The Gods of Greenwich (37 page)

“You finished?”

“No. I’m just getting started. And I wish you’d leave my family and me the fuck alone. I don’t care about Cy’s trade secrets.”

Shannon blinked. His scowl faded, and his face turned sly. He picked up the list of seven names Cusack had scribbled. “Who are these people?”

“Prospects,” Cusack snapped.

“You always take notes on Nikki’s stationery?”

Shannon smiled wide, not friendly, but a gap-toothed semi-gloat. He held out the letterhead like a banner. It read,
From Nikki’s desk.

“You know Nikki. She’s always there with a piece of paper when I have a moment of brilliance.”

“Not much action there, Cusack.”

“Nice shot. Why don’t you inspect my office and make sure all your bugs are working, so I can go home.”

“Pack your bag, rich boy.”

Cusack loaded the sprawl from his desk back into his briefcase. He left his file drawer open. “You need anything else before I go?”

“Just doing my job,” returned Shannon.

“Whatever.”

“By the way,” Shannon added, “you might consider what to tell the boss.”

“That I’m staying late and busting my ass to bring in dollars.”

“I hope he buys it,” Shannon said, doubting, shaking his head from left to right. “He knows you’ve been looking through office files.”

“What do you mean?”

“See that dome?”

Cusack eyed a reddish dome on the ceiling. He’d thought the fixture was a smoke detector. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he suddenly grasped the big man’s meaning.

“Say cheese, Cusack. That’s our eye in the sky. Cy has a new video for his collection.”

“An empty office makes for riveting footage,” Jimmy bluffed.

“Hah.” Shannon sneered. “First porn, now Cy has you stealing trade secrets.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

THURSDAY
,
OCTOBER
2
BENTWING AT
$26.80

Siggi leaned over and clinked glasses with Ólafur. They were sitting on Icelandair 613, destination JFK Airport. The two men drank Diet Coke as they waited to take off for New York City.

The gallery owner had long dreamed of a big score, a sure thing. Now it was within reach. And it would make him richer than he ever thought possible, though not so rich as Ólafur once thought. Those long bleak days from childhood, Siggi and Ólafur mending torn fishing nets for their fathers, were fading from memory.

Siggi drifted back to the Nordic chic bar inside Hverfisgata’s 101 Hotel, the place that made this windfall possible, the place where Icelandair 613 really originated. He wondered what Cy Leeser and his friends were thinking the night they all met in Reykjavik. But the moment passed.

“You packed everything, Ólafur?”

“Yes.”

“Black tennis shoes, black workout clothes, and dark sunglasses. Your suits won’t do any good where we’re going.”

“Everything’s in my carry-on bag,” Ólafur confirmed.

“Get some sleep on the plane. I’ve arranged for the truck to meet us at the airport.”

“Are you sure I can’t return to Iceland with you?” The banker looked at Siggi hopefully, as though asking for permission.

“With your legal problems? I think it’s best for you to wait until things cool off.”

“Okay,” Ólafur agreed, his bluster long gone.

“Good. Not another peep, cousin, until we reach Greenwich.”

*   *   *

Eight
A.M.
Cusack’s eyes burned bright red from tossing and turning all night. His sandy hair resembled a plate of spaghetti. News stories scrolled across his thirty-inch LCD screen, promising another grim day for investors. And here he was, ready to walk the plank.

Leeser would arrive soon. He would check his e-mails or voice mails and find the inevitable report from Shannon. That’s all it would take, Cusack imagined, for war to erupt inside LeeWell Capital.

Cy: “Get the fuck out of here.”

Cy: “You owe me three million bucks.”

Cy: “Breaking news on Caleb Phelps. Porn star son-in-law accused of stealing trade secrets. Film at eleven.”

Cusack could not return the stack of paperwork under his desk. Not with Nikki sitting at her workstation. And what difference did it make? Leeser possessed a second video—the head of sales snooping through filing cabinets and stealing trade secrets.

Nikki was so organized, so methodical. Cusack assumed Henrietta Hedgecock’s paperwork was a template, more or less, for the files of all eight people and the secret sauce. It was also evidence, all the excuse Cy needed to fire his ass. Maybe even sue.

Jimmy checked his office door. Nobody was looking, not yet anyway, not that he cared. It was the principle. Curiosity about the secret had consumed Cusack since April. And even though his short stint at LeeWell Capital was screeching to an end—any minute now—there were answers at his fingertips. Cusack needed to know.

He pulled out the folder marked
CERTIFICATES
. The paperwork contained the usual collection of sedatives made from tree pulp: notarized signatures, instructions for where to deliver documents, and a note from some company named Wealth Solutions LLC based near Times Square.

Underneath the note, Cusack found a death certificate for Henrietta Hedgecock. Again, the details were cold and clinical.

Manner of Death: Accidental drowning.

Surviving Spouse: None.

Medical Examiner/Coroner: Peter von Maur had signed the death certificate.

Cusack grabbed the Purchase and Sale file and found more mind-numbing documents—purchase price, schedule of payments from LeeWell Capital, and wire instructions. He leafed through the stack of papers, his eyes darting to the door every so often. He hoped to answer one question:

What are we buying?

When Cusack picked up the Underwriting folder, he found his answer. It was not what he expected. Nor did it make any sense. Jimmy dialed the one person he never expected to ask for help.

*   *   *

“Phelps here.”

There was a time when Jimmy Cusack hated his father-in-law’s voice. After the December ambush, Jimmy carped to Emi, “Your father sounds like a flat EKG.”

Not now. Not since the night at MoMA. Not since Emi Cusack brokered a peace with her mother’s support. Those two words, “Phelps here,” boomed sweeter than Roy Orbison.

“I need your help.”

“What’s wrong, James? You sound like hell.”

“Up late.” Cusack glanced at Henrietta Hedgecock’s file. “What do you know about life settlements?”

“It’s an evolving industry.”

“What do you mean?” Cusack checked the door.

“‘Life settlements’ are when owners sell life insurance policies—ones already in place—to third parties. Usually to people they don’t know. The practice gained notoriety in the 1980s with AIDS patients, who needed cash to pay the high cost of medical care.”

“Viaticals.”

“Right,” Caleb acknowledged. “Treatment for AIDS has improved, and the terminally ill aren’t much of a market these days. But the practice of selling life insurance policies—from owners to people they don’t know—caught on. And life settlements are flourishing.”

“Who sells the policies?”

“Anybody who needs cash.”

“But insurance policies have cash values,” continued Cusack. “Why not withdraw the money and keep the life insurance?”

“When people reach their seventies,” Caleb explained, “it’s possible to sell existing policies for more than their cash value.”

“Got it.”

“Sometimes families buy more insurance than they need,” Phelps continued. “Rather than allowing policies to expire worthless, brokers arrange sales on behalf of their clients. Larry King sold two or three policies with death benefits totaling fifteen million.”

“Why would he sell them?”

“Nobody turns down free money, James. Not even Larry King.”

“Who buys life settlements?” asked Cusack.

“Hedge funds. Warren Buffett. Anybody who wants a return.”

“Are you in that business?”

“We originate more life insurance in New England,” Caleb replied, “than our three biggest competitors combined. But I won’t sell insurance on my life to people I don’t know. And I won’t do it for clients.”

“Question,” said Cusack, checking the door again for Leeser, “do hedge funds invest in life settlements to protect their downside?”

“It’s insurance, not alchemy. You can lose money.”

“How?” objected Cusack. “Everybody dies, right?”

“If somebody lives too long, you might pay more for the policy than what you get in death benefits. First, there’s the down payment for the policy. Then, there are the annual premiums that can go on and on.”

“Oh, of course.” Cusack flipped through the Certificates folder. “And the average life expectancy is what, eighty-six?”

“Depends. Rich people live longer.”

Hedgecock was seventy-six when she died.

“Why all the interest, James?”

“Call it research for now,” answered Cusack. “I need to ask one last question that might be a little insensitive.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever thought about selling your company?”

“I just bought one,” Caleb said.

“But would you sell your business?”

“Everything I have is for sale. Except my family. Now I’m really curious.” It was Caleb’s turn to press.

“I’ll call you back.”

Cy Leeser was standing in Cusack’s office door.

*   *   *

Victor Lee looked at his terminals. The market was already down 200 points, down with no bottom in sight. Just down, down, down. All three screens bled red tickers.

“Dammit, Cy. I told you to sell,” Victor mumbled to himself. His three junior traders stared at their LCDs.

Lee looked at the Premarin underneath the terminals and wondered whether the estrogen had been such a good idea. True, he read the markets right. True, he cut trading expenses down to nothing. Maybe women were better traders over the long term. But he hadn’t thought about a woman in weeks.

“Where’s my hammer?”

Victor glared at his LCDs, then at his junior traders. “All right, boys. I need a show of hands. The Dow’s over ten thousand. Who thinks it hits nine thousand before eleven?”

All three boys raised their hands.

*   *   *

Leeser coiled on the guest chair inside Cusack’s office, waiting, watching, and biding his time. Every so often he clenched his teeth, and the ripping blue veins of his neck bulged like garden hoses. His words came out soft and slithery, every
S
hissing longer than necessary. He was hard to hear but there was no mistaking his serpentine venom.

“You were checking Nikki’s files for prospects?”

“Wait here,” bellowed Cusack with no hesitation. He erupted from his chair and stormed from the room like a bad mood. His sudden exit surprised Leeser, left him slack jawed and wide eyed.

Cusack returned a few seconds later. He said nothing but placed the photo of Cy’s daughters on his desk, taking great care to ensure the twins were facing their father.

“Oh, I get it,” sniped Cy. “You think LeeWell Capital is a commune. Nikki’s files and my desk—what else are we sharing, class?”

“This way
even you
can understand,” Cusack jabbed back. Pointing at the photo, he growled, “What would you do if somebody threatened your girls?”

“What’s this got to do—”

“Answer the question,” Cusack barked. “What would you do?”

“Kill ’em,” Leeser replied, no hesitation, no emotion, no pulse, no volume. “You’ll understand when you’re a dad.”

“Anything to protect them, right?”

“Right.”

“Because they’re family,” bellowed Cusack.

“Right.”

“So why are you hosing mine?”

“What are you talking about, Jimmy?”

“Your video from the Foxy Lady.”

Leeser’s face softened. The veins of his neck relaxed, and his eyes grew sly. “That’s why you’re snooping through Nikki’s files?”

“I don’t care about your insurance policies. I want the video.”

Leeser tilted on the back two legs of the guest chair. His brow wrinkled for a moment, his forehead bunching in deep furrows of concentration. “It’s time,” he said, his demeanor turning pensive, “you know. You need to know.”

“Know what?”

“We invest in life settlements.”

“I don’t care.”

“Would you take just a moment and work exceptionally hard to shut the fuck up?” asked Leeser, barely raising his voice. “Or did you skip that class at Wharton?”

Cusack shut up.

“How much do you know about life settlements, Jimmy?”

“Enough.”

“Life insurance is a noncorrelated asset class,” Leeser stated, resorting to the inscrutaspeak of Hedgistan. “People die no matter what the markets do.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hear me out.”

“Fire me. Whatever you need. But spare me the lecture, and give me the video.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs help understanding.” Leeser spoke softer and slower. But he delivered every word with more poison than the last. “You smile and nod your head. You suck up and listen to what I say. Because that cross default clause in your mortgage puts you on the street today—if I give the word. We clear?”

“I don’t care.” Cusack took the gut punch, struggling to sound defiant, surprised Cy already knew about his lease problems.

Leeser poised for a split second before striking. His words were faint, hardly a whisper, but more sinister than a serpent’s tongue. “Nothing like malfeasance to fuck up medical insurance. Your wife hasn’t had any complications, has she?”

Jimmy could not breathe, the air gone, bitch-slapped from the bottom of his lungs. After a long and withering silence, he reached for his bag and started to pack. He grabbed chargers from one drawer, pens and loose items from another. It was the only way to busy his hands, the only way to stay in control.

How about I rip your nose out your ass?

Leeser watched Cusack tuck Yaz’s sonogram inside his jacket. He studied his employee impassively, almost clinically. And as he considered Cusack’s impending departure, he grasped the enormity of his mistake. Cursed himself for things spiraling out of control.