Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (31 page)

Folsom stared at his phone and then slammed it down. He shouted at the top of his lungs, cursing Wendy until his voice became hoarse. He then decided what he needed to do, once and for all. Taking out the Philadelphia telephone book, he looked up the listing for Katherine Winter. Her number was listed, but when he called there was no answer. He jotted down the woman’s address.

He went down to his car and, with a clear sense of purpose, drove for twenty minutes. Disappointed, but not surprised, he found no vehicles in the driveway of Katherine’s house. Through a window in the garage door, he saw the garage was empty. Several days of newspapers were scattered on the front lawn.

Back in his car, he called Sanford Cunningham.

“I need some information,” he barked.

“Sure, Boss. What is it?”

“Check to see if Winter Enterprises or any of the Winter family have credit cards with the bank.”

“Is there a problem?” Cunningham asked.

“I just want to make sure they’re not racking up credit card charges in anticipation of taking bankruptcy.”

“Knowing what I know about them, it doesn’t seem likely, but I’ll check.”

“And if they have cards with us, let me know what the last few charges have been. Call me when you have the information.”

“Why don’t you just hang on? I’ve already pulled up a list of their accounts. There’s a company credit card account, but there’s only a $2,200 balance. We have a card in Edward’s name, but he hardly ever uses it. It’s zero-balanced at the moment. Ah, here’s another one in Katherine Winter’s name. She owes a little over $3,000.”

“What are her more recent charges?” Folsom asked.

“Hmm, that’s funny.”

“What?”

“Several charges at the Marriott Hotel on the northwest side of the city. I don’t know why she’d be in a hotel if she has a home in the same area. Maybe she’s having repairs done.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Folsom said, trying to hold in his glee. “Thanks.”

He drove to the Marriott Hotel and pulled up to the front door. The parking valet came over, waited for him to lower his window, and asked if he was checking in.

“No,” Folsom said, “I’m checking whether a friend of mine is here yet.”

“You can go inside and talk with someone at the reception desk. They’ll be able to tell you.”

“How about you finding out for me?”

“That’s against hotel policy, sir.”

Folsom stuck a one hundred dollar bill through the open window. “You find out if my friend is here and what room she’s in and you get another hundred.”

The kid looked around, making sure no one was paying attention, and then pocketed the bill. “Ok. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Katherine Winter.”

“Yeah, she’s here. Been around for a few days. There are three of them staying in a suite.” The kid smiled. “All good-looking women. I’ve taken meals up to them a couple times.”

“And the room number?” Folsom prompted.

“1045.”

Folsom slipped him another hundred and peeled away.

Folsom stopped at a convenience store and used the pay phone outside to call Toothpick Jefferson.

Jefferson answered the call, but before he could even say hello, Folsom blurted, “Toothpick, it’s Jerry. We need to talk.”

“I don’t think so,” Jefferson said. “You’re cursed, Jerry. First, my best damn agent gets beat up and disappears trying to do your dirty work and then I get a concussion and a lump the size of a tennis ball from someone trying to find you. I don’t need this kind of attention.”

“What do you mean, concussion?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just get out of my life.”

“Whoa, just a second, Toothpick. Tell me what happened.”

“None of your damned business.”

Jefferson’s tone sounded more embarrassed than angry. But embarrassed about what? And then a thought came to him. Maybe a woman injured him.

“You got beat up by a woman, didn’t you?”

“Fuck off!”

“Listen, Toothpick. If I’m right, the woman who attacked you also attacked me. And I’m pretty certain I know where she’s at. I think we need to pay her a visit.”

“You know who the bitch is?”

“Oh yeah. Tall, short blonde hair, blue eyes. Drop dead gorgeous.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“You want to get even?”

“Damn straight! What you got in mind?”

“Take a couple guys with you to the Northwest Marriott Hotel at 10 tomorrow night. Go to the east emergency exit. I’ll open the door for you. And make sure you’re all armed.”

Jefferson was silent for a few seconds and then said, “On one condition. I get to spend an hour with her, one-on-one.”

Folsom could imagine what Jefferson had in mind. The thought of him naked, having his way with Carrie Winter was laughable and abhorrent. “You can spend as much time with her as you like, Toothpick, as long as she’s no longer a problem when you’re done.”

“You can count on that, my man. See you at 10 tomorrow.”

“This is Kelly Loughridge from
The Philadelphia Journal
calling for Gail Moskowitz.”

“Please hold, Ms. Loughridge,” the receptionist said.

Kelly remained on hold for over a minute. Then the woman came back on the line.

“Ms. Moskowitz cannot speak to the press, Ms. Loughridge. She instructed me to forward your call to our Public Affairs office.”

Using her sweetest voice, Kelly said, “Please tell Ms. Moskowitz I am going to go to press in one hour with a story about corruption at the FDIC. The article will mention the following names: Gerald Folsom, Donald Matson,” she paused for effect, “and Gail Moskowitz. Ms. Moskowitz’s name will be mentioned in the context of obstruction of justice. Also, please tell Ms. Moskowitz I could care less if she calls me back or not, but it would really be better for her and your agency if she talked to me.” Kelly left her telephone number and hung up. By the time she leisurely walked to the break room, got a cup of coffee, and returned to her desk, her phone rang. It was 3:35 p.m.

“Loughridge!” she barked into the phone.

“Ms. Loughridge, this is Gail Moskowitz. I am a staff attorney for the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. I understand you want to discuss something with me.”

Might as well go for the kill, Kelly thought. “I understand an attorney here in Philadelphia has had several conversations with you about the dire situation his client has been put into by a bank the FDIC recently took over.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Ms. Loughridge.”

“Broad Street National Bank is the bank in question. I believe your agency took over that bank two weeks ago and handed it over to one of your
preferred
investors almost immediately after the FDIC threw out the previous owners.”

“I object to your characterization of events, Ms. Loughridge. The FDIC has no preferred investors, and we don’t
throw out previous owners
, as you so indelicately stated.”

“I’m terribly sorry if I offended you, Ms. Moskowitz,” Loughridge said, her voice oozing sarcasm. “We can discuss that in a minute. Will you admit to having had conversations with a Mr. Paul Sanders?”

“I admit to nothing.”

“I see. Do you admit Mr. Sanders told you about evidence in Gerald Folsom’s home implicating one of your employees, Donald Matson, in a possible bribery scheme?”

A long pause occurred before Moskowitz said, “I’m listening.”

“How about we stop dancing around, Ms. Moskowitz, and get down to the basics? We’re going to run the first of three articles tomorrow about Broad Street National Bank, Gerald Folsom, and the FDIC. Whether you cooperate or stonewall, the article’s running. Your decision in the next half-minute will determine whether the FDIC comes across as a conspirator or a well-intentioned, public-spirited organization that was the innocent victim of two corrupt individuals: Gerald Folsom and Donald Matson.”

Kelly sat silently and watched the hand on her desk clock count down the seconds. Time was almost up when Gail Moskowitz said, “I need to confer with my superior.”

“Good idea. To show my good faith, Ms. Moskowitz, I promise I will not disclose you as the source of the fax listing the dates and deal terms of the transactions Gerald Folsom executed with your organization. I will live up to that promise if I receive a call from you or someone with serious authority within the next half hour.”

Detective Anthony Castiglia called Jeffrey Rose, Gerald Folsom’s criminal attorney, at 3:40 p.m. to advise him that a team of detectives and uniformed officers were going to search Gerald Folsom’s home. He told him he was making a courtesy call so Rose could call his client and have him admit the police, rather than them having to break down the door.

“This is pure harassment, Castiglia,” Rose said.

“Tell it to the judge, counselor.”

Rose immediately called Gerald Folsom and informed him of Castiglia’s call.

“What the hell are the cops looking for?” Folsom asked. “They went all over my place last time and found nothing.”

“Is there anything new in your house that wasn’t there when the last search was done?”

“Nothing important.”

“Jerry, they’ve got to have something or they wouldn’t be searching your place again. Did your wife leave anything there that might be incriminating?”

“Not a damned thing,” Folsom responded.

“What about weapons?”

“Yeah, but they’re all registered with the state.”

“Okay,” Rose said. “Just stay calm and let them do their thing. Call me after they leave.”

The police arrived fifteen minutes after Jeffrey Rose’s call. Folsom was steaming mad about them being there and, despite Rose’s warning, shouted at the police, “Why don’t you guys go out and bust some criminals for a change, instead of bothering law-abiding citizens?”

The lead detective, Simon Carruthers—the same one who had arrested him—slapped a copy of the search warrant into Folsom’s hand before walking past Folsom into the house.

“I want you to open your vault,” Carruthers said.

“What the hell for?” Folsom shouted.

“Is that aggression I hear in your voice, Mr. Folsom? I’m getting the impression you might become physical.” Carruthers crooked a finger at one of the uniformed officers and told him to keep an eye on Folsom and put him in handcuffs if he started acting up.

Carruthers smiled mockingly at Folsom, which only made him angrier. “Let’s go upstairs, Mr. Folsom. I’d like to get out of here at a reasonable hour.”

Folsom surged up the stairs to the third level, muttering all the way there. He dialed in the safe combination and opened it. “You were in here the last time. Nothing’s changed, so what are you looking for?”

Carruthers didn’t hesitate before going to where the two valises sat on the floor. He pointed at them and said, “My men are going to remove these two valises from your vault and take them to whichever room you direct us to. We’re going to open them in front of you and inventory everything inside. We’re going to count the cash in front of you and then you’re going to sign an affidavit as to the correct count.”

“What, is it against the law to have cash in your house now?”

“Of course not, Mr. Folsom. Law abiding citizens can have as much cash as they want in their homes.” He smirked at Folsom and added, “By the way, where did all this cash come from?”

Folsom hesitated for a beat and then said, “I saved it up over the last thirty years.”

“You don’t trust banks?”

Folsom glared at Carruthers. “I’m not answering any more of your smartass questions.”

Carruthers pointed at one of his men and said, “Please write down in your notebook that Mr. Folsom informed us the cash in his vault represents money he has saved over the past thirty years.”

Turning back to Folsom, Carruthers asked, “Where can we inventory the contents of these bags?”

“Dining room,” Folsom responded petulantly. “You can use the table there.”

In the dining room, Carruthers instructed his men to carefully remove the contents from one valise and to place them on the table. The second valise was placed in a corner to await its turn. Two policemen, wearing rubber gloves, unloaded the first valise and stacked the cash on the table. One of the police officers said, “Detective Carruthers, there are a couple cards at the bottom of this case.”

“What cards?” Folsom demanded, moving between the officers and trying to look inside the valise. They grabbed Folsom’s arms and jerked him away from the table.

Carruthers ignored Folsom, walked around the table and looked down into the valise. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, extracted the cards one at a time and placed each into a separate plastic evidence bag. He looked back into the case to make sure it was now empty, moved it to the corner where the other valise was resting, and announced, “Let’s get the cash counted. Don’t break the bank wrappers. Mr. Folsom, you will stand where you are and observe the counting.”