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Phillip dispatched Scooter Eastman’s call to his voice mail and mounted the staircase. Soledad and Gustavo Ramírez, the Peruvian couple who ran his household, were waiting on the second-floor landing. Phillip absently returned their greetings while eyeing his phone. It was Rosamond Pierce. Midnight-blue blood. Ten million invested in Masterpiece Art Ventures.
“I’ll be having lunch at home today. Ms. Navarro will be joining me. Seafood Cobb salads, please. One thirty or so.”
“Yes, Mr. Somerset,” replied the Ramírezes in unison.
Upstairs in his office, he listened to the new voice mails. Scooter Eastman and Rosamond Pierce both wanted out. In the span of thirty minutes, he had lost $135 million in investment money. Redemptions of that scale would threaten the most ethically run hedge fund. For a fund like Masterpiece Art Ventures, they were cataclysmic.
He relayed the news to Kenny Vaughan, the firm’s chief investment officer, during their usual ten o’clock video call.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish.”
“A hundred and thirty-five million is going to hurt, Phillip.”
“How long before we start to feel the pain?”
“Livingston Ford, Scooter Eastman, and Rosamond Pierce are all eligible for redemptions this month.”
“Eighty million?”
“More like eighty-five.”
“How much cash do we have on hand?”
“Fiftyish. Maybe.”
“I could dump the Pollock.”
“You owe JPMorgan sixty-five against the Pollock. Selling it isn’t an option.”
“How much do you need to make it work, Kenny?”
“Eighty-five would be nice.”
“Be reasonable.”
“Is there any chance you can lay your hands on forty?”
Phillip went to the window and watched two men in matching blue coveralls maneuvering a large rectangular crate from the back of a Chelsea Fine Arts Storage delivery truck.
“Yeah, Kenny. I think I might.”
