The one thing that the trade history did not reveal was intent. Each buy or sell was a fact. A data point, nothing more. I needed to pry open the story behind the facts.
Having learned little, I turned to Dean Harris’s account. And that’s where I found the connection.
In the week before Sybil’s last client trade — the electronics-store bonds — Dean-o had purchased those same bonds for his personal account. Two days before Sybil’s client bought them, Dean-o had sold his position. The firm had been the buyer. I could see the whole scenario. Sybil must have told Dean about the prospective trade. He bought up the bonds in advance, paying five to five and a half cents. He had put up more than three million of his own money. That was a big bet even for a man who took home seven-figure bonuses every year. A sure thing bet. He knew what Sybil’s client was willing to pay. Sybil could not have gotten away with it herself. Trading in those bonds in her personal account just before making a big sale to a client would have been a huge red flag for the Compliance watchdogs. But it wasn’t illegal for Dean to trade — unless, of course, he had prior knowledge. Collusion. Insider trading. Front-running the client.
Dean had cleared almost half a million dollars on that trade alone. I’d only examined three weeks of trades. How many times could they have done this over the past year? It added up quickly. And they’d both worked for the firm for more than ten years.
It was an old scam. Near foolproof if the game was limited to two players. If neither one ever talked, there would never be a reason for an auditor to compare the books. Most fraudsters blow it by bragging or bringing on a friend or two to join in the fun. Then the rumors start to fly. And once an investigator is pointed in the right direction, it’s easy to find the evidence. And it’s easy to explain to a jury.
I felt sad. Sybil didn’t deserve to end her career this way. I didn’t know what had driven her to get involved in this, but I understood the temptation. Easy money. But like Rickie Lee Jones sang, there ain’t no such thing.
It was time to call Virgil and give him the bad news.
My cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but at the last moment I hit the talk button.
“State your business,” I said.
“Jason? Is that you? It’s Sybil. Do you have a minute to talk?”
Synchronicity? Or was Sybil aware of Virgil’s suspicions and trying an end run? Either way, I had to be careful.
“Can it wait? I’m on another call.” Was I really a terrible liar? I hoped not.
“I think it’s important.”
“Your ex? Do you need security? The firm uses off-duty NYPD for these kinds of situations. They won’t hurt him, but he won’t be annoying you anymore.”
Her laugh was forced and nervous. “No. I can handle Dieter, though he is being a royal pain. He’s been hanging around the lobby like a ghoul. No, this is something you have to hear, even if you don’t like it.”
“Hold on just a sec. Let me finish this other call.”
The Kid spoke. I had forgotten he was there. “Pants on fire.”
I would have preferred if he had not noticed my conversation. I should have known better. He heard everything. And he hated lying.
“You’re right, Kid. I will try to do better.” Usually, the Kid is the one who avoids eye contact. This time, it was me, though I didn’t have his excuse. It was cowardice, pure and simple. “Sometimes I cut corners when I shouldn’t. It’s an old bad habit.”
He grunted.
I let Sybil sit on hold for ten seconds while I put my thoughts in order. I needed to record this call. I opened the app.
“Okay, Sybil. I’m back. What’s up?”
“I want to meet with you and Virgil. Before the press briefing tomorrow.”
The Kid spoke again. “How do you cut a corner?”
A complete question, without resorting to jingles or cartoon characters. “Very good. Excellent question. Can we talk about this when I get off the phone?”
“Jason? Are you there?” Sybil asked.
“Sorry. I was just talking to my son. Do you want to tell me what this is about first?”
“Is there anyone in Legal you can trust?”
“The guy who runs Compliance is a good guy. Hal Morris. He’s fair. Now what’s going on? It sounds serious.”
“Tomorrow.” She was gone.
“Why cut a corner?” the Kid asked.
I went out into the hall and closed the door. I should have done that before taking Sybil’s call. Asking the Kid to sit through another phone conversation without an answer might blow up in my lap. And answering his question might take the rest of the afternoon.
“So she knows you’re on her trail.” Virgil listened to the whole story before stating his takeaway.
“I don’t think so. I think she’s coming in to blow the whistle — on Harris and herself.”
“We tape the meeting,” he said.
“No question.”
“And I want a lawyer present.”
After we hear her out, I thought. We had to give her a chance. “Hal can handle it. He won’t overstep and spook her.”
“If what you say bears out, she’s going to jail. Both of them will.”
“Let’s just hear her side before we call in the Feds. Deal?”
“Yes. But let your FBI buddy know we may need him.”
Through the thick door, I could hear the Kid giggle.
Sunday night bath was always easy. The Kid loved to sink below the surface, holding his breath for three or four minutes at a stretch. Once, it had terrified me, but now I understood how much it helped calm and center him. I sat on the toilet and read to him from one of his car books, all of which he had memorized, so he knew immediately when I tried to skip ahead. And I had to keep reading even when he was submerged. He might not have been able to make out my words, but he knew the rhythms.
This night was different. The Kid knew something was up with me and his computer. I’d been eyeing it all evening, overplaying my hand. At one point during our takeout steak dinner, I had managed to slide it off the table and into my lap without being seen. For a moment, the Kid had behaved as though he didn’t miss it. Then he howled. His plate of green beans and grilled cheese flew across the room. He cried out like his skin was on fire and banged his head on the table. My only hope of diverting him was to return the damn computer.
Skeli sipped her champagne. Her favorite. She did not call me an idiot, but only because she is a woman of great restraint. Even I knew that I was an idiot. On the other hand, I had remembered the chocolate cookies.
A dreary quiet descended as I cleaned the floor and started another sandwich for the Kid. Only Tessa was unaffected. She continued to eat her turkey meatballs and broccoli, ignoring her brother’s outburst and the pall that followed.
“No. You may not bring your iPad into the bath,” I said.
The Kid made that sound that a puppy makes when you step on its tail, only he managed to make it last. I was frayed, preoccupied, and not at my best. The Kid reverberated my anxiety. We were trapped in an echo chamber together, each attempt at communication repeated umpteen times, creating an impenetrable wall of mistrust. I wanted to scream, “Just give me the damn thing!” And no matter what I actually said, that was what the Kid heard.
He was naked and clutching the tablet to his skinny chest. Eight years old, and yet no taller than an average first grader.
“Skeli,” I called. “We need help.”
I could hear Tessa fussing. She did not like being changed. When the Kid was that age, I was too involved in the insanity of my job — and a half-billion-dollar fraud that I was running — to pay much attention. Skeli and I were committed to doing things differently.