“I’m so grateful,” Michelle said with tears in her eyes. “You’ve been a good friend to us.”
He wasn’t a friend, not really. He was a financial advisor, she his client. But her words touched him. It was what he wanted to hear, how he himself viewed his job. Then again, wasn’t he a friend?
Twenty-five years ago, after the birth of Rick and Michelle Brady’s first child, Elizabeth, Simon had set up a custodial account so that Rick and Michelle could start saving for college.
Twenty-three years ago, he helped them structure a mortgage for their first home.
Twenty-one years ago, he got their paperwork and affairs in order so they could adopt their daughter Mei from China.
Twenty years ago, he helped Rick finance a loan to start a specialized printing service that now served clients in all fifty states.
Eighteen years ago, he helped Michelle set up her first art studio.
Over the years, Simon and Rick talked about business expansion, about direct depositing paychecks, about whether he should become a C corporation and what retirement plan would work best, about whether he should lease or buy a car, about whether private school for the girls would be affordable or too big a stretch. They talked investments, portfolio balance, the company payroll, the cost of family vacations, the purchase of the fishing cabin by the lake, a kitchen upgrade. They had set up 529 accounts and reviewed estate plans.
Two years ago, Simon helped Rick and Michelle figure out the best way to pay for Elizabeth’s wedding. Simon had gone, of course. There had been lots of tears on that day as Rick and Michelle watched their daughter walk down the aisle.
A month ago, Simon ended up sitting in the same pew in the same church for Rick’s funeral.
Now Simon was helping Michelle, still reeling from losing her life partner, learn how to do the little things she’d left Rick to handle: balancing a checkbook, setting up charge cards, seeing what funds had been in joint and separate accounts, not to mention how to keep the business running or decide whether they should sell.
“I’m just glad we can help,” Simon said.
“Rick prepared for this,” she said.
“I know.”
“Like he knew. I mean, he always seemed so healthy. Were there any health issues he hid from me? Did he know, do you think?”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t, no.”
Rick had died of a massive coronary at age fifty-eight. Simon wasn’t an attorney or an insurance agent, but part of being someone’s wealth manager was to prepare the estate for any eventuality. So he talked about it with Rick. Like most men his age, Rick had been reticent to consider his own mortality.
Simon felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He had a strict rule: No interruption when he was with clients. Not to get highfalutin about it, but when people came to this office, they wanted to talk about something that meant a great deal to them.
Their money.
Pooh-pooh it all you want. Money may not buy happiness, but... well, nonsense. Money, pretty much more than anything else you might be able to control, can conjure up and elevate that elusive ideal we call happiness. Money eases stress. It provides better education, better food, better doctors — some level of peace of mind. Money provides comfort and freedom. Money buys you experiences and conveniences and most of all, money buys you time, which, Simon had realized, was right up there with family and health.
If you believe that — and even if you don’t — the person you chose to handle your finances was up there with choosing a doctor or clergyman, though Simon would argue that your wealth manager was even more involved in your daily life. You work hard. You save. You plan. There are virtually no major life decisions you make that are not in some way based on your finances.
It was an awesome responsibility when you stepped back and thought about it.
Michelle Brady deserved his undivided attention and complete focus. So the pocket phone-buzz was a signal that something important was up.
He surreptitiously glanced at the computer screen. A message had come up from their new assistant, Khaliclass="underline"
He stared at the message long enough for Michelle to notice.
“You okay?” she asked him.
“I’m fine. It’s just...”
“What?”
“Something has come up.”
“Oh,” Michelle said. “I can come back...”
“Can you just give me two seconds to...?” He gestured toward the phone on his desk.
“Of course.”
Simon lifted the receiver and pressed Khalil’s line.
“A Detective Isaac Fagbenle is on his way up to see you.”
“He’s in the elevator?”
“Yes.”
“Keep him in reception until I tell you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have the credit card forms filled out for Mrs. Brady?”
“Yes.”
“Have her sign them. Make sure that the cards are issued for her and Mei today. Show her how the automatic payment works.”
“Okay.”
“I should be done by then.”
Simon hung up the phone and met Michelle’s eyes. “I’m really sorry about this interruption.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
No, it wasn’t. “You know about my, uh, situation from a few months ago.”
She nodded. Everyone knew. Simon had joined the pantheon of viral video villains, up there with the dentist who shot the lion and the racist lawyer who had the meltdown. The morning shows on ABC, NBC, and CBS had fun with it the day after it happened. Cable news too. As Hester Crimstein had predicted, the notoriety had burned hot for a few days and then quickly faded to near oblivion by the end of the month. The video shot up to 8 million views in the first week. Now, nearly three months later, it was still short of 8.5.
“What about it?” Michelle asked.
Maybe he shouldn’t go there. Then again, maybe he should. “There’s a cop on his way up here to see me.”
If you expect your clients to open up to you, well, was it fair to make that street one-way? It wasn’t Michelle’s business, of course, except that now he was interrupting her time and so he felt that she had the right to know.
“Rick said the charges were dropped.”
“They were.”
Hester had been right about that too. There had been no sign of either Aaron or Paige in the past three months, and with no victim, there was no case. It also didn’t hurt that Simon was fairly well-off or that Aaron Corval, as Simon soon found out to his chagrin if not surprise, had a fairly extensive criminal record. Hester and the Manhattan DA made a deal quietly, away from prying eyes.
Nothing signed, of course. No obvious quid pro quo. Nothing so gauche. But then again, hey, there was a fundraising campaign coming up, if Simon and Ingrid wanted to attend. Principal Karim had also reached out two weeks after the incident. He didn’t directly apologize but wanted to offer his support, reminding Simon that the Greenes were part of the Abernathy Academy “family.” Simon was all set to tell him to go fuck off, but Ingrid reminded him that Anya would be entering her freshman year there soon, so Simon smiled and returned the check and life continued.
The one small caveat was that the Manhattan DA wanted to wait a bit before he officially dropped the charges. The incident needed to be far enough in the rearview mirror that the media wouldn’t notice or ask too many questions about privilege or any of that.