James Grippando - Money to Burn

It was as if someone had kicked the chair out from under me. “Excuse me?”

“With the dramatic decline in Saxton Silvers stock this morning, you can in essence pay back your twenty-six-million dollar loan with thirteen million dollars’ worth of stock. If the rumors continue and force Saxton Silvers into bankruptcy-reducing its stock value to zero-you borrowed twenty-six million and can pay it off for nothing. That’s a pretty hefty profit in a couple of days.”

I couldn’t even speak.

“So,” he said, “the question is this: Who controls the Cayman account?”

“You’re asking me?”

“There are several layers of transactions involved, a number of different special-purpose vehicles,” he said. That was Wall Street-speak for offshore shell corporations.

“Then you need to find out who’s behind the shell game,” I said.

Glances were exchanged around the room, but no one was making eye contact with me.

“Eric?” I said. “You don’t think I control it, do you?”

Eric was again massaging that sore spot between his eyes, migraine central.

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t me,” I said.

Spear cleared his throat, and I braced myself. “Your general counsel tells us that you went on FNN today.”

“At Eric’s request.”

“How do you think that went?” asked Spear.

Part of me wanted to tell him to call the treasurer at Papa’s condo association and ask him. “Not so well,” I said.

“That depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“I would imagine that the short sellers in control of your money in that secret Cayman Islands account were quite pleased with the way your interview went with Mr. Bell. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I had to take a breath, control my anger. “I didn’t bet against my own firm and then go on television to fan the flames, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Spear copped a laserlike stare. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph exam on that?”

I should have taken a moment to consider the question. Instead, I looked right at Eric and said, “If that’s what it takes to get the people in this room to believe me, then yes, I would.”

Spear was about to say something, but Eric interrupted.

“Michael, you should talk to a lawyer.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Eric leaned forward, his hands atop his desk. “It’s like Sonya said. She doesn’t represent you. Her only client is this institution. Go talk to a lawyer.”

I didn’t know what to say, but soon enough I realized that I had best not say anything.

“All right,” I said, rising. “I will talk to my lawyer.”

And then I walked out-and realized I didn’t have one.

The security guards escorted me back to the elevator, rode down with me, and walked me out to the street. This was getting annoying. I spotted a taxi and speared my hand into the night air. My iPhone chirped, and of course I immediately stopped in my tracks to check it. They should have called this thing “iPavlov.” Was there anything more powerful?

It was a text message. I didn’t recognize the sender, but the words cut to my core: It’s a crime to burn money.

I collected myself and texted back in rapid fire: Who are you?

He’d sent the next text before getting my reply: That makes you Wall Street fucks serial offenders.

I knew it was the guy from Sal’s Place last fall, but I needed more. Who are you, and what do you want?

The cab I’d hailed pulled away. The driver was ticked, but I wasn’t about to risk losing this connection in a moving vehicle.

His reply read, You promised not to turn me in.

I had to think for a moment, then I recalled the strange conversation with this guy at Sal’s Place. I had indeed made that promise after watching him burn the hundred-dollar bill. I kept my reply short: So?

His reply came so quickly I could almost feel the anger: Stay away from the FBI. STAY AWAY!!!

I would have bet serious money that the conversation was over, but to my surprise, one last message popped up.

That’s the thing about revenge, the text read, you never know when they’re going to call it even.

An ambulance flew by me on Seventh Avenue, siren blaring. I was oblivious to it, numbed by the words I was reading.

I pulled myself together and speed-dialed Eric Volke.

I SPOKE TO ERIC FROM THE BACKSEAT OF A TAXI. GOING BACK INSIDE Saxton Silvers headquarters seemed like a bad idea. If the warning not to talk to the FBI meant anything, it was clear that someone was watching me pretty closely.

“Eric,” I said, “I think Sonya’s car must be bugged.”

That was the only conclusion I could reach; it was the one way that guy could have known what the lawyer from Cool Cash had told me about revenge. I laid it all out for Eric, telling him about that morning’s conversation in the seeming privacy of Sonya’s car, about the strange guy who’d burned money in front of me at Sal’s Place last fall, about the latest text. And then I put it all together.

“That firebomb in the elevator came after I met Sonya and Stanley Brewer outside the FBI field office. I think it was intended to convey the same message that was made explicit in the text: Don’t go to the FBI. I want to set up another meeting with Agent Spear, but obviously it has to be secret.”

“No,” said Eric.

“What?”

“The guy warned you not to go to the FBI. We don’t know what kind of nut job we’re dealing with. Send me the text message. I’ll take care of it. You stick with your plan. Get a lawyer. I’ll deal with the FBI.”

“Thanks,” I said. Nothing more I could say.

The cab let me off on Eighth Avenue. Two minutes later I was in Papa’s room at the Days Inn. He and Nana had an “Internet special” that was barely big enough for the king-size bed I was sitting on.

“Hey, check this out,” he said, grinning as he emerged from the bathroom. “Little bottles of shampoo and conditioner. And they’re free. I love this place.”

It was a tongue-in-cheek remark, Papa’s way of saying, Don’t even think of pulling out your wallet and trying to move us over to the Ritz.

Nana took her turn in the bathroom. When we were alone, Papa sat beside me on the edge of the mattress. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You look really stressed. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I was suddenly twelve years old again, back in my little bedroom in rural Illinois with the best listener on earth. He couldn’t possibly relate to the whole story, but merely sharing the gist of it made me feel better. Some things never changed.

Papa considered my words, then asked, “What is the one thing that would help you the most right now?”

“A lawyer, I guess. Sort of a legal jack-of-all-trades. I definitely need someone who can deal with the FBI, and if Mallory is serious, it looks like I’ll need a divorce lawyer, too.”

“How much does someone like that cost?”

I drew a breath. “A decent criminal defense lawyer in a white-collar criminal investigation like this is probably going to ask for a hundred grand up front.”

Papa’s jaw dropped, but he seemed to put the figure aside.

“Have you thought about calling your brother?”

He meant my half brother. At the time of my birth, Papa’s only daughter had been an unmarried junior at DePaul University. Two years later she married a man who was not my biological father. My half brother and half sister came along in rapid succession. I was six when our mother lost control of her car on the Kennedy Expressway in an ice storm. She was killed instantly. My stepfather-funny, but he was just “Daddy” to me before Mom died-got engaged to a woman who promptly announced that three kids in their instant family was one too many. It was then that I moved to a small town north of Chicago to live with Nana and Papa.