The Trust Read online

  For Wynn and Coco

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to acknowledge three groups that made The Trust possible, starting with those who contributed to the story. Tim Scrantom, a friend for thirty years, told me about a chicken-processing plant in Georgia. Somehow the poultry morphed into an adult superstore inside these pages. I borrowed two separate anecdotes, one from Peter Malkin and one from Caroline Fitzgibbons, which added heft to a character you’ll meet. The chapters that start in Miami and work their way to the Turks and Caicos—I could not have written them without the help of my longtime friend Dorothy Flannery and her brother Paul.

  While writing, I received lots of technical support. Cort Delaney and Dave McCabe are my go-to lawyers in the field of trusts and estates. Burke Files, author of Due Diligence, was an invaluable resource on international money scams. Plus, he opened an important door inside the Turks and Caicos. Tom McNally answered questions above the FBI. Several people from Wall Street firms prefer to remain anonymous.

  Next, I owe thanks to my core literary team. Scott Hoffman is my agent and champion at Folio Literary Management. He helped me find David Ratner and Tess Woods, my publicists from Newman Communications. Pete Wolverton, my editor from Thomas Dunne/Minotaur/St. Martin’s Press, made this book better while staying flexible and encouraging me to follow my creative instincts. So did Anne Bensson. Special thanks to Andy Martin and Matthew Shear, my staunch allies. And here’s where I break ranks and offer a little insight into the author’s journey.

  There is an unspoken policy, I think, about my publisher’s holiday parties. What happens at SMP stays at SMP. Until now. A conversation with Anne at one of those parties—that and one of my innumerable home-improvement projects gone bad—inspired Chapter 8. When you read what happens in church, I hope you will agree the creative juices were flowing.

  Finally, I’d like to acknowledge several allies (there are many) who help spread the word about my books. Dewey Shay has been a great friend and source of motivation. Thanks also to Jon Ledecky, Scott Malkin, Mark Director, Tony McAuliffe, Brooks Newmark, Chris Eklund, and Eugene Matthews, who, like Dewey, have been there every step of the way. I am grateful to Tad Smith and Caroline Fitzgibbons, John and Susie Edelman, Cam Burns, Jack Bourger and Selena Vanderwerf, Marlon Young, James Morgan, Mark Sheehan, and Matt Arpano. This list is not exclusive. There are many others I owe a debt of thanks, and I hope to do so in person.

  Family is everything to me. Thank you: Tom and Steve Graves, Joe and Wendy Vonnegut, Chris Nottingham and Helene Vonnegut, Micki Costello and Jack (whom I miss so much), Wynn and Coco, and Marion. I could not have written this book without Mary. She helped fill in the gaps in the left side of my brain.

  Two disclaimers: In The Trust, I created a community foundation based in Charleston, South Carolina, called the Palmetto Foundation. If a real one exists, there is no link between the two. Mine is pure fiction and nothing more. Same thing with the Catholic Fund. The one in this book is my invention.

  The Philippines also plays a role in this novel and, I suspect, in my future writing. I reference one of the country’s tougher elements, but I hope to avoid leaving readers with the wrong impression. I love the Philippines and look forward to returning one day. It’s a country every American should visit and embrace.

  I hope you enjoy The Trust.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Also by Norb Vonnegut

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  In my business, nothing good happens on Friday afternoon.

  I’ve been at the game ten years. I know better than to hang around before the weekend starts. But there it was, nine minutes to the closing bell. Friday afternoon. Tangled in the stretch cord of my headset, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

  Elbows on knees and hands cupped over headphones, I perched on the lip of my swivel chair and gazed down at a stain on the carpeting. At this level, I could smell the trace odors from chemicals. Cleaning solvents had washed out the steel-blue fibers but not the soy sauce. Go figure.

  Every so often, I glanced sideways. To my right, Cleopatra legs were going toe to toe with a pair of pin-striped pants. And I wondered who would kick the other one’s shins first.

  If your head is under the desktop, as mine was, chances are somebody will ask if there’s a problem. He might even call the paramedics. That’s assuming you work in a reasonable profession like food services or publishing. Or you live in a reasonable place like Wichita, San Diego, maybe even Des Moines.

  But if you’re a stockbroker in midtown Manhattan, nobody notices when you crouch under your desk. That’s our cone of silence, our ad hoc refuge when we’re on the phone and it’s impossible to hear because the bonehead three desks over is screaming, “I just bagged an elephant!”

  Some people hear “The Call of the Wild,” and their thoughts turn to the Jack London novel.

  I associate that title with stockbrokers. We fight and yap all day. We mark our territories. And you can take it from me. We’ve forgotten more about pack behavior than London’s sled dogs will ever know.

  My name is Grove O’Rourke. I work at Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie, or SKC for short. We’re a white-shoe investment bank, a place where the elite go for smart ideas and kid-glove service. From the outside, all you see are bright people and lots of panache.

  Inside, it’s a different story. We could be Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, or any of the wirehouses. Backstabbing. Rival coalitions. There’s nothing pretty about slimeballs. Internecine warfare is the same in every firm.

  So are the office layouts. Stockbrokers get crammed into tight spaces. No surprise given the staggering cost of office space across Manhattan. At SKC, there are 150 of us arranged in neat rows of high-tech workstations.

  We make a ferocious racket: buying, selling, and nagging clients to shit or get off the pot. Throw in a dozen televisions tuned to CNBC or Fox Business, and the noise is more jarring than silverware in a garbage disposal. Our place is a nuthouse.

  But stockbrokers, I mean the ones who succeed in our produce-or-perish
business, get used to commotion. That includes military brats like me. Long ago I stopped asking, How’d I get here? I discarded my old notions about order, because survivors are the ones who adjust to chaos.

  Take the phones. There are time-honored techniques for working them. Outgoing calls are easy. We grab mobiles and disappear into empty conference rooms for sensitive or personal topics. No noise. No prying ears. No big deal.

  Incoming calls require finesse. Our quarters are so tight that everybody eavesdrops, whether intentional or otherwise. That’s why we talk to our wives and girlfriends, anybody phoning with a prickly issue, from down below. There’s no telling when loose lips will bite our sorry asses. Most days, crouching under a desk is business as usual on Wall Street.

  That Friday afternoon the noise was deafening, over the top. I was on the phone with a client, not just any client, but Palmer Kincaid. I couldn’t hear myself think.

  Scully, the world’s loudest stockbroker, was screaming all hoarse and bulgy-eyed at Patty Gershon, who holds her own in these ax fights. To be fair, Patty isn’t a screamer. Not usually. Guile is her thing, the closest you’ll ever come to meeting a tarantula in high heels.

  The decibels had taken over, though. Every broker and sales assistant in the room gawked as the argument mushroomed louder and more fierce.

  Scully: “Stay away from my client.”

  F-bomb.

  Gershon: “Lowell asked me to mop up your mess.”

  F-bomb.

  Back and forth, the two cursed. And I couldn’t hear Palmer, my client and mentor, the guy who got me into Harvard. He’d opened all the doors. He was the bigger-than-life presence, the shrewd coach riding a winning streak that would never end. At least, that’s what I’d always thought.

  Until now.

  “I need your help.” He sounded shaky. There was none of Palmer’s trademark swagger. He had gone off his game, tentative and distracted.

  The Palmer I knew was silky and genteel one minute, an invincible, maybe even ruthless, negotiator the next. He was the classic Charleston businessman, all charm and orthodontist smile, kicking the dirt, playing the small-town card, and taking the center cut from every deal.

  Don’t get me wrong. Palmer was fair. He was honest. He had allies out the yingyang, and I was one of them. But let’s put it out there. Real estate developers don’t make $200 million playing Good Samaritan.

  Palmer was unflappable. For twenty years, I had admired his grace under fire. All hell could be breaking loose, and he’d invite you into his office and chat about the family. He was never in a hurry.

  Not today. Those four words, “I need your help,” sounded like Greek coming from his lips.

  “Name it.” I was worried about my friend. I wished Scully and Gershon would shut the fuck up.

  Palmer did not reply. Not at first. The seconds ticked by. The silence became awkward. When he finally spoke, I expected some kind of explanation for his change in behavior.

  Didn’t happen.

  “Damn, Grove! What’s going on there?” Apparently, the noise was getting him too.

  “Hang on thirty seconds, okay?”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  “Thirty.”

  I put Palmer on hold and stormed toward Scully. His face burned redder than a watermelon. His neck veins bugged out, fat and puffy like thick blue garden hoses.

  He stopped shouting at Gershon, who took a time-out herself. The two stared at me, openmouthed at my intensity. So did the 147 other brokers and eighty-some-odd sales assistants scattered across the floor. Suddenly there was absolute silence, the calm before the storm.

  Look, I’m not especially big. About six feet tall, and my girlfriend says, “Grove, you could use ten pounds.” You see me and think Lance Armstrong with ginger hair. It’s not my size that works in these situations, maybe not even what I say.

  It’s attitude. When I hit my limit, I morph into a human wrecking ball. I become ruthless, brash, capable of flattening anyone who gets in the way. My Southern manners go AWOL. I have a temper.

  “What do you want?” Scully boomed, more bravado than brains, surprised anybody would intrude on his two-person hissy fit. He glanced away, a fleeting nervous flicker, and it was game over. I had him.

  Patty said nothing, which is typical. She’s more cunning.

  Slowly, deliberately, I leaned over and squeezed Scully’s shoulder hard enough to make a point. I whispered into his ear, soft enough so nobody else could hear. Not even Gershon. I spoke without venom because conviction is ten times more effective.

  Scully’s eyes dilated, saucer wide and jittery. The world’s loudest stockbroker lost his voice. But his face quivered, and his brow furrowed like a scared rabbit’s. “What’d you say?”

  No need to answer. I stared a hole into Scully until he dropped his eyes again. The trick in these situations is to threaten once. Act like a hair trigger, methodical, outcome certain, ready to snap any second. Repeating myself, even a simple glance at Patty, would have broken the spell.

  Thirty seconds are an eternity when you’re shredding somebody’s self-confidence. It took less than twenty for Scully to cave. “Let’s grab a conference room,” he told Gershon.

  She looked puzzled, waving her hands and trailing after him. “What did he say?” The two left the room, Scully in the lead, trying to regain his dignity.

  “Sorry, Palmer.” I was back on the phone, sitting upright at my desk. “What’s going on?”

  But the moment had passed. His head was somewhere else. “I’ll call you Monday, Grove.”

  “Don’t you need my help?”

  “Give me the weekend to think things over.”

  “Think what over?”

  “Nothing the harbor won’t fix,” he said, not all that confident but somehow easing into his steady charisma. Palmer had forgotten more about Southern charm than half of Charleston will ever know. “You still seeing Annie?”

  “Whenever I can.”

  “Take her out to dinner. Get to know her.”

  What’s that mean?

  “I’ll call you Monday,” Palmer repeated.

  Then he was gone, and the biggest mistake I ever made was not hopping the next flight to Charleston.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Palmer hung up the phone and gazed across his office. Wide-plank floors were the perfect canvas for a scatter of Persian rugs. The pine wainscoting, ravaged by generations of wood-boring worms, was imported from England. And his antique furniture predated the 1900s. It seemed that everything in the room, Palmer included, was clinging to memories from better times.

  Dozens of photos lined the walls. There was Palmer—doughy face and twinkly eyes. His hair was either blond or white, depending on his age in the picture. He was shaking hands with Bill Clinton at the presidential library in Little Rock, hobnobbing with the mayor of Charleston, and dining with Pope Benedict XVI deep inside the Vatican. The shots all trumpeted his storied past. But the politics, big-money career, and more recent years of philanthropic service were the furthest things from his mind.

  Palmer was worried sick about his family. His daughter, Claire, was bright and beautiful at age thirty-three. But she was unmarried, for now, and sauntering through life like a divining rod for losers. Her marriage had been an epic disaster. The only good news was that no kids had been caught in the crossfire.

  Ashley Kincaid, Palmer’s first wife, died when their daughter was a young girl. He had never envisioned life without his sweetheart from Bishop England High School. And now, every so often, his thoughts returned to her. He wanted to talk things over, ask her advice. But he was relieved she could not see his distress.

  Palmer’s second wife was twenty-seven years younger, a different kind of woman, and a real piece of work in the best possible way. JoJo was loving and affectionate, one of those women who touch everyone, fingertips vital to her communication. She was mercurial, the product of fiery Latin DNA. She spent money like a d
runken sailor, not that Palmer cared. JoJo had skills, talents like no woman he had ever known.

  He faced a Faustian choice, which is to say, no choice at all. The realization was torturous, eating his thoughts like fire ants. If Palmer did the right thing and fessed up, JoJo and Claire would go to jail. Him, too, but that was beside the point. If he kept his mouth shut, there was no telling what would happen. The consequences might be infinitely worse than a few years in jail.

  Really. He had no idea what “his partners” would do. They’d once held themselves out as allies. But they played by a different set of rules, and Palmer was an obstacle. He knew it. They knew it. And in their world, he was expendable.

  Palmer could hear his heart beat. He could feel the perspiration running down his brow. He could smell his own fear.

  Who are these people?

  * * *

  The Palmetto Foundation once offered so much promise. It was Palmer’s baby, his gift to Charleston. He could forget his shortcuts through the years, the ones that all real-estate developers take. Cutting corners made tight budgets work. But cutting corners left ugly problems for somebody else down the road.

  Those days were over.

  Palmer had made his money—enough to support generations of Kincaids. Now he was looking for absolution. And the Palmetto Foundation offered a gilt-edged legacy, one he could burnish over time, one that would eclipse his shortcomings forever. The organization was much more than a trust formed by a strangle of legal documents. It was a living, breathing entity. It was Palmer Kincaid’s immortality.

  As a charitable conduit, the Palmetto Foundation served everybody in the community. It accepted donations and made grants according to donor wishes. It provided accounting, investment, and administrative services. It enabled families to build philanthropic programs that survived from one generation to the next without the hassle of paperwork. Palmer donated the first $10 million and promised there was more on the way.

  Now his dream, giving back to the community and helping others do the same, was a joke. The irony was nobody had a clue. Even as Palmer’s world was unraveling, all of Charleston feted the Kincaids because everything looked oh so good from the outside.