by Joseph Badal
The obese man was slowly approaching Carrie. The other three men were alert, seemingly on edge, expecting trouble. Carrie’s man on the bench between her and the parking lot was leafing through the magazine on his lap and, at the same time, keying in on the stranger off to his right. Carrie’s other man, along with the man from the Cadillac who had circled the park toward the trees, were out of sight.
The fat man arrived at Carrie’s bench and sat down.
* * *
Toothpick Jefferson eyed Carrie. “You’re one gutsy broad,” he said.
Carrie smiled at the man. “How gutsy do I have to be to meet a man who’s so out of shape he’s wheezing like he’s got emphysema?”
Jefferson laughed. “You got a point.”
“I’ve got another point to make. I told you to come alone. So far, I’ve seen three men with you.”
“Can’t be too careful. What happened to Philippa Gonzalez?”
“Who?”
“The woman you say I hired to kill someone.”
“I subdued her.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She paid for her arrogance.”
“I’ve been trying to reach her on her cell phone since you called me. She’s not answering the phone. She’s disappeared.”
Carrie shrugged. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she does, as long as she stays away from people I care about.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve got one question,” Carrie said. “You answer my question; you get to go on your way. You don’t and I’ll hurt you.”
Jefferson’s eyes widened as he laughed uproariously. The laugh devolved into a phlegm-rattling cough from deep in his lungs.
“Smoking’s bad for you,” Carrie said.
Jefferson finally stopped his coughing and said, “Little bitty thing like you? You’re going to hurt me?”
Carrie shot him an angelic smile and shrugged.
“You think I’m stupid?” Jefferson asked.
Carrie continued beaming. “I don’t think anything about you, Mr. Jefferson, other than you’re a low-life scumbag who’ll do anything for a buck, including paying an assassin to murder Wendy Folsom. Now, I think I know who paid you. I just need you to confirm my suspicion.”
“That kind of information is worth a lot of money, Missy.”
“Maybe in your world, but not in mine. No more fooling around. One name; that’s all I want.”
Toothpick ignored her words. “I came here to find out who you are, see what you look like. I’ve done that. Now I’m going to leave and you should go someplace far away from here. Because, if I ever see you again, I’ll turn you into one of my bitches and have you working the streets as a $50 hooker.”
Carrie smiled and leaned closer to Jefferson as he tried to heft his enormous bulk off the bench, placing her left arm on his right shoulder and, the fingers of her right hand acting like pinchers, grabbing his sternocleidomastoid muscle on the right side of his neck. She squeezed the muscle with incredible force, at the same time pressing against the man’s carotid artery. She knew what would happen to Jefferson: Inability to flex his neck, his head frozen in place, dizziness. Jefferson sagged back against the bench and moaned.
* * *
Edward saw Carrie’s move against the man. Carrie’s man by the pond immediately came off his bench, dropped his magazine, and moved toward Carrie. But Edward noticed he wasn’t moving with any apparent urgency.
Edward anticipated the reactions from the men who had arrived in the Cadillac. The guy in the park off to the right, his hand under his jacket, had apparently seen that the large man was in distress and ran towards Carrie. Her man from the bench began moving more quickly, but it suddenly became apparent to Edward the guy was intercepting the on-rushing African-American man. Moving in an unthreatening manner, the man from the bench tripped up the other man, taking him down to the ground with almost no sound or fuss. The man lay still on the ground. Carrie’s man reached under the other man’s jacket, pulled something away, and pocketed it.
Movement to Edward’s right caught his attention. The driver had dropped his cigarette and was now moving toward Carrie. Carrie’s man from the bench was preoccupied with the man he’d taken down to the ground and didn’t appear to see the driver coming. Edward knew he couldn’t exit his car and catch up to the man in time. He started the Corvette and threw it into DRIVE, gunning the motor. The car leaped forward, spewing gravel behind it, and rode over a two inch high concrete lip between the parking lot and the grass. The car slued on the grass before the tires bit into the soft grassy loam of the park and raced forward like a hungry predator.
The Cadillac’s driver must have heard the roar of the engine and looked back while still running towards Carrie. Edward saw the terror on the man’s face as he tried to veer away, but he lost his footing and almost fell just as the nose of the Corvette clipped the man’s legs, cartwheeling him into the air. The guy landed on the ground with a thud and a shout. Edward stopped the car and climbed out. He kicked the scrambling man’s gun hand, sending his pistol flying before leaping on him to pummel his face until he felt the man sag beneath him. He retrieved the man’s weapon, pocketed it, and ran over to where Carrie’s man from the bench was standing next to the man he had subdued. The man was wary, reaching inside his jacket at his approach. Edward threw up his hands, showing his palms.
“I’m Carrie’s brother Edward Winter.” He pointed at the driver from the Cadillac. “I’d keep an eye on that one. He’ll be coming around soon.”
Edward sprinted to Carrie, who looked at him with a mixture of amusement and surprise. She was still squeezing the fat man’s neck. He was in obvious pain, moaning, his head tilted to his left as though permanently set that way. Edward glanced around and for the first time noticed that the few visitors to the park were doing one of two things: Running away as though their lives depended on it, or frozen in place, watching the action. But then he noted a couple of people talking on cell phones.
“I think it would be a good idea if you got out of here,” Edward said. “Someone’s probably already called the police.”
“Get that Corvette off the lawn before someone takes down your license plate number,” Carrie said. “I’ll be along in a second.”
* * *
Carrie turned to look at Toothpick Jefferson. She shifted her grip from the side of his neck to his throat. She dug her fingers around the man’s windpipe and slightly pulled on it. Jefferson’s eyes bulged.
“One name, asshole. You have one chance.”
He tentatively nodded his head, groaning with the effort.
She released her hold on his windpipe and waited while he swallowed once, then twice. Finally, he mouthed something, but the words came out as a squeak. He tried again. This time his throat muscles and his voice box worked, although he sounded more like a crow than a man.
“Fuck you!”
Carrie shook her head slowly from side to side. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you,” she said.
Jefferson’s eyes bulged. He opened his mouth as though to say something more, but Carrie struck him full force with her fist against his right temple. He sagged like an empty sack and collapsed sideways onto the bench.
Carrie looked over her shoulder and whistled.
Darren quickly emerged from between the trees on the knoll behind her.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“There’s a guy sleeping in the trees. He’s going to have a real bad headache.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Gerald Folsom, having been up all night, watched the sun come up through his living room window. His mind was whirling like a pinwheel. He hadn’t heard a thing about Wendy, no call from either the police or Toothpick Jefferson. Nothing. He’d agreed to pay
the man an extra $10,000 if he took care of business within a week. That week wasn’t up yet, but Folsom assumed Jefferson would work as quickly as possible. He didn’t care about the money; he cared about getting rid of that bitch, and soon. He would have paid almost anything to eliminate her.
He walked outside and looked at the expansive lawn, punctuated by shrubs and trees, flowing from the house down to the front gate, thrilled by the view. He walked down to the entrance and collected the Sunday paper. Removing the rubber band, he opened it, his stomach tense, expecting to see his name blasted across the top of the front page. He was relieved to find nothing above the fold about his arrest. But, turning the paper over, he found an article headlined Spousal Abuse: A Growing Problem. He read the introduction to the article quickly. There was no mention of him on the front page, but he suspected his name would come up in the continuation of the article. He dropped the rest of the paper and searched for the continuation page. Scanning down the article, he found his name, immediately followed by a paragraph where a psychiatrist detailed the personality traits and psychological make-up of men who abused women. Folsom’s eyes grasped words at random: misogynist, low self-esteem, inferiority complex, insecure, family history of abuse. The words were like blasts from stereo speakers and he seemed to hear them more than see them. Folsom ripped the paper to shreds and threw the pieces on the ground, screaming his anger to the heavens.
He raced back to the house and climbed the stairs to his third floor office, trying to imagine all of the alternative events that could have occurred. Was Wendy hiding where Jefferson couldn’t find her? Had she been killed? Had she been wounded and somehow escaped? Folsom knew none of the realistic alternatives were good for him. The only event that would free him of the assault and battery charges was Wendy’s death, and if that had occurred, someone would have called him by now.
Folsom roared like a wounded grizzly bear, echoing his anger and fear through the cavernous rooms and halls of his mansion. “Where are you, bitch?” he screamed.
By 9 a.m., he went down to the living room on the first floor and was calm enough to think critically about every person his wife knew well enough to go to for help. Her parents were old and decrepit, and living in New Hampshire. He didn’t think she’d take her problems to them. She used to have a couple tennis friends. But, as far as he knew, she hadn’t seen them in a couple years. She’d been at the college in Chestnut Hill, but he’d called and they’d told him she’d left. That woman lawyer who represented her; Wendy might be staying with her. He was trying to expand the list of Wendy’s contacts when his telephone rang.
“Hello,” he snapped.
“Gerald, it’s Sanford. I haven’t heard from you since you were arrested. I’m just checking to see how you’re doing.”
“Not worth a shit, Sandy. As you can imagine, being arrested and thrown in jail is no fun. Especially when the charges are based on lies.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, but thanks. If you keep handling things at the bank, it takes a lot of pressure off me.”
“You can count on me, Boss.”
“I know that, Sandy. Any matters I need to be aware of?”
“We could have problems with Winter Enterprises. The attorney is an asshole. He’s not going to give up easily.”
“Is he with one of the large Philadelphia law firms?”
“No, he’s got his own practice. Apparently, he’s worked for the Winter family for years. Guy named Paul Sanders.”
The name seemed to tickle Folsom’s memory.
“Well, stay on top of things. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Hang in there, Boss.”
After Folsom hung up, he tried to recall where he had heard Paul Sander’s name. It took a couple minutes, but he finally remembered his attorney, Jeffrey Rose, mentioning Sanders’ name in connection with the complaint filed by Wendy. Sanders had somehow been involved before Sylvia Young signed on to represent her.
But the name Paul Sanders rang another bell with Folsom, one he couldn’t place. He racked his brain to come up with another connection. But nothing came to him.
He was beat. He lay down on the living room couch, thinking maybe a nap would help. It took him only a few minutes to fall asleep and he was soon dreaming about his “Wendy problem” and Paul Sanders. At some point, his mind working overtime, he jerked awake, making the connection. Paul Sanders not only represented Edward Winter, he’d represented Frank Winter. Sanders had called him after Frank Winter died, trying to negotiate a favorable financial arrangement for Frank’s widow and children. He recalled laughing at Sanders at that time, asking him if he thought he was the United Way. “This is business, Sanders,” Folsom had said. “It’s not personal.” Sanders had responded, “It’s personal to me, Mr. Folsom.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Kelly Loughridge felt as though there was a little bird on her shoulder that kept whispering, “You’ve got to help Edward Winter, you’ve got to help Edward Winter.” She knew it had nothing to do with being a journalist, but she couldn’t keep the thought out of her head. She had come to the conclusion Winter was the victim of a political system and a federal government bureaucracy run amok. Even without corruption, the damage the federal government had done to the economy and people’s lives was gargantuan. Maybe it was stupidity and ignorance, rather than intentionally corrupt behavior. Or maybe it was arrogance. What was it that Einstein had said? ‘The only thing worse than ignorance is arrogance.’ Plenty of both in D.C.
She outlined the article she wanted to write and decided to start with how decisions made in D.C. created the economic problems. How the Federal Reserve kept interest rates low in 2003. How congressional committees headed by Senator Chris Dodd and Representative Barney Frank pushed Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to invest in sub-prime loans, which ultimately went bad, undermining the capital markets. How one thing led to another, and how good citizens lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost their businesses, lost their investments, lost their dreams.
Then the story would segue to Broad Street National Bank and how Sol Levin, a popular and well respected man, lost his job and his bank. How the FDIC took over the bank, condemning Levin’s and hundreds of other shareholders’ ownership interests. Then how the FDIC sold the bank to Folsom Financial Corporation, which was owned by a man with an unusual relationship with a senior officer at the agency who just happened to be murdered last week. And how Gerald Folsom was charged with beating his wife. And then there was the hired killer she wasn’t supposed to know about. She needed to talk again with Paul Sanders about that piece of information.
Kelly had doled out targets for interviews to three reporters: One would go to Broad Street National Bank, another to the FDIC in Washington, D.C., and the third would interview Edward Winter and Paul Sanders. She also had an intern digging up information on Folsom. Then she would try to get an interview with Folsom.
She’d told her staff she wanted to go to press on the story by no later than Thursday. That was the little bird’s influence.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
While Katherine was visiting with Edward and Betsy at their home, Carrie sat down with Wendy in the hotel suite. They shared a fruit platter ordered from room service and tried to watch a Phillies game. But neither of them seemed very interested.
“You mind if I shut this off?” Wendy asked.
“Not at all,” Carrie replied.
Wendy lay back on the couch and stared out the window.
“How long have you been married to Folsom?”
“Too long.”
“Tell me about your husband,” Carrie said.
“Why?”
“Just curious. If you don’t want to talk about him . . . .” she trailed off.
Wendy looked back at the window. “Gerald is a good looking guy. Tall, dark hair, keeps himself in good shape. He was so damned attentive
when we met. Treating me like a princess, sweeping me off my feet. Trips to Paris, San Francisco, Hawaii. Dinners at the best restaurants. Expensive gifts. I knew he’d been married twice before. Like me, they were much younger than Gerald. I would see them, once in a while, at the club or around the city.” She chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“They looked like they could be my sisters. About the same height. Blonde, blue-eyed.”
“All men have a preferred type of woman.”
“It’s different with Gerald. It’s not just a preferred type with him; it’s an obsession. He likes blonde, blue-eyed women from families with long histories and good names, but no money. It was as if he preyed on that type.” She paused and said, “You’d be a perfect candidate to be his next wife. You’ve got the look.”
“Did he abuse his other wives?”
“I can only guess that he did. He mentioned once he had sent each of his wives on her way with $5 million. Gerald made me sign a prenuptial agreement that gives me $5 million as long as I kept my mouth shut about anything personal between us. I thought that was strange wording, but I wasn’t thinking about abuse when I signed it. Anyway, the $5 million pre-nup kept us from going to a lawyer. At least until he beat me so badly.”
“When he got rough with you, did it follow anything in particular? Like an argument?”
“He tended to be a bit rougher, even in the beginning, after he’d been drinking. But, over the last few months, he got more and more violent, with or without booze.”
“How rich is he?”
“Hugely. Money is all he really cares about. And he never has enough. One of the reasons I brought a complaint against him is to damage his reputation, and make it more difficult for him to do business, to make money. But, even if he never does another deal, he’s got enough money for one hundred lifetimes.”