Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (22 page)

Placing her hand back on the door lever, she slowly applied just enough pressure to crack open the door. The movement of the door was almost soundless—just a slight brushing of the door bottom against carpet. The sleep-bound woman in this room was lying with her back to the door. A nightlight in the connecting bathroom shined just enough light on the bedroom to allow Philippa to see the woman’s long blonde hair. That was part of the description of the target Toothpick had provided her. The third woman she’d seen at the college had also been a blonde, but that woman’s hair had been very short.

Philippa opened the door enough to allow her to glide into the room. She moved the door to an inch of closing and rapidly moved to the bed. She was one step from the side of the bed when she stopped, the hair standing up on the back of her neck. It wasn’t a sound or a smell or something she saw. Something else in the room had changed, almost like an electrical charge in the air. She had almost convinced herself that she was imagining things as she looked back over her shoulder. Then her stomach clenched and her breath caught in her chest.

Philippa spun around, raising her left arm in a defensive move and thrusting out with her knife hand, confident her strike would finish the woman standing in front of her. But the woman ducked her thrust. Philippa pulled her arm back, altered her stance, and shifted the knife to her left hand. She struck out again, but hit nothing but air. About to wade in closer to the woman, Philippa was suddenly disoriented and in excruciating pain, collapsing to the floor. She gasped as though she would never take another breath.

Wendy jerked upright in bed, screaming. She had been dreaming that Gerald was beating her, but this was no dream. Someone she couldn’t see was making pained, animal-like noises and another person stood near the footboard, framed in the doorway. She retreated against the headboard, then scrambled off the far side of the bed, moving toward the bathroom. She ignored the pain that quick movement caused.

“Wendy, calm down,” someone said.

Wendy fled into the bathroom before she realized the voice was Carrie’s. She came back into the room and walked over to Carrie, trembling as she looked at someone writhing on the floor. Before she could say anything, the hallway light came on and Katherine, holding a fireplace poker, rushed into the room. She flipped the bedroom light switch, bathing the room in bright light and momentarily blinding the occupants.

“What happened?” Katherine demanded. She pointed the poker at the figure on the floor. “Who’s that?”

Carrie bent down, picked up the knife the intruder had dropped, and knelt down next to her. The intruder appeared to be breathing easier now. Carrie summarily searched the woman, finding a revolver in her jacket. She handed the pistol to Katherine. Knife in hand, she shook the woman with her free hand.

The intruder’s eyes darted around; her face was beet red.

“You get one chance to tell me the truth,” Carrie said to the woman. “If you do the right thing, I’ll let you go.”

The woman looked around at the women in the room. “You’ll really let me go?” she asked hoarsely.

“You’ve got my word,” Carrie said. “But if I ever see you again I’ll kill you.”

Wendy saw the woman’s eyes widen for just a split second.

“You tell me who sent you and you get a break. You take the stupid route and I’ll call the police.”

The woman looked at Carrie. Her breathing had eased a lot and she no longer looked as panicked.

“Three seconds,” Carrie said.

“Okay, okay,” the woman croaked. “Guy named Jefferson. Toothpick Jefferson.”

“Got a number for this Jefferson?” Carrie asked.

The woman recited ten digits.

“Now describe him to me.”

SATURDAY

JULY 23, 2011

Gail Moskowitz knew she had something that smelled really bad. Nearly every time Donald Matson had been in charge of an agency transaction, Gerald Folsom and Folsom Financial Corporation’s names had popped up. But she had found absolutely nothing indicating anything illegal had occurred, even if there was no question Matson had violated FDIC policies and guidelines for asset disposal. He had sold assets the agency accumulated from bank closures on a sole-source basis to Folsom, instead of sales based on competitive bids. And Folsom had purchased assets from the FDIC at the low end of the range of such sales to other investors.

Folsom had purchased sixteen secured loan pools averaging $87 million in loan face value per pool over the past twenty years. The price he’d paid was an average of twenty-three and a half percent of the face value of the loans. That meant Folsom had paid only slightly more than $327 million for about $1.4 billion in loans. The last time Gail had checked, the average investor in loan pools recovered fifty-eight percent of the face value of loans, plus accrued interest. Before interest, she figured Folsom recovered at least $807 million on an investment of $327 million. Not a bad return.

But Donald Matson had a reputation in the agency as a guy who got things done. Did she want to destroy Matson’s reputation now that the man was dead? Especially since she had no proof anything had gone on between Matson and Folsom, other than a relationship that had benefitted the agency.

At the same time, she was conflicted over what Edward Winter told her about the problems in the banking industry and the impact those problems were having on the business community. She also remembered Paul Sanders’ comment about trying to save a good man’s business.

Gail agonized over what to do. At 8 Saturday morning, she pulled up Google and typed in Folsom’s name, trying to find a photograph of the man. She wondered what he looked like. Maybe, if he looked evil, she’d know better what to do. But there was no photo available. She was about to shut down her computer when she saw a link:
Bank Executive Released on Bail
. She clicked on the URL and, skimming the article, learned Gerald Folsom had been charged with assault and battery against his wife. Picture or no picture, Gail made a decision. She called Paul Sanders’ cell phone number.

“Paul Sanders.”

“Paul, it’s Gail Moskowitz. We need to talk.”

“I’m over at Katherine Winter’s house, Gail, Edward Winter’s mother. Can I call you back?”

Hearing something different in Paul’s voice, Gail asked, “Is something wrong?”

“A hired killer broke into Mrs. Winter’s home to kill Wendy Folsom.”

“Kill . . . Folsom? Wendy Folsom? Gerald Folsom’s wife? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“I’m confused. What was Gerald Folsom’s wife doing with Edward Winter’s mother?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

After hanging up, Gail pondered this new development. Who would benefit from Wendy Folsom’s murder? If the answer to that question was Gerald Folsom, then there was even more reason to be concerned about the FDIC’s reputation. Was Donald Matson funneling sweetheart deals to Folsom? If so, that could be embarrassing to the agency. If Folsom had solicited the murder of his wife, that news would be devastating. Then another thought hit her: What if Folsom had something to do with Donald Matson’s death?

When Paul returned to the living room where the Winters and Wendy Folsom were gathered, he found an argument going on.

“I think we made a mistake,” Katherine said to Carrie. “This attempt on Wendy’s life is police business.”

“Mom,” Carrie said, “that woman was hired by a broker. She only knows who hired
her
. Let’s say we told the police she was here to kill Wendy and gave them the number she provided for Toothpick Jefferson, what will the police do?”

“They’ll go talk to Jefferson; make him tell them who hired him.”

“First, Jefferson will deny knowing the woman. Second, even if the police can prove Jefferson and the woman know one another, Jefferson will just deny any involvement. And would the person who paid Jefferson to kill Wendy be stupid enough to write him a personal check? Would the person behind this have called Jefferson from a home or business phone, so the police can find a trail of their conversations? And how long would it take the police to dig up anything meaningful, if they could even find anything?”

“What’s the alternative?” Edward asked. “If there’s someone out there who wants Wendy killed, whoever it is, is probably not going to stop. If the police knew she was a target for murder, at least they could protect her.”

“For how long?” Carrie asked. “A couple weeks, maybe. Then they’ll pull the guards.”

“So, I’ll return to my question: What’s the alternative?”

Carrie shrugged.

“By the way,” Paul interjected into the silence, “that call I got a few minutes ago was from my friend at the FDIC. I had asked her to check to see if there might be a special relationship between Folsom and the FDIC’s area supervisor. I told her I’d call her back in an hour. Why don’t I do that now?”

“God, I hope she has some helpful news,” Katherine said.

“That would be a welcome change,” Edward said.

Paul called Gail Moskowitz and told her in more detail what had happened at Katherine’s house the night before.

“Do you have any idea who hired the killer?”

“No facts; just suspicions.”

“Do you suspect Gerald Folsom?” Gail asked.

“Top of the list,” Paul answered. “But we have no way of proving it.”

“Why would Folsom want his wife killed?”

“She accused him of assault and battery and attempted murder. The D.A. has filed charges and Folsom actually spent a night in jail before his attorney convinced a judge to grant bail.”

“I just saw that on the internet. But do you think he’s capable of soliciting murder?” she asked.

“He was capable of beating his wife to a pulp.”

There was silence on Gail’s end of the line. Paul filled the void.

“Anyway. You called me earlier.”

“Paul, your suspicions were correct. Matson and Folsom had more than just an arms-length relationship. Folsom has made hundreds of millions of dollars from FDIC deals. And the structure of those deals was generous to say the least. I have no way of knowing why Matson was so good to Folsom, but these deals raise all sorts of red flags.”

“Will you talk to a reporter at the
Journal
?” Paul asked. “Tell her what you told me?”

“There is no way I’m talking to the press.”

“Come on, Gail. She can’t use any of this if it comes from me.”

“Paul, I’m not committing career suicide. But I will do one thing for you: I’ll provide you with a summary of the transactions Folsom executed with the agency and will give you enough information so you can compare Folsom’s deals against other similar transactions. But you can’t use my name.”

“Okay, Gail. I understand. Thank you. How are you going to get the information to me?”

“I’ll send you a fax from the local Kinko’s. It will be at your office by noon today.”

After Paul ended the call with Gail Moskowitz, he brought everyone up to date.

“What can we do with this information?” Edward asked, confused. “How is it going to help us?”

“I think it will convince Kelly Loughridge at the
Journal
to do a story on this. It won’t be the explosive story it would have been if Folsom and Matson could be shown to be corrupt. But it surely will raise questions. And, I suspect Folsom has seen his last FDIC deal.”

“Paul, something just crossed my mind,” Edward said. He looked at Wendy and asked, “You told your husband you would drop the criminal charges against him if he agreed to renew my loan?”

“Right.”

Edward looked back at Paul. “So, it would be interesting to learn if Folsom called the bank and gave any instructions about our loan.”

Paul said, “And, if he didn’t, that could mean he didn’t think he would need to, because Wendy was supposed to be dead. No Wendy, no threat, no deal.”

“Exactly.”

Edward pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and dialed Stanley Burns’ cell.

“Burns.”

“Stan, it’s Edward Winter.”

No response from Burns.

“Stan, I need to ask you a question. That’s all. I’m not calling to ask for your help with our loan. Just one question.”

“I hope I can answer it,” Burns said.

Edward thought Burns sounded as depressed as anyone he’d ever known. He almost felt sorry for him.

“Did Gerald Folsom or one of his cronies recently order you to renew my loan?”

He scoffed. “Why would Folsom do that?”

“So, your answer to my question is no.”

“That’s right. Folsom is almost giddy about putting you out of business. I don’t understand it, Edward. I’m really sorry about everything. I—”

“Thanks for answering my question, Stan.”

Edward closed his phone and said to the others, “No order came from Folsom about our loan.”

“That bastard!” Wendy blurted. “That evil bastard!”