Alumni Association

by Michael Rudolph

  Chapter 15

  Gartenberg grabbed a cane and hobbled over to the cottage that served as his office. His irritability increased as the pain in his hip got worse, while he waited for Lance Sturrman and Pam to arrive from the airport. He found a crumbling OxyContin in a coat pocket, swallowed it, and settled down to review the $210 million construction loan application he was submitting to Trenton National Bank for the BMI subdivision. Before selecting a proposed closing date, he checked a calendar to locate a long holiday weekend.

  An hour later, he heard the Escalade crunching up the driveway. Its door slammed, and Lance entered alone, a canvas bag over his shoulder.

  “It took you long enough to get back!” Gartenberg, venting his pain, glared at Lance from his desk. “What was the damn problem?”

  “I texted you about it. They held us on the ground in Tijuana due to storm activity on the East Coast.”

  “All right, okay.” Gartenberg’s tone eased only slightly. “Did you deposit the cash for the interest we owe the Pendayans on the Houston properties?”

  “All made. Bank receipts are in my bag.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None.”

  “Good. Maybe they’ll stop whining now. Where’s Pam?”

  “Upstairs changing. She piloted down, co-piloted back. Got in lots of flight time.”

  “Where’s my fentanyl?”

  “Here, I got all that Nikko’s people had.” He handed his shoulder bag to Gartenberg. “Twelve sealed boxes with good dates, plus thirty-two patches in an open box with an expired date, and the cash I didn’t use.”

  Gartenberg checked the contents of the bag, quickly removed one of the patches, and placed it directly on his throbbing left hip. Relaxing as it kicked in, he continued to review financial documents while ignoring Lance, who was standing patiently by the desk.

  “Where’s Al?” Gartenberg finally asked.

  “Probably on his way down to Atlantic City.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do…And if you don’t need me, I’m going to get into sweats and run a few miles while it’s still light.”

  “Take a shower when you’re finished and come back here. I want a rubdown.”

  “Sure.”

  “And tell Zeke to come in. These financial statements need to be beefed up, and his sales projections are way too conservative.”

  “He’s having Pam sign some tax returns for them.”

  “Tell him to hurry,” Gartenberg said, unconsciously attacking an itch on his balding scalp.

  * * *

  —

  “Hi, Beth, it’s Pam Gartenberg. How’s it going?”

  “Buried in work as usual. How’ve you been?”

  “Flying every chance I get. Need to keep my multi-engine license current.”

  “Thinking about going back to work?”

  “No, but Herb keeps nagging me about it.”

  “So what else is doing?”

  “I’m coming into the city next Wednesday. Herb’s treating me to a day at Elizabeth Arden and a suite at the Plaza.”

  “I’m immediately so jealous.”

  “I thought we might get together for afternoon tea at the Palm Court around four.”

  “I’d love it. What’s up?”

  “I need a little advice.”

  “That’s what I do. Give me a call when you’re finished getting pampered and I’ll meet you at the Plaza.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Chapter 16

  When Herb Gartenberg called him late Friday afternoon, Al LaVerne didn’t take the call. After a week spent with surveyors slogging in mud around the huge BMI campus, he was in a hurry to leave for Atlantic City. Speaking to his partner could wait until Monday.

  With the phone still ringing, he loaded his laptop computer and a set of BMI construction plans into his shoulder bag so he could review them over the weekend. Then he turned on his desktop computer, logged into their bank’s website, and accessed the Pendayan escrow account. He needed $20,000 for the blackjack tables, and nobody at the casino would know or care where he got it. His addiction had insulated him from any concern about the legal risk he was taking.

  Al liked the casino at the Borgata because they comped him from the minute he arrived to the minute he left. He was the consummate rationalizer, using investors’ money as his own.

  The Pendayan account was $195,000 short now, but because of the $3.5 million BMI deposit, it was strictly “no harm no foul” to him. He just needed to keep it all afloat until the BMI closing could get him out of the hole.

  With a few clicks of his keyboard, he transferred the money he wanted from the escrow account into his personal account, and in ten minutes, he was on his way down to Atlantic City.

  He checked into the Borgata, and by 8:00 P.M. was finished with dinner and in his lucky seat at his lucky table with his lucky dealer, enjoying a constant flow of top-shelf margaritas.

  The gods of fortune were in perfect alignment.

  By 9:30, he was up $16,500, and the evening was still young. Then an attractive woman sat down at the chair next to him, said her name was “KimberLee with a capital ‘L,’ ” and they began to chat.

  His concentration on blackjack was instantly destroyed by her smile, her perfume, and his imagination. He began doubling up on his bets to recover, and in no time he was down $12,000 but too drunk and too much in love to care.

  When KimberLee put her hand on his thigh and asked him if he wanted to have some fun back in his room, he realized that the gods of fortune had nothing to do with her presence. He said, “No, thanks,” and she said, “But it’s a gift from a friend,” whereupon he instantly changed his mind and asked the dealer to color him up. She left the casino while he slowly wove his way to the cashier, got $2,500 in cash for pocket money, and had his few remaining chips credited to his personal account.

  LaVerne went back to his room, and in a few minutes, KimberLee knocked on the door, came in, and walked right over to the minibar, where she made him a double vodka. Then she led him over to the bed and encouraged him to drink up and relax while she made him feel more comfortable. In nothing flat, the drink overcame his interest in sex, and he was fast asleep before his gift had a chance to unwrap herself.

  KimberLee continued to carefully follow her instructions. She emptied LaVerne’s pockets, grabbed $2,000 for her fee, and left the room, leaving the door unlocked.

  When she got on the elevator, a man got off and walked down to LaVerne’s room, went in, and shook LaVerne back to consciousness. As instructed, he then twice recited out loud the message he had been given to memorize: “Thanks for being such a good buddy at BMI. Payback’s a bitch.” By the time he finished delivering his lines, LaVerne was asleep again.

  The man then proceeded to smother him with a pillow as he lay snoring peacefully. LaVerne struggled briefly, but it was too little too late. After verifying that his victim was dead, the man took LaVerne’s shoulder bag, quickly checked its contents, and left the hotel with it. LaVerne lay there, dead, in his comped room in his favorite casino until the following morning.

  When the maid discovered his body, she called security. Security called the police and the police called the medical examiner. The medical examiner looked out the window, noted all the closed casinos, and recorded the cause of death as “cardiac arrest.” At that point, the body was released to the undertaker.

  Chapter 17

  Her private line rang, she answered, and a woman’s voice announced, “Beth, this is Laura Simonson calling from the New York field office of the FBI. Sean Harris suggested I call you. Do you have a minute?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “What’s this about, Laura?” she repeated.

  “Do you have a minute?�
� Laura repeated.

  “I’m busy right now. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Of course.”

  Beth called Sean to verify Simonson’s creds, and Sean said Laura was “good people.” She went to the ladies’ room, made a cup of coffee, returned calls to a couple of clients, sent an email to another client, and then called Simonson back.

  “Hi, Laura, this is Beth Swahn returning your call. What’s up?”

  “I was calling about the land deal in which Herbert Gartenberg and Al LaVerne are buying a tract in Bordentown, New Jersey.”

  “I know them both, but Al LaVerne passed away last week.”

  “We know that, but we’ve been investigating allegations of money laundering in connection with the deal, and his death doesn’t end the investigation.”

  “But how can I help?”

  “Isn’t your firm involved with the deal?”

  “Well, we’re opposing the subdivision application if that’s what you mean, but we’re not actually involved with the transaction between buyer and seller.”

  “I understand that, but we’re concerned about a three-and-a-half-million-dollar money transfer that originated in a bank in Venezuela and ended up in their bank account in New York.”

  “I don’t know anything about a money transfer. It must have happened before we were retained.”

  “The Venezuelan deposit came from a bank account in Caracas controlled by a Paulo Pendayan.”

  “Well, I do know the name Pendayan, but nothing about his banking facilities. Tell you what, let me check with my people, and I’ll get back to you one way or the other.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  Chapter 18

  On Wednesday afternoon just after four o’clock, Beth met Pam Gartenberg at the Palm Court inside the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South for what was quaintly termed “afternoon tea” by its management. Beth had spent the day in her office while Pam had spent her day at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon on Fifty-second and Fifth. Both were now busy enjoying the restaurant’s décor while waiting for their order of fresh-baked scones and ice-cold cosmopolitans.

  “It’s so dignified,” Beth offered. “I haven’t been here since they renovated it.”

  “I’ve never been here,” Pam replied, “but Herb insisted I go.”

  “How is he taking Al LaVerne’s death?”

  “I don’t think they were close friends. I used to hear Herb scream at Al because he was being so slow in planning the subdivision.”

  “I guess all partners fight from time to time,” Beth offered.

  “Maybe, but I’d be nervous if my partner had a big insurance policy on my life. Five million dollars, I think.”

  “That is big.”

  “I heard Herb tell Zeke a few weeks ago to make sure the premiums were paid.”

  “That’s probably key-man insurance,” Beth interjected, feeling both slightly guilty and slightly suspicious about hearing all of this information about Pam’s husband.

  “Herb wants to close the BMI deal before the long Presidents’ Day weekend next February. He wants me to fly him down to Antigua for a vacation.”

  “Can’t blame him for that.”

  “Listen, Beth, can I talk to you about something personal?”

  “Of course, anything. What’s the matter?”

  “I want to get a divorce.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. I want to divorce Herb.”

  “Pam, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “I won’t bore you with the sordid details, but he and his bodyguard, Lance Sturrman, are an item, and I’m sick of it. Can you help me?”

  “My firm doesn’t handle matrimonial work, but I can get you the names of a couple of attorneys that do.”

  “I’m sorry to dump all this on you when we barely know each other.”

  “Please. I just hope I can help. I’ll send you the attorney info tomorrow.”

  “Do you have time for another cosmo?”

  “One more, then I have to get back to the office.”

  * * *

  —

  Beth cabbed it back to her office, got a fresh cup of coffee, and cranked up her computer. There was an email from Sean advising that the New York City Police Department had approved her application for a carry permit. He offered to meet her the next day at the gun store to buy a pistol. She replied, setting up an 11:00 A.M. date and offering lunch if he was available.

  It didn’t take her long online to turn what she had learned from Pam into some solid information that had to be discussed with Sean.

  Chapter 19

  Beth wanted Max to get a handgun when she got one, but he wouldn’t consider it. “This is about our personal safety, not our Second Amendment rights,” she argued.

  “I am not getting a gun and neither should you,” he replied.

  “It’s the dumbest idea I ever heard,” chimed in Andi.

  “We carry weapons on board Red Sky because we’re responsible for our own safety there,” Beth insisted, “and this city is much more dangerous.”

  “Have you considered avoiding situations that make you feel it necessary to carry a gun?” Andi asked. “And how about dropping the damn client anyway?”

  “Your mother’s right,” Max said. “I think we should withdraw as counsel for the Alumni Association. Tripp will understand.”

  Andi continued to pile on. “Practicing law isn’t a test of physical courage or life endangerment.”

  “I know, Mom, and you’re right, but I’m not going to let those gangsters win a fight against our firm by default. I have no intention of shooting anyone, but I do intend to be capable of defending myself if it becomes necessary. I’m not going to let them push me around while I’m trying to do my job.”

  * * *

  —

  Beth met Sean at the gun store to pick up the Glock 9 mm compact handgun the FBI armorer had recommended. They then went down to the basement firing range where the range instructor taught her its basic safety and handling procedure. After firing a few boxes of shells through the weapon to familiarize herself with it, she was shown how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble the piece.

  Before leaving the store, Beth bought a holster, two extra clips, and several boxes of ammunition. As they walked out, Beth told Sean what she had learned from Pam about the key-man insurance on LaVerne’s life and suggested that his death deserved a real autopsy instead of just a medical examiner’s perfunctory conclusion. Sean said he’d ask Laura to pass the information on to the Atlantic City Police Department.

  Chapter 20

  “Close the door behind you,” Max asked, and Beth did so as she entered his office.

  “Turn off your cellphone,” he asked and she did.

  “Okay, I get the need for security, now what’s up?”

  “Turn off your notebook, too.”

  “You’re scaring me, Max,” Beth said.

  “Someone’s hacked our trust account at Fidelity Bank.” Max handed her several sheets of paper. “Take a look at this printout of transactions. The new bookkeeper Harriet gave it to me a few minutes ago.”

  Beth examined the printout. The first two pages indicated deposits, dates, amounts, and the names of the clients.

  The last three pages reflected withdrawals.

  “Okay,” Beth began. “I recognize most of these deposits because they’re our real estate clients.”

  “Keep going.”

  “And I recognize most of the withdrawals because I countersign any payments more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars made at a real estate closing. All other closing payments only require approval of the partner in charge.”

  “I know. I wrote the protocols. Keep going.”

  “What’s this five-hundred-thousand-
dollar deposit made to you as trustee yesterday by electronic transfer?”

  “No idea. That’s why you’re here. Now take a look at the withdrawals.”

  “Okay,” she said, turning to the last page of the printout. “I see five hundred thousand was also transferred from our trust account to your personal bank account this morning. What is it, some kind of error correction?”

  “I wish. Now here’s a printout of my personal account.” He handed her more paper.

  “I’ve had power of attorney on this account since you retired,” Beth said. “Your partner’s draw and your share of profits are deposited into the account, and after I pay your bills each month, anything left over twenty thousand gets transferred automatically to your investment account at Vanguard.”

  “Happen to see any five-hundred-thousand-dollar deposits?” he asked.

  “No. Did you check your joint account with Mom down in Antigua?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you have any other accounts?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure the whole thing is just a bookkeeping error.”

  “No way half a mill is just a ‘bookkeeping error.’ ”

  “Max, let me email the partners. One of them will know what this is all about.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I also want to talk to the bookkeeper. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Keep me in the loop.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter 21

  Beth went back to her office and immediately asked Harriet to join her. After assuring the bookkeeper that she was not at fault, they reviewed the firm’s new security protocols recently implemented by Reggie in cooperation with Fidelity Bank. Beth quickly confirmed the obvious. Someone had hacked their trust account, even though protocols were in place to prevent unauthorized withdrawals. To access the firm’s main trust account, Beth had to enter her thirty-two-bit personal code and then verify her authority with an expensive state-of-the-art biometric iris scanner that Reggie had plugged into one of her USB ports.