The Darlings (10 page)

Paul wasn't feeling right; his throat was tightening on him, and the air around him felt heavy, like water. He pulled at his collar. The chaotic sounds of a school group in the adjacent gallery reverberated off the ceiling. Paul felt as though he was in a giant fish tank, drowning in their noise. “Killing yourself isn't an admission of fraud,” he said hoarsely. “There are other reasons he could have done it. Health. Tax issues.”

“No, Reis knew that David was closing in on him. They spoke two days ago. He must have seen the writing on the wall and panicked.” Her hand had found its way onto his knee. “Are you okay?” She said. “You don't look okay.”

He moved away from her. “Why are you telling me this, Alexa? I mean, is this just a friendly heads-up? ‘Hey, my boyfriend's about to indict you?' What do I do with that?”

“Honestly, I don't know. I know that Reis's death has accelerated the timetable on David's investigation. He's been talking to someone at the NYAG's office about a case against RCM and it's three biggest feeder funds: Weiss Partners, Anthem Capital, and you guys. They'll look to indict senior management, the people who should have known, so to speak. But it's not my case, and I'm not sure of the particulars. Or the timing.”

“‘Should have known'? I
told
you I didn't know. I've been there for two months. I still don't know, beyond what you've just told me.” His voice was reaching a hysterical clip.

“That's why I want you to talk to David. Now, before everything comes out in the open. If you work with him, well, maybe you guys can work something out.”

“
Work with him?
What does that even mean?”

“Well, that's the thing. It's hard to isolate exactly what was going on over there, without someone from inside. They need e-mails, internal memos. My point is, you could help each other.”

“You understand what you're asking, right?”

“Just talk to him, Paul. He'll show you the case. If he can't prove to you that there was fraud at RCM, and that people at Delphic knew about it, then by all means, walk away. But if he does have a case, save yourself. I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you that you're a sitting duck. Also,” she paused. “He told me he talked to you. Just be honest. You lied to him about some things, right?”

“Why do you say that?” His eyes darted inadvertently to the ground. He knew he should be looking at her, but his body seemed to be responding viscerally to the conversation, all the ticing and key jangling and collar pulling of a nervous man.

“David said he asked you directly to give him the names of RCM's counterparties. Don't you remember? And you said you didn't typically disclose that information. But the truth was you didn't know whom RCM was trading with! You couldn't have, because RCM wasn't trading with anyone. Their trades were just illusions, made-up transactions that existed only on paper. If you had bothered to call Goldman Sachs or Lehman Brothers or whomever RCM pretended it was buying and selling from, you would have found out that these places weren't doing any business with RCM. RCM wasn't doing any business at all.”

“I have to go.”

Alexa sighed. “All right.” She stood, gathered up her coat, and then held out a manila envelope for him. “Take this, okay?”

Paul gave Alexa a short nod and took the envelope. For a moment, he thought about opening it, but instead he folded it in half and tucked it into his pocket. There was too much information already—his mind was thick with it—he wasn't even sure he could read words on a page. He gave Alexa a quick kiss on the cheek.

“This isn't just about work for me.”

“I know.”

He gave her a quick nod. “I'll be in touch,” he said. Then he turned away from her, leaving her alone in the gallery.

Outside, the sky had grown dark with clouds. He felt bad leaving her there. Alexa had no umbrella, he realized, and her coat was too thin for so late in the season. He wondered where she would go now. Perhaps she would wander MoMA for a while, as lost in thought as he was.

He had to find Alain. He didn't need Alexa to tell him that Morty's death would turn a thousand eyes in RCM's direction, and eventually in Delphic's, too. If there were problems with one of Delphic's outside managers, now was the time for Alain to raise them. Paul went straight from the elevators to Alain's office, his pulse racing as he walked himself through the best way to open the conversation.

Alain had the biggest office at Delphic, bigger than Carter's. He had insisted on that when they had moved into the Seagram Building. Stylistically, it was a major departure from the rest of the floor. For the most part, Carter ensured that the Delphic office was understated, and things only got replaced when necessary. The conference rooms were appointed in muted shades of olive and beige. A tasteful collection of landscape photographs hung above the gleaming tables. Nice enough that the firm appeared successful, but not so nice that a client would balk at how their fees were getting spent. Carter did insist that Alain have a frosted glass door for his office instead of a clear glass one. That way, the opulent interior was at least obscured from view.

Paul met Alain for the first time at a dinner party at the Darlings' home, and the impression that Alain left that night was how Paul would always think of him. Alain had arrived late, just as they were being seated for dinner, and immediately all eyes were on him. He introduced the young blonde on his arm as Beate (not his girlfriend, Beate, but simply Beate) and then promptly left her to fend for herself. An irked Ines was forced to cut short a conversation with an art dealer who seemed to be deeply engrossing her so that she could fuss about until an extra seat at the table had been carved out.

“I'm
so sorry
we didn't have a place set for you,” Ines said to Beate, looking not sorry at all, “I had
no idea
he was bringing a guest.” She cast a slit-eyed glance at Alain, who was busy showing Carter his new watch and either didn't notice Ines or didn't care. When he looked up, Alain flashed Ines his signature rakish smile. Then he shrugged his shoulders, adjusting the sleeves of his cashmere blazer just so, and with a flourish pulled out the chair for the woman beside him. She seemed thoroughly charmed. Despite best efforts, even Ines's frost thawed slightly.

“Thank you, I'm so glad to be here,” Beate murmured, looking nothing of the sort.

Ines seated her at the far side of the table, next to Paul. She was beautiful in a placid, glacial way. Paul couldn't tell if she was bored or simply not entirely fluent in English, but she was nearly impossible to engage in conversation. From what he could gather, Alain had gone home to Geneva for the holidays and returned with Beate in tow. It wasn't clear how permanent he intended the move to be, but from the way Beate looked at Alain, Paul could tell that she was smitten. The only time she seemed to light up was when Alain was telling a story. When he spoke, he used his hands artfully, reeling in his audience like a fisherman. It was hard not to be taken in by him. Even men seemed captivated by Alain; he could talk about the equity markets, scotch, the World Cup, women, other people's children, health care policy, race-car driving, commodities pricing, inflation concerns in emerging markets. “He's like James Bond,” Carter had once said about him. “James Bond meets Gordon Gekko.” Carter always sounded like a stern older brother when talking about Alain. He tried to appear mildly disapproving of Alain's flamboyance, but anyone could tell he was secretly proud to be associated with him. After all, Alain was the real deal. He was one of the best investors on the Street. For all of his antics, his confidence was entirely founded.

Paul never saw Beate again. A few weeks later, he saw Alain at a restaurant downtown with another woman. She was voluptuous this time, raven-haired and beautiful in a different way than Beate. “Oh, I don't know,” Merrill said when Paul asked her about it. Merrill flicked her hand in an easy-come-easy-go manner. “He's been engaged more than once, I think. Dad's says he'll never get married. He's the consummate bachelor.” Paul wondered for a moment if Beate had stayed in New York, tried to make a go of it on her own. The thought was fleeting. How many Beates were there out in the world? How did Alain have the time to find them, court them, and then dispense of them while managing a multibillion-dollar portfolio? Though he stood for everything that disgusted Paul about New York, he had to hand it to the guy: he did it with incredible style.

The door to Alain's office was locked, and inside the lights were off. He was gone. The hazy outlines of paper stacks, like skyscrapers, were visible through the frosted glass.

Across from his desk, Alain had removed the standard-issue bookshelves so that he could hang three large photographs depicting industrial buildings in Milan. His files were stored in rows of black cabinets in the hallway outside the office. The filing cabinets took up a good amount of space. Alain was old-fashioned; he printed out everything, even e-mails, and kept them neatly organized as hard copy.

Paul stood in front of the filing cabinets assessing. Five large drawers were labeled “RCM.” He tried the first one and realized that the cabinets were locked. He wasn't sure that Alain intended the files for public use, but the circumstances seemed extenuating.

What now?
He surveyed the office. Most of the doors were closed. From the analysts' cubicles, sleeping computer screens glowed with the Delphic lion insignia. A few chairs were pushed back as though the analyst had departed quickly, rushing to make a flight. Paul felt like the last man in Pompeii.

“Hey, Paul.”

He was startled by the voice. He turned to see Jean Dupont, the associate who worked under Alain, standing in the hallway. Beside Jean was a small rolling suitcase. He was wearing a stylish winter coat, collar up, and held a cashmere cap in his hand. “If you're looking for Alain, he left already. I thought I was the last one here.”

Paul smiled tightly. “So did I,” he said.

Paul had never liked Jean. He was the son of a Swiss businessman who was a social friend of Alain's and a longtime Delphic client. The other associates grumbled that Alain had hired him as a favor to the Dupont family. Unquestionably, he was less qualified than others at his level. He was a good-looking kid, in a slick
I-own-you
sort of way. His whole demeanor at work felt like an act, as though, deep down, he knew the rules would never really apply to him, but would play along for the time being. Maybe he couldn't touch his trust until he was thirty, Paul thought. Maybe his dad thought working for a year or two would be character building. Whatever it was, it wasn't a good enough reason for Paul.

It was late to see Jean in the office, Paul thought, especially with everyone else gone.

“So Alain left for Geneva?”

“Yeah, he took off this morning. He's probably midflight now. Can I help with something?”

Paul hesitated; he hated asking Jean for help. Then a sense of urgency overwhelmed him and he caved to it.

“Actually, yeah. Could you open up the files on RCM for me? I'd like to review some of them before I go.”

Jean paused and inhaled sharply, as if he was about to say something but thought better of it. “Do you need something in particular?”

“I'll find what I need myself.”

Jean looked at him reluctantly.

Paul sighed. “Listen, you will probably see this on the news later, but Morty Reis committed suicide.” Jean turned ashen. “I just want to get some basic materials organized to bring out to Carter in East Hampton. There's going to be some fallout.”

“Jesus.” Jean let out a whistle. “Wow. That's crazy. How did he do it?”

“I think he jumped off the Tappan Zee Bridge. Early this morning. Or late last night.”

“Holy shit. Right before Thanksgiving, too.”

“Yup. Obviously very unfortunate.”