Chapter 38
IMOGEN
Thank god for the safety deposit box.
It had seemed like overkill when she first opened it (using her secretly acquired passport), as though she were living out a secret-agent fantasy, but it turned out to be the smartest thing she could have done.
Based on the search warrants that had been issued against her, it appeared the authorities were unaware of its existence, and she meant to keep it that way.
Getting access to it, however, now that was going to be a challenge—she’d have to plot her next moves carefully.
Twelve hours after her arrest, Imogen sat at her kitchen table, eating stale Pop-Tarts and drinking a cup of coffee—her first of the day, although it was almost dinnertime—and trying to pull herself together after an incredibly trying ordeal.
She got up to fetch the Johnnie Walker, added a shot to her mug, and then took a long sip.
It was her first moment of peace since that detective had pounded down her door.
In her worst nightmares, Imogen had never imagined she’d have to suffer the indignity of having her home raided at the crack of dawn.
Her office looked as if a bomb had gone off in it, and her normally full-to-bursting closets and drawers were almost empty.
Imogen almost wept when she discovered that her precious collection of handbags was entirely gone.
Seeing which items the investigators had taken felt like discovering that someone had chopped off hanks of her hair or pulled out her fingernails.
All her beautiful things had been violated.
If Imogen was being honest with herself, she’d always known that the ITFF would have to come to an end someday.
At a certain point, there would be no more new money coming in, or this person would want to pull too much out, or that person would get suspicious about the paperwork.
But she’d thought she still had a few years left to play with.
There was supposed to be time for her to get her affairs in order, to pay all the right people, to paper it over legitimately. Now she needed a new plan.
Earlier that day, as she’d waited for her bail hearing, Imogen had started piecing together the edges of an idea.
It was bold and crazy, but she’d have to make it work; there was no other choice.
She’d nodded solemnly as her lawyer explained the cash bail and all the conditions of her release, including the surrender of her Canadian passport.
He’d told her that she was fortunate to have been released at all, given the gravity of the charges against her, but he’d been able to make the case that she was unlikely to be a flight risk because she had a family.
Her heart squeezed when she thought of Ari, who was locked in her bedroom, refusing to come out.
Mark had told her that Ari came home from school sobbing because some of the older kids were saying her mom was a criminal.
Imogen carefully quarantined that thought.
She couldn’t do anything about it right now—I promise I’ll make it right, baby—and she couldn’t afford to get emotional.
Her blood was chilled vodka in her veins, cold and burning. She had a call to make.
Imogen reached instinctively for her pocket to pull out her phone, then remembered that the authorities had confiscated it.
It was probably for the best—there was no way she wanted to wade through the hundreds of unread emails, missed calls, and unanswered texts that were surely flooding her cell.
Not my problem anymore. She went to the kitchen counter and, bracing herself with an extra-large gulp of fortified coffee, picked up the land line (which she’d fortunately kept in case of power outages).
Imogen was still able to dial Marta’s number by heart.
“Hey babe! What’s up?”
“Imogen! What do you mean, what’s up . . . you were arrested today. Ohmygod, I’m so glad you called, I kept trying to reach you, but I couldn’t get through. I’ve been trying to access our account all day. I even called the regulator, and they told me that—”
Marta kept talking, but Imogen was already dissociating.
She couldn’t seem to focus on Marta’s words, she kept drifting in and out—fix it, can’t you?
The account numbers don’t match, there’s a two-digit difference—and catching only snippets—it’s everything we have, Imm.
Tell me it’s safe, I need to know where our money—like she was eavesdropping on a phone call in another room.
Marta’s whine was like a mosquito trapped in the bedroom at night, her questions buzzing too close.
Imogen realized that Marta’s end of the line had fallen silent.
She inhaled deeply, pushing her belly out, filling her lungs.
She needed Marta on her side, now more than ever.
Sell it. “Everyone’s money is exactly where it’s supposed to be, but some stuff got tangled up when a few clients wanted to withdraw outside of the agreed-upon windows.
I made an exception for them out of the goodness of my heart, but I shouldn’t have done it.
Look . . . running a successful hedge fund isn’t like running a bank .
. . I can’t just press the ATM button that spits out money.
But everything is fine. I’m not sure what caused this unwarranted interest from the authorities—it’s embarrassing, frankly, such a waste of resources.
I’m discussing possible legal responses in that regard with my lawyer.
Bottom line: There are advanced financial instruments at play.
This is why people pay me to do my job, it’s why I’m good at my job. ”
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked closer to eight.
Tonight, Imogen thought. It has to be tonight.
“You’ve known me since we were kids, and you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.
” At the very least, Imogen wanted it to be true, and she thought that had to count for something.
“To be fully transparent, allowing those early withdrawals caused some downwards movement in the net value of the fund, but it’s nothing that would harm anyone’s investment in the long run.
Your money’s safe, Marty, no matter what you hear. I promise you.”