by Owen Parr
The offices were nicely decorated with black-and-white pictures of the old American Stock Exchange, the Bolsa de Barcelona, as well as the New York Stock Exchange, and from Patrick’s observation, Wetherly Stevens occupied half the floor.
Putting down a fresh cup of coffee he had been served, he stood to greet Susana as she walked in.
“You’re Mr. Patrick Sullivan,” Susana said, looking at Patrick’s business card as she walked in.
Extending his hand, Patrick replied, “Yes, pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Wetherly.”
“Have a seat,” she said, smiling coyly. “We’ll see about that.”
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I have just a few questions for you.”
Susana Wetherly was an attractive lady of average height with brown hair and green eyes. She wore a gray suit and a light-blue blouse and gold earrings. Her nails were manicured, and she wore no rings.
“What is this about?”
“The law firm I work for has been asked to follow up on the compliance issue.”
“Our firm paid a fine and settled that. Why is this coming up again?”
“It’s not. We’re closing the file, and they just needed to dot some I’s and cross some T’s. You know how that is.”
“Very well.”
“You are managing the firm, but Mr. Wetherly and Mr. Stevens still own it, correct?”
“Wetherly is retired. Stevens runs our Barcelona branch. And yes, they still own it. That’s getting ready to change. Mr. Wetherly is very sick, and Stevens wants to retire. So, they’ll be transferring ownership to me soon.”
“There’s a little confusion with your last name before you were married.”
“I can explain that. It was Rothberg, and I changed it to Roth some years ago. I don’t know why that keeps coming up.”
“I see. When did you do that?”
“Oh, let’s see, I did it when I was nineteen, so that would be twenty-three years ago. What, 1995? I guess.”
Patrick wrote that down on his small notepad. “Okay, got it. What about family?” he asked, looking at her.
Her facial expression changed, and she shifted her position in her chair. “My family? What about them?”
“Again, because of the name change, I think there are some gaps in the record,” he replied.
“My parents are Robert and Andrea Rothberg, retired to Florida years ago.”
“Any other family?”
“Had some uncles and aunts, but they passed away,” she replied, pushing her hair back and rubbing her right ear.
“No brothers or sisters, I take it?”
“Mr. Sullivan, I don’t see what these questions have anything to do with a complaint about compliance procedures. Is someone getting ready to sue me?” she asked, exasperated.
“Oh my goodness. No. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I just have a few more questions, and I’ll be done. Brothers or sisters?”
“No, none,” she replied, looking down at the floor.
“Is your husband, Mr. Thomas Wetherly, employed by the firm?”
“He is not.”
“He owns an art studio and gallery, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you share any of the same clients?”
“I have no idea who his clients are, and I don’t know if some of our clients also buy art from his studio,” she replied, looking at her watch. “I don’t have much time. Are we done?”
“Almost,” Patrick replied. As instructed, Patrick asked, “Do you or your firm do business with AmericanCiti Bank?”
“I’ve had an account with the bank a few years, and Wetherly Stevens have had their account with them forever. Why?”
“These are just questions I was asked to ask. I don’t know the why. One last question. What about Abacus Federal?”
“That’s an old relationship the partners had. We don’t have an account there any longer.”
“We’re done. I really appreciate your time.”
“What is the name of the law firm that hired you?”
“Howie and Associates,” Patrick replied. He watched Susana write that down. “Thank you again. I’ll see myself out.”
Across town, Larry Myers, of the crack duo of investigators known as Larry and Harry, sat across from Charles Maestro, finishing a bogus job interview he had secured with the help of a friend at AmericanCiti Bank.
“Mr. Myers, your application looks fine. We’ll need to do a background check, and then we’ll call you for more interviews,” Maestro said as his office phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, Maestro said, “Excuse, I have to take this.”
As Larry nodded, Maestro answered. “Is there a problem? I’m in the middle of an interview.”
Maestro listened as Larry observed. Maestro said to the caller, “We need to discuss that later.” Maestro raised his gaze to look at Larry and said to the caller, “Maybe there’s a problem, but maybe it was just that—a follow-up. Let’s talk later. Same place, same time?” Maestro smiled at Larry. “Okay, good.” Maestro hung up. Looking up at Larry, he offered, “Women. Always worried about something, right?”
Harry Sitzer, the other half of investigative duo, walked into Hudson River Art Studios and Gallery on Fourteenth Street at ten in the morning, just as Thomas Wetherly walked in. The business was about two thousand square feet, with small studios in a U-shape and a gallery in the middle. Some of the studios were occupied by artists working on their canvasses, others on sculptures.
Harry approached Thomas and noticed the scent of vodka surrounding him. “Mr. Wetherly, do you have a moment?”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
Thomas Wetherly was wearing blue jeans and a black tee shirt with the name of the gallery embroidered on the top left side. He was gaunt, and his face had aged well beyond his mid-forties. The whites of his eyes were yellow, which contrasted with his blue eyes. His blond hair looked like he had combed it with his hands when he awoke that morning.
“I’m a private investigator working for a law firm who is closing up an investigation of Wetherly Stevens. I just have a few questions to ask you.”
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’m not associated with the firm.”
“Yes, I’m aware. But your wife, Mrs. Wetherly, runs the firm, and your father is still a part owner, correct?”
“That’s all correct, but I have no knowledge of their business dealings. What is this about?”
“As I said, we’re closing the file, but the New York Stock Exchange had found some procedures lacking proper compliance follow up.”
“I don’t understand, and frankly I have nothing to do with them.”
“Does your business have an account with Wetherly Stevens?”
Thomas hesitated. “I keep a small account to speculate on some stocks now and then. But honestly, if it weren’t that my wife runs the place, they wouldn’t deal with my size account. It’s only a few thousand dollars.”
“Have you ever done wire transfers from your account? Either received funds or sent out funds to third parties.”
Putting his right hand on his forehead and closing his eyes momentarily, he replied, “Maybe to a supplier to pay for goods.”
“How about from a purchaser of artwork from the gallery?”
“Is there a specific transaction you’re asking about?”
“No, just in general. Over the course of regular business.”
“Perhaps we’ve received payments that way, but I have no recollection at this time.”
“How old is your gallery?”
“We’ve only been here a few years. I started the business in 1996, right around the corner in a smaller studio.”
“So, you’ve never been involved in your father’s business?”
“No, and that took some doing. He always wanted me to get involved. I have no interest in what they do.”
“I can understand. My dad wanted me to be a dentist like him. Putting my fingers in someone’s m
outh was not a career move I wanted. Let me ask you something. You met your wife in 1997, and she became involved in the business, right?”
“She was my savior back then. My father and his partner, Stevens, had a fallout that almost closed the firm. Susana came in, worked her ass off, and began taking on more responsibility. Cooled things off when she did.”
“That’s when Mr. Stevens moved to Barcelona?” Harry said, looking at his notes.
“He took his new young squeeze, Sofia, back to Barcelona and opened a branch there.”
“Do you remember what caused the fallout between your father and Mr. Stevens?”
“No. I didn’t give a shit then, and I still don’t give a shit now. Would you like a drink?” Thomas asked, walking into a small office.
“No, thank you, but you go right ahead.”
Thomas served himself some vodka straight from his stash in a small refrigerator in his office. “You’re off subject, aren’t you?”
“Ah, yes, but I just found it interesting, what you said about Stevens and his lady friend. You and your wife will inherit the business at some point, right?”
“My wife and I. Plus Steven’s wife. As far as I’m concerned, they should sell it. I’m not getting involved.”
“Does your wife get along with Mrs. Stevens?”
“Those two, they’re like two peas in a pod.”
“I take it you don’t care for Mrs. Stevens?”
“My father always thought she was in it for the money. And I agree with him. But fair is fair. She’s hung with Stevens twenty years.”
“So, they have a good marriage?”
“Now we’re into gossip,” Thomas smiled. “Are you sure you’re not with the National Enquirer?” he asked, laughing, serving himself another vodka.
“Actually, I’m done with my questions. I was just making conversation.”
“Well, between you and me, those two have a fucked-up marriage. They live in the same home, but they're not together, if you know what I mean. Of course, I have a fucked-up marriage myself, so I shouldn’t be talking, right? You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Wetherly. I’m done. Appreciate your time.”
“Can I show you some of my shit? Maybe you can buy a painting for your wife.”
“I’ll come back with her and look around some other time.”
“Yeah? Good. See you then.”
28
I was back at the pub with Agnes. Father Dom had stayed at the church this morning. He was planning some retreat for single mothers. “Agnes, did you get a location for the Rothbergs in Florida. I want to call them and ask about Susana.”
“Yes. I found them at The Villages, a senior community in Central Florida, which, by the way, has the largest incidence of STDs in the state.”
“Really STD’s.”
“Sexually transmitted decease,” Agnes replied, smiling.
“Oh, I know what STD is. But, on a senior community?” I asked, opening my eyes wide.
“Exactly.”
“Laissez les bon temps roulez, as they say in New Orleans. You and Professor Achi could retire there.”
“And have him drive a golf cart instead of his Harley? I don’t think he’ll go for that.”
“What’s the number for the Rothbergs?’
“I’ll dial it for you and put the call on speaker.”
After three rings, the voice of an elderly lady answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Rothberg?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Mrs. Rothberg, my name is John Watson, I’m a private investigator, and we’re conducting a background check on Susana Roth. Do you have a minute?”
After a few seconds of silence, she replied, “I had a daughter named Susana Rothberg. Is that who you mean?”
I was surprised by her response. “Yes. Sorry, she changed her name to Roth. I thought you knew.”
“My husband and I have not spoken to her in over twenty years. Did something happen to her?”
“No, no. Don’t be alarmed. When did you last speak to her?”
“She left our home when she was nineteen. We adopted her when she was five. She has to be in her forties now.”
Mrs. Rothberg sounded sad about discussing Susana, and I didn’t want to bring back those memories any more than I had to. “I won’t take up a lot of your time. I only have a few questions.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Did you adopt her in Spain?”
“Why, yes. In Barcelona.”
“Do you know if Susana went to Harvard?”
“Not that I remember. She was a freshman at a local community college when she left.”
“Was she a good student?”
“She was all A’s. I can tell you that she was very bright.”
“Was she unhappy at your home?”
“Not that we could tell. She was a typical teenager, although she was very reserved. Never shared much with us even though we loved her like our own daughter.”
“What do you think triggered her to leave your home? A boyfriend?”
“At first we thought that. Then, my husband and I started analyzing things a bit more carefully. We know she received calls from overseas. We saw that from our cellular family plan. Our assumption was a long-lost family member found her.”
“Do you think it was her sister?”
“You seem to know a lot about Susana. And yes, she had a sister that was adopted a year before her. Had we known, we would have adopted them both. It was a shame to break up the sisters like that. We felt pretty bad about it.”
Thinking out loud, I said, “So, it’s possible she reunited with her sister.”
“We hoped that was the case, but we never understood why she would not tell us.”
“One last question, if I may. Does the name Paolo Mancuso mean anything to you or your husband?”
There was silence for a second. “No, not to me. My husband is playing golf right now. I can ask him and call you back if he remembers anything.”
“That would be helpful,” I said, giving her my cell number.
“Mrs. Rothberg, you have been very helpful. Thank you for your time,” I said.
“Mr. Watson, can I ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
Sounding desolate, she asked, “If you see her, could you give her our number? We think of her daily. My husband and I are still brokenhearted. Maybe she’ll reach out to us.”
“By all means, Mrs. Rothberg. Thank you again,” I said, clicking off the speaker button.
“That was very revealing,” Agnes said.
“Yes, it was. I assume that Sofia finds out about Susana and begins to contact her. After her divorce and windfall of two million dollars, she moves to the US, and they move in together.”
“And they keep it a secret?”
“It looks that way. I don’t know why yet, but they kept it a secret.”
“When did she have time to go to Harvard and graduate with two degrees?”
“You never found any records for her, right?”
Agnes nodded.
“That’s a bogus story. They made that up.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, but these ladies are full of secrets.” As I said that, Patrick, Larry, and Harry walked into the office. “Have a seat, guys. Tell me what you found. Patrick, why don’t you start. By the way, we’ve confirmed that these two ladies are sisters.”
Patrick began, “In that case, the biggest revelation I have is that Susana is lying about it. Because I asked her point-blank if she had brothers or sisters, and she said no.”
“What else?” I asked.
“She did admit to being adopted by the Rothbergs. And she said she changed her name to Roth in 1995 when she was nineteen.”
“The same year she left the home,” Agnes said.
“What about the banking question?” I inquired.
“Both she and the firm do have an accou
nt with AmericanCiti Bank. She said she’s had it a few years. The firm had an account at Abacus Federal before.”
Larry was chomping to break into the conversation. He was fidgeting in his chair raising his arm up, as a first grader.
“Larry, did my idea work?” I asked, turning to him.
Larry was excited and spoke fast. “Like clockwork. I went to the bank, got a job application, and filled it out. When Patrick texted me that he was done, I asked to speak to Maestro, the regional manager.”
“And what happened?”
“During my interview, his office phone rang, and while I can’t confirm it was Susana, from his responses, it sounded like it could be her, and she was worried.”
“How so? What did he respond?”
“He told the caller they would discuss later. He also said, ‘maybe there’s a problem, but maybe not.’ He was cautious in front of me with his replies. Then he made a comment about women always being worried about something.”
“So, it sounds like your question about the bank, triggered a call to Maestro,” I said to Patrick.
“We’re going to have a chance to find out,” Larry blurted out.
“How?” I asked.
“They’re meeting later. Same place, same time, Maestro said. So, we know it’s that restaurant where they meet at seven in the evening.”
Agnes said, “That was the De Novo European Pub.”
“Let’s hope they discuss it there and not back in their hotel room,” I added.
“Who’s going to be there to listen?” Patrick inquired.
“I’ll call Marcy for a date night.”
“Make sure you tell her your working, or she’s going to be upset,” Agnes suggested.
“Point taken,” I said. Turning to Harry, I asked, “So, what happened at the gallery with Thomas Wetherly?”
“For one thing, I can confirm he’s an alcoholic,” Harry said. “I mean, it was ten in the morning, and he already smelled like he had been drinking. Plus, during our conversation, he downed two more vodkas straight.”