by Blair Howard
Ronnie Hall handles my white-collar investigations. He’s been around since I opened the office. His background was in banking. He has an MSc Finance from the London School of Economics. Tim Clarke is my computer geek. He handles all things to do with the Internet, including operating and maintaining the company website, and he also handles background checks and skip searches. He can find people, addresses, phone numbers, you name it; no one can hide from Tim. He’s a geek, and he looks like one. Tall, with long, straight hair he keeps tied in a ponytail, sometimes a man bun. He’s skinny, and he wears glasses. He’s twenty-five years old. His looks, however, belie his abilities. He is, perhaps the most useful and effective tool in my bag.
“Okay, guys. This is what I need.” I filled them in on what had happened the previous evening, and then laid it out for them.
“Ronnie. I need you to dig into Tom Sattler. His background, as far as I can tell, is in economics, something financial. I need to know what it is. I also need a full financial breakdown on him, his wife Gloria, his eldest daughter, Stephanie, and his girlfriend, Wendy Brewer. I’ll also want one on Gloria’s boyfriend, Richard Hollins. Mike, you sit in with Ronnie, help where you can, learn how it’s done. Yeah?”
They both nodded.
“Tim. The same. I want to know everything there is to know about Tom Sattler, and I want to know yesterday. You guys keep me up to speed. As soon as you know something, get it typed up and send it to me. We all on board? Any questions?”
There were none. They left. I grabbed my coffee, leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and waited. What for, I had no earthly idea, but the coffee was good. It wasn’t more than a minute later when the office phone buzzed. I picked it up and hit the button.
“Amanda Cole for you.” Click! Jacque had put her through before I could say anything. Dammit, Jacque.
“Okay, Amanda. What is it you want?”
“I’d like to see you, Harry. I have something I want to run by you.”
“I’m sure you do, but I seem to remember telling you not to bother me again. I don’t want to talk to you....”
The door opened. I looked up. Amanda walked in, gifted me with a sweet smile, put her cell phone into her pocket, and closed the door behind her.
“What the hell....” Oh, I was pissed.
“Hello, Harry. I’m sorry I had to barge in on you like this, but it was the only way I could get to see you.”
I shook my head, stunned at her temerity. Nevertheless, I pointed to a chair, thumbed the button on the phone, and asked Jacque to bring her a cup of coffee.
Amanda Cole is a strikingly beautiful woman: tall, strawberry blonde, built like a Greek goddess, with an attitude that shouts, ‘don’t screw around with me, by God.’
On that particular day she was wearing a navy blue two-piece business suit with the skirt cut four or five inches above the knee, and black shoes with five-inch heels. As far as I could tell, she was wearing nothing under the jacket, which was cut just low enough to show a little cleavage, but not so low as to attract undue attention. She was also carrying a slim, black leather satchel.
She wore her hair bobbed, cut three inches below the point of her chin. Her heart-shaped face was defined by her high cheekbones and wide-set, pale green eyes. She was thirty-two years old and single. As far as I knew, she’d never been married.
I wonder why not. No, I don’t. I know damn well why not: she’s a total bitch, that’s why.
“So, Harry Starke, we meet again, at last.”
“That we do, Amanda. That we do. Jacque, come on in and take a seat.”
Jacque closed my office door, placed the cup of coffee on my desk in front of Amanda, and then sat down at the rear of the room. I glared across the room at her; she just looked at me and shrugged. Yeah, I know. What could you do?
“Harry,” Cole said, with a sly smile as she looked at me through her eyelashes. “Don’t you trust yourself to be alone with me?”
“Amanda, you know what? I don’t trust you at all,” I said, getting up and walking around my desk. “Stand up, turn around, and lift up your arms.”
She tilted her head to one side, still smiling. I could tell she was very much amused, but she did as I asked. She stood, her feet slightly apart, and raised her arms. I stepped forward, facing her. Jacque also stood, stepped forward, and stood just behind me, her arms folded across her chest.
I am almost six feet two inches tall. In those five-inch heels, Amanda was able to look me straight in the eye; she must have been at least five feet ten inches in her bare feet. I could smell her breath; a gentle breeze, sweet and fresh. Mints.
“Hold still, Amanda.” She did, and I ran my hands up both sides of her upper body, all the way to her armpits. I didn’t bother with her thighs and buttocks. The way her skirt was cut, it was easy to see she wasn’t wearing a wire down there, or anything else by the look of it.
“Why, Harry. How nice. We must do that again sometime, when we’re alone.” She looked pointedly at Jacque.
Jacque smiled sweetly at her.
I picked up her satchel, opened it, and glanced inside: there were some papers, a laptop, an iPad, and a small digital recorder, nothing else. I grabbed the recorder, made sure it was turned off, then flipped open the battery door, and tipped the two double As out into the satchel, dropped the recorder in after them, and handed it to her.
“Sit down, Amanda. You, too, Jacque.”
Jacque returned to the chair at the rear of the room. Amanda sat down again in front of my desk; her skirt had ridden up to show almost an acre of thigh. She set the satchel on the floor and folded her hands together in her lap.
“So, what is it you want?” I asked, as I sat down behind my desk.
She ignored her coffee, leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. I was wrong. They were white, and she knew damned well she was showing them to me. I gave her a tight smile, but said nothing. I was waiting for her to start talking.
“Tom Sattler. I know you found the body.”
“So?”
“Would you care to tell me about it?”
“Amanda, it’s been almost eighteen months since you did that hatchet job on me. I told you then, and I’m telling you now. You’ll never get the chance to do that to me again. No, I would not like to talk to you about it. Now, if you’ve nothing to tell me, I’m busy. Jacque will see you out.”
She wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed. “Harry, I was just doing my job. It wasn’t personal. It’s what I do. You know that. I’m not going to apologize. You may not have liked it, but what I said was true.”
“You called me a bounty hunter and a predator with the conscience of a grizzly bear. None of that is true. I’m not a bounty hunter, I’m not a predator, and I have a very powerful conscience.”
“Okay, so I embellished things... a little. You’re a pro, Harry, and so am I. Let’s put all that behind us and move on. There are bigger things to be concerned about than your ego, or mine for that matter. If it helps, I’ll promise to treat you with... more respect... on air, that is.” She finished the statement with a smile that was about as cheeky and alluring as I think I’ve ever seen.
I sighed, shook my head, and said, “Jacque. Would you mind? I’ll buzz if I need you.”
Jacque gave me one of those looks that said, ‘watch your back.’ Then she got up, left the room, and closed the door behind her.
“All right, Amanda. Talk to me.”
“As I said, Harry, I know you found Tom Sattler’s body, and I also know you attended the autopsy and spent some time with Gazzara.... Okay, look, I’ve been looking into his business for more than six months. I know... I knew Tom Sattler. He was dirty. I also know you were a friend of his. Whoa, Harry.”
The look on my face when she said that must have frightened her.
“I’m not saying you’re dirty. Goddamn it, Harry, take it easy.”
I leaned back in my chair, somewhat mollified.
“All I’m saying is that I know you we
re a friend of his and, knowing you as I do, I’m sure you’re going to get involved, find out what happened to him. I’m telling you that he was dirty and that he had a lot of enemies.”
“So?”
“So I’d like for us to work together.”
“Can you hear yourself, Amanda?”
She smiled at me.
“Of all the people in the world to choose from, you are the last one I would pick to work with. You called me a predator. That’s a word that sums you up absolutely–”
“Not true, Harry,” she interrupted. “I am not a predator. I’m damn good at what I do, and I have resources that you don’t. I can go places you can’t. Likewise, you can offer resources I don’t have, namely your contacts, both inside the PD and out, and your investigative staff. Now, let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you lunch and we can talk about it. What do you say?”
I sat there for a long moment, staring at her. She was serious. I almost believed her... almost. She stared back at me, those pale green eyes unblinking. She wasn’t smiling.
I nodded, stood, walked around my desk, and opened the door.
“Let’s go.”
She grinned, unlocked her legs, stood, picked up the satchel, and walked past me, through the outer office and out of the front door without a glance in the direction of any of my staff. I followed, shaking my head. I flapped my hand at Jacque as I walked past her desk. She smiled and rolled her eyes. Bob, my lead investigator, winked. I had an idea it was going to be a long afternoon.
We took her car to the Mt. Vernon restaurant on Broad Street, just below Lookout Mountain. It was after two o’clock when we arrived, so the place was fairly quiet, which suited me well. Have you ever been in a restaurant with one of the local TV celebrities? The attention can be a little unnerving.
Amanda ordered a Greek salad with a glass of Pinot Grigio; I had a club sandwich and a Heineken – they didn’t have Blue Moon. We ate for a moment in silence, each of us trying to size up the other. Me? I’m an open book. Amanda? Not so much.
We finished the meal and relaxed; Amanda with her wine; me with a second beer.
“Nice job, Harry, the Congressman Harper thing. I didn’t think you could have become any more notorious than you already were. Now... you have national fame, and several new and important friends, including Senator Michaels. Well done.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? If so, you can take me back to the office. I said no interview, and I meant it.”
“No, not at all. I want to talk to you about Tom Sattler.”
“Well? So tell me.”
She took a deep breath, which was an attention-getter all by itself.
“Okay. So let me start by asking you a question. How well did you know him?”
“Not that well. We were at McCallie together. Haven’t seen him in almost five years.”
“Do you know what he was doing for a living?”
Something in finance, I think. Wealth management, maybe?”
“Oh, he managed wealth all right. He managed his own very well. His clients he managed not so well. Most of them lost money. No one knows what’s happened to it.”
“Where are you going with this, Amanda?”
“Bear with me, Harry. You know our consumer advocate, Charles Grove, right?”
I nodded. Who didn’t? Grove’s a loudmouth, nosey son of a bitch, and about as popular as a wet dog at a wedding. He was, however, extremely good at what he did, which was to put the screws, on air, to any and all businesses, small or large, that he felt might have taken advantage of one of Channel 7’s viewers. Just a hint that Pit-bull Charlie was sniffing around was usually all it took to bring justice to the masses. Love him or hate him, he got the job done, and he brought in the ratings.
“How is the Pit-bull of Channel 7 these days? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
She ignored the question, but continued, “Sattler was a hedge fund manager; an investment fund manager, along with three partners. It was a very big deal.”
“Was?”
“I’m getting to that. Some months ago, back in June, I think it was, Charles began receiving complaints from investors. Their monthly checks were coming later and later. So he began to make visits, first to Sattler and then his partners, and he got absolutely nowhere; a first for him, I might add.”
I nodded and waited for her to continue. She called the waiter and ordered another Pinot for her and a beer for me.
Three is way more than I need at lunchtime, but what the hell.
“Anyway,” she continued, over the top of her glass. “Charles came to me. He gets results for the consumer, I do the investigative work at the station, you know....”
I nodded. I did know, much to my regret. I’d fallen foul of her in the past.
“Well, I did some digging and I found that it was true. I found a half-dozen investors that were becoming a little... well, ‘antsy,’ might be a bit of an understatement.” She opened the satchel and removed a single sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of their names, addresses and phone numbers. I’ve also included the names of his partners. The company is New Vision Strategic Investments, Inc.”
I took it from her, glanced at it, and then looked at her.
“Sal De Luca? Come on, Amanda. I know damned well he didn’t talk to the Pit-bull. What gives?”
“That name came up during my own investigation. I have a few CIs of my own. De Luca is another reason I wanted to talk to you. You know him, right?”
“CIs? Confidential informants? You’ve been watching too many of you own programs. They’re called snitches, Amanda.”
She gave me a dirty look.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “they, the contacts on the list, all knew who I was and wouldn’t talk about it. De Luca wouldn’t even say hello, much less talk to me. Public embarrassment is not something the movers and shakers in this city want, especially him. As to the other five on the list, the best I could do was get a few answers to a few off the record questions, and those only basic questions at that. What I did manage to find out was that the monthly dividend checks were consistently late and falling steadily behind. One elderly lady admitted that she hadn’t had a check in three months. So, Harry... that’s where you come in.”
“Me? How? I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Harry. You can get to people like De Luca. Tom Sattler was your friend, and your firm handles white-collar cases. That’s what this is, white-collar, probably a Ponzi scheme. You’re a licensed private investigator with a staff of... well, a staff, and your friend committed suicide. Why wouldn’t you want to get to the bottom of it?”
So, Amanda, you don’t know he was murdered.
“For a whole bunch of reasons, the first and most important of which is I don’t do pro bono. I like to get paid, earn enough to pay my staff. Second, he wasn’t my friend. I hadn’t seen him in years. Third, and I hope I can make this abundantly clear: I. Don’t. Want. To. Work. With. You! There’s no win in that for me. I can only see the downside.”
“What downside, Harry? This could be a huge story. That fund is, was, worth almost a half-billion dollars, and most of it came from right here in Hamilton County.”
“You, Amanda. You’re the downside. You know the old saying, don’t you? Screw me once, shame on you. Screw me twice and I’m one stupid son of a bitch. Never again, Amanda.”
Now that brought forth the sweetest smile I think I’ve ever seen on a guilty woman. She dropped her head, looked up at me through her eyelashes, and smiled. It was a masterpiece. Oh, she’s good, this one.
“Harry.... Harry. Okay. You’re right. Maybe I treated you a little harshly. I said I wouldn’t apologize, but it’s quite obvious that I hurt your feelings. So,” she looked at me, reached across the table, put her hand on mine, her beautiful eyes wide, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Harry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Damn. Where do they learn how to do that?
I shook my head and rose t
o my feet. “You’re something else, Amanda. No wonder the public loves you. I’ll think about it. Take me back to the office, please.”
The ride back to my office took about ten minutes. During that time, she opened her mouth four times as if she was about to speak, but changed her mind. Finally, when she pulled up outside the front door, she turned to me.
“I really am sorry, Harry. Please, let me make it up to you. Let me buy you dinner.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. She recoiled, as if she’d been slapped.
“No, no, don’t take that the wrong way, Amanda. It was just so unexpected. Thank you for the apology. Tell you what. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can talk about it. What do you say?”
She smiled. On anyone else, it would have been a grin. On her, it was something much more, a lovely... smile; but not just with her mouth. There was something else there that came deep from within those enormous, pale green eyes. She’s a goddam witch... Circe!
“You’re on,” she said. “When?”
“No time like the present. How about tonight?”
“Sure. Why not? I have to do the news at six, and again at eleven. Let me call Bill and see if he’ll do the late night set for me.”
She did, and he would. I arranged to pick her up at eight.
-----
Back in my office, I sat at my desk and added the six names from Amanda’s list to those on Kate’s. I now had fifteen names. I must have sat and stared at them for ten minutes, maybe more. Was it one of you?
Gloria Sattler: ex-wife
Richard Hollins: ex-wife’s boyfriend
Wendy Brewer: Sattler’s girlfriend
Stephanie Sattler - age 21; Sattler’s eldest
Julie Sattler - age 12: Sattler’s daughter
Nicola Sattler - age 10: Sattler’s youngest
James Westwood - Partner
Marty Cassell - Partner
Jessica Steiner - Partner
Michael Scoggins - Retired
Salvatore De Luca - Slimy, crooked bastard
Dawson Conley - Plumber
Sandra Porter - Widow
Elsie Smith - Widow
Fred Jones - ? Unknown
Fifteen names, and I had no doubt the list would grow. It was too much, and too little. We needed to know a whole lot more about all of them, and before we talked to them. The only one I was remotely familiar with was Salvatore De Luca. Him, I knew a lot about. None of it good.