Mortal Bonds Page 2

  She greeted me by deigning to look briefly in my general direction. I didn’t take the snub personally. Morgan looked like she had decided at a very young age that she didn’t like boys and had yet to find any reason to revisit the question.

  “The father sold office supplies,” Mrs. Von Becker continued. “He had a chain of stores, I believe. Help me, Morgan. The girl. You remember. She was named for a car.”

  Morgan turned to her. “Mercedes, Mother.” She looked at me. “Her father started Home Office.”

  The first of the big-box stationery stores. I remembered reading the Journal article after the founder sold out to Staples for a hundred and eighty-three million dollars.

  “No relation, I’m afraid,” I said. “My family is in beverage distribution.” My father owned a bar in College Point, Queens, and still worked the closing shift six nights a week. He would have laughed himself into a case of hiccups if he’d heard my description.

  Olivia Von Becker was no beauty. I could not imagine she had looked much better at twenty-three when she married. Her face was long and large-featured, her nose more Roman than patrician, her eyes slightly protuberant. Her strength was her strength. She radiated power, supreme self-confidence, and a zero tolerance for any dithering or wool-gathering—unless she was the one doing it.

  “Everett tells me you are the man to help us, Mr. Stafford. I hope he is not exaggerating again.” She took a sip of clear liquid from an ice-filled tumbler. I had discovered who was putting away the vodka.

  Everett made a visible effort not to wince. “Livy, I promised nothing. When Binks and Virgil are ready, we’ll all have a powwow and see if Jason can sort things out for us. Jason, can we get you a drink? Champagne? Something stronger?”

  “A bit early for me,” I said. “What are you drinking, Miss Von Becker?”

  The daughter looked startled—she was probably not used to being addressed directly by “the help.”

  “I . . . I . . . Iced tea,” she managed, finally looking directly at me. It was my turn to be startled. Her eyes were a smoky gray, both compelling and frightening—like wolves’ eyes.

  “Iced tea it is,” I said to Everett.

  He leaned back and waved for a waiter.

  “It’s quite beautiful here, Mrs. Von Becker. I didn’t know any of these grand estates had survived into the twenty-first century.”

  She looked at me over the top of her glass for a moment. “I don’t know if you are paying a compliment or prying for information. I imagine both. Thank you for the first. The house is mine, as is the money to maintain it. My late husband had no claim to it, and neither do his creditors. It’s all in a trust designed to survive our barbaric inheritance taxes. Were you ever a Tea Partier, Mr. Stafford?”

  A waiter set down a tall iced tea, with a translucent slice of lemon.

  “Sugar, sir?”

  I shook my head. “This is the only tea party I belong to, Mrs. Von Becker.” I raised the glass to her.

  She was an arrogant blowhard, and I liked her.

  I looked over at her protector. “Are you political, Mr. Blake?” I let my eyes scan over the four suits still guarding the sector. They all had the oversized jaw muscles of the steroid-addicted.

  He smiled as though it caused him pain. “Not at all. I provide a service and I use all available assets.”

  I turned back to the dowager. “And do you feel safer now?”

  She drained her glass before speaking. “There have been death threats against my children because of their father’s activities. I have taken steps to protect them.” It sounded too rehearsed, as though she didn’t quite believe it herself.

  “Serious threats?” I aimed the question at Blake.

  He nodded. “After Mr. Von Becker’s death, people turned their anger on the family. Serious enough.”

  William Von Becker had saved the state and his family the trouble and expense of a trial by taking himself out of the picture. Late one night in his cell at the Manhattan Metropolitan Correctional Center, he had removed his jumpsuit, tied the sleeves into a noose, and hung himself from the bars. At the funeral, the press outnumbered the mourners by ten to one.

  “The threats against Morgan came first,” Blake continued.

  “Why do you think you were chosen, Miss Von Becker?”

  She was busy looking away again. “I couldn’t say.”

  Blake jumped in as though to protect her. “Visibility. Morgan ran much of the family’s charitable works.”

  I didn’t see the immediate connection, but I didn’t pursue it. I knew I wasn’t there to provide any more security, but if someone was threatening violence, I wanted to know about it.

  “How were the threats delivered? Are we talking nasty e-mails or letter bombs?”

  There was a pause while Blake sought and received silent permission from the head of the family.

  “The first time, they tried grabbing Morgan off the street as she was coming out of Il Mulino one night. It was dumb. There had to have been a dozen limo drivers hanging around out front, and they jumped in the minute she started screaming.”

  “You weren’t hurt?” I asked.

  Morgan shook her head.

  “You were lucky. What did you do?”

  Blake answered for her. “She contacted me. We’ve worked for the family before. They made another attempt at her apartment two days later.”

  “What happened?”

  “Again, nothing. We were there. But since then, she stays here on the compound and we have a twenty-four-hour watch on.”

  “Sounds like more than disgruntled investors. Have they gone after anyone else?”

  Olivia Von Becker had watched our exchange as carefully as any poker player looking for tells. “No one else,” she announced. “As yet. Mr. Blake seems to be doing his job with his usual efficiency.” She spoke with absolute authority. The subject was closed. A waiter cleared away her empty glass and immediately replaced it with a twin. Or triplet.

  The moment was saved from being uncomfortable by the arrival of the “boys” and a cacophonous chorus.

  “Christ, Wyatt. It’s not a toy. It’s an eighteen-million-dollar boat, with twenty human beings on board.”

  “Give it a rest, Binks. I’m just keeping them on their toes.”

  Morgan scowled at their approach.

  “Don’t scowl, Morgan,” her mother commanded. “You could be such a pretty girl, if you just didn’t scowl.”

  Morgan dutifully swept away the scowl, but I had the feeling that she was just saving it up for later.

  “Hello, Mother. Morgie. Everett, is this your man?” James “Binks” Von Becker was first into view. Late thirties, blond, and handsome in a forgettable way, like a J.Crew model. If I ever ran into him outside that environment, I would have no idea who he was.

  “Hello, Binks. This is Jason Stafford.”

  I stood to shake hands with Binks and a second black-suited man stepped between us.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said in a cold and brittle voice. “I am Wyatt Von Becker. Why are you here?”

  As everyone else ignored the question, I elected to do the same. Wyatt was ten years younger than his brother, and had the arrogant air of a precocious teenager, more endured than enjoyed. He did not extend a hand to shake, as they were both occupied manipulating a large laptop computer.

  The third black-suited brother stood back and waited—he was being polite, not shy. Virgil Von Becker radiated his mother’s solid strength. He had his younger brother’s dark coloring, but none of his unfocused energy. Virgil was all about focus. And he had his mother’s long face. It suited him a lot better.

  “Virgil,” he said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Mrs. Von Becker placed her empty glass back on the table—hard enough to command attention. “You have business to discuss a
nd I will only be in the way.” She gave Virgil a steady look. “I believe we can thank Everett for bringing us Mr. Stafford. He will do quite nicely.” She graced me with a prim smile. “Morgan, you and I will take our guests up to the house,” she said, standing. She may have weaved just a bit on the way up. “Then I may take my nap.” She turned to me again. “My doctor tells me there is no such thing as a bad nap. What do you think, Mr. Stafford?”

  “Sound advice. A pleasure meeting you.” I nodded to the daughter, who responded with the kind of grin one plasters on in polite company after eating too many raw onions. But then she did something that surprised me. As she stepped back from the table, her eyes swept over Kurt Blake, and for a brief moment, a look flickered over her stony face. It was gone so quickly, I thought I might have imagined it, but the feeling lingered. A look of yearning, making her seem both older and younger, but also almost beautiful. Then she followed her mother out.

  Blake missed it.

  Maybe I had her wrong. Maybe she did like boys.

  The other guests, like a flock of starlings, swept along in their wake, still chattering and laughing in too high a register to sound happy. I had a sudden insight—they were the hangers-on and poor relations, too marginal in their world of wealth and long bloodlines to turn down a lunchtime cocktail party with the most despised family in America. I was left with the three brothers, Everett, Kurt Blake, and half of his posse of muscle.

  I turned to Everett. “So I guess I passed the audition.”

  He gave a nod so subtle it might have been a tic.

  Wyatt placed his laptop on the table, screen still up, and began pecking at the keys.

  “Put it away, Wyatt.” Binks sounded bored, annoyed, and ineffectual.

  “In a minute,” his brother said, obviously having no intention of doing anything of the kind.

  Virgil reached over and took the computer and gently closed it. “Later for this.” There was no room for discussion. “Excuse my brother, Mr. Stafford. He likes to take the helm of our boat, but as he suffers from seasickness, the only thing he can do is run the boat from his computer.”

  I was stunned. I turned and looked out at the bay. The red-uniformed crew was scrambling over the deck as the big boat made a sail-flogging turn into the wind.

  “I have kinetosis,” Wyatt was saying. “Because of a malformed inner ear. It is not seasickness.”

  “Whatever,” Binks said, in a tone that said he had heard the excuse a thousand times before.

  The crew seemed to be finally getting the boat under control again. I was sure that even at that distance I saw one of them throw a middle finger in our general direction.

  I spoke to Virgil. “So he taps out a command and sends orders to the crew? Isn’t there a captain on board?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “He taps out a command and the onboard computer receives it and overrides the helm and the captain on board. Then, without any warning, the boat tacks—or jibes, turns upwind or down—and the crew has to respond as though they’ve been prepped well in advance.”

  “It makes them better—faster,” Wyatt said, somewhere between a pout and a tantrum.

  “They hate it,” Virgil said to me.

  “I can only imagine,” I agreed.

  “May I have my computer back?” Wyatt managed to make the polite request sound like a demand.

  Virgil tried staring him down, but Wyatt kept his eyes averted.

  “Wyatt, we’re about to discuss business with Mr. Stafford. You have asked to be included when we talk about business. This is your chance.”

  “I just want to watch. I won’t touch the controls. I promise. I can watch while you talk.”

  Virgil gave a weary look. “Binks, can I prevail upon you? Take Wyatt up to the house for lunch?” He handed the laptop to his older brother. “He can have this back when he gets there.”

  Binks took it without showing any response at all. Either he was quite used to taking orders from his younger brother or he was a zombie. Or both. “Come on, Wyatt. Virgil doesn’t need us annoying him right now.”

  Kurt Blake turned to the remaining two bodyguards. “Follow them up. I’ll stay here.”

  The air felt just a touch cleaner once they were gone.

  The two dinner-jacketed waiters began packing up the seafood. I hoped it was going to be donated rather than tossed.

  Virgil made a little steeple with his fingers and leaned toward me. “As my brother is an adult, I never apologize for him, but I do ask for your understanding. He is far more intelligent than he sometimes appears.”

  “Asperger’s?” I said.

  Virgil looked mildly surprised. “You are familiar with the symptoms?”

  “I have a son. We’re still waiting to see just where he fits on the autism scale. I take it the boat is one of your brother’s enthusiasms?”

  “Enthusiasms?” He rolled the word around in his mouth like a taste of expensive wine. “I like that.”

  “My son likes cars.”

  Virgil smiled. “And does he race them by remote?” He chuckled.

  “Not yet,” I said. “He’s six.”

  Everett had been quietly watching us talk, but his impatience was starting to show. He cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

  Virgil looked at him with a touch of regret. Then his eyes blinked once and a mask of duty hid him. “Everett makes a point, Mr. Stafford. I should explain why you were asked to come up here today.”

  “No, no,” Everett said. “Please, Virgil. Take your time. I would never think of rushing you.”

  Virgil and I ignored him.

  “You are, I am quite sure, aware of the troubles visited upon my family. I worked for my father for ten years.”

  The whole world was aware. But when I had Googled the rest of the family, Virgil and Morgan were the only two ever mentioned. Morgan because of her work with the charities that her father supported, and Virgil as the prodigal son. After finishing first in his class at Williams, and before coming home and putting on the mantle, he spent two years in Colorado as a ski bum, supporting himself as a bartender at night. Sometime during that period, he had sired a son, whom he still supported, though he had a restraining order against the mother—she had tried to stab him twice, succeeding the second time in opening a six-inch scalp wound. Virgil got himself stitched up and came home to work in the family business. He appeared to have worked his way up more on merit than on nepotism. When his father got caught, he was running the equity research department in the investment bank.

  “Up until ten months ago, I fully expected to be running the whole brokerage business before I turned forty.”

  “Not the whole firm? I thought the holdings also included a few offshore banks in addition to the money management business.”

  Virgil winced at the mention of the money management business. It was there that his father had run the con, paying investors double-digit returns—with their own money. When it ran out, he simply found new “investors” to keep the game running.

  “Also, two restaurants in lower Manhattan,” Virgil continued. “A livery service, an airplane and helicopter charter outfit, and until a few years ago, a printing company, which we closed when the firm went paperless.”

  “Your father believed in integrated resources.”

  “My father was a secretive control freak. So, you see, when people ask me how could I not have known what he was doing, the answer is fairly simple. I knew about equity research. I was learning about the brokerage. But I knew as much about his international banking business as I knew about his investment funds. He owned a sushi bar. Was I supposed to know how to cut fish?”

  It was a stretch, but I saw his point. Wall Street is a business of specialization. Managers rarely get a chance to peek over the cubicle wall to see what the next guy is up to, and when they do, they may not understand what they’
re looking at.

  “I reported directly to him,” Everett said. “I ran two of the bigger funds. And I had no idea what he was doing.” It was a well-polished performance. The Feds had bought it, which was all that mattered.

  “So, who did? Those two clerks who cut deals and pled out?”

  So far, the only two people who had been indicted, other than Von Becker himself, were two junior clerks who worked directly for the man. According to the Times, they were sacrificial lambs, serving six months each for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. According to the Journal, they were the true villains and had gotten off much too lightly.

  Virgil shook his head. “I don’t think anyone really knew. Each line of business was set up as a separate corporation, all reporting to him only. Some people knew little bits, but more often, they didn’t even know they knew it. My father fooled some of the brightest people on the planet. I don’t include myself in that description, by the way.”

  “What do you think I can do for you? The way I hear it, you’ve got the full resources of the federal government combing through the firm’s books—everybody from the SEC and the FBI to Homeland Security. NASA and the EPA, too, for all I know. What are they going to miss that you want me to find?”

  “I’ll get to that. I wish to save what I can of the firm, and to do that, the firm needs to settle up with the Feds and move on. Quickly. The money management business is lost, and all of our overseas operations as well. But the core businesses of underwriting, research, and trading are healthy. Untainted. Implicated only because of some missing funds. Given the chance—meaning if we can get out from under—my brother and I can salvage something of the family name.”

  “Binks?”

  “James is one of our foreign exchange traders. He’s always said he would rather grow grapes than count bottles.”

  “No taste for management?”

  “Nor any ability, I imagine. It’s not for everyone.”

  It was hard to imagine the handsome but profoundly disinterested man I had just met going head-to-head with the FX market, but it was harder still thinking of him trying to manage a bunch of booty-hungry pirates on a trading desk.