James Grippando - Money to Burn

“Kyle, I hope you aren’t making this decision based on the ridiculous things Chuck Bell has been saying.”

“Nothing to do with Chuck, God rest his soul.”

“No disrespect for the dead, but the man you’re commending to the hand of God almost single-handedly ruined my reputation on the Street.”

“Chuck called it like he saw it. And he made me a ton of money.”

“Are you saying you’re short-selling Saxton Silvers?”

“Everyone with a lick of sense is short on Saxton Silvers. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

His nephew inhaled deeply, as if literally showing me how to do it.

Such a punk.

I could have tried to convince McVee to wait and see how the market performed before making his decision, but he was finished with me. Except for one more thing.

McVee leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, “It’s nothing personal. I mean that.”

The car stopped within walking distance of the federal courthouse. My brother’s office was in the building on the corner. The driver came around and opened the door for me. McVee slapped me on the arm as I climbed out of the limo.

“Like I said: nothing personal.”

“Ditto,” said his nephew.

I watched from the sidewalk as the limo pulled away. A single “nothing personal” would probably have done it. Saying it twice was one time too many.

Ditto had almost made me puke.

I checked my watch: 8:40 A.M. The market would open in fifty minutes. I had to give Eric the news about Ploutus before disappearing into a meeting with my “big brother” the lawyer. My cell rang as I was dialing. It was the tech leader from my investment team. I had every computer-savvy genius I knew trying to figure out how the identity thief had accessed my password-protected accounts, and Elliot Katz was among the brightest.

“Breakthrough,” he said. “I think I know how they got your passwords.”

I spoke while zigzagging my way down the crowded sidewalk, weaving in and out among hurried commuters, joggers, and dog walkers. “Tell me,” I said.

“Spyware. It infected your laptop and monitored your keystrokes.”

“How did it get there?”

“I’ve seen it countless times,” said Elliot. “Even police stations fall for this stuff and get their databases hacked into. Usually somebody opens an attachment to an e-mail offering ‘free porn’ or some other goodie from an unknown source.”

“I don’t open attachments from people I don’t know.”

“I know. That’s a given. Which leads me to the jaw dropper: The e-mail attachment that launched the spyware on your computer didn’t come from an unknown source.”

“Who sent it?”

“I’ve traced it to an e-mail you received eleven days ago,” he said. Then he paused, as if reluctant to deliver the news. “It was from your wife.”

A noisy bus was pulling away from the curb, making it hard to hear. I stopped walking and plugged my finger into my other ear.

“Did you say Mallory planted spyware on my computer?”

“That would be correct,” he said.

Eleven days ago-nine days before she had gone through that charade she called my surprise thirty-fifth birthday party. I was starting to feel beyond abused. Manipulated was more like it.

“Thanks for getting to the bottom of this.” I had to get off the phone and figure this out.

“You’re welcome. And, Michael, don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word to anyone about this.”

I thanked him again, hung up, and was about to make another call when I nearly walked straight into a wooden barricade. The street was blocked off for the filming of some music video or commercial, and the crew was still packing up after an all-night shoot. The detour diverted the crowd to the other side of the street, and as I crossed, one of the crew leaned over the barricade and stopped me.

“Hey, buddy,” he said in a heavy “New Yawk” accent. He was pointing an accusatory finger at me, a giant Styrofoam cup of coffee in his other hand.

“Me?” I said.

“Yeah, you. Ain’t you the guy who was on FNN talking to Chuck Bell yesterday?”

I assumed he didn’t mean the giant bear who’d gone down on a left hook from Bell in the first round. “Yeah, that was me.”

His next move was like lightning, and suddenly his cup was empty and my shirt and suit coat were soaked with lukewarm coffee.

“That’s for making me lose my ass on Saxton Silvers, you short-selling son of a bitch.”

Online amateurs. Gotta love ’em.

I could have kicked his ass for ruining what was for all practical purposes the only clean business clothes to my name, but in a way I understood his anger. As far as he knew, I was a Wall Street jerk who had bet against my own company. It made me wonder how many more-thousands more-just like him were out there.

I shook it off and speed-dialed Eric Volke with the important news from Kyle McVee. The Mallory question had to wait. It would surely make Eric’s day to hear that our biggest hedge fund had slit our throat-and that the run on the bank had begun.

THE COFFEE ASSAULT FORCED ME TO BACKTRACK TO THE GYM FOR another change of clothes. I knew there were clean socks and underwear in the suitcase Mallory had packed for me, but only upon my return did I discover that it contained only socks and underwear. It was as if Mallory had yanked a drawer from the dresser, dumped it into a suitcase, and called it quits.

Man, she’s pissed.

I arrived at my brother’s office a few minutes late, dressed in the same slacks and sport coat that I’d worn to dinner with Papa. The only clean shirt in my locker had been a work-out T so faded that it was powder blue. I’d convinced myself that the jacket made it look stylish. In truth, it was like a bad pastel fashion statement from the days of Miami Vice, which of course Kevin jumped on.

“Are you supposed to be Crockett or Tubbs?” he asked when he came out to greet me in the lobby. We stood facing each other for a moment, neither of us sure if we should shake hands or embrace. Then Kevin came forward and gave me a hug. It felt a little awkward, and we both seemed relieved to have that part over with.

“Come on back,” he said.

I followed him down the hall, and he pointed out the autographed sports memorabilia on the walls, as if we were a couple of kids on the way to his playroom. His office at the end of the hall was not exactly Eric Volke’s spread, but it was nicer than I’d expected. Silk rugs, custom draperies, tasteful antiques. I would have guessed a decorator’s hand, except there were too many family photos around. I canned the decorator Mallory had hired for me: “Family” photos were allowed only if the people in them died before the Great Depression and were part of someone else’s family.

“How are Nana and Papa?” Kevin asked as he closed the door.

“Fine,” I told him, and suddenly I realized that my brother and I were alone in the same room for the first time in I couldn’t remember how long. He gestured toward the armchair, offering it to me, but I wasn’t ready to sit.

“How’s Janice?” I asked.

His answer was way too long, and as he rambled on, my gaze was drawn to those framed family photos that Mallory’s decorator would have deep-sixed on day one. Kevin and Janice. Kevin and his golden retriever. Janice in her wedding dress. The older photos were on the credenza, and I walked behind his desk and picked up the one in a silver frame. It had to be at least twenty years old. Kevin, our younger sister, my stepfather, and their stepmother. The four of them together, smiling widely and standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. I had a similar photo of me with Nana and Papa buried somewhere in a box of mementos-except that the Eiffel Tower we saw was at Epcot Center, and we spent the night at the Howard Johnson’s in Kissimmee.