Black Fridays (21 page)

Like a bag of casino chips? In large denominations? Not likely.

“Isn’t it time you gave me a little something? Why is Sanders so important? There must be two dozen other junior guys involved. I’m sure you can find one or two live ones to lean on.”

Maloney looked pained. He wasn’t ready to give up anything until he heard more. “Bear with me, Mr. Stafford. When we’re done, I will either answer your questions or stand up and leave. Either way, your position will be improved.”

He was right. As long as I kept their interest away from the chips, I had nothing to lose.

I started with the call from Stockman, described the meetings with Barilla, the sales manager, and Avery. I described the work Spud had done on the trade reports, and ended with my trip to Brooklyn. Savoring the opportunity for taking revenge, I gave them Carmine Nardo.

“He probably thinks he has to hang tough—omerta or some such—but if you squeeze him just a little, he will squeal.”

“We know of Mr. Nardo. Any other names for us?”

He showed no surprise when I named Sudhir Patel.

“Yeah, but he’s in the wind.”

“On his way back home,” I said. Then I told him about Lowell Barrington. The words stuck in my throat. I had not yet sorted through all the debris over his death.

“That’s a name we didn’t have. It’s a shame. A confession would have helped.” Maloney didn’t share my conflict. “What can you tell us about Arrowhead?”

“Or the guy who runs it?” Brady said.

“Hochstadt. Geoffrey Hochstadt. I know his name and that he lives in Darien. That’s it.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Brady said. “I swear you sound like a guy who’s holding out. You keep telling us things we already know.”

“Not true. I just gave you Lowell Barrington.”

“Thank you. He’s dead.”

Maloney was sitting back, enjoying watching Brady get under my skin.

I told them about Sanders’ calendar. About breaking the simple code he had used. About the dates and trades matching up. About the casino trips.

This time, they both looked pleased. I hated giving away what Spud and I had worked hard to earn, but it also meant I got to keep the information about the chips a bit longer.

“I’m done,” I said. “It’s your turn, Maloney. Either talk or leave. I’ve got nothing else to give.”

Brady hitched up his pants and gave a nod, like he was ready to leave, but Maloney gestured for him to wait.

“We need help, Stafford. I don’t like admitting it, but that’s the story. Before I can get authorization to go through the records of a foreign account, I need something concrete. Something to show a judge.”

“So talk to me. You think this thing is bigger than just these junior traders? I agree. Now, who are we talking about?”

Maloney shook his head, and surprised me with a curveball.

“Anybody over there talk about how Sanders died?”

“A boating accident. It was in the paper.”

“Anybody mention whose boat it was?”

I remembered the article in the
Post
. I knew the answer, I just hadn’t known I knew it.

Maloney let me work it out before filling in the details. “They were out in Hochstadt’s sailboat, coming back from a Wednesday-night yacht club race. A squall came up and they made a run for Greenwich harbor. Hochstadt should have known better.”

“He did know better,” Brady threw in.

“There’s about a million little islands, reefs, and needle rocks all through there. It’s about the last place you’d want to head in bad weather. They hit up on a pile of rocks just inside of Great Captain Island. Boat was a total loss. Hochstadt made it ashore, banged up but alive. Sanders wasn’t so lucky. His body didn’t turn up for almost three weeks. Forty miles east.”

Why hadn’t anyone at the firm mentioned this little coincidence? Because, like the casino trips, it was all old news. Everyone knew, so it must not have been important. I’d read the story myself, and made no connection.

“The Coast Guard handled the investigation—it’s their jurisdiction. They cleared it. Accidental death by drowning. They made Hochstadt take a one-day boating safety course. Case closed.” Maloney leaned back and folded his hands.

“But that wasn’t your take.”

“No. Because we knew there was more to it.”

I thought it through, adding and subtracting the bits and pieces of information that I had.

“You were already on to Sanders. You knew he was dirty.”

“Almost,” Maloney said. “Other way round. Sanders came to us—seven months ago—with a story. It was small-time stuff. I told him to take it to his compliance department—or the NYPD, if he felt he had to make a case out of it. But Sanders was sure there were bigger guys involved. His plan was to keep working his way up the food chain with Arrowhead until he could get us some names. We let him run with it. He reported in every week, but all he gave us was more small potatoes. We were ready to drop it.”

“Until Sanders turned up dead.”

“Exactly.” He gave an aggravated sigh. “Sanders was a pain in the ass. He got bored with whipping around millions, so he started playing at junior G-man. But his dying in an accident with the only witness being the main suspect in our investigation was too much for me. I’m not a big fan of coincidence.”

“But you couldn’t get the Coast Guard to take another look?”

“No. And without that, I couldn’t get a judge to listen. We went through Sanders’ room, took his desktop computer, but there was nothing on it worth looking at.”

“You didn’t search the rest of the apartment?”

“The roommate wouldn’t let us. Said Sanders only rented the one room. I think he was worried we’d find his stash of ‘E.’ We figured it was BS, but our hands were tied. If we found something and a judge knocked it down, we were back to square one.”

“So how’d you know to follow me?”

“We leaned on Mitch. I told him to call if anybody showed up.”

“Someone else went through that room,” I said. “Someone who said he was from Weld.”

“I know. Mitch called us. We raced out there, but we missed him.”

I thought it through. “But I called in advance. So you were waiting for me.”

He nodded.

“Look, I’ll give you whatever else I come up with. But I’m already winding this down. I’m supposed to talk with Stockman later today—and I fully expect him to say,
‘Adios.’
He thinks he’s seen the worst. He’s got nothing to fear from an investigation. The merger goes through and he gets his shot at the top. And all this becomes nothing more than a minor embarrassment. He wants me gone.”

“Stall him. Tell him you need another week or two.”

I laughed. “Sorry, I already played that card. I might be able to get you a few days. The end of the week, tops.”

He didn’t like it.

“Get me time or get me something tangible. Something I can take to a judge. I need to link the payoffs, or show a paper trail. Something.”

Something like a bag full of casino chips.

“I’m not your go-to guy, here. I’ve told you what I know. Now I’m done. Out of it. I want to take care of my son and look around for my next paycheck.”

“You need to cooperate with me.”

His insistence was beginning to annoy me. “What aren’t you getting? I have cooperated! Now I’m done. If I trip over something else I think you can use, I’ll pass it along.”

“You’re on parole, Stafford. Don’t cross me or you’ll find yourself on the way back upstate.”

They could not know about the chips, or they would already have said something. I had nothing else to offer. Maloney knew that. The only thing that made any sense to me was that he wanted something else. Something entirely different. That shifted the game to my side of the table. I could afford to bluff.

“We’re done here. Take me in. Let me make my call. I don’t know what you guys think you’re doing, but I’m not having any of it.”

Maloney slammed his hand down on the table. It was a cheap trick, but it worked. I shut up.

“Hear me out. I’ve got a dead witness to what I think may be a major criminal conspiracy. Do you think I’m going to let a pissant ex-con and his gentle feelings stand in my way? From here on, you are working for me—on my terms—or you are on your way back.”

A parole officer has powers once reserved for minor Greek gods. A word in his ear from the FBI, and I could be back in the system—without appeal. My next parole hearing would be in eighteen months. The Kid would go back to being locked up in Mamma’s spare bedroom.

“All right. I’m listening.”

Brady was watching his boss carefully, which made me think we were well off script. Maloney was fishing. He had the power to destroy my life, but only I could give him the excuse.

“First, I want you to get us that laptop. Then you meet with our techs—walk them through. I would bet there’s plenty more in those files that you missed.”

I wouldn’t have made any such bet, but providing him the laptop would cost me nothing.

“What else?”

“Two. I’m going to get that warrant. Somehow. When I do, you come along. You show our accounting people what to look for—specific trades, dates, counterparties.”

This was annoying, but nothing more. “I get paid for doing that.”

“Think of it as giving something back to the community.”

Again, it would cost me nothing but an hour or so of my time.

“Next?”

“You go back to Weld. But this time you wear a wire. I want all those millionaires on tape.”

“Not a chance.” Some of those people may have been jerks or, worse, crooks, but some were friends—or had been. They didn’t deserve that kind of duplicity from me. “Sorry, but I’m just not that kind of guy. Besides, didn’t your last rat get himself killed?”

“Four.” Relentless. “You meet with Hochstadt. Provoke him. Threaten to blackmail him. We’ll script it all out for you. Just get him on tape saying something incriminating.”

It was my turn to slam a hand on the table.

“Don’t you fucking get it? I’m not doing this. Call my parole officer. I can still afford a lawyer and I want to hear what a judge will have to say about you setting me up to entrap a suspected murderer. I’m a Wall Street trader, not goddamn James Bond! Out! We are done!”

Brady gave me the hard stare again. “We can run a file on you—say anything we want. How’d you like to be a registered sex offender? We can make that happen. One call to Family Services and your son is in foster care. I can have your bank account frozen. Today. By the time we’re done, your own father won’t want to know you.”

I believed they could do it. But I did not believe they
would
do it. I fired back.

“You know what, Brady? You should stick with driving the car and the heavy lifting. Leave the brain work to your boss. The bluff only works if I fold. I want no part of your little improv group.” I stood up and swung open the front door.

Maloney took his time standing up and walking over. He still looked like he held a solid two pair and wasn’t too happy about leaving. But his partner had overplayed the hand and blown the dodge.

“We’re not done, Mr. Stafford. You can help us. And when you get your head turned around, you’ll see. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Right, Sarge,” I shot back. “I’ll be in touch. As soon as the devil starts wearing a down coat and mittens.”

I closed the door firmly behind him.

STOCKMAN DID NOT
call until the next afternoon. I had my nose buried in a book on nutrition for autistic children, and was wondering what a gluten was, and if it was possible to make a grilled cheese sandwich without one.

“Jay!” Stockman boomed in my ear. “Sorry, I’m just getting back to you. As you can imagine, I’ve been in one meeting after another for the past thirty-six hours.”

And loving it, I thought. Stockman was the kind of guy who lived for meetings.

“Yes, yes,” he continued after a pause. I realized I must have missed a cue—he had been waiting for me to offer congratulations. “Big happenings!” He went on to tell me how well he had handled the teleconference with the Secretary of the Treasury; what an extraordinary price he had negotiated for the stockholders; and, oozing modesty, casually mentioned the mid-eight-figure deal he had worked out for himself.

Only 23 percent of the firm’s employees would become redundant. I thought it was a staggering figure, but he was quite proud of it. Most of them, of course, would be in “non-producing areas.” In other words, clerical, oversight, and operations. The lowest-paid would take the hit.

I was sure that Stockman would not personally deliver the bad news to any employee—he would delegate.

“So, please, no bad news today. I have worked my whole life for this moment, and want to savor it as long as I can.” He laughed heartily as though he had made a great joke.

I wondered how loudly he would have squealed if I told him the FBI had been asking me questions.

“There are developments.”

“Good! Good!” he boomed again, shutting me up. He really didn’t want to hear it. “Bring me your report. Write it up, will you? I’ll have Gwendolyn put you on the calendar for tomorrow—late morning.”

“I don’t want you blindsided by this.” I tried one last time. “Let me give you the highlights.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll get Jack Avery and Eugene Barilla here as well.”

“Can we make it just the two of us? Some of this is for your ears only.” Barilla was high on my list of co-conspirators and I didn’t trust Avery, either.

“Hmm. Intriguing.” A tinge of anxiety came into his voice. “All right, we’ll do it your way.” He sounded, suddenly, very tired. “See you tomorrow.”

I put away my autism books and prepared to write my report. Somehow, I had to find a way to reveal as much of the FBI’s suppositions, without acknowledging their interest, or the fact that Sanders had been working with them. I had to alert Stockman to the possibility of a murder investigation impinging on the trading scandal and do it without sounding like a nutcase conspiracy theorist. And maybe Stockman was the ringleader and none of it made any difference anyway.

Three hours of staring at my laptop produced a half-page of ill-formed sentences and a headache.

Specific trade examples would be more effective than words as a demonstration of the way the scam had been played. For that I needed Spud. I called the prop trading desk. Neil Wilkinson answered the phone.

“I’m sorry, Jason. It appears you have missed him.” The layoffs had begun, he explained, and, at Barilla’s insistence, Spud had been one of the first to go. “They seem to be cutting a very wide swath this time. It is so unpleasant when we are forced to go through these periodic cleansings—especially when so much potential talent is just tossed out. I am reminded of female polar bears who eat their young when food resources become scarce.”

“Is there any way, Neil, of getting a message to him? Can I give him a call?” I could patch together something for the report without Spud’s help, but I was concerned for the young man as well.

“H.R. wouldn’t want us to give out personal information, but you might speak with Gwendolyn in Bill Stockman’s office. She could get him a message to call you.”