by Tom Fowler
I gave him a business card. “In case you find out overtime isn’t enough for these bills you have to pay, give me a call. I might be able to help.”
Paul put the business card in his wallet. “OK, I will.”
“Good luck.”
“I hope I don’t need it,” Paul said.
I had a feeling he would.
Chapter 8
Paul Fisher had been evasive in the parking lot. He must have learned it from his wife. He even had that same shifty-eyed look, albeit only for a few seconds. I ruminated on this as I ate breakfast the following morning. Paul worked overtime doing a job he was overqualified to do. I thought back to my look at the Fishers’ financials. Paul’s paychecks went in via direct deposit, and the amount being constant. Where did the extra money go, then?
After I finished breakfast, I went back into my office and accessed their financials again. Sure enough, Paul’s checks from Digital Sales were deposited every two weeks, and the amount didn’t change going back three months. I knew he wasn’t volunteering his overtime, so the money went somewhere, like another bank account. In case Paul hadn’t planned the whole thing too well, I searched the bank using his SSN (helpfully found on the joint account—no wonder identity theft is so rampant) and found only their joint account.
From there, I broke into local banks until I found a match for Paul’s SSN on a savings account at First Mariner. As with the joint account, this one saw regular deposits every two weeks, though for a less significant amount. The deposits were usually around $300. Twice a month since the account opened, I saw a $250 withdrawal. I could have tracked a transfer, but this was a good old-fashioned withdrawal from a real live teller. How quaint.
What was Paul doing with the money? I didn’t think he would tell me, and I also didn’t think Alice knew about Paul’s separate account. Paul wasn’t cheating on his wife, but a secret bank account and regular withdrawals didn’t look good. He never came across as a druggie of any kind. Half a grand a month didn’t make for an expensive habit, though, so he could have been a light user of whatever he took.
While I pondered the drugs someone could buy with five hundred dollars a month, and how bad they would be, my cell phone rang. Caller ID pegged it as my mother. I thought about not answering it but did anyway. “Hello?”
“Coningsby, you made the paper,” she said.
“I did?”
“Yes, dear. Some lady named Jessica wrote a lovely piece about you. It’s quite flattering.”
“Well,” I said, “it certainly should be.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Great, Mom. I’m sure it will help the business.” It probably would. Any publicity would be good publicity, but actual good publicity was twice as nice. Of course, it meant more clients, more sob stories, more work, and more people who thought their spouses were dipping their quills in the company ink. No, no more adultery cases. This would be my line in the sand.
“Of course it will, dear. Speaking of the business, how is your first case going?”
I groaned. “It’s become a lot more complicated than it seemed at first glance.” I told my mother a few of the details. She didn’t need to know everything.
“That does sound troubling.”
“I think this might be the last domestic case I work.”
“Coningsby, you can’t simply pick and choose.”
“Of course I can. I’m providing a free service. I need to prioritize who benefits from it. The ambulance chasers of the PI world can break out their fish-eye lenses and investigate possible adultery as much as they want.”
“You shouldn’t be turning away people who need your help.”
“Like I said, it’s a matter of priorities.”
“How did you prioritize tonight?”
Uh-oh. “What about it?” I said.
“Our friend has the exhibit opening at the Walters. We bought a ticket for you, remember?”
“Her thing is tonight? Shit, I forgot.”
“Coningsby, watch your language!”
Arguing would have been pointless. “I will.”
“All right. Come by the house tonight at six-thirty. Dinner and drinks start at seven, and I don’t want to miss anything.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I forgot all about the exhibit opening at the Walters. My parents had foisted it upon me shortly after I got back from Hong Kong. Something about doing things with the foundation I pseudo-worked for. Because I was still living at their house at the time and because it seemed important to my mother, I figured I should go. There were plenty of other ways I would rather spend a Friday night. I had a few ideas in mind for tonight, in fact, all of which I would have to scuttle for the Walters.
Until then, I had to get some things done. I picked up the guns I ordered. Now I could feel like a real detective. I got a .45, a 9MM, a .38, and a .32. A .45 couldn’t be worn under every coat, after all. With my carrying permits in tow and a bag of ammo, I left the gun store, went back home, and put the guns away. If I needed one at the Walters, Baltimore had really changed during my absence. I also purchased some nice lock-blade knives—I learned I should always carry one from NCIS.
Until tonight, I needed to figure out how to proceed with the case. My instincts told me there had to be something I could hack into and learn something new. I had done enough traditional detective work for one case. As I pondered investing in a fedora, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number—something I would have to get used to in this line of work—but I answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“You dented one of my boys,” said a familiar voice.
“Vinnie. I dented one of your boys? What a shame.”
“In Canton Square,” he said. ”Margaret uses him . . . but still. What’d you go and do that for?”
“Well, he tried to dent me first. I ended up being the better denter as it turned out.”
“Look, C.T., I’m willing to look past a few things since we were friends, but I can’t have you messing around my operation. What were you doing in Canton Square, anyway?”
I was sure he already knew. “Just walking around,” I said. “Then someone stuck a gun in my back, and the rest is history.”
“I hope you don’t go messing in my business.”
“I’m not trying to, Vinnie. Did you give any thought to what I asked you about Alice Fisher?”
He was silent for a few seconds. “I’ve been patient with Alice. I work with her. I don’t want to send anyone out to beat up a woman, you know?”
“And they say chivalry is dead,” I said.
“Hey, I’ve always had principles. You know I did.”
“And they’ve always been very much yours.”
“We’re not gonna have a problem, are we?” said Vinnie.
“I’m not trying to create one.”
“Good. Let’s not change it.”
I said, “OK,” but Vinnie had already hung up. Now I knew the goon had been one of his boys. I figured it already, but confirmation was always nice. If Vinnie kept a few regular legbreakers on the payroll, his business had to be doing well. Or he borrowed them from someone like Tony Rizzo, and at the rates Tony probably charged, Vinnie’s business had to be booming.
But how well? I logged into the computer and launched an anonymized browser. This allowed me to hide my electronic footprints. My hacker friends and I first setup an anonymizer in Hong Kong. When I got home, I created one on this side of the ocean. Never trust one run by someone else. With my traffic masked from the world, I looked for Vinnie’s bank records. I also ran a separate search for any businesses he had established in the name of banking his money legitimately. If he dumped it all into a personal account, it became too easy to find and audit.
The second search finished first. Vincent Renaldo Serrano setup a business shortly after he got the boot from college. He established VRS Consulting, which became Serrano Enterprises LLC. What consulting services someone like Vinnie provided was certain
ly a matter of debate. I didn’t think Vegas odds, juice, and the ethics of legbreaking counted as consulting, but maybe those definitions changed during my time abroad. I amended my bank searches to include Serrano Enterprises and let the searches run while I made lunch.
When I finished, I had results waiting for me. Vinnie’s personal savings and checking accounts looked normal, with each having a couple thousand dollars in it. Serrano Enterprises maintained a higher balance, always over ten thousand, though rarely over twenty. I saw plenty of deposits from individuals, a few from businesses, and regular withdrawals. The withdrawals went to a payroll service. Not only did Vinnie have his own guys, he hired a payroll service, probably for the appearance of added legitimacy.
Since I now knew a little more about how Vinnie operated, how much did the knowledge help me? More importantly, how much did it help Alice Fisher? Vinnie basically told me he had cut her a break because he didn’t like to strong-arm women. How long would his spirit of generosity last? At some point, it always came down to money, and if Alice didn’t pay enough of it in time, then one of Vinnie’s guys would end up darkening her door. Short of writing her a check for thirty grand, which I was in no position to do, I didn’t see an easy way to get her out of this anytime soon.
Maybe inspiration would strike me tonight. I didn’t get any ideas sitting at my computer. I did a few more searches for Vinnie and his business, including seeing if they made the news. They didn’t. I had hoped for a story about the business to make Vinnie squirm to explain what he really did. A story about the business. It gave me an idea I might be able to use later. For now, I needed to get a run in, check my wardrobe for tonight, and maybe buy some new clothes.
After inventorying my clothes, I decided to wear my tuxedo. Maybe it would make me overdressed, but I'd rather look boss than be underdressed, and it would make my parents happy. It ensured they would leave me alone for the night. I hadn't worn the tux since before I left for Hong Kong, but I've been the same weight for the seven years following my junior year of college. It needed a dry cleaning, however, and I paid extra for the rush job. When I picked up the tux, I had about an hour to shower and get ready.
Two minutes after the appointed time—which is quite prompt for me—I pulled into my parents’ driveway. Their private road always felt four miles long, especially when I ran late. Another two minutes after I hit the driveway, I walked through the front door. I entered the living room, and my mother came in from the opposite end a second later. She wore a black ball gown, with white gloves and a necklace depriving a colony of oysters of their pearls. "Coningsby, you're almost on time," she said, "and you look very nice. Thank you for dressing up, dear."
"This old thing?" I said.
"Your father is wearing a tux, also. Here he comes now." I heard his footsteps come down the stairs. He walked into the living room sporting a tux a lot like mine. My jacket had different highlights, and he opted for the blue bowtie and vest, so we didn't look exactly alike. If we did, my mother might have fainted.
When we got to the Walters, a good crowd had already assembled. Most people wore suits or nice dresses; I saw few tuxedoes and even fewer ball gowns. The new exhibit was still under covers until the official unveiling. My mother talked to the artist and waved me to them to meet her. Karen was pleasant but showed a space cadet look in her eyes common to artists. I suspected the exhibit would be full of things people would talk about, nod at, and pretend to appreciate without understanding. Doing the same got me through an art class in college. Besides, being here gave me a night away from my case.
I made sure to have a drink when the curtains came down and the new exhibit was officially unveiled. Unfortunately, my drink was mediocre champagne. It tasted American, not French. I wondered what became of the Walters while I had been overseas. Because my mother's friend's art had been revealed to the public, I figured I should at least look at it. My mother might decide to ask me about it later.
What I saw was difficult to describe. I had a master’s degree from a good school and even took a couple of art and humanities classes along the way. The exhibit I saw didn’t fit into any of the styles I learned about. I’m sure there were people who would say Karen’s lack of conformity meant the artist was an innovator and risk-taker who refused to be shackled by convention. For all I knew, such an explanation may well have been true. To me, the whole thing looked like a mess.
I saw paintings trying to be surreal but ended up looking like someone censored all the genius out of Picasso. Small sculptures attempted to pay homage to the ancients while still displaying the trappings of modernity. I heard a lot of oohs and ahhs as I walked around. I wondered how many of them were polite, how many were legitimate, and how many were uttered in sheer confusion.
Once around the hall was enough for me. I made my way back to the refreshment stand. Even a glass of mediocre champagne sounded better than wandering around waiting for my brain to leak out of my ears. Then I saw her: the most captivating girl in the room. She wore a red ball gown I would swear had been custom-made for her. It hugged all the curves she wanted it to, and its plunging neckline showed two works of art far finer than any others I had seen this night. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a bun. She scanned the room with slightly narrowed eyes. When she looked at me, they stopped, settled on me, and her expression softened.
Never one to refuse so clear an invitation, I approached and stood behind her in the champagne line. “You look bored,” I said. “Or maybe annoyed at having to wear your hair up and look at God knows what.”
She shook her head. “This is awful. I only came here because my parents wanted me to.”
“I’m in the same boat.”
“And this champagne tastes like it’s from the poorest section of California.”
Normally, I find snootiness annoying. I’m sure this tendency makes me several shades of hypocritical, but I do. In this girl, though, I found it strangely endearing. It was like she never knew anything else and read about middle-class people in scrolls delivered to the family mansion on the hill. “I had better champagne in Hong Kong,” I said.
“You were in Hong Kong?”
“For three and a half years.”
“Business or pleasure?” she said.
I said, “Some of both.”
“Tell me about it, but take me somewhere else.”
“How about the Red Maple?” When she wrinkled her nose, I added, “They have a few deserving wines.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
The Red Maple wasn’t quite as upscale as it pretended to be, but I liked the place. She didn’t want to walk, and the poor dear nearly fainted when I suggested we Uber the few blocks up the road, so I drove. We parked in a lot on the opposite side of Charles Street, and she dashed across it like someone chased her. We went in and got a table with surprising ease on a Friday night.
Between the walk out of the Walters and the drive to the Red Maple, I learned the girl in the scandalous red ball gown was Gloria Reading. She made sure to tell me she graduated from Brown with a degree in literature, and she seemed equally proud she never worked a day in her life. Her parents were Hugh and Susan Reading, and due to their money, her trust funds, rich aunts and uncles, and whatever money she had, Gloria wouldn’t ever need to lift a finger. I envied her for it, but I didn’t tell her. Her parents knew mine, though she and I never met before this evening.
Once we were inside, everyone in eyeshot turned to look at Gloria. She was definitely a beauty, though not the most beautiful girl in the world. Her height (she had to go five-nine without heels), the way she carried herself, the clothes she wore, how they fit, and how she wore them all mattered. She had a presence past the imperious look on her face, and sex appeal trailed in her wake. All of it more than made up for any tiny flaws in her appearance.
The Red Maple featured jazzy music and had enough decency to keep it to a volume to foster conversation. A sign near the front door advertised a DJ playing later tonight,
but I hoped to be gone, with Gloria in tow, before having to suffer such a fate. The table had a card with suggested wines, so I asked the waiter for a full list. Gloria and I looked over it when he returned. She immediately went to the bottom where the pricier vintages resided. I saw a few I liked near the top, but I had a feeling Gloria would wrinkle her nose at something under $100 a bottle.
Gloria pointed at Opus One Bordeaux Red Blends. "I've heard of that," she said. "Let's get a bottle of that." A bottle cost $210.
I had heard of Opus One, too. Before I tried it, someone described it to me as a label-buyer's wine, and after sampling it, I had to agree. Its price tag far exceeded its taste. I could put up with it, though. "Sounds good," I said, and signaled for the waiter. He told us how good our choice was (what else would he say to a bottle the place sells for over two hundred?) and promised to return shortly.
"Do you come here often?" Gloria said.
"I think you stole my line" I said.
She smiled. I liked it. "I'm sure you've used better lines than that."
"Since I was in high school. And no, I don't come here often. I think I've been here once before. Mostly, I see the place when I drive past."
“So you’re Robert and June’s son,” she said. “How come I’ve never met you until tonight?”
“You’ve merely been unlucky, I guess,” I said.
The waiter came back with our wine and two glasses on a tray. He set the bottle on a cloth napkin, uncorked it, and let us both sample the bouquet. I’ve never known enough about wine to have any idea what I’m supposed to smell, so I gave a nod with the hope it satisfied all involved. It usually does, and it did this time, too. The waiter put both glasses on the table, poured a splash of wine into each, and let us sample it. Gloria reacted as if she drank pure ambrosia. I simply gave another nod. The waiter then filled our glasses and walked away.
“A toast,” I said, raising my glass.
