by Joseph Badal
He shook his head as though to clear it of these strange ideas and questions, but they wouldn’t dissipate. He knew he’d leaped to another level, like surging through a time warp membrane into a strange and unknown land. Murder! Another dimension altogether.
The drive home took him twenty minutes. By the time he entered the house through the garage, he was jacked up on alcohol, adrenaline, and testosterone. He climbed the stairs to the second level, picturing what his naked wife looked like, sprawled on the bed, robe open. He disrobed on his way to her room, dropping his clothes on the floor as he went, completely naked when he got to her bedside.
Wendy had shifted and was now lying on her back, spread-eagled on the side of the bed, the corners of her robe caught between her thighs.
Folsom thumped the side of her head with his middle finger. “You awake?”
Wendy groaned.
He shook her. “Wake up!” he shouted.
She rolled on her side toward him, groaning as she moved.
Enough of this crap, Folsom thought. He grabbed a handful of her robe and ripped it from under her, leaving it bunched under her head. He rubbed a palm over her stomach, pressing down firmly against her tight but bruised muscles.
The pain from Folsom’s touch must have finally penetrated Wendy’s brain. She sprang awake and cried out, “Jesus!”
“Jesus ain’t gonna help you here, sweetie,” he said, rubbing harder.
“No! Not tonight. I hurt so bad. Ple-e-e-aze.”
“Especially tonight, Wendy. Especially tonight,” he murmured
Folsom mounted her and quickly satisfied himself. He knew, and he knew she knew, that the worst was yet to come. He took her face in one hand and squeezed her cheeks, his fingers compressing the swollen areas around her eyes, until she screamed with pain.
“That’s my girl,” Folsom said. “You never disappoint me.”
He moved his hand down to her left breast and squeezed the nipple until her screams came in a long, high-pitched sequence. He started to move down her body so he could put his mouth on her breast when a shrill ringing broke into his reverie.
“What the hell!” Folsom spat, knowing it was his cell phone. Very few people had the number, so it must be important, especially at this late hour. “Sonofabitch!”
He climbed off Wendy and slapped her face. “Don’t move,” he roared. “I’ll be right back.”
He went in search of his cell phone, which was in a pocket of the pants he’d dropped somewhere in his bedroom. In a corner of the room, he saw the light blinking through the fabric of his pants. Snatching them off the floor, he rummaged in the pocket, grabbing the phone, and jerking it free. He looked at the display and recognized the number: Donald Matson’s. He pressed the TALK button.
“This better be good, Matson. You’re interrupting something very important.”
“I’ve got problems, Gerald. Bad problems.”
Oh, Jeez, what a pussy, Folsom thought. “Your wife find you in bed with the babysitter?”
“This isn’t funny,” Matson cried. “The FDIC performed an audit of the safety deposit box owners at Broad Street National Bank. It was just a standard audit, looking for anything suspicious. You know, names of politicians or of organized crime members. But they found the box in my name. Someone from the agency’s Inspector General’s office just served me with an order to disclose the contents of the box when the bank opens tomorrow. They want to inventory the contents.”
“So? You’re a citizen. You’re allowed to have a safety deposit box.”
“They thought it was strange I had a box in downtown Philadelphia, when my office and home are on the northwest side of town.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“The $1 million in cash you gave me is in there.”
“You fuckin’ idiot. You left the money in the box? In my bank?!”
“Where else was I going to put it? It’s not like I can invest it in a mutual fund.”
A sudden thought hit Folsom. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got the safety deposit boxes at the other banks I’ve taken over, with the cash still sitting in them.”
“Well, I’ve taken out some of the money. Gifts for the family, private school tuition. Stuff like that. But I can’t buy boats or sports cars without raising questions.”
“Matson, do you realize once the Feds find the cash in your box in Broad Street National Bank, they’ll probably put two and two together and check boxes at all the banks you put me into? How are you going to explain millions of dollars sitting in a half-dozen banks?” What Folsom didn’t add was that there was no doubt in his mind once the Feds started interrogating Matson, he’d spill everything he knew, including how Gerald Folsom had paid him off. They were both going to jail.
Matson began crying. “Oh God, Jerry. What am I going to do?”
Folsom considered the options and then snapped, “Pull yourself together. What else do you have in that box?”
“Nothing. Just the money.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. Pull together your car titles, mortgage documents and deeds, any insurance policies you’ve got at home. Take them down to the bank and I’ll meet you there in an hour. And don’t forget your safety deposit box key.”
Folsom terminated the call and started to dress. “What a dickhead!” he growled. As he was putting on his socks and shoes, he called Sanford Cunningham.
“Hello?”
“Sanford, I need your help. That stupid twerp, Donald Matson, just got an order from his agency to disclose the contents of his safety deposit box at Broad Street Bank when the bank opens tomorrow at nine o’clock.”
“Something in the box that shouldn’t be there?”
“You could say that. But that’s something you don’t need to know. Can we get into the safety deposit box vault tonight?”
“Sure. I’ve got the combination to the room lock and the keys to the vault.”
“It’s not on a timer?”
“No, not like the main vault. If it were, we wouldn’t be able to get in until 7:30 in the morning.”
“Thank God for small favors. I’ll pick you up. Matson is going to meet us at the bank at 11.”
Folsom checked on Wendy, who was lying in a fetal position. He bent over and grabbed a handful of her hair. “Passed out again, huh? I’m sorry I had to break up our little love-making session. I know how much you enjoy them. But I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He walked out of the room laughing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wendy had closed her eyes as soon as Gerald returned to her bedroom, realizing from the phone conversation she’d overheard he had to go out. She forced herself not to flinch or moan when he grabbed her hair, and barely took a breath until he left the room. After she heard his car leave the garage and pass under her window, she gathered her strength and sat up, letting her feet rest on the carpeted floor. She took a deep breath, held it, and pushed off the bed, grunting as she stood, her head fuzzy from the sudden movement. Grasping the edge of the bedside table, she steadied herself until the dizziness passed.
Her robe was hanging to one side. She pulled it closed around her and in so doing felt something stiff in the left pocket: A business card. It took her a few seconds to remember where it came from. That man who had been in her bedroom. When was it? Yesterday? Last week? Why had he been here? She couldn’t get her head straight around the memory. The card said the man was an attorney. She palmed it and shuffled to her walk-in closet.
After shucking off the robe and dropping it to the floor, she reached in a drawer for a bra, but decided there was no way she would be able to contort her body enough to put it on. She struggled into a pair of underpants and then put on a sweat shirt and a wrap-around skirt. The thought of putting on heels or lace-up shoes was intimidating. Instead, she selected a pair of sandals, dropped them to the
carpeted floor, and slid her feet into them.
She knew Gerald kept a large amount of money in a safe in his bedroom, but she didn’t know the combination. But there was also cash in his sock drawer. She stumbled out of the closet, through the bathroom, to his bedroom’s top dresser drawer. She came up with a money clip filled with $100 bills and stuck it in her skirt pocket, along with the lawyer’s business card. Leaving the upstairs, her heart stopped when she made it to the entry: Gerald’s Mercedes was coming back up the driveway.
“Oh God! Oh God!” Wendy cried. She panicked, indecisive. Was he going to put his car in the garage? That’s where her car was. She knew she needed to move, but she couldn’t decide where to go. Then it hit her that Gerald had just left the house a few minutes ago. He’d probably forgotten something. Maybe his wallet. If she was correct, he wouldn’t go into the garage; he’d come through the front door. She walked like a nonagenarian, every muscle aching, to the kitchen, and then to the garage. She stepped down into the garage and climbed behind the wheel of her Infiniti SUV. The pain from pulling herself into the high-profile vehicle slammed her brain like a jack hammer.
She sat and waited, hoping Gerald would turn around and drive away again. She thought about being free and safe. About being away from her monster of a husband. Then a wave of staggering fear washed over her. What if he goes into my bedroom and I’m not there? He’ll look for me. She imagined the repercussions. Frozen in place, she realized her life was over if he went upstairs. She suddenly no longer cared about living, not if it meant living with Gerald. She waited for Gerald to come looking for her. The minutes ticked by on the dashboard clock—one, two . . . seven, eight. She heard a noise. Thinking it was the door from the kitchen to the garage, she steeled herself. For the violence. But he didn’t enter the garage. Then she heard the roar of the Mercedes and the scattering of driveway pebbles as Gerald drove away.
Her chest hurt from holding her breath for extended periods of time. She breathed out slowly, waited two minutes, and then pressed the button on the garage door opener on her visor. She backed out of the garage, closed the door behind her, turned the car around and drove down to the gate. After the gate opened automatically, she drove away, with no idea where to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Katherine noticed the wait staff at the restaurant was hovering near their table. She glanced around the dining room and was shocked to see she and Paul were the last two diners.
“Gosh, what time is it?” she asked Paul.
He looked at his watch. “Nearly midnight.”
“What! I can’t believe it. You’d better get me home before I turn into a pumpkin.”
Katherine waved at their waiter. “Check please,” she told him. The young man smiled as though he were a kid on Christmas morning and immediately presented the check.
“I guess I’d better leave him a larger tip than usual,” she said to Paul. For some reason she found that funny and laughed. Paul started laughing with her. By the time she’d put cash on the table to cover the tab and the tip, and they moved toward the door, they were both laughing uncontrollably.
Outside in the parking lot, Paul took her arm and steered her to the passenger side of his car. He leaned close to her and whispered, “You had too much to drink tonight.”
She looked at him askance and said, “Was it H.L. Mencken who said ‘I’ve made it a rule never to drink by daylight and never to refuse a drink after dark?’ ”
“Ah, a quote and a challenge,” Paul said. He released Katherine’s arm and stopped to look up at the moon.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Searching for inspiration.”
“I can’t wait to hear this,” she said, giggling.
“Ah, I have it,” he said. “ ‘We, cold water girls and boys, Freely renounce the treacherous joys Of brandy, whiskey, rum, and gin; The serpent’s lure to death and sin.’ ”
“Where in the name of all that’s holy did you come up with that?”
A frown showed on Paul’s face. He seemed to think about her question and then said, “I really don’t have a clue.”
Katherine stared at him and then again broke out in peals of laughter. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “You’re a surprise, Paul. I’m glad I called you.”
“I’m glad, too,” he said. “We should—” His cell phone interrupted him.
“Who could that be at this hour?” Katherine asked.
“I have no idea, but I hope it’s a client I can charge twice my normal rate for annoying me. Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Sanders,” a woman said. “I need your help. I—” Then the woman began sobbing. Paul could barely make out her words between sobs. “I don’t know what to do. I have no place to go.”
“Miss,” Paul said, “I can’t begin to help you if you don’t tell me who you are.”
A slight pause. Then, “Wendy Folsom. Gerald Folsom’s wife.”
TUESDAY
JULY 19, 2011
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By 1 a.m. on Tuesday morning, Gerald Folsom and Sanford Cunningham had accomplished their mission. They’d pulled the cash out of Donald Matson’s safety deposit box and stuffed it in a backpack Matson had brought with him. They’d replaced the cash with Matson’s personal papers and then closed the safety deposit box and vault, reset the alarm, and locked the bank lobby doors behind them.
In the bank parking lot, Folsom grabbed Matson’s arm and squeezed the bicep until he yelped. He yanked Matson off to the side, away from Cunningham, and rasped, “You take that money someplace right now and hide it. And tomorrow you close out all the other safety deposit boxes you have and hide all the cash. Then figure out what you’re going to do with it. Maybe, over a period of time, buy gold coins and gem stones. I don’t give a shit. But don’t ever jeopardize me again. You got it?”
Matson nodded, got into his car, and drove away in a hurry.
Folsom and Cunningham got into Folsom’s Mercedes and headed towards Cunningham’s neighborhood. Folsom didn’t know what to say. Tonight’s experience with Matson had unnerved him.
Cunningham eventually broke the silence. “By the way, I checked on Edward Winter as you requested.”
Folsom jerked a glance at Cunningham. “What d’ya find?”
“Edward is the son of Frank and Katherine Winter. Frank was president of First—”
“I know who he was. Tell me about Katherine.”
“She’s on the board of Winter Enterprises. Besides Edward, she has a daughter named Carrie, an officer in the U.S. Army.”
“I’ll have special instructions for you about the Winter Enterprises’ loan,” Folsom said after a moment’s pause.
Cunningham didn’t respond for a minute and then said, “As a finance guy, I understand assets and liabilities. That FDIC guy, Matson, has been an asset up to now. I would say he just became a liability.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll figure it out in the morning,” Folsom said. “But, tonight, after I drop you off, I’ve got other business to take care of.”
“It’s late.”
Folsom laughed. “It’s never too late for this kind of business.”
* * *
It was a few minutes before 2 a.m. when Folsom pulled into his garage. He was confused momentarily by the absence of his wife’s vehicle. Then his confusion turned to rage. He ran into the house and stormed up the stairs. He searched her bedroom and then ran through every room on all four floors of the house. In the condition she was in, he hadn’t thought it possible she could even negotiate the stairs, let alone drive away.
His rage now elevating to inferno level, Folsom went to his bar on the first level and poured himself a double shot of scotch over ice. He carried the glass into his home office and tried to figure out wh
ere the fuck Wendy had gone. Once he figured that out, he’d drag her back here and kick the shit out of her. Again.
Then a thought came to him. He grabbed for a telephone and called Sanford Cunningham’s cell phone.
“Hello?” Cunningham answered, sounding groggy with sleep.
“Sanford, I want a hold put on all of Winter Enterprises’ deposit accounts first thing in the morning.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Just do it,” Folsom shouted, and hung up the phone.
* * *
Paul had barely got Wendy Folsom’s location and vehicle description from her when the woman went completely silent. He and Katherine found her car in a McDonalds’s parking lot in Sharon Hill. She was slouched behind the wheel, her head against the window; her doors locked. Paul knocked on the window for half-a-minute before he roused her. He helped the disoriented and frightened woman move from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel and followed Katherine, driving his car, to her house. He had wanted to take Wendy back to his place, but Katherine persuaded him that if the woman needed help dressing or needed minor medical attention, she would be better off staying with another woman.
“You should see a doctor,” Paul said.
“No, please. I know I look awful, but it’s just bruises. Nothing’s broken; I’m sure of that.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I need to hide for a few days. Do some thinking.”
“Tonight, I’ll go along with your wishes. But if you’re not better tomorrow, I’m taking you to a hospital.”
The drive to Katherine’s house was slow and deliberate as Paul attempted to miss the potholes in Philadelphia’s decrepit streets. Even so, every bump generated a groan from his wounded passenger. When they arrived, they half-walked, half-carried Wendy into the house and put her in Katherine’s guest bed before moving to the kitchen. Paul sat down at the kitchen table, while Katherine made coffee.