Unknown Remains (13 page)

TWENTY-TWO

Mel Hoberman had called and said he and corporate counsel Barry Zitter wanted to talk to Diane face-to-face, explain the severity of the situation, and try to resolve the matter in question. They took the red-eye from San Francisco and met in a conference room at the Four Seasons on West 57th, Diane insisting on a neutral site. She could have had an attorney present but decided not to.

There were scones and Danish pastries on a plate on the conference table, and pitchers of regular and decaf coffee.

Mel was six three and lean, wore a suit coat without a tie, sat across the table from Diane, and drank decaf. Barry Zitter had a reddish-brown perm. He was short and chunky and sat at the end of the long table to her right and fixed his immediate attention on a blueberry scone, breaking it into pieces he stuffed in his mouth with pale, plump fingers, with nails that looked like they had been chewed down by a wild animal.

“Diane, again, let me offer my condolences, I'm sorry for your loss.” Mel sounded like he was reading a passage from a book on coping with death. “This is an extremely delicate and difficult situation. I wanted to give you the courtesy of a full and candid explanation. I knew Jack, not well, but I liked him. He was at heart a good man, but sometimes even good men make mistakes.” Mel paused and drank his coffee. “We're here in good faith. We want to avoid litigation.”

“Mrs. McCann,” Barry Zitter said, wiping scone crumbs off the front of his blue suit. “This is what we know: your husband misappropriated seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Barbara Sperrick, a Sterns and Morrison client.”

“How do you know?” These corporate assholes annoyed her, especially Barry Zitter.

“Your husband had power of attorney,” Barry Zitter said. “The woman, Mrs. Sperrick, is elderly and incapable of making intelligent decisions regarding the management of her wealth. Your husband managed her portfolio. Your husband sold equities totaling seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Isn't that what brokers do, buy and sell stocks?”

“Yes,” Barry Zitter said, “but they don't embezzle their client's money.”

“And you're positive Jack did that? What proof do you have?”

“We have a record of the transactions,” Barry Zitter said. He reached a finger in his mouth and dislodged a food particle, took it out, examined a little piece of masticated blueberry and wiped it on a napkin.

Mel Hoberman said, “We would appreciate you granting us permission to review your bank statements.”

“As I told you the last time we talked, that money was never deposited in our joint cash management account.”

“We want to look at your bank accounts,” Mel Hoberman said.

“I told you, I've got a little over five grand and a pile of bills I can't pay.”

Barry Zitter said, “If you force our hand, we'll have no choice but to subpoena your statements.”

“It's an interesting story. A grieving widow whose husband was killed on nine-eleven is being harassed by his former company. I wonder if the
New York Times
might want to pick up a story like this? Or how about CNN?”

Mel Hoberman said, “We don't want this to get ugly.”

“I'll bet you don't.”

“We assume Jack had life insurance. We can settle this quietly without tarnishing his good name,” Mel Hoberman said.

“That's correct, Mrs. McCann,” Barry Zitter said. “We just want to do what's right, what's fair.”

Now she was convinced Jack had taken the money. But why? What else didn't she know? “Jack's dead, and I don't have Mrs. Sperrick's money. And if you think I'm going to give you his life insurance, you're out of your mind.” Diane stood up and walked out of the room.

Duane Cobb was
parked in front when she got home. He was walking up the driveway as she stepped out of the car. He looked different in jeans and a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back. As he came closer she said, “Can I see some ID?”

Cobb didn't react. Maybe he didn't get it.

“You vaguely resemble someone I know, but he wore ties and sweater vests. What did you do, come out of the closet?”

“Can we talk?”

“Isn't that what we're doing?”

“I mean inside.”

“You going to tell me the seven stages of grief again?” She started down the driveway to the side door, opened it, and went in. “Can I take your coat?”

“That's okay.”

She hung hers on a hanger in the back hall closet and walked into the kitchen. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“At least take your coat off; you're making me nervous.”

He did and fit it on the back of a chair at the island counter. Cobb was wearing a Western shirt with pearl buttons tucked into the jeans and a belt with a big oval buckle that had a bull embossed on it. “Looks like you're on your way to a rodeo?”

He didn't react.

Still all business, Cobb said, “Did you get the insurance money yet?”

“What does that have to do with grief? Oh yeah, I remember, something about balance, right? Mental health and financial health, isn't that it?”

“I made that up. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?”

“What else did you make up?”

“A lot of it. I'm not a grief counselor. But I could be, don't you think?”

“What are you?” Although she had a pretty good idea. “Why the confession, does your conscience bother you?”

“You owe us seven hundred and fifty thousand. It has nothing to do with conscience. I collect money.”

“You're with the Puerto Rican, aren't you? I wouldn't want to wake up in the morning looking at him.”

“Just be glad you're not looking at him all day.” Cobb grinned now. “The surprising thing—and I know you're gonna find this hard to believe—Ruben attracts women. I've seen him in action.”

“Yeah, I can understand how some girls might go for a guy like that 'cause he's a brute. There's an element of danger. You're more my type, Duane. I like guys that are handsome. Jack was a good-looking man.”

“You coming onto me?”

“No, I'm giving you my opinion. And I have to say, I like you better in the Western outfit a lot more than the schoolboy clothes. But the sweater vest and tie helped convince me you were the real thing. Perception is reality. But not really, huh?”

“Let's get back to the debt,” Cobb said.

“Whatever Jack did is on him. You say he borrowed money, it's his problem. I didn't know about it. I didn't have anything to do with it. And I never signed that bullshit contract.”

“Where's he at?”

“I'd like to say up in heaven, but after what I found out, I'm not so sure.”

“You're not in contact with him?”

“How exactly would that work? You think I'm having séances at night, sitting here with a Ouija board, communicating with Jack's spirit?”

“I'm saying if he wasn't dead, if he didn't go down when the tower crashed, if he faked his own death.”

“Don't tell the insurance company. I need the money.”

“How much are you getting?”

“Come on, Duane, are you kidding?”

“I can get you out of this jam you're in, offer my employer a lesser amount, see if he'll accept it under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances, I don't owe you anything. Why do you think this is my problem?”

“My employer Mr. DiCicco says as Jack's wife, you're responsible for the debt. There's nothing I can do to change his mind.”

“You've been conning me since day one, and you're still at it. I don't think there is a Mr. DiCicco. I think you and the Puerto Rican are running this scam on your own. San Marino Equity is out of business, so you used the name and probably had some fake contracts printed or used their old ones. Does that sound familiar?”

“I'm gonna ask you to think about this before it gets out of hand.”

“It already is out of hand. You're out of hand. Jesus. Do you ever quit?”

“I'm looking out for your best interests.”

“As long as my interests agree with yours, huh? I wish there was some way I could turn you off, flip a switch and you'd stop talking. I can't listen to any more of your bullshit.”

“Sleep on it, you'll feel different tomorrow; I guarantee that. I'll stop by, we can continue the dialogue.”

“I see you again, Duane, I'm going to call the police.”

Cobb was staring at the mail piled on the countertop. He picked up a stack of envelopes and started shuffling through them.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Cobb ignored her and she moved around the counter and swatted the envelopes out of his hand and they dropped on the granite surface.

Cobb, giving her his full attention now, said, “Looking for the check from the insurance company.”

“I spent it.”

“Uh-huh.” Cobb put his coat on. “It's been friendly up till now. How we proceed from here will depend on how cooperative you are.”

Diane watched him walk out and close the door. She'd had it, decided she wasn't going to put up with any more, grabbed her purse, went out the French doors to the garage, and got in Jack's BMW. She adjusted the seat, revved the engine, backed out, turned around, and gunned it. Cobb's Toyota was halfway down the block when she got to the street. She followed him, all the way to the Holiday Inn in Stamford, parked in the lot, and waited.

Half an hour later, Ruben and Cobb appeared, carrying suitcases they put in the trunk of the Toyota. It was strange seeing them together; they were so different. After taking another shot at her, it looked like they were giving up, leaving town. Diane had finally reached her breaking point. Now she could try to turn things around, find out where they lived and who they worked for.

She followed the Toyota to the freeway and all the way to an apartment building on 2nd Avenue in the East Village. Cobb pulled over, Ruben Diaz retrieved his suitcase and went in the building. Diane wrote the address on a piece of paper in her purse. When she looked up, Cobb's car was moving again. She followed him to Houston, went right and right again onto 6th Avenue and took that to West 21st Street.

Cobb parked on the street, grabbed his suitcase, and entered an apartment building. Diane found a parking space across the one-way street and sat for a minute trying to calm down. She had butterflies in her stomach, and wondered if she should phone Detective Brown now or trail Cobb a little longer and see what he was going to do.

She got out and walked to the building, went in and saw his name on the directory: D. Cobb apartment 312.

TWENTY-THREE

Jack picked up his new Visa card and rented a Honda Civic. He wanted to blend in, not call attention to himself, and it was the perfect car for that. He put on a pair of shorts and drove up the coast, stopped in Del Ray, and had grilled red snapper and a Heineken at a restaurant on the beach, thinking about Vicki. He remembered how excited and appreciative she had been when he took her to London. She had never flown business class and had never been to Europe. They stayed at Claridge's and saw the sights: Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Big Ben. They went to a fourth-round match at Wimbledon and saw Roger Federer beat Pete Sampras. Diane had seen Jack on TV and asked him about the girl sitting next to him, the one he kept talking to. Of course he lied to her.

They went out to dinner, made love, slept late, and ordered room service for breakfast. One day they rented a car and went to the Cotswolds, Jack driving on the right side of the car and the right side of the road, shifting with his left hand. It was an adventure.

They had lunch in Cheltenham and drove back to London at rush hour, and neither of them was stressed out or lost their cool despite the difficult driving conditions. Jack was thinking, you want a test to see if you're compatible with someone? Rent a car and drive around London.

From there they flew to Rome for a couple days and stayed at the Hassler Hotel. They had coffee on their private balcony, looking down at the Spanish Steps and out at the dome of St. Peter's Basilica in the hazy distance.

A month after
they returned from Europe, Jack went to Vicki's apartment after work one evening. He hadn't seen her in more than a week, and he could tell right away something was wrong. She was lying on the couch under a blanket. “What's the matter, you sick?” He sat next to her on the arm of the couch and touched her face, felt her forehead. “You don't feel like you have a temperature.”

“Nothing's the matter.”

“Come on, I know you.”

“It's not your problem.” Vicki looked up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze, and then looked at him. “I owe a lot of money to a loan shark.”

It sounded like a line, like she was putting him on, but he could tell by her expression she was serious.

“I told you I was a dealer at the poker room. I usually made between three fifty and four hundred a night in tips—cash, tax-free. I worked three nights a week. In a year, I'd saved forty-five thousand dollars. I told Vincent, who ran the place, I didn't want to be a dealer anymore, I wanted to play.”

“And that was okay?”

“I had money, and that's what gets you in. I told the restaurant I had to take a leave of absence to care for my sick aunt who had cancer, and played high-stakes blackjack every night from ten till two, three in the morning. I won fifteen grand the first night, got overconfident, upped my bets, and it worked. The next night, I won twenty grand. Two nights, I'm up thirty-five thousand dollars, which is about half of what I earn at Balthazar in a year. I had seventy-five thousand dollars, more money than I've ever had in my life.”

“Why didn't you quit and put it in the bank?”

“'Cause I wanted to keep playing; I wanted to stay in the game. That's all you care about. You get in the zone. It's a rush, and you want to stay there as long as you can.” Vicki squinted and rubbed her temples. “I was up and down the next couple nights. Then I lost seventeen, and then twenty-two, and by the end of the week, I was broke.”

He could see the stress on her face.

“I asked Vincent to loan me fifteen grand, which I lost, and borrowed twenty more. Did that a few times. I got into debt faster than the Fourth of July.”

“Why would he keep loaning you money?”

“That's what he does.”

“How were you going to pay it back?”

“I was going to win. But I didn't. You know what happens when you borrow from a loan shark?”

Jack glanced at her. He had an idea how it worked, but didn't say anything, let her keep talking.

“The first fifteen came due, and of course I didn't have it, so they tacked on their percentage.”

“You worked for the guy, Vincent, right? He wasn't sympathetic, young girl gets in over her head? I would be.”

“If he was, he wouldn't have given me the money.”

“This was all going on while I was seeing you? Why didn't you say something?

“I thought I could work it out.”

“What do you owe? How much will it take to get you out of this?”

“I don't know exactly. Every time I miss a payment, it goes up.”

“Give me a ballpark number.”

“Five hundred grand.”

“Five hundred grand? Come on, you're not serious?”

“I've got a week to pay it off, or they're going to put me to work turning tricks.”

“Why don't you go to the police?”

“What are they gonna do? Nothing's happened. Vincent works for Frank DiCicco. Know anything about him?”

“I see his name in the paper every once in a while.”

“He's a bad guy.”

“You know him?”

“Not really. He'd show up every once in a while.”

“Tell whoever you have to tell I'm taking over your debt. Find out how much it is, and set up a meeting.”

“It's not your problem.”

“I'm making it my problem.”

They met Vincent Gallo at the poker room in Little Italy. Vincent was short and heavy and had a three-day beard. Two of his men searched Jack, Vincent saying, “You better not be wearing a fucking wire.” Then saying, “I don't think this's ever happened, someone taking over someone's debt. She must be good in the sack, uh?” Vincent glanced at Vicki. She didn't react, didn't give him anything.

Jack said, “How much is it?” He and Vicki stood facing Vincent and the collectors, a room full of green felt-covered tables behind them.

“You paying today? It's seven hundred fifty thousand,” Vincent said.

Jack looked at Vicki. “You said five hundred.” Now Jack looked at Vincent. “You can't do that, charge whatever you feel like. It's usury. It's against the law.”

“What law you talking about? She borrowed the money.” Vincent grabbed Vicki's ponytail and turned her head toward him. “You asked for it, right, babe?”

Vicki's face tightened. Jack took a step toward Vincent. He let go of her. “I said at the time, ‘You know how this works?' Did I say that?” He glanced at her. She nodded and looked at the floor. “I own her. She's mine. You want to buy her, show me the money. You don't, I'll sell her to someone else.”

“It's going to take a little time.”

“That's your problem. Take as long as you want, but just so you know, it's rolling over. That means it's multiplying, getting bigger. Don't come back, play dumb like you don't know what's going on.”

“The deal is, I take over the debt, you leave Vicki alone, understand? I'll be back in a week with the money.”

“Long as you know what you're doing.”

“First I want assurances from Frank DiCicco. I want his guarantee that when I pay, it's over.”

“Who the hell you think you are?” Vincent said, keeping his hard stare on him. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Jack glanced at Vicki and said, “Let's go.”

When they were outside Jack said, “What the hell's going on? You said it was five hundred grand.”

“I don't know.” Vicki shook her head. “It's crazy. Vincent's crazy. He can do whatever he wants. Listen, if you don't have the money, I understand.”

“I'll get it.” He put his arm around Vicki and walked her back to the apartment. “Who are the two guys that work for Vincent?”

“The dark-skinned one is Ruben Diaz, a former boxer, which is probably obvious looking at his face. The other one is Duane Cobb. They're collectors. They keep the pressure on. One of them might be standing outside my building when I go to work, or standing outside the restaurant when I get off. Thing about it is, it's on my mind every second I'm awake and probably when I'm sleeping, so they're wasting their time.” Vicki paused. “I don't know how to thank you for what you're doing. I've never felt so stupid in my life. It's a lot of money. Can you really cover it? If you can't, it's okay. It's my fault. I got myself into this.”

Now they were walking on Sullivan Street, stopping in front of Vicki's apartment. “I'm not going to come up. I have to go to the office. I have to get moving on this.”

Jack withdrew forty-five thousand dollars from his and Diane's joint account and had an idea where he would get the rest. He pulled up Barbara Sperrick's account on his computer. She had almost six million in equities, bonds, and cash.

Jack decided to sell a fund of blue chips that had gained 21 percent in the past twelve months. He thought it was his most defensible move if the Sterns & Morrison compliance group ever looked over his shoulder.

He also decided to take the full amount from Mrs. Sperrick. Why use his money if he didn't have to? He had more debts than cash as it was. And his client would never know the difference.

Jack had converted the Sperricks' stocks to cash and deposited $750,000 in a new account he'd opened at a local bank. Everything had hinged on Jack's freedom to buy and sell without permission. Mrs. Sperrick and her son Buzz had given him free rein to manage the account any way he wanted.

What he didn't expect was the son, David “Buzz” Sperrick, a forty-year-old unemployed former meth addict, spending thirty days in rehab and coming out a new man, alert and interested in his mother's estate for the first time ever. Buzz had reviewed the August statement, saw the equities that had been sold, and called Jack on September 7.

Jack said, “How's your mother doing?”

“I don't think she's going to be around much longer.”

“What happened?”

“Old age. She's losing it. Doctor says it's dementia or Alzheimer's.” Jack heard him light a cigarette or a joint and inhale. “I see you sold one of the blue chip funds. Not sure I agree with that, but it made an acceptable profit.”

That was by far the most intelligent thing Buzz Sperrick had ever said.

“According to our analysts, those stocks are going to get banged up in the next few months—that's why I sold them. You made twenty-one percent in a year. It seemed like a good time to cash out.”

“That's not why I'm calling. I'm looking at the statement. The stocks were sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, right? But I don't see the cash.”

“Let me pull it up.” Jack looked north from his window at the Empire State Building in the distance, counted to ten, and said, “Okay, I've opened your mother's account. Hang on, let me find it. Just a second. Yeah, there it is. I'm looking at a cash balance of one point four million.
I don't know what happened. The full deposit didn't get recorded in time to make it on the August statement. You'll see it next month.”

“Oh, okay. Will you print that out and fax it to my mother's house? I'll stop by later today and get it.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “No problem.” But he did have a problem, a big one.

Buzz Sperrick phoned him at five and left a message. Jack didn't get back to him. There was nothing he could say. The next call he got was from Stewart Raskin, the morning of the tenth, saying he wanted to see Jack immediately about a matter of extreme urgency. Stu had obviously been contacted by Buzz Sperrick, reviewed the Sperrick statement, and noticed the discrepancy: funds had inexplicably been withdrawn and had disappeared.

Jack told Mary, his assistant, he had to have a root canal that day.

She said, “You have clients coming in at three and five.”

“Call them and cancel. Say it's an emergency.”

“Want me to reschedule?”

“Tell them we'll get back to them.”

“Jack, are you okay? Is everything all right?”

“I'll see you in the morning.”

He took the elevator to the lobby, walked up the street, and grabbed a cab to Vicki's apartment.

He could hear the shower when he walked in. He took off his suit coat, folded it on the back of a chair, and went in the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, scanned the contents. There was half a bottle of Cuvaison chardonnay. He took it out, pulled the cork, and poured a glass. He felt like a fool. Why did he think he could get away with it? He drank the wine and poured another glass. Everything he had done was to help Vicki, but he couldn't tell anyone.

“I thought I heard somebody.” Vicki walked into the room, wearing a robe, drying her hair with a towel. “What're you doing here so early?”

“I thought you'd be glad to see me. I decided to take the day off.” Jack wasn't going to tell her about embezzling money from Barbara Sperrick to pay off the debt or that he was going to be fired in the morning and would probably be arrested and taken to jail.

He saw himself flanked by detectives, escorted out of the office in handcuffs, passing a waiting news crew in the plaza. But first, Cobb or Ruben would stop by his office and he'd hand over the cashier's check.

Jack said, “Can you call in sick?”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“You said you had meetings all day. What's gotten into you?”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“It's ten to eleven. I usually wait till at least eleven fifteen.”

“Let's go to bed,” Jack said, thinking it might be the last time.

“What's going on, Jack? You're acting strange.”

Vicki untied the sash, opened the robe, and let it slide off her shoulders onto the wood plank floor. She walked naked toward the bedroom, stopped, looked over her shoulders and said, “Jack, you coming?”