by Blair Howard
“That’s illegal, you piece of shit,” he yelled.
“So is stealing millions of dollars, you friggin’ jerk.”
“I told you. I didn’t do it, and you don’t have proof that I did. Those pieces of paper mean nothing.”
The conversation continued on like that for a while, each one shouting at the other, Regis accusing, Ralph denying any wrongdoing, until finally:
“Ralph,” Regis said. “I’ve been covering these thefts out of my own pocket for almost two years. It’s over. There will be no more. Do you hear?”
Ralph didn’t reply.
“I have an idea who you’re working with, but I want to know from you, and I want your resignation. I want it today. If I don’t get it, I’ll turn all of this over to the police, along with my suspicions, and let them sort it out.”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t dare. You do that, and it will screw up the sale. You don’t want that, now do you, brother?”
“You’re right. The scandal created when it gets out that my own brother has been robbing the bank’s customers for years would, indeed, screw up the sale. But you know what? I. Don’t. Care. I’ve had enough. I’m out almost $6 million. I’m not going to do it anymore.”
“You’re out? You’re out? Screw you, Regis. When Father died, you got everything. All I got was a shitty job wiping your backside. You want me to go? Fine. Here’s what I want. I want $2 million deposited in my account by Friday; that’s four days from now, and I want a settlement, a pension for life of $300,000 a year with cost of living increases. I figure that’s about what I should have gotten when Father died.”
“That’s not going to happen. I’ll go $500,000 and $150,000 a year, but that’s all. I’ll give you fourteen days to think it over. If I don’t have your agreement by the sixth of April, I’ll hand this lot over to the police. Now get the hell out of here.”
And there the recording ended.
By itself, it wasn’t proof of anything, but when you factor in that Regis died just six days after the recording was made….
I looked at Amanda. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I waited, but she didn’t speak. She just poured more wine and sipped on it.
“No thoughts?” I asked finally.
For several seconds she stared unblinking down at the paperwork on the table, then said, “I think it’s pretty conclusive. Ralph killed his brother. Not much doubt about it. That recording proves nothing, though. Nothing that will stand up in court.”
“Your right, of course. But if you take the date of the recording, and then the date when Regis died, and you add all the circumstantial stuff: Ralph’s affair with Ruth, these checks,” I picked them up, “it certainly looks bad, enough for Ralph, or someone paid by Ralph, to kill him. It’s also enough to get Angela killed too. She was right to be scared for her life. I don’t think there’s any doubt. Ralph killed Regis, and probably Angela as well.”
“What about the Archers?” Amanda asked.
“They’re in it up to their necks, but we can’t prove any of this. Here. Let’s go through this pile and see what we have. Maybe we can make something out of it.”
There were more than a hundred sheets of paper. The first sixteen were bank statements, Ralph Hartwell’s, going back more than eighteen months, from February 2015 to July 2013. Dozens of deposits for varying sums from $2,000 to more than $25,000 were highlighted in yellow. They totaled more than $300,000.
The remaining hundred-odd pages represented a like number of accounts, each one at a different bank, some as far afield as Knoxville and Nashville. On each piece of paper were copies of either one, two or three checks—some even had four—and a bank statement. The statements were short, usually just three or four deposits and one withdrawal. None of the checks were made out for more than $25,000; some were for as little as $500. But the monetary value of all the checks combined was more than $5.8 million.
The checks were dated over a period of two years; the last was dated just two weeks before Regis died. It was written by someone supposedly representing ASI (Auto Seating Inc.) for $527 to a bogus company called Westwood Information Technologies. That account was still open. The fact that that final check was dated two weeks prior to Regis Hartwell’s death, wasn’t followed up with more checks, and was never closed, indicated that whoever was working the scam had suffered a setback that caused them to close up shop. Interesting.
“Almost six million,” Amanda said wearily. “And all of it fraudulent. But what does it mean to us?”
“Not a whole lot, at this point. It’s all circumstantial. Together it looks damning, but it won’t hold up. We’ll never prove Ralph murdered his brother, and to prove he killed Angela we need a whole lot more than this. We need to tie him to her. I didn’t tell you this, but Mike Willis found a partial print on Angela’s watchband. If it’s Ralph’s, it will help, but it still won’t be enough. He was her close relative. He could have grabbed her wrist any time in the weeks or days prior to her death. There’s a chance we’ll get some DNA from the hair that was caught in the watchband clasp. If that’s a match, we’ll have him. That could only have been caught there close to the time of her death. Any earlier and she would surely have removed it.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “So what the next step?”
“First, on Monday I’ll have Tim make copies of everything. Then I’ll confront Ralph and Ruth. Separately, of course. I’ll also have my staff visit each of these banks,” I indicated the pile of paper, “question the staff, and have them pull their security disks. Hopefully they keep them for several years. If not, we’re screwed. I want to know who opened and closed each one of the accounts. Fortunately, I have the weekend to think it all through and go over this stuff again. You want to help?”
She said she did, which pleased me to no end, because I wasn’t looking forward to spending the weekend alone.
Chapter 21
I’d thought about the contents of the box and not much else for the entire weekend. I’d talked about it with Amanda until she could stand it no more and had threatened to leave. She didn’t, but I also didn’t stop. I couldn’t. It consumed me. A weekend never went by so slowly.
I was in the office early that Monday morning, even before Jacque. As soon as she came in, I handed her the papers and had her type up a list of the banks where the bogus accounts had been opened.
The rest of the crew ambled in over the next twenty minutes or so, and I handed off the paperwork to Margo with instructions to make copies for Bob, Heather, Leslie, and herself. The disks I handed to Tim, again with instructions to make copies, and to make three sets of prints, one of which I intended to drop in front of Ralph Hartwell. And then I waited.
At nine o’clock, I had them all assemble in the conference room. We were about to get very busy.
“Bob. What are you working on right now?”
Bob Ryan is my lead investigator. He’s worked for me almost since day one, and I love him like a brother, and not just because he’s saved my life on more than one occasion; the last time not more than three months ago when he gunned down Sal De Luca and his brother Paul. De Luca was about to chop off my right hand with a meat cleaver. I owe him big.
“I’m just about finished with the Jamison and Essex cases, and I was about to dive into the Montfort case for Mortimer and Hunt. Did you have something else in mind?”
Montfort was a heroin dealer soon to stand trial for murder. Mortimer and Hunt were his attorneys. As far as I could tell, it was open and shut. They’d found the murder weapon in Montfort’s car, but he claimed it wasn’t his, and that he was being framed.
Oh yeah. He was being framed all right. I met that nasty son of a bitch before and I have no doubt he’s as guilty as a squirrel with mouthful of nuts.
“Okay. What about the Essex case?”
He grinned, “Caught old man Essex with his pants down, literally. It wasn’t what his wife thought, however. He was having an affair alright, but it was with a man. I have an appo
intment with Mrs. Essex tomorrow morning at nine thirty. I’ll deliver the pics, see if she needs anything else, then wrap it up and send her the bill.”
“Good. How about you, Heather?”
Heather Stillwell is my other senior investigator, and has been working for me almost as long as Bob. An ex-cop and GBI (Georgia Bureau of Investigation) agent from Atlanta, she was something of an enigma. The GBI had had her on the fast track, but something happened. She never would talk about it. I suspected it was because she… oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Not here anyway.
“I’m still working on Webber and a half dozen other small accounts, but I have some time if you need me.”
“I do. How about you, Leslie?”
Leslie is one of my two juniors. She usually handled routine skip searches, process serving, court and records office searches; the day-to-day drudgery that I couldn’t afford to have senior staff involved in. Point being, I knew she could free herself up, and that what I was about put into play would be a chance for her to show what she could do.
“Nothing I can’t put off until tomorrow, Boss,” she said with a grin.
I smiled, and then handed round the copies of the checks and the list of banks. “Okay, we’re all on board then. Here’s what I need: Bob, split this list of banks between you. It would probably be best to do it geographically. They’re where the phony accounts were opened. Then I want you to go hit them all. It will take time. Many are outside the local area: Nashville, Knoxville, Birmingham, Atlanta, etc. I want to know who opened them. I doubt very much you’ll get names—real names, that is—but you should be able to get descriptions and, if we’re lucky, video footage from the security cameras. If we can get some recognizable faces, Tim may be able to match faces to names. I want results, and I want ‘em quick, but do a thorough job. Don’t skimp on expenses. Stay overnight where you have to, but keep in touch. Jacque will be your coordinator, but if you need me, don’t be afraid to call me direct. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Ronnie, I need you to go through all of the paperwork, see if you can figure out just what was going on. I’m pretty sure it’s a version of the scam you described the other day. Tim, you do some digging. See what you can find about these bogus accounts. Okay. That’s it. Go to it, people.”
Back in my own office, I made several calls. The first was to Jack Bentley. I made an appointment to see him at ten that morning. Next I called Sol Wise. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but when I told him who I was, you’d have thought I was a brother calling him. He told me he wasn’t busy, and that I could drop by anytime during the day. There were two more people I wanted to see—Ralph Hartwell and Ruth Archer, maybe even the twins—but I figured an unexpected visit would work best.
Getting out of my office is never easy. There’s always a mountain of chores that need my attention. I did what I could, then handed the rest off to Jacque to deal with.
Chapter 22
Jack Bentley’s Cadillac GMC dealership was on Lee Highway, not far from the Highway 153 junction. I arrived there just before ten and was immediately set upon by a very enthusiastic salesperson, a smartly dressed young woman who thought my Maxima was the finest ride she’d ever set eyes on, and that it would surely trade in at a good rate. I let her down gently. Then I asked where I could find her boss.
He must have been waiting for me, because the minute I stepped through the big glass doors he was there with his hand out, a huge smile on his face, asking if I wanted coffee.
“Please,” I said, and shook his hand.
He was in shirtsleeves with gold links at his cuffs, a solid blue tie with matching gold clasp, and light gray pants. It was a casual but expensive look. He was tall, a little overweight—his neck was already showing signs of age. I figured he was probably in his late forties.
He took me up to his office on a mezzanine that overlooked the sales floor on the one side and the service department on the other. He liked to keep an eye on his business, did Jack Bentley.
“So, Mr. Starke. Take a load off,” he waved a hand at the two plush guest chairs in front of his desk. “I understand you’ve already spoken to Grace. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about the Archers. Your wife told me you know them quite well.”
“Er… I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I knew Ben Archer too well, but he’s been dead for quite a while. I’ve met his daughters at the club on several occasions—Ruth, I think, is more like her father than the twins, but….”
“Your wife said you fired Mr. Archer. What was that about?”
“The usual. Caught him stealing parts. It happens.”
“How well do you know them, the Archers?”
“Not well at all. I’ve met Ruth a couple of times, socially, at the club, and everyone knows the twins, of course….” He hesitated, then said, “I’ve always found Ruth to be something of an enigma.”
“Why do you say that?”
He gave me a funny look. “She tries very hard to be liked, but there’s something about her that… well, I don’t know what it is. Personally, I don’t like the woman.”
I nodded. “What do you know about their business?”
“Thanks Wendy,” he said as a young lady walked through the door carrying cups on a tray. “Help yourself to creamer, sugar, sweetener, whatever,” he said to me.
I took the offered cup from the tray, but declined the condiments. Bentley made a show of stirring his own coffee, then looked up at me.
“The Archer business,” he said thoughtfully, and then lifted his cup and drank. Another pause. “Hmmm. How shall I put it? Let’s say…. Let’s say… they are very profitable, very competitive.”
He leaned back in his chair, elbows on its arms, his cup cradled between his fingertips.
I waited for a moment, but he didn’t seem inclined to say more. “And?”
He sighed. Then he leaned forward, set his cup on the desk in front of him, and said, “There’s something strange going on there, Mr. Starke. I have a previously owned vehicle department here, but I can’t compete with them.
They go to auctions and buy quality vehicles, sometimes high-end cars—BMWs, Mercedes, Lexus, yes, and Cadillacs and GMC Trucks—and they sell them off cheap, to whoever they like, good credit or bad, which they can do because they finance in-house. They charge exorbitant interest, and they don’t hesitate to repossess. If a customer gets two payments behind, he or she can be sure of a visit from Burke and Hare.”
“Burke and Hare?”
He smiled. “ARC. Archer Recovery Company. Their in-house repo team. Luthor Crabb and Max Tully. A couple of badasses. They’ve always reminded me of Burke and Hare, you know, the serial killers?” He smiled. “My own little private joke. But you don’t want them after you, and that’s a fact. From what I hear it’s the same at the Archers’ boat yard, and their rental properties. Two late payments and you’re out on your ear, with a helping hand from Crabb and Tully. They keep the deposit and the vehicle and resell it again, same terms, and usually the same results. I’ve heard tell of cars being sold three or four times in a year; very profitable. Look, I know this kind of thing isn’t unusual in the used car industry, but the volume… well.”
“So what do you think they’re up to?”
“I don’t really know. Something, that’s for sure. I can’t compete with them in prices or financing. They must take in a lot of cash. They could be generating bogus car, boat, and real estate loans and rents.
“I know what their inventory must be, or should be costing them, but more often than not they sell their vehicles for less than cost. Same with boats, so I’m told.”
“Where do they get their cars and trucks from, do you know?”
“That’s a good question. Someone is attending the auctions on their behalf. I say that because never once have I ever seen any of them, the sisters or their staff, there. They are never short of stock, though, and it’s all quality stuff. Beats me,” h
e said, shaking his head.
“Your wife said that you think that they didn’t come by their money honestly….”
“Hah, that’s been talked about, both at home and by more than a few members at the club. It’s all conjecture. No one knows. Ben Archer made some money in his day; that’s true enough, I suppose. After Ben died, though, the three girls built the business from the ground up, with Ruth leading the charge. Who knows…. I wish I could be more help, but they are a tight-knit family. As I said, an enigma.“
“Well,” I said, getting to my feet, “you’ve given me something to think about. Thank you for being so helpful. I really appreciate it.”
We shook hands, and I left him sitting at his desk, a somewhat bemused look on his face.
Chapter 23
Sol Wise was eating his lunch—a Big Mac, fries, and a large soda—when I arrived at the dingy little one-story building on Rossville Boulevard. The outer door wasn’t locked, so I knocked, opened it, and walked on in. Dominating the room was a battered walnut desk that must have cost plenty when it was new. Sadly, that day was long gone. It was now occupied by the erstwhile Solomon Wise, Private Investigator—it said so on the front door.
If you met him in any other environment, you might have thought him a bank clerk. He was in his late forties, and wore his thinning, graying hair in a comb-over. His tie and vest were obviously part of a three-piece suit. A pair of round, steel-framed glasses sat low upon his fat little nose; the eyes peering through them were enlarged out of proportion by the thick lenses. He rose and came around the desk to greet me, wiping his hands on a brown paper towel.
“Harry Starke. How the hell are ya?”
“Fine,” I told him, as he moved one of the two chairs in front of his desk, maybe six inches, for me to sit down. I’d seen offices like his before. Everything about it was functional and inexpensive. The floor was linoleum; his chair, probably secondhand, was leather but showed signs of extensive use. The two file cabinets could have done with a lick of paint, and the…. Well, you get the idea.