CLAUDIA:Not only is there no record of her ever attaining the CIM accreditation she claims to have, there is also no record of her attending the University of Toronto. On her website, she claims to have graduated with an MBA, but the school has denied that she was ever enrolled as a student. No degree and no expertise. But maybe you want to give her the benefit of the doubt, I mean, who doesn’t jeuje up their resumé a bit? Is that really such a crime? Well, the fake CV is just the tip of the iceberg—rest assured, there are much spicier bits, and we’ll get into all of that soon.
LEO:It seems that consequences are finally nipping at our girl’s designer heels, and we’ll be there in real time. Next episode, we’ll be talking to her friends, acquaintances, and former co-workers to untangle the knot of untruths she’s woven over the years. Our plan is to release mini-episodes as we cover this story, not our usual two-hour gabfests—
CLAUDIA:Yes! We should have mentioned that up top. Even our format will be different this season. And we’ll be releasing episodes much more frequently.
LEO:So we hope you enjoy the high that comes from micro-dosing financial crime with us. Keep it clean, Fundies!
38
IMOGEN
Thank god for the safety deposit box.
It had seemed like overkill when she first opened it (using her secretly acquired passport), as though she were living out a secret-agent fantasy, but it turned out to be the smartest thing she could have done. Based on the search warrants that had been issued against her, it appeared the authorities were unaware of its existence, and she meant to keep it that way. Getting access to it, however, now that was going to be a challenge—she’d have to plot her next moves carefully.
Twelve hours after her arrest, Imogen sat at her kitchen table, eating stale Pop-Tarts and drinking a cup of coffee—her first of the day, although it was almost dinnertime—and trying to pull herself together after an incredibly trying ordeal. She got up to fetch the Johnnie Walker, added a shot to her mug, and then took a long sip. It was her first moment of peace since that detective had pounded down her door.
In her worst nightmares, Imogen had never imagined she’d have to suffer the indignity of having her home raided at the crack of dawn. Her office looked as if a bomb had gone off in it, and her normally full-to-bursting closets and drawers were almost empty. Imogen almost wept when she discovered that her precious collection of handbags was entirely gone. Seeing which items the investigators had taken felt like discovering that someone had chopped off hanks of her hair or pulled out her fingernails. All her beautiful things had been violated.
If Imogen was being honest with herself, she’d always known that the ITFF would have to come to an end someday. At a certain point, there would be no more new money coming in, or this person would want to pull too much out, or that person would get suspicious about the paperwork. But she’d thought she still had a few years left to play with. There was supposed to be time for her to get her affairs in order, to pay all the right people, to paper it over legitimately. Now she needed a new plan.
Earlier that day, as she’d waited for her bail hearing, Imogen had started piecing together the edges of an idea. It was bold and crazy, but she’d have to make it work; there was no other choice. She’d nodded solemnly as her lawyer explained the cash bail and all the conditions of her release, including the surrender of her Canadian passport. He’d told her that she was fortunate to have been released at all, given the gravity of the charges against her, but he’d been able to make the case that she was unlikely to be a flight risk because she had a family.
Her heart squeezed when she thought of Ari, who was locked in her bedroom, refusing to come out. Mark had told her that Ari came home from school sobbing because some of the older kids were saying her mom was a criminal. Imogen carefully quarantined that thought. She couldn’t do anything about it right now—I promise I’ll make it right, baby—and she couldn’t afford to get emotional. Her blood was chilled vodka in her veins, cold and burning. She had a call to make.
Imogen reached instinctively for her pocket to pull out her phone, then remembered that the authorities had confiscated it. It was probably for the best—there was no way she wanted to wade through the hundreds of unread emails, missed calls, and unanswered texts that were surely flooding her cell.Not my problem anymore.She went to the kitchen counter and, bracing herself with an extra-large gulp of fortified coffee, picked up the land line (which she’d fortunately kept in case of power outages). Imogen was still able to dial Marta’s number by heart.
“Hey babe! What’s up?”
“Imogen! What do you mean, what’s up . . . you were arrested today. Ohmygod, I’m so glad you called, I kept trying to reach you, but I couldn’t get through. I’ve been trying to access our account all day. I even called the regulator, and they told me that—”
Marta kept talking, but Imogen was already dissociating. She couldn’t seem to focus on Marta’s words, she kept drifting in and out—fix it, can’t you? The account numbers don’t match, there’s a two-digit difference—and catching only snippets—it’s everything we have, Imm. Tell me it’s safe, I need to know where our money—like she was eavesdropping on a phone call in another room. Marta’s whine was like a mosquito trapped in the bedroom at night, her questions buzzing too close.
Imogen realized that Marta’s end of the line had fallen silent. She inhaled deeply, pushing her belly out, filling her lungs. She needed Marta on her side, now more than ever. Sell it. “Everyone’s money is exactly where it’s supposed to be, but some stuff got tangled up when a few clients wanted to withdraw outside of the agreed-upon windows. I made an exception for them out of the goodness of my heart, but I shouldn’t have done it. Look . . . running a successful hedge fund isn’t like running a bank . . . I can’t just press the ATM button that spits out money. But everything is fine. I’m not sure what caused this unwarranted interest from the authorities—it’s embarrassing, frankly, such a waste of resources. I’m discussing possible legal responses in that regard with my lawyer. Bottom line: There are advanced financial instruments at play. This is why people pay me to do my job, it’s why I’m good at my job.”
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked closer to eight.Tonight, Imogen thought.It has to be tonight.“You’ve known me since we were kids, and you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” At the very least, Imogen wanted it to be true, and she thought that had to count for something. “To be fully transparent, allowing those early withdrawals caused some downwards movement in the net value of the fund, but it’s nothing that would harm anyone’s investment in the long run. Your money’s safe, Marty, no matter what you hear. I promise you.”
39
BERNIE
Bernie peered out in the darkness at Imogen and Mark’s bedroom window, hoping to see a flash of movement, but there were no lights on in their room. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of anyone in days and she was getting curious. Yesterday, she’d gone over around midday and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, she tried the door code, only to find that it had been changed. She took the blinking red light as a personal affront.
The stories about the victims of the Inherit the Future Fund were plastered all over the news—sad stories of college funds, retirement savings, and first-home nest eggs gone up in smoke. Bernie liked to read the comments on digital articles to learn how other people processed news (and so that she could share socially acceptable opinions at work). The victims had garnered a lot of online sympathy, which was interesting, because Bernie felt mostly contempt. If Imogen had stolenhermoney, she certainly wouldn’t be whining about it to a newspaper; it looked weak. Plus, ever since she was young, she’d had her own way of dealing with people who crossed her.
About a year ago, Imogen had raised the possibility of Bernie investing with the ITFF. Bernie remembered how casually Imogen had laid it out: the lump-sum investment, the high rate of return, the long list of satisfied clients. Bernie replied that she’d think about it, and told Imogen to send her a package to run by her accountant (of course, she had no intention of following up—she didn’t need to become further enmeshed with her neighbour, or to have her finances complicate her social life). But Bernie’s answer seemed to spook Imogen, who immediately backtracked, telling her that this was all a preliminary discussion, and that a spot hadn’t yet opened up in the fund. Imogen never brought it up with her again.
Bernie plucked the blue toy car from her treasure bowl and ran it along the windowsill as she gazed at Imogen’s house. The car had been her little brother’s favourite toy. He was meant to be buried with it; at the visitation, her father had tucked it into the breast pocket of the first and only suit Rusty would ever wear. When it was Bernie’s turn to approach the coffin, she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her, then snatched the car and secreted it away in her heart-shaped plastic purse.
The black velvet dress she wore to Rusty’s funeral had an itchy lace collar and her shoes pinched her toes, but Bernie didn’t have anyone to tell these things to because nobody paid any attention to her. Her mother spent the entire day hunched over and crying or moaning with her eyes closed. She wouldn’t open them to look at Bernie that morning, even though Bernie tried to entertain her by doing her very best cartwheels in the living room. Bernie tried again to get her mother’s attention at the funeral home—there was a vending machine in the basement and Bernie wanted change for an Orange Crush—but her father shooed her away when she tugged on her mother’s sleeve.
That night, Bernie would have gone to bed hungry if she hadn’t stuffed her plastic heart purse full of cookies from the reception. She thought it was very strange that no one had come to tell her to get ready for bed, but she didn’t particularly mind because she was enjoying eating Oreos while playing with her Barbies on the floor. Rusty always wanted to play Barbies with her, but he wasn’t any good at following her directions and sometimes he tried to stick their little shoes up his nose. She was happy he wasn’t here now to mess up her game.
Bernie knew that something was wrong the next morning—additionally wrong, that was, to her little brother being dead—when she woke up with a half-eaten Oreo crumbling in one sticky hand. No one had come to check on her last night. She took off her dress and changed into her favourite green sweatsuit, teeth still fuzzy from the night before. Her parents were supposed to make sure she got into her pajamas, washed her face, and brushed her teeth every night, and when she did it without complaining, she got a sticker on the calendar in her room. She felt that it was unfair she’d missed her chance to earn a sticker last night.
There were voices coming from the kitchen, so Bernie paused on the stairs because she didn’t know who was talking. Her parents were there, but there was also an unfamiliar voice. “That’s right, we’ll do an initial home-play session here—I’d like to observe her in her habitual environment—before starting any of the clinical assessments.”
“This isn’t going to do any good,” said Bernie’s mother, through tears. “She’s bad, Pat. I told you, I want the priest to come.”
