Woodrow Frank
Franklin Woodrow
“I’m seeing a pattern,” Gracie commented with a wry grin.
“I read a book once,” Amber said, catching Gracie’s chuckle. “Yes, I’ve read books—a lot. This one was about a family of con artists. Anyway, one thing this group did was change names all the time, and they frequently switched first and last names around. For them, it’s easier to remember the name they’re using at the moment. For us, maybe we’ll spot a pattern. I haven’t had time yet but when I get into them and search airline records, I’ll see if tickets show up issued under any combination of these names.”
“Well, I think you’ve done a marvelous job here, Amber.” Pen had to admit she’d been skeptical about bringing such a young person into their group. Now she was glad they did.
A second page was attached and Amber flipped to her copy now. “These are the things I’ve found from police records. He’s worked the Midwest a lot, Florida and the northeast some. Apparently, your case was the first time he came to the southwest.”
Lucky me, thought Pen. She looked at page two.
Known cons of Frank Morrell:
The Wire
The Sweetheart
The Market
There were more but Pen stopped. “What are all these?”
Amber sent a quirky smile toward Gracie. “From that same book … The Wire is an old one that goes back to the days when horse race results were sent by telegraph across country. Con men figured out how to interrupt the signal just long enough to place bets on a race that had already been run, ensuring they always won their bets. It becomes a real con when he convinces the mark to bet big. First they let him get a few wins, and as he increases his bets the con makes sure he loses. Modern day versions might not be about horses and they certainly aren’t about telegraph lines, but they always involve convincing someone they are privy to inside information and can make big money by betting on it.”
Pen thought of the Robert Redford movie, The Sting. She’d loved that film.
“The Market is similar—some kind of so-called inside information about the stock market,” Amber said. “The Sweetheart is just what it sounds like. The con artist—most often female, sometimes a male—targets an older, lonely person. Widowed men are prime targets but con men will go after older women too.”
“Oh my gosh,” Sandy said. “It happened to one of our clients at the bank. A successful gentleman with a tidy account. This woman came into his life. She wasn’t even especially a pretty one, but she convinced him she loved him more than anything in the world. Of course she didn’t start out asking for money—it never works that way. She just wanted to spend time with him, take up his hobbies, adapt to his interests. He was flattered beyond belief.
“Pretty soon her extended family came into it. Her granddaughter just lost her apartment—could he help her find a place? Could he make the repairs and cover just a couple months rent? A son out of state got into a bit of a jam—could Mr., um, Smith loan him a thousand dollars? After awhile, it’s bigger things. A new wardrobe for a trip, proper jewelry to go with the new clothes—all expenses, of course, paid by our client. After awhile he “gifted” her some real estate and wrote her into the will. This went on for years, until his money was completely gone.”
Gracie’s eyes were wide. “How does a successful—presumably smart—man fall for that? Can’t he see what’s going on?”
“The heart never sees those things. Our client even went through with a marriage of sorts, although no one from his immediate family was invited so they don’t know if it was real. And he’d never admit to having been duped. He’s too smart to have been scammed, in his mind.”
“It’s called a long con,” Amber said. “When the payout is big enough, these people will spend years working it. The con artist often goes off during the day—either to a fictitious job or ‘doing her own thing’ when she’s really consulting with the rest of her cohorts—while the old guy just blissfully waits for her to come home and hop in bed with him.”
“Okay, that part of it I don’t even want to imagine,” Gracie said.
“Back to Frank Morrell,” Pen said. “He doesn’t seem the sort to hang around with someone for years, working to clean out her bank accounts.”
Sandy spoke up. “It could be he has a woman somewhere, just comes and goes from her place?”
“The only time he was questioned by police in a sweetheart scam,” Amber said, “was a quick-and-dirty sort of deal. Met this lady on a cruise ship and they really hit it off. She bought him a ton of expensive gifts in the shops, visited the branch of her bank on a shore excursion for cash to ‘help him out’ … He promised to come see her in Fort Lauderdale as soon as he’d run home to Atlanta to take care of some business. Of course he never showed and it took a lot of nagging by the woman’s friends to convince her he didn’t live in Atlanta and wouldn’t be coming back. A friend actually dragged her to the police station to file a report, in hopes the cruise line would somehow prevent him from doing the same routine on some other passenger.”
“I’m glad he didn’t come on to me romantically, not that I couldn’t have handled such an advance,” Pen said. “But then I guess he did get away with what he really wanted.”
Chapter 30
Freshly showered and wearing a crisp linen suit he’d picked up a half hour earlier in the hotel gift shop, Frank took the elevators at the west end of the building. He knew the credit card he’d used to secure his room, one of the fanciest penthouse suites, would soon come into question and he didn’t want to pass directly by the front desk where someone might have an eye out for him. Although he could use another one, the game became chancier as time went on.
Two thousand in cash, the diamond necklace and a passport in the name of Franklin Woodrow lay securely tucked next to his belly in the money belt. Things could get dicey in a hurry and he was prepared to hop into a taxi and be on the next plane or boat if necessary.
But the evening was young—no sense in borrowing trouble that didn’t yet exist. He didn’t even know the names of his marks, but he was pretty confident about earning that lobster dinner. The elevator halted and Frankie put on his most carefree smile as the door opened.
The bar at the end of the corridor opened onto the beach, with those grassy roof overhangs and some kind of twisty tropical wood pillars supporting them. Lava rocks cemented together formed a low wall and flowering bushes added spots of brilliant color. A good choice to put his quarry in a nice, relaxed mood.
The place was still nearly empty, Frank noticed as he scanned the tables. Perfect. He ordered at the bar, a glass of water with a sprig of mint. He took one of the tables beside the lava wall, stretched out his legs and leaned back as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and stared out toward the sea. Less than ten minutes later, he sensed motion nearby.
“Mr. Coddington?” His mark, right on schedule.
Frank stood quickly, extending his hand, remembering at the last second that he was English. He put on the accent just in time.
“Right-o. I’m afraid I was terribly remiss in not getting your name, sir?”
“Tom Anderson.” The man shook Frank’s hand. “And my wife, Danielle.”
She wore a strapless dress in a bright tropical print and Frank had to work to keep his eyes above her shoulders. The tanned skin held great appeal but the necklace of heavy gold strands was almost equally enticing. He took her hand and noticed she wore an exquisite sapphire ring, in addition to the monster diamond engagement ring. He wondered if she remembered to lock their in-room safe each time she went out. He stopped the speculation—back to current business.
“My pleasure,” he said truthfully. “Join me? We’ll get those drinks on order.”
Frank signaled a young black man with a tray and the Andersons placed their orders. Before he’d quite settled in his chair, his cell phone rang inside his jacket pocket, startling him. He plucked it out and looked at the readout. A Phoenix area code. Shit! He�
�d meant to toss this phone days ago. He must have left his real one back in the room. He declined the call and put the phone away.
“Problems?” Anderson asked.
“Business. The New York office,” Frank said.
Anderson was nodding. “I know. Employees. You tell them you’re on vacation, not to disturb you …”
“Exactly.” He shook his head dolefully. “What line are you in?”
“Auto parts. You?”
“Jewelry. In fact, I couldn’t help but admire your wife’s rings.” He lowered his voice, even though he hadn’t been speaking loudly at all. “I’d guess that little beauty runs upwards of five carats.”
Danielle held her hand at arm’s length, admiring her own stone.
“Four-point-eight,” Tom Anderson said.
“May I?” Frank reached toward Danielle. She placed her hand in his.
“Oh my. A princess cut, and even without my loupe I’d say it’s nearly flawless. You are definitely a couple with very discriminating taste.”
Their drinks arrived just then and Frank offered a toast. “To excellent taste, and to an entire holiday without a call from the office.”
He sipped his water, as if it were vodka, letting the couple down their fruity drinks quickly, ordering them another round. The Market would be the con, he decided after thirty minutes’ conversation. Anderson had already boasted of his gains in stocks last year and bragged how he did it all himself. No sense in paying a broker, he said.
“Absolutely,” said Frank in his posher-by-the-moment accent. “I place all my own trades. I do, however, follow the tips I get from my one friend. Was with the London Exchange for a number of years, you know, but he’s broken away from the establishment now. Does a bit of, shall we say, his own research.”
He waggled his eyebrows, letting Tom know he was referring to things slightly outside the strict rules of the law.
“You’ve done well with this advisor?” Tom asked.
“His advice bought me the jet I flew in on. My girlfriend, back in London, loves it. She took the plane when I located a forty-carat Burmese ruby awhile back and she wanted to go pick it up herself.”
Danielle’s lovely blue eyes went a little wider. A private plane and a forty-carat ruby! She looked toward her husband. He lifted his chin and gave her a smug smile.
“Tell me more about this guy you invest with, Mr. Coddington.”
“Oh, enough about business for now,” Frank said, carefully timing his moves. You didn’t dare reel them in too quickly. “Let me treat you to a lobster dinner. I know this wonderful place just up the beach.”
This guy was the type; the ones who felt they knew a bit about investing were ripe for Frank’s insider tips. And Tom was clearly a man who thought he was smarter than he really was. This could shape up nicely.
Chapter 31
They were dealing with a master manipulator and accomplished con man, Penelope realized as she drove home from Amber’s apartment. Their young computer genius had said she would need more time to check out Frank Morrell’s various aliases, and the Heist Ladies had agreed to meet again in a week to see how she was coming along.
Already, Pen had to admit she was impressed with their progress. The police had spent six months investigating the robbery with no success, and they’d shown no interest in going after the con man once they believed the necklace wasn’t worth much. The Ladies had managed to identify their suspect and find the discrepancy in the museum’s paperwork. With luck, they could put the two together and get someone convicted of this crime.
The crime. Pen steeled herself for the worst. Well, the very worst was the way things stood now—no resolution at all. But next worst would be if they caught Frank Morrell too late, if the beautiful necklace made by her grandfather had already been handed off. It could be in the hands of some unscrupulous collector who would never let it go or, heaven forbid, have made it to those in the business of moving stolen goods. It might have been torn apart, the stones sold individually or even recut. She couldn’t bear to think of it.
She resolved to focus ahead, one step at a time.
Naomi had gone for the day but left Pen a light supper in the fridge, a salad and a nice white wine to go with it. Pen carried her plate out to the veranda with its sweeping view of the city below, thinking all the while about what she’d heard today. Such a terrible thing, those who were out to cheat and steal from others. It broke her heart to think of the elderly people who fell prey to those sweetheart scams and were almost always too embarrassed to admit it, even to their families, much less the authorities. She had to remind herself that she, too, was over seventy and could well be considered a prime target for one of those men.
Who am I kidding, she thought in disgust. I’ve already been a target. And the horrid man got away with my most prized possession. Her fork clattered to the plate. She couldn’t take another bite.
The telephone was ringing when she walked back into the kitchen.
“Pen, it’s Amber. I’ve got some news.”
“Already?”
“Frank Morrell traveled from Phoenix to Grand Cayman using the name Franklin Woodward. He was on a plane within two hours after he left your house that day.”
“No wonder the police couldn’t track him.”
“I have this on a conference call with Sandy and Gracie standing by. Shall I open their lines?”
“Oh, by all means. This is exciting! We have to share it.”
The other two voices joined the conversation. “Aren’t the Cayman Islands a prime spot for untraceable offshore accounts?” asked Gracie.
“Used to be,” Sandy said. “It’s become trickier in recent years, but Morrell may have found a way.”
“Do you think he went straight there to deposit the cash from my check? He must have.”
“Most likely.”
“And what about my necklace? He could put it into a safe deposit box there as well?”
Gracie spoke up. “If that’s what happened, how can we get to it—the cash and the necklace, I mean?”
“Amber, can you somehow hack into his account there and just bring the money back to mine?” Pen asked.
“Well, I don’t …”
Pen had to keep in mind there was a banker in the group. If Amber had ever been involved in such shady—and illegal—dealings, it wouldn’t be wise for her to admit it.
“There would be passwords and several identity safeguards in place,” Sandy said. “Without the user name, passwords and answers to security questions I don’t see how it could be done. Plus, we don’t know which of his many names he used to set up the bank account. I’d venture to say it would not be the one he used to travel there.”
That made sense, they all agreed.
“And we don’t know which bank. If you begin trying various accounts in various banks, it’s quite possible they’ll pick up your server identity and you’ll be shut out. Or caught and apprehended.”
“True,” Amber said.
Why was it the bad guys got away with these shenanigans while those trying to right a wrong stood the chance of arrest? Pen pondered that thought but a better idea came to her.
“So, let’s go there. It’s the weekend coming up. Can everyone take a couple of days to get on a plane?”
Her voice held so much excitement it generated a buzz of approval from the others.
“We can figure out where he’s staying, can’t we? We’ll spy on him and see which bank he goes to.” This from Gracie.
“It’s not a large place. We’re likely to spot him walking down a street, right?” Amber’s idea.
“Hold on a minute,” said Sandy. “Even in a very small place we could spend days just hoping to spot him. We need a better plan going in.”
“I’ve already checked the hotel guest registers on the island and there’s no one under any of the aliases we know about,” Amber said.
“Okay, then it’s going to come down to some old-fashioned lying,” suggested Graci
e. “Let’s see … I’ll call each place—Amber, email me that list—and I’ll say that I need to reach my, um, my aunt who is visiting the island. It’s a family emergency. But she’s—she’s staying with a friend and I don’t know the man’s name. I’ll describe him—”
“Ooh, better yet,” said Amber, “say you can fax or email a photo and ask if they have that guest staying with them.”
“A mug shot or driver’s license picture?”
“No, no. I can make a photo,” Amber assured them. “Mom won’t mind. Okay, gotta go.”
“Mom won’t mind?” said Gracie and Sandy when they heard the click on the line.
Pen decided she didn’t need all the details. “All right, then. Gracie, you start with your calls to the hotels. We’ll see what Amber comes up with. Meanwhile, I have an idea.”
The four-way call ended and Pen went to her desk and booted up her computer. A quick check showed eleven p.m. flights tomorrow night that would put them on the island by noon the next day. She put four seats on hold.
Fifteen minutes later an email with a photo attachment arrived from Amber, subject line: What do you think?
The woman is my mom, she’d written. Think they look like a fun vacationing couple?
The photo showed Frank Morrell standing beside a lovely woman with caramel skin and Amber’s unwieldy hair smoothed back and held with a clip. Granted, Frank’s expression was less than exuberant—they’d only had his driver’s license to borrow from, after all—but the setting was tropical, the body attached to the face was of roughly the same build as his and the flowered shirts gave the whole thing an air of authenticity. Coming through electronically, it just might work.
Already replies from Gracie and Sandy cheered the effort. Gracie added that she’d called four hotels so far, another six to go. She assured them she would be sending the photo out to the manager at each place. If she found the right hotel, she said, she would personally put on a maid’s uniform and get into his room. Pen would have her necklace back!!
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 9
