by Joseph Badal
She knew the police had found the valises with cash in Folsom’s house because of the evidence tags she had seen on the valise handles, but she couldn’t admit to Paul she had been in Folsom’s place. “What would the police do if they found over $2,000,000 in cash in Folsom’s house?”
“Probably nothing,” Paul answered. “It’s not against the law to have a lot of cash.”
“What if there was proof the money had been given to Folsom by Matson?”
Paul thought about that for ten seconds and then said, “That could raise some questions, like where a federal government employee would get that much cash and why he would give it to Folsom.”
“What if Matson gave it to Folsom for safekeeping?”
“So what?”
“I’m just fishing here, Paul. But what if there was a list of dates and dollar amounts going back twenty-two years with the cash?”
Paul’s expression registered surprise.
“What?” she asked after he didn’t say anything.
“Probably nothing, but it was twenty-two years ago that your father died and Folsom took over his bank.”
They sat in silence when the waitress brought their salads.
“What’s this all about, Carrie?”
“I can’t really explain why I’m asking these questions, but,” she reached into the pocket of her blouse and extracted a piece of paper, handing it to Paul, “the dates I wrote down match up to dollar amounts. I suspect the dates have some significance. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“Don’t ask. But suffice it to say, I have reason to believe the police already know Gerald Folsom has two valises full of cash in his home, and that, according to the evidence tags on the valises, the police did not count the cash, just noted it was a large amount. Also in those valises, but not included on the evidence tags, are notes on 3” x 5” cards written and signed by Donald Matson, claiming he put $2,065,000 in cash on July 21 for safekeeping with Gerald Folsom. There are also cards in one of the cases listing dates of cash inflows and outflows. Some of those inflow dates are written on the piece of paper I just gave you. It appears the two valises were given to Folsom on the same day Matson was murdered. And, finally, I think Folsom is unaware of the presence of the cards in the two cases. But sooner or later he’s going to find them and destroy them.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Paul went straight from the country club to his office. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the dates on the paper Carrie had given him. Most ranged from 1988 to 1996, but there were two others: 1/15/10 and 7/15/11. Carrie had told him there were also a dozen or more dates running from 1996 to 2011 on the card in the valise at Folsom’s, but she didn’t have those specific dates.
Some of the dates seemed familiar, but he couldn’t figure out why. He looked at his desk calendar and saw July 16 was a Friday. He paged back to January and noted the 15th was also a Friday. However, neither date rang any bells for him.
Taking the dates from Carrie’s list, he Googled them one at a time, but there didn’t seem to be any recurring events on the dates.
Trying to come up with a common theme matching all the dates was giving him a headache. He decided to focus on something else and would then get back to Carrie’s list later. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and asked her to bring in his telephone message slips. He shuffled through the slips, found one for Kelly Loughridge at the Journal and called her first.
“I hope you have something good to tell me,” he said.
“Nothing yet. I’ve got all kinds of circumstantial evidence Donald Matson and Gerald Folsom had an unusual relationship, but nothing really concrete. I still can’t figure out what was in it for Matson.”
Paul thought about what Carrie had told him at lunch. “What if Folsom was bribing Matson?”
“What if the Easter Bunny’s real?” Kelly asked. “Come on, Paul, get serious. If that’s true, show me some proof.”
“Did you get anything more out of the list I sent you? The one with the dates of the deals Folsom did with the agency?”
“No. I don’t—”
“Holy sh—!” Paul blurted. “Hold on a second.” He leaped out of his chair and threw open his office door, yelling to his secretary, “Maxine, get me the Winter Enterprises file. Now!” He hurried back to his chair and fell back into it.
“Kelly, do you have the list of deals between Folsom and the FDIC at hand?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Paul’s secretary came in and placed three large files in front of him. He opened the third folder and found the tab labeled FDIC. He flipped open the file and found the list Gail Moskowitz at the FDIC had faxed to him. He laid Carrie’s list of dates next to Gail’s list and felt a chill go up his spine.
“Kelly, I have a list of dates in front of me I got from a confidential source. This source claims there are valises in Folsom’s house loaded with cash. And in those valises are cards signed by Donald Matson on which he wrote that he had given over $2 million to Folsom for safekeeping. The cards were dated July 21 of this year, the day Matson was murdered.” He paused to let Kelly absorb what he had told her, and then continued. “My source also claims there is a written record of cash payments received and cash withdrawals in one of the cases. I am now comparing the dates from my confidential source against the dates in the fax I got from my friend at the FDIC. They’re identical, at least from 1988 to 1996, plus two dates in 2011. Those are the only dates my source provided.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me someone has seen this cash and a list of dates showing cash received by Matson?”
“The police actually saw the valises when they searched Folsom’s house, but they apparently didn’t inventory the contents beyond noting they were filled with cash. I don’t know how my source got this information.”
“Does it say anything about Folsom making payments to Matson?”
“No.”
“But the cash is now sitting in Folsom’s house; put there in safekeeping by Matson on July 21? And then Matson took a couple bullets to the head?”
“Yep.”
“Why hasn’t Folsom destroyed the information your source claims is in the valises?”
“I don’t know. But, if I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t know they’re there.”
“Is your contact at the FDIC aware of this information?”
“No.”
“Call your contact and pass this on. Maybe they’ll agree to come out of hiding if you can convince them that Matson was dirty.”
WEDNESDAY
JULY 27, 2011
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Sanford Cunningham walked into Stanley Burns’ office at Broad Street National Bank. Burns had been promoted to president of the bank because of his “sterling commitment to creating profits for Folsom Financial.” That was how Folsom had put it when he broke the news of the promotion to Burns.
“How are things?” Cunningham asked, dropping into a chair in front of Burns’ desk.
Burns swallowed the distaste he had for Folsom’s right-hand man. “Everything’s going great. We’ve reduced the bank’s commercial real estate exposure from sixty percent to fifty-one percent, mostly through not renewing maturing loans. But we’ve also had loans that borrowers couldn’t pay off when they came due, so we’re beginning the foreclosure process on the real estate collateral behind those loans. The real estate department manager estimates we’ll come out way ahead on the sale of these properties.”
Cunningham nodded his approval. “What happens with Winter Enterprises’ loan when it matures this Thursday?”
“Well, if they can’t pay off the loan, we’ll start foreclosure action against them.”
“I don’t want any delay in that happening. Have our attorneys draw up the papers now.”
�
��What’s the rush?” Burns asked.
Cunningham’s lips compressed into a straight line and the frown lines in his forehead became furrows. “You got this job because you did what needed to be done since Folsom Financial took over this bank; are you beginning to have second thoughts?”
Burns felt his face go hot. “Of course not. It would just be nice to know why I am asked to do something.”
“Let’s get something straight. I’m not asking you; I’m ordering. And, although you don’t need to know why I’ve ordered you to streamline foreclosure against Winter, I’m going to tell you anyway because you need to understand that Gerald Folsom is a very generous guy. You make money for him; he’ll share the profits with you. I want foreclosure completed ASAP on the Winter loan because we want to own the business.”
“You mean the restaurant locations?”
“Not just the real estate; the restaurant business, too. Part of our collateral on the loan is the franchise agreement with Hot N’ Chili. Winter’s franchise in Pennsylvania is a fuckin’ cash cow. We’re going to buy the loan from the bank and then take over the franchise.”
“I see,” Burns said slowly.
“I assume you’re okay with this.”
Burns hesitated for a beat and then nodded.
After Cunningham left his office, Burns took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating brow. He felt sick, as though he’d been hit by the flu. This wasn’t what banking was supposed to be about. When Sol Levin ran the bank, Broad Street National focused on helping its loan customers grow their businesses and contributing to the Philadelphia community. Now, Burns felt like a vulture picking over carrion. Worse, like a murderer, killing businesses and people’s dreams.
Burns stared at the picture of his wife, Becky, and their two daughters on the credenza beside his desk. His job at the bank had given them a good life and his promotion to president included a thirty percent increase in his pay, plus a performance bonus. Becky had been so proud of him when he called to tell her about the promotion, but she had no idea how bad the working conditions were at the bank, or what he was being ordered to do to the customers.
He exhaled loudly and pressed the intercom button for his assistant to ask for the Winter Enterprises’ loan file. “And,” he added, “call Franklin Means at the Walker Law Firm. I need to see him right away.”
* * *
Edward Winter called Paul Sanders at his office and asked him if he had any news.
“No, nothing, Edward. I’m sorry.”
“What will our response be to the bank filing foreclosure proceedings?”
“We will respond to the foreclosure complaint and ask the court to enjoin the bank from proceeding with the foreclosure. At least we should be able to delay things, assuming a judge will grant the injunction. Even without it, though, the foreclosure will take months. But the bank could close the businesses in the meantime.”
“That would be a disaster.”
“I understand, Edward. I’ll do everything possible.”
“I know you will. I can’t understand what’s happening. It truly feels like I’ve fallen into a black hole. Common sense seems to have been suspended.”
“Hang in there,” Paul said. “You never know how things will turn out.”
* * *
After hanging up, Paul came to a decision about something he had been contemplating for several days. He called Gail Moskowitz’s number in D.C. Her assistant answered.
“Is Ms. Moskowitz in today?”
“Yes, Mr. Sanders, but she’s out to lunch. She will be back here around 1:30. Would you like her to call you?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll call back.”
Paul called to his secretary while he packed the Winter Enterprise files in his briefcase. “Cancel the rest of my appointments for today.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Washington, D.C. Call and find out when the next train to D.C. leaves. And I want a car to pick me up at Union Station to take me to the FDIC’s offices.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Hopefully, tonight, assuming I accomplish my mission.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Paul made notes on a legal pad during the train ride to D.C., racking his brain to come up with every argument, legal and emotional, that he could throw at Gail Moskowitz. The information Carrie gave him about the cards in Folsom’s valises was incriminating, but not legal proof of anything criminal. Even so, he had come to the conclusion that the money had been given to Donald Matson by Folsom for “services rendered.” The information Gail provided appeared to show that Matson had helped Folsom get favorable deals from the FDIC. But, again, the deals weren’t unlawful, unless Folsom had bribed Matson. That brought him back again to the money in Folsom’s house, put there by Matson for safekeeping.
He was beginning to realize his argument was more emotional than legal. Gail would think he was an idiot trying to get her to do something to save Edward Winter’s business based on nothing but emotion. And, even if something illegal had gone on, could Gail take action? She was a staff attorney at the FDIC, not a member of executive management.
* * *
Gerald Folsom took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. That blonde he’d brought home had humiliated him, and every time he took a breath, the pain in his chest reminded him of that humiliation. His friend, Leon Naxos, the owner of The Towne House Restaurant, had asked around, but no one he talked to had ever seen the woman at the restaurant or around town before, and she hadn’t been around since.
Folsom began jerking his head around every time he drove past a tall, good looking blonde, hoping he’d run into that bitch. He’d follow her; find out where she lived and then call Toothpick Jefferson for another assignment. But he would sure like to spend a night in bed with her before she was eliminated.
Get a grip, he told himself. No woman is worth obsessing over. But then he saw another blonde standing at a bus stop and his heart rate accelerated.
He pulled into Broad Street National Bank’s parking lot and walked toward the entrance. At the front door, his cell phone rang.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Jerry, it’s Leon.”
“Hey, Leon. What’s up?”
“You wanted to know about that blonde you brought to the restaurant the other night? I’ve been asking around. There was a guy here in the restaurant that night who saw you two together. He came in again today for lunch and asked about you, wondering who the gal was with you that night. One of my waiters brought it to my attention. Apparently, the customer knew the girl from high school. Her name is Carrie Winter.”
Folsom snapped his phone shut. He felt like screaming. What the hell was going on?
He pulled himself together and entered the bank. He went straight to Sanford Cunningham’s office and closed the door behind him.
“Anything new on the Winter loan?” he demanded, pacing the office.
“Jerry, you’ve got to relax. If Winter pays off the loan on Thursday, so be it. If not, you’ll be in the restaurant business. I don’t think you—”
“I want that guy dead!” Folsom yelled.
Cunningham’s mouth dropped open. “Jerry, what are you saying?”
Folsom rubbed his hands over his face. Dropping them, he collapsed into a chair. “I mean . . . I want his business. I’ve got to have that business.”
“What’s your obsession with Winter?” Cunningham asked.
Folsom leaped out of his chair and lunged toward Cunningham, who pushed back away from his desk, his eyes suddenly wide and fearful.
Folsom stopped abruptly and stared at his outstretched hands. He dropped them to his sides, turned on his heels, and left the office without a word.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Paul sat in the reception area at the FDIC’s legal department fo
r twenty minutes, and was beginning to wonder if Gail Moskowitz was even going to see him. He was second-guessing his decision to come to D.C. when Gail walked out of her office and waved him over curtly, glaring at him as he passed her and entered the office. She closed the door behind him and walked to the chair behind her desk. After sitting down, she continued to glare at him, not saying a word. Moskowitz was a slender, attractive woman who downplayed her good looks—minimal jewelry and makeup, her auburn hair swept back in a pony tail. An understated, conservative blue suit and white blouse completed the look.
“Gail,” Paul said, “I apologize for just showing up like this, but we really need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About Gerald Folsom, Donald Matson, and Edward Winter.”
“I’m getting damned tired of hearing about this. I already gave you all the information I’m going to provide.” She stood and barked, “Now get out. You’ve pushed our friendship too far already.”
Paul didn’t move. He put steel in his voice and said, “I need five minutes. That’s it. Then I’ll leave and never talk to you again, if that’s the way you want it.”
She dropped back into her chair, an exasperated look on her face. “Five minutes. Go.”
Paul told her about the cards signed by Donald Matson, with deposit and withdrawal information in Folsom’s house. He added his suspicions about where the money, over $2 million, had come from, tying his suspicions to the information Gail had given him about the sweetheart deals. Then he repeated what he had told Gail before, about the killer who had gone after Wendy Folsom. He talked about Donald Matson’s murder. Finally, he briefed her on what was going on between Edward Winter and Broad Street National Bank.
“There’s too much here to ignore, Gail. You’ve got to bring this to the attention of someone with authority around here, someone who will make things right.”