Dog Tags

CHAPTER 35

CHAPLIN AND FREEMAN, INC., OBVIOUSLY NEVER GOT THE MEMO ABOUT THE FINANCIAL CRISIS. While most of Wall Street has made something of a show of cutting back on extravagant spending, C&F Investments, as the medium-size hedge fund is known on the street, has opted not to be a part of that particular show.

Admittedly, so far my only frame of reference is the lobby, which is modern and very expensively furnished. There is a large painting on the wall signed by Picasso, and unless it’s Freddie Picasso from Parsippany, New Jersey, it has to be worth a fortune.

If there is blame to be assigned for this ostentatiousness, it will have to be laid at the feet of Jonathan Chaplin, the man I am here to see. Stanley Freeman, the other founding partner, is off the hook, since he was killed in the blast that took Billy Zimmerman’s leg in Iraq.

The receptionist is a woman, probably in her early twenties, who is absolutely beautiful. Maybe it’s just based on my limited experience, but I find that upscale firms, be they legal or financial, always have great-looking young receptionists. Downscale firms like mine have Edna.

Whenever I approach receptionists like this I reflect on the fact that I spent my early twenties in bars, trying to meet women, when I should have been hanging out in lobbies. Who knew?

Before I say a word, she says, “Mr. Carpenter?” Either they don’t have many visitors, or her efficiency matches her looks.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Chaplin and Freeman. Mr. Chaplin is available to see you now. May I offer you something to drink?”

I decline the offer, and another young woman instantly appears to escort me back to Chaplin’s office. It is a study in chrome and black leather, with what I’m sure is even more expensive art on the wall than was in the lobby. I don’t look too hard to check out the signatures, because they’re probably paintings somebody sophisticated should recognize instantly, and I don’t want to look like an uneducated peasant.

The place is so clean that it looks like it’s been detailed. This includes Chaplin’s glass desk, which has only a computer and a phone on it. There isn’t a piece of paper to be seen anywhere. Nor is there any in drawers, since there are no drawers.

Chaplin is around fifty, and probably twenty pounds heavier than he was when he was forty. His hair is jet black, a likely giveaway that it’s really gray. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I’m a fan of yours.”

“Really? I haven’t seen you at club meetings.”

He smiles tolerantly. “I’m sort of a courtroom junkie. Not that I attend, but I like to follow legal cases… read about the trials. I think if I had to do it over again I would become a defense attorney.”

“That makes one of us.”

He smiles, a little more condescendingly than before. “What would your choice be?”

“Super Bowl–winning quarterback for the New York Giants, after which I would become a network analyst.”

“Sounds like Phil Simms.”

I nod. “Bastard beat me to it.”

Another smile, moving even farther up the condescending scale, and then, “So how can I help you? Looking to invest your millions?”

I must look surprised, because he says, “I believe in being prepared. I like to check out people I’m going to meet with, and in this case I learned of your inheritance.”

“Thanks, but I’m pleased with the way my money is being handled,” I say.

“May I ask who helps you with your estate?”

“Edna’s nephew Freddie.”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with him.” He says it in an annoying, pompous way, probably because he is an annoying, pompous guy.

“Really? He’s five ten, maybe a hundred sixty pounds, a small mole on the side of his neck… his mother is Edna’s sister Doris.”

“So why are you here, Mr. Carpenter?”

I have no doubt that he knows why I’m here, since I believe him when he says he checked me out thoroughly before my arrival. However, I play along and tell him that I’m representing Billy. “Two of your colleagues were killed in the same explosion that cost my client his leg.”

He nods solemnly. “We are still grieving that loss.”

“Stanley Freeman was the co-founder with you of this company?” Freeman and Chaplin are considered pioneers in the hedge fund industry.

“Yes,” he says. “And my best friend in the world.”

“What about the other man killed? Alex Bryant.”

“Alex was twenty-nine years old. Much too young… much too young. I’m still dealing with the guilt.”

“Guilt?”

“Yes. I was supposed to go on the trip with Stanley, but I was taken ill. Alex went in my stead.” He shakes his head sadly. “I wound up going to his funeral.”

“What was his position here?” I ask.

“He was an investment analyst. One of our brightest stars. Definitely could have been sitting in this chair one day. What does this have to do with your client?”

I shrug. “Probably nothing; I’m just checking boxes. After they died, did you follow the investigation that the army conducted?”

“As best I could,” he says. “They weren’t very forthcoming with information, especially since I wasn’t family.”

“Anything strike you as unusual, maybe cause you concern?”

“I don’t think so, other than my annoyance that they could let something like that happen.”

“Did you feel security measures were lax?” It’s a stupid question, since eighteen people getting killed by a sixteen-year-old girl is by definition less-than-impressive security.

“I did, and I do. But they simply said that sometimes these things are impossible to prevent.”

“Were Mr. Freeman and Mr. Bryant married?”

He hesitates a moment before answering. “No. Stanley had been recently divorced. I don’t believe Alex was married. Is there anything else, Mr. Carpenter? I’m quite busy.”

I stand. “I know how it is; Freddie is the same way. Sometimes Edna can’t even get him on the phone.”

He doesn’t seem to find this particularly amusing, and we just say good-bye.

I hadn’t expected much from this meeting, and I got what I expected.