The Gods of Greenwich (5 page)

Cusack flipped into the icy composure of his profession. He was a finance jock after all, cerebral and calculating through any challenge. Telegraph anxiety, and you get trampled from behind. Drop your guard, and you get sucker-punched in the groin. A little bravado traveled a long way in his industry.

“Can we make it three-thirty?” he countered, his words clipped short by the twenty-five-letter alphabet of Massachusetts.

Cusack sounded steady, but his heart threatened to burst out his ribs. He clutched a BlackBerry with his left hand and fist-pumped with his right. The people in line all gawked, wondering if he had gone postal. A stout woman in a black dress grabbed her little boy’s hand just in case.

LeeWell Capital was on the phone. It was the scrappy underdog of hedge funds. It was the upstart thriving among powerful adversaries like Soros Fund Management. Best of all, it was the potential employer that could fix Cusack’s money problems.

Cy Leeser, the cofounder, was an emerging legend. He had never lost money, even during the rank days of 2000 when Leeser and Byron Stockwell established the firm. Their timing was the pits. LeeWell Capital opened for business just as the markets tanked. By October investors were threatening to mutiny.

The complaints exacted a heavy toll on Stockwell, who in a single sitting could suck down three Big Macs, a large shake, and all the fries within reach. At 3:59 one Friday afternoon he hung up on an irate investor and promptly suffered a massive myocardial infarction, leaving LeeWell Capital down 12 percent and one partner.

Several investors believed Stockwell was the brains behind the operation. They threatened to pull their money. The fund almost collapsed less than twelve months out of the gate.

Leeser convinced his disgruntled investors to stay the course. LeeWell Capital closed up 11 percent for the year, a jaw-dropping 23 percent recovery in the last two months of 2000. Cy never looked back. He became maniacal about secrecy, the most talked-about enigma inside all of Hedgistan. He had earned the admiration, perhaps the envy, of every money manager in Greenwich.

They knew all about his brush with failure. They admired his comeback. And now his fortune attracted space on the society pages, where he achieved notoriety for philanthropic largesse as well as his marriage to the bestselling author Bianca Santiago.

“Can we split the difference?” the woman from LeeWell Capital asked. “Can we make it three-fifteen?”

“Absolutely,” Jimmy replied.

“Do you know how to get here?”

“It’s all good.”

Cusack clicked off his BlackBerry and stepped out of line. He abandoned Litton’s registered letter and the mudslide of distractions from bad credit. He marched out of the post office, determined to ace the most important interview of his career.

CHAPTER SIX

ACROSS TOWN
 …

Hedge funds are not the only place to make a killing. As Cusack worked his way toward Greenwich, Rachel stood at the corner of Park Avenue and Sixty-second Street. No one noticed her on the busy street, the way no one notices migraines except for the hapless soul with an ice pick inside the brain. Rachel checked the time once, twice, and reminded herself not to dally. Business was picking up.

She swigged her road coffee to stay alert. Long hours of surveillance, Rachel knew from experience, could be monotonous. “About as boring as the unemployment line,” her daddy used to say. The physical conditions—too hot, too cold, no bathroom—sometimes required the fortitude of coal-walking ascetics.

Not today. She needed to stay on schedule, surveillance during lunch and a Botox procedure at two-thirty. At some point before six
P.M.
, Rachel would duck out of the clinic to make a phone call. She had tossed and turned all last night, chewing over what to say.

“Focus,” Rachel reminded herself.

Across the street she eyed 564 Park Avenue, one of New York’s architectural gems. Marble base and crimson brick, the building rose five stories high before culminating in a mansard roof that peaked 130 feet over the sidewalk. The Georgian structure, a yellow flag whipping outside the third-floor balcony, conveyed stability and old-world charm.

Inside was the Colony Club, an exclusive women’s organization dating back to luminaries like Anne Tracy Morgan, the daughter of J. P. Morgan. Its facilities included two dining rooms, a grand ballroom two stories high, library, card room, about forty bedrooms, and an oak-paneled gymnasium. In the basement a marble-and-tile swimming pool, surrounded by European baths, measured twenty by sixty feet.

The leash laws were refreshing, perhaps comforting to the women who gathered for lunch. Men could not roam the premises untethered or at will. The club rules required members to “escort” male guests at all times.

Rachel knew the layout from top to bottom, though not as a member. Slipping inside and casing the layout had been a breeze. Several of the grand dames had even mistaken her for one of their own. She smirked at the thought of applying. How would she describe her profession?

“Cleaner.”

It was the Russian word for contract killers. A cleaner, according to popular usage, got rid of pests. A cleaner eliminated the mess. It was the word she chose for her ad in
Soldier of Fortune.
Not all that discreet. The Feds knew what “cleaner” meant. But so what. There was no subtle way to advertise murder for hire.

Later that afternoon Rachel would ask questions and assess whether her prospect could pay. Or whether he was law enforcement. She had purchased a disposable cell phone and handheld voice changer just for the occasion.

The precautions annoyed her. Too cloak-and-dagger. The whole business of prospecting, Rachel decided, was hard work. There was no high, no climax, none of the executioner’s foreplay that she savored in the final minutes before a hit.

Finding her existing employer had been easy. He walked into Doc’s clinic one day for a rosacea treatment. He groused about his work so much that Rachel finally suggested, “Maybe there’s a different kind of solution, one you haven’t considered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you buy me a glass of wine after we finish.”

That exchange occurred years ago. Since then Rachel’s savings had grown, but not enough to pick up and move. Paris had been a dream ever since she watched
An American in Paris
and pretended Gene Kelly was her father. The dancer always looked so happy and kind in the soft, sometimes smoky light of the 1951 film.

Her employer was different. He was a business decision, a guy capable of turning fantasies into reality. Nothing more. Nothing less. Rachel often found him annoying. Demanding. Prone to warlike moods. Charming when it served his purposes. But she could always count on him for assignments, his one redeeming quality.

With that thought, Rachel returned to the present. For the second time that day, she reminded herself to focus—people, exits, anything outside the ordinary routine of her target.

*   *   *

Henrietta Hedgecock had been a member of the Colony Club for over forty years. She sat on the admissions committee and took pride in a lineage that traced back to Mrs. Florence Jaffray Harriman of Newport, who founded the club circa 1903.

At seventy-six years and 107 pounds, Hedgecock was fit. Her figure was trim. Her hair, snow white but satiny nonetheless, extended six inches longer than fashionable for women her age. Her eyes glistened the bright blue of sapphires. And she cut a striking figure in her signature Chanel suits.

Henrietta swam at the Colony Club every day, Monday through Friday. She entered the pool at exactly 11:15
A.M.
, finished well before the lunchtime swimmers arrived, and headed upstairs for lunch after working out—chicken salad and cucumber sandwiches, tea, and chocolate anything. On special occasions, she ordered a glass of sherry with her meal.

There was only one exception to the routine. On Thursdays, Hedgecock began swimming fifteen minutes early. She needed extra time to walk to the Post House on East Sixty-third, where she generally ordered the Ladies Lunch for twenty-five dollars and met Walter. He was seven years younger, and at age seventy-six, Henrietta suffered misgivings about referring to Walter as “my boyfriend.” She might get a reputation as some kind of grandmother cougar.

Today was hump day. Henrietta swallowed her last bite of chocolate ice cream, pushed aside her tea, and made her way to the exit where she left four days a week at 1:45
P.M.
On the way down the steps of the Colony Club she saw a blond woman in a beige cardigan and white nurse’s uniform crossing the street. Henrietta suspected the woman was pretty but could not be sure given the huge sunglasses covering her face.

*   *   *

Right on time. Rachel smiled at Henrietta and continued north on Park Avenue. The older woman looked elegant from thirty feet but vulnerable from ten, defenseless as a trailer house in a tornado. Henrietta would walk north for several blocks before turning west and heading toward Fifth Avenue. She had followed the same pattern for the last two weeks running, except on Thursdays.

At Sixty-fifth and Park, Rachel crossed to the northwest side of the corner and pulled out a compact. She looked in the small mirror and watched Hedgecock stay on plan. The stately woman turned, same as always. Rachel knew what her father would say. He brought home all kinds of expressions from the bar.

“Regular as a duck goes barefooted.”

Rachel checked the time. It was 1:53
P.M.
, enough surveillance for one day. She would return to the clinic by two
P.M.
, plenty of time to prepare for Doc’s Botox patient at two-thirty. Once he completed the procedure, she would grab a cab and make the call from her apartment.

Stalking Hedgecock, quizzing a new prospect, and keeping up the façade at the clinic—Rachel’s schedule required discipline. She managed only because of one irrefutable truth. Doc was her bitch.

Never mind the desktop quickies. She controlled the timing, not Doc. He was the one who cleaned up the mess when they spilled Purell or scattered medical records across his office. On some occasions his steamy commentary drove her nuts. “You’re amazing, baby,” sounded way too
Men’s Health
and hairless chest for her taste. But whatever. A boink every now and then seemed a fair price for career mobility.

Rachel appreciated her daytime identity as an RN. She relished the steady income. And there was nothing like a Form 1040 and regular tax payments to hide out in plain sight. It kept the Feds off her scent. The cover allowed her to bail out the world’s problems one septuagenarian at a time.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE
 …

Jimmy hustled to his garage on Hudson. His thoughts had shifted to the impending interview, and he wondered whether Leeser would go the intimidation route. Self-esteem safaris were de rigueur in Hedgistan. The funds hunted stupidity, indecision, and other big game just for kicks.

There was no better sport than job-seeker humiliation. Making applicants stammer, soak out their armpits, and slog off in disgrace—that was big time for the interviewer. It took practice. But once mastered, skewering egos yielded roughly the same satisfaction as crunching roaches under Ferragamo loafers. A cold beer afterward, and the interrogator’s day was a success.

Last week in Greenwich one quant rattled off the academic degrees of his colleagues. They all sounded like “MIT squared.” And then, the preening complete, he posed the following hypothetical to Cusack:

“Assume you have nine balls and a balance scale. The balls all weigh the same, except for one that is heavier. How many times do you need to weigh the balls to find the heavy one?”

“Twice,” replied Cusack.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Divide the balls into three groups of three. Weigh two groups against each other. If the scale balances, then you know the heavy ball is in the third group. If it doesn’t balance, then the heavy ball is obviously on the side pulling lower. Now you’re down to three balls. Weigh two of the remaining three against each other and go through the same process of elimination. If the scales balance, then it’s the third ball. Otherwise, it’s the heavier of the two on the scale.”

Logic games were never the issue. Not with the quant last week. And not today. Jimmy was crafting words to explain the defection of eight wealthy investors and his firm’s subsequent collapse.

“My fuckup,” as he sometimes labeled Cusack Capital, was not a problem in and of itself. Hedge funds were okay with disasters. They self-destructed all the time. The bigger issue was the reasoning behind his collapse. He needed to sound smart, sure of himself. Strut a little. Finance guys sniffed out jitters the way guillotines found necks.

*   *   *

As he crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, Cusack’s cell phone rang. “Alex Krause here. I’m with Chase Auto Finance.”

I don’t need this.

Jimmy’s thoughts turned to his mother. All piss and vinegar at age sixty-six, Helen Cusack drove a black Cadillac Escalade Platinum fully loaded with a dozen running lights too many. Now that Jimmy’s dad was gone, she liked nothing better than rumbling out of Somerville with her bridge club in tow and thundering up to Gloucester, where the ladies ate lobster rolls at seafood shacks, drank white wine while bragging about grandchildren who were infant prodigies, and sucked in as much of the fresh ocean air as their lungs could hold. It was like the Senior Circuit for
Thelma and Louise.

“Everybody wants to drive with me,” Helen would say. “I feel like such a smarty pants.”

“Ma, your car looks like the Batmobile,” Cusack teased more than once, secretly pleased. His pleasure ran out of gas, however, when money got tight and Chase Auto Finance called.

“You’re leasing a Cadillac for Helen Cusack?” asked Krause in a tinny voice.

To Cusack’s ear, the question crashed down like cymbals. He knew what Krause wanted. “How can I help?”

“You’re two months behind. Is there a problem?”