“Fine.” Win looked toward Ridley Barry. Mr. Barry nodded. Win put his hand on the tall pile. “These are the files on Mr. Phil Turnball. He was, as you know, a financial adviser for Barry Brothers Trust.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I spent the last several hours going through them. I took my time. I also examined the computer trades made by Mr. Turnball. I studied his trading patterns, his buying and selling—his ins and outs, if you will. Because I hold you in high regard, Wendy, and respect your intelligence, I diligently scrutinized his work history with an eye toward how Phil Turnball may have been set up.”
“And?”
Win met her eyes, and Wendy felt the cold gust. “Phil Turnball did not steal two million dollars. My estimate would be that the number is closer to three. In short, there is no doubt. You wanted to know how Turnball was set up. He wasn’t. Phil Turnball orchestrated a fraud that dates back at least five years.”
Wendy shook her head. “Maybe it wasn’t him. He didn’t work in a vacuum, did he? He had partners and an assistant. Maybe one of them . . .”
Still meeting her eye, Win picked up a remote control and pressed the button. The television came on.
“Mr. Barry was also kind enough to let me go through the surveillance tapes.”
The TV screen lit up to reveal an office. The camera had been placed up high, shooting downward. Phil Turnball was feeding documents into a shredder.
“This is your Mr. Turnball destroying his clients’ account statements before they get mailed out.”
Win hit the remote. The screen jumped. Now Phil was at his desk. He stood and moved toward a printer. “Here is Mr. Turnball printing out the fake replacement statements, which he will subsequently mail out. We could go on and on here, Wendy. But there is no doubt. Phil Turnball defrauded his clients and Mr. Barry.”
Wendy sat back. She turned to Ridley Barry. “If Phil is this big-time thief, why hasn’t he been arrested?”
For a moment, no one said anything. Ridley Barry looked toward Win. Win nodded. “Go ahead. She won’t tell.”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his bow tie. He was a small man, wizened, the kind of old man some might call endearing or cute. “My brother Stanley and I founded Barry Brothers Trust more than forty years ago,” he began. “We worked side-by-side for thirty-seven years. In the same room. Our desks faced each other. Every single working day. The two of us managed to build a business with gross outsets that exceed a billion dollars. We employ more than two hundred people. Our name is on the masthead. I take that responsibility very seriously—especially now that my brother is gone.”
He stopped, looked down at his watch.
“Mr. Barry?”
“Yes.”
“This is all very sweet, but why isn’t Phil Turnball being prosecuted if he stole from you?”
“He didn’t steal from me. He stole from his clients. My clients too.”
“Whatever.”
“No, not ‘whatever.’ That’s much more than a question of semantics. But let me answer it two ways. Let me answer as, first, a cold businessman and, second, as an old man who believes that he is responsible for his clients’ well-being. The cold businessman: In this post-Madoff environment, what do you think will happen to Barry Brothers Trust if it gets out that one of our top financial advisers ran a Ponzi scheme?”
The answer was obvious, and Wendy wondered why she didn’t see that before. Funny. Phil had used that question to his advantage, hadn’t he? He kept using that as proof he’d been set up—“Why haven’t they arrested me?”
“On the other hand,” he went on, “the old man feels responsible to those who put their trust in him and his company. So I’m going through the accounts myself. I will reimburse all clients from my personal finances. In short, I will take the hit. The clients who were defrauded will be compensated in full.”
“And will be kept in the dark,” Wendy said.
“Yes.”
Which was why Win had sworn her to secrecy. She sat back and suddenly more pieces came together. Lots of them.
She knew now. She knew most of it—maybe all of it.
“Anything else?” Win asked.
“How did you catch him?” she asked.
Ridley Barry shifted in his seat. “You can only keep up a Ponzi scheme for so long.”
“No, I get that. But what made you first start looking into him?”
“Two years ago, I hired a firm to examine the background of all our employees. This was a routine thing, nothing more, but a discrepancy in Phil Turnball’s personal file came to our attention.”
“What discrepancy?”
“Phil lied on his résumé.”
“About?”
“About his education. He said he graduated from Princeton University. That wasn’t true.”
CHAPTER 35
SO NOW SHE KNEW.
Wendy called Phil’s cell phone. Once again there was no answer. She tried his home. Nothing. On the way back from Win’s office, she stopped at his home in Englewood. No one was there. She tried the Starbucks. The Fathers Club was gone.
She debated calling Walker or maybe, more likely, Frank Tremont. He was the one who handled the case of Haley McWaid. There was a good chance that Dan Mercer had not killed Haley. She thought that maybe she now knew who did, but it was still speculation.
After Ridley Barry left his office, Wendy had run it all by Win. There were two reasons for this. One, she wanted an intelligent outside ear and opinion. Win could provide that. But, two, she wanted someone else to know what she knew as, well, backup—to protect both the information and herself.
When she finished, Win opened his bottom drawer. He pulled out several handguns and offered her one. She declined.
Charlie and Pops were still gone. The house was silent. She thought about next year, Charlie gone to college, the house always this still. She didn’t like it—the thought of being alone in a house like that. Might be time to downsize.
Her throat was parched. She downed a full glass of water and refilled the glass. She headed upstairs, sat down, and flipped on the computer. Might as well start testing out her theory. She did the Google searches in reverse-Princeton-scandal order: Steve Miciano, Farley Parks, Dan Mercer, Phil Turnball.
It made sense to her now.
She then Googled herself, read the reports on her “sexually inappropriate” behavior, and shook her head. She wanted to cry, not for herself, but for all of them.