“They set this up,” she muttered.
Chapter 35
Detective Mason looked as if he wanted to escape, but he stayed behind on the courthouse steps to speak with the Ladies.
“What happened in there?” Gracie demanded. “I thought at least a jury would get to hear about this crime. They would have surely been more sympathetic than mister roly-poly judge.”
Mason gave a rueful smile, in spite of himself. “I’m as disappointed as you are. Jim and I thought we’d gathered enough evidence to make a good case. We really did.”
No one said it, but the reality was that the women had gathered the evidence and had brought in the suspect. The police had done precious little. They probably wouldn’t have pursued the case at all if they’d had to trek all over the country to track down Rob Williams and catch him in the act of presenting his movie investment scheme.
“Who’s that guy?” Amber asked, with a nod toward the Asian man who’d been in the courtroom and was now lurking nearby, taking notes.
“That’s Jason Chen. He works for one of the smaller newspapers here in the county,” Abby told her, hanging back but listening to Mason’s comments.
Mason ran a hand through his thinning hair. “In hindsight, I know we rushed the case to court, pushed the prosecution. We should have presented more of his victims, besides Mrs. Weaver, before we proceeded. Maybe the media can help locate them. Maybe you’ll meet others—could press it as a civil suit.”
He cleared his throat. “Please believe me—I’ve taken a personal interest in this and will do everything I can to rebuild it into a stronger case. If we get more victims to come forward … We can even bring in federal assistance once we determine that they come from multiple jurisdictions. If I have to haul the file home with me every night …”
The women’s glances told how little effort they believed would go into the case, especially the minute a more urgent case came across Mason’s desk. The cop walked away with one final, lame apology.
“I wish I could have been of more help,” Abby said, “but I swear, the minute the money came into the bank account, Rob handled it. He had me fooled, too, believing he was in negotiations with actors and was scouting locations for the movie.”
“Come on, girls,” Janice said, with a steely glance at Abby. “Let’s go.”
Amber had moved away and approached the reporter, but he seemed to have all the material he wanted. He brushed her off with the excuse of a deadline and rushed away. The women moved as one deflated group, back to the van, for the drive to Pasadena.
“What did the reporter say?” Sandy asked Amber once they were on the road. Amber just shook her head.
“Maybe that should have been our tactic,” Pen said. “If we’d gone to the media with the story, put more pressure on the police and the judge.”
“You’re probably right. I wish we’d thought of that,” Gracie said.
“We still could,” Mary offered. “And now it would be a bigger story because of the way the judge blew us off.”
Pen nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Let’s think about it.”
No one felt like eating the tamale casserole Maria had prepared when they got back to Janice’s house. Hannah turned on the television, and Pen kept one ear tuned to it, on the chance their case might be mentioned with indignant commentary on the result, but a tragic shooting at a high school in a quiet Midwest town was the lead story and nothing else came on.
The women sat around the table, pushing bits of food around their plates, no one talking much—until Sandy’s phone pinged with an incoming text message. She picked it up without much interest, but when she saw the message her eyes widened.
“It’s from Rob.” She read it aloud. “Saw you in the courtroom. Thanks for your support. Where’d you go after?”
She looked at the stunned, silent group around the table.
“It worked. He didn’t realize I was with the rest of you.”
Pen was the first to speak. “This could be a turn in our favor. He still thinks you are on his side.”
Chapter 36
Rob Williams shed the horrific orange jumpsuit and, although it felt a little weird to be dressing in his wrinkled tuxedo, got into his own clothing with a heart full of joy. He was free!
The past ten days were a blur. He’d put on the tux in order to make it on time for his latest gala event, the one in Scottsdale. Somewhere around the time they’d arrived at the Royale, he lost track. He’d awakened with a splitting headache, in the back of a vehicle, and the next thing he knew the cops were slapping cuffs on his wrists. There were female voices but he had no idea whose. Fingerprinting and booking went by in a fog of nausea and throbbing head, which felt as if it could explode. He’d slept for two solid days and nights in a cell, and he only knew that because the creep in there with him told him he snored the whole time.
Tyler Chisholm had met with him once, when he was informed he needed to release twenty thousand dollars to cover the initial legal fees. At the time he’d pitched a small fit over the amount, but now he was glad he’d done it. His longtime lawyer had obviously steered him right.
He buttoned his shirt and stuffed his tie into the pants pocket. A knock on the dressing room cubicle and the guard came to let him out. Tyler was waiting at the end of the hall, not a thread of his custom-made charcoal suit or blue silk power tie out of place. The lawyer held out a plastic bag containing the rest of Rob’s personal effects: slim leather wallet, passport, phone, keys, the boarding pass from his Air France flight, a half-full box of Tic-Tacs, and a comb. He took a quick peek at the cash in the wallet—it was still there.
“We need to talk,” Chisolm said, taking Rob’s elbow.
“Someplace away from here.” Rob hoped to never see the judicial complex again in his life.
They got into the attorney’s silver Lexus and drove to the building where Chisholm’s offices filled a quarter of the sixth floor. He parked in his designated slot and they walked to the bar at the corner.
“I’m buying,” Rob said when they settled in a dark corner booth. “Man, I owe you one.”
“Actually, you owe me ten.” Tyler pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. “My invoice. The twenty you already gave me went directly—well, you know where. I’ll take a check or a wire transfer, and it’s due before you leave town again.”
Rob bit back a retort, swallowed hard, and nodded.
“Look, Rob, we’ve known each other since college. I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into now, but this thing could’ve been real messy. You are so lucky—” He stopped mid-sentence while the cocktail waitress set down their two whiskeys and a basket of popcorn.
Rob smiled up at her and halfway wished she’d hang around so he didn’t have to hear the rest of Tyler’s lecture. It wasn’t to be.
“So lucky they were only ready to present evidence for one plaintiff. The scuttlebutt is that there are probably dozens more like that lady, the one claiming fraud. If all of those should band together and push for a class-action type case … Well, let’s just say all the money you have in the bank won’t get you off as easy as you did today. One word of caution: Madoff.”
Rob winced, willing his hand to hold still as he raised his glass. The famed hedge fund guy would spend his life in prison, and the feds had tied up every penny of the money he’d made, returning it piecemeal to the chumps as they began to recover it.
“It doesn’t pay—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Rob said, impatient to get out of the place.
“Fine. Enough said. Where’s your car? You need a ride to pick it up someplace?”
“Nah, I’ll get an Uber.” He picked up a handful of the popcorn and stuffed it in his mouth, mainly to get out of talking anymore to Tyler Chisholm. His phone was dead, so he had to ask the lawyer to order the ride for him. Pile on one more humiliation.
They said goodbye at the sidewalk, Tyler handing Rob the invoice envelope he’d left behind on the table. His moo
d plummeted another notch as he got into the hired car.
At home, he stripped off his tux and threw it into the corner of his closet. No way he was putting it back on until it was thoroughly dry-cleaned. He stood under the shower until the water began to run cold, then spritzed himself with cologne and put on jeans and a Henley. Nothing seemed to take away the jailhouse stink.
He thought of the courtroom and something clicked. Sandy. She’d been there in the audience, or gallery, or whatever they called the crowd. Crowd—hardly. A dozen or so, come to watch his downfall. He’d plugged in his phone when he got home and it had enough charge now to send a text. Although he didn’t really want to know, he wondered whether anything had come of the Scottsdale event, or if there was a possibility of scheduling another. He sent a brief message.
Tyler’s words came to mind—You are so lucky—It doesn’t pay— Well, who knew if Sandy would even respond.
His computer case was sitting on the dining table and he caught sight of one of the villa photos he’d printed before—before his life went to shit. He ripped up the picture, picked up the bottle of Glenlivet from his bar cart, and poured a glass.
He’d lost the villa. Even if he scooped up every penny from every hidden bank, it wasn’t enough, and by now the other buyer was probably already moving his things into the palace on the hill. His throat felt tight. That house was the one thing he’d ever wanted. The home, the lifestyle, the women, the film festivals—the bubble burst right before his eyes.
The first drink went down in a gulp; a second followed, then a third. A picture of his father sitting at some Milwaukee dive, beers going down easy, popped into his head. Was that where he was headed? At least Pop had once had a good woman in his life. Rob couldn’t even say that much.
He looked at his phone screen. No message from Sandy. No message from anyone. Truth be told, he missed Abby. He poured his glass a little fuller this time. He swallowed the last of the golden liquid and looked down, verifying the glass was empty. Two tears ran off his chin and plopped on the table.
His head pounded, with Tyler’s words echoing around in there. Don’t be a Madoff, he told himself. Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught … don’t get … His head hit the table top with a thump and he barely noticed.
Chapter 37
They were beginning to feel grubby, having brought only one spare change of clothing, and no one’s mood was exactly the best either. All five of the Heist Ladies had piled into Gracie’s van at the crack of dawn, ready to be done with California. No one had slept much. An hour into the drive they decided breakfast would boost their energy and brighten their moods, so Gracie pulled off at a diner somewhere near Rancho Cucamonga.
The place looked like the type of mom-and-pop non-chain where the atmosphere would be relaxed, the prices reasonable, and the eggs would at least be freshly cracked. Amber trailed the rest of the group, and just outside the door her gaze fell to a metal newspaper vending machine where a headline screamed out at her.
Allegations of Movie Producer Scamming Rich People Falls Flat
She quickly fished in her purse for change to buy the paper. “No, no, no …” she muttered as she scanned the opening lines.
Gracie had stood back, holding the door. She watched Amber with a puzzled look on her face. “What’s that?”
“I can’t believe it,” Amber said. “I absolutely did not tell him any of this.” She nearly crashed into the doorjamb as she held the paper in front of her.
Gracie led her to the large corner booth Pen had found. The others were watching Amber’s stricken face.
“It’s that Jason Chen, the reporter. This is what he wrote; ‘The Los Angeles County Courthouse was quiet yesterday, with the upcoming holiday recess looming, but one interesting case came on the docket. A wealthy investor who put money into a picture to be made by producer Robert Williams of Intrepid Dog Pictures, was screaming ‘no fair’ and Williams found himself in the defense chair.’ Wealthy investor—where’d he get that?”
Gracie seemed stunned. Her mother was about to lose her home over this deal. She obviously wasn’t floating in wealth.
Amber continued: “There’s background stuff we knew about Intrepid Dog Pictures, how Rob Williams started the company after having one big success, an Oscar nomination in the late ’90s for a documentary … blah, blah … It says Williams was part of the sound effects department at the time.”
“Exactly. Rob Williams really had very little to do with his one big claim to fame.” Mary said.
A young waitress in black jeans and a black t-shirt with the diner’s logo came up to the table, her face perky as she surveyed the troubled faces of her customers. They unanimously ordered coffee and she scooted away.
Pen provided the voice of reason. “First things first—we all need some food.”
“I wonder how widespread this story is. Is all of America going to think my mother is some kind of rich bitch who doesn’t deserve to get her money back?”
Sandy leaned over and patted Gracie’s hand. “I don’t think so. For one thing, look at the TV screen over there.” She tilted her head toward the back wall, where a set was broadcasting one of the national networks, sound muted. The video showed coverage of the horrible shooting that had been the top headline last night. “The old saying in journalism apparently still holds true—‘if it bleeds, it leads’—and no one gives a hoot about our case.”
Gracie seemed somewhat mollified.
“If we’re going to continue our search for more victims and look for a way to bring this thing back to court in a bigger way, it’s good for us that it’s not getting wider coverage,” Sandy said.
“How so? Wouldn’t more investors come forward if they heard about it?”
“Perhaps,” Pen said as the coffee arrived, “but—well, let’s order our breakfast first.”
Keeping it simple, everyone ordered omelets and toast and their waitress scurried away again.
“As I was saying, it’s possible more investors would come forward, but it’s also possible Rob Williams would begin feeling the pressure and this time he might actually get away.”
Sandy had been quiet and thoughtful. “Maybe I should stay in touch, continue to be our inside track and monitor his movements.”
“That’s right—we’d forgotten he sent you a text last evening.” Clearly, Mary’s wheels were turning.
“I answered him, just a quick, noncommittal reply. I’ve heard nothing more.”
“Yet,” Amber said.
“Yet,” Sandy agreed, her smile widening.
Conversation lagged as their food arrived and the women gave the omelets their attention. Fifteen minutes went by with barely a word, until Gracie began to fret. “I’m still worried about taking this back to court. Do any of you believe Detective Mason will really give it top priority?”
“Maybe until the next murder case comes into the department,” Mary said.
“Exactly. And in L.A. something bigger will come along.”
“So, I’m thinking we go after him ourselves,” Amber said. “Rob Williams, and the judge who pulled this crappy trick, and that reporter.” She jabbed a buttery finger over Jason Chen’s name on the front page byline.
The others laughed at her vehemence. “A slanted headline by a reporter isn’t punishable, unfortunately,” Pen said, “but I do agree with your assessment that the judge was also somehow in collusion. The whole courtroom presentation was just a bit too pat. It had a staged feeling. If we could track Rob’s finances and find out money went to the judge—we’d have them both.”
“Ooh, if only I had both my computers and my secure internet connection here …” Amber sent a crafty grin toward the rest of them.
“We’ll be home by this evening,” Gracie said. She drained the last of her coffee, then fished her keys from her purse. “The bus leaves in ten minutes.”
Chapter 38
One eye opened. Rob couldn’t comprehend the dark expanse. A groan. He closed the eye aga
in, felt dampness beneath his cheek. He tried to raise his head from the dining table but it felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. He managed to lift it with the help of both hands, then sat there with eyes squeezed shut, willing the blazing pain to go away.
When he peered out between his lashes, a glint of light beamed through the window across the room and struck the empty Glenlivet bottle. His heavy crystal glass stood nearby, coated with thick residue and smeary lip prints. He turned away and felt bile rise in his throat. Everything in his life had gone to shit. He felt pressure behind his eyes, the threat of emotion.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” he muttered.
He found his legs and stood shakily. Somewhere in the kitchen he’d had a packet of some purported hangover remedy. Maybe there was some of it left. The cupboard door squeaked, shooting another pain through his head, but eventually he found the package. One pill, and it was sealed inside a stupid blister-pack that would have taken a sober person ten minutes to get into. He fumbled about with it, cursed in frustration, and threw it across the room.
A shower. He could smell his own sour breath and slept-in clothes. He shed shirt and pants on the way to the bedroom, balling them up and tossing them in the laundry basket at the bottom of his closet. He swallowed three aspirins with tap water and stepped into the shower. The water never made it beyond lukewarm, but it was better than nothing.
With no hot steamy water to luxuriate in, he hurried through soaping and shampooing, rinsed off and grabbed his towel. His beard had grown out to nearly conceal his carefully trimmed goatee. It would take more effort than he wanted to spend today to shape it up. He took the electric razor to it and wiped out everything. It was the first time he’d seen his upper lip in a year, and the effect in the mirror was startling. Oh well, the stylish facial hair would grow back.
Movie Mogul Mama Page 15
