“Did he discuss where he got the money?”
“Campaign funds.”
“Did he discuss those funds? You know, who was supporting his candidacy?”
Reggie’s eyebrows lifted. “He said that a few private individuals believed in him, his family, and some businesses, a couple of car dealers, one of the banks—nothing huge, but enough to keep him going.”
“Did he ever say how he raised this money?”
“He didn’t say too much about that. He credited his brother, Norton, with being good at fund-raising. He was cynical about it. He said banks, ad agencies, construction companies—any kind of business—usually gave a bit to both parties. Hedging their bets.”
“He was critical?” Pete continued.
“Not so critical he didn’t take their contributions. He was an ideologue. They’re the worst.”
“Got that right,” Lonnie piped up.
“You never met any of the contributors?”
“No, but I know he was being very careful not to piss off the casinos in any way. That made me wonder. It wasn’t because he liked them. He didn’t. Thought they had girls on call when needed. We’d pass a casino and he’d go off on yet another tirade about how sex was available for someone who knew how to ask for it and knew what palm needed greasing.”
“Did he ever discuss anyone pulling back their support? Cutting off funding?”
“Yeah. He lost a bank. I don’t know when. Pat didn’t always tell you something when it happened. But I do know one of the banks cut their support and then when he made that idiotic ad about Brad Heydt, the kid who starved, more funding dried up. We’re all damn lucky he didn’t get elected. I didn’t think he would, though. I figured he’d get dumped at the polls.”
“He got thumped,” said Lonnie.
“Did he ever seem afraid to you?”
Reggie’s voice rose. “He’d troll Yolanda Street and there are some serious people down there. I wonder if one of them wiped him out. He was bad for business.”
“You’re right,” said Pete. “We just don’t know what business.”
Reggie lowered his voice, said confidingly, “Some of those boys down there carry thousands in cash. A few of them have to be worth big bucks. Pat could only see the hookers. But Yolanda Street purveys other, finer products.”
“Coke and smack?” Lonnie asked.
“You’d know better than I.”
Pete smiled. “Don’t know that we do. No one down there is going to volunteer information to us.”
“We know Yolanda Street is a market for all kinds of illegal substances and activities,” Lonnie said. “Myself, personally, I think that’s where the big guys offload lesser products. The good stuff is sold quietly to the rich or well connected.”
“Pat focused on the Walmart of such activities,” Reggie replied sarcastically.
At this, both law enforcement officers laughed.
“Ever run into any of those bad guys while you were shooting?” Pete inquired genially.
“No. I don’t even know if they live in Reno. Probably some do. What I’d see were, I guess, the version of the store manager. Never saw the owners.” He patted his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“No,” both men replied in unison.
“Mind if I do?”
“It’s your studio.” Pete smiled.
“Yeah, but some people are really aggressive about this.”
“I’m not,” Pete replied.
“Me neither.” Lonnie seconded the thought.
Reggie fished matches out of his pocket, then pulled a large ashtray toward him. He lit up an unfiltered Camel.
“You don’t fool around.” Pete blinked.
“You’re in as much danger from the tiny particles in filters as you are from tobacco. Might be bad for my health but I want pure tobacco.”
“When did you start to smoke?”
“Two years ago.”
This surprised Pete and Lonnie.
Reggie continued. “Work dried up. I’d worked at the NBC affiliate, did a little moonlighting on the side. Bam!” He emitted a puff of smoke. “Over. I wasn’t the only one out of work. There isn’t a lot of work freelancing, but that was my only option unless I wanted to change careers. Smoking took the edge off. I don’t drink. Can’t handle it.” He inhaled deeply. “I never smoked around Pat. To him, it would have been a sure sign that I engaged in nefarious activities. He dealt in stereotypes. A lot of people do. Maybe he would have been more successful at the polls than I thought.”
“Maybe.”
“Did you talk to his wife yet?” Reggie inquired.
“Yesterday. She was still very upset. Will be for a long time. It took us a while to be able to question her because she was so sedated,” Pete responded. “In a way, she still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Well, I only met her a few times. Thought she was nice enough. Good-looking. Couldn’t imagine what she’d want with a guy like that.”
“We’ll never understand the mysteries of attraction,” Pete quipped.
“Hey, can I get you guys a beer?”
“No. Can’t drink on duty.”
“Like I said, I don’t drink but I always have beer. Sometimes when someone comes in to look at my reel, that beer helps. I have soda, tea, that stuff.”
“No thanks. Let me ask the obvious question. Can you think of anyone who would kill Patrick Wentworth?”
“No, I mean not other than all the people we discussed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
At noon on this particular day, the sun shone brightly on the courthouse steps. Finally released from a series of temporary laws devised to halt foreclosure sales, Reno Sagebrush put twenty-nine small holdings up for auction. Although this was but a small portion of what they took on when they bought out Truckee Amalgamated, it was a start.
Babs, Mags, and Jeep congregated at the base of the steps. A few other real estate agents were also there.
Nate Thornton, Reno Sagebrush’s resell head, was there along with Michelle Speransky and Asa Chartris.
The same official who had offered the Western United foreclosed homes now appeared on the top step.
After the usual brief explanation of protocol, she then read out the first property. “1990 Harvey Street.” She looked at every person at the foot of the steps. “1990 Harvey Street.” A pause followed. “Is there anyone for 1990 Harvey Street?” She put a small mark behind that address on her clipboard. “1996 Harvey.”
The same dismal silence followed 1996 Harvey and the ensuing properties.
“Did you expect this?” Babs asked Riley.
“We’d hoped for a few bids.”
Upon reaching the end of the list, the official turned around and walked back into the courthouse.
Jeep said to Mags, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Aunt Jeep, this is the way it is all over America. You can’t give these houses away.”
Babs rejoined them. “The only good thing I can say is this gives us more time to prepare Spring Street and perhaps other areas.”
Hands in her silk coat pockets, Jeep shook her head. “What a nightmare.”
“Yes indeed. And the tragedy is that there is worth in these properties! And my God, what a bargain.” Babs sounded stalwartly upbeat.
“It’s only a bargain if one has the funds.” Mags pointed out the obvious. “Your ideas are such good ones, for the homeless in those places, for the banks, for the country, but who has ready cash?”
“The banks are sitting on billions.” Babs felt her anger rising.
“As are corporations. But no one knows what’s going to happen with taxes, personal property, you name it. Banks will sit tight until they know who’s coming to power in November 2012. So will everyone else. Why take a chance on anything? No one can do anything until then anyway, not really.”
Babs exhaled. “If only I had more money, I’d buy up blocks. I saw how real estate turned arou
nd in Denver and Houston after the recession in the early eighties. Those that bought blocks of abandoned homes at the bottom made millions upon millions.”
“They did.” Jeep put her hand on Babs’s elbow. “I could buy some of these properties but Babs, I’ve never been one for city investments. Right now my energy is directed toward growing food. I may be throwing money away, but it’s worth a try. And there’s not much profit, I know that. Like you, I believe there’s profit in these properties, just not for me.”
As the three women left the courthouse, Norton Wentworth unlocked the door and entered his brother’s campaign headquarters. Empty, no phones ringing, he stood there for a moment before closing the door behind him.
He’d need to call a cleaning service. He’d already had the phones disconnected. He’d given the landlord notice. A couple of desks, file cabinets, chairs. Wouldn’t take long to empty out the space.
His footsteps reverberated as he walked to his small desk.
Sitting down, he scanned the room. The impact of his brother’s death felt darker here than at home, with Patrick’s widow or their mother. Here his grisly end was almost palpable.
Norton looked down at his desk surface, where a sealed envelope, white but spattered with bloodstains, had been laid. Opening his desk drawer he pulled out an old, thin wooden letter opener.
Hands shaking slightly, he slit open the envelope, pulled out an eight-by-eleven piece of white paper. A hundred-dollar bill stuck to the paper. Soaked in blood, Ben Franklin’s eyes had been neatly cut out.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Babs walked with Lolly Johnson down Spring Street in the morning. After a shared breakfast at Lolly’s country club, for both were early risers, they arrived at Spring Street just in time to see Donald, Melvin, Tookie on a leash, and some other local residents leaving for temporary work at the expo. A few people already stood at the bus stop. No one had a car.
Donald had told Babs she could show Lolly around his house.
Lolly stood in the empty living room, the chimenea in the fireplace still emitting some warmth. Mornings remained cool.
As Babs walked with her from room to room, Lolly commented, “He keeps it clean.”
“Most of them do.” Babs, making light of it said, “There’s not much to get dirty.”
Wisely, the real estate agent refrained from pointing out the difficulties. Lolly, an intelligent woman, would figure it out for herself. Why insult her by pointing out the obvious?
Back on the sidewalk, Babs walked Lolly farther down the block. “Mothers with preschoolers stay home. Their plight is the worst because they can’t work. And, of course, no men.”
Furrowing her brow, Lolly remarked, “I will never believe America and Americans truly love children until we have child-care facilities on a par with libraries. Of course, library funding is being slashed but still the library is a treasure of the community. All are welcome. That’s what I mean.”
“It will never happen, Lolly. The hypocrisy runs too deep, plus children are seen as one man or woman’s possession. God, when my two were little there were times when John and I would have gladly given them away.” Babs grinned.
“I remember one time when Karen was fourteen, Darryl looked at me, pointing a finger, ‘She’s just like your side of the family.’ Then he stopped and added, ‘but when she’s good, she’s like mine.’ Wouldn’t you do it all over again?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Spying a famished kitten studying them intently from behind an upturned garbage can, Lolly knelt down. “Kitty, kitty.”
The curious little one trotted over. From her coat pocket, Lolly pulled out a little dog biscuit and broke it, but the kitten’s teeth weren’t up to the hard biscuit.
Lolly, loving her dogs, always carried treats.
“They’re all over, cats and dogs, abandoned. No one has dumped their children.” Babs sighed.
Lolly scooped up the orange tabby. Placing it partially inside her coat, she was rewarded with very large purrs from such a tiny thing. “What’s one more cat?” She looked at Babs. “I will get the water turned on one way or another.”
“God bless you, Lolly.”
“He’d better because I don’t know if anyone else will.”
They laughed and returned to Babs’s car, where she whisked Lolly over to her vet. The kitty needed a checkup.
That evening after a wonderful dinner, Lolly sat in the den with Darryl, telling him what she’d seen and why SSRM must take the lead in giving people a leg up. All the while, Hobo, the newly named kitten, slept on Darryl’s lap. He loved cats and Hobo took right to him.
“Honey, this is a big order. George W. spoke to me about it, too. I’ve sounded out the board. You can imagine their response.”
“Yes, honey, I can. And I know you can bring them around. Darryl, we must do something.”
Like many successful men, he had married successfully, too, and trusted his wife’s judgment. “All right.”
“If SSRM does this and the public knows, the other utilities will be shamed into it. I just know it.”
“Someone has to make up the shortfall. We can’t supply services for less or for free.”
“Oh, I know. Babs and I talked about that and it’s the banks that have to come through on the difference. She said Jeep thought so, too, and even some people inside the banks feel some responsibility for all this.”
“Well, they aren’t responsible for the squatters.” He then added, “I wonder if any of those people worked at banks that have gone under. One can fall out of the middle class very fast.”
“I have a plan. Let me give it a shot and then I’ll tell you.” She looked at Hobo: warm, full, probably happy for the first time in her short life. “She loves you already. Females always do.”
He stroked the kitten. “Mrs. Johnson, you’re working up to something, don’t be coy.”
She smiled. “I’m not. But sometimes I think about all the years, how we met, how you built up the business, how we raised our kids and I am reminded again of why I love you. You love other people and so many people with drive don’t, I think.”
“They don’t have a wife like you, who reminds me of what’s truly important. The rest of it, while exciting, is”—he waved his hand—“just stuff.”
That same evening Pete and Lonnie were at Emma Logan’s apartment. It had occurred to Pete that Robert Dalrymple might have used Emma’s computer. The personal computer found at his apartment had been damaged and the Sheriff’s Department couldn’t repair it. Pete asked if he and Lonnie could look through her files and she readily agreed. She said that indeed Robert had used her laptop when his had started to fail.
Velcro sat at Emma’s feet as the three of them huddled around her Mac.
“Do you two always work this late?” she asked.
Lonnie, about Emma’s age, replied, “Sometimes Pete gets a lightbulb moment. I always pay attention when he does.”
“Right.” Pete rolled his eyes as he sat next to Emma.
For whatever reason, Emma loved her mouse, which she had decorated as a mouse. She moved it about while they ran searches for files using specific key words.
“Try mortgages.”
She typed that in. Nothing came up.
The three of them threw out words involving loans, mortgages, foreclosures, Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac. Everything they could think of, but nothing worked.
“Let’s try auditing,” Emma offered. “He said every bank has an auditing department but given the mess, they are overwhelmed. He said if you wanted to steal from a bank that this was the best time.” She then added, “Not like Dillinger, but from inside.”
“No kidding.” Lonnie was surprised.
“Someone good with a computer, who knows the routine, can move money around quickly then replace it, they can hide it, too. He said given the chaos, especially when one bank buys another, it can be done. Also, Truckee took government money. In theory, management knows what’s on the books, bu
t they might not know where it is. And he said, each bank had its own computer system. Meshing those systems would take months and there still will be glitches.”
“Think he did that, took money and replaced it?” Pete asked.
“No. He was like a big kid. If he’d outsmarted Big Daddy, I don’t think he could have kept it to himself.”
“Emma, what if someone else outsmarted Big Daddy and he knew about it?” Pete inquired insightfully. “Do you think he’d inform the bank?”
She looked from the screen to him. “No, never. He’d watch them take the hit. After all, they shoved him out,” she said with some feeling.
After forty-five minutes of searching through various file folders of documents, they had found exactly nothing.
“May I use the bathroom?” Lonnie asked.
“Sure. Down the hall, first door to your right.”
“Don’t forget to hitch up your skates.” Pete teased him.
“I never heard that before,” Emma said.
“My father says it. He always instructs me to zip up, wash my hands, and leave everything as clean as I found it. Still says it to me.”
“Hitch up your skates. I’ll remember that.” She sat up straight, feeling energized, and typed in “Big Guy. Here we go.”
Lonnie rejoined them just as financial information filled the screen.
“Foreclosed homes.” Lonnie whistled.
“And what he believes their actual value to be.” Pete allowed himself a tingle of hope.
Emma scrolled through as the number of foreclosures from Truckee Amalgamated numbered over two thousand. A simple asterisk in front of some of the addresses identified those properties Robert felt had the best resale value.
Emma ran more searches.
“Try resell officers,” Pete said.
A list of bank resell officers for each bank filled the screen. Their assistants were also listed, as well as what Robert thought their special interest might be, and which parts of Washoe County that person favored.
They tried loan officers. The same type of information filled the screen.
“He really was trying. He was sure he could put real estate people, realtors, buyers, and loan officers together.” Her eyes misted over. “It’s such a shame.”
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