“I may need to press charges for that,” I said, and pulled her back.
Annie looked at Halek sheepishly from the folds of my embrace.
“Hey, Cliff,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“About going back to the office.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a reservation for two over at Le Bernardin we plan to commandeer. You okay with that?”
“Totally fine with it,” he said. “See ya.”
As the shrill screeches from midday traffic assaulted our ears, it seemed the sticky heat of New York City had never felt so wonderful. That’s when Mandy Maris called my name from nowhere. “Grove, about that exclusive?”
“Mandy, can you mop with the police until after lunch?”
“No way,” Annie overruled. “Grove, it’s about time you treat our friend to lunch at Le Bernardin. Right?” she asked Mandy.
“Nothing better than fish,” the reporter confirmed. And the three of us walked over to the restaurant, where we would tell stories and drink wine.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Frank Kurtz reached me first thing Thursday morning, his voice laden with remorse. “We need you back, Grove. Are you coming in today?”
“Can’t. I’m scheduled to debrief with the police.”
“Afterwards?”
“Who knows?” I replied coyly, toying with him. “SKC may not be the right place for me.”
“Tell me what you want,” he pleaded. “Let’s smoke some big-assed cigars and work things out today.”
The idea of big-assed cigars turned my stomach. “I don’t know, Frank.”
Kurtz may have seen an opening. Perhaps my voice softened. He persisted, “I’ve given a great deal of thought to Zola since our discussion on Monday. You were right. You guys can ring the cash register together.”
“We can ring it over at Goldman Sachs,” I countered.
“But I’ll help here.”
Investment banking leads. Here come the bribes.
“Listen, Frank, it’s the principle. Where was all your loyalty Monday morning?”
“You think anybody cares about you over at Goldman?” he argued.
Touché.
“Come back to the office,” he said, sensing his words had found their mark. “We’ll work this out mano a mano.” Kurtz prevailed. I agreed to meet at PCS on Friday.
Thirty seconds later I dialed Jumping JJ to assess Patty’s damage. My job and reputation were secure. But Gershon, like any other stockbroker, would call the client and angle for revenues. She’d say something to JJ, invent an excuse for joint coverage. There was no limit to her monkey business with a $522 million account in play.
“That’s a sweet deal you cut with Brisbane, JJ.”
“Now you know why we couldn’t speak last week,” he explained.
“You had your priorities,” I said. “A multibillion merger trumps zero-cost collars all day long.”
“Where are you calling from anyway?” he asked. “I don’t recognize that number on my LCD.”
“Home.”
“Vacation?”
“Not quite. Are you sitting?”
“I’m all earlobes,” he said in his Polish accent.
“Over the past few days, I helped the police unravel two large investment frauds.”
“Does this have anything to do with all the messages Patricia Gershon left for me?” he interrupted.
“Yes and no. Did you talk to her?”
“No time. Besides, I wanted to speak with you first.”
You’re the best, JJ.
It took me a full fifteen minutes—no further interruptions—to brief JJ about the Kelemen Group, MRI Capital, and my forced leave of absence from SKC. What I did not expect was the ferocity of JJ’s negative reaction to Gershon.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “She knew about our deal last week, because of something Baker said?” Baker was the CEO of Brisbane, the company acquiring Jack Oil.
“It was nothing explicit,” I confirmed. “But Patty’s smart. And they’ve been working together for years. She put two and two together. It happens all the time.”
“Baker will be pissed, Grove. When I tell him, he may pull his account.”
There’s a reversal of fortune.
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“We’ve been working on this merger for six months. Leaks jeopardize deals. She should have kept her mouth shut instead of telling everybody at SKC.”
“I don’t want to blow up her business, JJ.”
“And I don’t want to work with her, Grove. It’s taken me six years to break you in,” he joked, ever the Jack Nicholson of Warsaw.
“Well, there is one thing you can do.”
At 10:30 A.M. I entered the police station at the corner of Fifty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue. Inside a battered conference room appointed in 1950 Stalin grad chic, Fitzsimmons and Mummert took their cues from Martha Stewart. Doughnuts, coffee, orange juice, the whole shebang. I answered their questions about the Red Flame, the Kelemen Group, and Sam’s tryst with the Mad Russian. And they answered mine. We worked like a team piecing together an intricate puzzle.
“Would you like some more coffee?” Fitzsimmons offered.
“I’d kill for some.”
“That’s probably not the right thing to say around here,” he laughed.
“Something you’d hear from a chowdahhead,” I agreed.
Almost reverentially, Fitzsimmons asked, “What made you call that nurse?”
“Southern manners. I was canceling his appointment.”
“Great work,” Fitzsimmons observed, and cracked his neck.
“Great work,” came the echo.
I put my arm on Mummert’s shoulder and said playfully, “Don’t you ever have an idea for yourself?” The ferret blinked, and I asked Fitzsimmons, “Is Sam’s tryst with Romanov important to your case?”
“Could be,” the big man equivocated. “We’re holding Mrs. Kelemen on conspiracy-to-commit-murder charges.”
“Charlie’s?”
“No, yours. Those two huge perps—”
“Viktor and Yuri.”
“Right. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in some meat wagon with your oatmeal splattered all over the place.”
“Oatmeal?” I asked.
“Brains,” Mummert explained.
“Got it. Hate the visual.”
“We have your statement,” Fitzsimmons continued, “about Mrs. Kelemen’s threat. Specifically, ‘when you disappear . . .’ ”
“Too bad that comment wasn’t on your webcast,” Mummert observed wistfully.
“What do you mean?”
“He means,” Fitzsimmons started, “that it’s her word against yours on the conspiracy charges. She’ll probably make bail any minute now. And I doubt the charges stick.”
“Can’t you do something?” I asked, more surprised than thoughtful.
“We can’t turn those two big guys. They don’t speak a lick of English.”
“Bullshit. One of them said, ‘Who’s the asshole now, Bicycle Boy,’ the day they attacked me.”
“ ‘Nyet’ is all we get,” Mummert replied.
“Romanov?” I asked.
“Lawyered up,” Fitzsimmons said, and added, “He’s too smart to say anything.”
“What about Charlie’s death?”
“We’ve got squat.”
“You’ve got motive. Sam was sleeping with Romanov. He’s the father.”
Both officers listened attentively. Their eyes betrayed none of their thoughts.
“Sam, Charlie, Romanov,” I said, “that’s a three-way from hell if you ask me. It’s a safe bet there was plenty of tension.”
“Keep going,” Fitzsimmons prodded.
“There’s the money. Sam’s parents lost two million bucks. Doesn’t bode well for family congeniality over Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Keep going.”
“There’s Romanov. Somehow, Charlie discovered MRI Capital was a scam. But he didn’t care about marking the close or the illegal eavesdropping.
Triple-digit returns would repay everybody who had invested in his fund of funds. The problem, however, was that Charlie miscalculated. His knowledge threatened everything Romanov built.”
“Keep going.”
“What else do you need?” I asked, exasperated now. “I’m positive Viktor and Yuri chummed the water, tied the cart to Charlie’s leg, and chucked him in.”
“Won’t stick,” Fitzsimmons countered. “Nobody saw Viktor and Yuri there.”
“Damn burkas,” I cursed.
“Bingo,” Fitzsimmons said, shaking his head.
“I’m telling you, Romanov planned it. I saw guilty all over his kisser in the Red Flame yesterday.”
“Won’t stick,” Mummert echoed.
“They’re not walking, are they?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.
“They’re doing time,” Fitzsimmons soothed. “It’s just a question of what charges we can get them on.”
“How do you think Charlie got the printout of Romanov’s investments?” Fitzsimmons asked, changing direction.
“Charlie just knew how to get information. It wouldn’t surprise me if he got the printout through Sam somehow.”
“I don’t buy it,” Fitzsimmons countered.
“He knows plenty of private eyes. If he had suspicions about Sam, he probably used an agency to follow her.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“No. But a few years ago, Lila Priouleau had a problem with her ex-husband. Charlie convinced Cash Priouleau to hire some private eyes, and they put together all kinds of pictures showing the ex with his mistress.”
“You getting this, Mums?” Fitzsimmons asked.
“Every word,” Mummert replied, scribbling furiously.
“Do you know which agency he used?”
“No clue. Talk to Lila Priouleau. She can get it from her dad.”
“We’ve got lots of questions for her anyway.”
“Yeah, lots,” Mummert echoed.
“What do you mean?”
“We pulled his bank records.”
“And?”
“He wired sixty thousand dollars to her.”
“Why?”
“You’re the Wall Street wizard. You tell us.” Fitzsimmons stood up from the table, hitched his thumb under the big belt buckle, and walked over to pour more coffee.
“Fellows, I don’t have a clue. Maybe he repaid a loan.”
That afternoon I passed the Star of Bombay on the way home. The union was still striking. “Bombay is not okay. Bombay is not okay,” the three representatives chanted. They all wore jackets and ties.
I told one man what I wanted. “No, brother,” he said. “We’ve got our principles.”
“Understood,” I said, “but how much would it take for you to consider my request?”
A second striker joined our discussion. “Three hundred would get my attention. I probably wouldn’t do it for three hundred dollars, but I’d listen.”
A few minutes later, the four of us agreed to five hundred dollars.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The next morning I assembled all my innate diplomatic skills and mustered every bit of inner self-control. The surrounding histrionics required a cool hand, the deft, ambassadorial touch of Henry Kissinger. Such were the joys of SKC’s politics.
With somber and weighty tones, I measured every word as though global détente hung in a precarious balance. “Fuck you, Frank.”
“You’re right. I deserved that,” he said. Every picture in his office hung askew, the pope, Fastow, Ebbers, and Kozlowski.
“Are you going to take that?” Patty asked incredulously. Suddenly she was a modern Joan of Arc rescuing the man she had ridden so hard.
“I feel like shit,” Frank said, and reached for the wooden box on his desk.
I ignored Patty and thundered angrily at the Monthly Nut, “Eight years, Frank, and you bolted at the first hint of trouble.”
Gershon slapped the humidor’s lid shut. The resounding thump silenced Frank’s response, as though Bluto had stolen Popeye’s spinach. “Frank, don’t let him pull that crap,” she swore. “O’Rourke fucked up. He was napping, and it cost us a twenty-million-dollar banking assignment. Do you really want the junior varsity advising a firm client what to do with five hundred and twenty-two million dollars?”
“Give me a break,” I replied to Patty. “You cover the CEO of Brisbane. He sure didn’t hire us for an I-banking assignment.”
“Listen, Frank,” she threatened. “If you can’t make the right decision for SKC, then maybe we should get Percy on the line. He’ll know what to do.”
“Call him,” I said. “Knock yourself out. Our CEO really wants to mediate a turf battle.” I added sarcastically, “Bet it does wonders for everybody’s career.”
As Frank looked at Patty, his phone rang. He hastily grabbed the receiver, a makeshift life buoy offering safety from a sea of broker discord. “Yes,” he said. “Who?” he stammered. “You’re kidding.” Frank paused, listened, and then added, “Tell him to bring it in.”
Patty, annoyed at the interruption, persisted in her harangue: “Frank, can we please focus on our business with Jumping JJ? I’m not here for my health, you know.”
I almost told Patty, “Piss off,” on behalf of Frank.
But the Monthly Nut spoke first. “There’s a messenger here with a delivery from Jack Oil.”
She looked daggers at me and accused, “What’s this about, O’Rourke?”
A short, lean man walked into Frank’s office. He wore a gray shirt that advertised “Arnold’s Bicycle Delivery” just over the pocket. Underneath the company title, his name was embroidered in cursive. It said “Perry.” The red stitching added a nice touch to his uniform.
