Perfect Strangers (41 page)

Josh smiled. ‘Have confidence in yourself, princess. You’ll know what to say when we get up there because you always do. You’re a natural.’ She looked at him.

‘A natural con woman?’

‘No, Sophie,’ he laughed. ‘Just a natural.’

Sophie felt her stomach turn as the lift doors hissed open. For a moment she thought they must have stopped at the wrong floor. She had been expecting glass and chrome and big garish modern art on white walls, something befitting a media-friendly trial lawyer. This office looked like a dentist’s waiting room: slightly shabby carpet, an off-the-peg sofa and a wilting pot plant next to the tiny – and empty – receptionist’s desk.

‘Mr McCormack?’ said a woman walking out of an office towards them, her hand extended. ‘I’m Andrea Sayer.’

She was small and dark with a mass of curly hair and big tortoiseshell glasses. There was something vaguely chaotic about her, not the sort of person you would expect to be a trial lawyer in one of the biggest fraud operations of all time, thought Sophie.

‘It’s a good job I’m not the type to disappear to the Hamptons over the weekend,’ she said with a strong New York accent, showing them into her office. ‘Even my secretary’s gone for the weekend, so I can’t offer coffee, but at least we can talk undisturbed.’

They sat down and Sophie looked at Josh, but he just raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the lawyer. Sophie took a deep breath.

‘My name is Sophie Ellis,’ she said. To her surprise, the woman did not react.

Okay, thought Sophie, so maybe they weren’t as wanted as she had thought.

‘Miriam Asner suggested we spoke to you.’

That got Sayer’s attention. The attorney sat forward, peering over the top of her glasses.

‘She did?’

‘Yes, we’ve just come from her house in Pleasantville.’

‘And she spoke to you? May I ask why? No offence, but I’ve been trying for a year. I can barely get her to answer the phone.’

‘My father was an investor in the Asner scam. His name was Peter Ellis.’

Sayer nodded, but with a slight ‘so what?’ shrug.

‘My dad knew Asner at university; maybe that’s why she spoke to us.’

‘And she recommended you come to
me
?’ smiled Sayer. ‘Forgive my amusement, but I get the impression she believes I’m part of a huge conspiracy to ruin her life and trash her name.’

‘She did rather give us that impression too,’ said Josh.

‘So what did she think I can help you with?’

‘Well I’d like to get my family’s money back. We weren’t exactly rich, and we lost everything.’

Andrea laughed.

‘Perhaps you should be asking Miriam. It’s a more direct route.’

‘We did,’ said Josh. ‘Miriam claims she knows nothing about the money and says she has nothing left to give.’

‘Well, that’s technically true at the moment. She doesn’t have access to any money beyond what she negotiated with the Feds. The question is whether she knows where the missing money has gone.’

‘And you think she does?’

‘Someone does, Ms Ellis,’ said Sayer, looking at Sophie.

‘But if you don’t know where it is, how are you planning on getting it back?’

She shook her head, her curls bouncing. ‘We’re not.’

‘Sorry?’ said Sophie. ‘I thought you were trying to trace the billions Asner hid.’

‘A common misconception, although there is a grain of truth to it. A court-appointed trustee is recovering the money in conjunction with the SEC. I am simply acting for some of the victims of Asner’s scheme. Essentially I’m fighting to get my clients pushed up to the front of the queue when it comes to handing out compensation – if there ever is any, of course. I assume that’s why you’re here.’

Sophie glanced over at Josh again.

‘Well, yes, my father received no compensation after the scam collapsed.’

‘Not many people did,’ Sayer said sympathetically. ‘A few hundred million dollars were recovered – most has gone in fees to the trustee and to the investors with the biggest lawyers. Hence our class action suit against Asner – we don’t think it’s fair that the smaller investors should get such a raw deal, so clubbing together gives us more muscle.’

Josh sat forward.

‘You said there was a grain of truth about finding the money?’

Sayer gave a small smile.

‘Well I’m not the sort to hang around and wait for the government to sort it out.’

‘But
is
there any money?’

‘I spent two hours in a jail cell interviewing Michael Asner myself. He pretty much told me everything – how much money there was, where it came from and how the scheme worked. He was a vain man and he was boasting about it. He didn’t admit to me that there was any hidden money, but it was something he apparently crowed about to inmates in the slammer.’

‘Could that just have been jail talk?’ asked Josh.

Andrea shrugged.

‘A crook as clever, as ruthless as Asner wouldn’t pull a scam like that and not keep something aside for a rainy day. There’s at least one hundred million dollars in my opinion, maybe three or four times that much. Asner never thought he was going to get the length of sentence that he did. He was sixty-five. He would have assumed ten years inside, a non-violent white-collar criminal; they would have quietly paroled him after five and he would have disappeared to some island somewhere to live out his retirement on the hidden cash.’

Josh gave a low whistle.

‘One hundred million bucks. He’d need a warehouse for that much cash.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t be in real money,’ said Sayer. ‘He could have converted it into diamonds, gold or bearer bonds and hidden them away in some anonymous vault somewhere.’

‘Not in a bank?’ asked Sophie.

‘Could be in an offshore account, yes, although most traditional tax havens like Switzerland and Liechtenstein are cooperating with the authorities these days.’

‘Can’t you trace all the transactions that Asner made over the years?’

Sayer laughed. ‘Don’t you think the authorities have tried that? No, the money went into Asner’s account, then was probably withdrawn as cash – and simply disappeared. Our best guess is that he was using a second player to hide the money for him.’

Sophie felt her scalp prickle.

‘But you don’t know who?’

‘We’ve checked his phone records, emails, diary logs, financial statements, but it’s a tiny needle in a very big haystack. Unless we have a name, we have no idea where to start. But we have to find a way. Asner was a sociopath. His scam was like a game to him, but he was playing with countless lives with his little scheme. Some of his investors were public funds; that means public amenities lost their funding – community centres, day care, outreach programmes – and thousands of people will lose their pensions. And that’s the tip of the iceberg. No, Miss Ellis, believe me when I say I’m motivated to find that money and get it back to the right people.’

Sophie looked at her, feeling torn. Andrea Sayer was one of the good guys, she could feel it, and if she told the lawyer the truth, then maybe she could help. But Josh was right too. Once they gave the authorities everything they had, they were vulnerable, dispensable. Sophie found herself at the crossroads – and she had to choose a path. ‘Does the name Benedict Grear mean anything to you?’ she said suddenly

‘No. Should it?’ replied Sayer, her clever eyes piercing.

‘I don’t know,’ stuttered Sophie. ‘Maybe someone connected to the Asner scheme? A lawyer he used, or an investor?’

Sayer shook her head. ‘What is this about?’

Sophie knew she had to word this carefully.

‘When my father lost his – our – money, he came to the same conclusion as you: that he’d be at the back of the queue, so he decided to do some of his own investigating.’

‘Good for him,’ said Sayer. ‘So why’s he not here?’

‘He’s dead, Miss Sayer.’

‘Oh I’m sorry. And call me Andrea.’

‘After he died, we found that name written down in a file he’d collected on Asner. We wondered if it might be something he’d discovered during his research.’

Sophie hoped her expression hadn’t betrayed her lies.

The attorney looked at her; her face said she was unconvinced by what Sophie was saying. After a pause, however, she turned to her computer and rattled at the keyboard.

‘We have interviewed everyone in Asner’s inner circle,’ she said. ‘We’ve built up a pretty big database about the scheme – we managed to get the SEC to pool their resources too.’

She clicked away.

‘No . . . nothing on Benedict Grear. But then we don’t have the time or resources to speak to everyone Asner ever met.’

She sat back in her chair.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything, Ms Ellis?’

‘Because we . . .’ Josh began to speak, but Sophie put her hand on his knee. He had been right in the lift; she needed to start taking control. This was her problem, her life, and it was about time she grabbed the steering wheel.

‘You say you want to find Asner’s hidden booty. Well so do I. We were British investors, Miss Sayer. You think your clients are at the bottom of a very long list for compensation; believe me, my family is bumping along the seabed. I want to help. My dad and Michael Asner were old friends. Perhaps someone they both knew knows something, anything that might help us find the truth.’

Andrea looked thoughtful.

‘You could talk to Tyler Connor.’

‘Who’s he?’ asked Josh.

‘A biker. Small-time hood, big-time meth dealer. This man shared a ten-by-ten cell with Michael Asner for months. You spend that much time together, you’re going to get close. If you want to find out who Benedict Grear is, maybe Ty got to hear about him.’

‘How do we speak to an inmate?’ asked Sophie.

‘Ty was released six weeks ago.’

‘Do you have contact details for him?’

Sayer sighed and flipped her Rolodex.

‘He’s living in Fort Lauderdale. I warn you, though, he’s intimidating. Not a nice man.’

She scribbled down the details and held out the note. As Sophie reached for it, Sayer pulled it back, fluttering in mid-air.

‘If you find out anything, anything at all, you have to tell me,’ she said, holding Sophie’s gaze. ‘That’s the deal, Ms Ellis.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Sophie, feeling the top of her neck begin to flush.

‘This is serious, Sophie. The SEC, the FBI – they don’t fuck around. And if they find out you’ve been withholding information from a major fraud inquiry, believe me, they will find a way to hurt you.’

37

Robert ‘Squirrel’ Sykes, society editor of
Class
magazine, looked at Ruth with a sly smile.

‘So tell me again,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘You’re there in the hallway, your hair perfectly back-lit by the bathroom cabinet, and the sexy policeman says in a deep voice, “My pleasure”? Why didn’t you just grab him and take him right there?’

Ruth slapped his arm.

‘I only split up with David three days ago. What sort of girl do you take me for?’

‘The sort who should be gagging for a bit of saucy rebound sex, that’s who.’

She flipped her napkin at him and tried not to smile. Ostensibly, her Saturday afternoon lunch with Robbie at Scott’s was to pick his brains about Lana Goddard-Price, but they’d spent the first twenty minutes huddled at their corner table talking about Fox, or ‘your dirty detective’ as Squirrel insisted on referring to him. The truth was, since their intimate night brainstorming over Chinese, Ruth hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, and in a way that wasn’t a million miles from what Robert was suggesting.

Fox was infuriatingly bullish and patronising and he clearly didn’t trust her enough to give her the information she needed, although she had to admit she reciprocated on that score. But there was something aloof and elusive about him that was as sexy as hell. However, the last thing she needed right now was any more inappropriate liaisons; the prospect of having to face poor Chuck Dean was embarrassing enough, and she and Fox had a potentially useful working relationship.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my non-existent love life,’ said Ruth. ‘I’ve got a story to write, remember?’

‘Oh, I know and it sounds so exciting. Honestly, you’re wasted on the
Trib
. You should
so
come over to
Class
. You know Cate Balcon loves you.’

The idea of approaching
Class
’s glamorous editor had of course crossed Ruth’s mind more than once.
Class
was a respected stylish glossy and one of the few magazines left which actually ran in-depth features on crime, political intrigue and the back-stabbing antics of the upper classes. Plus it would be a joy to spend the day in the energetic slipstream of Robbie Sykes. But Ruth wasn’t quite ready to leave the cut-and-thrust deadline hell of newspapers, especially when the prospect of bureau chief was still on the table.

‘It’s flattering to be considered,’ she said, ‘but I’m gunning for a Pulitzer, which isn’t going to happen unless I finish this story.’

She smiled at the thought of American journalism’s highest accolade; the prize she had always dreamed of winning. Two friends from college now had them and she had been a more promising journalist than both of them. But so far she had never really got the killer break. Never had that right-place-at-the-right-time story. She knew she had not yet fulfilled her potential.

‘Well it’s your loss,’ said Robbie with mock affront. ‘You’re missing out on some fabulous parties.’

He poured her some more wine and looked around the restaurant with its chic twenties decor and crisp white tablecloths, the diners a mix of edgy media types and old money.

‘Although I could do with coming here more often,’ said Robbie. ‘Darling, this is a treat. I only hope I can earn it.’

‘So come on then, tell me what you know about Lana Goddard-Price.’

Since her visits to the gym and Lana’s house, Ruth had become convinced there was more to Mrs Goddard-Price than met the eye. She was particularly intrigued by Mike’s suggestion that Lana had somehow targeted Sophie. She wasn’t entirely sure how it would help her solve Nick Beddingfield’s murder, but she had been a journalist long enough to know that random leads often led you in interesting directions.