“Is this about Ivy’s account?” she asked. Olivia bore a strong resemblance to her daughter-the perfect posture of a ballerina, the heart-shaped face of a classic beauty, a strong and healthy glow that must have truly shined in her youth. I couldn’t look at her without feeling my loss all over again.
“I have some bad news,” I said, and my voice suddenly felt weak. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
I nodded, and as concisely as possible, I explained the identity theft-the liquidation of my accounts, the transfer of my cash into Ivy’s account, and the disappearance of both into the world of bank secrecy. She’d heard all of that on FNN-except the part about Ivy’s account.
“Have you notified the police?”
“The FBI is working on it.”
“Are they going to get it back?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, they’d better.”
Her tone was harsher than I’d expected. “That’s why I wanted to talk this out with you,” I said. “After Ivy’s memorial service-when I offered you the money in her account-you said you didn’t want it.”
“I said to leave it right where it was.”
“And that’s what I did. Until it was stolen.”
She made a face, obviously skeptical. “Stolen, you say?”
“Yes. Along with my entire personal portfolio.”
“You should know how that makes me feel,” she said, her voice quaking.
“I do.”
“No, I really don’t think you do,” she said. “Nobody does.”
“I understand how you never gave up hope on Ivy,” I said. “Even if it was just a one-in-a-million shot that Ivy was still alive, you were the one who insisted that it would be bad luck to touch the money.”
“That is what I told you,” she said. “And it was a lie.”
“Excuse me?”
The ballerina’s posture was suddenly more like a pit bull’s. “Refusing the money had nothing to do with the hope that Ivy might someday return. I have long been convinced that my daughter is dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I left the money on the table, so to speak, because I knew the truth.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following you at all.”
“Ivy’s money gave you motive to kill her. That was one of the reasons the Bahamian police focused on you from the beginning. I knew that was the reason you offered me the money. You wanted to eliminate your motive.”
“That’s not it at all,” I said. I was too tired to get angry. It was too ridiculous to get angry.
“Deep down, I have always known that if I left that money on the table long enough, someday you would take it. You would be content to let the money sit in the account and collect interest for years and then, when enough time had passed, you would grab it. And now you finally did.”
“That’s not what happened. Her money disappeared with mine. It’s all gone.”
“I’m not buying that identity-theft hogwash for a minute. I saw the way Chuck Bell picked you apart on his show. And the FBI told me about your marital problems. I don’t know what you’re trying to hide from your second wife, but I don’t want any part of it.”
“The FBI has come to see you?”
She rose and said, “You should leave now.”
I couldn’t believe how badly this was going, but if she was siding with Chuck Bell, talking with the FBI, and taking shots at my marriage, I didn’t stand a chance.
“We can’t leave it like this,” I said.
“Go. Please.”
“I loved Ivy, and I would never-”
“Stop!” she said, her voice sharp enough to silence a soccer riot.
She went quickly to the door and opened it angrily. I had no choice but to go, and the screen door slammed behind me as I stepped onto the porch.
“There’s one other thing you should know,” said Olivia.
I stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced back.
“When the FBI came to see me, I told them exactly what I just told you-and I promised to help them in any way I can.”
The door closed with a thud. I followed the winding slate walkway to the street, careful not to step on the daffodils-Ivy’s favorite-as I climbed into my car. I pulled away from the curb slowly, still in shock, the engine little more than idling as I passed the house. The draperies were open, and through the big bay window, I could see into the parlor.
Ivy’s mother was alone on the couch, her face in her hands, crying.
29
I WAS BACK IN MANHATTAN IN TIME FOR A LATE LUNCH, BUT THERE was barely time to eat. I had dozens of calls and e-mails from my team at Saxton Silvers, and a half dozen more from reporters who were casting their nets for quotes from anyone in management about the impending demise of the firm. One in particular was spearfishing for something far more specific.
“Michael, it’s Rosario Reynolds at FNN,” she said in her voice-mail message. “Calling to invite you onto my show. I know you were as shocked as we were by Chuck’s shooting, but it’s starting to look like he was probably on to something when he suggested a possible link between your identity theft and a bigger attack against Saxton Silvers. Love to get your views on the air. Call me.”
I wasn’t sure what to think. But there wasn’t a minute to respond, even if I’d wanted to. At one-thirty P.M., my brother and I were in family court.
“All rise!”
Mallory had filed for divorce that morning, and if there had been any question as to whether it was “full speed ahead,” the answer was now clear. The bailiff called the case, and the lawyers announced their appearances and introduced their clients to the judge. The knot in my stomach was beyond description. I was living a scene I had never dreamed I’d see-Mallory on the other side of the courtroom, refusing even to look at me in the case of Cantella vs. Cantella.
“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “your motion had better be the emergency you claimed it was when my secretary squeezed this onto my docket.”
“It is, indeed,” he said, rising.
Elgin Highsmith was the go-to divorce lawyer for Saxton Silvers wives, a Brooklyn-born former cop who walked into a courtroom with a set of brass balls. Literally. It was a bizarre intimidation tactic. He held them both in one hand as he approached the lectern, and I heard those balls of brass clacking together as he worked them through his fingers before eventually tucking them into his pants pocket. It seemed comical, but there was nothing funny about this guy. Plenty of Wall Street hotshots could still hear those balls rattling around in their brain as the tow trucks hauled away their Bentleys and Aston Martins. This was the same master strategist who had told Mallory to clear out our bank account before I even knew what was coming.
“May it please the court,” he said, stepping away from the lectern. He had no notes-more of the brass balls approach. “Your Honor, my client seeks to freeze all of Mr. Cantella’s assets, and she demands a full accounting of all investments that were liquidated in the last forty-eight hours and moved to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”
I nearly jumped from my seat, but my brother beat me to it.
“What?” said Kevin.
“One at a time!” said the judge, banging his gavel.
“But, Your Honor, this is-”
The judge cut him off with two bangs of the gavel, the second one so hard that it knocked his nameplate-THE HONORABLE SIDNEY STAPLETON-to the floor. Kevin started toward the bench to pick it up, but the judge again admonished him.
“Sit down, Mr. Warfield!”
I was beginning to wonder if Judge Stapleton had ever lost money with Saxton Silvers.
Who are your enemies, Michael?
The bailiff retrieved the judge’s nameplate.
“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “you may continue.”
Highsmith’s hand went in his pocket, and I heard that rattling again. “Judge, in my thirty years as a divorce lawyer, I have never seen a more despicable and transparent attempt by a man to hide his assets from his wife.”