“Guess not.”
“Well, it’s a crazy-expensive disease. George took his mom into his home years ago, but that stopped working when she needed twenty-four-seven care. Last year he applied for a loan to get her into an upscale dementia facility. It cost him a hundred thousand dollars to get her in the door, and he pays at least that much annually to keep her there. It’s crazy money. Poor guy.”
“Won’t the government pay for that kind of thing?”
“Not much. Without George, she’d probably be out on the street or in some dump. He’d never allow that to happen.”
“So he can’t jeopardize his job by exposing the truth.”
“Exactly.”
“Then Rich has him right where he wants him.”
“He has him by the balls.”
“And Rich knows that?”
“He’s not stupid.”
“No wonder George hasn’t turned Rich in.” I lean back on the bench, considering. A squirrel skitters up to our feet and steals a fallen chip. “So that leaves the two of us to do the right thing.”
“It may leave you to do the right thing. I don’t plan to get involved.”
“Come on, Dipak. You’re better than that. You can’t just sit back and pretend you don’t see the scams going down.”
“Why do I have to be a hero?”
“Why not? You’re young. Don’t you want to make a difference?”
“Isn’t that a job for compliance? Why don’t you tell Vanessa?”
“Because she’s in on it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” I tell Dipak about the affair.
“Holy shit. You sure about this?”
“Saw it with my own eyes.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“No way. The fact that Vanessa knows about this makes it even worse. I’ve got a good job, and I like living in this town. I don’t want to screw things up.”
I can’t let Dipak off the hook. A single complaint will get filed in some government drawer. Two complaints and they’ll perk up their ears.
“But you are involved,” I say. “You’ve heard the rumors. You’ve seen the files. You know as much as I do, maybe more. Rich didn’t qualify for his home equity loan, not by a long shot. Then there’s the long list of insiders who have gotten loans when in truth they didn’t qualify either. And now that Casa Bella project’s getting shoved down the bank’s throat when the numbers don’t add up. We know too much, you and me. We can’t pretend we don’t.”
Dipak gets up, tosses his salad box into a nearby trash can, and returns with a worried look. “I’m telling you it’s none of my business. I can’t afford to throw away my career. I’ll be blacklisted if anyone finds out.”
“No one will find out. And if they do, they can’t touch us. We’re protected under the safe harbor laws.”
“You believe that?” Dipak asks, eyeing me closely.
“I do.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“And you call me a cynic?”
He balls up his hands, his voice rising. “I said I don’t want to get involved!”
I lean back. “Sorry to upset you.”
“It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong,” he says, pacing. “I haven’t lied in an analysis. Faked any numbers. But if I file a complaint and the shit hits the fan, I could get myself fired.”
“Believe me: you won’t. They wouldn’t dare.”
“So what if we out them, and the bank implodes? I’ll lose my job anyway.”
I didn’t think I’d need to push him this hard. No matter. I press on. “Look. I’m going to do this whether you help me or not.”
“Then do it.”
“You’ve had your SARs training. You know that if you see something wrong, you could be charged if you don’t report it.”
Dipak stops pacing and works his hands together. “Look, I can’t afford any trouble. I need this job. I’m thinking . . . well, I’m thinking of getting married.”
“Married?” That rattles me. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m not.”
“To Shelby?”
“Who else?”
“But you’ve only been dating a couple of months.”
“Long enough to know she’s the one.”
His announcement hits me like a blow to the chest. It’s only a matter of time before I lose what’s left of our friendship. The thought scorches my heart. But I can only shrug and file away the hurt. This is not the time to get distracted.
“I’m sorry, Dipak,” I say. “I really am. But you need to face reality. I’m going to file a complaint. And if I have to, I’ll file a second one under a made-up name. And a third and a fourth. Whatever it takes. I promise you it won’t be long before the bank is crawling with feds. They’ll go through every single file with a fine-tooth comb. If they figure out you knew something and you didn’t report it, life as you know it will be over. You’ll be facing fines and jail time. That’s just the way it is.”
Dipak sinks onto the bench and drops his head in his hands. “Ah, shit. Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything except helping you to see the truth. For all we know, we’re already under investigation. If we don’t speak up, they’ll assume we’re complicit in a cover-up.”
“Then maybe I’ll just leave,” he says in a muffled voice. “I’ll quit and move home and stay out of the whole damn mess.”
“And do what? Scrub toilets in Mojave?”
“I’ll find another job. Maybe somewhere in LA.”
I press on. “It may still come back to haunt you. Just because you walked away from your job doesn’t mean you won’t be prosecuted.” I’m really stretching here.
Dipak’s head drops lower. “Shit,” he says. “I’m screwed. Totally, royally screwed.”
“Not if we handle this right.”
He eyes me sideways. “And you know how to do that?”
“I think I do.”
“You think?”
“I know I do.”
He’s quiet for so long I’m not sure which way this will go. When he finally speaks up, his voice sounds so defeated that guilt surges through my gut. “All right,” he says. “I’ll do it. You write the thing, and I’ll sign it.”
“Great,” I say, faking enthusiasm. “You’re making the right decision.”
“Am I?”
“You are. We’ll file the complaints, and I promise you the two of us will come out on top.”
Which is a lie, of course. I have no idea what will happen.
Kathi
July 4, 2016
I’m standing on the edge of our terrace, taking in the view of the promised land. It’s the Fourth of July, and it’s so hot I can barely breathe. Parties dot the wooded landscape. Music here. Sparklers there. Flames peek from barbeque grills. It’s hard to imagine not a single invite—we received a dozen last year. I’m a nothing. A nobody. A speck of dirt on the earth. Rich is lucky he never lived to see the new world. It would’ve sent him to his grave.
It’s after nine, and the fireworks are just getting started. The first ones flash red, white, and blue, lighting up the length of the breakwater, casting colored shadows on the harbor below. I picture families standing arm in arm, oohing at the glorious sight. But the gnats are out in full force tonight, so I soon retreat inside. I shut the pocket doors to keep out the bugs and head upstairs to cool off in a cold shower. Then I dress in shorts and a T-shirt and make a beeline for the wine. All week I’ve worked to prove my son wrong and limit myself to a single drink. I’m not a drunk. I like to drink. There’s a difference. I’ve found it easier if I start drinking later, when there’s less time to kill before heading to bed. So I dither around as long as I can before taking my very first sip.
Earlier this evening I put the box in the freezer, and what comes out now is slushy snow. O
ne glass. One glass. One glass. I repeat that mantra in my head. I fill up my goblet to the tippity top and try not to lose a single drop. It cools me as I wander through the simmering heat of the house. If only I could get the damn air conditioner to work. I wonder how much that would cost. More than the remaining pennies in Rich’s coin jar—that’s for sure.
To distract myself from drinking too fast, I fold some laundry, sweep the floor, and toss junk mail in the trash. Then I decide to return order to the bookshelf, still a mess from the awful police raid.
Most of the books belong to Rich—boring self-help tomes that teach businessmen how to invest in stocks and real estate or turn employees into gold. I make a note to donate them to the local thrift shop. Give the bookshelves room to breathe.
I’m finishing up with the straightening when my hands come across a hidden stash. Years ago I’d concealed seven journals behind my collection of art books to keep Rich from throwing them out. Aunt Genny gave me my first journal on my fourteenth birthday. She thought that writing might help to ease the pain of my parents’ deaths.
I take the journals upstairs and set them in order on the nightstand. It’s been a quarter century since I cracked their spines. Climbing into bed, I open the first journal and find a faded Polaroid tucked between the front cover and the end sheet. It’s a photo of Aunt Genny hugging me at the entrance to her farm. Lights twinkle above us. There’s snow on the ground. I bet she was trying to cheer me up, but I look so very sad.
I never saw Aunt Genny after her cancer diagnosis and spoke to her only once or twice that entire year. Never got a chance to say goodbye. Of course, I couldn’t help it. I was busy with multiple fund-raisers, and Jack was still swimming back then. Plus Rich never grew to like Aunt Genny. He claimed she eyed him with contempt. Eventually, he persuaded me to stop seeing her. I regret that decision now. A wave of guilt rises before me. I gulp my wine and swim away.
I slip the photo between the pages and begin to sample snippets of passages. After working my way through the first six journals, I stare with unease at the seventh. No need to read that one. Just more depressing entries that exaggerate the sad parts of my life. Sure, times were a little rough after Jack was born, but for the most part Rich and I were happy. Deliriously, ecstatically happy. I’m absolutely certain of that.
I’m not sure why I saved the journals. I should have gotten rid of them years ago. When I get a chance, I’ll toss them in the trash. Or better yet, I’ll burn them. I don’t want Jack to get his hands on this nonsense. He’ll think I never loved his father. He’ll think I never loved him.
It’s time I focus on the upside again. Yes, that’s what I must do. Like tonight, for instance. The upside of not going to a Fourth of July party? I’ll feel much better in the morning. I’ll wake up early and write. The police still have my computer, so I’ve handwritten the second chapter of my novel. Tomorrow I’ll get started on the third.
I stumble downstairs, refill my goblet, and take my place on the couch. Two drinks doesn’t make me a drunk, no matter what my son has to say.
May 20, 1988
Last night Rich put his fist through the wall. That’s the second time since Jack was born. He says it’s my fault because I push his buttons. That I need professional help. He thinks Jack cries all the time because I’m a bad mother. I really don’t think that’s true. It’s just that I’m so sad. So lonely. Some days I can barely drag myself out of bed. If only Rich would spend more time at home and help me out every now and then. But he says I signed on to the homemaker “job,” and on the weekends he deserves a rest. He’s taken up golf and tennis. He has new friends I’ve never met.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who he is. I love Jack with all my heart, but I’d give anything to start over. I wish I had taken that job in New York. I wish I hadn’t married so young. I wish I had a friend to talk to. I wish I hadn’t gained so much weight.
Crystal
December 7, 2015
Pushing Dipak put the final nail in the coffin of our friendship; he mostly stays clear of me now. There’s no chatter in our office. No lunches. No beers. He spends his free time with little Shelby, leaving me out in the bitter cold. I miss the times we spent together, and it hurts more than I care to admit. You’d think I’d lost a lover, not some workplace friend. I’ve tried directing my anger at Dipak. Pictured Shelby squashed in my hands. But I know I have no right to lash out, no authority to seek revenge. I willingly traded our friendship for a base hit in my payback game.
I mailed off our complaints two months ago now, and nothing has come of them yet. If the feds were poking around the bank, I would’ve gotten wind of it by now. At night my worries scuttle around my head like mice searching for morsels of grain. What if the feds never follow up on our leads? What if they absolve Rich of his sins? And what about the innocent bystanders? Could George get dragged through the mud? Could Dipak lose his job? It surprises me to have such thoughts. I mean, when did I start caring about others? I don’t like this side of me. Feelings like these can only mess with my plans.
Yesterday I spent hours in the library researching my latest hunch. There’s an unknown LLC involved in Van Meter’s syndication, and its name delivered a clue.
VSA LLC.
VSA? Those are Vanessa’s initials. Coincidence? I thought not. I scoured the state website for information—well hidden, that’s for sure. Eventually I learned that VSA was owned by a second LLC. And that second LLC by a third. After hours of relentless searching, I found my pot of gold: the managing member of the original entity was none other than Richard P. Wright. My, my, Mr. President. How low can you get? And all that to trade in a wife.
Now on a sunny morning in December, my depression has drifted away. I’ve been digging through the Casa Bella file to confirm what I found. VSA LLC owns a one-third interest in Van Meter’s $3 million syndication. I’m guessing Rich invested the proceeds from his home equity loan into the first LLC. He then funneled the funds through the sham corporations until it made its way to Casa Bella. Smart move if you need a way to shelter money from a potentially greedy wife. Thank you, Rich, for giving me a second avenue to wreak havoc on your life.
“Busy, Crystal?” Kevin stands at the office doorway, his presence a downer to my day. I snap shut my file.
“Apparently not.”
“Want to check out the Casa Bella project?”
I perk up. “Sure. When?”
“Right now.”
“Let’s go.” I pick up my purse.
“Should we drive?”
“It’s only five blocks. Let’s walk.”
“That’s not too far for you?”
I stare at him until his cheeks grow red, and then I turn and walk out the door.
Once outside, I hurry along at a breakneck speed just to prove an important point. I’ve been eating better lately and walking a couple of miles a day. Add to that the drought in Friday-night drinking, and my clothes have begun to feel loose. I don’t remember having that sensation before. It’s actually kind of nice. Even nicer is the sound of Kevin huffing and puffing by my side.
“It’s not a race,” he grumbles.
“Everything’s a race,” I reply.
When we arrive at the construction site, I’m surprised to see the old adobe has been demolished and replaced by an open pit. Two tractors work deep in the chasm, pushing dirt from side to side. A pile of boulders at least ten feet high rests on the east side of the project.
Kevin climbs up a few rickety steps and knocks on the door of a raised metal shed. Van Meter appears, dressed in canvas pants and a flannel shirt, a safety helmet perched on his head.
“Isn’t this exciting?” he asks with a sparkling smile. “Demolition means there’s no going back.” He skips down the stairs and stands beside Kevin with folded arms. “It’s my favorite part of a project.” He turns and eyes me coolly. “I haven’t seen much of you, Crystal. I thought you might have been reassigned.”
I haven�
�t laid eyes on Van Meter since that day I got dissed. I fight an urge to knee him in the balls. “No such luck,” I reply in my most sarcastic voice. And fuck you, asshole. You’re now a target in my sights.
“This is awesome,” Kevin says, wonder in his eyes. “Those tractors are huge. I mean, they’re the biggest I’ve ever seen.”
Van Meter turns to him. “You like tractors?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I suppose. We’re digging a subterranean parking lot on a tight schedule, so we lined up the biggest ones in town.”
“Must cost you a mint.”
“They do.”
“Well, I’m impressed you’ve gotten this far without drawing on your construction loan.”
“I’ve wrangled good terms from our subcontractors. Plus I’m using my investor funds first.”
“Smart move.”
Van Meter chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ve run through most of our funds. I’ll be needing that construction loan soon.”
Van Meter and Kevin keep talking through the dust and the noise, but my mind has wandered away. Investor money almost used up and no building yet in place. If there was ever a time to throw a wrench in the works, that time would be now. But how?
“What about security?” Kevin asks. “Shouldn’t there be a fence?”
“Of course,” Van Meter replies. “As soon as the digging is finished, we’ll install a chain-link fence, along with a full-time security guard. If nothing else, we need to keep an eye on our problem neighbor. He lives right over there.” He points at a tiny Victorian cottage nearly hidden behind the looming rock pile. “The old man’s crazy. Wouldn’t sell his house even though we offered him double what the dump is worth. I bet he’d dynamite our project if he could get away with it.”
The old man’s house is in way worse shape than the one I call home. Its roof slants over a porch that has buckled with age and weather. When they finish building the four-story structure, his place will be forever darkened by its shadow. If the man were smart, he would’ve sold out. But maybe he couldn’t imagine starting a new life.
“So when do you expect security to be in place?” I ask, pretending to take notes.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 13