by Kenneth Eade
12
Rick strolled into Steve Bernstein’s Century City office at Prudent Bank unannounced, telling the receptionist he was from the FBI, and flashed his business card holder, which passed for a badge with most people. That usually broke all the ice. The office was an impressive spread, taking up the entire 37th floor of one of the Century Plaza Towers, with marble floors and wood paneling, befitting of any royal palace.
As he was shown into the “king’s” office, an enormous spread with a glass wall showing a panoramic view of Los Angeles, Steve Bernstein met Rick with a fake smile and handshake. His palm was sweaty, like a horse after a quick run. Rick got a read on him right away as a phony, but his criminal radar was not going off.
“So what can we do for the FBI?” asked Bernstein. Rick continued to size him up. He was beady-eyed, cocky, short, balding, maybe in his early 40’s, and tried to disguise his fear and anxiety with friendliness. He was the type of guy who never said, “hello.” It was always “how are you.” Rick didn’t have a stomach for that type.
“Well, I’m here for a routine investigation, sir. It’s about April Marsh.”
“Marsh? Doesn’t ring a bell.” Bernstein drew his fuzzy eyebrows upward for a split second, causing short lines to appear across his forehead; a micro expression that gave away the fact that he was lying. Rick could see beads of perspiration forming on his neck and in between the hairs of his finely trimmed moustache.
“You sure? You wrote her father a mortgage loan; George Marsh?”
“George Marsh. Really don’t recall that name either.”
Bernstein leaned back in his chair and swallowed. Another micro expression. He was definitely lying.
“Well, let me show you a copy of the loan app. That should refresh your memory.”
Rick put the file on Bernstein’s desk. Bernstein glanced at it, and then looked away.
“That’s my signature, still don’t recall the name.”
“Mr. Marsh was attacked two years ago, in his home. His wife was murdered.”
Bernstein’s knuckles were turning white, digging into the armrests of his leather judge’s chair.
“I think I remember something about that from the newspapers. But, again, sorry, I just don’t recall the person. Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?”
“…Mr. Penn, here’s my card in case you remember anything.”
“Thank you,” said Bernstein, shaking Rick’s hand and taking the card. As Rick turned to leave, Bernstein remarked, “This says you’re a private investigator. I thought you were from the FBI.”
Rick turned and smiled. “I don’t know whatever gave you that idea,” he said, and left Bernstein standing in the middle of his panoramic office like a deer in headlights.
***
“So, is Bernstein our guy?” asked Brent.
“Don’t know. Didn’t get that far. Says he doesn’t know Marsh. He’s lying about that, though.”
“What’s your gut feeling?”
“He’s definitely the criminal type. Whether he’s a murderer, I can’t really tell at this point.”
“So, what next?”
“You want to file your complaint with the ‘M’ word, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then we look for evidence.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?”
“Whoa, what are you going to do?”
“You really wanna know?”
“No, no, I don’t want to know anything.”
“Good, I’ll have hair samples for matching by the end of the week. But I don’t think he’s your guy. If he had anything to do with it, he probably hired a hit man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a gut feeling. He looks like the supervisor type; not one to get his hands dirty.”
13
Rick Penn slipped through the back door of Steve Bernstein’s house as if he was an experienced cat burglar, except his sights were not set on jewelry. He was going for Bernstein’s hairbrush. He had made sure that Bernstein was not at home by a verifying call to his office. “Mr. Bernstein is in a meeting, may I take a message?” the receptionist had said. It should have been a quick, in and out affair. He would provide the sample, and, if it tested positive for the DNA from the murder scene, he would say he surreptitiously obtained it during his interview with Bernstein at his office. The brush was, as expected, in Bernstein’s bathroom, but as he exited the bathroom with the sample, Rick found something that was not expected. There, standing in the corridor, was a masked man, his gloved hands holding a silencer equipped, Glock 9mm, trained at Rick’s heart.
“Move,” said the man.
Rick thought, in an instant, of possible routes of escape. There were none. Anything he tried would result in his being mortally wounded. So he tried a bluff.
“You can’t shoot me here, Bernstein. My partners know where I am and if I don’t call in to them in the next ten minutes, they’ll be all over you.”
“Nice try. Now move.”
The masked man’s eyes were as locked on Rick’s as his weapon was on his chest. He was a cold blooded killer, no doubt about it. This was no bluff. Rick shuffled forward.
“Put your hands on your head and turn around.”
Rick did as instructed, although he loathed the idea of not being able to watch the man’s moves.
“Down the hallway.”
Rick did as he was told, all the while looking for a way to escape.
“Now turn right through the door.”
It was the door to the garage. Rick hesitated. The walls and floor were covered with heavy plastic. This was a dead end he would never escape. He had to make a move now to save himself, or he never would. Knowing that Bernstein or whomever it was would not risk shooting him in the corridor and spill his blood where it could later be used as evidence, Rick made a ballsy move. He turned to face his attacker.
“What the fuck are you doing?” questioned the man. But, before the question had a chance to linger in the air, Rick attacked. He reached for the weapon to disarm it, but the man took a step back. The muffled metallic ping of the bullet speeding through the silencer was the last thing that Richard Penn ever heard.
14
Brent awoke to the music of the birds chirping on the hillside of his Santa Barbara getaway. Calico, sensing that he was awake, jumped up on the bed, climbed onto his chest, and purred in harmony to the birds as she rubbed her whiskers against his face. A wonderful display of affection, but it was hardly pleasant to have a mouthful of cat fur first thing in the morning. Brent got out of bed, and Calico leaped out, making a beeline for the kitchen, where she pleaded for breakfast. Brent brushed his teeth, then grabbed his cell phone and turned on the sound on his way to the kitchen. That’s strange, he thought. No message from Rick. Of course, Rick would not have given him the details, but he would have reported back whether he had something or not.
Brent rang Rick’s cell phone and got his voice mail. He got the same on Rick’s landline. Giving up, he headed for the shower.
***
At the office, Melinda told Brent there were no messages left from Rick. Only one from April Marsh. He trudged to his desk and dialed her.
“April, hello, Brent Marks, returning your call.”
“Hello, Brent. Just checking in to find out where you are with the complaint.”
“It’s pretty much ready to go, but I’m waiting on something from my investigator. If he produces it, it could delay the filing by about a week.”
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you about it now. It may not materialize at all, but if it does, it could help us quite a bit.”
“You’re the lawyer. Do you think it’s at a point where I could review it, or do you still need to wait for your investigator for that?”
“Oh, sure, I can send you the draft. It’s pretty complete. I’ll send it to you by email.”
Brent hung up, and continue
d to worry about Rick. He was an early riser, and it was already past 9 a.m.
“Mims, do I have any appointments this morning?”
“No, you’re clear all day, why?”
“I’m going to head out to Penn’s house. I’m getting worried about him.”
***
Rick’s car was parked in the driveway. That meant that he must have already been out and about and was preparing to go out again. Rick always left his car in the garage overnight. Brent rang the bell – no answer. He pounded on the door and called Rick’s name. Still no answer. Brent let himself in with his copy of Rick’s key.
“Rick! Dude, it’s me, are you home?”
Again, no answer. Brent looked through every room of the small three bedroom house, but there was no sign of his friend anywhere. He decided to wait. If Rick’s car was here, he could not be far behind.
***
After two hours of waiting, Brent decided to give up the ghost. He headed straight for the police station.
15
“It’s not long enough to report a person missing,” said the rookie desk cop at the Santa Barbara police station’s public desk.
“Look, I’m a lawyer and I know the law. There’s no time period for reporting a person missing under California law. And this guy is an ex-FBI agent.”
“Then you should probably go to the FBI,” said the clerk.
Brent managed to get the clerk to call a staff sergeant to take a report, and then he did head for the FBI’s field office in Santa Barbara, as the clerk suggested.
***
The FBI’s field office in Santa Barbara was an unimpressive, unmarked office in a plain wrap office building downtown. Brent rang the bell and an attractive young woman answered the door and invited him in. She introduced herself as Agent Angela Wollard.
“We do maintain a data base of missing persons, but unless it’s a child and foul play is suspected, we don’t really get actively involved in missing person’s cases,” said Agent Wollard.
“Not as interesting as pornography cases, I guess.”
“Excuse me?”
Agent Wollard was obviously offended, and her finely manicured eyebrows frowned. Brent couldn’t help thinking that he couldn’t imagine a woman as attractive as her carrying a gun. She was about 30 years old, with light brown hair and eyes the color of sunlight shining through forest ferns. Not a formidable match for any street criminal at first glance, but quite intelligent.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. This is different. Rick Penn is one of your own. He was…”
“Rick? He’s missing?”
“You know him?”
“He was my training agent, my first day on the job.”
That brought down the initial barriers, and Brent explained all the details. Wollard was quite thorough and exhaustive in her questioning; so much so that Brent became exhausted from it himself.
“This bank fraud case you’re working on - can I take a look at it?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not even filed yet, but I could give you a confidential draft of the complaint.”
“Good, it may be helpful for background. Besides the current case, had he worked on anything recently where he had been threatened?”
“No, I’m the one who was threatened.”
Brent explained the Joshua Banks case in detail.
Agent Wollard didn’t believe in letting any lead go cold. Not only did she add Rick to the missing person’s data base, she began working the case right away, starting with the last lead that Rick had been working in the case – Bernstein.
16
“I have to tell you, Agent Wollard, we were quite upset when we learned that your Mr. Penn had lied about being an FBI agent,” said Bernstein, indignantly.
Bernstein leaned back in his seat, scratched his nose, ran his hand through his moustache and looked out the window toward downtown L.A. As she questioned him, she noted how ill at ease he seemed, and how he avoided eye contact with her. He was hiding something.
“Where were you yesterday, about 4 p.m., Mr. Bernstein?”
“I was working.”
“What time did you leave the office?”
“I don’t remember,” he said, this time deliberately looking in her eyes.
“Would you mind if we checked with your office staff?”
“Am I under investigation?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth in shock.
“No.”
“Well, then, I prefer that you didn’t, because it could be embarrassing.”
Angela couldn’t go any further at this point, but she was uncomfortable with Bernstein’s responses, and, at that point, he was the top suspect on her list if she should uncover any evidence of foul play.
***
The days droned on. It had already been three days since Rick was missing. Agent Wollard had recommended an investigator to fill in the gaps until Rick was found. But Brent’s mind was heavy with the thought that Rick may never turn up, or worse, that he would turn up dead. And, to top it off he had trouble with his client.
“You haven’t alleged murder as a predicate act,” April exclaimed angrily, as she paced Brent’s office.
“First of all, I would appreciate it if you would sit down,” said Brent. April complied. There was nothing worse than having a fuming client bouncing against the walls of your office.
“Next, I have to tell you that I have been waiting for my investigator to come up with some new evidence on that very subject, but he’s gone missing.”
“What do you mean missing?”
“Missing. He was working the Bernstein angle when he just disappeared.”
“It’s Bernstein,” she said. “I’m sorry about your investigator, but I know it’s him.”
“I don’t, and that’s why we can’t just run out and file on a whim or a hunch.”
“I understand that, but what more do you need?”
“It’s called evidence, April. We discussed it before.”
Her emotions were starting to grate on Brent, but the thought of Bernstein possibly murdering Rick gave him a pang of empathy for her.
“I told you, I’m the lawyer. That’s a decision I will make.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“He’s not just my investigator, April. He’s also my best friend. And I can promise you, if Bernstein is guilty, he will fry.”
Brent didn’t like to react with emotion in front of a client. That was a bad choice, and it came inextricably intertwined with a promise, which was even worse. The fact was that he was sure that Bernstein was responsible for Rick’s disappearance, but hope prevented him from fully realizing that it was too late to save him.
***
Brent found Agent Angela Wollard in her office, and he was a little irritated that she was not out in the field working on Rick’s case. Now it was Brent who was acting like an emotional client.
“You seem a little angry, Mr. Marks.”
“Brent, please.”
“Brent.”
“I know you’ve got other cases. I’m just upset and frustrated.”
“Did you interview the investigator I suggested? He may be able to help.”
“Not yet. I just want to ask you one thing.”
“I can’t discuss the details of the investigation, if that’s what you want. Not at this stage.”
“I know that. I just want to know if you think Bernstein is guilty.”
“Wait a minute. I just said I can’t…”
“I know, just give me the benefit of your gut feeling. He was your friend, too.”
Angela leaned forward onto her desk, rested her cheek on her knuckles, and sighed. “I think he’s hiding something.”
17
It was day seven of Rick’s disappearance. The air felt heavier, the light dimmer. Brent went through his morning routine, but nothing seemed right. Rick’s absence had left a void in Brent that was now filled with a deep sadness. He knew that he would never see his fr
iend again.
***
The investigator Angela had recommended seemed to be competent. A certified fraud examiner, Jack Ruder was also a retired FBI agent, from the Los Angeles office, about Rick’s age, but it seemed he couldn’t shake the old habit of always wearing a G-man style suit. Jack had intelligent brown eyes, a full head of brown hair, and that look that said “cop” all over himself. He had taken up the investigation where Rick had left off, and was able to put together a solid chain of evidence showing that the Marshes’ loan had never been assigned to the mortgage backed securities trust, and the forged documents that Prudent Bank had used to try to assign it after the fact.
He had also put together a file of documents that proved that the Marshes had been promised a loan modification, but got a foreclosure instead. There was enough evidence of mortgage fraud to support any RICO complaint, but nothing to back up a murder allegation. Ruder had tried to interview Bernstein, but he had, of course, refused. The only chance Brent would have to interview him would be in his deposition.
The trouble with making an important decision was that you never had enough information to do it without hesitating. And it’s the hesitation that gnawed at you and never helped you to make the decision. Brent decided to go with his gut feelings and added the predicate act of “murder” to the complaint.
