The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(48)

When he put it together like that, the answer was clear.

Jimmy had hidden the suitcase full of money and explosives under the porch and left his dog there to guard it. With the dog’s bed, so Mingus would know where home was.

Which was why the dog had stayed so long.

After his master was dead.

Peter needed to talk to the hedge-fund guy, Jonathan Skinner.

—

He brought out the accordion file he’d bought at the bookstore. It had divided sections to keep things organized, and a cover flap that tied in place. It was more compact than the box, and felt somehow more respectful. He put Jimmy’s things away, then opened up his new laptop and got online.

Lake Capital wasn’t a financial-planning outfit, a place for normal people to put their retirement money. Lake Capital was a hedge fund, an investment vehicle for the very wealthy, or for large financial institutions like employee pension funds, looking to balance the risk in their portfolios. Hedge fund, as in hedge your bets.

Hedge funds were a great racket. The fund manager—in this case, Jonathan Skinner—got paid twice. He was paid a small percentage of the base value of the fund, usually two percent each year. He also took a percentage of the profits, usually twenty percent. Hedge funds were considered risky but could be highly profitable. Especially for the hedge-fund managers, who always made something, even if their clients lost a lot. And in the big market crash, most funds had lost a huge amount of their value. But a few had made billions.

The Lake Capital website was clean and elegantly designed, but thin on details. The main page featured a beautiful photo of a big luxury sailboat moving fast in high winds, and another of attractive people arranged in a family group. Crisp graphics showed the hedge fund’s performance at more than three times the rate of the market as a whole for six years running. But not much detail about how that was achieved. And no data from the last three years. So either they hadn’t updated their website or they hadn’t done so well since the crash.

He searched the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel’s site and found many articles featuring Lake Capital, a prominent corporate citizen. Skinner and his wife, Martha, were mentioned often in connection with local charities, with Martha a particular favorite of the paper, even after her death. When she was killed in a home invasion in 2007, there was a long and glowing obituary. But after the market collapse in late 2008, Lake Capital went downhill.

Returns were in the negatives, and many Lake Capital investors had pulled out their money. The Securities and Exchange Commission was also investigating. Lake Capital was down to bare bones, with only a few employees left. And although Skinner had built up a great deal of personal wealth, he had invested much of his own and his wife’s money in the fund, so when Lake Capital closed its doors—and a recent newspaper article speculated that it was only a matter of time—Skinner would be reduced from extravagantly wealthy to merely rich.

Which made $400K in hard cash much more relevant to the conversation.

This time he’d call ahead and make an appointment. He took out his new phone.

“Lake Capital. How may we help you?”

The receptionist was much nicer on the phone than she was in person. Maybe because she couldn’t see Peter’s worn work clothes and unshaven face.

“Skinner in?” Peter tried to sound like an Army captain he’d known in Afghanistan, whose family fortune dated back to the Civil War. The captain talked like the world existed to do his bidding. “Need to see him.”

“I’m so sorry, he’s in meetings all day,” said the receptionist with practiced sincerity. “May I take your information so he can reach you later?”

Her name, Peter remembered, was Gretchen.

“Listen, Gretchen, tell Skinner that I know his recent numbers are shit. But my attorney tells me the man’s on his way up again. So I need to meet him, and soon. Need to park this money before the fucking IRS gets it.”

Gretchen was practically purring. “His meeting is ending just now,” she said. “I think I can grab him. Can you hold for just one moment?”





23



As Peter put away his phone, a campus security guard approached. Maybe in his early twenties, with a soft face. The uniform fit him as if made for a different person. “Um, sir? Are you a student here?”

The girl at the information desk must have ratted him out. Peter gathered up his things. He said, “This is a public library. I don’t need to be a student to come in here.”

“Well, um, no, sir?” said the guard. “But we do want to make sure the library is used for, um, appropriate activities?”

Everything was a question with this kid. Peter was glad the guard didn’t have a sidearm. He imagined the kid saying, Um, stop? Or I’ll shoot?

But it wasn’t worth the argument. “I was just leaving,” said Peter.

He handed the guard the empty box, tucked the accordion file under his arm, and began to thread his way through the tables toward the exit. “You have a public gym, right?” This was his plan to get a shower and change his clothes before meeting Dinah.

The guard, trailing behind Peter, looked relieved at the lack of confrontation. Peter was six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, even with the guard’s spongy bulk. “Um, I’d have to send you to the campus rec department? I think you need a membership? Or maybe a day pass?”