The Concealers (28 page)

She also knew how difficult it was to permeate the institutional web of protection. Turfs were protected and information was held close. That was changing with Homeland Security demands and its current emphasis on inter-agency cooperation, but still, success in uncovering information came down to personal relationships. In addition to learning about the bank fraud investigative policy and process, Katherine knew she had to find a friend on the inside. That was one of several reasons she'd persuaded Sol to let her attend and to spring for the hefty registration fee. Professional development, he'd called it.
A fishing expedition was more like it,
she thought.

Katherine arrived early and watched the attendees come in. Some went to the refreshment table to seek the breakfast they hadn't had yet. Others milled around looking for connections to their personal network. The ones who had not had the opportunity or inclination to study the materials ahead of time were going through them now.

When Katherine scanned the meeting room, she saw a thin woman with black hair, dressed in a summer-weight slacks ensemble seated in the end seat, three rows from the front, with a large wheel-aided briefcase on the floor beside her. Katherine sensed a no-nonsense air about the woman, estimating her to be in her late thirties. Katherine entered the empty row from the left and stood behind the seat next to her, watching as the woman poured through a stack of files and waiting for an opening.

“Hi, I'm Katherine Kelly. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“I'm preparing for the first session,” the woman replied. “But that's okay. Have a seat. Carol Martin.” She offered a hand to Katherine.

They shook, and Katherine sat down, took out her fresh notepad and pen, and stared at the blank paper, focusing on how she could get the most out of this day. The day should be a window into the minds and perhaps some of the files of a host of current and former government prosecutors, agents, and investigators. She was determined to make the most of it.

Katherine had already studied the four-inch-thick notebook of symposium materials, noted her questions in the margins, and flagged areas of specific interest. She was impressed with the diversity of commitment—all directed to economic fraud. One of the areas she had flagged was an article about Secret Service involvement in an investigation. From the list of contributors and sponsors, it looked like representatives from the FBI, IRS, SEC, DEA, TARP, the Federal Reserve, the Postal Service, and the U.S. Attorney's Office would be there, along with local district attorneys.

“What brings you here?” Carol asked. “Are you an attorney on Long Island?”

“No, I'm a reporter working with the
Twin Forks Press
.”

“Reporting on . . . ”

“Trying to learn more about bank fraud—how institutions deal with it.”

“That's interesting. I don't remember ever encountering a reporter at one of these conferences before,” Carol observed.

“I hope it stays that way,” Katherine said.

Carol smiled. “What draws you to bank fraud?”

“Willie Sutton.”

“As in ‘Why do you rob banks?'—‘That's where the money is'?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Wow. You're fast, Carol. A lot of people are getting hurt from bank fraud. One way to fight it is to expose it—particularly the greed that drives it.”

“And you've written stories about that?”

“Several.”

The room began to fill in, and the speakers were taking their places at a long table up front.

“Are you going to stay all day?” Carol asked.

“I plan to.”

“If you like, let's have lunch together. I'd like to hear more about your bank fraud stories.”

“Sounds good,” Katherine said just as the moderator brought everyone to attention to begin the introductions and keynote address. “To be continued,” she whispered.

At noon the conference broke for lunch.

“There's a good diner five minutes from here,” Katherine said. “Or would you rather have the sandwiches and drinks provided?”

“Diner,” Carol said.

“I'll drive.”

Over lunch, they discussed the morning's presentations—who captured their interest and who didn't and why.

“I'm glad I came,” Katherine said.

“If you're into bank fraud, this one is worthwhile,” Carol said. “I've been chasing perpetrators in this area for some time—they get more slippery every day.”

“How long have you been with the district attorney's office?”

“Twelve years. Before that, I worked for JP Morgan Chase.”

“What drew you to the DA's office?”

“A choice. Security and money or making a significant difference.”

“Believe me, I get that,” said Katherine.

Their allotted time for lunch was nearly up. They split the check and headed back.

The afternoon sessions were divided into three parts. They heard attorneys from the eastern and southern districts of the U.S. Attorney's Office and in-house counsel from UBS and Bank North America. Next was a presentation on the difficulties of financial compliance in a borderless economy presented by representatives of the Federal Reserve, the Manhattan DA's office, and the DEA with in-house counsel from Morgan Stanley, John Hancock, and JP Morgan Chase. Then came a provocative PowerPoint presentation by the special inspector general for TARP.

The dialogue was lively, and Katherine developed a strong sense about the distance and, at times, tension, between the institutional side and the private side. Katherine especially appreciated the insight into the way the various parties viewed each other and their roles.

When it was over, Katherine and Carol had a cup of coffee together.

“What do you do with your golden retriever on days like this?”

“Fortunately, I have a neighbor who loves dogs.”

“My husband wants a dog, but I can't see how it can work in the city. By the way, we should try to get together sometime.”

Katherine agreed. They exchanged business cards and promised to call each other.

Before Katherine knew it, a week had flown by, and she found herself enjoying a free Saturday. Late August in Southampton was a delight, except to many of the locals who resented the traffic, couldn't get reservations for dinner, or go out for a quiet movie with friends. Temperatures in the high seventies, walks on the beach with Hailey, salt in the air. When they got back to her apartment, Katherine caught up on her personal phone calls, including one to her father.

“Hi, Preston. Am I getting you at a bad time?”

“Hi. Not at all. I'm headed to the club—looking to get eighteen holes in and check on one of our dealerships on the island. How are you?”

“Good. I messed up though. Should have called you earlier. A week and a half ago my grandfather called me. He was at the Rod and Gun Club shooting skeet when he ran into an old buddy he wanted to introduce to me on the phone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Harry Klaskowski.”

Preston was quiet for a moment.

“You're full of surprises, Katherine. Your grandfather knows Harry.”

“Yeah. They're old hunting and shooting buddies.”

“Harry's obviously a man of diversity,” Preston said. “When I talked to him last, he was the ‘Oompah Man.' ”

“I remember. That's why I'm calling. He's performing with his band at the Heidelberg Restaurant on Second Avenue at Eighty-Sixth Street.”

“Really? When?”

“Tonight. That's where I screwed up. I should have called you earlier. Susan and I are going, and we'd really like you to come, too.”

More silence.

“Come on. You either have a conflict or you don't want to go. It's a great chance to bond with Harry—and have a good time. I can't wait. Neither can Susan. We need a date.”

“I'll talk with Marcia.”

“How's that going?”

“Don't ask.”

“How's P.J.?”

“He's walking now—all our outlets on the floor are plugged,” Preston said with a laugh.

“Try to come tonight,” Katherine said. “I hope I see you later. Give Marcia and P.J. a hug for me.”

“Good to talk to you, Katherine. I'll give it a try.”

About a half an hour away from the club, Preston decided to call Marcia and tell her about his phone call from Katherine. He couldn't get over the irony of Harry being an old friend of her grandfather and his putting Harry on the phone to talk to Katherine.

Preston hoped that Marcia was in a better mood than when he had left home. She used to encourage him to play and to spend time with his golfing buddies. Now, her whole world revolved around their son. He hit his condo number on the Bentley's communication system. Marcia answered and Preston launched into a detailed description of Katherine's call.

“What are the odds?” Preston said.

“How is Harry doing?”

“He's coming to New York City with his oompah band.”

“Playing here? That's great. Where? When?”

“Tonight actually. A restaurant in Germantown. Katherine's going. With her friend Susan, and she wants us to come.”

“I can't go, obviously.”

“Can't or don't want to?”

“It's too short notice to get our sitter. But you should go. Support Harry and have fun with your daughter.”

“I think we should go together.”

“Think again. I have to go now. Have a good game,” Marcia said and the line went dead.

Preston wondered whether he could ever get his marriage back on track. Could he ever dismantle the wall Marcia had built between them? Rebuild what they had. He did it once before. Why couldn't he do it again? He certainly was spending more time with P.J., or at least trying. Marcia didn't seem to resent Katherine. In fact, she was all for his spending
father time
with her as she called it, and she was getting close to Katherine herself. At the same time, she continued to drift away from him.
Why was she doing this? How do you deal with a woman who thought in terms of “stretching and tearing fabric
?”

Missy's words came to mind.
Don't give up on yourself . . . look deep inside and find the best parts . . . if you want to keep Marcia, that's a place to start.
He'd thought about that many times, trying to figure it out. Maybe he should see a shrink. He told himself he was willing to do whatever it took. As he pulled into the club's parking lot, he pushed all of this to the back of his mind. Playing golf always helped.

Katherine arrived at the restaurant a little before 5:00 p.m., as Harry had suggested. She went through the dining area and was directed by a waitress to a large room in the back to the left, finished handsomely in dark wood with a two-foot-high platform at the end.

She saw five burly men in their late forties dressed in green Bavarian lederhosen with red trim and wide suspenders adorned with folk print detail moving speakers, instruments, and chairs around on the stage. Each wore a white shirt, with matching tall white socks inside high leather lace-up tasseled boots, and a green felt hat with a red feathered band.

As Katherine approached, the largest of the men bounded off the stage with surprising agility, came over to her, and placed his huge arms around her. He easily lifted her off her feet while exclaiming, “You must be Katherine.” When he finally let her down, and she got her breath back, she said, “And you have got to be Harry.”

Harry led her by the hand to a table in the back of the room on which a number of authentic Bavarian beer steins were waiting. Katherine could see the droplets of water on the pointed cover, spilling over the elaborate carvings on each mug. She could not wait to taste the cold beer inside.

Harry handed her a stein, grabbed one himself, and proposed a number of toasts each followed by hardy swallows of beer. They drank to Adrian. They drank to Joe. They drank to Alice. Harry asked Katherine to tell him everything she knew about Joe and his friends. She told him how she had gotten to meet Johnny and Corey and wanted to meet Missy and Tommy. She talked about how respectful Marcia and Preston were of Joe, how much he had done for them and their family, how they had named their son after him. She said she was fascinated by all she had learned about Joe, his impact on others. How she only wished she could have known him.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked.

“Starving.”

Harry went to the doorway to the dining room and spoke with a waitress. In a few minutes a robust woman with long blonde hair, also in German folk costume, came to the table, placed a blue-and-white tablecloth over the white one and soon returned with two servings of consommé with spätzle, a salad, and knackwurst with potato salad and sauerkraut.

They ate and talked and drank. Katherine asked Harry a hundred questions. Where he came from, what he'd done, whether he was married, his relationship with her grandfather, how he had met Joe.

“I can't believe how many things you've done, Harry. What an exciting life. Grandpa tells me you are an excellent photographer.”

Harry told her what he liked to shoot and turned the subject around to Katherine.

“Your turn. I know you're a hotshot journalist. Give it all to me.”

“You know where I grew up. I went to college in New York City and always sort of knew I wanted to be a reporter. Insatiable curiosity. Born nosey, I guess.”