Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (27 page)

Folsom gave her a “follow me” wave and opened a closed door leading to an enormous kitchen with a black granite countertopped island at least twenty-five feet by twelve feet. The appliances would have been right at home in a first-class restaurant kitchen.

“You do much entertaining?” Carrie asked.

“Nah. I gave my architect a free hand in designin this place. I really only use four rooms in the place: The kitchen, my office, the bathroom, and the bedroom.” He leered at her when he mentioned the bedroom.

“How about that cup of coffee?” she said.

Folsom punched a button on a coffee maker, which started to make whirring sounds. Coffee began pouring into a glass pot after a couple minutes. After the coffee had brewed, Folsom poured them each a cup, managing not to spill. “Wanna tour of the place?”

She smiled. “That would take a couple hours. I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh come on. At least my office’n bedroom suite?”

Carrie fully intended to see as much of Folsom’s house as she could. The more she knew about the guy and this place, the more likely she’d discover something she could use to her benefit. But she wasn’t about to make it easy for the guy, and she sure as hell didn’t want him getting the wrong idea.

She feigned looking at her wrist watch and then gazed at Folsom. “Ten minutes, Jerry, and then I’ve got to go. I don’t want my parents worrying.”

He sloppily crossed his heart and said, “I promise. Ten minutes.”

Coffee cups in hand, they marched upstairs, past the second level to the third. “How much help do you need to maintain this place?” she asked.

“Coupla gardeners’ n a full-time maid.” He shot her the same leer he’d shown her before. “But no one’s here at night.”

She followed him into a room half the size of a basketball court. Big game trophies were mounted all over the walls. Two stuffed bears stood on their hind legs in opposite corners of one side of the room, their front paws outstretched, their mouths open menacingly.

“Jeez,” Carrie exclaimed. “This is a scary room.”

Folsom put an arm around her, caressing her back. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll protect you.”

She slipped away from his arm, walked to a sedan-sized mahogany desk, and perched on the edge. Crossing her legs for full effect, she smiled at Folsom and said, “I’m impressed, Jerry. This is a real man cave.”

“No man cave is complete until it includes a beautiful woman. This room has never looked better.”

“Thank you. What’s next?”

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. He walked over to her and took her hand, pulling her off the desk. He led her to a four-seat couch and asked her to sit. “I’ll be right back.”

She looked around the room and marveled at the man’s ego. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: The tent she’d lived in while hiking through Azerbaijan on her last assignment. Quite a difference between that and this place.

Folsom returned after a couple minutes, carrying a valise. He hefted the valise onto the coffee table in front of the couch and said, “This is to show you I don’t bullshit, that I’m a man of my word.” He opened the valise and took from it a handful of wrapped one hundred dollar bills and placed them on the couch next to Carrie. He repeated this five times and, when the pile of currency was eight inches high, he said, “That oughta be enough.”

Carrie looked at Folsom and replied, “Enough for what?”

“For your Ferrari.”

“I know bullshit when I hear it. That may be enough money to buy a Ferrari, but not me. I’m out of here.” She pushed off the couch to stand, but Folsom placed a hand against her shoulder and shoved her back.

“If that’s not enough, how about this?” He lifted the valise and upended it on the couch, creating a pile over eighteen inches high. It teetered and then collapsed onto Carrie’s lap.

She knew the situation was quickly deteriorating. Folsom was a man used to getting his own way, and Wendy had told her he tended to get violent when he’d been drinking.

“I’ve had a nice evening, Jerry,” she said. “Up to now. I think it’s time for me to go.” She stood up and skirted the coffee table.

Folsom moved to cut off her escape. “I don think so.” He grabbed her left wrist in his right hand and yanked her toward him. “You need—”

Before he could finish, she spun under his right arm, breaking his grip on her wrist, and twisting his arm behind him, putting torque on his shoulder until he shouted, “What the fuck!”

But instead of backing off after she released him, he smiled and said, “Now you’re really turning me on.” He stepped forward and reached for her throat.

Carrie used his forward momentum to her advantage. She struck out with the heel of her right hand, striking Folsom over the heart with slightly less than maximum force. She didn’t really want to kill the guy since too many people had seen her leave the restaurant with him. But she did want to disable him temporarily.

Folsom went down to the floor as though he’d been poleaxed. He moaned and clutched his chest. Rolling back and forth on the floor, he gasped, “Oh, God.”

She bent down and held his chin so he would look right at her face. “You need to learn how to treat a lady, Jerry. Not everybody is into money like you are.” Carrie grabbed two handfuls of the one hundred dollar bills from the couch and dropped them on Folsom’s chest. “Sleep with these tonight.” She went back to the couch to grab her handbag when she saw a 3” x 5” card resting on one side of the bills. She bent down to read the hand-written words on it:
7/21/10. Placed the following amount of cash in this valise for safe keeping with Gerald Folsom: $1,000,000.
It was signed Donald Matson. Carrie recalled that a Donald Matson had worked for the FDIC and had been murdered over a week ago. Her mind was spinning. Where had Matson got $1,000,000 and why was the money in Folsom’s home? She glanced at Folsom, still writhing in pain. She knew he’d be incapacitated for at least ten minutes. She picked up the card by its edges, holding it between her thumb and index finger, and dropped the card into the empty valise.

Folsom had gone out of the room to get the valise. She walked in the direction he’d gone and stopped in the hall outside the room. There were three closed doors on the opposite side of the hall. The middle door opened into a full bath. The door on the left was a file room. She went to the door on the right and walked into a vault. A dozen rifles and shotguns in a rack lined the left side; the right side had built-in drawers. She took a tissue from a Kleenex box on top of the drawers and wrapped it around her fingers. She then opened one of the drawers and found trays of gold coins, each in a plastic protective sleeve. The next drawer to the right held silver coins. She opened four more drawers and found more of the same. Then she opened another drawer that held what she estimated must be at least one hundred and fifty loose gem stones. Lots of valuable stuff, but nothing that appeared to be helpful in her quest to assist her brother . . . unless. For a moment, she wondered what a handful of jewels might be worth, but quickly put the thought out of her mind.

She turned to leave the vault, when she spied a valise on the floor by the door. It was identical to the one Folsom had just carried into his office. There was a tag on the handle with the logo of the Philadelphia Police Department. She’d noticed a similar tag on the case Folsom had brought into his office. Written on the tag were a date and a statement that a Detective Carruthers had opened it in the presence of Gerald Folsom, had not counted the cash, and had closed and tagged the valise.

Again ensuring that her fingers were covered by the tissue, Carrie popped the clasps on this valise and opened it. Like the other one, it was stuffed with bundles of hundred dollar bills. She wondered if there was a similar card in this valise and lifted out stacks of cash until she saw a white 3” x 5” card resting against the side of the case. This one had the same wording on it as was on the other card, except for the total amount of cash. This valise held $1,065,000, according to the card. It was also signed by Donald Matson and dated 7/21/10.

$2,065,000 in cash consigned to Folsom by Matson. Where would a federal government bureaucrat get that kind of cash, and why would he “place” the cash “for safekeeping,” as the cards read, with Folsom?

She started to replace the card in the valise when she noticed something else white on the bottom of the valise. She removed the stacks of cash and found two other cards on the bottom. These cards showed dates and amounts—one recorded inflows of cash, the other listed withdrawals. She studied the cards for a minute, memorizing the first ten dates on the first card. Then she replaced the cards on the bottom of the case, repiled the bundles of cash on top, closed the valise, and left the vault. She returned to Folsom’s office and found him sitting up against the side of a plush chair holding his arms against his chest, still moaning. Ignoring him, Carrie moved to the couch, carefully held the cash bundles by their edges, and stacked them on top of the card in the valise on the coffee table.

“What are you doing with my money?” Folsom whined when she stepped to the side so he could see the valise.

“I’m thinking about taking it with me. Reparations for treating me so badly.”

“That’s robbery. I’ll call the police.”

“Gee, what about my Ferrari?”

“Fuck you and fuck your Ferrari,” he groaned.

She pointed at the valise on the coffee table and said, “There’s your godforsaken money. You’d better lock it up before I change my mind and take it with me.”

TUESDAY

JULY 26, 2011

Folsom felt as though he was having a heart attack. That bitch last night had hit him so hard that his chest now felt as though an elephant was sitting on it. It still hurt to breathe. He had never met a woman like her before. He would have loved to go a couple rounds in the sack with her. But then he thought that might not be a good idea, after all. She might kill him.

He was frustrated, angry, and in pain. He wanted to hurt someone. Folsom called Sanford Cunningham at 9 a.m. and asked him for the name and telephone number of the Hot N’ Chili franchiser.

“Mr. Mora please,” Folsom said into his telephone.

“Senior or Junior?” a woman asked.

“Whichever one is in charge of franchise operations.”

“That would be Peter Mora, Junior. I’ll connect you.”

After a few seconds, a man said, “Peter Mora.”

“Mr. Mora, this is Gerald Folsom, President of Folsom Financial Corporation. My company owns Broad Street National Bank in Philadelphia.”

“Yes, Mr. Folsom, what can I do for you?”

“You may not be aware that one of your franchisees financed his restaurant locations with my bank. I—”

“I’m very familiar with your bank’s relationship with our Pennsylvania franchisee, Edward Winter. Our franchisees advise us any time they use our franchise agreement as collateral on a loan. We approved that transaction.”

“Well, as of this Thursday, if Winter Enterprises does not pay off its loan in full with my bank, we will be forced to foreclose, taking possession of the company’s real estate, its deposits here at our bank, and the franchise agreement. We obviously are not looking forward to taking this action.”

“And why are you calling me?” Mora asked.

“Just to put you on notice of the bank’s intentions and to give you a heads up that you will need to work with us on the future of the Hot N’ Chili business in Pennsylvania.”

“I have to say, Mr. Folsom, that your calling me is very irregular.”

“Just a friendly heads up, Mr. Mora.”

After Peter Mora hung up with Folsom, he immediately telephoned Edward Winter and told him about the call. “I find it absolutely unethical that a bank would call me in anticipation of a foreclosure event. It’s as if this guy Folsom is looking for trouble.”

“I think it’s something else entirely,” Edward said. “I think the guy suspected you would call me. He’s rubbing salt in the wound.”

“My God, Eddie, what did you ever do to this guy?”

“Nothing, Pete. Absolutely nothing. Gerald Folsom is a sociopath who enjoys inflicting pain on people.”

“How are things going with Raul Morales down in Miami?”

“Thanks, by the way, for putting me in touch with him. He’s got a hell of a business down there. But he’s got the same problem with banks that I do. Al least his real estate loans don’t come due for another two years. Maybe, by then, the economy will have recovered and the Feds will have lightened up on the banks. In the meantime, he can’t do a thing for us. He was sick about it, too.”

“Anything else in the works?”

“My CFO has contacted a private equity firm in New York City. I haven’t heard anything yet, but I’m not optimistic. Sixty days notice wouldn’t have been enough time for the average private equity firm to make an investment decision.”

“Jesus, Eddie, you’ve got to pull a rabbit out of a hat between now and Thursday.”

“Listen, Pete. By Friday of this week, I’ll have about $800,000 in cash the bank can’t touch without a huge legal battle. That would just put what they’re doing to me in the media. I don’t think they want that. This guy Folsom tends to stay below the radar. I know you have some open franchise territories. Would you consider selling one of them to me if the bank takes over our Pennsylvania assets?”