THE TAINTED TRUST: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 2) (12 page)

“So what? I was happily married too.”

“She’s married to a football player.”

“You’re kidding! Who?”

“None other than the great Brian Pyper.”

“The Jet’s quarterback?”

“Yup.”

“What the hell is she doing working for you?” Visconti asked, questioning why the wife of the Jets quarterback had to work at all.

“A damned good job. In addition to being beautiful, she’s smart, and a terrific employee.”

“Where did you find her?”

“She’s enrolled in my commodities class on the island.”

“I’m jealous as hell. Maybe I should start teaching,” Visconti said, shaking his head. “Do me a favor. Let me know if she ever leaves Pyper.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I’m sure they’re very happy.”

“Sure they are,” Visconti scoffed. “I was happy once, myself.”

Kerri returned with three coffees. She distributed two, then sat to drink hers.

Visconti took a sip, then turned to face Kerri. “This is very good coffee. Thanks, Kerri. Miles tells me you’re new here. How do you like the commodities business, and how do you like working for Miles?”

“I love the business, and Miles is the best boss I’ve ever had,” Kerri replied, aware that Miles was her first and only boss.

Visconti pointed to Dennis and grinned. “I should tell you he’s a real tyrant. He goes through secretaries like the seasons. If he ever gives you a rough time, come to my office. The second you walk through my door, you’re hired. I’ll pay you twice as much as you’re getting from this old tightwad.”

Kerri had already concluded she would not want to work for Visconti, no matter how much he paid her. “Thank you. That’s a very generous offer but I’m very happy at Iacardi.”

“You’ve broken my heart,” Visconti said, symbolically clutching his heart with both hands. He finished his coffee, then stood and faced Kerri. The relentless stare of his cold gray eyes seemed capable of penetrating her clothing. “Time changes a lot of things. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Dennis also stood. “I’ll need some time to assemble this deal,” he said, extending his hand to Visconti. “Will you be in your office?”

“Until six or seven,” Visconti replied. He shook Dennis’s hand, smirked at Kerri, then quickly left.

“Wow!” Kerri said.

Dennis chuckled. “Breathtaking, isn’t he?”

“Do you know him well?”

“Not on a personal level. We’ve known of each other through our respective businesses for a long time.”

“What business is he in?”

“He’s a partner in a company called Mara, Griesdorf and Visconti. It specializes in money management. As you already know, his office is also in this building.”

“I can’t believe what he just did.”

“He’s a world class plunger. He made his mark in the early eighties, had a track record of amazingly high investment returns, and a reputation for almost always being right. His predictions were so accurate, it was scary. They called him The Crown Prince of Wall Street, until his house of cards came crashing down.”

“What happened?”

“The stock market crashed in October of eighty-seven and the trust we were just talking about went with it. I was shocked when he told me it lost a half a billion dollars. Ever since then he’s been desperate to make it all back, fast.”

“Is that why he just made that investment?”

Dennis nodded. “He’s wanted to do it ever since the crash. Until this point, I’ve been able to persuade him to wait. I advised him to stay out of the market until spot crude broke through twenty dollars a barrel on the upside. I had hoped he would find a less risky alternative and forget the crude short. Obviously he didn’t.”

“Is the investment really that risky?”

“Enormously. If he’s right, he’ll make an incredible amount of money. God help him if he’s wrong.”

“Do you think he’s right?”

Dennis shrugged his shoulders. “He could be right at the wrong time. It’s a gigantic investment, fully leveraged. It’s the stuff of which financial legends are made, both negative and positive. He could go to the moon or lose the farm on this one.”

“How much is the trust worth?”

Dennis handed her the falsified report Visconti had given him. “Take a look at this,” he said.

She read the report, then looked up at her boss, amazed. The experience was a learning explosion for Kerri. She had never conceived of anyone possessing such a large amount of money. To wager so much on one single investment was unimaginable.

CHAPTER 31

New York. Wednesday, June 14, 1989.

The price for July delivery suddenly nose-dived to eighteen dollars and ten cents a barrel. When news of the price decline reached Visconti, he was ecstatic. His investment showed a paper gain of over sixty million dollars. He was certain he was witnessing the beginning of long awaited crash in crude oil pricing. His incredible risk was on the threshold of reward. He telephoned Assif Raza, anxious for reinforcement.

“Good morning, Louis,” Raza said, lifting his feet above the tepid bath water in the bathroom of his lavish Manhattan apartment. “How are you?”

“Struggling, but maybe not much longer. I think your prediction of lower crude prices is finally about to become a reality. Would you care to comment on that?”

Raza chuckled. “I think the universe is unfolding as it should.”

“Can you be more specific? It’s extremely important.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that you now have a tangible interest in crude oil?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Visconti said, rolling his eyes skyward. “I’m short, big time.”

“You have chosen wisely. For all of the reasons I have stated in our previous conversations, my associates and I still think crude is substantially overpriced.”

“When does the plug get pulled? You must have some idea.”

“Only God has the answer to that. As mortals, we continue to be limited to mere speculation.”

“Would you be kind enough to speculate?”

“It would appear that the central bankers of the seven leading industrial nations are acting in consort to dampen inflation. Moreover, we believe they will soon succeed. One of the consequences of their efforts will be a slowdown in economic activity and substantially reduced demand for oil. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.”

Raza’s words bolstered Visconti’s confidence. “Thank you, Assif. You’ve been most helpful.” He put the receiver in its cradle and pounded his desk with both fists. “Yes!” he shouted, his eyes closed and teeth bared.

As the summer of 1989 wore on, Visconti’s euphoria and his sixty million dollar paper gain evaporated. The liquidation of his August contracts realized only a twelve million dollar gain. By mid September, he was out of the crude oil complex and virtually no further ahead than when he started, seven months earlier. He glanced at a graph of spot oil prices and shook his head. Instead of crashing as Raza had predicted, the price had fluctuated very little. It was almost exactly where it was when he shorted thirty thousand contracts.

Frustrated and wary of the capricious crude oil market, Visconti was inclined to abandon it. Making a lot of money by virtue of a quick windfall was elusive, but the effort and aggravation involved in making it slowly was totally unpalatable to him. If he chose the slow route, he would have to continue to falsify King’s report for what seemed like an eternity. The pain of inaction seemed far worse than the risk of once again shorting crude oil. Finding an investment vehicle as potentially rewarding would require elaborate and time-consuming research. He decided to give crude oil one final shot.

He arranged a meeting with Miles Dennis and placed orders to short fifteen thousand crude contracts in each of the months of August and September, 1990. The average price of the transactions was just north of twenty dollars a barrel.

His timing could not have been worse.

CHAPTER 32

New York. Sunday, November 26, 1989.

“May I speak to Kerri Pyper, please?”

“Speaking,” Kerri replied.

“It’s Doctor David Hanley, Kerri. I’m calling from Buffalo General hospital. I’m told that you’re already aware that your husband was injured this afternoon.”

“Yes. How is he?” her heart racing.

“He’s under sedation and resting right now… He has badly torn ligaments in his right knee. The good news is that he’ll probably play football again. The bad news is that it won’t be until next season, at the earliest.”

Kerri was relieved, but heartbroken. “Please tell him I’m flying to Buffalo as soon as I can get a flight,” Kerri said, aware of how much Brian had worried about being injured and unable to play.

“Not a good idea. Stay where you are. The team has made arrangements to fly him to New York early tomorrow morning. They’ll send him home in a limousine from the airport. I’ll have the team physician call you with the details.”

“Will he be able to walk?”

“With difficulty. We put a cast on the knee and loaned him a pair of crutches… I should warn you that he’ll need at least one operation to repair the torn ligaments, as soon as the swelling subsides… Even though I’m a Bills fan, I want you to know how much respect I have for your husband’s ability, and how truly sorry I am that this has happened.”

“Thank you for saying that,” Kerri said, then hung up and immediately phoned Miles Dennis. “It’s Kerri,” she said, tears gushing. “I just called to tell you that I won’t be…”

“Don’t even think about it,” Dennis interrupted. “I watched the game. I don’t want to see you in this office until you’re ready to return. Brian’s going to need you more than me.”

A dark blue airport limousine glided to a stop at the curb in front of Kerri’s apartment building at ten forty-five the following morning. Seconds later, a rear door was opened by Gary Smith, one of the Jets’ trainers.

Kerri raced to help. When she reached the limousine, Brian was already on the sidewalk with crutches in his left hand and his right arm around Smith’s shoulders. Kerri grabbed the crutches and placed Brian’s left arm around her shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, squeezing him with her right arm. “I can’t tell you how much I worried about you.”

“What a piss-off!” Brian muttered. “It was a cheap shot. I’m already down and some animal piles on. The Bills got fifteen yards and I’m out for the season. Anyway you cut it, that’s a piss-off.”

“Fortunately you’re not out for life,” Kerri replied in a vain attempt to console Brian. “The doctor told me you’ll be back next season.”

“Terrific!” Brian hissed. “I’m going to be a fucking vegetable for months.”

CHAPTER 33

Kerri returned to work after Brian’s knee was successfully subjected to corrective surgery. His doctor predicted confidently that by the time he reported to the Jets’ training camp for the 1990 season, his knee would be “as good as new.” The doctor warned however, that healing would be slow. He further cautioned Brian to avoid stressing the knee with all possible care. Finally, he suggested that physical therapy should begin in six to eight weeks.

Brian’s injury was not limited to his knee. He lacked the psychological maturity to accept the setback to his career. He had been extremely lucky throughout his football career, miraculously managing to escape major injuries. He had sustained numerous cuts and bruises, but never anything serious enough to slow him down. Suddenly he had been stopped, removed from the limelight, and brutally introduced to the vulnerability of a professional athlete. Instead of using his free time to do productive things, he wasted it by brooding and feeling sorry for himself. Each morning following breakfast, he parked his body in front of the television set and consumed endless hours with less than stimulating programs. To enrich his evenings, he began to drink, lightly at first, then heavily. His behavior took an entirely predictable toll on his relationship with Kerri. The thrill and excitement with which they had once greeted each other was soon replaced by hostility and anger.

It was no accident that Visconti arrived at the office of Iacardi & Sons, just in time to share in the festivity of the company’s annual Christmas party. His excuse for being there was to deliver the check for the margin call on his crude oil short. His real reason was to see Kerri Pyper again. He had been unable to forget her. Her youthful beauty had intoxicated him, touched him like no other female had. The fact that she was married to a famous athlete made her even more alluring, the challenge of possessing her even more exciting.

Visconti heard the sound of loud conversation, music and laughter when he entered the reception area. He continued to the inner office through a wide open door.

“Merry Christmas, Louis. Have a drink with us,” Dennis offered, smiling and extending his hand.

Visconti forced a smile, in no mood for Christmas festivities. “Humbug,” he muttered. He removed a white envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket, then handed it to Dennis, never once casting his eyes on it.

“What’s this?” Dennis asked, staring at the blank envelope with a puzzled expression.

“Eight and a half big ones,” Visconti replied, still looking away.