“Sure. I’ve got the combination to the room lock and the keys to the vault.”
“It’s not on a timer?”
“No, not like the main vault. If it were, we wouldn’t be able to get in until 7:30 in the morning.”
“Thank God for small favors. I’ll pick you up. Matson is going to meet us at the bank at 11.”
Folsom checked on Wendy, who was lying in a fetal position. He bent over and grabbed a handful of her hair. “Passed out again, huh? I’m sorry I had to break up our little love-making session. I know how much you enjoy them. But I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He walked out of the room laughing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wendy had closed her eyes as soon as Gerald returned to her bedroom, realizing from the phone conversation she’d overheard he had to go out. She forced herself not to flinch or moan when he grabbed her hair, and barely took a breath until he left the room. After she heard his car leave the garage and pass under her window, she gathered her strength and sat up, letting her feet rest on the carpeted floor. She took a deep breath, held it, and pushed off the bed, grunting as she stood, her head fuzzy from the sudden movement. Grasping the edge of the bedside table, she steadied herself until the dizziness passed.
Her robe was hanging to one side. She pulled it closed around her and in so doing felt something stiff in the left pocket: A business card. It took her a few seconds to remember where it came from. That man who had been in her bedroom. When was it? Yesterday? Last week? Why had he been here? She couldn’t get her head straight around the memory. The card said the man was an attorney. She palmed it and shuffled to her walk-in closet.
After shucking off the robe and dropping it to the floor, she reached in a drawer for a bra, but decided there was no way she would be able to contort her body enough to put it on. She struggled into a pair of underpants and then put on a sweat shirt and a wrap-around skirt. The thought of putting on heels or lace-up shoes was intimidating. Instead, she selected a pair of sandals, dropped them to the carpeted floor, and slid her feet into them.
She knew Gerald kept a large amount of money in a safe in his bedroom, but she didn’t know the combination. But there was also cash in his sock drawer. She stumbled out of the closet, through the bathroom, to his bedroom’s top dresser drawer. She came up with a money clip filled with $100 bills and stuck it in her skirt pocket, along with the lawyer’s business card. Leaving the upstairs, her heart stopped when she made it to the entry: Gerald’s Mercedes was coming back up the driveway.
“Oh God! Oh God!” Wendy cried. She panicked, indecisive. Was he going to put his car in the garage? That’s where her car was. She knew she needed to move, but she couldn’t decide where to go. Then it hit her that Gerald had just left the house a few minutes ago. He’d probably forgotten something. Maybe his wallet. If she was correct, he wouldn’t go into the garage; he’d come through the front door. She walked like a nonagenarian, every muscle aching, to the kitchen, and then to the garage. She stepped down into the garage and climbed behind the wheel of her Infiniti SUV. The pain from pulling herself into the high-profile vehicle slammed her brain like a jack hammer.
She sat and waited, hoping Gerald would turn around and drive away again. She thought about being free and safe. About being away from her monster of a husband. Then a wave of staggering fear washed over her. What if he goes into my bedroom and I’m not there? He’ll look for me. She imagined the repercussions. Frozen in place, she realized her life was over if he went upstairs. She suddenly no longer cared about living, not if it meant living with Gerald. She waited for Gerald to come looking for her. The minutes ticked by on the dashboard clock—one, two . . . seven, eight. She heard a noise. Thinking it was the door from the kitchen to the garage, she steeled herself. For the violence. But he didn’t enter the garage. Then she heard the roar of the Mercedes and the scattering of driveway pebbles as Gerald drove away.
Her chest hurt from holding her breath for extended periods of time. She breathed out slowly, waited two minutes, and then pressed the button on the garage door opener on her visor. She backed out of the garage, closed the door behind her, turned the car around and drove down to the gate. After the gate opened automatically, she drove away, with no idea where to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Katherine noticed the wait staff at the restaurant was hovering near their table. She glanced around the dining room and was shocked to see she and Paul were the last two diners.
“Gosh, what time is it?” she asked Paul.
He looked at his watch. “Nearly midnight.”
“What! I can’t believe it. You’d better get me home before I turn into a pumpkin.”
Katherine waved at their waiter. “Check please,” she told him. The young man smiled as though he were a kid on Christmas morning and immediately presented the check.
“I guess I’d better leave him a larger tip than usual,” she said to Paul. For some reason she found that funny and laughed. Paul started laughing with her. By the time she’d put cash on the table to cover the tab and the tip, and they moved toward the door, they were both laughing uncontrollably.
Outside in the parking lot, Paul took her arm and steered her to the passenger side of his car. He leaned close to her and whispered, “You had too much to drink tonight.”
She looked at him askance and said, “Was it H.L. Mencken who said ‘I’ve made it a rule never to drink by daylight and never to refuse a drink after dark?’ ”
“Ah, a quote and a challenge,” Paul said. He released Katherine’s arm and stopped to look up at the moon.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Searching for inspiration.”
“I can’t wait to hear this,” she said, giggling.
“Ah, I have it,” he said. “ ‘We, cold water girls and boys, Freely renounce the treacherous joys Of brandy, whiskey, rum, and gin; The serpent’s lure to death and sin.’ ”
“Where in the name of all that’s holy did you come up with that?”
A frown showed on Paul’s face. He seemed to think about her question and then said, “I really don’t have a clue.”
Katherine stared at him and then again broke out in peals of laughter. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “You’re a surprise, Paul. I’m glad I called you.”
“I’m glad, too,” he said. “We should—” His cell phone interrupted him.
“Who could that be at this hour?” Katherine asked.
“I have no idea, but I hope it’s a client I can charge twice my normal rate for annoying me. Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Sanders,” a woman said. “I need your help. I—” Then the woman began sobbing. Paul could barely make out her words between sobs. “I don’t know what to do. I have no place to go.”
“Miss,” Paul said, “I can’t begin to help you if you don’t tell me who you are.”
A slight pause. Then, “Wendy Folsom. Gerald Folsom’s wife.”
TUESDAY
JULY 19, 2011
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By 1 a.m. on Tuesday morning, Gerald Folsom and Sanford Cunningham had accomplished their mission. They’d pulled the cash out of Donald Matson’s safety deposit box and stuffed it in a backpack Matson had brought with him. They’d replaced the cash with Matson’s personal papers and then closed the safety deposit box and vault, reset the alarm, and locked the bank lobby doors behind them.
In the bank parking lot, Folsom grabbed Matson’s arm and squeezed the bicep until he yelped. He yanked Matson off to the side, away from Cunningham, and rasped, “You take that money someplace right now and hide it. And tomorrow you close out all the other safety deposit boxes you have and hide all the cash. Then figure out what you’re going to do with it. Maybe, over a period of time, buy gold coins and gem stones. I don’t give a shit. But don’t ever jeopardize me again. You got it?”
Matson nodded, got into his car, and drove away in a hurry.
Folsom and Cunningham got into Folso
m’s Mercedes and headed towards Cunningham’s neighborhood. Folsom didn’t know what to say. Tonight’s experience with Matson had unnerved him.
Cunningham eventually broke the silence. “By the way, I checked on Edward Winter as you requested.”
Folsom jerked a glance at Cunningham. “What d’ya find?”
“Edward is the son of Frank and Katherine Winter. Frank was president of First—”
“I know who he was. Tell me about Katherine.”
“She’s on the board of Winter Enterprises. Besides Edward, she has a daughter named Carrie, an officer in the U.S. Army.”
“I’ll have special instructions for you about the Winter Enterprises’ loan,” Folsom said after a moment’s pause.
Cunningham didn’t respond for a minute and then said, “As a finance guy, I understand assets and liabilities. That FDIC guy, Matson, has been an asset up to now. I would say he just became a liability.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll figure it out in the morning,” Folsom said. “But, tonight, after I drop you off, I’ve got other business to take care of.”
“It’s late.”
Folsom laughed. “It’s never too late for this kind of business.”
It was a few minutes before 2 a.m. when Folsom pulled into his garage. He was confused momentarily by the absence of his wife’s vehicle. Then his confusion turned to rage. He ran into the house and stormed up the stairs. He searched her bedroom and then ran through every room on all four floors of the house. In the condition she was in, he hadn’t thought it possible she could even negotiate the stairs, let alone drive away.
His rage now elevating to inferno level, Folsom went to his bar on the first level and poured himself a double shot of scotch over ice. He carried the glass into his home office and tried to figure out where the fuck Wendy had gone. Once he figured that out, he’d drag her back here and kick the shit out of her. Again.
Then a thought came to him. He grabbed for a telephone and called Sanford Cunningham’s cell phone.
“Hello?” Cunningham answered, sounding groggy with sleep.
“Sanford, I want a hold put on all of Winter Enterprises’ deposit accounts first thing in the morning.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Just do it,” Folsom shouted, and hung up the phone.
Paul had barely got Wendy Folsom’s location and vehicle description from her when the woman went completely silent. He and Katherine found her car in a McDonalds’s parking lot in Sharon Hill. She was slouched behind the wheel, her head against the window; her doors locked. Paul knocked on the window for half-a-minute before he roused her. He helped the disoriented and frightened woman move from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel and followed Katherine, driving his car, to her house. He had wanted to take Wendy back to his place, but Katherine persuaded him that if the woman needed help dressing or needed minor medical attention, she would be better off staying with another woman.
“You should see a doctor,” Paul said.
“No, please. I know I look awful, but it’s just bruises. Nothing’s broken; I’m sure of that.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I need to hide for a few days. Do some thinking.”
“Tonight, I’ll go along with your wishes. But if you’re not better tomorrow, I’m taking you to a hospital.”
The drive to Katherine’s house was slow and deliberate as Paul attempted to miss the potholes in Philadelphia’s decrepit streets. Even so, every bump generated a groan from his wounded passenger. When they arrived, they half-walked, half-carried Wendy into the house and put her in Katherine’s guest bed before moving to the kitchen. Paul sat down at the kitchen table, while Katherine made coffee.
“I’m exhausted,” Paul said, his elbows on the table, head in his hands.
“Hell of a day,” she agreed. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
Paul dropped his hands and looked over at Katherine. “You know, we should call the police. At a minimum, Gerald Folsom should be charged with assault and battery. By the looks of that young woman, I could make a case for attempted murder.”
“I think we should wait until we can talk to her, when she’s alert. She needs to make the decision about bringing the police into this.”
“Makes sense. But I’m going to think about what criminal lawyer should represent her. There’s an old saying that goes, ‘Three Philadelphia lawyers are a match for the Devil.’ Against a man like Gerald Folsom, she’s going to need at least one of those lawyers.”
Katherine placed a cup of coffee in front of Paul and sat down across from him. “Finish your coffee—it’s decaf—and then go home and get some sleep. We’re both going to need a lot of stamina over the next few days.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Despite the tenor and substance of yesterday’s conversation with Ernest Deakyne, President of Philadelphia Savings & Trust, Edward was apprehensive in Deakyne’s waiting area. He and Nick were as prepared as they could be, and he knew that their presentation had no weaknesses: Strong finances, experienced management and employees, a solid business plan. But he had learned over the past week that that meant nothing compared to the environment in the industry caused by the federal regulators, and that environment was, at best, damaged and, at worst, corrupt.
A voice brought him out of his thoughts. “Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in to see me.”
Edward and Nick stood and shook hands with Deakyne, a short, completely bald, nattily dressed man. Deakyne was no more than five feet, seven inches tall and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds. He wore a light-weight gray suit, white shirt, and off-yellow bow tie.
“Let’s go into my conference room,” Deakyne said, leading the way into a room with a table that sat six. He directed them to chairs on one side of the table and sat down opposite them. “Coffee, tea, water?”
“Your assistant was very kind,” Edward answered. “She offered us something to drink, but we’re fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, then let’s get started. I should tell you we’re quite excited about the opportunity to have Winter Enterprises as a client of our bank.”
I like this guy more by the minute, Edward thought. “I hope we can work out an arrangement.”
Edward spent twenty-five minutes giving Deakyne an overview of the Hot N’ Chili franchise business, the history of Winter Enterprises, and the company’s plans for expansion. Then he turned things over to Nick who went over the company’s financial statements. By the time they had completed the presentation, an hour had passed. Edward was feeling positive and enthusiastic.
But Deakyne appeared to be suddenly uncomfortable. “I had no idea,” he said, “that your firm was as large as it is. You said your loan balance at Broad Street National is $20 million against a loan commitment of $30 million. We couldn’t come close to matching that number.”
Edward fought hard to keep from showing how devastated he felt. “In other words, your loan limit to any one borrower is less than $30 million?”
“Less than $20 million, actually. Our statutory loan limit is $11 million. We couldn’t lend Winter Enterprises more than that. This would leave $9 million of your loan at Broad Street unfunded. And would do nothing to support your expansion plans. I am so sorry, gentlemen. This is not how I wanted this meeting to turn out. ”
Edward and Nick sat in silence, stunned. Deakyne moved his chair back from the table, started to rise.
“Can you give us another minute?” Edward asked.
Deakyne lowered himself back into his chair. “Of course. I would love to find a resolution in this matter.”
“If I understand correctly, your bank could finance $11 million of our debt.”
“That’s correct.”
“So, if we were able to divide our lending facilities between $11 million at your bank and $9 million
at Broad Street, would that work for you?”
Deakyne considered Edward’s suggestion and then responded. “I think that would work. Of course, this would be subject to a favorable review of your financial information and new appraisals on the real estate with which you would secure our loan. And then there are the deposit accounts at Broad Street. We would want a fair proportion of those deposits put in our bank.”
“Maybe we can make this work after all,” Edward said. He stood and reached across the table and offered Deakyne his hand. The banker stood and shook Edward’s hand and then Nick’s.
In the car driving back to their offices, Edward called Stanley Burns at Broad Street National Bank. He waited on hold for three minutes before a woman finally came on the line to inform him Stanley Burns was in a meeting and would have to call him back.
After Edward terminated the call, he said, “You know, Nick, every time I used to call Burns, he’d get on the phone in a matter of seconds. Even when he was in a meeting he’d take my calls.”
“I guess he’s got other priorities. Like keeping his job.”
“By the way, when we were meeting the other day, when Annie and the kids came to the office, you started to say something about our deposits at Broad Street National. You said you wanted to look into something. What was on your mind?”
“I checked the Right of Setoff clause in our loan documents. That’s where the bank can apply any money we have on deposit against our loan balance.”
“That’s fair,” Edward said. “They should be able to do just that if we were delinquent on our loan, which we’re not.”
“True. But the language in that clause goes way beyond just delinquency. They can dip into our accounts if they believe the value of the collateral on a loan has deteriorated, or if they anticipate a borrower will not be able to pay off an obligation on schedule. Theoretically, both of these caveats apply to us. The value of our real estate has deteriorated and we’re having a hell of a time finding financing to pay off Broad Street.”
Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) Page 9
