Money to Burn

“That’s not it at all,” I said. I was too tired to get angry. It was too ridiculous to get angry.

“Deep down, I have always known that if I left that money on the table long enough, someday you would take it. You would be content to let the money sit in the account and collect interest for years and then, when enough time had passed, you would grab it. And now you finally did.”

“That’s not what happened. Her money disappeared with mine. It’s all gone.”

“I’m not buying that identity-theft hogwash for a minute. I saw the way Chuck Bell picked you apart on his show. And the FBI told me about your marital problems. I don’t know what you’re trying to hide from your second wife, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“The FBI has come to see you?”

She rose and said, “You should leave now.”

I couldn’t believe how badly this was going, but if she was siding with Chuck Bell, talking with the FBI, and taking shots at my marriage, I didn’t stand a chance.

“We can’t leave it like this,” I said.

“Go. Please.”

“I loved Ivy, and I would never-”

“Stop!” she said, her voice sharp enough to silence a soccer riot.

She went quickly to the door and opened it angrily. I had no choice but to go, and the screen door slammed behind me as I stepped onto the porch.

“There’s one other thing you should know,” said Olivia.

I stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced back.

“When the FBI came to see me, I told them exactly what I just told you-and I promised to help them in any way I can.”

The door closed with a thud. I followed the winding slate walkway to the street, careful not to step on the daffodils-Ivy’s favorite-as I climbed into my car. I pulled away from the curb slowly, still in shock, the engine little more than idling as I passed the house. The draperies were open, and through the big bay window, I could see into the parlor.

Ivy’s mother was alone on the couch, her face in her hands, crying.

29

I WAS BACK IN MANHATTAN IN TIME FOR A LATE LUNCH, BUT THERE was barely time to eat. I had dozens of calls and e-mails from my team at Saxton Silvers, and a half dozen more from reporters who were casting their nets for quotes from anyone in management about the impending demise of the firm. One in particular was spearfishing for something far more specific.

“Michael, it’s Rosario Reynolds at FNN,” she said in her voice-mail message. “Calling to invite you onto my show. I know you were as shocked as we were by Chuck’s shooting, but it’s starting to look like he was probably on to something when he suggested a possible link between your identity theft and a bigger attack against Saxton Silvers. Love to get your views on the air. Call me.”

I wasn’t sure what to think. But there wasn’t a minute to respond, even if I’d wanted to. At one-thirty P.M., my brother and I were in family court.

“All rise!”

Mallory had filed for divorce that morning, and if there had been any question as to whether it was “full speed ahead,” the answer was now clear. The bailiff called the case, and the lawyers a

“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “your motion had better be the emergency you claimed it was when my secretary squeezed this onto my docket.”

“It is, indeed,” he said, rising.

Elgin Highsmith was the go-to divorce lawyer for Saxton Silvers wives, a Brooklyn-born former cop who walked into a courtroom with a set of brass balls. Literally. It was a bizarre intimidation tactic. He held them both in one hand as he approached the lectern, and I heard those balls of brass clacking together as he worked them through his fingers before eventually tucking them into his pants pocket. It seemed comical, but there was nothing fu

“May it please the court,” he said, stepping away from the lectern. He had no notes-more of the brass balls approach. “Your Honor, my client seeks to freeze all of Mr. Cantella’s assets, and she demands a full accounting of all investments that were liquidated in the last forty-eight hours and moved to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

I nearly jumped from my seat, but my brother beat me to it.

“What?” said Kevin.

“One at a time!” said the judge, banging his gavel.

“But, Your Honor, this is-”

The judge cut him off with two bangs of the gavel, the second one so hard that it knocked his nameplate-THE HONORABLE SIDNEY STAPLETON-to the floor. Kevin started toward the bench to pick it up, but the judge again admonished him.

“Sit down, Mr. Warfield!”

I was begi

Who are your enemies, Michael?

The bailiff retrieved the judge’s nameplate.

“Mr. Highsmith,” said the judge, “you may continue.”

Highsmith’s hand went in his pocket, and I heard that rattling again. “Judge, in my thirty years as a divorce lawyer, I have never seen a more despicable and transparent attempt by a man to hide his assets from his wife.”

On cue, his paralegal brought out demonstrative charts to help him explain the transfer of funds from Saxton Silvers to the Cayman Islands.

Highsmith continued, “You will note that-with the exception of Mr. Cantella’s holdings in Saxton Silvers-many of these equities were sold at a substantial loss. Which raises the question: Why would such a knowledgeable man have such an indiscriminate investment strategy? Why was everything liquidated and sent off to a numbered account?”

“Because it was stolen,” said Kevin.

The judge scowled, this time pointing with his gavel. “Not another peep out of you until I tell you it’s your turn to talk. Mr. Highsmith, continue.”

“This is a scam, Judge. Mr. Cantella knew that his wife had uncovered his secret and was about to file for divorce. That is when Mr. Cantella cooked up this identity-theft scheme and conspired with his lover to hide his assets from his wife.”

“What?” I said, sounding like my brother.

“Mr. Warfield, I warned you-”

“I didn’t say anything!”

It was just like old times, my kid brother blaming me.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I said, but I was looking at Mallory as I spoke. “It’s just that my wife knows this isn’t true.”

Her eyes were cast downward, not even a glance in my direction.

“Mr. Warfield, please control your client. Mr. Highsmith, I’m warning you as well. I am not going to turn this hearing into a mini-trial on Mr. Cantella’s alleged infidelity.”

“Understood. For purposes of this motion, I have just three e-mails for the court to consider.” Highsmith brought out three poster boards, one for each blowup. “Mr. Cantella received the first e-mail on the night of the birthday celebration his wife Mallory had pla

I whispered to my brother, “I showed that one to Mallory and gave it to the FBI.”

Highsmith said, “Clearly the ‘xo xo’ suggests that this plan was from someone who had an intimate relationship with Mr. Cantella. The second and third e-mails are more recent, coming after my client asked her husband for a divorce. Read together, these two recent e-mails propose a secret meeting at the Rink Bar at four o’clock today. These messages are signed JBU.”