Murder Unleashed

by Rita Mae Brown

  By the time they reached Wings Ranch, all parties had been contacted, nine A.M. tomorrow, Holland and Fille.

  In the house Jeep fed the hungry dog. He ate with such pleasure. Mags brought down some old towels to make a bed for him in the warm kitchen.

  “He’ll need a trip to the vet. Poor little thing,” Mags said. “Skinny. Can see every rib. Like little bent toothpicks.”

  “That’s his name then. Toothpick.” Jeep put her hands on her knees. “You know he loved that dead boy. The kid couldn’t feed the dog or himself.” Tears ran down her face.

  Seeing this, Mags got misty herself. She put her arms around her great-aunt. “We did what we could.”

  “Too late. Too late.”

  King licked Jeep’s hand. Baxter went to Mags.

  Toothpick also licked Jeep’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Jeep cried all the more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  George W. walked along the Truckee River with his boss. Twice a month, the two had lunch outside the office. They’d become friends. Then, too, there were matters best discussed in the office and others best explored elsewhere.

  Brilliant sunshine bounced off the fast flowing Truckee onto the buildings on its banks. Both men wore sunglasses, a staple in Nevada.

  “This will come back on us,” said George W., hands deep in his pockets.

  “George, there are about one hundred sixty-four thousand houses in foreclosure in Reno. We can’t turn service back on for all of them,” Darryl Johnson replied without anger. “This is a problem for government, not Silver State Resource Management.”

  “Darryl, it’s government that got us into this mess. Them and the banks. And the banks are sitting on a hell of a lot more money than we are. Must be wonderful to get billions of dollars for failing.” George W. felt only disgust for the current situation. “In truth, it’s the banks that should pay for some restored services on those foreclosed homes. The electric company and the gas company should pitch in, too. We need to approach the banks.”

  Such a revolutionary idea would never have occurred to Darryl, which is not to say he wasn’t listening. Most leaders reject the unusual, the innovative, especially if it will cost them more in the beginning. They might accept the new in technology but not when trying to solve people problems. The homeless were a people problem, an ever-growing people problem.

  Darryl’s willingness to hear off-the-wall ideas, as well as potentially applicable ones, made him a dynamic leader.

  “Well”—he pondered this—“It’s going to be a tough sell. First thing we have to do is determine how many people are in this situation. Then we have to winnow the wheat from the chaff.”

  George W. wasn’t sure he was hearing right. “What do you mean?” The big man smiled because Darryl’s brain was already clicking along.

  “Patrick Wentworth defines squatters as the crackheads in the Yolanda Street area. Obviously, if we turn on water there the whole county will be in an uproar. Decent people pay their bills, drug addicts and dealers don’t.”

  “Right.”

  “So the first order of business is trying to come up with reliable statistics on how many nonaddicts are holed up in these foreclosed houses.”

  “Right.” George W. saw his point.

  “Last night’s coverage of that poor kid who starved to death, sad though it was, might turn out to be a help. A young man dies alone, cold, starved. His story arouses sympathy. It aroused mine.” A long silence followed. “Let’s talk to our department heads on this, especially marketing. They know how to reach their counterparts in other companies. We need to work on this in-house first.”

  “What about the banks?”

  “I don’t know. We’re all going to have to find the road in. It’s so highly political.” Darryl shook his head.

  George inhaled the sparkling air. “Seems to me, one or both of our senators could help on that. It was the federal government that bailed banks out. So those funds should be flowing back into the community. Like I said, this is a big order. Leave it to Babs Gallagher to throw out the first pitch.”

  This perked up Darryl. He liked a challenge. “Babs Gallagher knows the bankers and she knows real estate. What made you think of her now, just out of curiosity?”

  “Twinkie and Bunny. She felt responsible for them after they’d riled up John Morris.”

  “Yes?” Darryl stopped walking for a second.

  “Not only are they the best repair team, they keep their eyes open. Bunny has been spending time on Spring Street. There’s a little girl there, he says she’ll be in kindergarten next year. He feeds the child and her mother. He’s frantic to find a way to keep the kid warm. Now he drags Twinkie down there. There are other kids. So Twinkie’s on the team. You know, my boys, rough and ready on the outside, big teddy bears on the inside.”

  Darryl smiled. “Ever think about that, George W.? How men who work with their hands, maybe they don’t have college degrees and can be quick with their fists, but step up to help and so often those of us in three-piece suits just walk on by.”

  “I do think about it, Darryl. I don’t want to be one of those men.”

  “I don’t, either. Damn you, you’ve thrown me the biggest curve ball here since I’ve been president of SSRM.” He paused. “And you know what? I’m going to hit that damned ball right out of the park—with or without the bankers on the team.” He clapped George W. on the back and they both laughed.

  As Darryl and George W. walked back to SSRM’s sleek offices, Pete and Lonnie sat in different offices, fancy bankers’ offices, in which also sat Reno Sagebrush VP Asa Chartris.

  “No reason to fault Dalrymple’s performance. We had to downsize and his performance wasn’t outstanding at Truckee Amalgamated. This happens in buyouts, a portion of workers from the purchased firm are let go.”

  “Were you the one who fired him?” Pete asked.

  “No. Each department head broke the news to those affected in his department.”

  “Did you ever meet Robert Dalrymple?”

  “No, I only reviewed his records, which as I said were good but not outstanding. Thirty percent of Truckee Amalgamated people lost their jobs in the buyout. Payroll is one of the first places any business looks to save money. The payroll taxes alone can bring you down, it’s not just salary. Then there’s health-care costs. The expense of keeping an employee who’s not topnotch just isn’t worth it.”

  “But Reno Sagebrush retained some of Truckee Amalgamated’s people?”

  “The smart ones who foresaw this whole mess, and there were a few. Maybe fifty people. They were a smallish bank. We have also inherited their foreclosures, their debt.”

  “And bailout money?” Pete, no fool, asked.

  “Yes.” A pause followed this admission. “The problem is how to lend it. It sounds simple but it isn’t. Our industry is taking a beating on this. My department and the loans and mortgage department are reviled.”

  “People are angry. Is it possible someone whose house was foreclosed on by your bank might target one of your current or past employees, say, Robert?”

  Asa threw up his hands. “Anything’s possible. I’m surprised some of us haven’t been hung from lampposts along with members of Congress. The anger is hot and it’s comforting, I suppose, to blame an easy target, anyone.”

  “Human nature.” Lonnie let that slip out then quickly returned to his notebook.

  “Mr. Chartris, Robert’s girlfriend told us that he planned to start a business, to be a liaison between people seeking loans and the banks, and that he almost had the capital, I wondered about the viability of that as a business—can’t anyone just walk into a bank and ask for a loan? I talked to Michelle Speransky about this. She’s been very helpful. She thought Robert might be on to something because, according to her, even though there are federal guidelines about lending money, there are institutional variations. In her estimation, being able to offer a client access to different banks was a good idea.”r />
  “Redlining is one of those peculiarities.” Asa noted the old practice of drawing a red line on a map around districts thought to be bad investments. Loans were not made in that district. “These days dividing up the map goes on in a more sophisticated way. By that I mean it’s all computer generated. There are numbers given for an area’s citizens’ credit ratings, numbers for prime business locations. It’s foolish—one of the reasons we’re in this mess. Redlining, at least, was based on direct observation, not that I agree with it because some of it was discriminatory against Hispanics. It wasn’t just their salaries, you know. Decisions now are based on computer numbers.”

  “Miss Speransky said some parts of town might look better to the head of the loan department in bank A and another part of town or the county looked better to the head of the loan department in bank B. Knowing the individuals at the right bank might facilitate a loan. This was Dalrymple’s plan. Would it work?”

  Asa leaned back in his chair. “Let me put it this way, I wouldn’t base my future on such a business.”

  While not a business major, Pete had a lot of common sense. “Why not? Too many commissions? The real estate costs, plus Robert’s fee? Then the points to the bank for making the loan?”

  “Exactly.” Asa looked more intently at Deputy Meadows.

  “Well, Mr. Chartris, what if in order to bring the two parties together, it was the bank who paid Dalrymple’s commission? Given the number of bad loans, the bank really can’t afford more bad debt, so if Dalrymple had vetted the client, that would be a plus.”

  This startled Asa Chartris. “Uh—I suppose.”

  “Have any of the former employees of Truckee Amalgamated threatened this bank or its workers?” Pete asked.

  Asa was startled at the shift in topic. “Not that I know of. Look, when it all hit the fan, Truckee Amalgamated couldn’t do anything other than what it did. Any smart business person could see that. Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. Look, all the banks had problems. Our timing was better than Truckee Amalgamated. We ran faster from the bear than they did.”

  Back in the squad car, Pete drove past a casino. Its moving marquee showed dancing girls. “Mags can find the money trail if anyone can.”

  “Of course, that’s why you want to see her every waking moment.” Lonnie chuckled. “Because of her beautiful mind.”

  “How’d you guess? And I don’t see her every waking moment. I work out at five-thirty in the morning. Baseball practice starts next week. I do take her to the shooting range though, kill two birds with one stone.” He grinned, then switched back to the murder. “Lonnie, Dalrymple was killed over something he knew. Information can be a form of stolen goods. He was on to something and, like a lot of guys with their line in the water, he was sure he’d snag the biggest fish.”

  “Instead, he got snagged.”

  “I keep asking myself, what would provoke someone who wasn’t insane to kill? Or—who knows?—maybe the killer is insane.”

  “Pete, I think there are as many reasons to kill as there are people.”

  Pete stopped the car, waiting for the green light. “The more I think about the body being dumped, warm, in Cracktown, the clearer one thing becomes: Robert Dalrymple was naïve.”

  “They got him first.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  While Mags waited at the foot of the Washoe County courthouse steps, she pulled her scarf a little tighter against the cold. A block of properties in foreclosure—held by Western United, a huge regional bank—was up for sale.

  All counties in the United States sell foreclosures on the courthouse steps, houses to which heirs cannot be found after owners die, or those encumbered by years of back taxes. Each county devises its own special wrinkles but basically the properties for sale are advertised in the paper for a month to six weeks before the date. The sale time is often in the morning or at noon. A cash deposit or cashier’s check needs to be presented as earnest money. If the property goes for more than potential buyers considered, that creates a scramble. Unfortunately, no such scrambling was happening.

  For years, few properties came on the market this way. Now there was a flood.

  Western United owned many properties in foreclosure south of Reno, a fairly upscale area closer to Tahoe.

  A few real estate agents attended the auction on the courthouse steps, wishing to gauge the market.

  The resell head of the Reno branch of Western United stood in the crisp air, as did Michelle Speransky, Asa Chartris, and an attractive middle-aged man.

  After chatting with Mags, Babs joined the business crowd.

  Wishing to give Davidson and Fletcher timely information about the banks unloading toxic assets, Mags thought she should observe closely.

  At noon, a short lady wearing a wool skirt, lavender sweater, and a full-length coat appeared upon the top step. She pulled out papers and, without a megaphone, reminded the assembled that a ten percent deposit must be made on the winning bid, then began reading off addresses.

  Walking up behind the public official was a young man who would take the down payment and record the transaction.

  “63 Mountainside,” the woman called.

  No response from the crowd.

  She repeated this address two more times, then moved on. The whole list took less than a half hour. Fourteen properties—each of them once in a hot neighborhood, the kind where kitchens boasted granite counters, foyers were marble—did not sell.

  The grim mood washed over all of those at the courthouse, including the two officials. Shoulders slumped, they walked back into the courthouse, the doors closing behind them reflecting the light.

  Babs returned to Mags. “Not even a glimmer of interest.”

  “It is depressing,” Mags agreed.

  Michelle came over. “Ladies, good to see you, despite the circumstances. I wanted to see for myself how our competitors were faring. Our head of resell urged me to do it and Asa, too. Not a pretty picture.”

  Wearing supple maroon deerskin gloves, Babs rubbed her hands together. “This is going to take much longer than we’d hoped.”

  “It’s not really like the thirties where federal money kick-started the economy.” Michelle studied economic history, as did Mags.

  “Exactly.” Babs’s face flushed. “Then they put the money into work programs. Yes, some went to industry, but a lot of it went into getting people back on their feet, earning a salary.”

  “Too simple. Everyone wants to complicate things to make themselves look smarter. All they’re doing is dragging us down.” Bitterness crept into Michelle’s voice. “Of course, I enjoy getting ahead of my competitor, but I don’t wish this on any bank and, you know, we’ll soon be selling off our foreclosed properties and will have to meet all the federal and state guidelines for resell. It’s a disaster.”

  Mags, with a sneaky smile, said, “FDR was saved by the advent of World War II.”

  Babs gave Mags a sharp glance. “Certainly let’s not wish for that.”

  “I’m not, but I’m not fooled by thinking all the programs of his administration were necessarily what revived the U.S. economy.”

  Once again Michelle took Mags’s measure. “Well, you don’t toe the party line, do you?”

  “No, and I learned that the hard way. To switch back to what we just saw: What happens now?”

  “If we’re left alone by regulators,” Michelle said, “Western United can seek its own private buyers, perhaps selling large numbers, packaged so to speak, to an individual or corporation. If banks are further impeded by regulation, then Western United will sit on those foreclosed homes for months, maybe years. The assets will deteriorate; homes need to be kept up. It’s like a snowball on a hill.”

  “Sort of like banker and real estate insider trading.” Babs got it instantly, but then, she would.

  “Well, the public is suspicious after all that’s happened. Hard to blame them. I wish I had an answe
r.” Mags turned to Babs. “Why can’t a realty company or a syndicate of companies from out of town buy blocks, sections of subdivisions?”

  “We could if we had the money,” said Babs. “Then we’d need more capital to do the repairs. You saw Spring Street—and all in all, it’s in a condition that is fairly easy to rehabilitate, for now. So there are two large outlays of cash and then you have to advertise. Plus we’d have to pay the water, power, and gas services until the properties are sold. You can’t show a house without electricity. You can see why no one is stepping up to the plate.”

  “I’m still holding on to the belief that these properties are assets,” Michelle said.

  “I’m glad I came down here,” Mags said simply.

  Michelle sighed. “I doubt you can return to Davidson and Fletcher with a recommendation to purchase Western United stock.”

  “You know I can’t.” Mags smiled tightly.

  “I understand that. However, if people don’t reinvest in banks it keeps the downward spiral spinning.” Michelle shook her head. “I wish I had an answer. I mean I wish I could convince you and other people in your industry to put money back in.”

  “Hard sell.” Babs shrugged. “Well, ladies, we haven’t solved the problems of the world today but it was still good to see you two. When I was your age, the only women here would have been those who worked for the county—like the recorder who stepped outside—or women with their husbands, the two of them intent on picking up a property. Whenever I get blue about all this I remind myself some things have changed for the better.”