Clawback Read Free

L’Atelier. Now, at a few places that’s true, I admit. The way the
mafiya
has moved into penny-stock fraud, for example, I wouldn’t go near a boiler-room brokerage without a machine gun. But come on—mostly we’re talking about guys whohaven’t been closer to combat than ducking a swing from a drunken panhandler they insulted outside Grand Central.
    When you find out someone’s been fiddling the books, you’ve got options. You can issue a restatement and a public apology—ha-ha, just kidding;
nobody
does that! You can take it to the U.S. attorney and prosecute in the full glare of God and everyone. You can buy the guy off. Or you can fire him and cover up, although that’s harder nowadays, what with all the reregulation.
    But when you need the problem solved fast and permanent, you call me.

    I thought my night was over, but when I dialed Tom Marlett—the client—to let him know Hayden had come through, it rang with no answer. Not even voicemail, and that was odd. Okay, three a.m. and all, but I’d told Marlett I expected a resolution, and he’d demanded to hear as soon as it was settled.
    For ten million bucks, I’d stay up all night, too. Something didn’t feel right.
    His home wasn’t far away, especially via the deserted roads of suburban Fairfield County. I had the windows down and night air washed through the car, bringing that early autumn smell of fading leaves and dying flowers. A good smell. I flashed past estates and horse farms and conservation land, dark and lonely, wondering if Hayden was still cuffed to his backseat. Even odds, I figured, that some opportunist would have stolen his phone and wallet by now, rather than releasing him.
    I had to slow down, going through Old Ridgefork’s town center,and just as well. A hundred yards after bumping over the railroad tracks, where the blacktop curved around the old cemetery, blue lights appeared down the road. A moment later an ALS ambulance shot past, lit up but no siren, going at least twice my speed.
    Uh-oh.
    Sure enough, all the excitement was at Marlett’s outsized “farmhouse,” as he liked to call it. I drove past slowly but without stopping, staring over the low stone wall edging his property line. The ambulance had joined three police cruisers and a fire engine, all at the top of the mansion’s long gravel drive. A uniformed officer in reflective striping stood at the estate’s entrance, arms crossed, doubtless posted to keep out bloggers and gawkers and oddballs who’d be drawn like moths to the flame of celebrity misfortune.
    Well, what else could I do? Before the lights had disappeared from my rearview, I was speed-dialing my pal Johnny, who runs a three-billion-dollar incremental fund downtown.
    “Wake up,” I said.
    “Fuck.” His voice was groggy. “The after-hours just kick you out?”
    “You’ve got fifteen minutes, tops.”
    “What?”
    “Emergency vehicles and an ambulance at Tom Marlett’s house. Police are standing guard on the perimeter. The 911 probably went out less than ten minutes ago.”
    A pause, but only for a few seconds.
    “Tom Marlett’s dead?”
    “Or badly hurt. Or someone else in the house.”
    “I thought he was between wives.”
    “Yeah, you’re right—number three went a few months ago.” It’s a small playground, our overpaid corner of the financial world, and gossip about rich people you sort of know is a lot more interesting than gossip about celebrities you don’t. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Three police cars tell me all I need to know. It’s the morgue or the ICU or jail for Marlett. Either way his firm is about to go through the guardrails.”
    “Yeah.” Johnny fell silent for a few moments as he sorted through options. “Shit. I can’t do anything with it.”
    “What?” I slowed at a crossroads and turned right, aiming to get back on the Merritt. “Why not? This is the tip of the year, for Christ’s sake. Beat the vultures to it.”
    See, Marlett basically ran a