Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (11 page)

Edward stood and walked to the other end of the dining table and kissed Betsy’s cheek. “Don’t worry about anything; this is just one more bump in the road. That’s what business is all about. Just think, I could have a job at one of the banks. What a nightmare that would be.”

Betsy chuckled, brightening a bit, but Edward could tell she was still troubled. “We’ve got almost $4 million dollars in two banks, our real estate equity is around $30 million dollars—even in this market—and we own our home free and clear. What are you worried about?”

Betsy took his hand and lifted herself from her chair. She moved into his arms and buried her cheek into his chest. “I don’t care about the money. I just don’t want to see you lose what you’ve worked so hard building up. I don’t know how something like that would affect you.”

He hugged her tighter and said, “That isn’t going to happen, honey,” not disclosing that he had wondered the same thing a dozen times during the past few days.

Katherine and Paul got through both dinner and dessert without once mentioning the episode at Gerald Folsom’s house. Katherine had been afraid they would talk about nothing else, which would only have embarrassed her further. But Paul had been a gentleman, as usual, and, instead regaled her with stories about humorous legal cases he’d handled, keeping her laughing through much of the dinner. Then somehow they’d segued to American literature.

“How do you find time to read so much?” she asked him.

“I don’t sleep. If I get five hours a night it’s a lot. I just finished reading Carl Sandburg’s
Lincoln
last night.”

“Any good?” she asked.

He smiled and said, “Well, let’s put it this way. Edmund Wilson said, ‘In my opinion Carl Sandburg is the worst that has happened to Lincoln since Booth shot him.’ “

“Ouch! That’s pretty rough.”

“Pretty accurate, too.”

They both chuckled, then the conversation lulled. Katherine finally filled it. “What do you think is going to happen with this Tea Party movement?”

Paul showed a mischievous smile. “John Adams, in a letter to Abigail, wrote, ‘I must not write a word to you about politics, because you are a woman.’ ”

Katherine hadn’t realized that Paul was such a tease. She smiled back and said, “And Abigail once wrote to John, ‘Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as vassals of your sex.’ ”

“Touché,” Paul responded. “To answer your question about the Tea Party, I think it’s causing people to focus on just how mad they are at all politicians. The citizenry is anxious to send a message to the political class that they’re fed up with over-spending, over-taxation, and over-regulation. I think we’re going to see incumbents of both parties get swept out of office, just like what happened in 2010.”

“Of course, we could be in worse trouble if Congress gets taken over by a bunch of freshmen legislators dependent on the bureaucrats and their own staffers,” Katherine said.

“Damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”

“Adlai Stevenson,” Katherine said.

Paul stared at Katherine. “I’m going to have to be on my toes when I’m with you.”

She smiled.

Folsom downed two scotch and waters before dinner and polished off most of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with his rare steak and baked potato, feeling no pain as he got into his Mercedes and drove home. Images of Wendy lying in her bed, naked under her snow-white silk robe, intruded on his alcohol-fueled thoughts. His mind reeled with the possibilities of what the rest of his evening would be like, but derailed when an errant thought penetrated his mind.

What if he’d killed her? That question floated around in his head for a minute or two. He remembered how shocked he’d been when he saw how badly bruised Wendy was. The idea scared him and excited him at the same time. He’d never killed anybody. What would it feel like? What if he killed his wife? What would he do with the body? What sort of story could he come up with?

He shook his head as though to clear it of these strange ideas and questions, but they wouldn’t dissipate. He knew he’d leaped to another level, like surging through a time warp membrane into a strange and unknown land. Murder! Another dimension altogether.

The drive home took him twenty minutes. By the time he entered the house through the garage, he was jacked up on alcohol, adrenaline, and testosterone. He climbed the stairs to the second level, picturing what his naked wife looked like, sprawled on the bed, robe open. He disrobed on his way to her room, dropping his clothes on the floor as he went, completely naked when he got to her bedside.

Wendy had shifted and was now lying on her back, spread-eagled on the side of the bed, the corners of her robe caught between her thighs.

Folsom thumped the side of her head with his middle finger. “You awake?”

Wendy groaned.

He shook her. “Wake up!” he shouted.

She rolled on her side toward him, groaning as she moved.

Enough of this crap, Folsom thought. He grabbed a handful of her robe and ripped it from under her, leaving it bunched under her head. He rubbed a palm over her stomach, pressing down firmly against her tight but bruised muscles.

The pain from Folsom’s touch must have finally penetrated Wendy’s brain. She sprang awake and cried out, “Jesus!”

“Jesus ain’t gonna help you here, sweetie,” he said, rubbing harder.

“No! Not tonight. I hurt so bad. Ple-e-e-aze.”

“Especially tonight, Wendy. Especially tonight,” he murmured

Folsom mounted her and quickly satisfied himself. He knew, and he knew she knew, that the worst was yet to come. He took her face in one hand and squeezed her cheeks, his fingers compressing the swollen areas around her eyes, until she screamed with pain.

“That’s my girl,” Folsom said. “You never disappoint me.”

He moved his hand down to her left breast and squeezed the nipple until her screams came in a long, high-pitched sequence. He started to move down her body so he could put his mouth on her breast when a shrill ringing broke into his reverie.

“What the hell!” Folsom spat, knowing it was his cell phone. Very few people had the number, so it must be important, especially at this late hour. “Sonofabitch!”

He climbed off Wendy and slapped her face. “Don’t move,” he roared. “I’ll be right back.”

He went in search of his cell phone, which was in a pocket of the pants he’d dropped somewhere in his bedroom. In a corner of the room, he saw the light blinking through the fabric of his pants. Snatching them off the floor, he rummaged in the pocket, grabbing the phone, and jerking it free. He looked at the display and recognized the number: Donald Matson’s. He pressed the TALK button.

“This better be good, Matson. You’re interrupting something very important.”

“I’ve got problems, Gerald. Bad problems.”

Oh, Jeez, what a pussy, Folsom thought. “Your wife find you in bed with the babysitter?”

“This isn’t funny,” Matson cried. “The FDIC performed an audit of the safety deposit box owners at Broad Street National Bank. It was just a standard audit, looking for anything suspicious. You know, names of politicians or of organized crime members. But they found the box in my name. Someone from the agency’s Inspector General’s office just served me with an order to disclose the contents of the box when the bank opens tomorrow. They want to inventory the contents.”

“So? You’re a citizen. You’re allowed to have a safety deposit box.”

“They thought it was strange I had a box in downtown Philadelphia, when my office and home are on the northwest side of town.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“The $1 million in cash you gave me is in there.”

“You fuckin’ idiot. You left the money in the box? In my bank?!”

“Where else was I going to put it? It’s not like I can invest it in a mutual fund.”

A sudden thought hit Folsom. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got the safety deposit boxes at the other banks I’ve taken over, with the cash still sitting in them.”

“Well, I’ve taken out some of the money. Gifts for the family, private school tuition. Stuff like that. But I can’t buy boats or sports cars without raising questions.”

“Matson, do you realize once the Feds find the cash in your box in Broad Street National Bank, they’ll probably put two and two together and check boxes at all the banks you put me into? How are you going to explain millions of dollars sitting in a half-dozen banks?” What Folsom didn’t add was that there was no doubt in his mind once the Feds started interrogating Matson, he’d spill everything he knew, including how Gerald Folsom had paid him off. They were both going to jail.

Matson began crying. “Oh God, Jerry. What am I going to do?”

Folsom considered the options and then snapped, “Pull yourself together. What else do you have in that box?”

“Nothing. Just the money.”

“Okay, here’s what you do. Pull together your car titles, mortgage documents and deeds, any insurance policies you’ve got at home. Take them down to the bank and I’ll meet you there in an hour. And don’t forget your safety deposit box key.”

Folsom terminated the call and started to dress. “What a dickhead!” he growled. As he was putting on his socks and shoes, he called Sanford Cunningham.

“Hello?”

“Sanford, I need your help. That stupid twerp, Donald Matson, just got an order from his agency to disclose the contents of his safety deposit box at Broad Street Bank when the bank opens tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

“Something in the box that shouldn’t be there?”

“You could say that. But that’s something you don’t need to know. Can we get into the safety deposit box vault tonight?”

“Sure. I’ve got the combination to the room lock and the keys to the vault.”

“It’s not on a timer?”

“No, not like the main vault. If it were, we wouldn’t be able to get in until 7:30 in the morning.”

“Thank God for small favors. I’ll pick you up. Matson is going to meet us at the bank at 11.”

Folsom checked on Wendy, who was lying in a fetal position. He bent over and grabbed a handful of her hair. “Passed out again, huh? I’m sorry I had to break up our little love-making session. I know how much you enjoy them. But I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He walked out of the room laughing.

Wendy had closed her eyes as soon as Gerald returned to her bedroom, realizing from the phone conversation she’d overheard he had to go out. She forced herself not to flinch or moan when he grabbed her hair, and barely took a breath until he left the room. After she heard his car leave the garage and pass under her window, she gathered her strength and sat up, letting her feet rest on the carpeted floor. She took a deep breath, held it, and pushed off the bed, grunting as she stood, her head fuzzy from the sudden movement. Grasping the edge of the bedside table, she steadied herself until the dizziness passed.

Her robe was hanging to one side. She pulled it closed around her and in so doing felt something stiff in the left pocket: A business card. It took her a few seconds to remember where it came from. That man who had been in her bedroom. When was it? Yesterday? Last week? Why had he been here? She couldn’t get her head straight around the memory. The card said the man was an attorney. She palmed it and shuffled to her walk-in closet.

After shucking off the robe and dropping it to the floor, she reached in a drawer for a bra, but decided there was no way she would be able to contort her body enough to put it on. She struggled into a pair of underpants and then put on a sweat shirt and a wrap-around skirt. The thought of putting on heels or lace-up shoes was intimidating. Instead, she selected a pair of sandals, dropped them to the carpeted floor, and slid her feet into them.

She knew Gerald kept a large amount of money in a safe in his bedroom, but she didn’t know the combination. But there was also cash in his sock drawer. She stumbled out of the closet, through the bathroom, to his bedroom’s top dresser drawer. She came up with a money clip filled with $100 bills and stuck it in her skirt pocket, along with the lawyer’s business card. Leaving the upstairs, her heart stopped when she made it to the entry: Gerald’s Mercedes was coming back up the driveway.

“Oh God! Oh God!” Wendy cried. She panicked, indecisive. Was he going to put his car in the garage? That’s where her car was. She knew she needed to move, but she couldn’t decide where to go. Then it hit her that Gerald had just left the house a few minutes ago. He’d probably forgotten something. Maybe his wallet. If she was correct, he wouldn’t go into the garage; he’d come through the front door. She walked like a nonagenarian, every muscle aching, to the kitchen, and then to the garage. She stepped down into the garage and climbed behind the wheel of her Infiniti SUV. The pain from pulling herself into the high-profile vehicle slammed her brain like a jack hammer.

She sat and waited, hoping Gerald would turn around and drive away again. She thought about being free and safe. About being away from her monster of a husband. Then a wave of staggering fear washed over her. What if he goes into my bedroom and I’m not there? He’ll look for me. She imagined the repercussions. Frozen in place, she realized her life was over if he went upstairs. She suddenly no longer cared about living, not if it meant living with Gerald. She waited for Gerald to come looking for her. The minutes ticked by on the dashboard clock—one, two . . . seven, eight. She heard a noise. Thinking it was the door from the kitchen to the garage, she steeled herself. For the violence. But he didn’t enter the garage. Then she heard the roar of the Mercedes and the scattering of driveway pebbles as Gerald drove away.