Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (16 page)

Katherine pointed back toward the house where Wendy Folsom and Sylvia Young were talking. “There’s a doubt in your mind about Folsom being a sociopath? Or a psychopath?”

Paul rubbed a couple fingers across his lower lip and shook his head. Before he could respond, Katherine said, “Paul, I know you’ll do everything you can to help Edward. I can’t stand the thought of Gerald Folsom robbing my children now like he did twenty-two years ago. But don’t ever forget that sonofabitch is a sociopath at the very least.”

“What happened at the meeting with Winter?” Folsom asked Sanford Cunningham.

“Just what you expected.”

“They going to be able to pay off the loan?”

“I doubt it,” Cunningham said. “They want us to agree to release some of our collateral in return for reducing our loan down to $9 million. They have a commitment from another bank to finance $11 million of our loan. Oh, and they want us to remove the hold we put on their deposits.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Exactly what you told me to say. No.”

“Perfect.”

“Jerry, I’ve been a loyal supporter of yours for twelve years, so keep that in mind when I say this: There’s something different about this guy. Winter’s a combat vet. If he goes to the press with this, that’s going to help his cause. Maybe we’d be okay if he couldn’t pay down any of the loan, but the fact that he’s prepared to reduce it by more than half won’t make us look good.

“Before you take the chance of having those bastards in the media start looking into your holdings, think about whether how you got your wealth will stand the light of day.”

“Everything I’ve built I did on the up and up,” Folsom said.

“You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, Jerry.”

“You with me or against me, Sandy?”

“Come on, Jerry. You know better than that.”

“Then just do what I tell you to do. I know the Winter family. They don’t have a clue how to fight, especially against a guy like me. They see the best in people, think people will always be fair. They’re a fuckin’ bunch of patsies.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

Folsom was excited about his plan for Winter Enterprises and the thought of taking down two generations of a Chestnut Hill family. He didn’t have anything personal against Edward Winter, just like he had had nothing personal against the father, Frank. But people with wealth who went through life acting as though everything was hearts and flowers? He couldn’t stand them. Frank Winter had been so naïve, and bringing him down with the help of the politicians in Washington, even if those assholes didn’t know what they unleashed on the economy with the 1986 Tax Reform Act, had given Folsom an almost sensual pleasure. Especially after Frank Winter’s bitch-of-a-wife had treated him like dirt in that parking lot so many years ago.

But thinking about the pleasure from Frank Winter’s fall so many years ago caused him to segue to the pleasure he’d gotten from Wendy. He’d miss that girl. He chuckled. At least with this wife there’d be no divorce settlement. Not if Toothpick Jefferson came through.

Donald Matson was sweating as though he was in a steam room. Between the ninety degree temperature and one hundred percent humidity, and the tension of rushing from one bank safety deposit box to another, he was exhausted. The inquiry from the FDIC about his safety deposit box at Broad Street National Bank had scared him to death. Gerald Folsom was correct in telling him to clear out all of his boxes.

He looked at his watch as he drove through Mt. Airy toward Chestnut Hill: 2:45. The safety deposit vault at First Savings Bank always closed at 3.

He’d had a safety deposit box in the Chestnut Hill bank there for twenty-two years, from the first bank deal he and Folsom had done together. He considered it his base. Every time Folsom paid him for putting together a loan pool purchase or a bank takeover, Matson would visit all of his safety deposit boxes. He was smart enough to know spending too much would raise questions at work. He’d pull a few thousand out of one or another of the boxes every few months. But he couldn’t stop the adrenaline surge he got from opening his boxes and seeing, touching, and counting his money.

Matson drove into the First Savings Bank’s parking lot and took out one of the two valises in the car trunk. He ran up the bank’s front steps and, into the building, and speed-walked down the marble steps to the safety deposit vault. The receptionist had worked for the bank for at least as long as Matson had had a box.

“Hello, Mr. Matson,” she said. She glanced at the wall clock and added, “You just made it. We’ll be closing the vault in a couple minutes.”

“Story of my life,” he said. “It seems I’m always rushing around. Anyway, I need to get into my box, Alice. And I’m going to close out my account. I’ve decided to move all my records to a bank closer to my house.”

Alice rose from her chair behind her desk and gave him a sad look. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Matson. You’ve been a customer forever. I hope we haven’t done anything to disappoint you.”

“On the contrary, Alice. I’ll miss doing business with you.”

She asked him to sign into a log and then preceded him into the vault, where she inserted and turned a key in a locking door; Matson inserted his key into the second lock and turned it. Alice opened the locking door and slid out the box from inside the space, handed it to Matson, and pointed toward a private cubicle. “Of course, you know where our privacy booths are.”

“Thank you, Alice. I’ll only be a minute.”

She walked out of the vault, leaving Matson alone. He moved to one of the cubicles, closed the door behind him, and placed the valise and the deposit box on the shelf in the cubicle. After raising the box lid, he removed two slightly yellowed and wrinkled 3” x 5” cards that sat on top of the cash.

Trained as an accountant, Matson was precise about record keeping. He drove his wife crazy with his list-making and with his criticism of her checkbook. This tendency applied to his cash “bonuses” from Gerald Folsom as well, noting every payment from Folsom on one card, regardless of where the cash was kept. Each notation included a date, a dollar amount, and a running total currently standing at $2.6 million. The second card showed the date and dollar amount of every withdrawal Matson had taken from any of his boxes. The notations on this card were so tiny Matson now needed glasses to read or make entries. This card showed he had withdrawn $435,000 from his boxes over the last twenty-two years.

Matson dropped the cards into the valise so they slid down between the piles of cash and the side of the valise before stacking the cash from the box on top of the cash already in the bag.

Folsom called Donald Matson’s office from his car only to hear Matson’s assistant tell him her boss had taken the afternoon off. He asked her to transfer him to Matson’s cell phone.

“You playing golf?” Folsom asked when Matson answered his phone.

“When have you known me to play golf during the week? I’ve been closing out all my safety deposit boxes.”

“All of them?”

“Emptied them all. Closed the last one this afternoon.”

“Good boy, Donald. One less thing for us to worry about. Hope you don’t have the cash in your car. ” Folsom laughed.

Matson’s silence told Folsom the cash was in fact in his car. “Really?”

“I don’t know where else to put it.” He sounded at the end of his rope.

“It’s four o’clock. Can you come by my place?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’m going to do you a favor. Bring the cash to my house. I’ll put it in my vault. Then I’ll start converting the cash to gold coins and jewels. They’ll be less bulky, easier to hide but it’ll probably take me a month to invest all of it for you. You should get a safe at your home to hold the gold and jewels.”

Matson exhaled a huge sigh. “That’d be great. I’ll be there in an hour. You’re a life saver.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time, Donald. Where are you?”

“Willow Grove.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Just driving around, trying to figure out what to do with the money.”

“Well, we’ve got that solved. See you in a little while.”

After hanging up, Folsom drove to a full service gas station. While the attendant filled his gas tank, Folsom asked if he could use the station’s telephone. “Forgot to charge my damn cell phone,” he lied.

“Sure, go ahead,” the attendant said. “It’s a local call, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He called Toothpick Jefferson. “The target is on his way to my place,” he told him. “He should arrive in about forty-five minutes and shouldn’t be here more than fifteen minutes, so he’ll be on the road to his home about an hour from now.”

“Perfect. I’ve already got my best man on the job.”

“Well, tell your best man that part of what I owe you will be in a paper bag in the guy’s car.”

“I love a client who pays on time.”

“I’ll get information to you about the other person in the next day or two.”

Matson arrived at Folsom’s home at 4:40. He was about to push the buzzer on the intercom box by the front gate when he had a thought. He walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He opened his briefcase, taking out two new 3” x 5” cards and writing on each one:
7/21/10. Placed the following amount of cash in this valise for safe keeping with Gerald Folsom.
He then entered a dollar amount on each card: $1 million on one and $1,065,000 on the other. He thought about having Folsom sign a receipt for the money, but figured that would piss off Folsom. The cards would at least substantiate how much he had left with Folsom, in case there was a disagreement in the future. He popped the trunk lid, got out of the car, opened the valises, and dropped the cards into the appropriate ones. After closing the valises and the car trunk, he pressed the intercom buzzer and got into his car. The gate opened and he drove through to the house.

Folsom helped Matson unload the two valises and carry them upstairs to the third level to Folsom’s home office and walk-in vault. The vault held a rack of rifles and shotguns, drawers with trays holding his collections of gold and silver coins, gem stones, and several unlabeled boxes. When Matson entered the vault, he whistled.

“Keep this to yourself,” Folsom said. “I don’t need word on the street about all of this. How much cash in the valises?”

“Two million, sixty-five thousand dollars.”

Folsom opened one of the valises and counted out five packs of one hundred dollar bills. Each pack was wrapped in a band that read $2,000. He put the currency in a paper bag and handed the bag to Matson. “You might need some spending money.”

Matson shook Folsom’s hand. “Thanks, Jerry.”

“You’d better get on your way home,” Folsom said. “And don’t get stopped for speeding. You don’t want a cop wondering what’s in the bag.”

Toothpick Jefferson’s man, Michael Toney, sat in his black 2009 Audi A-8 and watched for a silver 2011 Lincoln MKZ sedan. He’d surveilled the streets around Matson’s home and knew exactly where he would make the hit: The three-block stretch of heavily-wooded park bracketing the street leading to Matson’s driveway. The driveway was little better than a one-lane, dirt track extending two hundred serpentined yards through dense woods and dead-ending at the Matson property.

He straightened his tie and smoothed down his dress shirt, flicking away a stray piece of lint on a pant leg. Toney always dressed for work as though he was an executive, with tailored Hickey Freeman suits, custom-made white dress shirts, silk, hand-made ties, ColeHaan shoes. A cop was less likely to stop a black man dressed like a banker than one dressed like a rap star. Especially one driving a $100,000 Audi.

Toney had parked off to the side of the top of the driveway, hidden from sight of any of the neighborhood houses, and opened the hood. On the lookout for joggers or dog-walkers, he waited for Matson to arrive. He checked his watch: 6 p.m. Dinner time. Less chance there would be anyone around. When he spotted Matson’s Lincoln turn onto the street and head toward the driveway, Toney bent over his left front fender and pretended to look under the hood.

As Toney had anticipated, Matson stopped. He lowered the passenger side window of the Lincoln and called out, “Everything all right?”

Toney turned to face Matson. “Damned imported cars. You need a PhD to figure out what’s wrong.”

“You call for help?”

“I was just about to.” Toney said as he half-squatted and rested his forearms on the Lincoln’s passenger side door. He reached down with his right hand and pulled a .22 Magnum revolver from an ankle rig. He poked the weapon through the open window and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Matson’s right eye, throwing his head back against the driver side window. Toney liked the little .22. The light weight round was ideal for taking out a target from close range. The bullet would fragment and rattle around inside the target’s head, tearing up the brain, leaving little chance of survival, and very little mess. He reached through the window, across the front seat and put a second round in Matson’s temple for good measure.

The job done, Toney looked at the passenger seat at the paper bag resting on a suit jacket. The man’s wallet stuck out an inch from the inside jacket pocket. A bonus, Toney thought. He grabbed the wallet and the paper bag, closed the hood on his car, got behind the wheel, and drove away. By the time he’d reached the end of the street, he’d opened the paper bag and found stacks of cash. He searched in the wallet and extracted five one hundred dollar bills. Pulling over to the curb, he wiped off the wallet with his handkerchief, quickly exited the car, tossed the wallet away in a trash can, and just as quickly returned to his car. Cranking up the stereo, he listened to a rhythm and blues station play Wes Montgomery’s California Dreamin’.