Noble Chase: A Novel Read online

  Beth left the ladies’ room and pulled out her cellphone. First she tried Clifford’s home phone and then his cell, but was intercepted on both by his voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message.

  She reassembled her shattered composure, took a deep breath, and went back out to finish what remained of the dinner. “You know, C.K., your math is off a bit,” she announced without any preamble as she sat back down at the table, wondering if that wasn’t the understatement of the year.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We collected a hundred and five million from Jasco.” She looked closely at his face for a reaction. “Our contingency fee was five percent, not fifteen percent, so even after we deducted it, you still netted close to a hundred million.”

  “I beg your pardon.” C.K. looked straight at her, his face impassive, his eyes fixed. He didn’t blink. In a movement of exquisite deliberation, he slowly took another bite of his cake, chewed, swallowed, and put the fork down.

  “I said you netted nearly a hundred million.” The pounding in her head got louder.

  “That’s a little confusing. Leonard reported we collected thirty-five million and that your fee was fifteen percent. He wired us a little less than thirty million.”

  “Well, I don’t know what Leonard said to you, or what he wired you, but our fee was five percent, and the gross collection was one hundred and five million. It was all wired into Paramount’s account here, but it was your Chase Bank account, not Fidelity.”

  “Well, I’m certain it’s just a bookkeeping error in our New York office. I told you things were a little bit disorganized because of Leonard’s death. The money must still be in the bank here. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

  “Good. Let me know what you find out.” Beth was impressed. Seventy million dollars unaccounted for and Leung treats it like a three-dollar bank charge. That’s one cool dude, she thought, and no doubt a bad guy to mess with.

  When they left the restaurant, Leung’s stretch limousine was outside waiting for him. Beth declined without hesitation when C.K. took her arm and asked her if she would like to go over to the Plaza Hotel for a nightcap. He neglected to mention he was staying there, but she already knew that. There was no mistaking the look that accompanied his invitation. Beth parried with a big blond smile and let C.K. handle the pregnant pause.

  Safely ensconced back in her apartment, she immediately dialed Clifford again, but with the same result. She tried the marine radio operator down in Tortola on the chance that Max might still be awake and have the radio on, but that was also a dead end. Ditto for his cellphone.

  She was too keyed up to sleep, so she turned on her laptop to review the electronic Jasco file. She read it and then reread it, desperately searching for warning signs she might have missed. She only knew that if there was a lapse, it must have happened during that hectic week last August when she was preparing the Jasco settlement documents.

  Sic transit gloria. Max’s favorite expression burned through Beth’s mind the next morning. Aspirin and coffee failed to alleviate her condition. Anxiety increased when she got out of the shower and realized that she had just missed Clifford’s return call. Working out at her brown belt karate class didn’t help, and neither did the cool October air on her walk to the office. Beth would have preferred to die quietly and with a semblance of dignity in the privacy of her own apartment, but that wasn’t going to happen. She had to face the aftermath of last night’s discovery. Dinner with C.K. had turned into a Greek tragedy, chorus and all.

  The early morning sun tormented her by streaming through the office window, careening off the glass covering her Columbia Law School diploma, bouncing onto her laminated Certificate of Admission, and then piercing through her eyes straight into her skull. She repeatedly caught herself staring unconsciously at the framed photograph of Max and her mother on her desk, the two of them smiling ecstatically at her from the cockpit of Red Sky.

  She needed to speak to Clifford. She also needed to speak to Max. What would Max have done differently to prevent this debacle? Nothing, she prayed. She wished she had asked him for help instead of going it alone when Clifford insisted that everyone in corporate was too busy. Over and over she asked herself the same question: Had she screwed up?

  The Paramount file was spread all over her desk and the conference table. No matter how she twisted around, she couldn’t get comfortable. If it wasn’t the sun, it was the telephone ringing or the intercom buzzing. This was most definitely not her day.

  She examined the paper file for nearly three hours while waiting for Clifford to come back from court. She wanted to be ready for the questions he would surely ask. She checked each document. The answers weren’t there, or at least if they were, she couldn’t find them.

  Paramount Equities had purchased a newly constructed condominium complex in Dallas from Jasco National Bank in 2004, right in the middle of the subprime mortgage loan frenzy that nearly destroyed the banking industry. Jasco had financed the construction of the complex and was then forced to foreclose when the builder went bankrupt.

  When Jasco promised Paramount that they would obtain qualified buyers for the units in the complex, and would finance those purchasers with 95 percent loans, the deal fit right into the distressed-property paradigm that Paramount had been using successfully for several years. They had no trouble raising enough money to buy the property.

  Within eighteen months, Jasco provided Paramount with buyers for the units, financed the purchases, and then sold the whole basket of mortgages to a teachers’ pension fund. The investment quickly went south for all of the participants. Instead of pocketing huge profits, Paramount lost most of its money when the mortgages on the units went into default. It turned out that Jasco’s chief loan officer had been conspiring with a group of real estate brokers to create buyers using grossly inflated false financial statements and bogus property appraisals. It was no satisfaction that Jasco’s loan officer went to jail together with four of the real estate brokers.

  Paramount sued Jasco for fraud and lost when a jury decided that Jasco was not liable for the criminal acts of its loan officer. Paramount immediately fired their president and hired their outside accountant, Leonard Sloane, to be the new president. Sloane’s first act as president was to hire Clifford for the appeal. He paid an advance retainer up front and agreed to an additional 5 percent contingency fee if they were successful.

  Clifford let Beth handle the whole appeal, so all the correspondence in the file was between her and Sloane. She reviewed the banking resolutions and the settlement resolutions she had prepared when she won the appeal, particularly anything that related to using Paramount’s account at Chase instead of Fidelity. Sloane had signed all the docs in his office and had them countersigned or witnessed by other people there. She couldn’t read their names then; she couldn’t read them now. She remembered Sloane complaining that he had no notary public over there, so Beth’s legal assistant, Carmen, had even notarized the signatures.

  The insistent buzz of the intercom broke through her intense concentration. “Beth,” she heard her name spoken with the soft southern drawl of Clifford’s secretary, “Mr. Giles just came back.”

  “Can he see me, Constance?”

  “He says he’s got an early lunch date and another meeting starting at two. Can y’all wait until he gets back from lunch at one thirty?” The question carried the slightly superior tone that only a senior partner’s secretary could affect.

  “No, tell him it’s very important.” Getting in to see Clifford Giles was a negotiation in itself.

  “Okay, just a moment.”

  The intercom went silent. Beth just waited and stared as the red hold light flashed hypnotically and flashed and flashed and flashed.

  “Beth?” the intercom finally spoke again.

  “Yes, Constance…I’m still here.”

  “He says okay. But try and make it a short one.”

  “I’m on my way.” She collected the Paramount fi
le and walked down the hall to Clifford’s corner office. His door was closed, but as Constance nodded her head toward it, Beth knocked and walked in. The tall, properly gaunt, silver-haired Giles was seated behind his desk, a page out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, vest correctly buttoned, with an ancient unlit Dunhill pipe clenched firmly in his teeth.

  “Elisabeth. Come in. I’m so far behind schedule today. I never should have taken that long weekend.”

  “I know you’re jammed, but I wanted to grab you before you went out to lunch.”

  “The court calendar took forever this morning. The defendant’s attorney never showed up, so Judge Blackstrop adjourned the damn thing. A total waste of time.” A heavy pipe smoker for many years, he puffed vigorously away on the unlit pipe until suddenly the involuntary heaving of his chest alerted her to the approach of one of his coughing spasms. Clifford reached for his ever-present handkerchief, while Beth pretended not to notice his discomfort. “Hey, you don’t look so all-fired great this morning. Do you feel okay?” he asked.

  “I’m a little under the weather today,” she replied.

  “Better take care of yourself.”

  “I will. It must be the wine and French food I had with C. K. Leung last night.”

  “How did it go?”

  “We have a problem with the Paramount case.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t think Sloane ever sent the punitive damage money to Taiwan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All I know is that until last night, C.K. thought we only collected thirty-five million.”

  Clifford’s thoughtful expression didn’t change as he calmly looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and rang his secretary on the intercom.

  “Yes, Mr. Giles.”

  “Constance. Do me a favor, will you?” His voice betrayed no concern. “Call up Harry Vicardi at Case Investments. Tell him something’s come up and I need to cancel our lunch date. Reschedule it for next week.”

  “Yes, Mr. Giles.”

  “And ask Frank Epstein to come into my office if he’s free.”

  “Yes, Mr. Giles.”

  Seeing that she now had his full attention, Beth shifted around slightly in her chair and began to give him a detailed account of everything she had done on the Paramount case since her victory in the New York Court of Appeals.

  On board Red Sky, Max Swahn awoke at six. He got out of the queen-size bunk in the aft cabin and kissed Andi on the forehead in response to her peaceful yawn. He ignored the ravenous expression on Marylebone’s face and went up on deck. Not dissuaded, the big gray Persian followed him up the ladder, meowing piteously until Max dutifully scratched him behind the ears.

  The morning dawned across the still waters of Savannah Bay, first announcing itself as a dark red glow on the horizon, backlighting the few clouds remaining in the sky. Impelled by the urge to record yet another magnificent sunrise for posterity, Max went back down into the cabin and quickly returned with a camera from his collection, a classic Leica IIIf in nearly mint condition. He set up his ever-present tripod and fired happily away as the day’s emerging colors traveled along the light spectrum before bursting into a crisp, brilliant white sunrise across the bay.

  He then released the swim ladder over the transom and jumped into the water, swimming his twenty laps around Red Sky. Another sailboat had come into the bay during the night, anchoring some distance away.

  After drying himself off, Max went below into the galley to make coffee. As the smell of the fresh brew permeated the boat, he heard Andi stirring in the aft cabin. In a minute, she came up behind him in the galley and jammed her body against his. “Good morning, Maximilian,” she said in a voice still heavy with sleep. He felt her pressing against his back and decided that the coffee could wait. Andi, despite the clear evidence of Max’s interest, wanted coffee first. She poured coffee for both of them and then climbed up out of the cabin to enjoy her coffee in the cockpit. Max followed her up, sitting on the other side of the cockpit to drink his.

  “What do you want to do today?” she asked between sips.

  “I really ought to go up the mast and fix that spinnaker halyard. That is, if you’re in a mood to winch me up in the bosun’s chair.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to go up.”

  “I also promised Beth I’d work on our law review article. Maybe I’ll give her a call on Skype later.”

  “Good. She’s proud of that case.”

  “She has a right to be. Clifford’s finally stopped needling me for hiring her.”

  “I know. Now he’s taking credit for it.”

  “She’s earned a place for herself in the firm….And on her own merit too.”

  “You need to tell that to Beth. She thrives on your approval.”

  “I know she does.”

  “She needs reassurance from you.”

  “She can take care of herself.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe sometimes.”

  “Look, she’s brilliant like me, she’s practically a black belt in karate, and she learned about firearms from that FBI guy she dated, so don’t be so protective.” Coming from Max, it sounded more like a demand than a suggestion.

  She was quiet, trying hard to suppress the feeling that her motherhood had just been invalidated. “Did they hear anything new about Len Sloane and Erica Crossland?”

  “Beats me. What made you think of them?”

  “When you mentioned the law review article, I guess.”

  “She’s dead, Andi. They both drowned. Let it go.”

  “I’m still pissed she hit on you when we flew up for the office Christmas party last year.”

  “She was drunk because Chase Bank passed her over for promotion. I thought you’d get a kick out of the way I handled it considering we had just met Sloane and her.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.”

  “Then can I have another cup of coffee?”

  “Right.”

  They talked over their coffee for a while longer. Finally, Max got up and went below into the cabin. He rinsed out his cup, then tuned the VHF radio to channel 16.

  The early morning chatter coming over the radio was routine. He checked the weather channel as a matter of habit, but the report was pretty much like always, “sunny, warm, and chance of a shower or two in the late afternoon.” He then went back up topside. Andi had just finished her morning swim and was drying herself off with one of the big navy-blue bath towels that had been a retirement gift from Max’s ex-wife. The name Red Sky was embroidered in red script.

  “Might as well handle that broken halyard now,” he suggested.

  “I’m ready if you are.”

  He got the bosun’s chair out of the port locker in the cockpit and took it over to one of the several wire halyards running up the mast. The halyards were used to raise and lower the various sails being used on Red Sky, except that in this case they would be used to raise and lower him.

  “You look thrilled, Max.”

  “Let’s get it over with.” Having Andi winch him up the sixty-foot mast suspended in a bosun’s chair was not one of his favorite experiences. She was half his weight, but heights terrified her. In any event, the bay was calm today and the boat was sitting quietly in the water. The mast wouldn’t be shaking. He would be shaking.

  He attached the bosun’s chair to the snap shackle on one of the halyards and handed the other end over to Andi. She wrapped the halyard around one of the winches a few times, but before she could start hoisting him away, a voice from the VHF radio in the cabin interceded. “This is Tortola Radio calling Red Sky,” the radio squawked. “Tortola Radio calling Red Sky.” The call was repeated three times.

  “Saved by the bell,” he muttered, quickly and gratefully unhooking himself from the halyard. He went below, followed by Andi on the ladder right behind him, lifted the microphone from the radio, and depressed the transmit button. “
Tortola Radio, Tortola Radio, this is Red Sky. Over.” He released the button.

  “Red Sky, this is Tortola Radio, we have a call for you from New York. Turn to channel twenty-seven and stand by.”

  Max reached up and switched channels in time to hear the operator say, “New York, this is Tortola Radio, we have Red Sky for you, go ahead, please.”

  “Hello, Dad.” Beth’s voice sounded strangely remote.

  “Hi, love. How come you used Tortola Radio?”

  “Your cell wasn’t ringing. You must be in a dead zone for a change. How’s Mom?”

  “She’s standing right here beside me, naturally, waiting to grab the mike out of my hands. Is everybody okay? You sound preoccupied.”

  “Everybody’s fine, Dad. I had lunch last Saturday with Shari and Lynn. They’re both fine. Craig is fine. Grandma is fine. But Clifford and I need to talk to you about something. Can you get to a landline and give us a call later today? Over.”

  Max heard the concern in her voice and knew that she wouldn’t be sending him to a landline about some routine matter. Anyhow, his curiosity would not be satisfied until he could get to a telephone. “We can sail over to Road Town on Tortola and be there by two o’clock or so this afternoon. Suppose I call you guys around three?”

  “Fine, Dad….Sorry I can’t really talk now. Give my love to Mom. I’ll speak to you later and explain everything then. Bye now.” The abrupt click at the other end indicated that she had hung up the phone. Max stared at the radio, half expecting the conversation to continue.

  “Don’t you just love these little anxiety creators?” Andi said.

  He nodded in agreement. “Tortola Radio,” he then said as he keyed the mike. “Tortola Radio, this is Red Sky, Whiskey Alpha Yankee 4 2 7 6. We’re finished with our call, thanks. This is Red Sky out.”