Black Fridays (20 page)

But the Feds couldn’t know about the chips, or they wouldn’t have wasted time following me. They would simply have arrived at my door, warrant in hand. Which might still happen.

Predawn twilight took me by surprise, as it always does. I may have been dreaming, but I had still been awake—on my feet, on guard.

Having made it through the night, without having my home invaded by gray-suited, square-jawed thugs with badges, was a wonder of relief. The faint pink light, touching the top floors of the Trump high-rises along the river, soothed me.

I checked the clock, but my eyes were too tired to focus. My bed beckoned, but it was much too far away. I made it to the couch and dove into oblivion.

A 1970 EL CAMINO
drove slowly across my face, followed almost immediately by a ’65 Shelby Mustang GT. The fastback. They dropped off my chin and continued down my chest and stomach before making a sharp U-turn in preparation for another run at my eyelids.

“Good morning, Kid.”

“Hmmmmmm,”
the little engines purred.

“How about some breakfast?”

The cars halted just below my chin.

Tuesday. His red shirt. Any cold cereal in a neutral color—Cheerios. I looked out the window. The sun was high. Late for school.

The shadows of the previous few days drifted back across my mind, threatening to edge out the morning’s concerns. Angie. The Feds. A young man who had stepped in front of a train rather than talk to me. And a USPS box full of casino chips that might already have been delivered to the Ansonia mailroom. I closed my eyes for a moment.

When I opened them again, two ice-blue eyes stared into mine. They were beautiful eyes, but flat, opaque, revealing nothing. Like cat’s eyes.

“Breakfast,” the Kid said.

“I’m on it.” I rolled upright.

Food first. Chase down my lawyer. Check in with Spud. Get the Kid to school. I rubbed a hand over my cheek. Somewhere in there I would have to make time for a shower and a shave. The shadows receded, dispersed by the business of getting by. One foot in front of the other.

The lawyer finally called back while I was in the shower. I dripped water on the floor while I brought him up to date on my situation.

“She still a drunk?”

Lines of battle forming.

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a blessing. Listen, Jason, your divorce contract spells it out. ‘Dual legal and physical custody’ and neither parent is allowed to take the child out of state without express written permission of the other. I wrote it that way, I know. Technically, she was the one who kidnapped him two years ago.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Having the law on my side was an unusual experience.

“However,” he overrode, “I would not want this to go in front of a judge. Once you get inside Family Court, anything can happen.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. I’m working on it. Meanwhile, try not to jeopardize your parole.”

“No quick trips to Bermuda?”

“Please. Not even New Jersey.”

I called Spud while I shaved. He was supercharged.

“Very big news, here. Have you seen it?”

I hadn’t even looked at the morning headlines as yet.

“What’s up?”

“We’re the top story on CNBC. Aren’t you watching?”

“I don’t have a television.” The Kid’s doctor had ordered I get rid of it.

“Really?!?”

I flicked on the radio. Weld Securities was the lead story on Bloomberg News as well.

The firm had agreed to be acquired by a large regional bank headquartered in Nashville. The pundits raved. Weld would get cheap financing and the combined company would immediately vault into the upper realms of finance. Stockman was quoted and acknowledged as the orchestrator of the deal. The talking heads assured the world that he would play a bigger role in the merged firm.

The only thing that might screw it up, I thought, was a major trading scandal.

“This place is going nuts,” Spud said.

I asked him if he had noticed anyone following him—or if anyone had questioned him about our investigation.

“Wow. You’re spooking me.”

I told him to lay low and we would talk later in the day.

Even Gwendolyn sounded excited—or what passed for excitement on the thirty-eighth floor.

“Oh, Mr. Stafford, thank you for calling. Mr. Stockman asked that I contact you. He is going to be tied up for the next day or two, but he would like to call you later this afternoon. I do hope that is not a problem.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

Alysha Carter was not as scary as two strange men chasing us down dark streets, but she may have been a close second. The receptionist at the Kid’s school was six feet tall and easily outweighed the FBI men. Both of them. Combined.

“Routine, Mr. Stafford! That is the first thing we need to instill in these children. They depend on it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave me a pop-eyed stare for interrupting her.

“Sorry,” I said.

Her desk commanded the front hallway—no one, child or adult, would have been able to get by her. She was the dragon guarding the gate. I wished I had a magic potion—or an enchanted sword.

“This business of coming in when you get around to it just will not do. You are undermining the whole school with such behavior, to say nothing of the damage you do to your own child.”

The FBI had not been waiting outside the door that morning, nor had anyone followed us up to school—as far as I could tell.

“Ms. Carter . . .” I began.

“It’s Mrs. I am a married woman and proud of it.”

My heart went out to Mr. Carter.

“Mrs. Carter. I am a single parent doing the best I can in a difficult world. I wish I could promise you that this will never happen again. I can’t. I can almost guarantee that it will. All I can say is that I will feel really badly every time. Can you sign him in now?”

I thought it was a pretty good speech, considering I was working on about two hours’ sleep.

Mrs. Carter looked like she wanted to slap me. She chose to pity me instead.

“Your son is exceedingly lucky to be here, Mr. Stafford. The only reason he was accepted so late was the Yoshida family had to return to Japan.”

Not the only reason. There was also the matter of my being able to write a check on the spot for the full tuition, plus a hefty contribution to the endowment fund.

“The Yoshidas were never late.”

I kept my mouth shut and did my best to look contrite.

The Kid and I sniffed hands and I was on my way.

I walked back over to Broadway to catch the subway back to the Ansonia—one stop on the express train. No one lurked around the turnstiles or watched me on the platform. No one chased me.

Skeli would be in class most of the day and unreachable. I still wasn’t sure if her kiss had been a good-night or a good-bye. I reminded myself
not
to send flowers.

For the next few hours, I had no one to answer to or for but myself. The sensation of freedom—brief but near total—gave me a mild jolt of anxiety. It was still too new a feeling to be enjoyed.

And again, I thought of what to do about $233,000 worth of casino chips, which might already have been delivered to the Ansonia mailroom. I had the day to research the problem.

—

THEY WERE WAITING
for me in the lobby.

Sarge approached first, holding up a badge in a little leather folder. “Can we start over, Mr. Stafford? I’m Senior Agent Ted Maloney. FBI. This is Agent Marcus Brady.”

I was trapped. Aside from the staff, there were only two other people in the lobby. None of them was going to help me. And I didn’t like the idea of my neighbors watching me get braced by guys with badges.

Maloney gestured toward the elevator. “If you invite us up, we can have this conversation in private.”

He was standing on a black tile. I wanted it to swallow him whole and transport him to some alternate universe where carrying a badge could get you arrested.

“Should I have a lawyer present?”

Maloney gave a tight-lipped smile. “Why would you need a lawyer?”

“Why would you follow me? Chase me? Assault my son?”

“Why would you run?” The other one sneered. He had a nasty bruise on his cheek in the shape of a horseshoe. The Kid had scored one for our side.

Maloney put his hands up for “time out.” “We just want to ask some questions and then we will go away.” The good cop/bad cop roles had been established.

Raoul, the doorman, was trying not to listen. He wasn’t trying very hard.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I turned to Maloney.

“You two scared the shit out of my son.”

If they had anything to pin on me, they would already have the cuffs out. I could afford to sound off.

Maloney made calming motions. “Please. Can we tone this down? I apologize for frightening your son . . . and you. It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Brady gave me a hard stare. I gave him one back.

I could have told them to buzz off. It was the smart thing to do. But I was in the clear. Clean. I wanted to hear what they had to say. Why would the FBI be so intent on talking to me that they would have followed me all over Brooklyn and the Upper West Side?

Maloney made himself comfortable at the kitchen table. I sat facing him. Brady strolled around the living room, peeking into the bedroom, and stopping to examine random objects. He flipped through the stack of autism books on the sideboard.

“Hmm,” he grunted. He held up
Autism: 20 Case Histories
. “This what’s the matter with your son?”

“There is nothing the matter with my son,” I said. I hated people who asked me that. “And, yes, he is autistic. Is that why you’re here?”

“Sit down, Marcus,” Maloney ordered. “May I begin?” He did. “We need your help, Mr. Stafford, and if you find that laughable, I can understand.”

“There is a certain irony there.”

“May I ask you what you were doing at Brian Sanders’ old apartment Sunday night?”

It couldn’t hurt me to tell them the truth. Up to a point.

“I’ve been hired by Weld Securities to look into their trading records. I went out to see if Sanders kept any private diary or notes at home.”

“Did you find anything?”

“You saw me.”

They shared a quick look. “You left with a black nylon zippered bag,” Maloney said.

“With his laptop in it. Which, by the way, the roommate
let
me have. I didn’t just take it.”

“Where is it now?”

“Locked in a conference room at Weld. If you want it, you’ll have to ask them.”

“Was there anything else in the bag?”

The big question. If they knew about the chips and I lied, I was screwed. Lying to a federal agent is a crime. It could get me six to nine months. But it would also be a parole violation, which would send me back upstate for another three years. I’d lose the Kid to Angie.

“Maybe I do need a lawyer.”

“Please. Mr. Stafford. We are not accusing you of theft.”

“Then maybe you should tell me what this is all about. I’d feel a little better about opening up if you guys went first.”

“Give me five minutes. If we’re still here, I’ll answer any reasonable question.”

Maloney was a good negotiator.

“Done,” I said. “The bag had a bunch of old clothes. I tossed it down the incinerator.”

They looked disappointed.

Maloney continued. “Did you find anything on the computer?”

I held up a hand. “I work for Weld. They are paying me to look into some things for them—and to keep my mouth shut about it. If they say it’s okay, I have no problem telling you. But it’s their call.”

“That could be viewed as obstruction.” He switched to playing hard guy.

I called his bluff. “Aw, come on. And here I thought we were going to be friends.”

He grinned. “You are not a lawyer, Mr. Stafford. There is no client confidentiality. If you have knowledge of criminal activity, you need to tell us.”

I agreed, but I was not in the habit of giving away anything that could be bartered. I started by telling him what I was sure he already knew.

“Weld got a request for books and records from the SEC. They asked about a few different traders, but one in particular.”

“Brian Sanders.”

“Exactly. The people at Weld were surprised—for two reasons. One, the guy is dead. And, two, everybody swears he was as pure as Fiji water.”

“What do you think?”

“I think there was something going on. But I’ve got to tell you, I can’t see why you guys give a rat’s ass about it. It’s like nickel-and-dime stuff. The whole capitalist system is on the ropes and they’ve got a senior agent and his driver trying to nab a few junior traders? Don’t you guys have something better to do?”

Maloney enjoyed my little rant. “You can assume that there was something going on. Please continue.”

I was missing something. Brady looked like he was bursting to give me the news, just to show me how thickheaded I had been. I stopped talking. As my father always said, “It’s hard to think with your mouth open.”

It took me a minute, but I got there.

“There’re bigger guys involved,” I finally said.

Maloney almost patted me on the head. “Very good. So you see? We have a strong professional interest in this case.”

We were buddies, sitting around and solving crimes. My inner warning system was going off like car alarms in Newark on a Saturday night.

“You need to look into a small hedge fund. It’s called Arrowhead. They’re a Brit outfit, with a satellite office here.”

Maloney looked pleased that I was cooperating, but Brady was frustrated.

“Excuse me, but your say-so is not going to convince a federal judge to sign off on a warrant.”

Sarcasm is the weapon of the small mind.

Maloney held up his hands for quiet. “What my partner means is that we already have our eyes on Arrowhead. We were hoping you could give us something more concrete.”