Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“So? What’s the problem? He outsmarted the banks and made you guys a lot of money. Everybody’s happy, right? Who cares?”

“I guess so. I mean, the banks got a lot of supposedly ‘problem loans’ off their books, and they’d already reserved for the losses. Weldon makes a ton of dough, and so do our partners on the deals. The guys who buy the loans from us are happy, ’cause they’re getting some good assets at a cheap price. I just don’t see why the banks thought all those loans were so terrible and were willing to write them off so quickly. There were some losers, but they threw the baby out with the bathwater.”

“Maybe they’re not as smart as you think.” Sam stood up and stretched.

Warren was on the sofa, with the computer on the coffee table. “Maybe not. But they also sold some really bad loans in other deals. Well, now it’s up to me to pick up where Anson let off. I just don’t get what it was that Annlois expected me to find in this computer that made her so nervous. Unless she just wanted me to see how shrewd Anson was with these deals.” He reached for the switch to turn the machine off.

“Maybe he had secret letters to his girlfriends on there. Hot, romantic letters. The kind you’ll be writing me when I go home.” She sat down next to him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Maybe. Actually he did have a few, but not very hot, to my ex! No, he just had some phone numbers that didn’t make any sense. No interesting letters, except one to bitch about the service he’d gotten on his BMW.”

“Oooh, phone numbers. Maybe you could call up and get a date?” She was trying to get his attention away from the machine by licking his earlobes. It was beginning to work.

“I tried. They didn’t work. Some of the area codes weren’t even real.” He started flipping through the files, quickly locating the numbers, and calling them up to the screen.

He was interrupted for a kiss. He pulled away slightly. “See?”

Sam pouted for a moment, then looked at the screen. She studied it for a second, then leaned closer, squinting. “Those aren’t phone numbers, Mr. Intelligent Banker, or Invasive Banker, or whatever.” She was using the keyboard to move the cursor down the page. “No. Definitely not phone numbers at all.”

“Well, if they’re not phone numbers, and those aren’t people’s initials next to them, exactly what do you think they might be?” Warren’s tone was condescending.

“Those, my sophisticated friend, are bank-account numbers. Private, Liechtenstein, numbered accounts. And their pass codes. And the name of the Liechtenstein trust that owns them, Klaust, AG.”

“What? Says who?” Warren squinted and leaned forward too.

“Says me. I know what these fucking numbers are. Artie had twenty of the little bastards. And these aren’t initials. See, each one has ten numbers, then three letters and more numbers. That’s the pattern. They’re at Wilhelms Landesbank—that’s WB over here. Nice building. Total pricks, though.”

“How do you know this? What are you talking about?”

“Look, when Artie stole my money, I hired a private investigator and forensic accountant to look for it and him. The Justice Department was after him too. There were about ten people trying to find him and get their money back. We managed to trace the money through these bogus ‘investment’ companies, to places like Panama and the Channel Islands. Most of it eventually wound up in Liechtenstein banks, because they have total secrecy and don’t give a damn who wants to know or why. I saw Artie’s little notebook, and it had all these numbers in it, just like those.” She pointed at the screen. “But I didn’t remember them. We couldn’t get anywhere without the numbers or the pass codes. One Swiss bank let the government in, but the money was already gone. We got nowhere. Yeah, I know what these numbers are. They’re how that slime took my life savings.”

“Wait a minute. He stole your money, then sent it to Liechtenstein, and nobody, not even the US government could find it?” Warren found this hard to believe.

“Yup. He had all this cash bouncing all over the world. And now, nobody knows where he is, but we know what he’s spending. Our money. Man, I’d like to kill him.” She slammed her fist into her palm.

“Jeezus. Liechtenstein banks. What the fuck was Anson doing with accounts in Liechtenstein banks?” Now Warren was beginning to understand what Annlois had wanted him to find.

“Hey, I don’t even know who Anson was, but it’s a pretty safe bet he wasn’t doing anything good. Didn’t you say someone killed him?” Sam poked Warren in the arm.

“Yeah. But it was a robbery. If they were going to kill him to get the dough, why would they kill him while he was screwing Bonnie in her apartment? It doesn’t make sense. Unless they had the numbers too.” He was confused. Who were “they” anyway? What money?

“Bonnie? You say that like you knew her well. Maybe you and Anson had something in common after all.” She smiled at him and grabbed at his shorts.

He pulled away. “Yeah, maybe we did. Maybe we did have something more than just Bonnie and Larisa in common.” His mind was far away. Maybe.

By February, Sam had settled in, and Carlos had shipped her most of her clothes and cosmetics. Warren was stunned that her makeup and various potions took up two large duffel bags, while her clothes fit in one. His bathroom couldn’t come close to holding it all, and she’d commandeered the entire linen closet just for cosmetics.

“Hey, it’s always summer in LA. All my stuff is light.” It was true. She had bought several sweaters and two coats, but was always cold. The first time Warren had offered to pay for a coat, she pretended she didn’t even hear him. The second time, she told him to stop, that she had her own money, and it was bad enough he was paying all the rent. She’d acquiesced when he’d pointed out she still had to pay the rent on her place in LA. “And a woman needs to take care of her skin.”

Warren was convinced all the fancy creams were exactly the same, whether they cost $5 or $75. Sam started a long explanation about the various ingredients and how they were processed, which he interrupted by asking her what she thought the chances were the Giants would sign a new cornerback. To his utter amazement, she replied, “Their secondary is totally solid. Why would they do that? Their defense is like a rock. The real question is if Morris can stay healthy next year and bring home another Super Bowl.”

“Who are you,” he asked, “and what have you done with my girlfriend?”

“I’ve always loved football. But, I have to be honest with you. I’m a Forty-Niner fan. I know that hurts. We can talk about it, but—”

“You never fail to amaze me,” he said, smiling broadly. “You can root for whatever team you want. And I’ll learn about face creams, if we can go to a few games next season.”

“If? Are you kidding?” She stepped across the small kitchen and gave him a big hug.

“Well, that’s assuming we’re still at liberty after our little master plan spins out,” he whispered in her ear.

“You call the signals, Coach. I’ll run the plays.”

Malcolm Conover wasn’t too pissed when Warren told him he was going to take another week off. He’d only had a few vacation days the previous year, to visit his dad. Warren had also done a great job following through all the trades before Anson’s death, and the firm had made so much money that it could afford the temporary drop in business that might result from his backup’s taking over. Kerry was more than competent, even only paying half attention to his accounts, and Malcolm also made sure he’d know where to reach Warren. It wasn’t as if there weren’t any phones in the Black Forest.