by Tom Fowler
“It might be,” I said, “and I don’t want to pile on your mom with everything she’s already been through.”
“I’m sure she would appreciate that.”
I lowered my voice. The café wasn’t crowded, but I valued discretion for something like this. “I’ve done additional investigation into Rosenberg, the man your father borrowed the money from. One couple found themselves unable to repay the loan when the husband lost his job. Not long after, their sixteen-year-old daughter got kidnapped.”
Her cup stopped in mid-trip to her lips. “That’s terrible.” She frowned. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The parents never heard anything. It’s been two years.”
“Wow. I don’t know how they go on in a situation like that.”
“Hope sustains them, I’m sure, but it has to be fading with every passing day.”
“Are you concerned something like that will happen to me?” she said.
“I think the possibility has to be acknowledged,” I said. “It’s a very small sample size, of course, but you need to be aware you could be a target.”
Katherine stared at the table for a minute before she found her voice again. “My mother can’t pay him, can she?”
“Not all the money, no. He’s allowing her to use a payment plan, but it’s not exactly the kind with a fifty-dollar minimum each month.”
She picked up her coffee again, swirled it, watched a little spill out the hole at the top, and frowned. “What should I do?” she said as she blotted the tiny mess with a napkin.
“Be alert. Be cautious. Try to go out in groups. Minimize the time you’re by yourself, even if it’s only walking to or from your car on campus. I don’t know if you’re going to be a target, but I think you need to be vigilant for the possibility.”
“Yeah, I should.” She still hadn’t drunk any of her coffee. “I’ll try to carpool. If I can’t, I’ll park near other people going to the same building.”
“I know it sucks to change your life around,” I said, “but hopefully, it won’t be for long.”
“You’re still looking into this guy?”
I nodded. “There’s not a lot out there about him. He’s done a good job of staying under the radar, which I’m sure is the way he wants it.”
“You’ll get him.” She smiled for the first time since we’d started talking. I would have been a sucker for her smile in college. It was the kind to reach into your gut and light a fire burning in both directions. “You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“It doesn’t mean I actually do,” I said.
“I know.” She took the first sip and smiled again. “But I have faith in you.”
“Thank you.” I gave her my most polished grin. She deserved it for giving me a mini-pep talk after I dropped some lousy news on her. “I’ll do my best to earn it.”
“I think you’ll earn it just fine.”
A few minutes later, I walked Katherine to her car. She parked in the nearby Bahama Breeze garage, belonging to an island-themed restaurant, but the building boasted of a convenient Towson location and never closed. In an area begging for more parking, this made the garage popular with far more people than only restaurant patrons. She drove a Saturn of indeterminate year looking to be in good condition. I hoped the car and Katherine both remained untouched by Rosenberg.
Because slimeballs hire experts, Rosenberg naturally employed an accountant. I needed to know who he used. The books were probably cooked, but I could glean something from them. In the meantime, I would settle for his bank records. Like a good paranoid loan shark, Rosenberg stashed his money with a small local bank. The good news for him was it would take a while for someone to think of looking there. The bad news was smaller banks didn’t have the security of larger banks. Once I unearthed his accounts, it didn’t take me long to get the details.
I printed information for Rosenberg’s personal and business accounts, going back three years. If he used another account tied to the loan sharking business, it could take some time to find. I didn’t even know where to start looking. It’s not like “Rosenberg Usury LLC” would be on an account in a bank somewhere.
I collected the printouts and looked them over. While I took an accounting class in college, I couldn’t claim to be much of a specialist in it. I spent most of the class time checking out a few girls, and a good bit of my study time doing things other than studying with those girls. The B-plus I got in the course stood as a monument to the ease of basic accounting more than the work put into it.
Rosenberg’s business account looked legitimate as far as I could tell. Expenses were clearly categorized and went with matching invoice or check numbers. Revenues accompanied invoice numbers, as well. Nothing jumped out as a bogus charge or expense. Maybe I would need an accountant to look this over. Maybe Rollins minored in accounting before he went into the Army.
Maybe I would win the lottery based solely on my charm and good looks.
I dealt with overseas banks before, so I knew a few ways to go snooping around over there. It took a while of careful looking and more judicious footprint-erasing, but I found an account for Rosenberg. Even though the US government made it illegal for American citizens to have overseas accounts, it doesn’t deter someone who is enough of a scofflaw to be a loan shark. Banks in places like Grand Cayman offer discretion, which is better for their clients, and upgraded security, which is worse for dashing, enterprising hackers. I hacked the Chinese national bank during my time in Hong Kong, though; I could tackle this.
After some trial and error, I got in. Rosenberg made semi-regular deposits here, presumably the profits from his illicit lending operation. I looked at his statement and watched those deposits get smaller and less frequent over time. Several transactions caught my eye, including the occasional deposits of twenty thousand dollars. Those stood out among the nickels and dimes composing Rosenberg’s other transactions.
As I put all these boring printouts and spreadsheets away, I realized I still didn’t know who Rosenberg’s accountant was. I went back to his business account and perused the expenses. Every month, he wrote a check to Eisenberg Accounting LLC. Despite his apparently flagging profits, Rosenberg paid Eisenberg the same amount. I wondered how much Eisenberg knew. If he were cooking the books, why would they show declining profits? Was Rosenberg stashing the money someplace else?
Tomorrow, I would talk to Eisenberg to discover these things, and I would take Rollins with me.
Chapter 10
After I woke up the next morning, I left Gloria sleeping and went downstairs to call Rollins. He sounded more awake than I felt. “Top of the morning to you,” he said.
“I have a couple things I want to do today,” I said, “and I may need your help with them.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“The loan shark I’m looking into has an accountant. I want to find out some things from him. If my usual powers of persuasion let me down, I’ll need you to step in and do a little extra convincing.”
“I think I can manage. Accountants scare easy.”
“There’s more.”
“Shoot.”
I said, “I might have a chat with the shark, too, depending on how things go with the accountant.”
Rollins paused for a deep breath. “You sure your plan is wise?”
“I’m not proposing we jump into his tank without looking first and coming up with a strategy.”
“So you’d like to use my tactical expertise?” said Rollins.
“You charge extra?”
“No, I just like to say it. When are we starting all this?”
I looked at my watch: eight-fifty. “Come by at ten-thirty. We’ll take my car.”
“I’m not sure you driving is a good idea,” he cautioned.
“You haven’t seen this car yet,” I said.
“Where the hell did you get this?” Rollins said from the passenger’s seat.
“I’ve gotten
used to people asking,” I said, “though rarely with such envy in their voices.”
Rollins sipped coconut water through a straw from a pink sports bottle. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t envy.”
We rode in my blue Caprice Classic. It looked unlike any other car I owned, mainly because it was a car I wouldn’t be caught dead in. If my corpse were found in the trunk of a Caprice, mine would be a restless spirit. “I took a difficult case a few months ago,” I said. “I needed a car on a budget, so I called an automotive reconfiguration engineer, and he happened to have this ready to go.”
“Automotive reconfiguration engineer?” Rollins said with an amused smile.
“I think he needs to put it on his business cards.”
“So you got it from a chop shop.”
I nodded. “And in the intervening time, I’ve contracted for a few improvements.”
“Like what?”
“They added bullet-resistant glass and redid the body to be close to bulletproof. The stock engine couldn’t handle the added weight, so it’s got a newer and stronger one.”
“Its windows check handgun fire, then, and the body’s level three reinforced with Kevlar.”
“You and your fancy Army terms.”
“Sounds useful. Let’s hope you never have to see how well it works. Where are we going first?”
“The accountant’s office.”
“Why?” said Rollins.
“I think we’ll be more successful there,” I said. “Might as well start the day on a good note.”
“Norman Vincent Peale would be proud.”
“I think Leibniz would see through my façade, though, and Voltaire might shake my hand.”
Rollins shook his head. “You and your fancy philosophers,” he said.
Eisenberg Accounting LLC occupied a tiny office in Fells Point. It was crammed into a house with a couple of other businesses who shared the space because none could afford even half the rent alone. At least Eisenberg made up for it by having a professional-looking name placard on his door. He left it slightly ajar. I peeked in and saw someone at the desk, so I knocked. “Come in,” he said.
Rollins barred his arm to block my path, then entered first. I would need to get used to certain aspects of having a bodyguard. The fortyish man behind the desk wore the kind of suit sharing a rowhouse four ways would suggest. He maintained a cluttered desk stacked with ledger books, random papers, and a large calculator. So much for Excel. Rollins sat in one of the two task chairs. I sat in the other.
“Can I help you?” the man behind the desk said.
“Are you Mr. Eisenberg?” I said.
He somehow found a business card and a small clear path on top and slid the card toward me. “That’s me. What can I help you with?”
“I think my desk is too neat. I could use some advice on disorganizing it.”
Eisenberg looked at me and frowned. “I’m a busy man. Jokes aren’t on the calendar.”
“You might also be able to help me with some accounting.”
“Now we’re talking,” he said. “What kind of help do you need?”
“My friend here is an . . . independent loan consultant.” Rollins gave me a look, but I kept going. “We need someone of your expertise to make sure his books appear on the up-and-up.”
“Well,” Eisenberg said with a forced chuckle, “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but I’m not that kind of accountant.” He added a forced smile to try and look sincere. I didn’t buy it.
“You have a good reference from David Rosenberg,” I said.
The forced smile fled. “Would it help if I said I don’t know who he is?”
“Not at all,” Rollins said. He shifted in the chair, allowing Eisenberg a view of the gun under his fashionable tan suede jacket. “I think we need to have a conversation.”
“Maybe over brunch?” Eisenberg said. “My treat.” If the gun scared him, he did an excellent job of hiding it.
“As long as you don’t make a scene or do something stupid,” Rollins said.
“We’re not after you,” I said. “I don’t care if you’re a good or bad accountant or if you cook everyone’s books. You’re a means to an end, and the end is Rosenberg.”
Eisenberg’s head bobbed. Some of the color left his face, chasing the smile. I think he realized the situation he was in. “No tricks. Just brunch.”
“Name your place,” Rollins said.
Brunch has become trendy in Baltimore. Even taverns which shouldn’t venture beyond serving alcohol and peanuts manage to find a way to cram in some tables and pack the menu with omelets, bacon, and danishes. It’s become a competitive cottage industry. Most of those places only served food at traditional brunch times on Sundays. During the week, if they were open, the menu only held liquid lunch choices. Eisenberg chose Brick Oven Pizzeria. I liked the place, so I didn’t bother arguing the technicalities.
Neither Rollins nor I were particularly hungry, so Eisenberg ordered a large pizza with tomatoes, green peppers, and mushrooms. We said we would each eat a slice or two. After Eisenberg paid cash for lunch, we all got our beverages and walked across the uncrowded restaurant to a table as far from the counter as possible. I wondered when the lunch crowd would roll in. At least I could amuse myself by looking at the Baltimore-themed table toppers if Eisenberg started droning on about accounting principles.
“What is it you need to know about . . . one client of mine?” he said.
“I’ve seen his financials,” I said. “All of them.”
Eisenberg’s eyes went wide. “How did you do that?”
“Let’s just say I have a problem with electronic boundaries. Regardless, I looked at the numbers. I admit I’m not an accountant, but something doesn’t look right.”
“Meaning what?” Eisenberg moved his straw around in the lid.
“I think you know what he’s getting at,” Rollins said. His jacket remained zipped up about two thirds of the way. No gun visible.
“The books are cooked.”
“Maybe even better than the pizza we’re about to eat,” I said. “Though I admit it would be a challenge.”
Eisenberg pursed his lips. “My client isn’t really profitable anymore,” he said after a moment. “His legitimate business is struggling. Restaurant supply is dependent upon a base of thriving restaurants. It’s not there anymore for a few reasons.” He stopped to take a drink of his soda but didn’t elaborate on the eatery challenges. It was just as well because our pizza came out then. The lady behind the counter dropped it off with a friendly smile as a few lunch eaters trickled in.
“What about his illegitimate business?” I said after a bite of pizza. I’d never sampled a vegetarian pizza from Brick Oven before. I would have one again.
“As you can imagine, this economy isn’t the most fertile playground for . . . a man in his profession. With interest rates up, you’d think people would seek more . . . independent loans, but they’re not. They’re finding ways to save, cut back on expenses, things like that.” He took a large bite of pizza.
“Or simply not paying their mortgages,” Rollins said.
“It’s better now. I advise people against it, regardless of the value of their home versus its loan.”
“So you’re saying Rosenberg isn’t exactly raking in the dough in either business,” I said.
“Yes.”
“He’s getting income from somewhere, though. I’ve seen it but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”
“I know what you’re talking about.” Eisenberg grabbed another slice and tore into it. He talked around the food in his mouth and managed not to be gross. He must have been well-practiced in the art. “I don’t know the source of it, either. He hasn’t told me.”
“Have you asked?” said Rollins.
“Not directly. You learn not to pose such questions to a man like him directly.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Any speculation on where it may have come from?” I said.
I finished my slice. This was early for lunch, but I grabbed a second. I could always have something small later in the afternoon.
“Speculation is all it would be,” Eisenberg said.
“You know the man and his situation. Your insight could be valuable.”
“I really don’t have any good ideas. Obviously, he found a way to make some money he doesn’t want many people to know about.”
“So it has to be more unsavory than what he already does,” I said.
“Why?”
“Otherwise, I presume he would tell you. You know what his . . . second job is, after all. Why not tell you about a third?”
“Your suspicion may be valid,” he said. “I danced around it a little and tried to get him to say something about it, but he tends to play things close to the vest.”
“If you find out where the money’s coming from, I’d appreciate a call.” I showed him a business card but didn’t give it to him. “Your client knows who I am,” I said when I saw his puzzled expression, “and he doesn’t like me. It’s better for you if you don’t have one on you.”
“Then it’s fortunate I have a good memory for numbers.”
“Sounds useful in your line of work,” I said.
Eisenberg smiled before taking a bite. “Very much so.”
I felt Rollins staring at me in the car as we made the short drive back to Federal Hill. "Something on your mind?" I said.
"You don't think you played it a little loose in there?" he said.
"Not really. I might have been able to hold back some, but I wanted him to know what was going on."
He looked at me again before saying anything. "You think he knows more than he's telling you."
"Of course he does. You don't work for a guy like Rosenberg and run off at the mouth about it."
"And you think he's eventually going to run off at the mouth?"
"Probably not. I don't think he knows everything, but he knows some things, and now he's curious to know more."
