The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  “Stubbs here. Yeah, Joe. Thanks for getting back so quick… You got it, buddy.” Stubbs pulled a pad toward him, yanked a pen from its ornate holder on his desk. “Fire away, Joe,” he said, pen poised over a yellow legal pad. He listened, head bobbing in agreement, for a few seconds. Suddenly he sat up straight, grimaced, and switched the receiver to the other ear.

  “Joe, you have got to be kidding! One hundred twenty-two thousand dollars coming out of the ATMs in a little over a year? I don’t believe it!” Stubbs rolled his eyes at me and continued. “You’re telling me that someone took a hundred and a quarter big ones out of the Models for Hire account in greenback dollars, and no one around here knew a bloody thing about it? You have got to be kidding!” With plenty of feeling he added a word I’ll omit. Joe appeared to have no answer to that. Lee frowned at the floor in silence for a moment before speaking again.

  “Okay, tell me which ATMs they were, Joe… Uh, hang on.” Stubbs glanced at me, muttered, “They used several,” and started jotting on the pad.

  “Okay, Joe, fire away. Grand Central? Gotcha. Keep going.” Stubbs spent the next several seconds taking down locations.

  “Okay, Joe,” the vice-president said when he’d finished the list. “Get me a memo on it. Today, babe. I’ll try to get in to see the prez before lunch, and I need to have that when I do… What? Yeah, I wish. Keep your fingers crossed. If Tom’s in a bad mood, heads are going to roll. Yeah, I’ll let you know. Before lunch. Then we can decide where to go for lunch. If we still have jobs.”

  The banker hung up, shaking his head. He looked at me. “They used eight Money Depots, all in midtown, four on the east side, four on the west side. I’ve got to get Betty Donovan on the phone. God, I hope she can straighten this out!”

  Stubbs somehow managed to get Nancy to put him through. “Betty? How are you? Lee Stubbs.”

  He explained the situation, using about twice as many words as I felt were needed. He was winding up with, “Anyway, Betty, I was hoping you could help me figure out what’s going on. If you could just give me Mr. Sarnoff’s phone number —”

  The vice-president got well and truly interrupted. For the next two minutes he listened, getting in only two “But —”s and one “But, Betty —.” From the redness of his face, I gathered he wasn’t getting full and complete cooperation from the new, if temporary, proprietor of Penniston Associates. He finally managed to get in a full sentence.

  “All right, Betty. I’m sorry for bothering you in the middle of a meeting. This may not seem very important to you, but to me —” He glanced at me, shrugged and cradled the receiver. “She hung up.”

  “What’s eating her?” I asked.

  Stubbs shook his head. “Oh, I guess she was in the middle of a meeting with George McClendon and Laura’s parents over at their offices. You knew she was selling the company to McClendon? Well, I guess they’re right in the middle of trying to come to terms. She was mad at being interrupted. Plus, I guess the negotiations aren’t going so well, and she had a few choice words for me about my cutthroat friends — namely McClendon. You see, I’m the guy who introduced them — Betty and Laura — to McClendon.”

  “So, I take it, we’re not getting any help from her in locating Sarnoff?”

  “Oh yeah! Sarnoff. I almost forgot. No, she can’t help us. Part of that…” Stubbs pointed at the phone. “…was her telling me about him. Says she never met the guy, doesn’t know anything about him. Says he was a friend of Laura’s. In fact, she’s pretty mad at Laura right now. Says Laura brought Sarnoff in and he stole them blind.” The vice-president shook his head.

  I was thinking fast. I was still hitless in my primary goal: locating Steven Sarnoff. But I’d hit a homer — of sorts — in learning about the missing cash. This was looking more and more like a case of embezzlement followed by murder.

  We were getting close. I was now convinced that Sarnoff was the key witness, if not the murderer himself. Trouble was, how were we ever going to find him?

  25

  I decided to hike home.

  A real tribute to my intrepidity because the gods of meteorology had decided that one day of sunshine was enough and were now favoring us with a bit of serious winter right in the middle of November. The wind whistling across the Hudson had been picking up speed ever since leaving Ohio and was finding the steel forests of Manhattan a terrific playground to cavort in. The snow and sub-freezing temperature didn’t help matters any.

  On second thought, make that stupidity, not intrepidity.

  I managed to keep my hat for a while by anchoring it to my head with a free hand while the other hand clung to the attaché ease. But halfway between Fifty-fifth and Fifty-fourth, on Seventh, I had to do something about the icicle that was forming on the end of my nose. I tugged the hat firmly down to my eyebrows and reached into my pocket for a handkerchief. Seeing its opportunity, a huge gust hit me from behind and got leverage on the hat brim. Before I could jerk my hand back out of my pocket, there went the hat. Several harried fellow-pedestrians helped me watch it bounce and roll across Seventh until a city bus put a sudden end to its short escape to freedom, crushing it Hatter than my wallet two weeks before payday.

  Those of you that are wondering why I didn’t just grab a cab are obviously not from New York. As any New Yorker could tell you, every taxicab in the city disappears the instant the weather takes a turn for the worse.

  My reason for walking had been the hope that the exercise would stimulate my brainstem into solving the puzzle of the missing Sarnoff. Forget it. The only workout the brainstem got was monitoring me for signs of incipient hypothermia.

  By the time I staggered into the mansion and slammed the door behind me I was convinced I’d never get warm again. Pitching the useless topcoat in the general direction of the hatrack, I headed down the hall to the Bishop’s office, trying to stop shivering.

  Regan, at his desk, threw me a casual glance over the reading glasses, then a more serious look. He pulled off the specs and stared.

  “David, your face is bright red. And your ears! Shouldn’t you —?”

  I waved it away. “Naw. It’s good for me.” The words came out a little mushy. “I’ve decided to try out for the Winter Olympics in kayakracing. Time trials on the North Slope in three weeks. I think I’m ready.”

  I was trying to get a comb through my hair as I talked. “One thing about it, for the first time ever, my hair’s even messier than yours.”

  Regan automatically started a hand toward his silvery mop. His lips tightened. “You must be all right. Your persiflage is as puerile as ever. Sit down, if you have anything to report.”

  I sat down, rubbing my hands together.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. We’re onto some kind of scam here. What I can’t figure out is how to solve it. My brain’s coming up empty, mainly because of that damn monsoon out there. I think it’s —”

  “That is not a monsoon, David. Not even metaphorically. A monsoon is…”

  I’ll skip all that. When we eventually got tired of arguing meteorological inconsequentialities, Regan was all business.

  “So this Sarnoff, whoever he is, has been withdrawing substantial funds from his bank account every week?”

  “Well, someone was. In three-hundred-dollar — no, six-hundred-dollar — chunks. Every time he did one, he did two.” I flipped the three sheets of computerese Stubbs had given me onto the Bishop’s desk.

  The boss leaned over them, tracing a fingertip quickly over the figures. He looked up, frowning. “This MD notation refers to the cash withdrawals you mentioned?”

  “Yeah. From the ATMs the bank has, all over town. I’m surprised you had to ask. I thought a guy of your intelligence —”

  I shut up. No point taunting someone who’s obviously not listening. Two minutes later Regan looked up again and shoved the papers dismissively across the desk.

  “So, David. Cash withdrawn: $122,300; checks paid: $163,140. I presume that amount represents legitimate b
usiness expenses. And one other debit, negligible: thirty dollars. This, from an initial $2,000 deposit, and seventeen subsequent deposits — one a month — totaling $281,470. Leaving zero. If the $122,300 cash withdrawn all went to him, Mr. Sarnoff skimmed forty-three percent off the top. Rather substantial profit margin, that.”

  I stared at him. Stubbs had come up with the same results. Only it had taken him half an hour and he’d needed a desk calculator. The boss was showing off.

  “Naw,” I said contemptuously, glancing into my notebook. “You’re way off. The real figure’s 42.967 percent. That’s the kind of sloppy thinking that’s going to get you in trouble one fine day if you don’t start shaping up.”

  A hint of a smile played over the Bishop’s lips. “Thank you for the correction, David. From now on I shall strive to be precise.” The smile vanished. “However. Important as precision is, even more important is finding Mr. Sarnoff. Whether he’s the murderer or not, we certainly need to talk to him. Any progress in that effort?”

  “Not really,” I admitted, and proceeded to fill him in on the rest of the morning’s happenings. The boss wheeled around the office aimlessly during the final ten minutes of my report, but never stopped paying attention. When I finished, Regan stopped rolling. He sat for a few seconds, eyes closed in concentration.

  “How very intriguing. Elusive gentleman, this Sarnoff. One begins to wonder if he even exists.”

  “Oh, he exists, all right,” I assured him. “In fact, I can tell you several important things about him.” The Bishop swung to face me, gave me a nod and his full attention.

  “First of all, he’s smooth. Laura Penniston was no chump, I’ve learned enough about her to know that, and he tricked her good. That’s why she was in such a rage that night with Sandy Norville and Theodore. She said as much.

  “Second, Bo knows banking.” Regan cocked his head and frowned. “Oh yeah, I always forget how little TV you watch. Never heard of Bo Jackson?” The boss just stared at me.

  “Put it this way: Sarnoff knew how Mid-City operates. How would a person go about finagling over a hundred grand in untraceable funds out of a bank? I’ve been around the horn a time or two, and I couldn’t have told you that. Till now. Turns out it’s a piece of cake: you get an ATM card and pull the money out a little at a time. Of course you end up with a huge pile of double-sawbucks, but there are worse problems.

  “Mid-City’s in a real snit over it. Stubbs is meeting with their in-house attorney right now: do they have enough evidence that a crime’s been committed to notify the FBI? They think they do, but they want to discuss it with Betty Donovan and her lawyers first.

  “Way it looks, Sarnoff knew Mid-City didn’t permit over three hundred dollars per single withdrawal, nor more than two withdrawals a day. So six hundred bucks is the max you can take out of the machines in any one day. And every day the account had enough in it, that’s what he took.

  “But —” I raised a finger “— he never let the account get below two thousand dollars. Close, but never below. Seems he knew that Mid-City had a policy of contacting its commercial customers any time they let their accounts get below that. So he made sure he stayed above it. At least, till he was ready to make his getaway. Last week, for the first time, he ran the account down and finally zeroed it out with a final withdrawal of two hundred twenty dollars. Causing the account to automatically close.”

  Regan was back behind his desk, eyes closed. He tugged abstractedly at the silver chain around his neck. Hanging from that was the crucifix the Pope sent him after the shooting. (Regan’s proud of that gift. He once showed me the note that came with it, handwritten in English by JP II himself: “We now have much in common, you and I.”)

  “You’ve obviously given this some thought, David,” Regan murmured. “Please go on. What else have you deduced about Mr. Sarnoff?”

  I gave him a suspicious look. He was either making fun of my puny ideas or handing out some rare praise. Hard to tell. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Thank you. Point three. Despite his being so close to Laura Penniston, I haven’t been able to find a single friend or associate of hers who ever met the guy. So he knows how to cover his tracks.

  “One final point. He needed money, fast and bad. He put plenty of time and effort into planning this scam. And once he had it in place, he jerked the money out as fast as he could — but never too fast. So he’s extremely patient. He had a great scam going, but played it very cool. Not a single slip-up with the account in the entire year-and-a-half it was open. This guy makes ice water look lukewarm.”

  I flicked a hand in a gesture of modesty. “And that’s what I deduce about Steven Sarnoff.”

  The Bishop, now over by the windows, had spun around and moved toward me.

  “I applaud you, David. Very good. I don’t suppose you’d object to my adding a point of my own? Along with a refinement?”

  “Be my guest. All I ask is for you to remember where credit is due, if any of that leads to Sarnoff.”

  Regan smiled. “But of course. I simply want to add a peripheral point or two to the very descriptive — and, I think, accurate — picture you’ve drawn. I would suggest the following for an appendix: Mr. Sarnoff has at least one other name. Which he uses as and when needed.”

  I stared. “I don’t see where you come up with that. There’s been no indication of any alias.”

  “Not explicitly, no. But there are sufficient hints to suggest it. Consider, David. As you pointed out, not a single one of Miss Penniston’s associates — at least none you’ve been able to reach — has ever met Mr. Sarnoff. Query: how could Miss Penniston have been close enough to the man to trust him as fully as you correctly say she must have, without any of her friends meeting or seeing him? Probable answer: they have indeed met him. But not under the name Sarnoff.

  “I would offer considerable odds, were I a betting man, that at least one of the people you’ve interviewed has met, or at least spoken with, Mr. Sarnoff. Perhaps unawares.

  “Put yourself in his position. He had cash to dispose of. You spoke of his plethora of twenty-dollar bills, saying that there are worse problems. No doubt. Nonetheless, I find it hard to believe that the man simply hid one hundred twenty thousand dollars in cash under his mattress. No. He must have had means of depositing it quickly, conveniently and undetectably. Without a pseudonym, that would have been impracticable to the point of impossibility.

  “So I think we may safely conjecture that the man is operating under two names. In fact —” The door chime interrupted. I looked at Regan. “Go ahead and see who it is,” he muttered, reaching for a book on his desk. “We’ll resume this later.”

  It was Ida Mae with a friend. As I came down the hall Ida gave me a small wave through the glass, but no smile. Her companion was a young black man about her age and height in a black leather jacket.

  Hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, he shifted weight from side to side in his unlaced Michael Jordan high-tops.

  I opened the door. The guy flicked me a quick glance and looked away.

  “Mr. Goldman!” Ida Mae exclaimed. “You got to help us! Jerry’s in trouble!”

  26

  Wondering how things could have gotten any worse for Jerry than they already were, I hustled the two visitors in and closed the weather out.

  “This here’s Henry Justice,” Ida said as I took her coat and hung it up.

  I turned to her friend, extending my hand. His jacket was already off and he awkwardly shifted it to his left hand as he gave me his right. He looked away while we shook; his grip was reluctant. Several things about him suggested he’d spent some time in jail; the odor of disinfectant he gave off told me the time had been recent.

  “Welcome, Mr. Justice,” I said, taking his coat and hanging it from the hatrack next to Ida’s. “I guess you’re a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Fanning?”

  Henry looked at Ida Mae. I briefly wondered if the kid was mute. The girl nodded encouragement and h
e turned back to me.

  “Yessir. Mist’ Fanning, he brung me to the Lord. And he ast me to come see his missus when I got out this morning. I had to tell her what’s gone on with Mist’ Fanning in there. And it ain’t good.”

  Ida Mae started to add something, but I cut her off. “Come with me,” I said to both of them. “I think the Bishop will want to hear this.” Regan looked up over his glasses as we came into the office.

  “Mrs. Fanning,” he said, his tone friendly but businesslike. “Come in. Sit down, please. What can we do for you?”

  She opened her mouth again and I interrupted her again. “This is Henry Justice, Bishop, a friend of the Fannings. And I believe he’s got some news about Jerry. Bad, I’m afraid. Right, sir?”

  While talking, I was pulling up chairs for the visitors. The Bishop, meanwhile, was putting his book back on his desk and maneuvering into position to listen and converse. Amazing how having a friend in trouble can improve your hospitality.

  Neither of the guests seemed to want to use the chairs I offered them. They finally did, Ida with her knees together, dress primly pulled down; Henry with his feet splayed apart. Neither sat back; both looked uncomfortable and declined my offer of drinks.

  Regan tried waiting for someone to begin, but had to give up on that. Henry seemed preoccupied with his Nikes; Ida fidgeted, opened her mouth, closed it, glanced appealingly at me. I opened my mouth but Regan decided to go ahead and lead the discussion himself.

  “So, Mrs. Fanning. Your husband is in need of help of a new kind?” Ida met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

  “I’m sorry to be bustin’ in on you like this, Bishop, but I don’t rightly know where else to turn.” She looked at the black youth. “Tell him, Henry.”

  Justice screwed up his courage and met her eye, shifting in his seat uneasily. “Tell him,” she repeated. Henry, looking at the floor again, shook his head stubbornly.