Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (25 page)

He raced back to the house and climbed the stairs to his third floor office, trying to imagine all of the alternative events that could have occurred. Was Wendy hiding where Jefferson couldn’t find her? Had she been killed? Had she been wounded and somehow escaped? Folsom knew none of the realistic alternatives were good for him. The only event that would free him of the assault and battery charges was Wendy’s death, and if that had occurred, someone would have called him by now.

Folsom roared like a wounded grizzly bear, echoing his anger and fear through the cavernous rooms and halls of his mansion. “Where are you, bitch?” he screamed.

By 9 a.m., he went down to the living room on the first floor and was calm enough to think critically about every person his wife knew well enough to go to for help. Her parents were old and decrepit, and living in New Hampshire. He didn’t think she’d take her problems to them. She used to have a couple tennis friends. But, as far as he knew, she hadn’t seen them in a couple years. She’d been at the college in Chestnut Hill, but he’d called and they’d told him she’d left. That woman lawyer who represented her; Wendy might be staying with her. He was trying to expand the list of Wendy’s contacts when his telephone rang.

“Hello,” he snapped.

“Gerald, it’s Sanford. I haven’t heard from you since you were arrested. I’m just checking to see how you’re doing.”

“Not worth a shit, Sandy. As you can imagine, being arrested and thrown in jail is no fun. Especially when the charges are based on lies.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, but thanks. If you keep handling things at the bank, it takes a lot of pressure off me.”

“You can count on me, Boss.”

“I know that, Sandy. Any matters I need to be aware of?”

“We could have problems with Winter Enterprises. The attorney is an asshole. He’s not going to give up easily.”

“Is he with one of the large Philadelphia law firms?”

“No, he’s got his own practice. Apparently, he’s worked for the Winter family for years. Guy named Paul Sanders.”

The name seemed to tickle Folsom’s memory.

“Well, stay on top of things. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Hang in there, Boss.”

After Folsom hung up, he tried to recall where he had heard Paul Sander’s name. It took a couple minutes, but he finally remembered his attorney, Jeffrey Rose, mentioning Sanders’ name in connection with the complaint filed by Wendy. Sanders had somehow been involved before Sylvia Young signed on to represent her.

But the name Paul Sanders rang another bell with Folsom, one he couldn’t place. He racked his brain to come up with another connection. But nothing came to him.

He was beat. He lay down on the living room couch, thinking maybe a nap would help. It took him only a few minutes to fall asleep and he was soon dreaming about his “Wendy problem” and Paul Sanders. At some point, his mind working overtime, he jerked awake, making the connection. Paul Sanders not only represented Edward Winter, he’d represented Frank Winter. Sanders had called him after Frank Winter died, trying to negotiate a favorable financial arrangement for Frank’s widow and children. He recalled laughing at Sanders at that time, asking him if he thought he was the United Way. “This is business, Sanders,” Folsom had said. “It’s not personal.” Sanders had responded, “It’s personal to me, Mr. Folsom.”

Kelly Loughridge felt as though there was a little bird on her shoulder that kept whispering, “You’ve got to help Edward Winter, you’ve got to help Edward Winter.” She knew it had nothing to do with being a journalist, but she couldn’t keep the thought out of her head. She had come to the conclusion Winter was the victim of a political system and a federal government bureaucracy run amok. Even without corruption, the damage the federal government had done to the economy and people’s lives was gargantuan. Maybe it was stupidity and ignorance, rather than intentionally corrupt behavior. Or maybe it was arrogance. What was it that Einstein had said? ‘The only thing worse than ignorance is arrogance.’ Plenty of both in D.C.

She outlined the article she wanted to write and decided to start with how decisions made in D.C. created the economic problems. How the Federal Reserve kept interest rates low in 2003. How congressional committees headed by Senator Chris Dodd and Representative Barney Frank pushed Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to invest in subprime loans, which ultimately went bad, undermining the capital markets. How one thing led to another, and how good citizens lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost their businesses, lost their investments, lost their dreams.

Then the story would segue to Broad Street National Bank and how Sol Levin, a popular and well respected man, lost his job and his bank. How the FDIC took over the bank, condemning Levin’s and hundreds of other shareholders’ ownership interests. Then how the FDIC sold the bank to Folsom Financial Corporation, which was owned by a man with an unusual relationship with a senior officer at the agency who just happened to be murdered last week. And how Gerald Folsom was charged with beating his wife. And then there was the hired killer she wasn’t supposed to know about. She needed to talk again with Paul Sanders about that piece of information.

Kelly had doled out targets for interviews to three reporters: One would go to Broad Street National Bank, another to the FDIC in Washington, D.C., and the third would interview Edward Winter and Paul Sanders. She also had an intern digging up information on Folsom. Then she would try to get an interview with Folsom.

She’d told her staff she wanted to go to press on the story by no later than Thursday. That was the little bird’s influence.

While Katherine was visiting with Edward and Betsy at their home, Carrie sat down with Wendy in the hotel suite. They shared a fruit platter ordered from room service and tried to watch a Phillies game. But neither of them seemed very interested.

“You mind if I shut this off?” Wendy asked.

“Not at all,” Carrie replied.

Wendy lay back on the couch and stared out the window.

“How long have you been married to Folsom?”

“Too long.”

“Tell me about your husband,” Carrie said.

“Why?”

“Just curious. If you don’t want to talk about him . . . .” she trailed off.

Wendy looked back at the window. “Gerald is a good looking guy. Tall, dark hair, keeps himself in good shape. He was so damned attentive when we met. Treating me like a princess, sweeping me off my feet. Trips to Paris, San Francisco, Hawaii. Dinners at the best restaurants. Expensive gifts. I knew he’d been married twice before. Like me, they were much younger than Gerald. I would see them, once in a while, at the club or around the city.” She chuckled.

“What’s funny?”

“They looked like they could be my sisters. About the same height. Blonde, blue-eyed.”

“All men have a preferred type of woman.”

“It’s different with Gerald. It’s not just a preferred type with him; it’s an obsession. He likes blonde, blue-eyed women from families with long histories and good names, but no money. It was as if he preyed on that type.” She paused and said, “You’d be a perfect candidate to be his next wife. You’ve got the look.”

“Did he abuse his other wives?”

“I can only guess that he did. He mentioned once he had sent each of his wives on her way with $5 million. Gerald made me sign a prenuptial agreement that gives me $5 million as long as I kept my mouth shut about anything personal between us. I thought that was strange wording, but I wasn’t thinking about abuse when I signed it. Anyway, the $5 million pre-nup kept us from going to a lawyer. At least until he beat me so badly.”

“When he got rough with you, did it follow anything in particular? Like an argument?”

“He tended to be a bit rougher, even in the beginning, after he’d been drinking. But, over the last few months, he got more and more violent, with or without booze.”

“How rich is he?”

“Hugely. Money is all he really cares about. And he never has enough. One of the reasons I brought a complaint against him is to damage his reputation, and make it more difficult for him to do business, to make money. But, even if he never does another deal, he’s got enough money for one hundred lifetimes.”

“He have any other interests besides money and spousal abuse?”

“Not really. Oh, he likes to hang out at a steak place named The Towne House. It has a bar separate from the restaurant. He knows the owner. Apparently, they’re from the same neighborhood. Grew up together. That’s where we met. He told me he’d go to this place between wives. Almost every night.”

They sat in silence for five minutes or so.

“You know things are going to work out, Wendy.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you.”

“They teach us that in the Army. You can’t very well take on a mission without feeling confident.”

“I’ll never feel that level of confidence until Gerald is locked up.”

“Or dead.” Carrie said.

Katherine was asleep in her hotel suite bedroom at 8:30; Wendy retired to her bedroom at 9. Carrie waited until they turned off the lights in their rooms and then went to her room, changed into a pair of jeans, a white blouse, a blue blazer, and black cowboy boots. She closed the door to her bedroom, found her mother’s keys to the SUV, and went down to the lobby. She asked the concierge for directions to The Towne House Restaurant and then went to the parking lot and drove away.

At The Towne House, she took a stool at one end of the bar and ordered a shot of scotch and a glass of water. She sipped at the water and hardly touched the liquor. She shooed away a couple young guys who tried to cozy up to her. One of them was persistent and ignored Carrie’s put downs.

“Come on, baby, you don’t want to sit here drinking by yourself.”

“Listen, asshole, that’s exactly what I want to do. And if I wanted company, I’d find someone with some class and balls. Now get lost.”

The guy wandered away, muttering, “Bitch!”

She had downed three glasses of water and barely any of the scotch after an hour, and was about to abandon her place at the bar. Besides, she was getting tired of the bartender’s nasty looks. She dropped $20 on the bar and swiveled around on her stool, preparing to leave, when she spied a fifty-something man enter the bar through the restaurant. He resembled the description Wendy had given her of her husband. Instead of dropping off the stool, Carrie swiveled back to face the bar.

The man took a stool in the middle of the bar, four places away from Carrie. The bartender brought him a beer and a shot of whiskey, without the man saying a word. Obviously a regular.

“How ya doin’, Mr. Folsom?” the bartender said to the man.

“Okay. You know.”

“I don’t mean no disrespect,” the bartender said, “but I hope your wife pays for what she’s doin’ to ya.”

“Thanks, Marty. Is the boss in tonight?”

“He went home a coupla hours ago. Sunday nights are usually pretty slow.”

The man took a moment to look around the bar. There were two men at both tables. He then eyed Carrie sitting at the end of the bar. He stared at his whiskey and then downed the shot, after which he took a pull on his beer. Then he looked up and eyed Carrie some more.

“Any chance of me buying you a drink?” he asked.

She shot him a warm smile, raised her scotch glass, and said, “Thanks, but I’ve already got one.”

The man moved two stools closer to Carrie. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“First time,” she said.

“Where you from?”

“Here, originally. I just came down for a visit with my folks.” She smiled. “I had to get away from them for a while. My parents treat me like I’m fifteen.” She hunched her shoulders and spread her hands. “I understand how they feel, I suppose. Only child leaves home and they’re rolling around a house the size of a small hotel. They’re just lonely, but I can stand just so much hovering.”

“My name’s Jerry; what’s yours?”

“Tammy Bryan.”

He raised his glass as though to toast her. “Well, welcome to The Towne House, where a lot of people come to escape all variety of things.”

Carrie smiled again. “What are you escaping from, Jerry?”

“I’ll have to get to know you better before I start spilling all my secrets.”

“Ah, the private type.”

He shrugged.

“What’s the matter, bitch; you can’t handle a man your own age?” It was the younger guy who had tried to pick her up earlier.

Folsom slipped off his stool and moved between Carrie and the man. “Apologize to the lady, and then go sit down and behave yourself.”

The guy looked twenty pounds lighter than Folsom, but was the same height and at least twenty-five years younger. He wheeled on Folsom, gave him a mad-dog look, and said, “You sure you don’t want to get back on
your
stool, Pops?”

Folsom half-turned as though he was returning to his stool, but then whipped back around and shot a straight right jab into the man’s nose, knocking him to the floor. Blood spurted from his nose as he struggled to get to his feet. A second man, shaking his head, came over from the table where the first man had been sitting and hefted him to his feet before leading him back to the table they had come from. The bartender brought a towel to the bleeding man and told him to get out.