The Dark Tide. Andrew Gross

a sound.

      Hauck laid down his brush. He rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It had cost him his marriage. It had cost him ever being able to look in the mirror without starting to cry. For the longest time, being able to put his arms around Jess and hug her.

      Everything.

      His mind came back to that morning. The freckles dancing on her cheek. It made him smile.

       Get real, Ty…. She probably drives a car worth more than your 401(k). She’s just lost her husband. A different life, maybe.

      A different time.

      But it surprised him as he picked up the brush again. What he was thinking … what it made him feel.

       Awakened.

      And that was strange, he decided. Because nothing surprised him anymore.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       December

      Their lives had just begun to get back on some kind of even keel. Sam was applying to colleges, Tufts and Bucknell, her top choices. Karen had made the obligatory visits with her.

      That was when the two men from Archer knocked on her door.

      “Mrs. Friedman?” the shorter one stood at the door and inquired. He had a chiseled face and close-cropped light hair, was wearing a gray business suit under a raincoat. The other was gaunt and taller with horn-rim glasses, carrying a leather lawyer’s briefcase.

      “We’re from a private auditing firm, Mrs. Friedman. Do you mind if we come in?”

      At first it flashed through Karen’s mind that they might be from the government fund that was being set up for victims’ families. She’d heard through her support group that these people could be pretty officious and cold. She opened the door.

      “Thank you.” The light-haired one had a slight European accent and handed her a card. Archer and Bey Associates. Johannesburg, South Africa. “My name is Paul Roos, Mrs. Friedman. My partner is Alan Gillespie. We won’t take too much of your time. Do you mind if we sit down?”

      “Of course …” Karen said, a little hesitant. There was something cool and impersonal about them. She glanced closer at their cards. “If this is about my husband, you know Saul Lennick of the Whiteacre Capital Group is overseeing the disposition of the funds.”

      “We’ve been in touch with Mr. Lennick,” answered Roos, a little matter-of-factly. He took a step toward the living room. “If you wouldn’t mind …”

      She took them over to the couch.

      “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Friedman,” Roos told her, looking around intently.

      “Thank you. You said you were auditors,” Karen replied. “I think my husband was handled by someone out of the city. Ross and Weiner—I don’t recall your firm’s name.”

      “We’re actually not here on behalf of your husband, Mrs. Friedman”—the South African crossed his legs—“but on the part of some of his investors.”

      “Investors?”

      Karen knew that Morgan Stanley was Charlie’s largest by far. Then came the O’Flynns and the Hazens, who had been with him since he began.

      “Which ones?” Karen stared at him, puzzled.

      Roos looked at her with a hesitant smile. “Just … investors.” That smile began to make Karen feel ill at ease.

      His partner, Gillespie, opened his briefcase. “You received proceeds from the liquidation of your husband’s firm assets, did you not, Mrs. Friedman?”

      “This sounds more like an audit.” Karen tightened. “Yes. Is there something wrong?” The funds had just been finalized. Charlie’s share, after some final expenses to close down the firm, came to a little less than $4 million. “Maybe if you just told me what this is about.”

      “We’re looking back through certain transactions,” Gillespie said, dropping a large bound report in front of him on the coffee table.

      “Look, I never got very involved at all in my husband’s business,” Karen answered. This was starting to make her worried. “I’m sure if you spoke to Mr. Lennick—”

      “Shortfalls, actually,” the accountant corrected himself, clear-eyed.

      Karen didn’t like these people. She didn’t know why they were here. She peered at the business cards again. “You said you were auditors?”

      “Auditors, and forensic investigators, Mrs. Friedman,” Paul Roos told her.

      “Investigators …?”

      “We’re trying to piece through certain aspects of your husband’s firm,” Gillespie explained. “The records are proving to be a little … shall we call it hazy. We realize that as an independent hedge fund, he was not bound by certain formalities.”

      “Listen, I think you’d better go. I think you’d be better off if you took this to—”

      “But what is clearly inescapable,” the accountant continued, “is that there seems to be a considerable amount of money missing.”

      “Missing …” Karen met his eyes, holding back anger. Saul had never mentioned anything about any missing money. “That’s why you’re here? Well, isn’t that just too bad, Mr. Gillespie? My husband’s dead, as you seem to know. He went in to work one morning eight months ago and never came home again. So please, tell me”—her eyes burned through him like X-rays, and she stood up—“just how much money are we talking about, Mr. Gillespie? I’ll go get my purse.”

      “We’re speaking of two hundred and fifty million dollars, Mrs. Friedman,” the accountant said. “Do you happen to keep that much in cash?”

      Karen’s heart almost stopped. She sat back down, the words striking her like bullets. The accountant’s expression never changed.

      “What the hell are you saying?”

      Roos took over again, edging slightly forward. “What we’re saying is that there’s a hell of a lot of money unaccounted for in your husband’s firm, Mrs. Friedman. And our clients want us to find out where it is.”

      Two hundred and fifty million. Karen was too stunned to even laugh. The proceeds had been finalized without a hitch. Charlie’s entire business was barely larger than that.

      She looked back into their dull, unchanging eyes. She knew they were implying something about her husband. Charlie was dead. He couldn’t defend himself.

      “I’m not sure we have anything further to discuss, Mr. Gillespie, Mr. Roos.” Karen stood again. She wanted these men to leave. She wanted them out of her house. Now. “I told you, I never got involved in my husband’s business. You’ll have to address your concerns to Mr. Lennick. I’d like you to go.”

      The accountants looked at each other. Gillespie folded his file back into his briefcase and clasped it shut. They rose.

      “We don’t mean any insult, Mrs. Friedman,” Roos said in a more conciliatory tone. “What I would tell you, though, is that there may well be some sort of investigation launched. I wouldn’t be spending any of those proceeds you received just yet.” He smiled transparently and glanced around.

      “Like I said, you have a lovely home…. But it’s only fair to warn you.” He turned at the door. “Your personal accounts may have to be looked at, too.”

      The hairs on Karen’s arms stood on edge.

CHAPTER