The Darlings (31 page)

“Don't come in on my account, please. It's a holiday. You should be with your family.”

“Thank you. I'd really like to help out, though. That is, if you'd like me to.”

“Why don't you call me when you're back in town? I don't know where I'll be tomorrow, but if you want to, you can come along for the ride. I don't know what I can do with you exactly, but we'll figure something out.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thanks so much. I'll do that.”

“Have a good night, Marina. And enjoy the evening with your parents.”

Marina was doing research on Morty Reis when she heard a gentle knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said, swinging her feet off the desk.

Her father peeked into the room. He had one pair of reading glasses on top of his head and another dangling from the pocket of his button-down shirt. The collar was frayed, and the light blue plaid was softly familiar. In one hand, he held a plate of apple pie, a napkin, and a fork. When he saw her at the desk, a proud smile played across his lips.

“I thought you might like some brain food,” he said, holding out the pie. “Your mom made it. How's it coming along?”

“Good,” she said. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Well,” he corrected, and then blushed reflexively at the floor. “Sorry,” he said.

She smiled. “No, you're right. It's coming along nicely.”

“Can you talk about what you're working on, or is it top secret?”

“No, not top secret. But I'll tell you about it when it's finished. It's an interesting piece.”

“You're working very hard,” he said. He paused, looking momentarily embarrassed as he often did when he got sentimental. With slight sheepishness, he added: “I probably don't say this enough, but your mom and I are so proud of you. You seem to be doing such a great job.”

Marina stood up and went to him, hugging him full around the chest. He held the pie in one hand, cradling his daughter in the crook of his elbow. Eyes closed, his cheek pressed softly to the top of her head, he said: “I don't worry about you, Marina. Well, maybe a little. But you've always accomplished everything you set your mind to, and you're really a wonderful writer.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She pulled back from him, allowing him to hold her at arm's length for just a second more. Then she took the pie, offering him her sweet smile.

“Are you staying the weekend?”

“Just the night, I think. I have to help Duncan out with this story.”

“Okay. We always love to have you.”

“I love being here. But I do need to get back. This is my first chance to work on a real story. You know, something other than lipstick shades for spring. And I think it's going to be great.”

When he left, she devoured the pie. It was perfectly sweet and crumbled in that way that only homemade pie can. When the last trace of apple had been scraped off the plate, she sat back in her father's chair, satisfied. It had been, for the first time in a long time, a good day.

SATURDAY, 6:15 A.M.

“W
e're coming back into the city now,” Sol said. He adjusted the rearview mirror and stepped on the gas, the monotony of suburban Long Island rolling out beneath his car tires. He hated this part of the island, not yet city but no longer country. All car dealerships and office complexes and people putting gas in their Honda Civics. The kind of people who either couldn't afford to live in Manhattan or chose not to. Sol couldn't decide what was worse. All the houses looked the same, stacked ten deep around cul-de-sacs. It brought back bad memories.

As he passed a furniture warehouse with fluorescent green “Sale” banners fluttering from its windows, Sol thought,
I can't believe I grew up here
. His sister and Marion's two brothers still lived within ten miles of the next exit, but Sol had successfully avoided visiting any of them for more than three years. Instead, the family came to them, for birthdays and Seders and the occasional casual visit. “Sol has to work,” Marion would say. “But we'd
love
to have you over to the apartment.” Sol suspected that Marion's brothers took quiet offense at this pattern, but he didn't really care. If they thought he was being selfish, they were right. If they thought he had a superiority complex, they were also right. The reality was that he and Marion had a cook and staff, and set the table with cloth napkins instead of paper, and at the end of the night, no one had to take out the dogs or the trash. To pretend Passover with the Schwartzmans in Great Neck would be equally nice required theatrical capabilities that Sol didn't possess. Also, he usually did have to work. He wouldn't say that his time was too valuable to spend it in transit, but it was too valuable to be spent in transit to his in-laws' house.

Sol felt as though he had been in the car for two days straight. Thanksgiving had passed in a blur, more a pause than a holiday, with long stretches of highway gating it on either side. How many times had he spoken to Eli in the past few days? He had lost track. He had spent the whole car ride out to East Hampton on the phone with Eli; now the whole car ride home, too . . . Driving was becoming synonymous with unpleasant conversations with Eli. Sol didn't want to seem desperate, but they were now operating on borrowed time. Hours mattered. Fewer than seventy-two hours had elapsed since Sol had gotten the news of Morty's death. Sol imagined they had, at most, another forty-eight until rumors began leaking into the media about what was going on inside RCM. The only reason it hadn't started already was because of Thanksgiving. Which, Sol realized gratefully, the rest of the country seemed to recognize as a holiday, even though lawyers never had. It wasn't a head start, but it was something. A head step, maybe.

“Carter's driving back on his own,” Sol said, his foot fused to the gas pedal. He was cruising at just over 80 mph; reflexively, he checked the mirrors for cops. “We'll both be back in the city within the hour. When can you meet?”

Eli paused. When he spoke, his hesitancy was apparent. “Listen, why don't you guys come in tomorrow morning? We need to get our house in order first. I'm not sure we're prepared enough to make it worth your while.”

Sol snorted in frustration. “Eli, we've got to get this worked out. He's willing to cooperate, but he's going to need some assurance that he's not going to get burned if he does. This is extremely stressful for him and for his family. Everyone wants to see this resolved, right?”

“Of course. But you came to me with this forty-eight hours ago.”

“More like sixty.”

“I'm doing the best I can. It's a holiday. And I gotta be honest, here, this isn't the kind of deal I can get done on my own.” Eli's voice had gotten high and nasal, which wasn't good. He was annoyingly close to whining. Sol had known him long enough to know that he didn't like feeling pressured, but Sol didn't have the time or the patience to hold Eli's hand on this one.

“This is a high-profile case, Sol. Robertson's not going to be thrilled at passing up the opportunity to go after a CEO who had thirty-three percent of his fund invested in a Ponzi scheme. Does Darling understand that he's about to have a horde of angry investors on his doorstep?”

“Yeah, of course he does. Look, Robertson will get his win. We're not saying that Delphic shouldn't be held accountable. Just hold the right people at Delphic accountable. Don't go after Carter simply because he's CEO. Any involvement they had with RCM was one hundred percent the fault of his partner and the investment team.”

Eli sighed. In the background, there was the piercing sound of children's voices, and Sol realized that Eli was taking the call from home. This annoyed him. Why wasn't Eli at the office?
This is what happens when you leave private practice
, he thought.
No sense of urgency.

Sol wondered where Eli lived. It was probably pretty dismal. One of those white brick buildings on Second Avenue, with a cookie-cutter layout and low ceilings. Parquet floors, a dishwasher that leaked, a superintendent who wore a wifebeater under his work shirt and looked as though there was a game on somewhere that you were keeping him from watching. Eli had three kids. Sol had gotten all of them into a private school in Manhattan. The school cost forty thousand dollars a year, but all three were the quiet beneficiaries of a scholarship fund underwritten by a client of Sol's, who at the time was being investigated for options backdating. Sol wondered if there was a number that would make Eli move faster, but he bit his tongue. Unfortunately, Eli was one of those people who preferred to get paid off in favors. More than likely, he would balk at the suggestion that taking cash wasn't really too far from what he was doing already. Everyone had a line in the sand. Sol just wished Eli's line was a little closer to his own.

It didn't take much to convince Eli of Alain's accountability. Beyond the rather obvious point that Alain was, in fact, guilty, he also played the part of the corporate villain perfectly. He was the embodiment of Wall Street at its worst. His e-mails would read well in the
Post
(Sol reminded himself to call the associate who was combing through them now); Sol could have one on the front page by Monday, if that was what Eli wanted. And Alain would inevitably do something flamboyant—drive his black Lamborghini to the courthouse, or tell a reporter to fuck off—in just such a way as to fan the flames of public resentment. He would, in all likelihood, be arrested at his weekend home in Gstaad, where Sol suspected he was hiding out. It would be a slam dunk for the feds, and a splashy one. It was exactly the kind of preelection press Robertson was looking for, and Eli's main goal in life was pleasing Robertson. The trickier question was whether Alain alone was enough.

“The thing is,” Eli whined, “it's not really an either-or situation. I mean, we have to justify to the public why we aren't prosecuting Carter, too.”

“Justify to the public? Or justify to Robertson's campaign staff?”

“Both, I guess.”

“I told you what to say publicly. Carter was semiretired. End of story.”

“Okay, justify to Robertson, then.”

“Tell him what I keep telling you. My client talks and this case gets handed to you on a silver fucking platter. And then some. The work's done for you. You'll have him in handcuffs by Monday and you'll have barely lifted a finger. How's this not an easy “yes” for you?” Sol snarled. Between Eli and the traffic, Sol was getting irritable, and he really had to pee. He reminded himself that if Eli had any tolerance for risk, he wouldn't be a government lawyer. He tapped his fingers furiously on the steering wheel and then honked as a Honda Civic cut him off in the middle lane.
Fuck you,
he thought, channeling all his frustration at the driver of the Honda.
Fucking cretin.

Eli was silent.

There was one card that Sol was still holding, and though he would have preferred to play it later, it seemed Eli was in need of a nudge.

“There's one more thing,” Sol said. “Better discussed in person, but it seems that my associates came across some unusual communication with the SEC. We'll have to confirm some things on our end, but it seems like Alain thought of everything, including how to get the SEC off his back, and Morty's. The information is yours. That is, if you're willing to work with us.”

“Are you saying he bribed someone?” Eli said quickly. His voice had brightened noticeably. “I mean, what kind of communication are we talking about here? Do you have a name?”

Sol smiled. Usually he preferred to do business face to face; the eyes gave away so much more than the voice. But he knew exactly what Eli was thinking now. The possibility of bribery charges against an SEC official would be a career maker for Eli. If he could bring that home for Robertson, well, the sky was the limit.

“Well, now I said we were going to have to confirm some things,” he said casually. “We're moving as fast as we can on our end, too. Let's not forget that we're not under subpoena here, either. Why don't we talk about this when we get together?”

Eli cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. Sunday morning okay for you guys? First thing?”

“How's seven tomorrow morning?”

“Mmm, let's make it nine.”

Sol rolled his eyes. “All right, nine. But let's get this done, all right? It's going to be a lot easier to work together once we're all playing on the same team.”

“Yeah, I'll see you both tomorrow. Call me if something comes up.”

“Will do. Likewise.”

“Come ready to talk about this SEC situation, okay?”

“Come ready to sign something. Have a good night, Eli.”

Got him,
Sol thought, and clicked off the call. “Call office,” he articulated into the empty cabin of the car. He fiddled with the Bluetooth as he waited for the cool greeting of the Penzell & Rubicam central receptionist. There was something about unsecured phone systems that made him vaguely nervous. Sol had expressed this concern to the guy at the Mercedes dealership when he had traded in the car last year; the guy had looked at him as though he were either paranoid or very old. Old and paranoid. He was both, he realized, as he adjusted the speaker volume again. And this Morty thing wasn't going to improve either. He felt as if he had aged five years since Wednesday.

Central reception picked up after one ring. “Penzell & Rubicam. How may I direct your call?”

Sol breathed a calming sigh. “This is Sol Penzell. Could you get me Yvonne, please? At home?”

“Just a minute.”

Sol didn't feel guilty about what he was about to do, but he felt that he ought to feel guilty, which was the next closest thing. Yvonne hadn't taken a vacation day in more than two years, and she sorely deserved this one. But Yvonne never got upset with him, and he imagined she would take this as she always did: in stride. He would buy her something nice when it was all over.

“For the record, I am upset with you,” she said, when she picked up. “I do have a life, you know.”

“I know. I need you to meet me in the office in an hour or so. I promise to make it up to you. I feel very guilty for asking.”

“No, you don't. I haven't taken a day off in four years.”

“I thought it was two.”

“It's been four. And-a-half. Not that anyone's counting.”

“You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important,” Sol said, tired of apologizing.

“I have the wire confirmations for you.” Her voice was flat and hollow. He was testing her patience. If he pushed her on it, she would say what she always said:
Sol, I'm in no mood
.

Sol felt flushed with a warm sense of relief. This was the first thing that had gone right in days. “You're sure, everything's in place? Set up no problem?”

“It wasn't ‘no problem.' I mean, they weren't excited about backdating them. But yes, there are now two wire transfers of cash, out of account A into account B, in the amounts specified; the first is recorded as taking place on September 5, 2008, and the second on October 31, 2008. Both Fridays. The accounts are numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands; you have to go through two levels of security, but you can ultimately trace both back to an original signatory. If you do that, you see that account B is registered in the name of David Levin. There's a slight issue with account A, though. There need to be two names signing off on it because it's technically a Delphic Europe account and transfers of that size require two signatures.”

“Put someone else from the Geneva Office down then.”

“It has to be a corporate officer. We used to list Alain and Brian, before Brian quit as CFO.”

“Fine. Put Paul's name, then.”

“Paul Ross?”

“Yeah. He's a corporate officer. He's the general counsel. Also, he's talked to David Levin before. It makes sense.”

“But Paul just got there. I'm not sure he was at the firm on September fifth.”

“Fine, change it to the twenty-sixth, then.”

Yvonne paused. “Who is David Levin?” she said.

“That's not something you need to know.” Sol's voice was sharp. A light snow was misting against the windshield; he flicked the wipers on high and they darted back and forth with a rhythmic flourish, like chef's knives across a cutting board. “This is a formality anyway, Yvonne. These are transfers that should have been made in the past; now they've been made. I apologize for asking you to record them on a previous date but sometimes things like this need to occur in order to keep business flowing productively. Whether or not Paul signed off on this transfer is not of consequence. I know I can trust you, I always have, but I'm telling you that right now is not a good time to test me on that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Just please do your job.”

When she was silent, Sol sighed. He said more gently, “I know I sound like an asshole today. This is a very pressurized situation. I just need everyone to get things done right now and not ask questions.”