by Marcia Clark
Alex glided up to Wesley with one of his most disarming smiles. He told Wesley who we were and that we were talking to all the investors who’d lost their shirts on the cryptocurrency trade with Gold Strike. “We’re hoping to file a lawsuit to recoup some of the money, and we thought you might need our help, too. We hear you lost quite a bit of money yourself.”
The bit about the lawsuit wasn’t true, but it was a safe enough lie. We could file a lawsuit. We just wouldn’t. I don’t do civil practice. It bores me to death.
Wesley’s face tightened. “That’s none of your business. And I don’t want to get involved in any lawsuits.”
Alex took a few more runs at him, but Wesley wouldn’t budge. Sometimes it takes a light touch; other times it takes a battering ram. I decided it was time to haul out the battering ram. “Look, Wes—can I call you Wes?”
He gave me a flinty look. “No.”
I smiled. “So, Wes. I’m going to level with you. The cops are going to come knocking on your door sooner or later. And when they do, they’re going to have a few questions for you. Like how someone who makes less than fifty thousand a year managed to invest five hundred thousand with Gold Strike.” I paused for effect. “But they won’t stop there. Because once they start looking, they’re going to find out that this isn’t the first time you’ve sunk a wad of cash into a Gold Strike portfolio. And when they do . . . well, I suppose you can guess what happens next. Can’t you? Wes?”
His lower lip began to tremble. “I—I can’t tell you . . .” He seemed to run out of breath.
He was on the hook. Now I just had to reel him in. “Listen, I’m a lawyer. If you tell me who gave you the money, I might be able to help you.” In fact, I was already imagining the argument I’d make for him. But the truth was, I’d probably never have to make a case for dear old Wes. Because the cops had their hands full with the mob of investors who actually wanted their attention. They’d be happy enough to let sleeping dogs lie for those investors who weren’t complaining.
He looked at me with desperation. “You will?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. And everything you tell me will remain confidential. I promise.” Sort of. Depending on whether the name he gave me turned out to be a viable murder suspect—in which case, I’d blast that name to every cop and reporter I could get my hands on.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay. You’re right. I’m fronting for someone. But the money’s clean. I swear!”
I stared at him. “Then why use you?”
His words tumbled out in a rush. “Because he didn’t want anyone to know he was getting into some of the riskier trades.”
That was weird. “Why would he care?”
Wesley shrugged. “He owns a lot of real estate agencies. Does a lot of big land deals. I think he doesn’t want the banks to get the impression he can’t be trusted.”
I wasn’t sure I bought that explanation. But that was a conundrum for a different day. I needed a name. “So who is this millionaire real estate mogul?”
Wesley corrected me. “Billionaire. You might’ve heard of him.”
The name he gave made the blood rush from my head to my toes. A roaring sound filled my ears. I felt myself growing faint. I had to grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling.
Because I’d heard of that billionaire all right.
He was the monster who’d raped me almost every night for the better part of a year when I was twelve years old. The beast who’d starred in all my nightmares ever since. Nightmares I woke up from screaming and drenched in a cold sweat.
Yes, I knew Sebastian Cromer very, very well.
THIRTY-TWO
I’m sure Wesley didn’t notice my reaction. He was too busy worrying about his own skin. But I knew Alex had seen my reaction, because he immediately stepped in and continued the questioning.
I did my best to pull myself together and tried to focus on what they were saying. But I felt like I was watching them through a telescope.
A few things did penetrate my haze. Wesley said Sebastian Cromer had been investing with Gold Strike for the past year. Until now, he’d made quite a bit of money with them. And although he’d taken a bath on the latest cryptocurrency trade, he’d ordered Wesley to lay low until he decided how to deal with Bryan and Tanner.
The latter piece of information made me sit up like I’d been stuck with a cattle prod. There was no way Sebastian would kill anyone himself, but he certainly could’ve hired someone to kill Bryan—and maybe Tanner. Could I really get that lucky? I tuned back in and asked, “So what did he decide to do? Did he tell you?”
Wesley’s gaze drifted toward the door—where he undoubtedly wished he was right now. “Yeah, he decided to meet with Bryan.”
This was almost too good to be true. “And did he?” Wesley nodded. “When?”
“The night before Bryan died,” he said.
I asked, “How do you know?”
Wesley squirmed in his seat. “Because we all had dinner at Sebastian’s house.”
That was weird. “Sebastian took you with him? Why?”
He stammered, “I-I guess—I think to make Bryan nervous.”
I raised an eyebrow. Wesley looked the type to get an ass kicking. Not the type to give one. “Why would your being there make him nervous?”
Wesley dropped his gaze. “Because I had evidence that Bryan was . . . into boys. Photos. And a couple of voice mails. Sebastian threatened to give everything to the police if Bryan didn’t get his money back.”
My soaring hope of finally getting to serve that bastard plummeted to the ground. The only way Sebastian could get his money back was to hold the threat over Bryan’s head. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing Bryan. My next words came out dry and flat. “I assume Bryan promised to get all his money back.”
Wesley nodded. “In fact, he went back to his place that night and got a hundred thousand out of his safe. Gave it to Sebastian.”
I wanted Wesley to stop talking. Every word he said made it more impossible to paint a target on Sebastian’s back. “What about Tanner? Did you or Sebastian ever make contact with him?”
“No,” he said. “Not that I know of. Sebastian didn’t really deal with him. He only dealt with Bryan.”
I let Alex take back the reins for the next fifteen minutes, but Wesley had nothing new to add. Other than the fact that Sebastian paid him five grand a month to be his front man. Seemed like a pretty lousy deal for Wesley. I was sure the money Sebastian was using to invest came from some shady source, and although I didn’t think the cops on the murder case would find out, that didn’t mean other authorities—like the IRS—wouldn’t. And if they did, Wesley was in for some very uncomfortable encounters.
Alex eventually thanked Wesley for his help, and I gave him my card. “Call me if you think of anything else. And if the cops come knocking, don’t talk to them until you talk to me first. Got it?”
Wesley did an almost audible gulp. “G-got it. Th-thanks.”
He really wasn’t cut out for a life of crime. Even the fringe-y kind of thing he’d gotten himself into. When we got back to the car, Alex turned to face me. “Do you want to tell me who Sebastian Cromer is to you?”
I hesitated. I had to tell him something. The question was, how much? Michy already knew he’d been my mother’s boyfriend, and she knew he’d been abusive. But I’d never shared the details. I decided I could tell Alex that much. “He was my stepfather for one dark, horrible year. Left me pretty messed up for most of my teenage years . . . and maybe a little beyond.” To put it mildly. Very mildly. But it was enough for Alex to get the drift. “Sorry if I acted weird. It was kind of a shock to hear his name come up.”
Alex’s eyes were full of sympathy. “I’ll bet. Too bad he didn’t pan out as a suspect. I’d love to see his ass in maximum security.”
I gave him a sad smile. “No, general population. That would be the dream. He’d be dead in an hour.” Maybe less, once I told some of my clients
in prison that he was a child molester. It’s a badge of honor among inmates to kill pedophiles. “But I love that he got fleeced by Bryan and Tanner.”
Alex returned my smile, then started the car. “There is that. Kind of weird that he wound up involved in this Gold Strike disaster.”
I’d thought so, too, at first. But actually, it wasn’t. “Sebastian’s always been heavy into trading, and he usually went for the big, risky hits. That’s how he grew his real estate business so fast.” I added, “That, and probably some gnarly tax fraud.”
We made it to the office just in time for our usual late lunch and found Michy standing behind her desk, purse on her shoulder. She said, “I need to get some fresh air. Want me to bring something back for you guys?”
It was a beautiful day, and after the rain and wind, the air really did smell fresh. The idea of getting out was extra appealing after the morning we’d had. “Tell you what, let’s all go out. But first I have something to tell you.”
As I recounted our conversation with Wesley, Michy let her purse slide down her arm and sank into her chair. When I finished, she said, “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. Sebastian Cromer. I never thought I’d have to hear that horrible name again.”
I couldn’t agree more. “The only good thing is knowing that he got burned—and bad—by Bryan and Tanner.”
Michy knitted her brow. “But if he’s using dirty money, can’t you get him busted for . . . something?”
I’d considered that. “I’d imagine so. But he’s not stupid. He’s probably hidden his tracks pretty well. It’d take time to dig out enough evidence to make a case. And a white-collar conviction wouldn’t be worth it. He probably wouldn’t even do any time.”
Michy sighed and nodded. “You’re right. Someone needs to kill that guy.”
I swung my coat over my shoulders. “Amen to that. Now let’s get out of here and go have lunch.”
We opted for Mardi, a mellow outdoor restaurant on Holloway Drive that served light California-style cuisine. I had the chopped salad with chicken, but Michy and Alex were more adventurous. She ordered the Sicilian fusilli—which, of course, I took bites of until she threatened to stab me with her fork—and Alex ordered the grilled salmon, which also looked good, but I couldn’t fend off fork attacks from both sides.
Michy shook her head. “Why don’t you just order what you really want?”
I finished chewing the forkful of her fusilli I’d just speared. “Because I didn’t know that’s what I wanted until you got it.”
We never talked shop in public. Anything we said would be privileged, and if someone overheard us, we’d have breached the privilege—which meant it could be repeated in court. So Alex told us about the Danube River cruise he and Paul were planning. And Michy talked about how her boyfriend, Brad—an associate at a white-shoe law firm—was trying to persuade her to go on a cruise to Alaska. She was wavering. “I know it’s beautiful and all, but it’s friggin’ freezing.”
I had other problems with the whole cruise business. “It’s awfully close quarters. I think I’d go nuts if I had to spend that much time with Niko nose to nose.”
Alex smiled. “I think that’s part of the charm. But how’s he doing? How’s his mother?”
I said Niko was trying to hang in, but he was stressed. His mother wasn’t in great shape. “She seems to be getting worse.”
Michy’s voice was angry. “Those two assholes. If she dies, it’ll be all because of them.”
Alex nodded. “Speaking of those two assholes, I have another investor for us to meet.”
I’d been pleasantly distracted by our lunch. Now, the darkness and pain that’d flooded through me when I’d learned that Sebastian was involved in the case came rushing back. I pushed away my plate. “Who?”
Alex saw my reaction. “Don’t worry. This one’s a sweetheart.”
Alex told me about her on the drive back to the office. Margaret Vanderhose was the president of a charity that provides meal service for the disabled and elderly.
We went to see her that afternoon at her home. A cozy, three-bedroom cottage-style house in Beverlywood, a neighborhood just south of (and a few income levels lower than) Beverly Hills.
According to the bio Alex had read me, she was in her late fifties. Maybe it was her full, rosy cheeks and warm, vibrant personality, but she seemed at least ten years younger. Margaret was utterly devoted to her cause, and her eyes misted over when she described her “family”—which was how she referred to her clients.
When we entered, she led us to the banquette in the breakfast nook. “I’m sorry to squeeze you in here, but I’m remodeling. The rest of the house is all torn up.” She cast a worried look in the direction of what I presumed was the living room. “And now I’m not sure we’ll be able to finish, what with the big hit we took because of Gold Strike.” She shook her head. “If we have to finish it ourselves, it’ll be very bad news. Not that Steven—my husband—isn’t handy. But he’s never actually built anything before.”
Living with that kind of mess and chaos would drive me nuts. “I’m so sorry.”
Margaret waved a hand. “It’s nothing compared to what my family is going through. I’ve had to beg the food banks for donations just to make sure they get something to eat.”
How could those jerks rip off someone like this? But then again, given what I’d seen of them, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I posed the real question. “How did you happen to get involved with Gold Strike?”
Margaret folded her hands on the table. “Our vice president is a friend of Edie and Joey. I don’t know if you’ve heard of their show.” A smile flitted across her lips. “I just love them. I watch them every day. Anyway, they told her about Gold Strike and how much money those men had made for them.”
Edie and Joey might have blinders on when it came to Bryan, but they’d be plenty upset to know what he’d done to a wonderful woman like Margaret and her charity. “Did your vice president ever meet with Bryan and Tanner?”
“She said she didn’t need to,” Margaret said. “But I thought it was important to see them face-to-face and get a sense of who they were.” She shook her head, her voice bitter. “I guess we all know how that worked out.”
I gazed at her with sympathy. “They must’ve impressed you at the time.”
She sighed. “Oh yes. They really did. Promised me I’d get a huge return in just six months.” Margaret bit her lip. “The thing is, I know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. But the foundation had hit a rocky patch. Donations were slowing down. If I didn’t do something, we’d have to cut back our services. Some of our family would be left out in the cold.” She looked sorrowful. “I was desperate.”
I felt badly for her—and her “family.” But I was in search of a suspect, and Margaret clearly didn’t fit the bill. “Did your husband ever meet with Bryan or Tanner?”
She sighed. “No. He blames me for all this. He warned me all along not to get into business with them.” Margaret paused. “Ordinarily, I would’ve listened to him. But then I met Tanner’s mother.”
Tanner’s mother. Wait a minute. “You met his mother? When?”
Margaret looked out the kitchen window. “A year ago? Something like that. We had lunch. She was such a sweet woman. And, oh my, did she ever love her son. Went on and on about how he’d been a child prodigy. Won leadership awards in elementary school and high school. She said he actually started studying the stock market in third grade. Very impressive.”
Sure it was. If any of it had been true. But Alex had found Tanner’s school records. Tanner had never won an award of any kind. More to the point, the woman Margaret had met couldn’t have been Tanner’s mother. She’d died of leukemia ten years ago. “Did you just meet her the one time?”
“No,” she said. “We actually had lunch a few times.”
I had a hunch about where this was heading. “Had you invested with Gold Strike yet?”
She sighed. “No,
I hadn’t. In fact, the last time I saw her was the day I finally did invest.” Margaret met my gaze. “I know. It’s all so obvious now.”
She’d been suckered all right, but Tanner had really worked her hard. And desperation can make fools of all of us. “Do you by any chance have a phone number for her?”
Margaret opened a drawer and took out a pad of pink Post-its. She wrote down the “mother’s” name and phone number and passed it to me. I saw that the name she’d written was Louisa Hunsecker. I gave her a puzzled look. “Tanner’s last name is Handel.”
She nodded. “She told me she’d taken back her maiden name.” Margaret drooped in her chair as her voice filled with sadness and defeat. “I tried calling her when I heard we’d lost all our money, but she never called back.”
That woman—whoever she was—had befriended Margaret for the sole purpose of getting her to invest. And she was every bit the con artist Tanner was.
I’d represented some of the most vicious murderers imaginable. But few were as despicably immoral as Tanner Handel.
THIRTY-THREE
When we got back to the office, I told Michy about our meeting with Margaret.
She made a face. “So he literally robbed the poor and elderly. What a scumbag. Is there any chance Louisa Hunsecker is her real name?”
Alex shook his head. “No way. I’d bet everything she told Margaret was a lie—like that story about him being a child prodigy and all the awards he never really got. But I’ll check out her name, just to be on the safe side.”
As Alex headed to his computer, I turned to Michy. “You know, I’m really hoping that asshole is dead.”