Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  At the same time, she was conflicted over what Edward Winter told her about the problems in the banking industry and the impact those problems were having on the business community. She also remembered Paul Sanders’ comment about trying to save a good man’s business.

  Gail agonized over what to do. At 8 Saturday morning, she pulled up Google and typed in Folsom’s name, trying to find a photograph of the man. She wondered what he looked like. Maybe, if he looked evil, she’d know better what to do. But there was no photo available. She was about to shut down her computer when she saw a link: Bank Executive Released on Bail. She clicked on the URL and, skimming the article, learned Gerald Folsom had been charged with assault and battery against his wife. Picture or no picture, Gail made a decision. She called Paul Sanders’ cell phone number.

  “Paul Sanders.”

  “Paul, it’s Gail Moskowitz. We need to talk.”

  “I’m over at Katherine Winter’s house, Gail, Edward Winter’s mother. Can I call you back?”

  Hearing something different in Paul’s voice, Gail asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “A hired killer broke into Mrs. Winter’s home to kill Wendy Folsom.”

  “Kill . . . Folsom? Wendy Folsom? Gerald Folsom’s wife? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’m confused. What was Gerald Folsom’s wife doing with Edward Winter’s mother?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  After hanging up, Gail pondered this new development. Who would benefit from Wendy Folsom’s murder? If the answer to that question was Gerald Folsom, then there was even more reason to be concerned about the FDIC’s reputation. Was Donald Matson funneling sweetheart deals to Folsom? If so, that could be embarrassing to the agency. If Folsom had solicited the murder of his wife, that news would be devastating. Then another thought hit her: What if Folsom had something to do with Donald Matson’s death?

  When Paul returned to the living room where the Winters and Wendy Folsom were gathered, he found an argument going on.

  “I think we made a mistake,” Katherine said to Carrie. “This attempt on Wendy’s life is police business.”

  “Mom,” Carrie said, “that woman was hired by a broker. She only knows who hired her. Let’s say we told the police she was here to kill Wendy and gave them the number she provided for Toothpick Jefferson, what will the police do?”

  “They’ll go talk to Jefferson; make him tell them who hired him.”

  “First, Jefferson will deny knowing the woman. Second, even if the police can prove Jefferson and the woman know one another, Jefferson will just deny any involvement. And would the person who paid Jefferson to kill Wendy be stupid enough to write him a personal check? Would the person behind this have called Jefferson from a home or business phone, so the police can find a trail of their conversations? And how long would it take the police to dig up anything meaningful, if they could even find anything?”

  “What’s the alternative?” Edward asked. “If there’s someone out there who wants Wendy killed, whoever it is, is probably not going to stop. If the police knew she was a target for murder, at least they could protect her.”

  “For how long?” Carrie asked. “A couple weeks, maybe. Then they’ll pull the guards.”

  “So, I’ll return to my question: What’s the alternative?”

  Carrie shrugged.

  “By the way,” Paul interjected into the silence, “that call I got a few minutes ago was from my friend at the FDIC. I had asked her to check to see if there might be a special relationship between Folsom and the FDIC’s area supervisor. I told her I’d call her back in an hour. Why don’t I do that now?”

  “God, I hope she has some helpful news,” Katherine said.

  “That would be a welcome change,” Edward said.

  Paul called Gail Moskowitz and told her in more detail what had happened at Katherine’s house the night before.

  “Do you have any idea who hired the killer?”

  “No facts; just suspicions.”

  “Do you suspect Gerald Folsom?” Gail asked.

  “Top of the list,” Paul answered. “But we have no way of proving it.”

  “Why would Folsom want his wife killed?”

  “She accused him of assault and battery and attempted murder. The D.A. has filed charges and Folsom actually spent a night in jail before his attorney convinced a judge to grant bail.”

  “I just saw that on the internet. But do you think he’s capable of soliciting murder?” she asked.

  “He was capable of beating his wife to a pulp.”

  There was silence on Gail’s end of the line. Paul filled the void.

  “Anyway. You called me earlier.”

  “Paul, your suspicions were correct. Matson and Folsom had more than just an arms-length relationship. Folsom has made hundreds of millions of dollars from FDIC deals. And the structure of those deals was generous to say the least. I have no way of knowing why Matson was so good to Folsom, but these deals raise all sorts of red flags.”

  “Will you talk to a reporter at the Journal?” Paul asked. “Tell her what you told me?”

  “There is no way I’m talking to the press.”

  “Come on, Gail. She can’t use any of this if it comes from me.”

  “Paul, I’m not committing career suicide. But I will do one thing for you: I’ll provide you with a summary of the transactions Folsom executed with the agency and will give you enough information so you can compare Folsom’s deals against other similar transactions. But you can’t use my name.”

  “Okay, Gail. I understand. Thank you. How are you going to get the information to me?”

  “I’ll send you a fax from the local Kinko’s. It will be at your office by noon today.”

  After Paul ended the call with Gail Moskowitz, he brought everyone up to date.

  “What can we do with this information?” Edward asked, confused. “How is it going to help us?”

  “I think it will convince Kelly Loughridge at the Journal to do a story on this. It won’t be the explosive story it would have been if Folsom and Matson could be shown to be corrupt. But it surely will raise questions. And, I suspect Folsom has seen his last FDIC deal.”

  “Paul, something just crossed my mind,” Edward said. He looked at Wendy and asked, “You told your husband you would drop the criminal charges against him if he agreed to renew my loan?”

  “Right.”

  Edward looked back at Paul. “So, it would be interesting to learn if Folsom called the bank and gave any instructions about our loan.”

  Paul said, “And, if he didn’t, that could mean he didn’t think he would need to, because Wendy was supposed to be dead. No Wendy, no threat, no deal.”

  “Exactly.”

  Edward pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and dialed Stanley Burns’ cell.

  “Burns.”

  “Stan, it’s Edward Winter.”

  No response from Burns.

  “Stan, I need to ask you a question. That’s all. I’m not calling to ask for your help with our loan. Just one question.”

  “I hope I can answer it,” Burns said.

  Edward thought Burns sounded as depressed as anyone he’d ever known. He almost felt sorry for him.

  “Did Gerald Folsom or one of his cronies recently order you to renew my loan?”

  He scoffed. “Why would Folsom do that?”

  “So, your answer to my question is no.”

  “That’s right. Folsom is almost giddy about putting you out of business. I don’t understand it, Edward. I’m really sorry about everything. I—”

  “Thanks for answering my question, Stan.”

  Edward closed his phone and said to the others, “No order came from Folsom about our loan.”

  “That bastard!” Wendy blurted. “That evil bastard!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Carrie announced she was going to get some fresh air and went outside.
When she was out of sight of the house, she used her cell phone to call a friend who had served with her in Iraq and Afghanistan. A Special Ops officer, Darren Noury had been wounded in an IED explosion and decided to put in his separation papers after spending six months in rehabilitation at Landstuhl Army Hospital in Germany. Carrie knew Darren now worked in a software firm headquartered in Willow Grove, a community outside Philadelphia.

  “This better be good,” Darren said. He sounded groggy, hung-over.

  “Hello, Darren. You been partying?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s the woman who saved your ass in Fallujah.”

  “Carrie! Where the hell are you? Last I heard, you were wearing a chador and sneaking around Azerbaijan.”

  “That was supposed to be top secret. Who told you that?”

  “Once a spook, always a spook. But where are you?”

  “Chestnut Hill at my mother’s house. I’m home on leave.”

  “Damn, we gotta get together.”

  “Sooner than you think. I have a problem, Darren. I need someone to cover my back.”

  “Action? Are you talking about action? Hot damn. Just you and me?”

  “I could use another man, too.”

  “I know just the guy,” Darren said. “Mike Perico. He was a Force Recon Marine in the first Gulf War and then joined the Company for a few years. Very dependable guy. Selling drugs now.”

  “What!”

  Darren laughed. “No, no, he’s a pharmaceutical rep.”

  “Big change from the agency,” she said. “You available tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure.”

  “Check with Mike and see if he can meet with us at 6:45. Use this number to call me back. If the time works, I’ll meet you at Maria’s Bakery on Bethlehem Pike in Chestnut Hill.”

  “Do I need to bring any equipment?”

  “Nothing too heavy.”

  “Gotcha!”

  Carrie walked around the block three times before Darren called her back.

  “The time works,” Darren said.

  “Thanks, Darren. See you.”

  She ended the call and returned to the house.

  “You okay, honey?” Katherine asked as Carrie walked in. Worry showed on her knitted brow and in her frightened eyes.

  Carrie looked around. “Where is everybody?”

  “Wendy’s in her room. The others went home.”

  “I’m going to get some rest. It was a long night.”

  “Carrie,” Katherine said, “I hope you’re not planning something stupid.”

  “Mom, I need you to understand something. I’m not the person you knew before I joined the service. I’ve learned a special set of skills that are very effective against bad people. And I’ve put them to use on dozens of occasions. When I look at the photographs of me you’ve got scattered around your house, I don’t recognize that person anymore.”

  “I see something in you that’s foreign to me, that scares me,” Katherine said. “But I know you’re the same good person inside.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mom; I just can’t be sure. But that’s irrelevant. That woman who snuck in here last night could have murdered all of us. What you’re doing for Wendy is a good thing. But as long as she’s here, you’re in danger too. I know you won’t send her away, so we’ve got to figure out a way to eliminate the danger.”

  “How?”

  “First, I think you should check into a hotel for a few days. That assassin could have told any number of people where Wendy is now. And you and Wendy need to be very careful about who you talk to. Keep telephone calls limited to emergencies only. Talk to Paul Sanders or Wendy’s attorney, or our family members, but no one else. Second, I’m going to bring on a couple security people to watch over you, twenty-four hours.”

  Carrie hugged Katherine. “And don’t worry; I won’t do anything stupid.” She then went to her room, closed the door, and used her cell phone to call Toothpick Jefferson’s number.

  “Yeah,” a man answered.

  “We need to meet.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “The person who took down your hired killer. She gave me your number.”

  “What you talkin’ about?”

  “Don’t go into jive mode on me, asshole. I know you sent the woman and I know why.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to meet, have a short conversation, and then I’ll go my way and you’ll go yours. Pretty simple, huh?”

  “How do I know this isn’t some kind of setup?”

  “You don’t. But you can’t afford to ignore me. That I guarantee you.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at 8 a.m. Pastorius Park in Chestnut Hill.”

  “Where the hell is Pastorius Park?”

  “Figure it out. Look it up on the internet. And come alone.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Paul left Katherine’s home and drove to his office to finish the Injunction Order he would need to file if nothing good happened at the bank for Winter Enterprises between now and next Friday.

  Good to her word, Gail Moskowitz’s fax arrived just before noon. Paul read the lengthy document and realized why Gail was nervous about tying her name to the information. Compared to the typical FDIC asset sale, the deals Donald Matson gave Gerald Folsom were “special.” As Gail had said, there was nothing showing what Matson might have got out of giving Folsom sweet deals—if anything—but there sure as hell was plenty of reason to raise the ugly suspicion of extortion or bribery. At a minimum, the FDIC needed to investigate the relationship between the two men.

  Paul called Kelly Loughridge’s office at the Journal and left an urgent message for her before going back to reading Gail Moskowitz’s fax. He’d gotten through it a second time when Kelly Loughridge called back.

  “I’ve got some very interesting information from the FDIC.”

  “How about a summary?” Kelly said.

  “Donald Matson was giving Gerald Folsom extremely preferential treatment on asset sales. Over the past decade, Folsom made hundreds of millions of dollars or more from buying loan pools and banks at prices even below the normally ridiculous sale prices offered to other investors. I’ve got dates and prices of all the deals Folsom made with the agency. When you compare the prices he paid against the appraised value of the assets themselves, you have to come to the conclusion Folsom was someone’s best buddy.”

  “What was Matson getting in return?” Kelly asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m going to leave that to you to discover. After all, you need to do a little work on this story.”

  “Very funny, Paul. I’ll have you know my staff and I have been turning over every rock we can find.”

  “I’ve got something else to tell you, but you can’t disclose it to anyone until I give you permission to do so. I’m giving it to you for background only. This is off the record, you understand?”

  “You’ve got more conditions than a federal government contract. Yeah, I understand.”

  “A hired killer tried to murder Gerald Folsom’s wife last night.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. What happened? Is she okay?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. But there’s a reason why I can’t tell you anything more right now. I’ll explain later.”

  “Paul, I know you’re hoping any story I publish will help your client, but that could be a pipe dream. I might not even be able to gather enough information to put together a story we can print.”

  “Jesus, Kelly. Sweetheart deals are being made between a federal government agency and a private investor, the banking industry is paying for the huge losses the FDIC is taking as a result of these special deals through huge deposit insurance assessments, a top FDIC executive has been murdered, the private investor receiving these sweetheart deals is arrested and charged with assault and battery and the attempted murder of his wife, and a hired killer tries to take out the investor’s wife. What more do you need?” />
  “You’re one royal pain in the ass.”

  “There’s a story you can write. A lawyer who’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Cute, Paul. I’ll be talking to you.”

  Kelly hung up. Paul sent an email to his assistant instructing her to finalize the Injunction Order and to have it ready as soon as possible Monday morning. He then called Katherine at home and offered to take Wendy, Carrie, and her out to dinner.

  “Carrie thinks we should check into a hotel until this blows over,” Katherine said. “Even wants to hire security guards. I think she’s correct about going to a hotel. We’re going to the Marriott. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go out to eat, but we can eat in. Come by the hotel at 7.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Katherine, followed by Wendy and Carrie, led the way through the packed Marriott Hotel lobby at 5 p.m. Each of them pulled a wheeled suitcase and carried a shoulder bag. They ignored an offer of assistance from a bellman, checked in at the front desk, and rode an elevator to their floor.

  As soon as they unpacked in their suite, Carrie told them she needed to check on something.

  Borrowing Katherine’s SUV, Carrie drove to Pastorius Park at Hartwell Lane and Abington Avenue in Chestnut Hill. The small park was situated in a residential area and had a slightly rolling landscape with scattered pockets of bushes and trees. The terrain drained toward a small pond in the center of the park.

  After parking the SUV on the street, Carrie surveilled the area. The park hadn’t changed since her mother brought her here when she was a little girl. She would scoop up tadpoles with a kitchen ladle and take them home in a fish bowl. When the tadpoles grew into baby frogs, they brought them back to the park and released them. In winter, she ice skated on the pond.

  There were a dozen dog-walkers roaming the park, a few joggers, and a lone man reading on a bench. She hoped the park would be less crowded at 8 a.m. tomorrow, Sunday morning.

  Carrie walked until she found a spot where she could sit down with Jefferson—a weathered bench set in a slight depression against a backdrop of dogwood trees. Darren Nouri would cover the area behind the trees; she would station Mike Perico over by the pond, where he would have a clear one-hundred-yard line of sight to the bench. Although she’d told Toothpick Jefferson to come alone, there was zero chance, she guessed, that he would follow her instructions.