She was right. Already, I was feeling that what’s-the-use feeling. People were after me, I was being investigated, sued. Why go on?
“Matt, I’m concerned about your situation. There’s something I don’t understand. The people responsible for Eddie’s death? Why are they bothering you? If this is about Joe Jesso’s securities, why aren’t they talking to his wife?”
Hell of a good question.
“She’d be the logical person for them to deal with. As it is now, you’re caught in the middle in a lose/lose situation.”
Her insight triggered an absurdly crazy idea that might flip things to win/win.
Chapter 17
The dreams came that night. I was in a cramped interior room with no outside light. The air was heavy, suffocating. Beside me, a balding man in a dark blue suit was wringing his hands as he talked, his voice soft, reassuring, as he explained the various grades of caskets. Wood vs. metal. Rounded corners vs. squared corners. Crepe vs. silk. I wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t focus. The man kept talking anti-corrosion protection, air-lock seals. “It’s important to make the right selections for your loved ones,” he said.
Claire and I had never talked about this, about what we wanted. Death was something that came after old age, after a lifetime together. I started sobbing. I wanted to talk to her. Ask her. Find out what she wanted for Michael and Sarah.
I woke. My hand reached for Eddie. Found nothing.
I was alone. Totally alone. I fought back tears, looked at the bedside clock. Four o’clock. Six hours to the deadline.
I got up, took a long shower, dressed, ate a big breakfast, thought about what I needed to do. My plan to move this from lose/lose to win/win hinged on D’Onifrio. If I could get him to go along, the rest would fall into place. If I couldn’t, it was time to go to the police. The place to pitch my idea was his office. A business meeting. Talk dollars. Convince him of the best way for him to get his money. I grabbed my car keys, headed out.
Shore Bank and Trust was located in a five-story glass office tower on the southern edge of Sarasota. At a little before six in the morning, the sun wasn’t up, and neither were any of the bank’s workers. The parking lot looked empty, the building dark. I was too early.
I parked the car and walked to a coffee shop across from the Shore building where I could watch the place, wait for my opportunity. I slid into a booth by the window and picked up a menu.
A waitress wearing a white dress with blue trim and a hairnet, carrying a small pad of paper and pencil, hovered next to me. “Morning. What can I get you?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
She nodded, scribbled something on the pad, left.
Across the street, people began arriving for work. Lights went on, people went to their desks. Within an hour, the sun was up, a steady stream of people coming and going. By then my eyeballs were floating. I’d just gotten refill number four when I saw a black BMW 7-series with tinted windows turn into the parking lot and park in a spot near the building’s entrance. The driver’s door opened and a dark-haired man wearing sunglasses and carrying a slim briefcase got out, walked confidently into the building. Don D’Onifrio had arrived.
My plan, which had made such sense back at the condo, now seemed foolish. All the warnings Tory had issued about D’Onifrio reverberated in my head. My heart started beating faster. If I sat there a minute longer, I’d chicken out. I paid my check, summoned my courage. I slid out of the booth, headed across the street to pay my respects.
I kept telling myself I wasn’t walking into a den of evil. I was going into a bank, a normal work place with lots of people. Anything out of the ordinary—especially something bad—would be noticed. They didn’t want that. They didn’t want to attract any attention.
I rationalized my way through the revolving doors and into the bank’s lobby. Inside, Shore looked like any other bank. Against the back wall were the tellers; in front by the windows the desk personnel cordoned off by a waist-high railing. I walked to an opening in the railing and stood there until one of them, a young black woman, waved me over. She indicated a visitor’s chair in front of her desk. “How may I help you?” she asked with a smile.
I gave her an even bigger smile and one of my business cards. “I need to see Mr. D’Onifrio concerning some stocks. I don’t have an appointment, but I know he wants to see me. So if you could just let him know I’m here.”
Her eyes immediately became wary, her smile a frown. “Mr. D’Onifrio has a very busy schedule. I’m afraid he won’t want to be interrupted.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’m not selling anything. This is business he wants to talk about. Believe me, he won’t mind.”
She looked dubious.
“Please.”
She hesitated, took a breath, reached for the phone. She watched me. “Ann, I have a gentleman here to see Mr. D’Onifrio. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says Mr. D’Onifrio wants to see him.” She glanced quickly at my business card, still in her hand. “Mathew Seattle. Can you check?”
I kept smiling while we waited.
“I’ll tell him.” She hung up, looked over at me. “Mr. D’Onifrio says he will see you. Ann will be down to get you in a moment.”
Ann turned out to be a young blond girl in a tailored gray suit. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Seattle,” she said in a melodious voice.
I did. To the elevator. Up to five. Down the hall to a corner office. The door was closed. She knocked lightly, opened it.
“Come in, Mr. Seattle,” a refined voice said. I stepped through the doorway into a large, well-appointed office. D’Onifrio sat behind a carved Mahogany desk. The picture Tory had shown me of him didn’t do him justice. Even seated, he had a powerful presence that exuded strength and authority. Part of that was his size. He was bigger than I expected. Part of it was his looks. His gaze was intelligent, penetrating. He wore a dark blue shirt, deeper blue tie. He held out a hand indicating one of the visitor’s chairs. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
I took the seat, declined the coffee.
“Ann, hold my calls. Mr. Seattle and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” I heard her say, followed by a soft whoosh and click of the door closing.
We were alone. With the door closed, there was an odd, irritating high-pitched hum in the room. It took me a second to realize it was coming from his hearing aids.
D’Onifrio studied me, smiled, a condescending smile. The smile of a predator toying with prey.
I resisted the temptation to turn and flee, took a deep breath. I had to get this on an adult-to-adult basis. If I dealt with him from a frightened-child position, I was dead meat. “Thanks for seeing me.” I tried to sound confident. “I think you and I need to talk about Joe Jesso’s stocks.”
The smile lost a little of its amusement. “I’m listening.”
“Over the past couple of days, I’ve learned it might have been your money Joe invested with me.”
No reaction.
“If that’s true, I can understand why you’d be upset. What I came here to tell you is I didn’t know it was your money and there’s nothing I can do to help you get it back.”
The smile lost any remaining amusement. The eyes glared. I thought he might come across the desk and throttle me. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm.
“Listen carefully. It was not my money. It was my depositors’ money. They are demanding an accounting. They don’t want to hear your excuses. They want their money back. If you do not give it to them—” he shrugged his shoulders. Amusement returned to his smile. “Well, I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.”
I had the feeling his depositors weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Joe Lunchbox of Sarasota. “That money is part of his estate—”
He shook his head. “These stocks are under your control.”
“I can’t take assets out of his estate. I’d go to jail.”
He laughed. “You think I
care if you go to jail?”
“I’m sure you don’t, but there’s no way I could transfer those stocks into your name that the money couldn’t be traced. You’d go to jail, too.”
“No one will ever trace it to me. I know how to move money so it disappears.”
“You can’t make it disappear when the N.A.S.D. is watching.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would the N.A.S.D. be watching my money?”
I laid it out for him. “Joe’s new wife brought charges against me with the National Association of Securities Dealers so she could have me removed as executor of his estate. Now that I’m no longer executor, she has control of that money.”
D’Onifrio’s face registered disgust. He sat back in his chair, rubbed his chin with his hand. “That may be, but you know the cusip numbers. All I need are those numbers. I can do the rest.”
“Won’t work. With the N.A.S.D. watching those stocks, they’d have us both arrested for securities violations.”
Anger flushed his face. His hands balled up into fists.
“But I know how you can get your money, and it will be perfectly legal.”
“Tell me,” he barked.
I took a breath. “Right now, that money belongs to Joe’s wife, Janet Wakeman. Janet’s a gold digger who marries older men for their money. That’s why she married Joe.” I watched his face. “So if one of your associates married her, that money would be joint property. You could take it without a problem.”
D’Onifrio burst out laughing. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would I do that?”
“For one reason only. It’s legal.”
He threw up his hands in a dismissive gesture. “I want my money now. I don’t want to play some game to get it.”
“Why risk having a bunch of regulatory agencies breathing down your neck so you can have it now. You haven’t had that money for two years. What’s a month more to get it back without any complications?”
He picked up a pen, tapped it against the desktop, threw it down, studied me. Silence. Again I noticed the irritating hum. “I’ll think about it.” He stood.
I remained seated. “Thinking it over doesn’t work for me. You killed my dog—”
“I am sorry about that. My associate should not have hurt your dog.”
“I appreciate your saying that, but it won’t bring him back. I don’t want to end up dead because I gave you time to think it over.”
“I assure you that will not happen.”
“All I want is a yes or a no. What’s there to think about? I’m told you’re a powerful executive. This should be a simple decision for you.”
“Don’t goad me, Mr. Seattle, or you will join your dog. There are issues to consider beyond your understanding. I will review this and let you know my decision. End of discussion.”
I stood. “Well, thanks for listening at least.” I headed for the door. When I opened it, Ann was waiting for me.
She smiled nicely. I was back among normal human beings. “I’ll show you downstairs, Mr. Seattle.”
“Thanks.” I gratefully followed her to the elevator banks. She rode down to the lobby with me. Each floor dinged as we descended. On the fifth ding, the door opened. We were back at the lobby.
“Have a great day,” she said as I stepped out.
“Oh, I will,” I replied optimistically. The meeting with D’Onifrio had been such a disaster my day couldn’t get any worse.
Or so I thought.
Chapter 18
“Where’s Eddie?” Rosemary asked lightly when I entered the office.
“He’s gone, I’m afraid.”
“Gone?”
“He was killed last night.”
Her face fell. “Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
It was hard to talk about it. I choked up as I told her about the shooting in the parking lot, carrying Eddie home, burying him. I got myself under control and told her about my visit to D’Onifrio.
She listened sympathetically. When I was finished, she said, “As if you haven’t had enough trouble, I’m afraid there’s more.” She handed me an envelope. “That came a wee bit ago.”
I glanced quickly at the front of it. Registered mail From the Sarasota County Court. “Julian warned me this was coming.” I ripped open the envelope, looked at the papers inside.
“What’s it say?” Rosemary asked.
“Says I’m being sued by Janet Jesso. She’s asking the return of ninety-five thousand dollars in investment fees and two million in punitive damages.” I handed her the papers.
“My God,” she said as she read them. “Can they do this?”
I nodded. “Julian says they can.”
“For so much money?”
I nodded again. “Afraid so.” If they won, I’d be out of business. Bankrupt.
“Matt, how are you holding yourself together? Losing Eddie. Now this.”
I thought about what Dr. Swarthmore had said last night, warning me not to slide back into depression. She’d been right that it would be easy to let go, let the darkness surround me. But somebody had to pay for Eddie. I wasn’t about to let his death go unpunished. This hadn’t been an accident. This time I wasn’t totally helpless. I held Nevitt and Wakeman as responsible for his death as D’Onifrio. “You know, Rosemary, as bad as this is, I’m going to get through it.”
“You know I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“I appreciate that, Rosemary.” I headed to my office. Waiting for me were voice mails, pink message slips, emails. I ignored them all, dialed Tory’s number, got her machine. After the beep, I said, “Tory, it’s Matt Seattle. Sorry to be calling you so often. I know you don’t like that. But we need to talk as soon as possible. There have been major new developments and I need your help.”
I cradled the receiver, sat there watching it not ring. After fifteen minutes, I decided I was kidding myself to think she’d call back quickly. I went to work, returned calls, booked transactions, did paperwork. At six, Rosemary stuck her head in, said she was leaving. By seven, I’d done all I could do. I got up, stretched, turned out the lights, and walked to the front door. I’d just finished locking up when I heard the phone ring. I set a new record for getting back inside, picked up the line at Rosemary’s desk. “Hello.”
“Catch your breath,” she laughed. “You sound winded.”
“Winded and worried.”
“Winded is your problem; worried is mine. What’s the matter?”
“I need you to find out about a guy for me.”
“Why? What’d he do?”
“He shot my dog.”
“The spaniel—the one I petted? This guy shot him?”
“Killed him.”
“How horrible. I’m sorry for you, but you don’t want me, you want the police.”
“I’ve already talked to the police. I spent yesterday afternoon with them, looking at mug shots, trying to get protection. Lot of good that did me. Eddie’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “If the police couldn’t help you, I probably can’t either.”
“Yes, you can. This guy works for Shore. You had all that information on Shore. You can find out about him.”
“That was general information, not specifics. I’ll be honest with you; I’m not sure I want D’Onifrio’s organization knowing I’m poking around, looking at their people.”
The tone in her voice told me she didn’t want to get involved. Who could blame her? Why put herself at risk to find out who shot a dog? “I understand. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” I started to hang up.
“Wait,” I heard her say.
I put the phone back to my ear. “Yes?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, but I need to know what I’m getting into.”
“That’s fair. You want to talk over the phone, get together, what?”
I heard the tap of fingers on a computer. Probably kept an electronic calendar. “How’s ten o’clock tomorrow?”
“Fi
ne. You want to come here?”
“I’ll do that.”
I headed out for the second time. This time, however, the phone didn’t ring. I put the top down on the Saab, drove to Publix, picked up a salad for dinner. After dinner, I went for a walk on the beach, worked out for an hour and a half in the gym. Without Eddie, it was a long, lonely evening.
At ten until ten the next morning, I heard the door rattle, Rosemary use the buzzer. Early, again.
“Good morning,” Rosemary said.
“He’s expecting me,” Tory said. “I can find my own way.”
She appeared in my doorway; I waved her in, closed out of a computer program. She sat in the same visitors’ chair she’d occupied on her last visit. “Sorry about Eddie,” she said. “Having him shot in front of you had to be painful.”
“Thanks,” I shook my head sadly. “It was pointless. Mean.”
She got a legal pad and pen out of her black bag. “What can you tell me about the shooter?”
I pictured him in my mind. “Young, early twenties. Sort of baby faced with short-cropped blond hair and a wispy, hardly-there blond moustache. That the kind of stuff you’re looking for?”
She nodded.
“About five-eight, 125-pounds—thin, really thin. He wore a fancy suit, probably Italian, with all sorts of fancy goo-gas on it you don’t see in a normal suit. Expensive or cheap, I don’t know.” I thought for a second, picturing him in our first meeting. “He had a monogram on his shirt sleeve. WW.”
“Yeah. That gives me something to narrow this down. Anything else about him?”
I shook my head.
“You said you talked to the police, looked at mug shots. Tell me about that.”
“I don’t think they took me too seriously. I gave them his description. They put me at a computer terminal, had me look at mug shots. After an hour of that, I’d looked at everybody who fit the description. I didn’t see him.”
She made a note on her pad, looked over at me. “Did you tell them this guy works for D’Onifrio?”
“No.”
“Too bad. They’d have taken you real seriously. Might have made a difference.”
Jay Giles Page 8