James Grippando - Need You Now

Obviously, they already knew the answers to most of the questions on their list. This was a test of my truthfulness, not a search for information-so far, at least.

“We dated,” I said. “It ended before I left. I’ve had zero contact since.”

“Tell us about her,” said Barber.

I didn’t know how to respond. “What do you want to know?”

“We’re asking the questions here,” said the general counsel.

“I’m just trying to get some color.”

“Color” was synonymous with “background” in the BOS lexicon- “Call Goldman for color on the Tesla Motors IPO”- but from the look on Barber’s face, the operative color here was red. His temper was legendary.

“Listen to me, asshole,” Barber said.

“Joe, please,” said the general counsel.

“I’m sorry, but this needs to be said. I spent the last twenty-six years of my career in one of two places-in Washington in public service or on Wall Street with Saxton Silvers. It pained me to watch that firm go down. I’ve seen the kind of arrogance that can breed disaster for a bank, and it starts in puppies like you. I’m not going to put up with it. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal.”

“I could have gone anywhere when I decided to leave Treasury. I chose BOS/America. And the first thing on my plate is an internal investigation into a junior FA’s possible involvement- criminal involvement-with Abe Cushman. If you haven’t figured it out yet, let me spell it out for you: I intend to put out this fire immediately. I will not allow it to heat up and sidetrack my plans to make BOS number one in private wealth management. Again, are we clear?”

“All I can say is that I had absolutely nothing to do with Cushman.”

“Did you and Ms. Scanlon ever talk about Gerry Collins?” Barber asked.

Of course I knew the name, especially in the context of Abe Cushman. Collins’ gruesome murder had been front-page news everywhere from the Wall Street Journal to People .

“Talk about him in what way?” I asked.

“Don’t be cute,” said Barber.

“I’m trying to understand your question. Are you asking me if we talked about him as a person in the news?”

“No, I’m speaking of Gerry Collins in a very different capacity: as one of Ms. Scanlon’s most important sources of business.”

It was the bomb, and all three executives measured my reaction when it dropped. I tried not to squirm, but my voice tightened. “Lilly never told me about that.”

“You worked in the same office and slept in the same bed, but she never mentioned Gerry Collins?”

Asking how he knew I’d occasionally spent the night at Lilly’s wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “If you’re telling me that Lilly had a business relationship with one of Cushman’s front men, that never came up. Never.”

Barber glanced toward the general counsel. Then his gaze returned to me. “I’d like to believe you, Mr. Lloyd.”

“Did you ask Lilly? I’m sure she would tell you the same thing.”

“Ms. Scanlon was fired after she was caught red-handed trying to access confidential information about BOS numbered accounts. She refused to discuss it. I suggest you start talking, unless you’d like to join her in the ranks of the unemployed.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing about Lilly, but if it was true, she was in serious trouble. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Good,” he said. “Tell us about Ms. Scanlon.”

Again, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” said Barber, his tone deadly serious. “Absolutely everything there is to know about that woman.”

I took my lunch break alone but didn’t eat. Couldn’t eat.

At least you still have a job.

For some reason they hadn’t fired me. I wasn’t even on probation. That was the silver lining I clung to as I walked down Seventh Avenue, destination unknown, trying to get my head around the worst day of my life since… I wasn’t sure when. An hour earlier, I would have said it was Lilly’s it’s-not-you, it’s-me speech on the beach, but if she was connected to Cushman, our split had actually been a blessing.

Worst day…

Probably October 2004, when the Yankees made postseason history by blowing a 3-0 advantage in a seven-game series, which allowed that team from Boston to advance to the World Series and break the eighty-six-year curse of the Bambino. On a bet, I had to wear a Red Sox cap for a month. Very hazardous attire on a New York subway, but who was I kidding? I was twenty-nine years old, I was a lifelong Mets fan, and the two worst things in my life that I was willing to recount were getting dumped and losing a bet on two teams I didn’t even care about. It wasn’t that I was actually that shallow.

I was in denial-and had been, for years.

A sudden scream jarred me from my thoughts. I’d walked all the way to the TKTS kiosk at Forty-seventh Street, where two college-aged women had just scored half-price tickets to a Broadway show. They jumped, hugged, and generally made a spectacle of themselves. After my grilling from BOS senior management over a $60 billion Ponzi scheme, it made me nostalgic for the days when saving fifty bucks felt like winning the Lotto.

“Mazel tov,” I said, and kept walking.

Times Square, in its Vegas-like splendor, stretched before me. Flashing JumboTrons and spectaculars brought life to an otherwise gray winter afternoon. Building owners in the square were required by law to display illuminated signs, which had to be the only zoning ordinance in New York that garnered 100 percent compliance. It was hard to ignore the five-story-tall Victoria’s Secret model, but my gaze drifted to the famous high-tech display that wrapped around the cylindrical NASDAQ building. The financial news of the hour was the Justice Department’s settlement with BOS over bank secrecy, and the gist of it scrolled across the marquee over Broadway.

“Justice Department cracks secret Swiss vaults of alleged tax evaders.”

The story was getting none of the perky positive spin that our Swiss CEO had attached to it.

A strange ping emerged from my iPhone. A wide range of bells and whistles came with two smartphones-I carried an iPhone in addition to the bank-issued BlackBerry-but this one was unlike any chirp or ringtone I’d heard before. A quick check revealed no new call or message. Nor was my battery running low. A suspicious thought came to mind.

Are they tracking me?

Remote GPS tracking or an eavesdropping device in my iPhone wasn’t out of the question. The Corporate Security gurus for the largest Swiss bank had plenty of gadgets. Barber had laid down the law at the conclusion of our meeting: “Do not speak to Lilly Scanlon about this.” I promised not to, but perhaps they were making sure of it.

I checked my phone again. Lilly and I truly hadn’t spoken since that day on the beach in Singapore, but for whatever reason, I had yet to delete her from the number one slot on my speed-dial list. One touch of the screen and we’d be connected, but just the thought of calling her to find out what she’d done with $60 billion had that Lady Antebellum song playing in my head again, albeit my own version of it:

And she’ll wonder if I’ve lost my freakin’ mi… ind.

I put the phone away before I could do something stupid. Barber and his fellow BOS executives had been careful to reveal very little about the internal investigation, but Lilly clearly had some serious explaining to do. I was dying to hear her take on Gerry Collins and the pipeline of cash to Cushman Investment by way of BOS/Singapore.

A dark SUV screeched to a sudden stop in front of me at the curb. Had I taken one more step, my toes would have been ground beef.