Death Of A Dream Maker (24 page)

“Yes, well, we have quite a relationship with...”
Preston Freeman announced brightly, but ran out of words and began
to drum on the table with his fingertips. He was searching for a
way to begin a delicate task and none of the gathered minions dared
interrupt. He finally opted for the direct approach. “This is just
the damnedest thing, T.S.,” he said. “I hardly know where to begin.
But Herman here tells me that the firm is protected from a legal
standpoint and, indeed, that we have a fiduciary responsibility to
discuss the situation with you as soon as possible. Based on the
medical report fixing David Rosenbloom's time of death, you are
clearly the inheritor of one half of Max Rosenbloom's trust. And,
of course, your aunt receives the rest. I have to say that this is
surprising to me and to my associates. Our representative handling
the drawing up of the wills and the trust joined us after your time
here and did not recognize your name. Not, of course, that we pass
around information about clients between departments.” He smiled
bleakly. “We had no idea you knew Max Rosenbloom. It's been a
shock.”

“But I didn't know him,” T.S. said. “And if you think
you're surprised, imagine how I feel.”

A profound sigh escaped the lips of a younger
executive. He colored slightly, caught in a daydream. If only he
could have inherited that much money out of the blue. Why, he knew
an up-and-coming company that would return his investment
fourfold.         

“At any rate,” Freeman continued with a sharp glance
at the offender, “Herman tells me that we are free to discuss the
status of Mr. Rosenbloom's estate and holdings with you. I assume
that is why you are here.”

“And that takes all of these people?” T.S. looked
around the table. The faces no longer seemed so friendly. The gap
between client and banker now yawned between them. He felt a sense
of unexpected loss.

“It's a very large estate,” Freeman explained. “It
involves ongoing participation by the firm. There are contracts in
place...” His voice trailed off and he nodded at a slender young
man who sat hunched at one end of the table. “Robert, if you could
summarize. This is Robert Smalls, head of Corporate Finance. I
believe you may know him from, um, before?”

T.S. shook his head. Good Lord. There were babies
running this place. “No, I don't know you yet. But I have very
important information to tell you,” T.S. told the startled
executive. “That's why I requested this meeting. It has come to my
attention that you may be involved in a project for Max Rose
Fashions that was commissioned fraudulently. I refer specifically
to your work investigating the profitability of potentially taking
the company public. I have learned that this assignment was awarded
without Max Rosenbloom's knowledge. Not, of course, that you would
have any reason to have suspected it, since it was his nephew who
approached you.”

Most of the table turned to stare at Robert Smalls,
but the head of Corporate Finance did not notice. He was too busy
staring at T.S. as if he were daft.

“Oh, dear,” Prescott Freeman said, and fell
silent.

“What are you talking about?” Smalls asked T.S. “It's
true that we are exploring the marketplace for a possible fit with
Max Rose Fashions. And that going public is one option. But it is
not true that Max Rosenbloom was unaware of our work. That is
simply impossible. He approached me personally to begin the
assignment, I met with him barely a week before his death to
discuss our progress, and we've sent him weekly updates on our work
for his firm for the past ten months.”

Oh hell, T.S. thought. So much for his dignified
facade as a well-informed wealthy client. “Are you sure?” he
squeaked.

“Of course I'm sure. I knew Max well.”

T.S. and Herbert exchanged a glance. Joseph Galvano
had told Auntie Lil that he lent Davy money to hire Sterling and
Sterling without Max's knowledge. Which meant one of two things:
either Galvano had been lying to Auntie Lil, or Davy had been lying
to Galvano. And if Davy had been lying to Galvano— and Galvano
found out— maybe Davy was killed in retaliation.

“Perhaps you would like me to summarize the
situation,” Smalls offered delicately. “It might clear up any
confusion.” He perched a pair of small metal-rim glasses on the end
of his nose and opened a thick folder. “Max Rose Fashions first
approached us about a year ago,” he said. “Max himself was the
emissary. His company was in trouble. It was overextended, and
because it had committed heavily to the production of synthetic
sportswear, it was caught with an outdated inventory when natural
fabrics staged a comeback. Cash flow was at an all-time low. Max
wanted a loan. We wanted to give him a loan—we've had a long and
fruitful relationship with his firm. But we could not agree to a
loan outright.” Smalls coughed apologetically and shrugged his
shoulders as if such a distasteful decision had been personally
abhorrent to him. “We could not agree to an outright loan for
several reasons. Number one, Max's age. There was a distinct
possibility that he would retire or, uh, otherwise be removed from
active management of the firm abruptly due to his age. This was an
unacceptable risk because, frankly, no one else in top management
at that company knew what they were doing. Particularly after his
brother suffered a stroke and retired. The second obstacle to a
loan was that Max had not developed sufficiently clear plans of
management succession to cover the first contingency. Do I make
myself clear?” He looked up and waited for an answer.

“Yes,” T.S. said. “His brother was useless. His
nephews were idiots. And there was no one else to mind the
store.”

Smalls missed a beat but recovered. “Precisely. What
we did was bring in an outside financial officer as a condition of
the loan. It was a good move all around. We did not force the
choice on Max. He chose from a long list of approved candidates and
settled on a Thomas Brody. Have you met him?”

“No,” T.S. admitted, but the image of a tall man with
pixieish eyebrows and wavy black hair came to mind. He had stood
near T.S. at Max's funeral and exuded an unmistakable confidence
that comes with power. T.S. suspected the man was Thomas Brody.

“Brody's a good man. A genius with balance sheets.
Nearly as good as our managing partner here, if I may say so
myself,” Smalls continued. Obedient chuckles rose and subsided.
“However, as sometimes happens in family concerns, there was some
resentment, shall we say, of this outsider. Nonetheless, Brody made
real progress over the past year, obtaining payment deferrals from
some suppliers, unloading a large chunk of inventory overseas, and
otherwise tightening the belt.”

“Quite so,” Preston Freeman added, just to remind
everyone that he was in charge.

“So Max was out of trouble?” T.S. asked
hopefully.

“Not exactly,” Smalls admitted. “Hiring Brody was
just the first step in a long campaign to restore financial health
to Max Rose Fashions. As you now know, Max had placed most of his
liquid assets in an irrevocable trust at that point. The trust now
controlled by you and your aunt. One reason for this drastic
action, beyond tax advantages and personal wishes, was that Max
wanted to limit his personal losses should the company go under. We
were faced with a dilemma: Max wanted to keep control of the
company he had built, but he was unable to justify this control
with financial backing. We worked with him in developing an action
plan to make Max Rose more attractive to potential buyers and hoped
to negotiate Max's continued involvement as part of any deal. We
were doing well. In fact, we had already started preliminary talks
with a number of possible merger candidates. Going public was to be
a last resort—which is information that, of course, should not
leave this room, since we may have to do just that given the
current state of company ownership.” He snapped the folder shut
efficiently and glared across the table at a small round man whose
face was nearly lost behind thick glasses. “Not that the current
ownership structure was my idea. It throws quite a wrench in our
flexibility.”

“I could not convince him otherwise,” the small round
man bleated back in a high voice. “Don't blame me. We can only
advise clients, we can't rope them into taking our advice.”

“Gentlemen,” Freeman commanded. The room fell silent.
“We will discuss internal matters internally. I am sure that T.S.
is much more interested in hearing about the particulars of the
Rosenbloom fortune.”

Actually, T.S. was more interested in Sterling's
internal squabbles. But what he got was a dizzying hour of
impossibly complex summaries covering investment holdings, tax
consequences, trust law, market outlooks, foreign currency
implications, management strategies, and countless recommendations
that needed his and Auntie Lil's approval. They were advised by
various executives to invest overseas, donate a certain amount to
charity, roll the money right back into new trusts, wait until next
year to receive the funds, and even change their state of domicile
to cut the tax bite. Before ten minutes of this barrage had passed,
the advice had transmuted into babble that tugged at his ears like
the distant drone of a faraway cocktail party. Thirty-three million
was looking worse and worse. Doubled, it was a disaster.

“What do you say?” Sterling and Sterling's managing
partner asked eagerly once the onslaught had ceased.

The blessed silence that greeted this remark gave
T.S. a chance to think. He realized that Freeman's purpose had been
to show T.S. that his money was in capable hands no matter what he
decided to do. Well, T.S. would not argue with that. There wasn't a
bank in the world better than Sterling and Sterling, nor men or
women more honest than these. But surely Freeman did not expect him
to reach any decisions right then and there. He'd need a good
dictionary and a staff of economics professors to make any sense
out of their recommendations.

“Well?” Freeman asked hesitantly. “What do you
think?”

T.S. stood decisively. Herbert followed. “What I
think is that my money is in very good hands,” T.S. announced,
triggering a release of held breaths all around the table. “I have
no intention of moving it and will certainly name Sterling and
Sterling to implement any action we elect. Of course, I cannot
possibly let you know our intentions today. I must discuss this
with my adviser, Mr. Wong, and with my aunt, of course.” He was
starting to sweat profusely beneath his tight collar and hoped that
this pretty little speech would be enough to set him free.

Herbert coughed purposefully. Heads swiveled to
appraise him. “As Mr. Hubbert's adviser,” Herbert said solemnly, “I
would like to see all of your recommendations in writing so that we
may review them more thoroughly.”

He beamed at the executives, they beamed back
obdiently—and deep inside Herbert’s heart a profound force leaped
to glorious life:
power.

“Of course,” Freeman agreed instantly. “We'll have it
for you next week. And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” T.S. said, “carry on, my good
men.”

He and Herbert strode from the conference room,
maintaining a careful silence until they had exited the bank and
were surrounded by the comforting chaos of Wall Street in
midafternoon.

“What did you think?” T.S. asked Herbert. “How did we
do? I've always wanted to say 'Carry on, my good men.' How did it
sound?”

“Not bad. It's a good thing you read Mr.
Dickens.”

It's a terrible idea,” Casey mumbled. She stuffed the
remainder of her submarine sandwich into her mouth and silently
offered Auntie Lil barbecued potato chips from the one-pound bag at
her side. Auntie Lil declined out of necessity. She'd already
polished off her own hero, a large order of french fries, and a
pint of chocolate milk. There was no room at the inn.

“What's so terrible about it?” Auntie Lil demanded.
“What can she do? Kill me?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Not with you right there,” Auntie Lil pointed
out.

“Don't be so sure. Widow Rosenbloom seems pretty
resourceful to me.” Casey carefully folded the top of the
potato-chip bag and secured it with a clothespin stashed in the
glove compartment. There was nothing worse than reaching under the
front seat for a snack and encountering soggy chips.

“I must insist that we go.” Auntie Lil folded her
arms firmly and stared out the front window. Her prominent chin
protruded more stubbornly than ever.

Casey knew she was licked. “All right. But I'm going
in with you, and let's start it off by saying we want to compromise
on the estate. That will set the right tone.”

“In other words, lie.”

“Exactly.”

It was mid-afternoon and they had spent several
fruitless hours trying to track down Jake Rosenbloom. Casey was
ready to call it a day. Subjects that altered their routines in the
middle of being tailed irritated her. To make matters worse, Auntie
Lil argued with every suggestion she made. Which was why Casey
preferred operating alone.

They parked several doors down from Sabrina
Rosenbloom's house to avoid giving warning. A red Porsche was
parked in the driveway, but no one answered the doorbell—unless you
counted the small dog that was having kittens on the other side of
the door.

“She's home,” Casey said grimly, leaning on the
buzzer again. “I saw her peeking out the window.” She raised her
voice to stadium level and yelled, “We're not going away, lady.
Open up or we'll start spreading your business up and down the
street!”

“Nicely done,” Auntie Lil whispered as the sullen
widow opened the front door.

“What do you want?” Sabrina Rosenbloom demanded. Her
heavily made-up eyes bored into Auntie Lil, ignoring Casey.