by D. F. Bailey
Wally had told Finch a rambling story about Bernice Walden. About the 1987 staff Christmas party when she’d gone to the bathroom at Johnny Foley's Irish House and emerged with her pantyhose hiked over the back of her skirt. Before Bernice could walk to the bar and order another Guinness, Wally alerted her to her “clothing malfunction.” But not before he cackled with his bearcat laugh. She’d grabbed him by the earlobe and made him pledge never to tell a soul. It was a promise he didn’t keep. In fact, Finch suspected that Wally Gimbel broke this promise quite regularly.
“So how is Bernice treating you?” Wally asked.
Twenty years after the staff party escapade, Bernice Walden was now Finch’s thesis advisor at UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism. Decades earlier she’d worked as a beat reporter stationed beside Wally Gimbel at The San Fransisco Chronicle. A year later, he snapped up the offer to serve as the arts editor at the Post. And soon after Wally’s departure, she moved on to teach at Berkeley.
“Bernice treats me well enough,” Finch said. He was pleased that her name had served as a passport to get him into Wally’s office. Plus the tip he gave to the office receptionist that he had information about the death on Washington Street.
“So our front desk said you know something about last night’s suicide.” He tipped his hand toward Dixie Lindstrom, the receptionist stationed outside his door. “She said you were there. What’ve you got?”
Now that the conversation had turned to business, Finch could see the practical side to Wally Gimbel. He’d spent the last five minutes telling his story about Bernice Walden, but now he didn’t waste an extra second.
“I was there. After he hit the street, I went up to the apartment from where he was pushed.” Will paused. He knew he had to pitch this in five sentences or he’d be out the door. “Mr. Gimbel, this was a murder. Gio Esposito was thrown through the window by someone named See-See. Why? Because it was a blackmail setup that went south.”
Wally leaned back in his chair. He narrowed his eyes with an expression that told Finch he was skeptical. “And you know this how?”
“There was a woman in the apartment bedroom named Joanne Joleena. She was handcuffed half-naked to the bed. I released her and then interviewed her in a restaurant just down the block from the apartment.”
Wally held out a hand as if he was bringing a line of traffic to a halt. “Hold it. This was a murder scene — and you released a witness? So you could interview her? You know you could be charged with obstruction. Maybe even accessory to murder.”
He shrugged off the suggestion. “I was just cleared by the SFPD. I spent the night in one of their down-market interview rooms.” He smiled, uncertain if Gimbel would appreciate the small joke. “As far as I know, they’re still talking to Joleena. I think she’s the woman named in your report.” He pointed to the current edition of the Post on Wally’s desk. “Here’s the thing. She knows who See-See is. I need to interview her and find him before they both disappear.”
“All right.” Wally tented his fingers together. “If what you’re telling me is true, then I want to pull Olivia in here to interview you.”
“Who’s Olivia?”
“Olivia Simmons. The reporter who wrote today’s story.”
Finch hesitated. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Mr. Gimbel, I —”
“Please, no formalities. Just call me Wally.”
“All right ... Wally.” He glanced away to compose himself. “Listen, I honestly think this is something that only I can do. I spent over an hour with this girl. I rescued her from God-knows-what when I led her out of that building. I’ve got a relationship with her. Look, I can break this story wide open.”
“Maybe. But Olivia can handle all of that.”
“Wally,” he said leaning forward. “I want to write this story.”
Wally blinked. “Sorry. We have staff writers to do that.”
“Then I’ll freelance it to you.” His shoulders stiffened. “It’s my story,” he said as if this were the only justification he needed to claim it as his alone.
Wally lifted his hands, palms up, a gesture to say that was not an option.
“All right.” Finch stood up. “Somehow I thought this might work. Sorry I wasted your time.” He opened the office door. “I guess I’ll take it over to the Chronicle.”
As he walked past the receptionist’s desk, he heard Wally call out to him in his heavy voice. “Will.”
He turned back to the editor.
“I want you to meet Dixie Lindstrom, the Post receptionist.” He waved a hand and waited until Finch joined him. “Dixie, this is Will Finch.”
They shook hands.
“Will’s going to work on the story Olivia punched up this morning,” Wally continued. “Draw up a standard freelance contract for him. After I sign it, give him a copy. Then introduce him to Olivia and give him a desk.” He glanced back at Finch. “Do you need a desk?”
Surprised by the sudden shift in events, Finch tried to imagine what he needed. After a brief hesitation, he said, “I just need a phone.”
“You don’t have a phone?” Wally seemed genuinely bewildered, as if everyone under thirty should have a phone.
Finch gave him a look that said, so what do you care?
“All right. Give him a desk with a phone. The closer to Olivia the better.” He swung from Dixie back to Finch. “And I want you to report to me on this story at least once a day until it wraps up. Got it?”
“Yes, Mr. Gimbel.”
“And call me Wally.” He shook his head to suggest that Finch was a slow learner, but maybe he could be tolerated if he produced. He returned to his office and closed the door.
Finch stared at Dixie for a moment, not quite sure what to say. He lifted both hands in the air as if he was trying to grasp something. “That was just weird.”
“What was?”
“I offered to freelance the story for him. He refused. Then … well, what you just saw.”
“Welcome aboard.” Her expression indicated that what might pass for weird in the outside world was standard fare inside the Post. “He was probably testing you. To see how much you wanted the job,” she said as she dug through a file cabinet to fish out a freelance contract form. “That’s all that counts here. The story.”
She passed him the contract and a pen. He scanned it briefly, all three paragraphs, and signed it.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get you a desk with a phone.”
※ — FIVE — ※
FINCH DIDN’T HAVE a cellphone, but he did have a laptop. After he settled at the desk next to Olivia Simmons, he pulled his Dell computer from his courier bag and brought up the contact page for the SFPD Central Station on his screen. He picked up the landline telephone handset and called the non-emergency number. The receptionist passed his call to the desk sergeant who advised him that Joanne Joleena was still in custody.
“Has she been charged?” he asked.
“I can’t disclose that.”
“Can we bail her out?”
“Not until she’s charged.”
A catch-22. Finch tried to resolve the puzzle. “So she’s still in custody but hasn’t been charged. Have I got that right?”
“Correct.” The desk sergeant’s voice revealed that he’d run out of patience. “Sir, I’ve got to move on.”
Finch sighed and hung up. He needed Jojo to identify See-See and where he lived. Will needed to talk to her, if not on the phone, then as a visitor in the SFPD holding tank. He imagined that she’d soon be charged as an accessory. But to what? Murder, blackmail, prostitution?
As of now Jojo and See-See were effectively off his radar. And unless he could contact them, his freelance gig would evaporate. As far as he was concerned, in less than a day the story had gone from red-hot to stone-cold. He glanced around the editorial room to settle his mind.
About thirty desks filled the windowless space, but roughly a third of them appeared to be unoccupied. Likely the result of a shrinking
subscriber base that had decimated hundreds of newsrooms across the country in the past decade. The San Francisco Post was just one more victim of the digital revolution.
However, the other twenty desks hummed with the quiet activity of reporters typing on their keyboards, conducting interviews on their phones, or chatting in groups of two or three. Beside him, Olivia Simmons hung up her phone and turned her attention to her computer terminal. Finch caught her eye.
“Olivia Simmons, right?”
“You got it.” She stood up and stretched her back. She wore a navy blue pantsuit, a tan blouse and matching tan shoes with flat heels. “You new here?”
“Just in for a day or two. I’m Will Finch.” They shook hands, and Will considered how to continue. “Wally wants me to follow up on that guy who went through the window last night. Gio Esposito?”
“Wally assigned you to this?” Simmons’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
Finch detected a wariness. “Listen, you interviewed Adrian Shouldice. He shared Gio Esposito’s office on Sacramento Street, right?”
“Yeah … so?”
Finch shrugged as if he needed a favor. “I need their office address.”
“The address?”
“Right. For Gio Esposito’s office.”
“You’re kidding me.” Her expression took on an air of disbelief, and she sat down again.
“No. Dead serious. Ask Wally.”
“Hang on.” She tapped her fingers on the desk as if she had to consider the request. Then she picked up her phone and punched two numbers on the keypad with her index finger. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and mumbled something in an intense whisper. After a brief conversation, she replaced the phone handset in the cradle, wrote something on a notepad, tore the sheet of paper from the pad and passed it to Finch.
“All right. Wally says you’re legit.”
Finch glanced at the paper and memorized Gio Esposito’s office address. Then he turned back to her. “Thanks, Olivia. I owe you one.”
She winced as though she’d just surrendered a valuable asset to a complete stranger. A rough-cut diamond she was about to shape and polish into a prized work of art. Gone.
“That’s all I’ve got, Finch. Just don’t come back asking for more. I have nothing else on this story.”
※
An hour later, Will climbed the stairs in a renovated three-story walk-up built during the Depression era in the 1800 block on Sacramento Street. From the lobby directory, he determined that most of the tenants were solo proprietors and serial entrepreneurs struggling to make it to second base. A few real estate agents, lawyers, and accountants occupied the first floor. Above them, the professional sheen seemed to fade. The third floor housed a mixed bag of ad agencies, web site designers, private investigators, forensic accountants — and at the far end of the hall — Versatile Properties Group.
As he approached the VPG office, the door swung open. A thick-set man, a little over six feet, stared at Finch. A surprised glower crossed his face as if he were expecting to see someone more familiar.
“Adrian Shouldice?” Finch put on a smile.
“Never heard of him,” he said and brushed past Finch without another word.
Finch caught the door before it closed, and stepped into the reception area. Before him sat a middle-aged woman at a desk. She had gray hair streaked with bands of pink and blue. Pressing a phone to her ear, she acknowledged Finch with a wave of her hand. The plastic nameplate on her desk read “Shirley.” He stood before her and studied the surroundings while she finished her call.
The reception area was tidy, but like the rest of the building, aching for a do-over. Above Shirley’s shoulder, a wood panel listed the six tenants of the shared office space. Each had a name engraved on a two-by-six-inch brass plaque. Esposito & Associates was third from the top. The bottom plate read: Adrian Shouldice, Mortgage Broker.
Shirley hung up the phone and offered him an inviting smile. “Can I help you?”
“You can. I heard Adrian is in. Can I go back?” Finch smiled and pointed to the inner hallway.
“Can I tell him who’s visiting?”
“Oh, sorry.” Will’s voice rose in an apologetic tone. “Sure. Tell him it’s Will Finch.”
“He knows you?”
“I hope so.” He grinned again, pleased that he didn’t have to tell an outright lie.
She picked up the handset to her phone, pressed an intercom line and mentioned Finch’s name. She put the phone back in its cradle and tipped her head to the back offices. “He doesn’t remember you but said his three o’clock canceled. So, he can see you now.”
“Great. Lucky for me.” As he made his way along the narrow corridor, he paused at the office marked Esposito & Associates. He tried the doorknob, realized it was unlocked — but then continued down the hall to the third office. When he reached Adrian Shouldice’s door, he tapped lightly on the wood frame.
“Come in.”
Finch stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Shouldice?
“Yes?”
“I’m Will Finch.” He shook Shouldice’s hand. “From the Post. I’m doing a follow-up on Gio Esposito’s death.”
“Really? I just spoke to —”
“Olivia Simmons. I know.” Finch cut him off to block any objections. He laughed to suggest they were both victims of a newspaper SNAFU. Standard fare. “I’m digging for a little more background on Esposito. By the way, sorry to hear that Olivia had to break the news of his death to you.”
“Well. What can you do?” He shrugged off the apology. “It’s not like I knew him very well.”
“No?” Finch studied him a moment. He wore a chestnut brown tweed vest, beige shirt, and a burgundy-colored tie. Not the trendiest style, but it conveyed the appearance of a conservative businessman who managed the kind of trickle-down investments that generated money while he slept.
“No. I never met any of his friends or family. I think he was from Missouri.” Shouldice rolled his head from side to side. “Frankly, the guy was a bit of a mystery man to me.”
Finch held up his hand to suggest a change in direction. “Look, sorry to come in here on short notice, but I just picked up this story. Adrian, do you mind if I sit down and make a few notes?”
“Sure. Your timing couldn’t be better. My three o’clock just canceled.”
“So I heard.” He tipped his head toward the reception area, a signal that he’d caught the news from Shirley. “How long did you know him?”
“Seven, maybe eight months?” Shouldice glanced at the ceiling as if the answer might be inscribed on the cracked plaster. As he raised his head, Finch could see Shouldice’s double chin flatten into a single plane.
“No…nine months. Esposito moved into Bill Sovena’s office after Bill retired in February.”
Finch took a steno pad and pen from his courier bag. “So how does this work? Is everyone here a partner in Versatile Properties Group?”
“No, we’re all independent. VPG is Shirley’s company. We all rent space from her. We share a boardroom and the kitchenette, and she handles the front office for everyone. She only rents to people in some facet of real estate. Realtors, insurance, mortgage brokers like me. Keeps the brand clear.”
“I see. And Esposito was handling real estate investments for corporate clients, right?”
“It was more focused than that.” He leaned forward a few inches and propped his elbows on the desk. “He was packaging deals.”
“Packaging deals?”
“Yeah. MBSs. Mortgage-backed securities.”
“And they are … what, exactly?”
He chuckled under his breath and checked his watch. “Got an hour?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.” Finch laughed as well. For the first time, he was breaking open new information on the story.
“You heard of Warren Buffet?’
Finch shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”
“In
2003 Buffet called derivatives ‘financial weapons of mass destruction.’ These days, the financial WMDs are made up of bundles of Mortgage Backed Securities.” Shouldice studied Finch’s face to determine if he was following.
“Wait.” Finch put his pen aside to consider this. “Didn’t some bank in France refuse to bring any more of these things onto their books? Last summer, right?”
“Very good.” Shouldice ran his tongue between his lips and nodded. “BNP Paribas. And in April, New Century Financial Corporation — America’s second-largest subprime mortgage lender — went into bankruptcy. And in June, two Bears Sterns hedge funds ran into trouble. All because of real estate derivatives.”
He now had Finch’s complete attention. Over the next half hour, Shouldice described the situation as he saw it. The real estate market had peaked in 2006. Despite the slide in prices, the buying frenzy grew into a mindless orgy of speculation. Now the party was coming to a brutal end. However, the world’s financial system had swallowed hundreds of billions in garbage mortgages that would soon default. When Shouldice saw that Finch had been duly impressed with the scale of the pending catastrophe, he summed up his story in four words: “There will be pain.”
“And how did Gio Esposito fit into all of this?”
“Like I told you.” He shook his head as if Esposito’s fate had been sealed long ago. “He packaged special deals and sold them to investment syndicates. Hundreds of sub-prime, Mortgage Backed Securities. Everyone wanted them. Demanded them. They’d buy them and re-sell them in New York, London, Hong Kong for fifty percent markup. Esposito cooked them up like he was following a recipe. Two or three a month. When the pudding exploded,” he said in mock surprise, “it made quite a mess. Ultimately, he had to declare bankruptcy. Or was about to.”
“But not before last night when he landed on the street.” Finch could see a motive now. Someone needed Esposito to make good on money that had gone bad.
“Landed face first, from what I heard.” Adrian Shouldice smiled, then glanced at Finch as if he wanted confirmation that his colleague had come to the worst possible end.
