Chapter 30 #2
I find his address and date of birth in the investor spreadsheet. My stomach twists. The personal information looks legit; he’s around sixty, and something about Greens Farms Road sounds familiar, but I don’t know if he actually purchased the shares that are listed next to his information.
Remembering the words in Betsey’s note and Aarav’s comment about steps to success, I wonder, Was Betsey trying to point me toward his office?
I flip back to the Meymack web pages that highlight The Fides Group.
There it is. We take the right steps to ensure your future.
Can’t be a coincidence. Was this her way of telling me the data is legitimate?
I decide to go about this another way. I copy and paste the entire column of zip codes, nothing else, and create a quick pivot table to determine those locales that have more than one investor on the list. Tiny dots of perspiration bleed from my hairline as I start to match the zip codes to known Meymack offices.
There are too many to be a coincidence.
This is not just sales data; this is highly sensitive personal data by investor, provided by or stolen from Meymack.
I sit back and stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The realization hits me like the gavel coming down again and again at the closing bell, sending shivers down my spine.
Someone within Meymack is leaking confidential information, and it’s not just a few isolated cases—it’s systematic.
And someone at Garman Straub is receiving it. But why?
I glance around my dimly lit hotel room; the air feels thick, each breath I take labored.
With surprisingly steady hands, I reach for my phone.
My fingers hover over the screen. This discovery is too volatile, too dangerous to ignore.
I need to confront this truth head-on. But as I contemplate who to call, a sense of dread wells up inside me.
Whoever is behind this is playing a dangerous game, and I’m about to step right into the trap.
If I admit I know, someone else will have everything they need to snare me.
I place my phone aside and settle back into my pillows.
Everyone has a reason to see me flounder.
Perhaps Phil has gotten greedy and is willing to risk an assortment of side deals to line his own pockets.
Hardwin could be using his contracts team to create any number of ways to defraud investors.
Terrence could be so focused on legacy that he’s not keeping his eyes on what’s going on right in front of him.
And Dave, he’s got the most to gain in all this.
If he gets rid of me, he has dominion over all the funds Garman Straub produces.
Because if you are going to defraud investors and line your pockets, lending out a few select securities is not the straightforward way to go about it, but it does set me up quite effectively to take the fall.
Side glances and snippets of conversations over the past year crowd my mind.
Evidently, I’ve missed something fundamental in the management of my ETFs to allow anyone to steal revenue from our funds by compromising the securities lending.
I didn’t list Betsey among those with reason.
Maybe I’m unwilling to admit such a breach of discernment.
How could someone so close to me play me for a fool?
Trying to be objective, I press into the memories of working, laughing, and sharing my stash of breath mints with Betsey.
Not until those moments before her interview with the friendlies did she ever make me question her.
Was she so effectively careful? But I’ve come to realize, every dirty little secret is a prison to the one who keeps it.
I lay my head back and begin to catalogue where I might have missed evidence of fraud, with so much time spent in meetings and looking at data over the past months to years. Whispers and furtive glances crowd my mind.
Shrill ringing jolts me awake. Disoriented, I flail my arm about my head before soreness pins my elbow back to my side.
Scooting up into my pillows, I tentatively grope around me.
In the dim light, my fingers fumble across the nightstand.
Clutching my phone, I sweep a stack of papers and send my laptop teetering to the edge of the bed.
I drag it to the other side of me, gritting against the tightness in my body.
It lands on an open folder. What a mess.
I glance at the screen as my finger swipes to answer the call. I bite down on a groan as I read my neighbor’s name a moment too late. “Good morning, Mrs. Varnella.”
“Oh, Meredith, dear, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Her voice, as always, is tinged with urgency.
I sit straighter in bed, kicking a pillow onto the floor. How could I possibly have fallen asleep in such disarray last night? “No, not at all. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, you sweet one. A bit of pain in my hip, you know how hard—now shush, Napoleon.
” A yappy bark continues as Mrs. Varnella both yells at and soothes her dog.
“What was I saying? Oh right, my silly hip. They’re talking about replacement again.
I don’t know why they think this time I’ll agree to getting gutted like a fish.
And you know the trouble I’ve been having with my weeping eye.
Such a nuisance, but yes, I’m fine. That’s not why I’m calling. ”
As I gather the strewn papers around me, I scratch my left cheek and come away with a soggy bit of lettuce. Gross. I tumble out of bed, suddenly desperate for a hot shower.
“It’s your garage, dear. It’s a blight on our neighborhood.” Mrs. Ruby Varnella has thoughts on all aspects of our home. She’s hated everything we’ve done to try to modernize and has pointed issues with the flowers that “crowd” the beds along our new patio.
I step out of my leggings. Maybe this time when she gets going on whatever complaint she’s gotten herself riled up about, I’ll interrupt and plead my apologies later.
“Someone’s gone and spray-painted all over it!” Her words rush out in a flurry. “It’s dreadful. Absolutely terrible.”
“Spray paint? I’m not following.”
“Your garage,” she says, stressing every syllable.
“Someone spray-painted our garage? Are you sure?” Did Clint do some repairs to the siding, and she’s just overreacting?
“I’m standing right here in front of it, dear. You know how Napoleon likes to take his morning constitutional as the sun rises. Now shush, you,” Mrs. Varnella baby-talks to the dog.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Varnella.” I speak over her. “You’re standing in front of my garage, and someone has spray-painted what exactly?”
“Well, I’d rather not say the word . . .”
Someone spray-painted an actual word on our garage! I take a deep breath. “Do you see anyone? Anyone on the street that shouldn’t be there?”
“No, but I understand your meaning.” Her tone has shifted. “I think we should head home.”
“Take care. I’ll deal with it. Thank you.” I try to pull the phone away when I hear her talk again. I bang my head lightly on the bathroom door.
“Of course, dear. What are good neighbors for?” Her voice lowers. “I can tell you this: the word rhymes with rich and, um—”
“Yes, thank you. I know the word.” I promise to keep her updated and do my best to cover my garage as quickly as possible. I agree, not a good look for the neighborhood. Talking over her, I tell her goodbye a few times before she lets me go.
I make two calls, which go much quicker. Clint will follow up with the police.
After a ninety-second shower, I rake my hair up into a ponytail and sniff at my sweatshirt.
My train buddies will need to be okay with a faint stench of old Caesar dressing.
For just such fashion emergencies, I grab a Mets cap from my bag and pull the bill low.
I cram both computers and all the paperwork into my leather bag and quickly pack up my Tumi.
In twenty minutes, I’m on the next train home.