by Blair Howard
“Smartass,” I said. “What did you find out about Sattler and his partners?”
“For the most part, they’re pretty clean; good credit all round, money in the bank. Sattler was a loan officer’s dream. His credit score was 827. His house is paid for, and he has no credit card debt. He has three bank accounts, two checking and one savings, totaling $133,632. His investment portfolio is worth $9.7 million.”
“Geeze, my old buddy has done well for himself.”
“His ex, Gloria Sattler, is the exact opposite. Credit score 615, a judgement against her last year, and she’s past due on three of her four credit cards. Her home, though, is also paid for.
“James Westwood, almost as good as Sattler. Jessica Steiner, the same. Both have homes that’re paid for, and substantial bank balances and investment portfolios. Marty Cassell, however, is an enigma. His credit score is 783, but I could find only one checking account with less than ten grand in it. I guess his assets are all off-shore, but his home is paid for, too.”
“So, getting back to the money transfer,” I said. “What are your thoughts, Ronnie?”
“As I see it, we have only four prime suspects: Sattler himself, and the three partners. If it’s one of the surviving partners, we’ll need to figure out which one, and quickly, before he or she makes a run for it.”
“I don’t agree,” I said. “If the perp was going to make a run for it, he would already have done so, and we’d know about it. Nope, whoever did it thinks they’re safe. He set it up so we’d think Sattler made the transfer and then killed himself in a fit of remorse. It might not be a bad idea to let him go on thinking that Sattler killed himself.”
“But there’s more than just four suspects,” I said. “What about the family members, girlfriend, Hollins? They could have had access to his computer, too.”
“That’s true,” Ronnie agreed, “but it was Sattler’s codes that were used to access the bank account. I think it had to be one of the four. That’s where you need to start looking.”
“Maybe you’re right. I don’t think Sattler did it, but I do think it’s why he called me. I think he found out about the transfer that same evening and panicked.”
“Maybe. You’d know that better than me. You were there. You knew him. You saw the scene. He must have figured he needed serious help. The kind only you could provide: discreet and quick. It has to be one of the three remaining partners.... I think it’s highly unlikely to be anyone else.”
I never argue with Ronnie. He has a brilliant mind and is very rarely wrong about anything. He was probably right this time, too, but I wasn’t going to let Gloria Sattler off the hook that easy. There was also the boyfriend, Richard Hollins, and Sattler’s girlfriend, not to mention Sal De Luca and whatever hold he might have over Marty Cassell. We had a lot of work to do.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go along with you to a point. We’ll have to prioritize, put the family members to the back of the line. One of the partners needs immediate attention, Marty Cassell. He’s in bed with Sal De Luca. That alone would be reason enough to pull a stunt like this, especially if Sal is squeezing him.”
“Yeah, and he’s the one we have the least information about. I’ll do some more digging, but I think he may well have covered his tracks. He’s a smart one.”
“You’re right. Methinks I’ll pay him a visit, now, tonight.”
I looked at my watch. It was after five-thirty. I needed some time alone, to think.
“See you tomorrow.”
He took the hint and left me alone with my thoughts. I took a legal pad from my desk drawer, placed it on the desk in front of me, took up a pen, and leaned on my desk, elbows on either side of the pad.
Thursday, 6p.m.
So, where do I go from here? Basics! Motive, opportunity, means. Okay, good. What’s the motive?
Motive:
Financial - The money’s gone, so yes.
Revenge - Possibly: Sal? Nope. That would lose him his money. Anybody else? Unknown at this point.
Greed - Again, the money. Oh yeah! Life Insurance $300k Sattler’s estate $9 million plus.
Opportunity:
Who could have had the opportunity? Hmmmm.
The three partners for sure: Cassell, Westwood and Steiner
The wife, Gloria? Yes, and the boyfriend, Richard. Can’t leave out the eldest daughter, either.
Sattler’s girlfriend Wendy? Yes.
Sal? Nope. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Gino or Tony? Yep.
The investors? Yes, but unlikely, except for Sal.
Means?
Who out of the above could have had access to Tom’s gun? Geeze! Any one of them, or all of them, given the right circumstances.
And those circumstances would be? Being alone with Tom between 9:30 and 10:30.
Hmmm. What about the computers? Who would have access to them? See above, but that would not be tied to the time and date. It could have been anytime up to and including the hour when he died.
Okay, so who would have had access to Tom’s codes?
The partners, family, girlfriend. That could mean as many as seven, maybe more, could have wired the money, but how many of them would know how? Shit. All seven could, and all seven could have had opportunity, and all seven could have had the means. Damn. This is going nowhere
I don’t think Sal would have risked losing his twelve mil.
Okay, that’s enough of this. We need to know more. A lot more, and we won’t until we’ve interviewed all the suspects, including the five disgruntled investors that we know of so far.
Let’s go see Cassell.
I closed the pad, put it back in the desk drawer, and went out. I grabbed an Arby’s Max Roast Beef sandwich and a coffee in the drive through, and then headed out across the river to see Marty Cassell.
Chapter 9
Marty Cassell lived in a vast, six-bedroom home on Palisades Drive up on Signal Mountain overlooking the Tennessee River Valley and the city of Chattanooga.
I arrived, unannounced, at the front door a little before nine o’clock in the evening.
Cassell came to the door himself. He was not an imposing man, not a big man physically, but he had a certain presence about him. He was dressed in corded pants, a red and black flannel shirt, and house shoes that would have been more at home on my grandmother’s feet than on his. I figured he was probably the same age as me, forty-two, but he could have been slightly older. His close-cropped hair was already showing a little gray. His face was lean, his eyes a piercing blue, and at some time in the past his nose had been broken.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
Abrupt, and definitely unfriendly.
“Mr. Cassell. My name is Starke. Harry Starke. I’m an investigator. I understand you’re a partner in New Vision Strategic. I was hoping you might be able to spare a few minutes to talk to me.”
“I know who you are, Starke. It was you who took down Congressman Harper. No, I don’t want to talk to you, so piss off.”
He backed into the foyer and started to close the door. I stuck my foot in the gap, denying him the satisfaction.
“Okay, Cassell, there are two ways we can do this. You can let me in and we’ll talk like civilized human beings or, by God, we can do it the hard way, which means you’ll probably get another busted nose and maybe lose a few teeth. Which way would you like to play it?”
He glared at me through the gap, then flung the door wide open, turned and walked off into the house. I followed him, closing the door behind me.
The living room was vast, a caricature of the one in Herman Goering’s Carinhall, all-over wood paneling, antlers, and animal heads. A huge, two-story window provided a stunning, panoramic view over the river valley.
He threw himself down in an overstuffed leather chair that could only have been custom built to complement the room. It was one of four surrounding an ornate, carved coffee table; there were also two matching sofas. He waved me to one of the other chai
rs. I sat; no, I was engulfed by the chair. For a long moment, we stared at each other, each of us waiting for the other to speak.
“Well,” he said, finally. “This is your party. Go ahead.” I win, asshole.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll not waste any time screwing around with you. What do you know about the theft of $350 million from New Vision?”
If I had expected a reaction, I was disappointed. He simply sat there, comfortable in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, elbows on the overstuffed leather arms, hands clasped together in front of his face, and he smiled at me. Now when I say smiled, he tightened his lips and turned up the corners of his mouth. It was somewhere between a grin and a snarl.
“It’s gone. That’s about all I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Christ, Starke. Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I knew. I knew less than two minutes after it disappeared. I happened to be in the account when the money left it. One minute it was there. The next I was staring at a zero balance, and there was not a damn thing I could do about it. I haven’t set foot out of this house since. You, I assume, are only the first in a long line of visitors I can expect, right?”
“I would say so. Have you talked to your partners?”
“Oh yes. We’ve talked.”
“And?”
“And nothing. They know no more than I do... I think.”
“Did you call Sattler when you discovered the money was missing?”
“Yes. I called him, but I haven’t talked to him since. I also called the others. I have no idea if they’ve talked to each other. I do know this: everyone, including me, was pissed off and scared shitless. God only knows what’s about to happen. I’ve already heard from the SEC, and they ain’t to be fooled with. They’ve already frozen the fund, what’s left of it, and changed all the access codes. I’m locked out, and so are the others.”
“How does the loss of the money effect you, Mr. Cassell?”
“Me? Financially? Not at all. I keep my personal and business life separate. My peace of mind is another matter; my business and public persona have all gone, down the shitter. I’ll probably not get a minute’s peace until the money is recovered, and I have my doubts that it ever will be. I lost track of it when it left Dubai. So tell me, Starke. Who do you think did it? Who stole the damned money? Sattler?”
“I have no idea, not yet, but I’ll find out. Sattler’s dead. Looks like suicide.”
That got his attention. He leaned forward, his elbows still on the arms of the chair, his hands were now clasped together under his chin.
“Suicide... goddamn... goddamn... Jesus. I talked to him right after. I called him just after the money disappeared, around seven o’clock that evening. I told him, but his reaction wasn’t quite what I expected; I think he already knew.”
Cassell seemed to be genuinely surprised to hear of Sattler’s death, or did he? He seemed unable to maintain eye contact with me. This guy’s sharp. I wonder....
“His reaction?” I said. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve known Tom a long time. I know how he thinks…thought. He sounded surprised, but I thought at the time that he might have been putting it on, acting. I dunno, maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Perhaps he already knew, about the money being gone, I mean.”
“So you have no idea of how it happened, how the money disappeared?” I asked him.
“Hell no. I don’t, and if you’re thinking I stole it, you’re goddamn crazy. If I had done it, do you think I’d be sitting here shootin’ the shit with you? Hell no. I’d be on a beach somewhere, screwing the ass off some lucky, good lookin’ bitch. As it is, I’ll probably be lucky to see daylight for the next foreseeable future, and I’m not talking about jail either, although that’s a distinct possibility.”
I couldn’t help but smile. He seemed more than a little perturbed at his gloomy prospects.
“Do you know what his access codes to the bank accounts are?”
He hesitated, and his eyeballs flicked to one side. “No. I don’t know his codes.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Liar!
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s try this: tell me about Salvatore De Luca.
His eyes bulged, his face tightened, and his lips parted to reveal a set of yellowed teeth. The man’s a damned chimney. Either that, or he chews. It was a question he hadn’t been expecting. He was no fool though. In only microseconds, he recovered his composure.
“Who did you say?”
I had to laugh. “Nice one, Marty.” He didn’t appreciate it. “If I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question, I could be relaxing on that beach alongside you. You know exactly who. Now tell me, what’s your connection to Sal De Luca?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Starke, especially confidential client information. You, Starke, have no standing. You’re not a cop, nor do you work for the SEC. So screw you. You’ve got all you’re going to get out of me.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Marty. A man is dead; $350 million are missing. I am officially involved in the police investigation. Sal De Luca is a piece of shit; he has connections in New York and Miami; and somehow he’s involved. I need to know why and how you are involved with him. I already know he has money invested in the fund. I’m not going to leave until you tell me the rest of it.”
He said nothing. He stretched out so that he could get into his pants pocket and fished out an iPhone.
“Oh dear, Marty. That’s not a good choice.”
I got up out of my seat, walked around the coffee table until I was in front of him, took the cell phone out of his hand and placed it gently on the coffee table. Then I sat down on the edge of the table, pulled the Smith and Wesson M&P9 from the rig inside my jacket, leaned forward, and put my elbows on my knees. The nine was level with my face and pointed upward.
“Christ, you crazy son of a bitch. You wouldn’t goddamn dare.” His face had gone pale.
“A long time ago, Marty,” I said, quietly. “I learned a little trick. I also learned, back when I was five or six years old, that most people can’t stand pain. Are you one of those people that can’t stand pain, Marty?”
He didn’t answer.
I leaned in closer. He cowered back in the chair until he could go no further. I leaned forward, he threw his hands in the air, and I tapped him gently on the bridge of his nose with the barrel of the gun, right where I figured the old break must have been. Well, I thought it was gently. Marty didn’t seem to think so. It works every time. He howled.
“Ow, ow. Oh Jesus, ow. You goddamn idiot, Starke. That hurt, you crazy bastard.”
“Tut, tut, tut, what kind of language is that? And from such an upstanding and respected member of the financial community.”
His eyes were watering, and he was clasping his nose as if it was about to escape.
This time I tapped his kneecap, only a lot harder.
“Ow, oh shit. Stop it, you crazy son of a bitch.”
He grabbed his knee in both hands and I went straight back to his nose and whacked it again.
“Ahhhgh. You bastard, Starke. You’ve busted my nose again. I’ll sue you, you crazy son of a bitch.”
“Nope. I don’t think you will, because then Sweet Swingin’ Sal De Luca would know you’ve been talking to me, and he wouldn’t like that at all, now would he? And it’s not busted; not yet.”
Marty didn’t answer. He looked at me through watery eyes, rubbing his nose with one hand and clasping his knee with the other.
“You ready to talk, Marty, or do you need a little more pain? I can go on all night. How about you?”
“All right, you piece of shit.” He was gasping for breath, like he’d run a mile flat out. “Look, Starke, De Luca can’t know I talked to you. He’ll, he’ll, huh, kill me. What do you want to know?”
“He’s invested in New Vision, right?”
He nodded, still nursing his nose.
“How much?”
He hesitated. I raised the n
ine. “Okay, okay. He has a little over $12 million in the fund.”
I stared at him, astonished, dumbfounded.
“Where in God’s name did he get that kind of money?”
“I dunno. He has it invested under a dozen different names. Most of it came in from off-shore accounts, untraceable.”
I continued to stare at him.
Organized crime! It’s Mob money. Oh, Marty. You silly son of a bitch.
“I get it, Marty. You are going to be in serious trouble, and not just with Sal De Luca. It’s Mob money you’re playing with, and you’re laundering it for him. Money in, money out, right?”
He didn’t answer, just stared defiantly up at me.
“Did he know New Vision was in trouble?”
He nodded.
“Tell me about it.”
“We hadn’t paid the last two dividends. He wants those plus vig, ten percent per day, plus he wanted to get the whole twelve mil out. We couldn’t do it. The dividends totaled almost $100,000 a month each. The vig was/is climbing exponentially; right now it’s almost $1 million. If I’d stolen the money, don’t you think I’d have paid him off?”
“You, my friend,” I said, shaking my head, “are in a world of shit. Does Sal know the money is missing?”
“Yeah. He does, and he wants it back, all of it. I have a week to come up with it, plus the interest... or else.”
“Yeah, I can believe ‘or else.’ Sal and his boys are famous for ‘or else’.”
“What am I gonna do, Starke? The bastard will shoot out my kneecaps if I don’t come up with the twelve mil. I don’t have that kind of money. Best I could do, if I sold everything, is maybe five.”
“If I were you, I’d call the FBI and throw myself on their mercy. They might find you a spot in WITSEC if you come clean and give them what they need.”
“Yeah, right! I’d never make it down the goddamn mountain. I’m being watched night and day, and don’t think they don’t know you’re here. They do, and when you’re gone, I’m gonna call him. I’m gonna tell him you were asking about him and the money. I’m gonna cover my ass, so you’d better be on the lookout. If he thinks you know anything, he’ll want to shut you up, too.”