Practice to Deceive Read online

  “Private placement?”

  “An investment scheme that’s not registered with the SEC.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Willow Tree was a limited partnership. Limited partnerships are usually used for real estate development. Developers need financing to buy the land, so they offer a number of limited partnerships, as many as thirty-five. Basically, you give them your money, they run the company, and pay you back out of the profits.”

  Based on the tone of his voice, I suggested, “You don’t approve.”

  “Know what they say about that kind of investment?” he asked rhetorically. “At first the general partners have the knowledge, and the limited partners have all the money. When it’s over, the limited partners have the knowledge, and the general partners have all the money.”

  Dad leaned forward and smiled. I smiled back. My father is probably the single smartest man I know, but he generally conceals his intelligence beneath a decidedly blue-collar facade, declaring with pride his Rice Street roots, admitting freely that he’d been a rowdy gang kid going nowhere fast until he was saved by a squeaky-clean Catholic girl from the right side of the tracks. Actually that’s Mom’s version of the story. Anyway, what he does not admit is that in the subsequent years, he earned a drawerful of degrees and certificates from the Universities of Minnesota and St. Thomas. As a result, business competitors tend to underestimate him. So do the unions with which he negotiates as a freelance consultant working on behalf of management—they think they’re dealing with one of their own until it’s too late.

  I hadn’t even learned about my father’s educational background until I was a sophomore at St. Thomas and met one of his former professors. “Jim Taylor? Best student I ever had,” the professor had told me. When I mentioned the incident to Dad, he just shrugged the way he does and said, “It’s nothing to get excited about.” That’s when Mom, who had been sworn to secrecy, took me to their bedroom and showed me Dad’s trophies, plaques, and paper.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?” I asked him.

  “I didn’t do it to impress you,” he’d said.

  We never discussed the matter again.

  “You researched all this, didn’t you?” I said now.

  My father did not say if he had or hadn’t. Instead he told me, “Willow Tree was created to build low-income housing in and around the Twin Cities. It was grievously underfinanced and incompetently managed. It was unable to convince a single city or county board to rezone property for their use; it couldn’t get proper building permits, construction costs skyrocketed—they went out of business without putting up so much as an outhouse.

  “That’s point one,” Dad continued. “Point two …” He closed his eyes and recited from memory, “‘In recommending to a customer the purchase, sale, or exchange of any security, a member shall have reasonable grounds for believing that the recommendation is suitable for such customer …’ NASD Rules of Fair Practice, twenty-one fifty-two, section two.” He opened his eyes again. “Field put everything Mrs. Gustafson had into Willow Tree.”

  “He should have known better,” I volunteered.

  “It’s a violation of fiduciary responsibility!” my father exclaimed vehemently. The last time I’d seen him so angry, I was sixteen years old and trying to explain to him and the Fort Snelling State Park rangers exactly what I was doing in the park at one A.M. with a young lady in the back seat of my mom’s car.

  “Investment counselors work under a concept called ‘the shingle theory,’” Dad added more calmly. “The theory is that when someone hangs out a sign saying he is an investment counselor, he is promising that he will look after the interests of the client and follow high professional standards. Obviously, Levering Field did not do that in Mrs. Gustafson’s case—you don’t put elderly people living on the relatively fixed income of a retirement plan into risky ventures. That makes Field guilty of misrepresentation at best and fraud at worst.”

  “I know the rules apply to stockbrokers,” I said. “But if Field is just a personal investment counselor—”

  “I don’t give a shit if he’s a goddamn janitor!” my father exploded. “If he’s investing other people’s money, he has a responsibility to do the right thing!” Dad stood up, punched the air a few times, circled the sofa twice, reclaimed his seat, and said, “So, there.”

  “Maybe he didn’t realize Willow Tree was risky,” I suggested.

  Dad shook his head. “Due diligence,” he said calmly. “Field was obligated to research the product he was investing in, and he didn’t. If he had, he would have known better. Christ, if I can figure it out …”

  “I wonder why he did it.”

  “What do you think? He did it for the money. He earns five percent commission off any trade he makes. Hell, he could have charged more; we don’t know.”

  “No, I mean why did he do it to Mrs. Gustafson? And why now?” I leaned back in the chair and regarded the hundreds of books carefully arranged on shelves along the wall.The books belonged to my mother. My father never reads them, only The Wall Street Journal and National Geographic.

  “What happened six months ago?” I wondered aloud.

  “Mrs. Gustafson had a stroke,” my father answered as if he expected the question. “At her age, the doctors thought she wasn’t going to make it. But she’s a tough old bird. They were amazed at how quickly and completely she recovered. She lost some vision, some mobility, but mostly she’s all right.”

  “Does she have any family?”

  “No one.”

  “No nephews, no nieces?”

  “No one.”

  “Does she have a will?”

  Dad shook his head.

  “Think Field knew that?”

  “Part of his job is to know the customer.”

  “That sonuvabitch,” I said under my breath.

  “You understand now, don’t you?”

  “That sonuvabitch,” I repeated. “Field thought she was going to die and leave all that money to the State of Florida. So he cashed her in, trying to make as much off of her as possible while she was still breathing. But she survived, and now she’s screwed.”

  “That’s what I think, too.”

  I studied my father’s face for a moment. He did not look away.

  “What am I doing here?” I asked. “You already have it figured out. Call a lawyer. Call the attorney general; see if a crime’s been committed.”

  Dad shrugged. “I thought you might want to run over to Hammond Stadium with me, catch the Minnesota Twins in a couple of Grapefruit League games.”

  “Spring training? Who are you kidding? You don’t even like baseball. The only reason you took my brother and me to games when we were kids was because you thought it was your parental duty.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “So, why am I here?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No.”

  “Try.”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “All right,” he said. Dad left the sofa and moved to the desk. He stood in front of it. It made me uncomfortable looking up at my father, so I stood, too.

  “I would never ask anyone to do anything I was not willing to do myself if I had the skills.”

  “OK.”

  “From what I know of you, you’re very good at what you do. Tough, resourceful, persistent, sometimes ruthless.”

  “OK.”

  “If you weren’t my son, you’d still be just the kind of man I would hire for this job.”

  “What job?”

  “I want you to get Mrs. Gustafson’s money back.”

  “How?”

  “By hook or by crook.”

  “By crook?”

  “By whatever it takes.”

  I sat down.

  “HI,” I SAID.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  I was always pleased to hear Cynthia Grey’s voice. It was very soothing,
almost like a melody played on a musical instrument, a clarinet, Artie Shaw doing “Summertime.” You listen to the voice, not the words.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was eleven-fifteen P.M. in the Twin Cities.

  “No, I was watching Leno. How are you?”

  “Fine. Listen, I’m coming home tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were staying with your parents the entire week.”

  “Something came up that I have to deal with. Can I see you?”

  “You had better,” she told me.

  “No, I mean professionally.”

  She hesitated. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “It’s one of those things you have to explain in person.”

  “You’re not in trouble again, are you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I changed the subject. “How have you been?”

  She hesitated again. “OK.”

  “OK?”

  “Yes,” she said, but the word was weak and followed by an audible gasp.

  “Cynthia?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. Her weeping was now unmistakable.

  “Cynthia? Cynthia, are you all right?” I was alarmed. Cynthia Grey never cried. Never. Not even when someone had shot at her.

  “Yes, it’s just … I can’t … I’ve been crying since noon and I can’t stop.”

  “What’s wrong? Tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing’s wrong … It’s just … It’s just—”

  “What? What happened?”

  “They offered a settlement,” she informed me between sobs.

  “The clothing people?”

  “I took it to my … clients. Told them they could do better … in court … but they voted unanimously to accept it.”

  “How much?”

  “Sealed,” she said. She was weeping freely now. “Sealed. No admission … of wrongdoing. No statements … to the media.”

  “Cynthia,” I said softly, wishing I was there, wanting to wrap my arms around her, wanting to comfort her.

  “I don’t believe it. After everything that’s happened … to me, after … everything that I’ve been through … it comes to this. I just don’t … believe it.”

  “Most out-of-court settlements are sealed, aren’t they?” I asked, trying to be understanding from fourteen hundred miles away. “No admission of guilt? Isn’t that why companies settle out of court, so they don’t have to admit their guilt?”

  “Oh, hell, Taylor. I don’t care … about that.”

  “Are you upset that your clients caved?”

  “No … They were anxious to get on … with their lives … I don’t blame … them.”

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “Nothing’s … wrong.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “I’m rich,” she said. “I’m filthy … stinking … rich.”

  TWO

  I’VE NEVER HAD much luck with Cynthia Grey’s office manager. Her sensitivity is well organized and alert to offense, and she always finds something in my speech or actions to protest, no matter how carefully I monitor myself. Not to mention she holds me personally responsible for the killing of one of Cynthia’s clients. I had nothing to do with his death, but he was involved in a case I was working on, so she blames me just the same. It’s not that she cared for the guy. I doubt she ever spoke to him beyond, “Ms. Grey will be with you in a moment if you care to take a seat.” But clients getting killed is bad for business, especially if they haven’t settled their accounts first, and she is opposed to anything even remotely bad for business. Besides, she is the keeper of Cynthia’s schedule. Part of her job is making sure every court appearance, every deposition, every meeting, happens when it’s supposed to happen, and whenever I come around, usually unannounced, well, there goes the schedule.

  Yet despite her animosity toward me, she seemed genuinely thrilled when I walked into the office suite, like I was a high school pal she hadn’t seen since the last reunion.

  “Taylor!” she cried, coming to the door, wrapping her arms around me, hugging me to the very marrow of my soul. “It’s good to see you,” she announced. Her eyes were moist and blazing with light, her smile was bright enough to read by. Scared the hell out of me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, my hand moving instinctively to my right hip where my gun would have been if I had been carrying it.

  “Same old same old,” she sang back. “How are you?”

  I set my suitcase on the floor; I had come straight from the airport by cab. “Same old same old,” I said.

  “How was Florida? Sunny?” The woman was practically giddy.

  “That’s why they call it the Sunshine State,” I replied.

  “I bet you’re here to see the lovely Miss Cynthia. I’ll buzz her,” she said and fairly skipped to her desk. She picked up the telephone receiver, punched two numbers, waited, and said, “Hey, Cynthia, guess what. Taylor is here.… I sure will.” She replaced the receiver. “Go right in,” she said, waving toward the door. I walked slowly to the door, never taking my eyes off of her.

  “What’s with Miss Efficiency?” I asked when I was safely inside Cynthia’s office. “She high on some new designer drug?”

  “No,” Cynthia said, “just the usual thing: money.” Cynthia’s smile was dazzling. If you could read by Miss Efficiency’s newfound smile, you could signal ships at sea with Cynthia’s. I leaned in, turning my head to peck her cheek. But she met my lips with hers and kissed me long and hard. There was no hunger in her kiss, only a deep affection that often frightened me.

  She broke the kiss. “Good to see you,” she said.

  “Good to see you. What money?”

  Cynthia seemed puzzled.

  “You said Miss Efficiency was high on money,” I added.

  “She has a name, you know. Desirée.”

  “I had a home economics teacher named Desirée.”

  “You took home economics?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I bet.”

  “What money?”

  “I gave her a bonus this morning.”

  “Must have been some bonus.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Cynthia said casually, circling her desk.

  “Say what?” I was genuinely amazed.

  “It’s no big thing.”

  “Apparently Desirée disagrees.”

  “Apparently so do you,” she said, settling into her chair. “You’ve received twenty-five thousand dollar bonuses before. I read about it in the paper. That company you helped, August-Crane.”

  “I helped save August-Crane from a hostile takeover.”

  “Yes, well …”

  “How much money did you make on this case, anyway?” I asked, sitting in the large wing chair in front of Cynthia’s desk.

  Cynthia smiled some more, looked down at the desk blotter, and drew a little circle with her fingernail. “Twenty-seven percent,” she said softly.

  “Twenty-seven percent of what?”

  “Sealed,” she replied, shaking her head.

  “Does Desirée know the amount?”

  “She keeps the books.”

  “Desirée!” I shouted. The door to Cynthia’s office opened a moment later, and Desirée peeked in. “How much did Cynthia—and you—make on the sexual harassment settlement?”

  Desirée glanced up at Cynthia and smiled. “Twenty-seven percent,” she said.

  “Fine, fine, fine,” I repeated, admitting defeat.

  “You’re kinda cute, you know that?” Desirée giggled. “You kids should go home. It’s almost closing time,” she announced and shut the door.

  “The woman has gone goofy,” I told Cynthia.

  “She’ll get over it,” she said, putting her feet up on her desk. She was wearing black slacks and a white turtleneck under a black linen jacket. Those were the only colors Cynthia ever wore: black and white. She had hired a woman to choose a wardrobe for her, to devis
e a “look,” and this is what she came up with. She had hired another to do her hair and makeup; another to teach her poise, elocution, and what books to read; and another to decorate her office and home. She was a self-made woman, my Cynthia.

  Our eyes locked. She smiled at me and I smiled at her. As is becoming increasingly frequent with us, we found ourselves thinking the same thing at the same time.

  “You’ve come a long way since the psychiatric ward at Lake Memorial,” I told her.

  “Seems like a long way.” She paused a moment and then added, “Sometimes I wonder why I’m not dead.”

  “Divine intervention,” I told her.

  “Think so?”

  “Either that or the old saying is true: Only the good die young.”

  “Then I should live forever.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  That’s when Cynthia went serious on me. It was like someone flipped a light switch. “I’m worried,” she said. “I’ve been worried ever since we accepted the settlement.”

  “About what?”

  “Is my … wealth … going to affect our relationship?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It is?” She seemed frightened.

  “I expect to be entertained at a much finer class of restaurant for one thing.”

  “Oh?” she said. “Will you wear a tie?”

  “If you’re buying, I’ll wear a tie.”

  “And dress pants and shoes instead of jeans and sneakers?”

  “You’re becoming awfully demanding.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “Sure, dress pants and shoes.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” I said, only I wasn’t and she was. It’s a failing of mine, not taking seriously what others deem terribly important. Her sigh told me that our conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped, and the hurt look in her eyes … I had put it there. The moment called for a show of sincerity, and I wasn’t very good at that. But I tried.

  “Listen,” I told her, “you’re good at your job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And you’re paid accordingly. Sure, you could make more money working for one of the bigger law firms, get yourself a corner office, but you’d lose your freedom. Me? I’m also good at my job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And I’m paid accordingly. Sure, I could make more money working for one of the bigger PI firms, but I’d lose my freedom.