JM01 - Black Maps by Peter Spiegelman

explosive temper and a wide violent streak. As Neary once observed, he was the guy most likely to be shot in the back by his own men.
    But what made Pell really dangerous was that he was not a dumb guy. He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, and his ambition and malice often blinded him, but Pell had a certain animal cunning—like a mean, clever pig. When I’d last seen him, he believed that I had done just about the two worst things that anyone could to Freddy: loused up his shot at glory, and made him look stupid. So, he hated me. Knowing him, he’d nursed that hatred carefully for the past three years. Fred Pell. Small world.
    “That’s unfortunate,” I said evenly.
    Neary gave a grim little laugh. “Unfortunate, yeah, like a root canal with a wood chisel. He came on nearly two years ago. And in case you’re wondering, he’s the same asshole he’s always been, only fatter now. All in all, a low profile is a good idea.” He dug into his food. I did the same.
    We worked our way through dinner, and as we did, Neary gave me some background. Brill and Parsons and Perkins, the accounting firm, were serving, in part, as high-priced librarians—sifting through the ocean of paper left behind when the bank was closed, and classifying and cataloging each document they found. And there were lots of them, dealing with everything from a multimillion-dollar bond issuance to an order for a thousand desk calendars—and a whole range of things in between. Loan applications, catering bills, deal tickets, expense reports, meeting minutes, account statements, car leases, letters to clients, and contracts for cleaning services. As Neary put it, it was like trying to alphabetize sand.
    Taming the paper was only part of the job. Parsons used the documents to help evaluate creditor claims, sometimes reconstructing years of transactions to calculate what MWB owed to someone. Brill helped MWB’s lawyers respond to the endless stream of subpoenas and discovery motions churned out by the task force and assorted defense counsel. Brill also provided physical security for the MWB offices around the world. In New York alone, Brill had twenty people at MWB, not including security guards. Parsons had over forty.
    Neary echoed Mike’s view that the investigation was a zoo, especially when it first got going. According to him, the first few months were classic interagency feeding frenzy, with everybody seeing MWB as a chance to make his or her bones. Things had settled down with the formation of the joint task force, though Neary thought there was still plenty of bad blood between DiPaolo and her counterpart in San Diego, Chris Perez.
    “In a fair fight, I’d have to pick Shelly,” Neary opined. “Perez has her on weight and reach, but she’s got him hands down when it comes to just plain mean.”
    “She really that bad?” I asked.
    “And getting worse,” Neary said. “She made a good start on this case, got some convictions right off the bat. But now it’s been a long time between wins. Rumor has it the folks in D.C. are getting a little antsy with Shelly. They’re looking for some good news on the terror front, I guess, or to show how tough they are on white-collar crime. Apparently she’s feeling the heat, and it’s not helping her mood.”
    The waiter had cleared our dishes and brought the dessert menu. Neary ordered a flan and I went for the rice pudding and we both had coffee. We were quiet for a while, then Neary cleared his throat.
    “You hear from the old guy?” he asked. I knew he meant Donald. I nodded, thinking about the call I hadn’t yet returned.
    “He doing alright?” Neary asked. His voice was low.
    “He’s still working, still fishing and hunting. And they still love him up there. He’ll be sheriff as long as he wants. If he’d let them, they’d probably elect him to Congress,” I said. But I wasn’t answering his question. The answer to that question was no, Donald wasn’t alright. He was