“Our church reception room is available for refreshments too. And, Reggie, won’t you plan to say a few words in the spirit of your Aunt Jo? The staff from the Big Buddies program will surely attend. And young Luis Diaz… perhaps he’ll speak too.”
“Perhaps he will, Reverend Welch, if he’s free.”
“All Souls would love to see you, Reggie. It’s my pitch for the spirit—when the Lord isn’t calling me to get bids from roofers. Stay in touch.”
Stark’s still out with Biscuit, so I call Margaret Vogler, who assures me that Corsair Financial will underwrite the memorial service reception. It’s revealing: the Voglers won’t spend a dime of their own money; the service will be a tax write-off for Corsair. Margaret launches a heart-to-heart on tea sandwiches and little tarts. “Petits fours, Regina, but no marzipan.”
“Perhaps a sauterne, Margaret, and a zinfandel.” Would I mind phoning a caterer? Not a bit.
In moments, I’m on the phone to Mimi’s Kitchen. “Rather short notice,” I agree, with accents of Bette Davis for urgency. “Please invoice Mr. Leonard Vogler, Corsair Financial.” When he sees the bill, may Vogler gargle Zoloft with his bourbon.
Here’s Stark with an exhausted Biscuit, who flops on the kitchen floor while the man gulps his sugared coffee. “It smells like a training room in here, Cutter. Like ointment for sore muscles.”
“I went horseback riding a couple days ago.”
“The best saddle’s on a Harley. You’ll find out. Hey, what’s this—Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. ‘How to Ram a Car.’ ‘How to Win a Sword Fight.’ This some kind of joke?”
“It just showed up.”
“Unannounced?”
“On my doorstep.”
He grunts, eyes narrowed to slits. “Whatever you say, Cutter. But you better keep Biscuit here with you for a while longer.”
Meaning that I need a watchdog on constant duty. As if the Survival Handbook doesn’t remind me. We move toward my front door. That crackling sound again. “Hey, what’s that noise?” Stark stares at the crackling wood. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s a gift, applewood—”
“Cutter, you got borers. Apple borers, worse than termites. You can hear them. They’ll eat your house.” He grabs the armful. “Get this junk out of here right now. Open the door.” Stark dumps all the wood and promises to move the sofa in a few days. He dusts his hands. “Some presents you get.”
“Some givers. Stark, does the name Helping Hand mean anything to you?”
“A charity?”
“A business. Something that Jo was into with Steven.”
“It doesn’t sound like her.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Helping Hand, you’re sure that’s it?”
“Pretty sure. You didn’t notice the name when we moved Steven’s furniture? Anything in the drawers of the blue chest?”
“No. Ask your cop friends. They got the first round of the search.”
He’s at the door. “One last thing, Stark. You took Massachusetts state history as a schoolkid, right?”
“Before I dropped out? What do you want to know—Paul Revere, the Pilgrims?”
“There was a textile strike in Lawrence. It was in 1912.”
He snorts. “Suppose, hell yes. Talk about landmarks for the working stiffs.”
“You know about it? Tell me.”
“I don’t remember details, but it was the usual crap, the mill town owners calling all the shots. They got rich. But they went too far. They pushed the workers’ hours and cut their wages, both at the same time, talk about sweatshops. The workers were trapped. They were immigrants from all over, you know, ‘Give me your tired, your poor.’ They had big families, nobody spoke much English. The thing is, the workers got fed up and walked out of the mills. And stayed out. The governor called out the militia, but the strikers held out. It was winter, cold as a witch’s ass. They stuck it out. And they won.”
“What do you mean ‘won’?”
“Higher wages, better hours.”
“And it’s a well-known event in state history?”
“In national history, Cutter. It was a big media event. Reporters came from everywhere. Workers shipped their kids out of Lawrence for fear the militia’d shoot or bayonet them. The whole country was rooting for the mill families. It was a PR disaster for the owners. The workers’ deal was to earn a decent living and the owners’ respect. The women were really into it. The workers beat the owners. That’s why the nickname.”
“What nickname?”
“For respect and enough to eat—that’s why it’s named for the bread and the roses.”
“Bread? What roses?”
“The Bread and Roses Strike. It’s famous.”
Stark leaves, but I’m frozen in place, staring at the pale green glass on the top shelf of my front room. QUART gleams in the late morning light. Bread and roses, and whiskey and cabbage too. The voices I heard… they’re Lawrence mill workers, strikers. The cabbage, it was cooking in a kitchen… a kitchen bar. The whiskey was Blanchard & Farrar, Dock Square, Boston. In my hands—as in Jo’s—the foreign voices rise in anger and hope. The whiskey was poured, I now know for certain, in the kitchen bar of the Damelinski family. I heard the voices of workers who came after their shifts to drink—and to commiserate and then organize. To plan their walkout. They were fearful and hopeful, desperate, maybe drunk. The crack on the head… somebody grabbed the empty flask as a cudgel. Does the spirit of that person linger in the perpetuity of the kitchen bar, compelled forever to grab the flask and wield it like a weapon?
Did Steven know this Damelinski family history? It’s doubtful. Stories get lost. Family members aren’t interested. The flask gradually becomes just an old bottle around the house. An old bottle from the Lithuanian days.
From the “Slovak” days.
Is Steven’s death connected to the 1912 Bread and Roses Strike? How? QUART seems to wink in the light, to beckon me. I refuse. No more blows to the skull, no thanks. Enough.
I call Devaney.
“Coincidence, Reggie, you were just on my mind. It happened like this many times with your aunt. How’re you doing?”
“Okay, Frank, but here’s a question: did the police search of Steven Damelin’s things turn up a business called Helping Hand?”
“It sounds like not-for-profit.”
“But it’s a business. Or was. I think Jo was involved. I know she was.”
“She never told me about it. But I’ll check the inventory and get back to you. Anyway, Ed asked me to give you an update.”
“Maglia has found Alex Ribideau?”
“Not as yet, no. At this time, we’re talking to Luis Diaz. We brought him in. He was in a car with three other kids. They had burglery tools and a nail gun. Just so you know.”
“What brand, Frank? What make?”
“The car?”
“The nail gun.”
“I don’t know.”
“Frank, listen to this: the business that Steven Damelin worked for… the CEO’s wife’s family makes nail guns.”
“Reggie, that’s a stretch.”
“It’s a lead.”
“Reggie, consider the logic. If we arrest a guy in a Mustang, do we question Mr. and Mrs. Ford? No, we do not. You’re stressing yourself.”
“You think Luis killed Steven?”
“Maybe he went to Damelin’s apartment the night of the murder. Ed’s working on it. Whatever you’re up to, Reggie, it sounds far-fetched. Ease off.”
Ease? Do I tell about the Survival Handbook just when he thinks I’m already half daft? Do I remind him that a car ran me down on my own street the day before Steven was murdered? “I’m planning a memorial sevice, Frank. I’m gathering a list of invitees and plan to contact a young woman who’ll sing. I’ll spend the afternoon on the invitations. I’ll brew a pot of tea.”
“Good, Reggie. That sounds real good. You take care.”
It’s after 5:00 p.m. w
hen I reach the Apollo Club. There’s no sign of Matt Kitchel. Today’s bartender is round-faced, his brass-yellow hair slicked and gleaming. He knows nothing of Matt’s schedule. The after-work crowd gathers. A threesome in jerseys at the bar subtly barricade themselves as I take a stool at this end, decline today’s special, metropolitans, and order a glass of merlot, water on the side.
Fifteen minutes pass, twenty. At 5:30, a second bartender comes on. More customers arrive, men with cut abs and six-pack muscles. The salsa volume is up, the cocktail shaker in overdrive. “Refill?”
“No thanks. Could you check Matt Kitchel’s schedule? Please.”
“Don’t know a thing about it. Sorry.”
The tables are filling, and the booths too. This could be a long evening. Although the stools on either side of me stay empty. No one wants to sit beside the sole female in the club, the Typhoid Mary of the Apollo Club. Here’s a thought: the longer I sit, the bigger the drag on the club revenue. “Excuse me, but if Matt’s available, I’ll be in that second booth. I’m taking my drink to the second booth… that one big empty booth? He can find me there. I’ll be waiting.”
Minutes later, Matt Kitchel bursts through a back door near the waterfall and half lunges into the booth across from me. “I’m trying to run a business here. People need to sit down. What do you want this time?”
“I’m in charge of the memorial service for Steven Damelin. It’ll be at All Souls Church a few days before Veterans Day. Here, let me—” I take out an invitation, which he puts aside without a glance. “Mr. Kitchel… Matt… could you provide a list of names of Steven’s friends?”
“Look, lady—”
“It’s Reggie. Reggie Cutter.”
“Ms. Cutter, maybe you need a hearing test. You didn’t listen last time, so here’s the message: the Apollo Club isn’t interested in giving out lists of names. Not for Steve’s furniture, not for a memorial service. Anyway, who’s behind it? Not his scummy family.”
“It’s an occasion for friends, and his coworkers surely care. Andrew Vogler of Corsair Financial told me—”
“Corsair Fraudancial. You heard me. Fraudancial.”
“You’re accusing the firm of—”
“Accusing nobody of nothing. It was one hell of a party for a while. Weekends in Vegas, coke, and Beemers. You didn’t know? One New Year’s, they all went to Rio. It was fun for all the boys and girls, but the party had to end. No bang, big whimper. Corsair’s a bucket shop. Look it up.”
“Investments pose risks—”
“How pious. Put you on the Wall Street channel.” He scowls. “Lady, you come into my club with your memorial plans, you better know who’s singing the hymns.”
“Matt, my aunt was in business with Steven. I need to know more about it—Helping Hand. Did Steven talk about Helping Hand?”
He gazes at the room. There’s laughter and music and a good time being had by all. “Steve wanted to go out on his own.”
“To leave Corsair?”
“To check the box that says ‘self-employed.’”
“But you never heard of Helping Hand?”
He shakes his head. “I gotta go.”
“Matt, one last thing. There’s a dancer named Alex Ribideau. He was Steven’s partner, as I’m sure you know. You probably know the police are looking for him. I met him.”
“Good for you.”
“Maybe Alex knows about the Helping Hand business. He’s disappeared.”
“So they say.” He stands and leans over me. “You found Steve’s body, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And where were you the night he died, Miss Reggie?”
“I was in my apartment.”
“What did you hear that night?”
“Nothing. A few sounds. The walls are thick.”
“But the police aren’t closing in on you, are they?” He leans close to my face. “How would you feel if a cop car sat outside your dance studio at all hours of the day and night? How would you like to see cops at your apartment round the clock?”
“Me? I’d feel safer.”
His bark-laugh is all sarcasm. “Well, it’s relative, isn’t it?”
“You still think the Latino boy—Luis—killed Steven?”
“You bet I do. But a gay passion murder sells. The cops get promoted, the DA runs for attorney general and governor. Isn’t that how it goes? I gotta get back to work. Have a nice memorial service.”
I’m walking alone toward the club door as voices fall silent. Of course, it’s the woman, the alien female, and my mind a jumble. But head up, Reggie. Let them stare.
But the quiet, I realize, is not for me but two uniformed police. It’s not gender but blues, a man and woman making their way down the bar.
“—haven’t seen him.”
“No.”
“Afraid not.”
Heads are shaking.
The female cop’s voice is stern. “We understand he may frequent this club.”
They’re talking to the slick-haired bartender. They show a photograph.
“—haven’t seen him.”
I’m by the door.
“Haven’t seen him this week.”
“Last month.”
I hear the words “missing… for questioning… looking for” and see the photograph flash as I myself am asked.
“No.” I shake my head. “Haven’t seen him.”
I exit the Apollo Club with sinking heart. The cops have shown me a photograph of Alex Ribideau.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Back home, with Biscuit fed and walked, I grab a yogurt, open my laptop, take a deep breath, and type in “Corsair Financial.”
Its logo, a white stallion, rears against a drapery of royal blue and gold, and the home page shows Leonard in profile in a bespoke suit. He’s holding a portfolio and tortoiseshell readers and stands like a pillar of financial wisdom by a window overlooking Boston Harbor. The words “Investment, Security, Estate Planning” ripple across the bottom.
Color portrait photos of brokers and analysts appear under “Corsair’s Expert Professionals.” Here’s Drew, a young “Rock of Gibralter.” And Steven too, his face friendly but gaze piercing, as if scanning the sea for galleons full of ingots. Either the webmaster hasn’t updated the site, or no one can bear to face the task of removing the murdered analyst. What about his clients? Drew said they were parceled out to others. Including him? Corsair promises the utmost in financial services. “Professional care of our clients, our sacred trust.”
But “trust” means fines and court judgments. A few clicks verify Matt Kitchel’s scathing words. Corsair has been penalized for “hype and dump manipulation” involving the promotion of stock through false and misleading statements.
What kind of statements? The promotional manipulation of “microcap stocks” of two companies, Ferrero Electronics and Aavido Inc., both with subpar capitalization. The fine was $1.3 million.
Question to self: what is a microcap stock?
I move on to find final judgment rendered against Defendants Leonard S. Vogler and Andrew T. Vogler of Corsair Financial last February 5 by the Honorable Dore R. Vandevere, Judge in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Massachusetts.
My eyes glaze at the sections and subsections of securities trust laws violated, but the judge’s words are scalding: “aiding and abetting… knowingly and recklessly failed to properly recognize… attempt to conceal… creation of false supporting documentation.” The parties consent to the final judgment without admitting or denying the allegations. The penalty: $834,093. The bottom line: fraud.
Ready to shut the laptop, I try one more search: the National Association of Securities Dealers. Here’s a box marked “actions,” meaning penalties? Click.
The first impression: fines and suspensions galore, the whole industry a nest of crooks. The culprits are everywhere, Dubuque, Miami, Rochester. Sanctions, offers of settlement, censure, more censure. It’s fascinating, wo
rth hours. I’m looking for Corsair Financial, Charles Vogler or Andrew.
Instead, I find Steven Damelin.
On-screen before me is Steven, Registered Representative of Corsair Financial. Here is Steven’s name among the securities extortionists and defrauders. In January of this year, the NASD fined him $25,000 and suspended him for a month for “findings that he engaged in private transactions without prior written notice to, and approval from, his member firm.”
Private transactions, meaning Steven was caught doing deals on the side. Jo’s deal? Helping Hand—was it a microcap stock? Click a few more times, and I learn that these are companies so small they’re not traded on exchanges. They’re not registered with the SEC. No public reports on them are required. Or available. There’s no trace of Helping Hand.
Try to think this through, Reggie. Suppose the fine is a fraction of the infraction. On-screen I see fines of $5,000 and no suspensions. Slaps on the wrist. Steven’s $25,000 was a real punch.
Did he do private deals from his home? Did the fine put a stop to it, or was my upstairs flat his new boiler room? Suppose the Corsair sheet found by the Right True Clean guys behind the mantel wasn’t merely scratch paper, but a file on microcaps that Steven was still peddling to victims.
Peddling them to Jo? Was that his “deal” with my aunt? It’s hard to believe. Jo was careful with her money. Her altruism was not foolhardy. She was an activist but not a spendthrift, and certainly not greedy. She’d be the last person tempted to invest in stocks unregistered and not listed on an exchange.
I dash, nevertheless, to my lingerie drawer and pull out the sheet of scrawled letters and numbers. This looks like Steven’s writing, based on the signatures on the rent and security deposit checks. But there’s no “HH” for Helping Hand. Maglia has the original of this sheet and has said nothing about its importance—not that he’d tell me. Suppose Steven coded his “private transactions” but was murdered in connection with them, paying the ultimate “fine.”
That friendly young man. Deadly dangerous man? Somehow I recall his sister Crystal’s memory of her brother confessing feelings of alienation from the new life the Voglers afforded him. Crystal said he felt in, but not of, the world of the Vogler family. Did he commit financial crimes to spite them? Or did he try to “earn” his way in with crooked deals to make him a player instead of a charity case? Either way, suppose he operated through a crack in the Chinese wall, then was exposed and dreaded further exposure. Maybe that’s why he tried to block my call to the police when that car ran me down. Helping Hand could be the link to the blood marks on my door.
All in One Piece Page 19