And through all that, he’d found nothing he didn’t already know.
Information on Chef Jim Munchel, full name James Michael Munchel, was well known to culinary artists and food lovers all over the world. Born March 7, 1961 in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Jim was the youngest of three children. He’d put himself through culinary school by managing a B. Dalton bookstore in a mall in Camp Hill, a suburb of Harrisburg. In September of 1988 he was fired for hosting a booksigning by local horror authors John Skipp & Craig Spector after being forbidden to by the corporate office. His firing had no effect on him: Jim Munchel was already on his way to becoming the world renowned chef he would become famous for. He bounced back by getting a job at a restaurant in Lititz, Pennsylvania called Scooters. His cooking became a local favorite and by the early nineties he had moved to Philadelphia and was working at a variety of five-star restaurants. In 2000 he opened his own restaurant, The Pinnacle, in Center City. He opened the Newport Beach location in 2005 and a New York City location in 2008. Despite his success, he refused most media interviews and guest appearances on various cooking shows, most notably Iron Chef. “I didn’t get into cooking to be a celebrity,” Jim Munchel was quoted as saying in a 2009 Philadelphia magazine article. “I got into it because I love it and it is pure artistic expression of the highest honor. I enjoy food, and I enjoy preparing meals for my guests. Cooking a meal for somebody is the most pure form of love and kindness one can bestow on another, and it pleases me when people enjoy my food.”
The dozen or so biographies on Munchel that Joe Taylor managed to dig up—from his restaurant’s websites to his Wikipedia entry, were nearly identical. Only the Philadelphia magazine article gave more detailed background information on the chef, and even that seemed too typical, too bland. Joe Taylor had printed the article out and set it to one side on his cherry-wood desk for future reference.
Searches on George Spector, John Lansdale, and Earl Saunders were equally unsuccessful. Dean Campbell had been running various background checks on George Spector ever since Joe returned from St. Louis. Between their combined efforts, they hadn’t learned much on any of them. They hadn’t even learned anything about Bill Richards, the man Carla had last seen for her alleged job interview. The only thing Dean Campbell was one hundred percent sure of was that the company Bill claimed to represent, Apex, Limited, didn’t exist.
As for Bill Richards himself, his name was listed in the articles of incorporation and that was where the trail ran cold. Bill Richards was not listed in any state government database—he had no driver’s license, no Social Security number. To Joe Taylor, it was as if Bill Richards didn’t even exist.
The research Joe had conducted at the Casper, Wyoming Deeds Office had yielded several important finds. One, the building it was believed Carla had gone to for her interview was owned by a very large holding company, Randolph Unlimited, who owned similar property throughout Wyoming, Montana, and Colorado. They did not have a tenant at their Casper location called Apex, Limited or any variation thereof. However, they did have a tenant in that location called Ace Corporation, which was a sole proprietorship. It was also a shell corporation for an outfit called Mountain Funds.
Mountain Funds was a commodity trading firm headed by a man named Wayne Sanders.
Joe Taylor pushed his chair back from the computer and rubbed his eyes. The threads were faint, but he couldn’t ignore them. Once you followed one, a pandora’s box opened, leading you to someplace else. Mountain Funds was one of the companies on George Spector’s list of prospectuses. Joe had given that information to Dean Campbell. This morning, Dean called him with some startling news.
“Get this,” Dean had said. “Mountain Funds is a pretty legit company. They deal directly with Goldman Sachs and a bunch of other Wall Street players. Their CEO, Wayne Sanders, is also involved in international investing and here’s where it gets interesting. One of his clients is a member of the Saudi royal family.”
Joe hadn’t found that information so tantalizing. “Big deal. The Saudi’s have a lot of money in our banks and mutual funds. Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, I know. But ten years ago, a woman filed suit against Mr. Sanders in a New York lower circuit court claiming she’d been drugged while on a business trip to Saudi Arabia with him. She claimed Mr. Sanders attempted to force her into servitude—forced slavery.”
That got Joe’s attention. “Forced slavery?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Unfortunately, that’s as far as it got. Sanders settled the case out of court on the condition the plaintiff never speak of the matter again. I located her and tried to get her to talk. She ain’t talkin’.”
“Offer her money,” Joe suggested.
“Are you serious? She can’t talk, Joe. She’s bound by the terms of the agreement.”
“Fly out to see her,” Joe suggested. “Follow her, make sure she’s alone and nobody has tailed you. Then approach her, offer her two hundred grand in cash if she’ll tell you everything she knows about Mr. Sanders.”
“I’m sure Wayne Sanders settled with her for a lot more than two hundred grand.”
“Then find out what it was and double it.”
“Joe—”
“I’m serious, Dean. This is a good lead. If Wayne Sanders is running some kind of white slavery ring...if Carla got dragged into it on US soil...” The thought repulsed him. And to think he was more worried about Carla being sold into slavery if she’d gone to a Muslim country like Saudi Arabia. “Money gets people to talk,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’ll pay anything to get Carla back, Dean. Anything. I have the money. I will hand over my entire fortune if it brings Carla back.”
There’d been a pause on the other end of the line. Dean knew how much Joe Taylor was worth. “I’ll see what I can do,” Dean had said.
That had been yesterday. Dean was in New York now. He’d located the woman and was tailing her. Joe had received an update an hour ago. He’d told Dean he was working on connecting the dots on his end. And it was all starting to come together.
Wayne Sanders’s company had employed Bill Richards. Wayne was connected to George Spector, who was connected to John Lansdale and Earl Sanders by virtue of belonging to the same country club in Wyoming, a big sprawling place called Bent Creek. He’d heard the name in passing at Earl’s house a few days ago, shortly after Chef Munchel served dinner. In normal circumstances he might not have paid attention to it. Joe had heard George Spector make an aside to another guest at the party that Chef Munchel often catered and prepared extremely exotic cuisine for a private party he was involved with at Bent Creek. The comment was made casually, but it later gained Joe’s attention when the guest began to bug George about it and he mentioned the elusive Bill Richards by name. How do I get invited to attend something like this? I keep telling Bill Richard’s that I’d love to try more of Chef Munchel’s more esoteric and exotic food. I actually flew down here hoping I could meet Mr. Richards, but his schedule is terrible. Said he wouldn’t be able to introduce me to Chef Munchel. I told Bill that I can pay for it! Why won’t you tell me? And each time, George would brush it aside and try to change the conversation. Joe could tell George regretted bringing it up to the guest, that if he hadn’t been so tipsy he might not have said anything. Joe used this opportunity to spring to the rescue. “I’m having an event in New York and I still haven’t hired a chef,” he’d said. “If Munchel is available to work the event for me, I’ll make sure you’re invited, sir.”
The man had smirked at George. “See, that’s how colleagues are supposed to treat each other!”
The man had then introduced himself to Joe and given him his business card. His name was Ralph Ferrano, and he was involved with hedge fund portfolios. Joe later learned that Ferrano had never formally met Bill Richards; they’d only spoken by phone. “He was supposed to be here,” Ralph later told Joe. By this time, George had excused himself and Joe was trying to learn more about Bill Richards without trying to seem overly interested
. “He’s apparently very tight with our host, Mr. Sanders. But Earl said Bill couldn’t make it.”
Joe sat back in his comfortable office chair, remembering that event and others, making the connections.
There was nothing on paper. Nothing official in cyberspace. But the connections existed via word of mouth and recommendation: Joe was now connected to George Spector, John Lansdale, and Earl Sanders. Earl Sanders knew a guy named Bill Richards—presumably the same Bill Richards he and Dean Campbell were looking for—who also shared a professional relationship with Chef Jim Munchel. George Spector and Bill Richards had apparently attended an event Chef Jim Munchel catered at a place called Bent Creek Country Club.
George Spector and Bill Richards were apparently connected to Mountain Funds, which was headed by Wayne Sanders.
The pieces were coming together, but there were still parts missing.
What to do...?
Joe navigated over to the main website of Chef Jim Munchel’s restaurant. He clicked on the Contact Us box. The page came up and displayed the address and locations of all three restaurants. Figuring Jim’s headquarters was still in Philadelphia, he opted to start with that location. He picked up the extension on his desk and proceeded to make the first of several calls to arrange for a private banquet catered by Chef Jim Munchel.
CHAPTER 31
When Rick Nicholson swam up from the murky depths of unconsciousness, he knew he was facing trouble once he breached the surface.
He opened his eyes. He didn’t immediately recognize the room he was in. It looked like a store room. The wall he was facing was concrete and metal shelving had been erected against it. Boxes sat on the shelves. Rick tried to control his breathing and gather his wits, letting his senses report his current state to him: he was lying on a bare concrete floor, his hands were tied behind his back, ankles lashed together. He’d been set down on his left side, facing a bare concrete wall. The air was cool, and as he lay there collecting his wits, he felt another presence in the room.
“He’s waking up,” somebody said.
Rick felt his breath hitch in. His heart began to trip-hammer. He felt no pain. He remembered being knocked out. His last thought had been of Paul smacking him with a karate chop to the back of the neck, then nothingness.
Footsteps behind him approached. The sound of somebody crouching to the floor. Rough hands grasped his shoulder and turned him over onto his back.
A face leered down at him. Paul Westcott. Standing behind him were Pete and Glenn from Security. They didn’t look too happy, either. Paul snapped his fingers over Rick’s face. “You hear me?”
Rick nodded. His throat was dry.
“Scared?”
Rick nodded again and gulped. “Yeah,” he managed.
“You know why you’re in trouble?”
“No.” It was the truth. He didn’t know why they’d done this to him. It was one thing to be accused of theft by your employer. It was another thing for your employer’s security team to assault you and hold you hostage. Did Paul contact the Wyoming State Police? He hoped so. He wanted off Bent Creek grounds immediately, and if being hauled away by the State Police to sit in a holding cell for a day or two until he made bail was the only way out, he was taking it. He would deal with the theft accusation later, through the courts. And he would bust their ass for illegally assaulting and detaining him.
“I’ll explain it to you then,” Paul said. “You are aware of the thefts over the last few weeks on Bent Creek grounds, yes?”
Rick nodded. “Yes.”
“And you are aware that two of those thefts were of cash money, stolen from two different guests.”
“I didn’t take any money,” Rick said.
Paul held up his right hand to stop him and continued. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash was stolen from one of our guests two days ago from a locked briefcase. The briefcase was in the guest’s room. In addition, three hundred thousand was stolen from another guest this past Monday. It was originally thought the thefts were conducted by one of the cleaning staff. You were present at most of the questionings of the cleaning staff, and you helped supervise the search of their rooms. I must say that was very clever on your part, Mr. Nicholson.”
“I didn’t take any money!” Rick stated again, more forceful.
Paul ignored him. “We looked at everybody. We even followed up several leads involving Bent Creek guests that looked promising. None of these leads panned out. Then we decided to search the rooms of our senior staff members. That’s when we found part of the money in your briefcase stashed under your bed.”
“I didn’t take it!”
“How did that money get there?”
“I don’t know!”
“It just magically appeared in your briefcase under your bed?”
“I said, I don’t know!”
“Do you know which briefcase I’m talking about?”
Rick paused for a moment. When Paul and his security team had walked into his office carrying his tan briefcase, he’d wondered what was going on. He’d recognized it immediately from the scratch along the lid. He took a deep breath. “I have a tan briefcase. I keep important business papers in it.”
“You kept a goodly portion of almost three hundred thousand dollars in that briefcase,” Paul countered. “The rest you must have smuggled off the grounds in your duffel bag yesterday, when you left to tend to your so-called sick mother.”
“I didn’t put that money in the briefcase!”
“Then how did it get there?”
Rick wanted to say, you guys did it, but he didn’t want to provoke a violent reaction. Instead, he thoughtfully phrased his response carefully. “I don’t know. Somebody must have it in for me.”
“So you were framed?”
“Maybe.”
“Who would want to frame you, Mr. Nicholson? Your employees? I find that hard to believe. Your direct reports liked you.”
Rick realized that this looked really bad. The looks Paul, Glenn, and Pete were giving him conveyed one thing: they didn’t believe him. This made him nervous, and he began to stammer. “I-I didn’t have ah-ah-anything to do with this. I sw-swear to God!”
“You do realize that all the evidence points to you?” Paul said. “You have key card access to all the rooms. I’m sure with the right amount of investigating, we can connect the dots even further. All it will take will be a search warrant or two, and we can get that easy.”
“Go ahead,” Rick said, releasing his breath and feeling a slight wave of relief come over him as the implications became obvious. “Get a search warrant. I’ll consent to that.”
There was a buzzing noise. Paul calmly reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his Blackberry. He put it to his ear. “Yes?” He listened for a moment, then stood up, turned away from Paul. Glenn and Pete looked at him, their features concerned as Paul’s expression changed. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be right over.” He pressed the disconnect button and nodded at his team. “That was Emily. She wants to see us in the main conference room.”
The three men stepped away as a single unit. Rick craned his neck to watch their retreat and saw that his first impression was right—he was in a storage room. He immediately identified it as the large spare storage room right off the main pantry. Two large walk in freezers sat directly across from him. Glenn and Pete exited the storage room. Paul turned back to Rick. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll continue our discussion later.”
Then Paul exited the room and shut the door behind him. Rick heard the lock engage.
The moment they were gone, Rick closed his eyes and fought to control his emotions. He had to be calm, had to think this through. He had to get out of this mess and he had to do it carefully. He had no idea how that money wound up in his briefcase. It was obvious somebody had to be blamed for the thefts; somebody had to be the scapegoat, and for reasons beyond his comprehension, that turned out to be Rick. Fine. Let them blame him. Let them press charges. Let the St
ate Police take him to jail. Getting off Bent Creek property was the first step. The next step was getting in touch with his former partners at the law firm to seek their help. He was confident they would not only rally to his cause, but would vigorously defend him in the process. When it was over, they might even welcome him back into the fold. He never should have left the law firm in the first place. That had been a mistake.
The more Rick thought this over, the better he began to feel. He would be vindicated. If this wound up in court, he would be vindicated the moment any mention was made of illegal detainment and imprisonment. And with the proper investigation on Rick’s part, who knew what kind of dirt he could dig up on Paul Westcott and the rest of the Bent Creek upper echelon? All Rick had to do was wait this out and get out of here.
Rick took a deep breath and let it out. He felt better. He felt confident. When this was over, Paul Westcott and every Board of Director of Bent Creek was going to wish they’d never hired him.
CHAPTER 32
Seven Months Ago
The party was turning out to be a smashing success.
Joe held it at the upper West Side apartment of a close friend, Angus Scott, one of three other people in his inner circle who knew about his efforts to find Carla. Angus was an investment banker. Short, balding, and approaching sixty, Angus had been married and divorced four times. He was currently in a long-term relationship with potential wife #5. “But we’ll never get married,” he’d told Joe once a few years ago. “No need to give her any incentive to chip away at my estate the way the others did.” Angus had laughed about it, but Joe never understood why his friend had never displayed more anger about the divorces. His first marriage was the only one that produced children, and Angus was a great father. Despite his busy schedule, he’d always found the time to attend their sporting and school events, to be a part of their lives. He was even on very good terms with ex-wife #1. Connie was her name. Joe had liked Connie. Still liked her. It was a shame wives #2-4 had been gold diggers. They’d hung around long enough for things to be legal, then they’d filed for divorce and demanded high alimonies. Angus was one of those guys who had the uncanny ability to be attracted to women who wanted nothing more than to transfer a portion of his money to them.
Retreat Page 21