The Trust (16 page)

JoJo stopped in front of the Palmetto Foundation and gestured for the big man to enter. He stepped back and waited for her to go first. Bong kicked himself for being so impulsive.

What was I thinking?

One way or another, he’d get the $33.5 million. He’d get Moreno off his back and make enough to retire many times over. Better yet, he’d have some fun with the Kincaids. Perhaps Moreno was onto something, specifically his comment about “blood flow.”

There were all kinds of possibilities.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PALMER’S OFFICE

“What’s he want?”

“Didn’t say,” replied Jill, our ageless receptionist at the Palmetto Foundation—sixty going on forty, or the other way around. “But he’s filling the lobby like he’s wearing it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“Send him up.”

Biscuit Hughes stood about six foot four. Short-sleeved shirt. Tie loosened around his neck. Jacket draped over his shoulder. I guessed he was closer to 300 pounds than 250, given how his stomach lopped over his belt. But he wasn’t obese. He was just big, still rippling with muscles from his youth. The lawyer was a walking lunar eclipse.

“How can I help?”

“You can call me back.” He handed me his business card, which looked like a coupon special from Staples. “I drove four hours to see you.”

Dozens of phone messages were piled on my desk. The stack broke ground yesterday, while I was researching the Catholic Fund and tending to brokerage business. Today the unanswered notes gained height and momentum, especially after the news broke about SKC’s deal with Morgan Stanley.

Clients phoned New York, found my coordinates in Charleston, and asked, “Is my money safe?” I couldn’t keep up with all the calls.

There were three messages from the big man. “Sorry,” I said, riffling through the stack. “Have a seat.”

The antique chair, built for lighter bodies from leaner times, groaned under his wide load of a physique. He spoke at a snail’s pace, his words slow and Southern, poetic in their cadence. “I’d like to understand your relationship with the Catholic Fund.”

I don’t discuss clients with anybody. The Catholic Fund was not a client. But it had donated $65 million to the Palmetto Foundation and sure sounded like one. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—you know what I mean? I was intrigued and locked down in security mode at the same time.

“What makes you think, Mr. Hughes—”

“Biscuit,” he interrupted.

“That we have a relationship with the Catholic Fund?”

“Last year’s 990.”

He had me.

It was time to clam up and shuffle my feet. Time to play good ol’ boy and pretend I knew nothin’ about nothin’ and maybe even less. Southern-style business is an art form, one which Palmer Kincaid had mastered in this very room. I leaned back in the chair, like my mentor before me, and waited.

Biscuit launched into a rant I can only describe as stream-of-consciousness. “We just met, and I appreciate your reluctance to speak. I also understand why you have so little time today, the Morgan Stanley deal and everything. But trust me when I say, ‘We need to talk.’ Because I think you’re dancing on turds, which may be nothing new given that fiasco two years ago. Frankly, I’m surprised your record is clean.”

“You checked me out with FINRA?”

The government agency offers a Web-based service called BrokerCheck. Anybody can use it to check out the compliance records of stockbrokers.

“I’ve done my homework,” he confirmed. “But something ain’t right, the Palmetto Foundation and the Catholic Fund. I think you’re holding a pair of threes against a full house, captain.”

“Whoa, slow down there.”

“What do you know about the Catholic Fund?”

“You want to catch me up, Mr. Hughes?”

“Call me Biscuit.”

“Maybe you should explain your interest, and we see what happens.”

“Your donor,” he said, lingering on the words, “owns an adult superstore off I-95 in Fayetteville, North Carolina. It’s located in my clients’ backyard, and they don’t like it.”

“Excuse me?”

All of a sudden the big man’s comment, “Something ain’t right,” sounded like an understatement. I tried to play it cool, labored to stay calm.

Father Ricardo had been so confident yesterday. On the way out the door, he assured me, “We’ll check out just fine.” But let me tell you, my face was about to shatter from the way his charity was checking out.

The stockbroker’s mantra is “Know your client.” The Patriot Act, Uncle Sam’s response to terrorism post-9/11, imposes severe penalties if you don’t. There are stiff fines when you get in bed with the wrong people. The sanctions can be levied against companies or individuals, who risk jail time for violations. And there are two words that accompany any discussion of the Patriot Act, two words that were tying my stomach into knots.

Zero tolerance.

I was clueless about the Catholic Fund. Ten years of finance under my belt, and I had no idea who it was or whether Claire and JoJo knew about its investment in the adult superstore. For all I knew, we had just wired $25 million to some al-Qaeda splinter group in the Philippines.

*   *   *

Oh-shit moments trigger a hierarchy of reactions. I’d compare them to Dante’s descent into hell. But he laid out nine circles. And I lose count after the first three steps.

First comes denial. There was a logical explanation for the Catholic Fund’s investment in an adult superstore. Palmer had done business with the Catholic Fund for two years. Claire knew Father Ricardo well. So did JoJo. Even her yappy little dachshund liked the padre. And dogs are uncanny when it comes to sniffing out problems and squatting on trouble.

Next comes remorse. Katy Anders warned me not to join this board. Why hadn’t I paid attention to my gut and resigned from the Palmetto Foundation yesterday? But no, I made nice. I joined the board, all sunshine and Gucci loafers, because Palmer was a friend and I was his thousandth man.

Then comes the gripping realization that you’re fucked. I didn’t need the hassle—explaining to authorities why we wired $25 million to the Philippines at the request of a priest who was long video porn. I knew what the Feds would say:

“Zero tolerance.”

Even worse, investigations have a way of finding their way into the press. I’d soon be explaining this fiasco to my clients, who were already stewing about SKC’s merger with Morgan Stanley.

“Just tell us our money is safe, Grove.”

*   *   *

Problem.

I had been flogging myself, mentally that is, for about five seconds. It felt like five years—me lost in the private reverie that Annie calls “Grove’s world.” Sometimes, it’s a tortuous climb out of there.

Biscuit rested his thick fingers on the edge of Palmer’s desk and leaned forward. He was wearing a class ring from the Citadel, Charleston’s proud military college that some describe as the “West Point of the South.”

It’s a place steeped in core values, where cadets take a lifelong pledge not to “lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do.” It’s a place I respect.

“Something wrong, captain?”

Biscuit, I realized, was talking to me. “Sorry. Tell me what you know.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, the attorney outlined his findings about the Catholic Fund, the 990s, the accountants with whom he had spoken, Sacred Heart Parish, and his inability to contact Father Frederick Ricardo. “It’s like asking for an audience with the pope. I can’t get near the guy.”

“Father Ricardo and I met yesterday.”

“Wish I’d been there.”

At first, I wasn’t sure what to tell Biscuit. He already knew the Catholic Fund had donated money to the Palmetto Foundation. And when we filed this year’s taxes, he’d see all our grants on the 990, hundreds of them. There was no direct link between the Catholic Fund and its secret rescue activities. But after pausing a few seconds to think, I decided to make the connection.

“Have you ever heard about the Manila Society for Children at Risk?”

Biscuit screwed up his face and tilted his head to the side. “You’re full of surprises.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re another shareholder.”

“Of HIP! You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all. Do you have a cell number for the reverend?”

Now I was freaking out. Father Ricardo was pressuring us hard, insisting we wire out the $40 million balance of his charitable grant. The investment in Highly Intimate Pleasures, from his operations in the Philippines, made no sense.

For a moment I wondered whether there were any commercial ties beyond the equity investments. Whether the orphans manufactured adult toys and sewed lingerie. Something to supplement their dividends from the superstore. I hoped the kids weren’t performing in the movies. The more I thought about Father Ricardo and Highly Intimate Pleasures, the darker my thoughts cycled.

“Oh, I’ll do better than the phone number.”

Maybe it was Biscuit’s lumbering good nature. Or maybe it was the Citadel background. It was certainly one of those moments when your instincts take over. I found myself trusting the big attorney more and more, which isn’t at all like me.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Can you attend our next board meeting?”

“I’ll clear my calendar,” he said.

“And there’s one other thing.”

“Which is?”

“You’ve heard that old expression ‘Follow the money’?”

“Of course.”

“Biscuit, we’re following the priests.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHARLESTON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
THURSDAY

Erica Jong once said, “Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.”

It had been ten days since I arrived in Charleston. Sitting in the airport lounge, plugged into my cell phone, I was about to grasp the wisdom of her observation.

“We invite zone one to board,” a woman announced over the loudspeaker.

“I’m coming home tonight. You want to go out?”

Annie ignored the invitation. “I thought you had moved in.”

“You mean Charleston?”

“I mean Claire Kincaid’s carriage house.”

“I keep telling you. It’s no big deal.”

“Okay,” Annie said, with breezy indifference. Her voice was light, the freshness that says, “I don’t have a care in the world.” But I knew the tone, the battery acid underneath. She was pulling back, still pissed about my decision to stay with Claire.

“Let’s do something fun. See a movie or head down to Chinatown.”

“Fine.”

Oh, brother.

“Come on, Annie. Don’t turn this into something it isn’t.”

Deep down, I acknowledged what she suspected. Most of the time, it had been fun to hang out with Claire. When we were sitting and drinking on the long, narrow Charleston porches with friends from high school. When we were away from the Palmetto Foundation offices, at venues where she had nothing to prove. Claire gave good dinner conversation and seemed to enjoy mine. She hung on to my words like I was the second coming of George Clooney. But we weren’t sleeping together. Not even a little.

“We invite passengers to board with seats in zone two.”

“Just come home,” Annie told me.

“I can’t wait to get out of Charleston.”

She hesitated for a moment. I pictured her sitting on our bed, legs crossed Indian-style. In my head, she was wearing a loose-fitting sweater, a T-shirt, or maybe a clingy camisole, and baggy pants that made me wonder how all the soft layers could hang together so well. “Did something happen?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain later. You wouldn’t happen to know an easy way to measure website traffic?”

“Yeah, Alexa.com.”

“What’s that?”

“Just give me a Web address, and I’ll tell you how popular the site is.”

I opened my notebook to the list of URLs Father Ricardo had given me. According to him, his websites raised money from Catholics living in Los Angeles, New York, and other hubs. I gave Annie the one in Chicago.

She navigated to Alexa.com and plugged in the Web address. “Why do you care?”

“Due diligence. I’m curious whether the sites are viable for raising money.”

“How much money?”

“Hundreds of millions.”

“I bet Chicago is lucky to raise one hundred dollars.”

“What do you mean?” Suddenly my stomach twisted into a knot. Annie has many talents. One of them is her instinct for numbers, which I first noticed when she worked for me. “The website looks pretty slick.”

“Nobody goes to it.”

I just listened.

“I’d be surprised,” she added, “if Chicago gets ten thousand hits a year.”

“You don’t know exactly?”

“I know that Alexa ranks your site seven million something on the Internet.”

“Meaning seven million other sites are more popular?”

“We ask zone three to board,” the airline representative announced.

“Right,” Annie confirmed. “Ten thousand hits is probably generous. And what, maybe ten percent of all visitors donate through online forms?”

“Try one percent. If that.” I knew where she was going.

“One percent of one thousand is ten. That means ten donors must make average gifts of one hundred thousand dollars just to reach one million. That’s fantasy on the Internet. And you’re talking about a charity that receives hundreds of millions.”

“Shit.”

“What about the other sites?” she asked.

“Zone four.”

“I have to board. Can you check out New York?”

Same story. On the jet, I asked about Los Angeles and Spokane. It really didn’t make much difference. The traffic was about the same for each of them, next to nothing. And one thing was clear: the Catholic Fund’s donations weren’t coming from its websites.

“Anything else?” asked Annie before we clicked off.

“Google Biscuit Hughes.”

“Who?”

“He’s a lawyer from North Carolina I met yesterday. I think he checks out fine, but I’m curious what you think.”

Annie’s last words were “Get home safe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE