Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (29 page)

Edward Winter called Paul Sanders at his office and asked him if he had any news.

“No, nothing, Edward. I’m sorry.”

“What will our response be to the bank filing foreclosure proceedings?”

“We will respond to the foreclosure complaint and ask the court to enjoin the bank from proceeding with the foreclosure. At least we should be able to delay things, assuming a judge will grant the injunction. Even without it, though, the foreclosure will take months. But the bank could close the businesses in the meantime.”

“That would be a disaster.”

“I understand, Edward. I’ll do everything possible.”

“I know you will. I can’t understand what’s happening. It truly feels like I’ve fallen into a black hole. Common sense seems to have been suspended.”

“Hang in there,” Paul said. “You never know how things will turn out.”

After hanging up, Paul came to a decision about something he had been contemplating for several days. He called Gail Moskowitz’s number in D.C. Her assistant answered.

“Is Ms. Moskowitz in today?”

“Yes, Mr. Sanders, but she’s out to lunch. She will be back here around 1:30. Would you like her to call you?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll call back.”

Paul called to his secretary while he packed the Winter Enterprise files in his briefcase. “Cancel the rest of my appointments for today.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Washington, D.C. Call and find out when the next train to D.C. leaves. And I want a car to pick me up at Union Station to take me to the FDIC’s offices.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Hopefully, tonight, assuming I accomplish my mission.”

Paul made notes on a legal pad during the train ride to D.C., racking his brain to come up with every argument, legal and emotional, that he could throw at Gail Moskowitz. The information Carrie gave him about the cards in Folsom’s valises was incriminating, but not legal proof of anything criminal. Even so, he had come to the conclusion that the money had been given to Donald Matson by Folsom for “services rendered.” The information Gail provided appeared to show that Matson had helped Folsom get favorable deals from the FDIC. But, again, the deals weren’t unlawful, unless Folsom had bribed Matson. That brought him back again to the money in Folsom’s house, put there by Matson for safekeeping.

He was beginning to realize his argument was more emotional than legal. Gail would think he was an idiot trying to get her to do something to save Edward Winter’s business based on nothing but emotion. And, even if something illegal had gone on, could Gail take action? She was a staff attorney at the FDIC, not a member of executive management.

Gerald Folsom took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. That blonde he’d brought home had humiliated him, and every time he took a breath, the pain in his chest reminded him of that humiliation. His friend, Leon Naxos, the owner of The Towne House Restaurant, had asked around, but no one he talked to had ever seen the woman at the restaurant or around town before, and she hadn’t been around since.

Folsom began jerking his head around every time he drove past a tall, good looking blonde, hoping he’d run into that bitch. He’d follow her; find out where she lived and then call Toothpick Jefferson for another assignment. But he would sure like to spend a night in bed with her before she was eliminated.

Get a grip, he told himself. No woman is worth obsessing over. But then he saw another blonde standing at a bus stop and his heart rate accelerated.

He pulled into Broad Street National Bank’s parking lot and walked toward the entrance. At the front door, his cell phone rang.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Jerry, it’s Leon.”

“Hey, Leon. What’s up?”

“You wanted to know about that blonde you brought to the restaurant the other night? I’ve been asking around. There was a guy here in the restaurant that night who saw you two together. He came in again today for lunch and asked about you, wondering who the gal was with you that night. One of my waiters brought it to my attention. Apparently, the customer knew the girl from high school. Her name is Carrie Winter.”

Folsom snapped his phone shut. He felt like screaming. What the hell was going on?

He pulled himself together and entered the bank. He went straight to Sanford Cunningham’s office and closed the door behind him.

“Anything new on the Winter loan?” he demanded, pacing the office.

“Jerry, you’ve got to relax. If Winter pays off the loan on Thursday, so be it. If not, you’ll be in the restaurant business. I don’t think you—”

“I want that guy dead!” Folsom yelled.

Cunningham’s mouth dropped open. “Jerry, what are you saying?”

Folsom rubbed his hands over his face. Dropping them, he collapsed into a chair. “I mean . . . I want his business. I’ve got to have that business.”

“What’s your obsession with Winter?” Cunningham asked.

Folsom leaped out of his chair and lunged toward Cunningham, who pushed back away from his desk, his eyes suddenly wide and fearful.

Folsom stopped abruptly and stared at his outstretched hands. He dropped them to his sides, turned on his heels, and left the office without a word.

Paul sat in the reception area at the FDIC’s legal department for twenty minutes, and was beginning to wonder if Gail Moskowitz was even going to see him. He was second-guessing his decision to come to D.C. when Gail walked out of her office and waved him over curtly, glaring at him as he passed her and entered the office. She closed the door behind him and walked to the chair behind her desk. After sitting down, she continued to glare at him, not saying a word. Moskowitz was a slender, attractive woman who downplayed her good looks—minimal jewelry and makeup, her auburn hair swept back in a pony tail. An understated, conservative blue suit and white blouse completed the look.

“Gail,” Paul said, “I apologize for just showing up like this, but we really need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About Gerald Folsom, Donald Matson, and Edward Winter.”

“I’m getting damned tired of hearing about this. I already gave you all the information I’m going to provide.” She stood and barked, “Now get out. You’ve pushed our friendship too far already.”

Paul didn’t move. He put steel in his voice and said, “I need five minutes. That’s it. Then I’ll leave and never talk to you again, if that’s the way you want it.”

She dropped back into her chair, an exasperated look on her face. “Five minutes. Go.”

Paul told her about the cards signed by Donald Matson, with deposit and withdrawal information in Folsom’s house. He added his suspicions about where the money, over $2 million, had come from, tying his suspicions to the information Gail had given him about the sweetheart deals. Then he repeated what he had told Gail before, about the killer who had gone after Wendy Folsom. He talked about Donald Matson’s murder. Finally, he briefed her on what was going on between Edward Winter and Broad Street National Bank.

“There’s too much here to ignore, Gail. You’ve got to bring this to the attention of someone with authority around here, someone who will make things right.”

“Your five minutes are up,” she said. “Don’t come back.”

Paul was shocked at the way Gail dismissed him. He slowly stood, gathered his briefcase, and walked out. He felt drained, and barely had the energy to walk out of the building. After finding his hired car, he told the driver to take him to the train station. As the driver pulled away from the curb, Paul thought about having to wait in the station for the next train and then the long ride back to Philadelphia.

“How much to take me to Philadelphia?” he asked.

The driver looked at him in his rearview mirror. “You serious?”

“Absolutely.”

The guy thought about it for a minute and then said, “$800.”

Paul told him where he wanted to go. “Wake me when we get there.”

“What’s the latest?” Edward asked Nick Scarfatti. They were seated in Edward’s office.

“I heard back from the private equity firm in New York City. They’re very interested in making an investment and will put up $30 million to pay off the debt at Broad Street Bank and cover the cost of building new sites in Pittsburgh.”

“That’s great news,” Edward said, “but the look on your face tells me that’s not all you have to say on the subject.”

“Three things. One, they want the option to convert their $30 million loan to forty percent of the company’s stock. Two, the interest rate on the loan would be ten percent. Three, it’ll take them two months to perform their due diligence and to close the deal.”

“The interest rate’s onerous, but we can afford to pay it, and giving up forty percent ownership is better than losing one hundred percent of our company to the bank, but the two months are a deal killer.”

“Unless Paul Sanders can use some tactics to delay the foreclosure or convince a judge to grant an injunction against the bank,” Nick offered hopefully. “That could give us a few months of breathing room.”

“But even with an injunction, or with normal foreclosure procedures, if the bank changes the locks or shuts down the business, as they have the right to do according to our loan agreement, there will be nothing to sell sixty days from now.”

“Paul’s going to file a motion requesting the injunction on Friday or the following Monday, assuming the bank gives us a formal foreclosure notice at the end of the day tomorrow. Our future will then be in the hands of the court. Forgive me for being pessimistic, but, at this point, I’ve lost confidence in the fairness of the system.”

Nick nodded his agreement.

“Let’s call an all-hands meeting for our restaurant managers and department heads for Saturday morning at 9. If the bank pulls the plug tomorrow, I want to inform our people and tell them what our options are.”

“Some of the employees are going to start looking for jobs as soon as they hear about this.”

Edward shrugged. “That’s their right.”

THURSDAY

JULY 28, 2011

Stanley Burns’ head was spinning as though he’d had way too much to drink, but alcohol wasn’t his problem. Rather, his and his family’s futures were on his mind. He’d gone home last night and felt distant from his wife and children all evening. After the children were put to bed, Burns’ wife, Yolanda, brought him a cup of tea, sat down next to him on the couch, and leaned her head on his shoulder. They’d sat like that for ten minutes, neither saying a word.

Finally, Burns whispered, “I don’t know what to do, Yolanda.”

“What’s bothering you, Stanley? You haven’t been happy for a couple weeks.”

He looked at her, surprised. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I thought, sooner or later, you would tell me about whatever was troubling you. But you were so cold tonight I couldn’t let this go on. Besides,” she said, smiling wryly, “we haven’t made love for two weeks.”

He explained how he hated going to work every morning and how he felt he was violating his principles working there. He’d told her about his conversation with Sanford Cunningham about the Winter Enterprises’ loan and what the bank was doing to Winter. And he told her he felt dirty participating in what the bank was doing to Edward Winter, a man with whom he’d had a long-standing relationship and for whom he had high regard. ”

“You remember that speech you gave to the Temple University business ethics class a couple years ago?” Yolanda asked. “You told me after you came home that day that one of the students had asked you to list the most important traits of a leader. You told her three of the most important qualities of a leader were education, experience, and character. But if you could only pick one trait, it would be character.”

He’d hugged Yolanda and later that evening they’d made love. Before he fell asleep, he thanked God for giving him such a wonderful wife.

He now sat at his desk in the bank, where he’d been since 6:30 that morning, and stared at the tiny article on the last page of the front section of that morning’s
Journal
. The stories about the charges against Gerald Folsom for spousal abuse had dwindled down to almost nothing. He had decided last night he was going to do something, but he hadn’t yet decided what that would be. This article finally made up his mind for him.

He logged onto his computer and accessed the bank’s financial files. Selecting information about the bank’s capital accounts, loan delinquency information, and appraisal data on loan collateral, he ran off copies. Then he looked up the number for the
Journal
and called. He asked to be put through to the reporter covering Gerald Folsom. The operator put him through, but he got voicemail suggesting he leave a name and number, or dial a four-digit number to transfer to the business editor. Burns punched in the four numbers and listened to the rings. He almost bailed on the call after five rings when a woman finally answered.

“Kelly Loughridge.”

“Ms. Loughridge, my name is Stanley Burns. I’m president of Broad Street National Bank. I’d like to talk to someone about the bank and its new ownership.”