Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (28 page)

“In a minute,” Mora said. “In a damned New York minute. In fact, actually, New York State is available.”

Carrie called Paul Sanders and asked him to have lunch with her.

“It would be my pleasure,” Paul said. “How about noon at the country club?”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you there.”

“You want to give me a hint about why we’re meeting?”

“Sure. The subject is Gerald Folsom. I have a few questions.”

They met at the Chestnut Hill Cricket Club at a table on the porch overlooking the grass tennis courts.

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Between eating all these big meals and drinking wine at lunch and dinner, I’m going to fall out of shape real fast. This leave I’m on is for a little more than three weeks, then I have to go back to Army food and no alcohol during the work day.”

“Is that a yes or no to my question?” Paul asked with a smile.

“Yes, of course. A glass of chardonnay would be wonderful.”

Paul raised a hand to the waitress and, when she came over, ordered two glasses of wine.

Carrie gazed out on the rows of grass courts that extended to Willow Grove Avenue. “I can remember taking tennis lessons on these courts before Dad died. After he was gone, my days of country club life ended. Sometimes I think I’m better for having grown up without the privileges of private schools and country clubs.”

“A life of privilege can make a person soft, but privilege and softness don’t have to go hand-in-hand. Knowing your father and mother, I doubt any level of privilege would have undermined the toughness they both have imparted to you and Edward.”

Paul looked off into the distance and then returned his gaze to Carrie. “I think your father would have found your career unnerving, but he would have been extremely proud of you.”

“Sometimes, I have trouble remembering what he looked like.”

“You were pretty young when he passed.”

The waitress came over, served their wine, and took their orders for two chicken Caesar salads.

“What do you want to know about Folsom?” Paul asked.

“I think I already know more than I want to about that psycho. What I want to ask you are a few questions about issues ancillary to Folsom.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I remember when we all gathered at Mom’s house, after that woman broke in and tried to kill Wendy, a lot of the conversation revolved around Folsom and his relationship with a man named Donald Matson. If I recall correctly, Matson was shot near his home one evening last week. Do the police have any suspects?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I stay in touch with Sylvia Young, Wendy’s lawyer, on a daily basis and she’s pretty close to the police. She hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”

“Do you remember on what day he was killed?”

Paul looked up at the porch ceiling and, dropping his gaze, finally said, “It was the day I went to your mother’s home with Sylvia. I think that was the twenty-first.”

That was the same date on the 3” x 5” cards in the valises in Folsom’s place, Wendy remembered.

She knew the police had found the valises with cash in Folsom’s house because of the evidence tags she had seen on the valise handles, but she couldn’t admit to Paul she had been in Folsom’s place. “What would the police do if they found over $2,000,000 in cash in Folsom’s house?”

“Probably nothing,” Paul answered. “It’s not against the law to have a lot of cash.”

“What if there was proof the money had been given to Folsom by Matson?”

Paul thought about that for ten seconds and then said, “That could raise some questions, like where a federal government employee would get that much cash and why he would give it to Folsom.”

“What if Matson gave it to Folsom for safekeeping?”

“So what?”

“I’m just fishing here, Paul. But what if there was a list of dates and dollar amounts going back twenty-two years with the cash?”

Paul’s expression registered surprise.

“What?” she asked after he didn’t say anything.

“Probably nothing, but it was twenty-two years ago that your father died and Folsom took over his bank.”

They sat in silence when the waitress brought their salads.

“What’s this all about, Carrie?”

“I can’t really explain why I’m asking these questions, but,” she reached into the pocket of her blouse and extracted a piece of paper, handing it to Paul, “the dates I wrote down match up to dollar amounts. I suspect the dates have some significance. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“Don’t ask. But suffice it to say, I have reason to believe the police already know Gerald Folsom has two valises full of cash in his home, and that, according to the evidence tags on the valises, the police did not count the cash, just noted it was a large amount. Also in those valises, but not included on the evidence tags, are notes on 3” x 5” cards written and signed by Donald Matson, claiming he put $2,065,000 in cash on July 21 for safekeeping with Gerald Folsom. There are also cards in one of the cases listing dates of cash inflows and outflows. Some of those inflow dates are written on the piece of paper I just gave you. It appears the two valises were given to Folsom on the same day Matson was murdered. And, finally, I think Folsom is unaware of the presence of the cards in the two cases. But sooner or later he’s going to find them and destroy them.”

Paul went straight from the country club to his office. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the dates on the paper Carrie had given him. Most ranged from 1988 to 1996, but there were two others: 1/15/10 and 7/15/11. Carrie had told him there were also a dozen or more dates running from 1996 to 2011 on the card in the valise at Folsom’s, but she didn’t have those specific dates.

Some of the dates seemed familiar, but he couldn’t figure out why. He looked at his desk calendar and saw July 16 was a Friday. He paged back to January and noted the 15th was also a Friday. However, neither date rang any bells for him.

Taking the dates from Carrie’s list, he Googled them one at a time, but there didn’t seem to be any recurring events on the dates.

Trying to come up with a common theme matching all the dates was giving him a headache. He decided to focus on something else and would then get back to Carrie’s list later. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and asked her to bring in his telephone message slips. He shuffled through the slips, found one for Kelly Loughridge at the Journal and called her first.

“I hope you have something good to tell me,” he said.

“Nothing yet. I’ve got all kinds of circumstantial evidence Donald Matson and Gerald Folsom had an unusual relationship, but nothing really concrete. I still can’t figure out what was in it for Matson.”

Paul thought about what Carrie had told him at lunch. “What if Folsom was bribing Matson?”

“What if the Easter Bunny’s real?” Kelly asked. “Come on, Paul, get serious. If that’s true, show me some proof.”

“Did you get anything more out of the list I sent you? The one with the dates of the deals Folsom did with the agency?”

“No. I don’t—”

“Holy sh—!” Paul blurted. “Hold on a second.” He leaped out of his chair and threw open his office door, yelling to his secretary, “Maxine, get me the Winter Enterprises file. Now!” He hurried back to his chair and fell back into it.

“Kelly, do you have the list of deals between Folsom and the FDIC at hand?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Paul’s secretary came in and placed three large files in front of him. He opened the third folder and found the tab labeled FDIC. He flipped open the file and found the list Gail Moskowitz at the FDIC had faxed to him. He laid Carrie’s list of dates next to Gail’s list and felt a chill go up his spine.

“Kelly, I have a list of dates in front of me I got from a confidential source. This source claims there are valises in Folsom’s house loaded with cash. And in those valises are cards signed by Donald Matson on which he wrote that he had given over $2 million to Folsom for safekeeping. The cards were dated July 21 of this year, the day Matson was murdered.” He paused to let Kelly absorb what he had told her, and then continued. “My source also claims there is a written record of cash payments received and cash withdrawals in one of the cases. I am now comparing the dates from my confidential source against the dates in the fax I got from my friend at the FDIC. They’re identical, at least from 1988 to 1996, plus two dates in 2011. Those are the only dates my source provided.”

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me someone has seen this cash and a list of dates showing cash received by Matson?”

“The police actually saw the valises when they searched Folsom’s house, but they apparently didn’t inventory the contents beyond noting they were filled with cash. I don’t know how my source got this information.”

“Does it say anything about Folsom making payments to Matson?”

“No.”

“But the cash is now sitting in Folsom’s house; put there in safekeeping by Matson on July 21? And then Matson took a couple bullets to the head?”

“Yep.”

“Why hasn’t Folsom destroyed the information your source claims is in the valises?”

“I don’t know. But, if I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t know they’re there.”

“Is your contact at the FDIC aware of this information?”

“No.”

“Call your contact and pass this on. Maybe they’ll agree to come out of hiding if you can convince them that Matson was dirty.”

WEDNESDAY

JULY 27, 2011

Sanford Cunningham walked into Stanley Burns’ office at Broad Street National Bank. Burns had been promoted to president of the bank because of his “sterling commitment to creating profits for Folsom Financial.” That was how Folsom had put it when he broke the news of the promotion to Burns.

“How are things?” Cunningham asked, dropping into a chair in front of Burns’ desk.

Burns swallowed the distaste he had for Folsom’s right-hand man. “Everything’s going great. We’ve reduced the bank’s commercial real estate exposure from sixty percent to fifty-one percent, mostly through not renewing maturing loans. But we’ve also had loans that borrowers couldn’t pay off when they came due, so we’re beginning the foreclosure process on the real estate collateral behind those loans. The real estate department manager estimates we’ll come out way ahead on the sale of these properties.”

Cunningham nodded his approval. “What happens with Winter Enterprises’ loan when it matures this Thursday?”

“Well, if they can’t pay off the loan, we’ll start foreclosure action against them.”

“I don’t want any delay in that happening. Have our attorneys draw up the papers now.”

“What’s the rush?” Burns asked.

Cunningham’s lips compressed into a straight line and the frown lines in his forehead became furrows. “You got this job because you did what needed to be done since Folsom Financial took over this bank; are you beginning to have second thoughts?”

Burns felt his face go hot. “Of course not. It would just be nice to know why I am asked to do something.”

“Let’s get something straight. I’m not
asking
you; I’m
ordering
. And, although you don’t need to know why I’ve ordered you to streamline foreclosure against Winter, I’m going to tell you anyway because you need to understand that Gerald Folsom is a very generous guy. You make money for him; he’ll share the profits with you. I want foreclosure completed ASAP on the Winter loan because we want to own the business.”

“You mean the restaurant locations?”

“Not just the real estate; the restaurant business, too. Part of our collateral on the loan is the franchise agreement with Hot N’ Chili. Winter’s franchise in Pennsylvania is a fuckin’ cash cow. We’re going to buy the loan from the bank and then take over the franchise.”

“I see,” Burns said slowly.

“I assume you’re okay with this.”

Burns hesitated for a beat and then nodded.

After Cunningham left his office, Burns took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating brow. He felt sick, as though he’d been hit by the flu. This wasn’t what banking was supposed to be about. When Sol Levin ran the bank, Broad Street National focused on helping its loan customers grow their businesses and contributing to the Philadelphia community. Now, Burns felt like a vulture picking over carrion. Worse, like a murderer, killing businesses and people’s dreams.

Burns stared at the picture of his wife, Becky, and their two daughters on the credenza beside his desk. His job at the bank had given them a good life and his promotion to president included a thirty percent increase in his pay, plus a performance bonus. Becky had been so proud of him when he called to tell her about the promotion, but she had no idea how bad the working conditions were at the bank, or what he was being ordered to do to the customers.

He exhaled loudly and pressed the intercom button for his assistant to ask for the Winter Enterprises’ loan file. “And,” he added, “call Franklin Means at the Walker Law Firm. I need to see him right away.”