by Blair Howard
“Yeah,” I agreed, “we have a problem, a big one.”
“Harry, I have to ask you. Do you think Sattler transferred that money?”
“Right now, I have an open mind. It makes sense that he did, and then was killed for it, but I keep coming back to the question, ‘If he stole the money, why did he call me?’”
Chapter 13
We stopped for an early lunch at the Boathouse on Riverfront Parkway. I dropped Kate off at her car and was on my way back to the office, when I had a thought. I pulled over and parked in front of a Food City supermarket, hit the Bluetooth and called Kate.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “Look, we need to get a handle on the rest of the prime suspects so I’m going to go see Wendy Brewer and then head on over to see Jessica Steiner. Do you want to come with me?”
“Can’t. I have to go back to Amnicola. I just had a call from the chief. He want’s to see me. It’s something I can’t get out of. Yes, you go. That will get the three main suspects out of the way, or not. Let me know what happens.”
I wonder what the hell the chief wants with her. Nothing good, that’s for sure.
“You got it.” I flipped the button and disconnected. Then I called the only number I had for Wendy Brewer. She answered on the first ring.
“Hello.” The voice was subdued, tentative.
“Is this Wendy, Wendy Brewer?”
“Yes, who is this?” I wondered about the emphasis.
“My name is Harry Starke, Miss Brewer. I’m an investigator. I’d like to talk to you about New Vision and Tom Sattler. Can I drop by for a few minutes?”
“Are you with the police?”
“I’m working with the police, yes.”
Not exactly a lie, but what the hell. You have to do what it takes, right?
“Well... I suppose....”
“Great. I have the address. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.”
I didn’t give her a chance to think about it, or even answer. I hung up and swung left out of the parking lot, heading north. Brewer lived in a small rancher on Hickory Valley Road, just off Shallowford Road. When I pulled up outside her house, behind a silver BMW Z4, she was waiting for me.
I wasn’t exactly expecting a swimsuit model, but this young woman was more Plain Jane than Heidi Klum. Maybe I was being a little hard on her. After all, she had suffered a major loss in her life. Even so, she could not have looked less like the girlfriend of a millionaire if she’d tried. Average size, maybe five feet six tall, she looked like she could do with losing fifteen pounds or so. Her hair was a wild halo of blonde ringlets and in desperate need of a stylist. She was dressed in jeans and a tank top. The jeans had at least a dozen large holes in them, by design, so I’m told. Her eyes were red; she’d been crying. Understandable, but I could tell she’d made an effort to tidy her makeup. The lipstick was horrible, a gaudy shade of crimson and the huge gray eyes were heavily outlined in black. The whole appearance was a little, shall we say, startling.
Whew. Sattler swapped one mediocre ride for another. The only thing she has over his ex-wife is that she’s seventeen years younger. This is one miserable-looking woman.
“Ms. Brewer, first let me say how sorry I am for your loss, and that I wouldn’t be here unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sniffling and wiping her nose on what could only have been a piece off a roll of paper towels. “Please, come on in. Can I get you some coffee, or something?”
“No. No thank you. I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded and waved a limp hand at the chairs around the kitchen table. “Please, sit down.”
“Ms. Brewer–”
“Please, call me Wendy,” she interrupted.
“Okay. Wendy, then. When did you last see Mr. Sattler?”
“That would have been just after one o’clock on Tuesday. He was expecting Marty Cassell and Jessica Steiner for lunch. I made sandwiches for them and then I had to go. I had a doctor’s appointment. I have this thing, you see. It’s kind of–”
“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, not wanting to know the ins and outs of her feminine problems. “I understand, and that was the last time you saw him, correct?”
She nodded, slowly, sobbing.
“Did you see anyone else while you were there?”
“Yes. As I said, Jessica and Marty came for lunch.”
“What time would that have been?”
“Marty arrived first at around twelve-thirty. Jessica a little later, around one o’clock, maybe a little earlier.”
“How well did you know his partners?”
“I knew them all quite well. We were all great friends.”
Really? Wow, that’s a first, and not the impression I got from Cassell and Westwood, especially Marty. Who are you trying to kid, girl?
“Tell me about that,” I said.
“Well, they were always like dropping round for drinks, and to talk, mostly about business, you know. It wasn’t all like, about business. Sometimes we’d cook out, swim, catch a few rays, you know. They are all nice people.”
“Did you help him with his work in any way?”
“Oh yes. I did like typing for him. Sent emails. Worked with the investors. Anything he needed, really.”
“And you would have had access to his computers, and his codes, then?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. I worked on them every day. It was part of my job, to like keep track of new clients, investments, distributions. I handled a lot of that stuff for him.”
“Wendy, when did you find out that he’d shot himself?”
Shit, Harry. Lighten up a bit. That was brutal.
She had tears in her eyes. “Stephanie called me that night. It was about one o’clock in the morning. She’d just found out herself. I rushed right over. The police were still there, but they’d taken Tom away.... I never saw him agaaain,” she wailed, and burst into tears.
I waited, uncomfortable, until she calmed down, wiped her eyes, and gazed at me, her mascara black rivers that undulated down her cheeks.
"Well," I said. "Thank you for talking to me. I'll take up no more of your time. Again, I'm sorry...."
I left Wendy Brewer with the distinct feeling that she was a wretched, inadequate individual. Without Tom Sattler in her future, she was in for a very rough time.
Chapter 14
I sat in the car for a moment, thinking. I really didn’t know what to make of Wendy Brewer. She was in a sad state, that was for sure, and that made the woman hard to read. I was worried about her... but there was not much I could do. Check on her, from time to time, maybe? Hmmm.
I shook myself out of my reverie and called Jessica Steiner. She didn’t answer.
Damn. I hope this isn’t going to be a waste of time.
I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the interstate. Steiner lived on Fairy Trail high on top of Lookout Mountain.
Why is it that all the wealthy folk live way up there?
I arrived outside her home at a little before two-thirty that afternoon. She lived in a single-story rancher that stretched for at least a half a block. It was surrounded by a six-foot high brick wall. The iron gates were locked and the place looked deserted: the lawns needed mowing and the bushes trimming. I pressed the buzzer on the electronic keypad but no one answered.
Okay. I didn’t come all this way for nothing. Let’s go see what we can find.
I backed the car out of the entrance to the gate, and then drove it back in again, this time close to the right-hand wall. I got out of the car, locked it, adjusted the rig under my lightweight golf jacket, and stepped up onto the rear bumper. There wasn’t a whole lot of room, but fortunately I was wearing loafers with soft leather soles. From there I was able to boost myself up to the top of the wall. I dropped down the other side and walked confidently to the front door and rang the bell. It was working. I could hear it chiming far off somewhere in the bowels of the home.
I waited, rang the be
ll again. Nothing.
Hmmm! Okay, so let’s go take a look around the back.
She was by the pool, lying on a lounger, reading a book.
“Ms. Steiner,” I shouted, not wanting to frighten her. Well, I frightened her anyway, and oh boy, was she angry!
“Goddamn it!” she yelled, jumping to her feet. “You almost gave me a heart attack. Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” She walked toward me, sure of herself, her hips swaying, rolling.
My mouth went dry, I swallowed; no, I gulped. The woman was all but naked. The scarlet bikini she was wearing would easily have fit inside my wallet. The top, just two tiny triangles of iridescent material and a couple of feet of ribbon, barely covered her nipples. The bottom, a similar triangle, had to be the front of a thong. Her figure was amazing, a rare symphony of soft curves and mounds that was designed to drive even a strong man wild with desire.
“Um... um....”
“Oh for God’s sake, man. Stop looking so stupid. Why are you trespassing on my property?” She had an iPhone in her hand and was already punching in a number.
“Wait!” I said, as I held out my badge and ID for her to see. “I’m Harry Starke, a licensed private investigator working with the Chattanooga Police Department. If you’d like to call this number.” I handed one of Kate’s business cards to her. “Lieutenant Gazzara will confirm.”
“Well, I was wondering when someone would show up.” She handed the card back, turned and walked back to the lounger. I was right. It was a thong.
She was barefoot, and bare assed, maybe five feet eight tall, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail that hung at least two feet down her back. Her heart-shaped face was accentuated by high, prominent cheekbones and a pair of startling blue eyes. She was about thirty-five, maybe as much as thirty-eight. As far as I could tell, she was a true blonde.
“Mr... Starke, was it? Yes, I’ve heard of you. Who around here hasn’t? Pour yourself a glass of tea and sit down. Pour one for me, too, if you don’t mind. Oh, and please try to keep your eye balls in their sockets.”
“You’re asking for a whole lot more than I can manage,” I said, with a smile, as I poured. “The tea is easy, the eyes... I’m sorry, they’re out of my control. Why don’t you just put something on? Don’t you have a robe or something?”
At that, she smiled, looked up at me, and breathed deeply. It was devastating.
How the hell is she keeping that thing on, and why bother anyway?
“I wear it out of a false sense of modesty,” she said.
Damn. She’s a mind reader.
“Oh, don’t look so startled. The way you were staring at me, it was obvious what was going through your mind. Look, this is my home. I can wear what I like, or nothing at all, if I so desire. It’s supposed to be private. You’re the intruder. If you don’t like what you see... well, you know what you can do. Tell me: do you like what you see, Mr. Starke? I think maybe you do.”
I shook my head, took a long drink from the glass of iced tea, and then said, “Look, Ms. Steiner–”
“It’s Mrs.,” she interrupted, “but you can call me Jess, that’s short for Jessica.”
“Okay... Jessica,” I said. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. You say you’re married. Where is your husband?”
“Widowed. My husband, John, died in a car accident two years ago.”
I was already sweating from the heat of the early afternoon sun, and she could see that I was uncomfortable.
“There are some swimsuits in the pool house. Why don’t you go and find one that will fit you... or... maybe you’d like to go au naturale? It’s too hot for clothing, don’t you think? Maybe you’d like to swim.”
Geez, I would love to. Au naturale? I could do that, but this is not the time.
I stood, took off my jacket and the rig that held my M&P9, and dropped them onto a vacant lounger. Now I felt a little better. I was wearing a golf shirt and a pair of lightweight pants. I could almost feel her eyes on my back as I laid the jacket and gun down.
“Disappointing,” she said, looking at me through her eyelashes. “I’m sure you look wonderful wearing nothing... but a swimsuit.”
I had to smile. Under any other circumstances I’d have been glad to join her in her little game.
“Okay, Jessica. You’ve had your fun. Now let’s be serious for a moment. You don’t look at all bothered about what’s happened to the fund or, and I’m sure one of the other partners has told you about it, Tom Sattler’s death. Why not?”
She shrugged. “It is what it is. I learned from my father, many years ago, that it’s pointless worrying about things you can’t change. The money has gone. I didn’t steal it. Tom is dead. I didn’t kill him. I’ve done nothing wrong. What’s to worry about?”
“What was your relationship to Tom Sattler?”
“Other than as a business partner, I didn’t have one.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
“We had lunch together, me, Marty and Tom, on Tuesday, but I last spoke to him on Tuesday evening, at a little after seven-thirty. He was in a bit of a state. He told me what had happened, that the money was gone, then he hung up, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“You had lunch with him. What time was that?”
“It was around one o’clock. After I left, I did some errands and arrived back here a little after six, I think it was.”
“And James Westwood? When did you last talk to him?”
“Right after I talked to Tom. It would have been around 7:45.”
“That’s what he told me. He said you were going to call him back. Why didn’t you?”
She shrugged, dropped her eyes, turned her head, and looked off into the distance
“I’m not sure,” she said. “There really was no reason why I should. The money was gone and, knowing what I know about such things, I was sure it was gone for good. So why bother... and I don’t like James Westwood anyway.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“He’s a phony; full of shit. Likes to play the game, but doesn’t have the balls for it.”
“Game? What game?”
“High finance. He looks and acts the part, but it was Tom and I who made it all happen. The other two were just along for the ride.”
“I take it you didn’t like, Marty Cassell either.”
“Oh he’s not so bad. He has a good nose for investments, and he made a few good trades. He also brought some heavy investors into the fund. It was his friends I didn’t care for.
“Sal De Luca?”
She smiled. “Yeah, that one. He’s a crook. Not only that, for the past year he’s been trying his damndest to get into my pants. He seems to think that because he has a little money invested with the company it gives him the right to screw the management, literally. It will never happen... You... on the other hand....”
I had my glass of tea up to my mouth. I almost choked. It went up my nose and down into my lungs. I thought I would drown. I coughed and spluttered, all to the inimitable Jessica Steiner’s delight. She lay back on the lounger and laughed, her body undulating and shaking. That on its own was unnerving; the idea of what she seemed to be suggesting was something else again. I tried to ignore it.
“Jessica, did you know how to get into Sattler’s....”
At that she went into another peal of laughter.
“Dammit, Jessica, I’m talking about his computers. Did you know his access codes?”
“All right... all right. Just give me a minute.... Yes, I did. We all did. Whew. That was fun.” She took another minute, calmed down, drank some more tea, looked at me, and began to giggle again. I glared at her, but it was infectious, and then both of us were laughing. Finally, she got ahold of herself, shook her head, and continued.
“We all knew each other’s codes.... Whew. It was a precaution; in case something happened to one of us.”
“When I talked to James Westwood, he said the individual
codes were secret. You’re telling me different?”
“Harry. I can call you Harry, can’t I?” I nodded. “Harry, the codes were, are, secret, to outsiders, but we all know each other’s. It made good sense. I don’t know why he would tell you different.”
“When you were at his home, was anyone else there other than you and Cassell?”
“That silly little girlfriend of his had prepared lunch. Wendy, I think her name is. She left just after we arrived. It was awful; she was awful, but then, Tom always did like his women a little toward the low end of the social ladder. Silly man.”
“Did you have access to his computers?”
“No of course not, at least not then. I could have, had there been a need. I have in the past. Why do you ask?”
“We know that the wire transfer was made from his laptop computer late that afternoon. From what you’re telling me, any one of the four of you could have done it.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “That’s true, I suppose, but there are several people beside us who had easier access than we did. The family, for instance. The girlfriend and dear Gloria’s toy boy.”
“So you’re telling me that he let anyone use his computers, even though they contained sensitive financial information?”
“Tom was like that. He was a dear in some respects, a complete dolt in others.”
“Oh. Why do you say that?”
“For one thing, he had a total lack of any sense of security. I don’t think Tom stole the money; not for a minute, but I’m not surprised it was his laptop that was used to make the transfer. Then there’s the way he was with his kids, and his stupid girlfriend. He let them get away with murder, especially the little one, Nicola....” She paused, took a sip from her glass, stared absently at the pool.
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, he never would make them mind, do as they were told, any of them, including Wendy, or whatever her name is. Money? He handed it out like candy. Have you seen the car that eldest girl of his is driving? It’s an SL550 convertible for God’s sake, red. They start at around $110,000, and the girlfriend drives a Beemer. He was pathetic where women and money was concerned.”