by Stuart Woods
“How about Wilton Crescent?”
“Ask and get ten million. Unless it’s a Russian or an Arab, in which case I should ask fifty percent more. Trouble is, that market isn’t what it used to be.”
“Let me make you a different sort of offer.”
“All right.”
“I’ll give you twelve million pounds sterling for both properties, with a guaranteed lifetime tenancy for both of you. That way, you get a pile of cash, but you don’t ever have to move.”
Derek looked at him narrowly. “You can come up with that kind of money?”
“I can. What’s more, you should have a chat with your accountant. You might be able to shelter much of it from the tax man by taking payment in the States. I can arrange for the people who handle my investments to handle yours, too.”
“I don’t think I want to have that particular chat with my own accountant, but my chief financial officer at the agency would know exactly how to handle that.”
“Perhaps that’s best.”
“Laurence, I accept your offer with pleasure.”
“Nothing need change for you. I don’t expect to be spending that much time here. I’d love for you two to visit me in New York, though. I have lots of room, and if you want more privacy, I own a second flat in my building.”
“Give me a few weeks to get hale and hearty, and we’ll take you up on that.”
“When you’ve got things sorted out, have your solicitor draw up a contract, and I’ll sign it and put the cash anywhere you want it.”
Derek smiled broadly and shook his hand.
—
THERESA CAME BACK from her shopping trip with Dot, and the two of them had a drink in the cottage before going over to the main house for dinner.
“You like this estate, do you?”
“I think it’s superb,” she said.
“I’m glad, because I just bought it—and the London house—from Derek, with a lifetime tenancy for him and Mom.”
“Congratulations!”
“Something else.”
“What’s that?”
“You have interior designers at your store, don’t you?”
“Yes, in the home department.”
“I own a second flat at the Fairleigh, number 14A, one floor down from my apartment. It’s furnished with hotel things, and I’d like it redone. Can you call somebody there and have them put their best person on it?”
“Certainly. I’ll call the department head.”
“It’s a two-bedroom apartment. Do you think a million dollars would handle everything?”
“I’ll give them that budget.”
“Good. I’d like it done in, say, six weeks, please. They can have samples and drawings for me when we get back.”
Theresa looked at her watch. “She should be back from lunch now. I’ll call her.”
“There’s a phone in the study.”
She went there.
Laurence took a sip of his drink and sat back in his chair. He felt very good about this; it was much more rewarding to do something for the people he loved than just to spend the money on himself.
—
THAT NIGHT at dinner with his very happy parents, his mother turned to Laurence. “You know,” she said, “we’d been thinking about doing over the Wilton Crescent house. A friend of mine, Susan Blackburn, is one of London’s top designers, and I was going to speak to her about it. Now, though, I’m going to have her redo it for you, Laurence, and that will be our gift. You’ve made us so happy.”
Laurence had to fight back the tears.
16
BUTCH AND CURLY had been busy; they had downloaded dozens of paintings from other websites to their own and had made purchases possible only with a password, which nobody else possessed. Finally, they sat down, and Butch watched while Curly inserted a check into the check writer and printed out one for $75,000. Curly signed it, forging Laurence Hayward’s signature, then Butch put everything in an envelope and walked down the street to a new bank branch that had just opened and approached the manager’s office.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Harold Bremmer, and I’d like to open an account.” He handed over the fake driver’s license that Curly had had made.
The man invited him in and took his application. “Do you have your paperwork and a corporate resolution?”
“Right here.” Butch handed him the documents and the check. “And the proceeds from our first sale as our opening deposit,” he said.
“What are you selling?”
“Art. We’ve started with things from my own collection, but we’re buying other things to sell.”
“An expensive picture,” he said.
“Mr. Hayward is a wealthy collector,” Butch said, “and we expect him to make other purchases, perhaps even larger ones.”
“I wish you luck.”
“Thank you. How long will it take the check to clear? We have bills to pay.”
“I’ll put a rush on it,” the manager said. “The funds should be available tomorrow afternoon.”
Butch shook his hand and left with a checkbook tucked under his arm and arrived back at his studio apartment. “We’re in business,” he said. “You know, there’s a better apartment available on the top floor. I think we should take it.”
“Good idea,” Curly said. “It’s getting a little tight around here.”
“Or you can keep this one, and I’ll move upstairs. We can pay the rent from our new bank account. And we’ll make another deposit tomorrow, this one for a hundred and twenty-five grand.”
“An even better idea,” Curly said. “Who needs a cell mate?”
—
A FEW DAYS LATER, Derek Fallowfield’s solicitor appeared at his country house with the documents for the property purchase. Laurence signed them and phoned his bank with instructions for transferring the funds.
The following day Laurence and Theresa said goodbye to his parents, then they met Don McEvoy at Oxford Airport and flew back to the States, via Iceland and Labrador. Oliver met them at Teterboro, where they cleared customs, and Laurence took Don aside. “How am I doing in the airplane?”
“Very well. Your experience in the King Air has been of value, and your technique is very good. I’m impressed with your knowledge of the avionics. Frankly, you’re better at that than I am. If you’re feeling good about flying the airplane, I don’t think you need me anymore.”
“I’ll call you when I need to brush up on things.”
“All you need to do now is fly,” Don said.
—
IN THE CAR, Laurence said to Theresa, “I’ve grown accustomed to your company. Why don’t you move into my place, and we’ll get your things tomorrow?”
“All right,” Theresa said, “we can experiment with that, but I’m keeping my apartment, just in case.”
—
BACK AT THE FAIRLEIGH, Laurence found a thick envelope from the Ralph Lauren designer with fabrics, wallpapers, pictures of furniture, and drawings waiting for him.
“This looks wonderful,” he said. “I particularly like the way they’ve enlarged the master bath by using the closet next door. Tell your colleague it’s a go, I won’t change a thing.”
“First thing tomorrow,” she said, “right after I see how Butch is doing in the shoe department.”
—
BUTCH, as it turned out, was doing very well in the shoe department. “My specialty has become moving customers up from leather shoes to alligator,” he told her over lunch. “It’s easy to spot the ones who can afford it. They’re moving me to the Purple Label suit department at the end of the week.”
“That’s good news. Once you’ve worked in a few more departments, you should aim for a personal shopper’s job. You’ve clearly got the personality for it.”
Butch beamed at her. “Thanks, sis, that’s high praise, coming from you.”
“I see you’re expanding your wardrobe,” she said, fingering a lapel. “Don’t overdo it—even with your employee discount, it’s expensive.”
“I’ll be very careful, I promise you. Oh, I moved into a slightly nicer apartment yesterday. You’ll have to come over.”
“Is Curly still with you?”
“Nah, he’s got his own place and a job doing legal research for a lawyer acquaintance of his. He got a lot of experience in the prison law library—he was even writing appeals for other prisoners.”
“I’m glad you’re both doing so well,” she said. “Your parole officer must be pleased.”
“I’m off parole,” he said. “What with all the guys getting released early, the parole officers are overworked, and I’ve got a job and an apartment, so they cut me loose. I’m a regular citizen again.”
“Welcome back to the world,” Theresa said.
Butch bought lunch.
—
THAT NIGHT, Butch went to see Curly. “We’ve got one check left, right?”
“Right.”
“We’ll deposit this one, and next week I’ll close the account. Hayward’s back in town and, sooner rather than later, he’ll twig to what’s going on. By that time, there will be no trace of us, and we’ll have a tidy grubstake to take care of us.”
“What we need is another scam,” Curly said.
“I think I’m going to cool it,” Butch said. “I’m pretty well set up now, and I’m liking my job.”
“Tell me again, what is it you’re doing?”
“My sister got me a trainee’s job at her store.”
“Ah, I would have figured it was something to do with money.”
“Everything is something to do with money, Curly.”
—
LAURENCE HAD JUST finished breakfast when Marge came to see him.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you written six checks totaling three hundred thousand dollars to a gallery called Internet Arts?”
“I’ve written a number of checks to galleries, but I don’t remember that one.”
She showed him the canceled checks. “The signatures match yours very closely, but I suppose they could be forgeries. Shall I call the police?”
“Let me take care of that,” Laurence said. “I know somebody who knows somebody.”
17
LAURENCE CALLED Dino Bacchetti and was put through. “Good morning, Dino, how are you?”
“Not bad, Laurence, and you?”
“I’m afraid your advice about bad people in New York has proved to be accurate.”
“I hope you’re not hurt.”
“Nothing like that, only my checking account is damaged. Someone appears to have forged six checks for a total of three hundred thousand dollars.”
Dino excused himself for a moment and covered the phone, then came back. “I’m sending Detectives Kehoe and Grappa of our financial fraud squad over to your place. They’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Dino.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll personally keep track of the investigation.” They hung up.
—
HALF AN HOUR LATER, the front desk announced the officers and they were sent up. Laurence met them at the door and escorted them back to Marge’s office. “Marge, these are Detectives Kehoe and Grappa,” he said. “Please walk them through what’s happened.”
Marge did so. “Something else—I’ve just noticed the check numbers, which are higher than the checks I’ve written.” She opened the checkbook. “I discovered that two sheets of three checks each have been ripped out and were used for the forgeries. The bastards are even using the same check-writing machine I use.” She showed them the machine, then she remembered. She dug an index card out of her desk drawer. “I noticed a thumbprint clearly visible on my machine, and I did my best to preserve it.” She handed Kehoe the card.
“Ms. Mason,” Kehoe said, “you’re a very smart lady. If you ever get tired of working for Mr. Hayward, I wish you’d join the NYPD.”
“I watch way too many cop shows on TV,” Marge said.
“We’ll run this print today. Tell me, Mr. Hayward, who has a key to this apartment?”
“Marge, my girlfriend, Theresa Crane, and me. And, of course, the hotel has pass keys. Theresa and I were out of the country when this happened, and she certainly would have had nothing to do with this.”
“Does your girlfriend live here?”
“Yes.”
“Is she here now?”
“No, she’s at work.”
“And who is her employer?”
“Ralph Lauren, at the store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth, but perhaps you’d better call her before you show up.”
They took charge of the canceled checks, asked a lot of questions, then left. Grappa drove over to Fifth Avenue, and Kehoe found Theresa Crane and introduced himself. “Ms. Crane, Mr. Hayward tells us that you have a key to his apartment, and that you were recently out of the country together.”
“That’s correct,” she replied.
“Can you tell us where your key was when you were traveling?”
“In my purse,” she replied, “which was with me the whole time we were gone.”
“Is there anyone else of your acquaintance who might have had access to the key at some point?”
She shook her head. “No one at all.”
“Thank you, Ms. Crane. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother,” she replied.
“If you think of anything else we should know, here’s my card.”
She tucked it into her bra. “Thank you. I’ll call, if I do.”
The detectives returned to the 19th Precinct and processed their evidence. They ran the fingerprint, but there was a computer glitch and a delay for the results. They phoned the manager at the bank that cashed the checks, Harmon Wills.
“Yes, I remember some of those checks,” the man said. “The company, an art gallery, opened the account a couple of weeks ago and deposited a check for seventy-five thousand.”
“Who opened the account?”
“A man named Harold Bremmer. He had all the required documents and ID. He gave me a PO box number for an address, and a cell phone number.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I’d say, mid-thirties, about six feet, brown hair, medium build, dressed in a business suit and tie.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“None that I can recall.”
Kehoe called the cell number and found it not in use.
Grappa phoned the post office and learned that the box number did not exist. He went back to Kehoe. “We’ve got a dead end here,” he said. “Anything on the print yet?”
“Yep, we’ve got a match.” He handed his partner a rap sheet with a photograph. “Name of Marvin Beemer Jones. Looks like that guy in the Three Stooges. Currently in a cell upstate.”
“Mr. Jones has a pretty long reach, if he can leave a thumbprint on Park Avenue.”
“We better do some checking.” Half an hour later they had determined that Jones had been released, and they had the name of his parole officer.
“We cut him loose last week, on orders from above,” the PO said. “We’ve been overworked and understaffed since the big prisoner release that’s going on right now, statewide. We discharged the ones with nonviolent records from parole, and Jones was one of them. My record has him staying at the Y in Chelsea.” A call to the Y revealed that Jones had stayed one night, then checked out and left no forwarding address.
“Well,” Kehoe said, “we can list him as wanted, but unless he gets busted for s
omething, we’re at a dead end.”
“You’d better call the commissioner,” Grappa said.
“Me?”
“You’re the one he called to give us this case.”
“Oh, all right.” Kehoe called the commissioner and told him the results of their investigation.
“Congratulations on identifying the suspect so quickly,” the commissioner said. “Now find him.”
“His name will be on the list of wanted felons tomorrow morning,” Kehoe said. “But unless he gets himself picked up, we’ve got nothing to go on.”
“Friends and relatives in the city?”
“None. Jones is from New Jersey and has no next of kin listed. He had no visitors in prison.”
“Keep me posted,” he said.
—
DINO CALLED LAURENCE. “My detectives have identified a suspect,” he said.
“That was fast.”
“He left a thumbprint at the scene. His name is Marvin Beemer Jones, an ex-convict, recently released from prison, where he was serving a sentence for possession of drugs with intent to sell. We’ve listed him as a wanted suspect in a felony, but since we have no other record of him or his whereabouts, we’ll have to wait until he’s arrested for something else before we can lay hands on him.”
“Any idea of how long that might be?”
“No idea at all. Since he appears to have plenty of money—yours—he may not feel moved to commit another crime anytime soon.”
“Thank you for trying, Dino,” Laurence said.
“You can probably get your household insurance company to reimburse you for some of the cash.”
“I’m self-insured.”
“Then it’s unlikely that you’ll ever see that again. I’d suggest keeping your checkbook in your safe.”
“Good advice, Dino, and thank you again.” They hung up, and Laurence buzzed Marge.
“Yes, Laurence?”
“Do we have a safe?”
“No.”
“Please order one for your office—no, better make it two, I’d like one in my dressing room, as well.”
“Right away.”
