Need You Now (3 page)

Good God, what was I thinking?

The chrome elevator doors parted, and a man wearing a black suit was already inside. I entered and pressed a button, but the man froze the control panel with a turn of his passkey.

“Patrick Lloyd?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked like a Secret Service agent, and my impression wasn’t far from the mark. “BOS Corporate Security,” he said as he punched the button for the executive suite. “I need you to come with me.”

My jaw dropped. I expected some good-natured ribbing from colleagues about the mix-up, perhaps even a brief reprimand from a divisional manager. But calling in security was over the top.

“It was a mistake,” I started to say, but he wasn’t interested. We rode up to the executive suite, and he escorted me into the lobby. I was hoping the receptionist would recount our earlier conversation and clear things up, but she was away from her desk. My escort from Corporate Security directed me to a leather couch by the window, and he sat in the armchair facing me, as if keeping guard. The expression on his face was deadpan, even by Swiss banking standards. Had I still been in Singapore, I would have thought I was in line for a public caning.

I surveyed the lobby. A Jasper Johns original oil painting hung on the wall opposite the van Gogh. Fresh-cut flowers were placed tastefully around the room in crystal vases. A table by the window displayed a small vase so priceless that there was actually a plaque to identify it as being from the Ming dynasty. A row of Swiss clocks on the wall caught my attention, each set to the time zone of a different trading market. New York. London. Frankfurt. Tokyo. Hong Kong. Singapore.

Singapore.
I thought of Lilly. She worked with BOS/Asia. Our relationship had been purely business at first, but we ended up dating for six months. Arguably the best six months of my life.

I looked away, then checked the clock again, and a song popped into my head. In Singapore, it was a quarter after one, and I had a sudden vision of Lilly, all alone, and listening to that megahit by Lady Antebellum that seemed to be playing nonstop on the radio since our breakup.
Need you now.

Yeah, right.

It was four weeks, exactly, since Lilly and I had gone for our last swim at Changi Beach. Anyone who worked at a place like BOS understood that “lose” was a four-letter word, but Lilly and I tried not to let that competitive spirit spill over to our personal relationship. I was better about it than she was; or it could be said that Lilly was better about it than I was. It depended on whom you asked—not that we were competitive about not being competitive. Swimming, however, was where the gloves came off. We did a mile every Saturday morning. This time, as we headed down to the ocean’s edge, Lilly broke custom. She didn’t snatch my goggles from my hand, pitch them deep into the seaweed, and shout her usual “Loser buys breakfast” as she hit the water with a good three-minute head start. Rather, she led me over to a large piece of driftwood, sat me down, and delivered the solemn words that no man in the history of the world has ever seen coming: “We need to talk.” The way she looked on that day would never leave my memory—the sad smile, her honey-blond hair blowing in the gentle breeze, those big eyes that sparkled even in the most dismal of circumstances. She didn’t exactly say, “
It’s not you, it’s me
,
”
but she might as well have. I couldn’t find words, just like the first time I’d laid eyes upon her, only this time there were no violins playing. I was about to speak, and then it had started to rain. At least I’d thought it was raining. I felt a drop on my head, and Lilly promptly lost it right before my eyes. She was embarrassed to be laughing—not at me but at the absurdity of the situation. It was then that I heard the shrill screech in the sky, saw the winged culprit swooping down from above the coconut palms to mock me. A seagull had shit squarely on my head.

Some signs should not be ignored. I transferred back to New York, and Lilly and I said good-bye for life.

An executive assistant entered the waiting area. “Ms. Decker will see you now.”

Great. More shit to fall from the sky.

I still couldn’t believe the big deal this had become. The assistant showed me into the office, and it wasn’t just the managing director inside. Joe Barber, who’d been head of private wealth management for all of one hour, was with her. So was the general counsel. Executives at this level traveled like international diplomats, and it was rare indeed for three of them to actually be in New York at the same time. For the holy trinity of BOS/America to be in a meeting with a junior FA was preposterous.

“There is a perfectly benign explanation for what happened,” I said.

“Sit down, Mr. Lloyd,” said Decker.

The managing director returned to the leather armchair between Barber and the general counsel, neither of whom rose to greet me. This had the feel of an inquisition, not a meeting. I took the hot seat opposite them.

“This has nothing to do with this morning’s meeting in the Paradeplatz,” said Decker. “I told my assistant that I wanted to see you this morning, and she put you on the list of FA’s for the ten o’clock meeting. An honest mistake on her part.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, but it didn’t last. The purpose of
this
meeting clearly wasn’t to show me the BOS secret handshake.

“Is there some kind of trouble?” I asked.

The general counsel spoke. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Lilly Scanlon’s employment at BOS/Singapore has been terminated.”

I caught my breath. “No, I was not aware of that. When did that happen?”

“Ten days ago.”

“I haven’t spoken to Lilly in . . . I don’t know, exactly. Longer than ten days. Can you tell me what happened?”

“To the extent that it pertains to you, yes. Broadly speaking, it has to do with the Abe Cushman Ponzi scheme.”

“Cushman?” I said. “I can’t believe Lilly would have anything to do with that. I can assure you that I didn’t.”

Barber took over. “Mr. Lloyd, why did you go to Singapore?”

His body language made the question anything but innocuous. I tried not to become defensive.

“It seemed like a good career move,” I said. “I saw the writing on the wall for Swiss banks. It’s no secret that the BOS strategy is to shift to super-high net worth and Asia.”

“Why not Hong Kong or Tokyo?” asked Barber.

I could have recounted my decision-making process; instead, I took the offensive. “Is that what this is about? You think my transfer to BOS/Singapore has something to do with Cushman?”

Barber ignored my question. “How well did you know Lilly Scanlon?”

“I didn’t know her at all before leaving New York. We met in the Singapore office. She was an FA, just like me.”

“This is my first official day,” said Barber, “but I’ve been fully briefed. Don’t waste our time trying to pretend that your relationship was purely professional.”

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.”

3

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.

“Watch it!” I shouted, slapping the fender.

The rear door on the passenger side flew open. Before I could react, someone on the crowded sidewalk pushed me from behind, and I fell inside as the door slammed shut. The vehicle sped away, my head snapped back against the headrest, and the muzzle of a pistol was at the base of my skull.

“Don’t move,” a man said.

It was a big American SUV, the kind with a third row of seating in the back, and the man was directly behind me. “What—” I started to say, but he jammed the muzzle forward, silencing me.

“Don’t say a word.”

His voice was like a snake hissing in my ear. My eyes darted toward the driver. I noted the heavy black beard and white turban, but he could have been a Westerner in disguise. Dark-tinted windows dashed any hope that someone on the sidewalk would notice my plight and call the cops. The traffic light changed, the SUV continued through the busy square, and straight ahead I spotted an enormous billboard that said W
ICKED
.

No shit.

“Eyes forward,” he said, and I took the warning to heart. The ride was surreal, the glow of a billion colorful lights ahead and the cold sensation of gun metal at the back of my head. The north face of One Times Square was approaching, the building famous for the dropping of the New Year’s Eve ball, and I could see both the FOX News Astrovision Screen and the even larger ABC SuperSign at Forty-fourth Street. It made me wonder if I was going to be on the evening news—and if I’d be alive to see it.

“This message is for your girlfriend,” the man said. “Our patience is at an end. It’s time to see the money. Cough it up, or you will both end up like Gerry Collins. Do you understand?”

This was the second time the name Collins had come up in the span of an hour. There was no mistaking what money this thug was talking about, but I had a burning need for more information, even at the risk of playing dumb.

“What money?”

In the blur of an instant the muzzle slid across the back of my head, and with a muffled pop a silenced projectile whizzed below my ear. Gunpowder and the hot gases of a muzzle blast stung my neck as the bullet buried itself in the back of the passenger seat in front of me. Before I could react the gun was back in place, pressed against my head.

“The next one will be much more than a flesh wound,” he said. “Do you understand?”

I wasn’t nearly stupid enough to think it would matter that Lilly was no longer my girlfriend.

My right ear was ringing, and it was even worse when I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

The SUV stopped. We were in the Fashion District, just beyond Mustang Sally’s Saloon, a place I’d visited one night after seeing the Knicks get thumped at the Garden. The SUV was at the corner, perpendicular to the yawning entrance to the Twenty-eighth Street subway station. I felt the man’s breath on the back of my neck as he delivered his final warning.

“Don’t even think about calling the cops,” he said in a chilling whisper, “or the next bullet is in your brain. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Now get out and walk straight into the subway. Don’t stop and don’t look back, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

I heard the mechanical release of the child lock, and the gun slid away from my head. I pushed open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The SUV pulled away so quickly that the door closed itself. I was tempted to glance over my shoulder and get a tag number, but the convincing threat of a bullet with my name on it kept me in check. The subway entrance was directly down the side street, less than thirty yards away from the curb at Seventh Avenue. I started walking and was thinking of Lilly, my hand shaking as I checked the welt on my neck. I wondered what secrets Lilly was hiding, and it occurred to me that there was definitely one thing more dangerous than knowing where the Cushman money was:

Not
knowing—and having a trained killer think that I did.

Don’t even think about calling the cops.

That warning echoed in my mind with each step down the stairwell, louder and louder as the sound of Midtown traffic yielded to the rumble of an approaching train.