The Adored (32 page)

Oops, she smiled; bad timing on that question. “Absolutely not, you know it isn’t,” she replied and continued, “But I do need that spot at the Y. Please talk with her. Thanks, Sid,” and she shut her phone off, not wanting to hear the next rant. It was Friday night, and Val Samson was taking the weekend off.

**************

Saturday morning came and the multi-tasking young mother was jogging on the road that loops around Tod’s Point in Old Greenwich, CT. The point juts out into Long Island Sound; it is a peninsula and along its south side Long Island sits, seven miles out. On a clear day like this, the towers of the Throgs Neck and Whitestone bridges are visible, and to the right of them Manhattan.

She was pushing her young son in the three-wheeled carriage with her right hand. She had a dog leash wrapped around the hand. The dumb-as-a-rock Irish setter on the end of the leash was loping along in stride with her. The woman held a cell phone to her left ear; she was straining to hear the end of her friend’s recorded cell phone message. She needed to tell him some important news, news that will help her escape this suburban sinking.

Val Samson was vibrant, but flagging. Still strong and fit, she had been a scholarship soccer player at Columbia. She graduated with honors from Wharton. At twenty-five she ran a highly profitable trading desk at Citi Bank. At night and on the weekends, she was pursued by several wealthy young men. Before she married her condo in Chelsea was paid for.

And here she was entangled with all these non-city chains around her neck: a home in Greenwich, CT, a baby, a stroller, an oversized dog, and a good but dull husband.

And there was Edward Wheelwright. Still free, still unencumbered, with everything, still striving. And Valerie Samson, with nothing, needing everything.

The work was still there, her equities analysis operation at Blackthorn thriving and challenging. But only that. So much was missing—if only Edward and not David.

David was one of those brainy little dudes that powerful young women somehow become attracted to or somehow get trapped in one of their brainy little plots to snare beautiful women. Edward represented risk, to her sense of self, to her organized life, that sense of control she had over every element of her life. With David she could keep her freedom. He worshiped her; whatever she wanted she could have. Not so with Edward. He was the man. It was about him. It could not possibly work; she loved him too much. But he left her. And she still did not know why.

Because Valerie knew the game, she was valuable. Most equities firms and their managing directors did not get it. She did. The markets had become casinos. The concept that an individual investor by carefully researching stocks, with enough foresight and discipline, could over time, through dollar cost averaging their investments in stocks, build substantial savings that would carry through to the end of life; that concept was gone. There was no new model so the investment banks and trading houses began concocting new ones: ring it up!

How could the investing public on one side, with capital hungry corporations on the other side, not see the giant and ever growing leech between them? You couldn’t miss it. At every turn it was there sucking the blood of earned money from the process and the people. Short selling, naked shorting, front running, insider trading, publishing worthless equities analysis and recommendations, creating questionable derivatives, courting and corrupting not-so-ignorant politicians who thrived on the Street’s largess; and this giant leech was equipped with tools that let them front run, sell clients stock at the same time they shorted it, collaborate across firms with electronic hand signals, orchestrate flash sell-offs that would confound even their peers, yet be celebrated nightly for the simple deviousness of their workings. Insider trading had become so common that whenever the SEC started an investigation, it would immediately grow exponentially; there was no end to the links, cells, pods, pools, firms, and individuals involved in it.

The giant financial leech had become so big it was the industry. Right there, in plain sight with full support of the governing legislative and regulatory bodies, who themselves were made up of smaller leeches shuttling back and forth between the mother ship.

Valerie did get it. She thrived on it. On the very edge of criminality and yet without penalties for doing what she did. It was all legal, all written down in laws, exceptions, loop holes, and company policies for all to see. Transparency. How could it be wrong? In the post-god, post-values world of the street, it was so wrong, it was right.

David didn’t get any of this. He would never believe his bride was involved in a criminal enterprise. It wasn’t that she wanted him to believe she was a criminal. She wanted him to know it; she wanted someone else who got it to know how clever she was at the game. There she said it. That wasn’t David; it was Edward. Edward could help her wash the slime off with rationality. David could not.

Valerie thought about her recent telephone conversation with Edward Wheelwright. There was an opening; it was not too late. She needed to share an idea that would fulfill his striving and end her emptiness.

“Edward, when you get this message, please call me. It’s urgent. Good urgent. Eddie, it’s great urgent.”

Jim Conroy, the New York City police detective monitoring Valerie Samson’s phone, was part of a continuing investigation into insider trading. The cybercrime unit of the department had linked up with the Securities Exchange Commission to crack down on all forms of pillage occurring in the investment community.

Detective Conroy captured the message digitally that Valerie Samson had left Edward Wheelwright and the phone numbers of the sender and receiver. As the data was entered into the data base file on Rocket Solar, Detective Conroy noted that the Wheelwright number was new and may not mean anything. He traced the Wheelwright number; it was for a cell phone registered to Edward Wheelwright, III, address 671 Central Park West.

Monday came quickly. Val took the early train and was at her desk by 7 a.m. At seven fifteen Sid Rogers was in her office.

“I don’t appreciate being blanked out for the weekend,” Rogers said in an aggravated tone.

“Well, good morning to you, Sid,” Samson said, almost jauntily.

“Sorry about the shouting on Friday, Val. But I need the report done right.”

“How’d your discussion with Carol go?” Val said.

“It is that!” he almost shouted. “Damn, Val!”

“Damn, Sid. This is important to me too,” she said, rising in her chair. “I need to be back in the city.”

“And David?”

“I told you; this does not concern him. Let it go at that.”

Sid Rogers knew David Samson. They both ran trading desks at Blackthorn before David moved to the other side of the world at Blackthorn: bonds.

“Is he coming with you to the city?”

“Sid, Carol. What did she say?”

“She said ‘yes.’ She can get your son into the day care and that will give him a leg up in a couple of years as well as get him on the list for pre-school.”

Val Samson sat back in her chair, an immense burden lifting.

“Thanks, Sid, that’s awesome.”

“The report?”

“By noontime.”

“Good,” Rogers said.

Val Samson was home by eleven fifteen. Her nanny was just bringing little Edward home in the carriage when the phone rang.

“Hello,” she answered, not noticing it was her husband’s office number.

“Val, what’s going on? Sid Rogers just came to see me. He wanted to know where you were. He said you left work, and he couldn’t reach you or your cell.”

“David, I needed to come home,” Valerie told her husband in a pained tone.

“What’s wrong? Is Edward OK?”

“He’s fine.”

“Then what is it?” David asked again in his nasally city accent.

“Nothing. I’ll tell you when you’re home.”

“I’m not home tonight, remember? I leave for Chicago from the office today. I did mention I’m gone till next Thursday. Can we talk tonight?”

“No, it’s nothing, I’ll tell you next week when were together. Have a good trip,” and she hung up. The “what” she planned to tell him was that their marriage was over.

Chapter 43

“Parker, I need to meet with you,” Leonard Crane said urgently as Parker Barnes answered his office phone. “Are you still in the city?” Crane was sitting at his outdoor office in Central Park calling from his cellphone, once again unemployed.

“Lenny, what’s up?” And he listened… “Yes, I’m just finishing up. I’m about to get the car,” Barnes responded.

“I need to see you right now. And it’s going to be awhile,’ Crane continued in an excited manner.

“Why don’t we grab dinner at Cite, say in half an hour?”

“Yes, that’s terrific. I’ll see you then.” Crane concluded.

“Lenny, are you OK?” Barnes asked, sensing the heightened state Crane was obviously in.

“Yes, fine, Parker. I have an opportunity I think you’ll want to hear about.”

“Looking forward to it. See you it a bit,” Barnes finished, smiling to himself. Life was never dull with Leonard Crane around.

Barnes arrived at Cite Grille, the fashionable eatery, on West 51st. It was a favorite of the TV crowd from Sixth Ave. He spotted Crane right away seated at a table across the foyer to the right.

Barnes couldn’t help noticing Mike Francesca, the sports talk show host, already having dinner two tables away with Jim Nance, the sports announcer. Francesca better stop drinking those giant Cokes on his show, Barnes thought to himself, noticing his girth.

“Hey, Lenny,” Barnes announced when Crane’s eyes, which had been trained on Parker since he entered through the revolving door, met his.

“Did you see who’s over there?” Crane asked nodding toward the talking heads.

As Barnes reached out to shake Crane’s hand, he said, “Yeah, I did. Mikey boy better back off from the table,” Barnes concluded as he sat down. The comment was just loud enough where Francesca thought he heard something about himself and looked around at the two friends with a scowl.

“So, how are things going with you, Eddie and Kish?” Barnes asked, now focused on his friend.

Crane tucked his chin in and pulled his head slightly down, “Not well.”

“Not well? How?” Barnes said.

“I’m out. Eddie fired me,” Crane said looking up.

“What the hell happened,” a now impatient Barnes asked.

“I got a tip from a girl I worked with over at Blackthorn. They’re doing a lot of investments in solar. We had a pact when we last worked together. If either of us ever got something that was game or life changing, the other could execute it and we’d share the profits. I talked to Eddie about it. It seemed like he was interested at first, then later on he comes back and cans me.”

“That’s a little weird,” Barnes said, adding, “Must be something more, Lenny, Eddie’s a pretty fair guy.”

“Well, I had a couple of minor screwups, nothing major, in the last couple of months, but this was the reason. This tip.”

“What was the tip?”

“Eddie said it was insider information. He said if we acted on it they could trace it directly back to my friend Alice, and therefore to Blackthorn, who has the solar company as a client.”

“Well, if he saw it that way, you can’t argue with him. Look, I get it. I’ll talk with him. See if we can get you reinstated,” Barnes said empathetically.

“Thanks, Parker, but that won’t do any good. He was pretty emphatic, and I see his point, “Crane said.

“Then, that’s not why you wanted to talk with me, getting hired back?” Barnes asked.

“It’s the tip, Parker. It’s good as gold. Just sitting there. It’s worth millions. This is the once in a life time shot you get to do it all at once,” Crane said, suddenly alive.

A waiter appeared and asked about drinks. Barnes ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Do you want to share a bottle of the water, Lenny,” Barnes asked.

“Sure, sounds great,” Crane said fully aware of his friend’s past addictions and willing to forego an alcoholic drink.

The waiter left menus and hustled off.

Barnes said, without any more than casual interest, “Tell me about the tip.”

One never knows why an obnoxious person will not give up when they’ve lost or why an impulsive person won’t use sources available to them to confirm facts. Whatever the reasons, Crane and Barnes were toxic together and set off on a ruinous cause that night. Perhaps desire overcame judgment or longing for independence outdid reliance on knowledgeable sources. Crane ignored the danger he knew to be present, especially after Alice’s warning. Barnes could have counseled with Wheelwright or Trout but didn’t. Crane’s case for riches put Barnes in the thrall of becoming his own man. Barnes and Crane met with Kish Moira later that night, told him what they wanted to do, and Barnes gave Kish eight checks in denominations of five hundred thousand dollars to buy Rocket Solar on margin.

A life of risk can be compounded in so many ways. Taking risks in his past to buy drugs or drive while drinking or “borrowing” from Barnes Construction to invest in Brunswick Fund were all measured, and while individually destructive, not compounding, in the way Parker Barnes now exposed himself.