Chapter 30
AFTER A COUPLE HOURS holed up in a coffee shop across from Bryant Park, I slink off the elevator and make a beeline for my office.
Hardwin, and maybe Phil, are expecting me to be at home getting ready for my date night.
I’m sure whoever is behind the data and stand-alone contract wants my prying eyes many miles away from here.
But it’s too late; I can’t unsee what I’ve seen.
If they bypassed our custodian, it’s been happening since launch.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure someone in Legal gave an update to the board on the status of the custodial arrangements a good two months before the seed capital was released, which was right before launch.
I need to find those meeting minutes.
As I’m blocking Alyssa’s and Temor’s access, I recognize that the same could happen to me at any moment. I need all the files on my laptop. Regulations about emailing corporate documents to personal accounts are strictly enforced. Maybe hard copies are best.
I pull up the files I need, noticing that I’m still able to navigate the share drive freely.
I batch send to the personal printer I have installed under the longer L wing of my desk.
I usually just use it for quick working documents as it’s quite a bit slower than the commercial Xerox beast we have down the hall, but in this case it’s worth the extra minutes.
I also print out the pitch deck for Monday and then assemble a thick file folder with the board presentation on top.
In the hall on my way back to the elevator, I hear my name.
I turn.
Hardwin’s dark eyebrows are pulled together, his jaw tight.
I want badly to slip through the thready seams of the marble floor. “Hi, Hardwin. On my way out.”
“Thought you’d left for the day.” And I thought he’d still be at Vanguard with Terrence. Why is he back so soon? Do I want to know? He strides toward me. Nothing menacing in his posture, but I feel my body vacillating between fight or flight.
“I did. And am leaving now again.” I force myself to chuckle. “Clint loved the gift of the cottage. I assume you had a big part in that.”
He waits a beat before responding. “We thought you deserved a break. Sometimes it’s hard to decide to take proper rest on our own. Always another thing screwing us to our seats. I’m glad we could lend a hand.”
Did he overemphasize the word lend, as in securities lending?
I keep my breaths regular even as my heart knocks around inside my chest. “True. Thank you. Well, I’ll be on my way. See you on Monday.”
“Wait.” His eyes aren’t on my face but instead on my bag.
Does he know what I’m carrying? What I plan to do?
“Since you’re still here, can I steal you for a quick meeting?” He turns, not waiting for a reply.
I certainly feel stolen.
Hardwin opens the door of a conference room, where two of his lawyers are already seated. I take a seat in the chair closest to the door, but I’m still able to look out the glass wall to the hallway.
The two guys continue their banter about the latest regulatory updates with the SEC. I have nothing to offer. During the discussion, I take furtive glances at Hardwin, but he never looks at me. Just as I’m about to excuse myself, Hardwin lobs a question at me.
“Have you got any insight, Meredith, on any distinctions in the fiduciary responsibilities of the independent fund trustees of a traditional mutual fund and an exchange-traded fund?”
What an odd question. The responsibility of the trustees is to provide independent oversight for all funds.
They operate impartially from the fund company.
Both ETF and mutual fund trustees have the same responsibility to investors—to ensure that the firm’s profits and goals are not put before investor interests.
I can think of a few reasons he could be asking me this question in front of these guys, but the most concerning one is that he knows I’ve been looking into our fiduciary responsibility to our investors and am questioning whether he broke that trust by authoring the contract Alyssa and Temor analyzed.
I stay relaxed in my seat. “Obviously, trustees of both mutual funds and ETFs have the same tenet of mandated responsibility as laid out in the Investment Company Act of 1940.” My tone is casual, maybe even a bit bored.
“But perhaps what you are pressing on is that trustees who have sat on only mutual fund boards might not have the same experience with ETFs and therefore can be at risk for missing investor protections. For example, the role of capital market structure.” I keep my gaze leveled at Hardwin.
“I can assure you our independent fund trustees are strong in the mechanics of both funds, and we have invested in their continuing education. I am confident our investors are well protected.”
“Good to hear.” His eyes slide away from mine, and I get a quick glance of Candace walking by in the hallway.
The sharks are circling, but are they also inside the cage with me?
“Anything else you think Meredith might find interesting in the world of regulatory updates?”
The guys make confused faces at the papers in front of them. Likely assuming I requested to hear their latest thoughts.
“Well, Meredith, unless you have any questions for us, I’ll see you on Monday.”
I press up too quickly, and my chair races back and hits the window ledge behind me. Second time today. I take a quick breath and position my chair under the table, remembering Candace’s cool presence at dinner.
I speak over Hardwin, who has just begun to ask for a FINRA update.
“I do have a question.” All eyes shoot to me, but I have nothing.
I gamble that something will come to me as I lift my bag from the floor.
When I straighten, the words trip from my mouth.
“Have there been any recent cases against firms? Perhaps trustees bringing action against their asset managers?”
Hardwin nods his head slightly.
I might not be someone to discount or control so easily.
“Anything, gentlemen?” Hardwin asks.
The guys look at each other and then down at the papers in front of them.
“Good question, Meredith.” His steady gaze slips back to the table. “The team will get back to you.”
^^^
I’ve chosen a new hotel, and after struggling only twice with my key card, I push open the spring-loaded room door with my shoulder and step inside.
The air is cool with a faint scent of fresh linen.
Sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, casting geometric tiles of gold across the paisley carpet.
My tricep hollers at me as I toss my suit jacket on the white-sheeted king-size bed.
Massaging my upper arms, I check the time, twenty-two minutes after six.
My stomach gurgles. I’ve sat in front of two delicious plates of food today and barely eaten anything.
As I was ordering food for the team earlier, I cancelled the reservation for tonight.
Clint is right: I need to resolve this madness at work, and then I must focus on him and the kids.
But right this moment, I’m ready for a bed picnic.
I call down for a Caesar salad with blackened salmon and a bowl of berries with fresh cream.
While I wait for room service, I change into a pair of worn-out leggings and a sweatshirt.
Laying out a large towel on the bed, I then arrange a few of the dozen pillows against the headboard.
As I bend over to reach into my bag, my eyes snap to the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.
I stop. My breath sticks in my throat. I march back to the bathroom and grab another towel to shove across the sill.
I’ll have to replace it after my dinner is delivered but better than eyeing the opening, or it eyeing me.
Betsey will have to find another way to dispatch her missives.
An hour later, all the succulent fish is gone as well as most of the salad.
I was much hungrier than I expected. As I tear into my linen-wrapped yeast roll, I once again scowl at Betsey’s investor data.
How can I verify its authenticity? Before we launched, the team from fund accounting provided a way for employees to get approval to purchase shares of the ETFs through a trade reporting portal.
Due to some issues with tech as the funds went live, I got a number of complaints from employees who wanted to purchase.
All those trades were run through the same advisor code.
Details about those trades could be on the list—if it goes back that far.
I run my bread through the pat of creamy butter, in similar eagerness to Temor and his plate of hummus.
Perhaps the people who complained never ended up buying, because I don’t find any entries that resemble my notes. I also don’t see any advisor codes that even have the same pattern as the one we used at launch.
I don’t see anything resembling my trading record either.
The last time I purchased shares was over six months ago.
Perhaps this data is fake after all? But then a zip code catches my eye.
I know that number. Aarav’s deep-brown eyes come into focus.
I haven’t heard back from him since I left my voicemail yesterday.
I sort and find more than a dozen entries, then look up the zip code. Yes, Westport, Connecticut. His town.
Aarav’s Meymack office is called the The Fides Group.
He has great Google reviews. The fourth name, who gave him five stars, has me tossing the heel of my roll back on my plate.
Charles Boldir talks about the personal service, portfolio management, and conversations about the latest investment opportunity that is both less expensive and more tax efficient.
The headboard quakes as I sit back hard against the pillows. I know Charles. My Kennebunkport office managed his late father’s assets. We’d tried to woo him to Garman Straub, but he was happy where he was. I read his comment again. Perhaps the latest investment opportunity is our funds.