Money to Burn by James Grippando

harm anyone.”
    “Transactions have ripple effects,” said Sonya, “and when you’re talking about the kind of transactions that Saxton Silvers is involved in, these ripples can reach all the way across the globe.”
    “That makes it even more unsettling,” I said.
    “It does,” said Brewer. “Because when the motive is revenge, you never really know when—if ever—they are going to call it even.”
    Everyone on Wall Street had rivals, even enemies, but my stomach knotted at the thought of someone out to completely destroy me.
    The clock on the dash said 2:55 A.M . I knew how quickly money could move across the globe. With every tick of the clock, I could feel my fortune slipping through the cracks of bank secrecy, untraceable.
    “Shouldn’t we get the FBI moving on this?” I said.
    “They’re already going strong,” said Sonya. “I sent the account details to the Computer Crime Division right after I called Stanley.”
    “I’d still like to get face-to-face with them,” I said.
    The two lawyers exchanged glances. Brewer then looked at me and said, “Sonya and I talked while you were cabbing it over here. We agreed that it would be best if you weren’t part of this initial meeting with the bureau.”
    “But it’s my money.”
    “I understand,” he said.
    “My entire personal portfolio has been cleaned out.”
    “I’m not minimizing that.”
    “I’m the victim.”
    “It would appear so,” he said.
    “So I have to be there when you talk to the FBI.”
    Brewer took a breath, letting it go as he spoke. “Michael, I can’t begin to tell you how many times I have seen law enforcement treat the victim as a suspect.”
    I suddenly thought of the way the Bahamian authorities had treated me after I reported Ivy’s disappearance. Not even a clean polygraph exam had convinced some of them of my innocence.
    “I understand where you’re coming from,” I said. “But I didn’t do anything here but check my account balance.”
    “I know how these agents think,” said Brewer. “If you set foot inside that building, they will shift into fact-gathering mode and will want to know everything about every transaction you have ever structured that involves an offshore bank. That’s sensitive information that you and your clients don’t want to hand over freely, and just as soon as you put up any resistance to their inquiry— bam . You go from victim to suspect in their mind.”
    The man was making sense, but I kept coming back to the bottom line. “This is my life savings.”
    Sonya chimed in. “Let Stanley and me deal with the FBI. I’ve called in our head of security. The best thing you can do right now is go to the office and use the firm’s internal resources to find out what happened.”
    Another good point. When money went missing, private security was often more effective than law enforcement, especially in international matters.
    “All right,” I said. “That sounds like a reasonable plan.”
    I handed Brewer my business card and told him to call me day or night. Then I stepped out of the car. The lights were burning brightly at the old fire station on Duane Street. Even so, everything else was quiet in this city that never sleeps; there wasn’t a cab in sight. The night air wasn’t quite cool enough for me to see my breath, but I was feeling the chill. I buried my hands in my pants pockets and walked up Broadway, where, for fifty bucks—maybe my last fifty—I convinced a taxi driver with a Ukrainian accent to switch off his off-duty light.
    I started to give him the firm’s cross streets—“Seventh and…” but stopped myself. It was time to lose the tuxedo. We headed up Broadway to Fifty-seventh and then east to my apartment at Sutton Place. The driver waited with the meter running—he should have worked for Cool Cash—as I hurried into the building.
    “Mr. Cantella!” the doorman called.
    “Gotta hurry,” I said as I punched the call button for the elevator again and