s hedge fund, he had a nagging concern as to what else he might have uncovered in the process.
Towers handed over a small stack of papers. “It seems they keep a pretty low profile.”
Michael didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. “Talk me through what you have anyway.”
“There’s not a great deal to be learned from their filings. They have about three hundred and fifty million dollars under management, two directors, and two offices—one off Wall Street, the other in San Francisco. They appear to have a strong record of returns, but these have come off quite a bit recently. Unfortunately, I’ve learned very little about their individual stock trades. I suspect they don’t buy much in their own name.”
“You think they use nominee accounts?”
“I suspect so. I can try digging around that a little more if you want.”
“I don’t need it that badly. It would have been interesting to learn what they’d bought, but it’s not essential.”
“Okay.”
“Who are the directors?” Michael asked, feigning ignorance.
Towers placed his copy of the papers on the desk and tucked his hands under his thighs. “This is where it gets a little tricky.”
What had Towers discovered? Michael sat forward. “Go on.”
“The one on the West Coast is a guy called Andrew Rubin. Seems he’s worked for a few second-rate investment management firms out there. From what I can tell, he has a clean enough record. It’s his name that appears on most of their filings, and I suspect that’s so they can present a decent public image.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are…” Towers hesitated, searching for the right words. “There are issues with the other director, the one here in New York.”
Had Michael screwed up by getting Towers involved? What was he about to blurt out? “What kind of issues?”
“James Grannis has a
criminal record.” Towers paused, waiting for permission to carry on.
“Criminal? For what?”
“Assault and a bunch of other violent crimes. Seems he’s been in and out of prison for much of his adult life. Well, at least back to his early twenties. Interestingly, I can’t find anything on him before the age of twenty-three, though—no college history, nothing. It’s as though he came out of nowhere.”
Thank God for small mercies. At least Towers had made no connection between Rondell and Chicago. And that meant he would know nothing about Michael’s links with Rondell. “Jeez. He sounds a nasty piece of work. You’ve done well to find all this out, Glen.”
“There’s more.”
Michael sat upright. “Okay. What else do you have?”
Towers sighed. “I took a look at whatever press coverage there was on Grannis and dug around on the web a little.” He fidgeted on his chair. “It’s no more than rumor, so health warning on this next bit.”
Michael’s mouth felt dry. What was he about to hear?
Towers looked as though he was struggling to find the right words again. “There is,” he said, before stopping and cupping his hands together, “some speculation of a mob connection with Grannis.”
Michael didn’t know what to say. He needed to bring this to a halt as soon as he could without appearing to ignore what Towers had uncovered. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“It would certainly explain the lack of information on their investors.”
Once a Killer Page 5
