Speculation that Donovan’s suicide was related to a pattern of financial mismanagement that helped bring down the once-mighty Wertheimer Grant began to circulate as soon as the news of the trader’s suicide hit the streets. “Such speculation is completely unfounded and untrue,” Fine said when asked to comment. “Beeston has tight operational controls.” She added that the firm, despite its own dramatic stock slide over the past weeks and rumors of impending write-downs against its balance sheet, “is on sound financial footing.”
Donovan, who is originally from Sayville, Long Island, and received an MBA from NYU, leaves behind his wife, Leslie, and a son, Zachary, four.
Hauck put the article down. He stared, doubt swarming in him, at the placid sound.
He didn’t really believe in coincidences, and like every cop, he lived by the rule “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
A second Wall Street trader suspiciously dead was now a fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At 6:40 that Monday morning, Naomi came in from her early run along the Potomac. She threw her shell top on the chair in her two-level apartment in Alexandria, her gray Bon Jovi T-shirt and tight black leggings soaked through with sweat. She took a water bottle out of the fridge and placed the cool plastic against her forehead, exhaling. That felt good.
Six miles.
She had done it in a little under thirty-two minutes. She was building up for next year’s Marine Corp marathon. Pushing for an under-three-twenty time.
Next week she’d push herself up to eight.
She peeled off her shirt, down to her sports bra, and got ready to head into the shower. She checked her government e-mail.
This second dead Wall Street trader was on her radar. She was taught to look for patterns, and for this one she didn’t have to look very far. By seven, a staff assistant would forward her links to any news story that might be of interest, and over the Post, coffee, and the Financial Times Naomi would scroll through them to bring herself up to speed for the day. Yesterday, news came out on James Donovan, who had died under unusual circumstances. From Beeston Holloway. Hung himself. Couldn’t stand the pressure. These young guys had come out of college, made more their first year than Naomi had to her name. They’d only seen the market go one way-up!-their entire lives.
At least that’s how it was being portrayed in the press. She’d already brought it to Rob Whyte, her boss at Treasury. It didn’t smell right. No matter how it was being portrayed. “You watch,” she told him, “something’s not right on this. I should go check it out.” She scrolled through her in-box, looking for whatever had been posted on the trader’s suicide.
There was a new item flashing. Along with the red message light on her BlackBerry.
It was a text from Rob. Naomi saw that he’d posted a link.
The subject was “Second Trader Dead.” The only thing it said was “Need to talk on this TODAY!”
Something else had happened.
Putting her yogurt down, she clicked on the link, which turned out to be an update of the earlier story, on Bloomberg, dated only an hour ago.
DEAD BEESTON TRADER IMPLICATED IN SECOND INVESTOR SCANDAL. BILLIONS UNACCOUNTED FOR. COMPANY CALLS DAMAGE “MATERIAL AND PERVASIVE.” AUDIT UNDER WAY.
STOCK REELING IN OVERSEAS TRADING.
She knew it! She turned on the TV. CNBC was on it. Their angle was an out-of-control Wall Street unable to cope with the downturn. First Wertheimer, now Beeston.
No, she now felt sure-that wasn’t what was going on. Not at all.
She was taught to look for patterns. Patterns that could be woven into puzzles. Threats.
This one was right in front of her.
Naomi grabbed her BlackBerry and texted her boss. “Already on it,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The second investment manager to die under suspicious circumstances quickly became front-page news.
The media paraded it as a sign of Wall Street “on ’roids!” No controls. All oversight shattered. Donovan became a tragic case of the life-altering pressures of highly remunerated “dice rollers” unable to cope with their evaporating positions. The post-boom world.
First it was the subprime debacle, Wertheimer going belly-up. Then it was Fannie and Freddie teetering, AIG coughing up blood. Now it was Beeston. Portfolio managers having to double down on their bets to make up their widening losses, taking their firms down with them. Over the edge. These people weren’t programmed for anything but success.
James Donovan had only known life one way. Up.
He just couldn’t handle it.
Hauck opened the door to the Seventeenth Precinct station house. He’d left work early that afternoon and driven to the city. Monday was the night he usually had Annie over and cooked dinner, but tonight, this new development was on his mind.
On the way in, he’d caught the news. Beeston said it was engaged in heated talks to save the company. They were now admitting Donovan had cost them billions. Pundits were speculating that he had started to panic when the scandal at Wertheimer hit, knowing he could no longer keep the lid on his own giant losses. Now the only momentum on the Street was toward outright panic. Wertheimer was history. Beeston Holloway could be next. The whole financial sector had zero support.
Hauck winced. The Dow had tumbled to its worst level in eight years yesterday.
The precinct station was on East Fifty-first. Hauck went upstairs and asked a woman sitting behind the duty desk for Detective Campbell.
The woman pointed toward a portly, red-haired man at a desk against the window in a V-neck sweater who was on the phone. “Over there.”
Hauck walked over and waited for the detective to finish up. Campbell was scribbling notes on a pad, his foot up on an open drawer. “Gimme a second,” he said, signaling Hauck with a look that told him to wait. His desk was piled high with open files and paperwork; against the wall he had two framed pictures of his kids. There was a wooden chair next to his desk and a couple of books stacked on it. Hauck took note of one: The Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Wall Street.
He chuckled.
When the detective finally got off, he wheeled around in his chair to face Hauck and crossed his legs. “Shep Campbell, sorry…”
“My name’s Hauck.” Hauck draped his sport jacket across his arm. “I used to be in homicide with the one fourteen in Queens, and later at the DOI, under Chief Burns.”
Campbell nodded, jabbing his finger in recognition. “Yeah, I know you, don’t I? Didn’t you get your face on the tube for some big case you had up there? The Grand Central bombing, right? That guy who wasn’t dead…You’re Hauck.”
“That’s it.” Hauck took out a card and handed it to him. The detective pursed his lips and blew out a frowning chirp. Cops who jumped ship to the private sector generally weren’t esteemed by those who had stuck around, worked out their time on a city salary. They came across a bit like sellouts.
Campbell took note of Hauck’s firm and put the card down. “Went over the wall, huh? Can’t exactly blame you. You found your ticket. Kids gotta go to school.” He cleared the books off the chair next to his desk and motioned for Hauck to sit down. “Bet yours are in some fancy academy up there now, right? What brings you back down?”
“The Donovan thing.” Hauck ignored the rest. “I was hoping I might ask you a few questions.”
Campbell sighed loudly. “Topic of the day.”
“I’m trying to figure out if there are any links to that other thing that took place up in Greenwich. That trader who was killed with his family.”
The detective nodded, grabbing a bag of pistachios, not offering one to Hauck. “I see. That thing was connected to a home break-in ring up there, wasn’t it?”