Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (19 page)

Rose turned, took Folsom’s arm, and led him away to his car. A couple reporters ran after them, but Rose wheeled on them and pointed his hand as though it was a gun. “Get lost,” he shouted.

Rose and Folsom fast-walked to the Maybach.

“Nice wheels,” Folsom said, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I got a feeling you’ll be able to buy a new one by the time I finish paying you.”

“Maybe more than one,” Rose said. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed out of downtown, toward Folsom’s home. After they were on the expressway, Rose asked, “Tell me the truth. Do you beat your wife?”

“What difference does that make? You not gonna represent me if I say yes?”

“Of course I will. But if you’re guilty of the charges they’ve filed against you, then we don’t want to go to trial. And we need to get this story out of the media as soon as possible. If you’re guilty and your wife is determined to make you pay, the longer the battle and the bigger the press’ feeding frenzy. And your wife’s attorney, Sylvia Young, is sharp. If your wife had any visible injuries when she talked to Sylvia, then I guarantee you Sylvia now has photos. That would be very bad.”

“I might have pushed her around a bit.”

“Uh huh. So you kicked the shit out of her. Regularly or just recently?”

Folsom stayed quiet for a moment and then said, “I have no interest in going to court. I’m a businessman who does large deals with the federal government. These charges could jeopardize all of that and a conviction would be devastating. The government would never do another deal with me.”

“Gerald, the federal government would be the least of your worries if you’re convicted. You could be spending the next few years in a cell with a 300 pound guy named Tyrone.”

“I’ll agree to a divorce. I’ve already got a pre-nup with Wendy that requires me to pay her $5 million if we divorce.”

“Your wife knows this, I presume.”

“Sure.”

“Then why is she bringing these charges against you? Why doesn’t she just file for divorce and take the $5 million?”

“Maybe she wants more money.”

“Gerald, I want the truth. Did you just hit your wife a few times, or was it worse than that?”

Folsom looked out the passenger side window for a beat. When he turned back to look at Rose, he said, “I nearly killed her.”

“I got a bad feeling about this. I don’t think this is about money —your wife could be on a crusade. If that’s the case, then my job isn’t getting you off; it’s minimizing the pain. Is there any chance she would talk with you?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t even know where she is.”

“What did the search of Folsom’s house turn up?” District Attorney Lincoln Marx asked Detective Anthony Castiglia.

“Our detectives found blood on a sheet and a pillow case on Wendy Folsom’s bed. There was also a blood-stained bathrobe in her closet. And we took pictures of Folsom’s hands. His knuckles were bruised and cracked open. Of course, there are the photographs of Mrs. Folsom taken within about twenty-four hours of the assault. She looks like her whole body’s been tattooed.”

“Any other evidence?”

“There’s a vault in the house. Folsom gave us some trouble about opening it, but he agreed to do so when one of the detectives told him he’d get a locksmith to drill it open. They made him watch as they inventoried the items there. They found a shitload of gold and silver coins, jewels, and two valises with a ton of cash. There was nothing there tying the cash to the assault case, but we inventoried the stuff as best we could and then locked the vault.”

“How much cash?” Marx asked.

“Hell, Lincoln, I don’t know. Could have been hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe even a million or more. We just showed two valises of cash on our inventory list. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering why he keeps that much cash around.”

“It’s not against the law,” Castiglia said. “That’s why we didn’t count it. That would have taken hours.”

The Mother Superior of the St. Francis Convent had given permission for Wendy Folsom to stay with the nuns. At 11 a.m., she and Wendy drove up Germantown Pike, past the Morris Arboretum and high-end homes to the St. Francis College campus.

“This ought to be interesting,” Wendy said. “Living with a bunch of virgins.”

Katherine laughed. “You’ll have to be on your best behavior.”

“In all seriousness, a quiet, safe place is awfully attractive right now. Not that I didn’t feel safe at your home, Katherine, I just think I’ve imposed enough on you.”

“Don’t you ever worry about imposing on me. I’ve enjoyed your company; I’m just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

“I hope your son is able to solve his problems. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I heard enough to know things must be rough.”

“I didn’t tell you this before, but the bank that’s causing our problems is the one your husband now owns. They refuse to renew the company’s loan when it matures on July 29. The banking environment is so bad in this recession that refinancing a commercial real estate loan at another bank is nearly impossible. You remember that day Paul and I showed up at your house?”

“I don’t recall much from that day. Is that how I got Paul’s card?”

“Paul and I were there to talk with your husband. I had this misguided thought I could reason with him about our loan at the bank. Paul didn’t want me to go there, but he went along to protect me.”

“So Broad Street National Bank is treating your son’s company badly?”

“Very badly.”

Wendy shook her head. “Gerald is such an asshole.” Then a thought came to her and her expression changed as she made an “O” with her mouth.

“What is it?” Katherine asked.

Wendy felt her face flush. “Nothing.”

“Come on, Wendy, I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“It’s just that . . . you’re helping me . . . and your son’s company, and all.”

Katherine nodded her head, as though in sudden understanding. “I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t want to hurt your husband. But if I wanted to use you to help my son with his bank problem, I would have asked Paul to use you as a bargaining chip with Folsom. We would have threatened Folsom with assault charges in return for relieving the pressure the bank has put on my son, not recommended that you actually bring charges against him. And I assure you that, as much as Paul Sanders cares about my family, he will always do what’s right. In this case, what’s right is protecting you and making your abusive husband pay for what he’s done to you.”

Wendy bowed her head. “I apologize for even thinking what I was thinking. You’ve been—”

Katherine rubbed Wendy’s arm and said, “It’s okay, honey.”

After Katherine left the convent, Wendy contemplated what Katherine had said. That lovely woman and her son were going through a very difficult time because of Gerald. She‘d caught snippets of conversations between Katherine and Edward and between Paul and Edward at Katherine’s house, all sounding as though the family was at risk of losing its business. She didn’t understand any of it, but she did understand that Gerald was in a position to harm the Winters.

She owed Katherine so much. At the same time, she felt awful about what she was about to do. She would be breaking her promise to Detective Castiglia.

There was no telephone in her room, so she wandered down the hall until she found an office. A young woman dressed in a St. Francis College tee-shirt and jeans sat at one of the two desks.

“Hi,” Wendy said. “Would it be okay to use the telephone to make a local call?”

“Sure,” the young woman said. “Will you watch the office until I get back? I need to go to the ladies room.”

“Happy to,” Wendy said.

As soon as the young woman left, Wendy quickly dialed Gerald’s cell number.

“What!” he barked.

“Gerald, it’s me.”

“Jesus, Wendy, where are you?”

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

Folsom didn’t immediately respond. Then he said, “What were you thinking, going to the cops? Are you nuts?”

“You coulda killed me, Gerald. I should have walked out on you months ago.”

“How much do you want? Ten million?”

“Screw you, Gerald. This isn’t about money. You think money’s the only thing that motivates people.”

“You married me for my money, Wendy. Don’t insult me by telling me it was true love.”

“Gerald, I thought you were a knight in shining armor. You were worldly, gracious and handsome; little did I know you were also a monster.”

“What do you want, Wendy?”

“A favor.”

“You go to the cops and get me thrown in jail, and now you want a favor. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Not a penny. You can help some friends of mine. You do that and I’ll drop the complaint.”

“What friends?”

“The family’s name is Winter. Edward Winter has a loan at your bank. If you take care of Edward’s problem at the bank, I’ll withdraw my complaint and issue a statement that it was all a misunderstanding.”

“How the hell do you know the Winters?”

“Not important.”

Folsom was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, “You’ve got a deal.”

“When I find out from Edward Winter you solved his problem at the bank, I’ll complete my end of the deal. Goodbye, Gerald. Do something good for a change.”

Folsom had already read and jotted down the telephone number showing on his cell phone’s display by the time he hung up with Wendy, writing the number on the top edge of today’s newspaper, right above the headline that screamed,
BANK EXECUTIVE ARRESTED FOR SPOUSE ABUSE
. He ripped the number from the front page and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He flung the rest of the newspaper across the room, snatched his jacket from a chair, and rushed to the garage. After jumping into his Mercedes, he pressed the garage door opener, and scraped the car roof against the bottom of the partially retracted garage door in his hurry to leave. He finally cleared the garage and looked back at the door. It had been knocked off its track. He cursed and roared away.

At the first convenience store he saw, he parked in front of a pay phone, got out of the car, and dialed the number Wendy had called him from. A woman answered, “St. Francis College.” Folsom hung up without saying anything. Clever girl, he thought, hiding out at the Catholic women’s college. He then dialed Toothpick Jefferson’s number.

“Who’s calling?” Toothpick asked.

“You did nice work on the first job.”

“You got the information I need to finish the assignment?”

He told Toothpick where Wendy had called him from.

“Shit! That’s going to complicate things.”

“I think the fee I agreed to pay you should cover a few complications.”

“Plus the bonus.”

“Yeah, yeah. Plus the bonus.”

“Anything else?”

“It needs to look like an accident. A violent death will only bring heat on me.”

Kelly Loughridge was feeling vibes that only came when she felt a good story was in the making. She’d had a busy morning and was now working through the lunch hour. She’d asked the reporter working the Broad Street National Bank takeover if he had a contact at the FDIC.

“Not anymore,” the guy told her. “It was Donald Matson until he got murdered the other night.”

She called the area FDIC office, but the place was apparently in turmoil as a result of Matson’s death. All she got were recorded messages.

Finally, she called Washington, D.C. and left a message. She had a suspicion she’d never get a call back.

The last item on her TO DO list was a reminder to call Edward Winter.

She got past the receptionist at Winter Enterprises and was put though to Edward.

“Ms. Loughridge, I’m pleased to hear from you.”

“Hello, Mr. Winter. I wanted to update you.”

“Yes?”

“I checked past news items that mentioned Donald Matson’s name and came up with a few interesting things. You remember Matson was the man who was the FDIC supervisor here in Philadelphia and was murdered a couple nights ago? Some of the articles led me to suspect Matson and Gerald Folsom knew each other. Perhaps more than professionally.”

“That doesn’t seem particularly strange considering Folsom has done more than one deal with the FDIC.”

“Maybe not. But the articles did mention three bank deals that had gone to Folsom’s company. In each one, Matson played a role. There were also mentions of loan pool sales to investors, but not who the investors were. I ran Gerald Folsom’s name through our database, but didn’t come up with anything substantive on the subject. I’ve been trying to talk to someone at the FDIC with no luck so far.”

“You suspect there might have been hanky-panky going on between Folsom and Matson?”

“I don’t suspect anything. I’m an unbiased, objective member of the media. But I sure do have a funny feeling.”

“Not quite the story I wanted you to write about,” Edward said.