Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  “Come on, Gail. If every bank in the country reacted to the agency’s guidance in this way, the economy wouldn’t just be in recession; it would be in free fall.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Can you at least call the FDIC supervisor in Philadelphia and ask him or her to look into this? Maybe the supervisor can suggest the bank ameliorate its position.”

  Gail didn’t respond right off. But, after a few seconds hesitation, she said, “All right, Paul. That’s a fair request. I’ll call the area supervisor.”

  Paul gave Moskowitz his cell phone number and asked her to call him as soon as she heard something. After hanging up, he drove to Katherine’s house to meet Sylvia Young, Wendy Folsom’s criminal attorney, there at 10 a.m.

  Paul was last to arrive. Katherine served him a cup of coffee as he sat down with the others at the dining room table.

  Sylvia handed Paul a folder. “The documents I prepared are in there,” she said. “The restraining order, a divorce petition, and a criminal complaint against Gerald Folsom for assault and battery and attempted murder. I called Anthony Castiglia, the head of Violent Crimes at the Philadelphia P.D. He’s an old friend of mine and he’s expecting us downtown at 3 this afternoon. Once he sees the photographs in the file, I am confident he’ll get the D.A. to issue an arrest warrant for Folsom.

  “Unfortunately, I have to tell you I’ve handled a lot of cases like this. A man that abuses his wife as badly as Folsom has abused Wendy cannot be trusted. I would bet all my savings he’ll blow like Vesuvius when the charges are filed against him. Wendy needs to be somewhere safe until we’re sure her husband is locked up.”

  “She can stay with me,” Katherine said immediately.

  Sylvia smiled at Katherine. “That’s very kind of you, but that might jeopardize your safety as well as Wendy’s. No, we need to find a better place.”

  “How about the convent at St. Francis College?” Katherine asked. “We’ve made large contributions to the school over the last few years. I’m sure they’d be willing to grant me a favor.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Sylvia said, looking at Wendy. “But you’ve got to promise you will not leave the convent except for court appearances and the like. I’ll have a guard pick you up and take you back as necessary.”

  “Aren’t you being overly protective?” Wendy asked. “I mean, I know Gerald is a monster, but he wouldn’t dare come after me once charges are filed. The police would suspect him first if anything happened to me.”

  “Suspecting him is not the same as proving he harmed you. I’m not being overly protective; I’m being overly cautious.”

  When she saw Wendy had nothing else to add, Sylvia suggested, “Paul, let’s go over the documents. I know criminal law isn’t your expertise, but I always like to have a second set of eyes look over anything I file with the court or the police.”

  “I’ll call the college while you work on the documents,” Katherine said and walked toward the kitchen.

  Sylvia passed a set of documents to Wendy. “You should review these with Paul and me,” Sylvia said.

  Two hours passed before they finished. Sylvia edited the documents as necessary on her laptop and emailed the revised documents to her office. “We’ll pick up the final documents on the way downtown,” she advised. “I suggest we go out and get some lunch, then work our way downtown via my office.”

  “Any luck with the college?” Paul asked Katherine.

  “The Mother Superior is going to call me back this afternoon. But I think I’ll drive out there and talk to her. It’s always harder to turn someone down when you have to look them in the eye.”

  “You’re not going downtown with me?” Wendy asked, a tremble sounding in her voice.

  Katherine walked behind Wendy seated at the dining table. She rested her hands on her shoulders and said, “This is the time for lawyers. I would just be in the way. But I’ll see you tonight.”

  Wendy placed a hand on one of Katherine’s hands.

  Paul, Sylvia, and Wendy walked outside to Paul’s Cadillac. Paul’s cell phone rang as he opened the driver’s door. The women got into the car.

  “Hello?” Paul said.

  “Paul, it’s Gail Moskowitz. I’ve got bad news.”

  “I didn’t expect the area supervisor to cooperate, but thanks for the effort.”

  “No, you don’t understand. The area supervisor’s name was Donald Matson. He was murdered last night, almost right in front of his home. Two shots to the head at close range. At first the police thought it might be a robbery because his wallet was missing. They found it in a nearby trash can. But what’s strange is that Matson still had on a very expensive watch and ring. At this point the police aren’t certain about motive.”

  “Holy . . . . What the hell!”

  “Everyone’s kind of shell-shocked around here.”

  “I can imagine,” Paul said. “I’m sorry. Thanks for calling.”

  “Good luck, Paul. I hope things work out for your client.”

  Paul got into his car. He needed to call Edward and tell him what had happened as soon as possible, so that he wouldn’t harbor unrealistic hopes for a solution from that quarter. But he didn’t want to have that conversation while Wendy was in the car. Hearing about a murder, even if it had nothing to do with her, might unnerve her. He waited until they arrived at the police headquarters. It was 2:45 p.m.

  “I need to place a call,” Paul told Sylvia. “I’ll be right up.”

  Paul dialed Edward’s office number and the receptionist transferred the call to Edward’s cell. “Can you talk?” Paul asked.

  “I’m at the Journal. I’ve got an appointment with the business editor in five minutes. Why?”

  “I got a call from my contact at the FDIC; I asked her to check with the Philadelphia area supervisor about interceding at Broad Street National Bank about your loan. But she never had the chance to talk to him. He was shot and killed last night in front of his home. Fellow named Donald Matson.”

  “My God! Do they know who did it?”

  “No, not yet. They thought it might be a robbery gone wrong, but now they’re not so sure.”

  “Strange.”

  “It’s a big city, Eddie. Murders happen every day. Sorry to bring you bad news. I really hoped the local FDIC supervisor would get involved.”

  “About par for the course lately.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Edward sat down with Kelly Loughridge at The Philadelphia Journal newspaper offices. Loughridge, a heavy-set woman with long, thick auburn hair and glasses, wore khaki slacks, a peasant blouse, and Birkenstocks. Her only accessories were a turquoise and silver etched Zuni bracelet and a pencil stuck behind an ear. It was obvious from the woman’s body language and skeptical expression she wasn’t happy about spending time with Edward. He thought she probably agreed to see him only because of the business Winter Enterprises had done with the paper.

  “Thanks for your time, Ms. Loughridge,” he said. “I’ll make this quick.”

  Edward handed her a summary of what was happening to his company at the hands of Broad Street National Bank and what bankers had told him about the demands of the regulators.

  “If you’ll read this over, you should wonder what the heck is going on. Think about what they’re doing to us and imagine the impact of this sort of behavior on the overall community.”

  Loughridge tapped her computer keyboard and then swiveled the screen so Edward could see it. “You know we’ve done a series of articles on the regulators taking over area banks?”

  “Yes, I’ve read them. But all those articles approached the situation from the bankers’ viewpoint. You interviewed the former owners of banks taken over by the government and the new owners the regulators brought in. But you’ve never done any stories from the perspective of bank customers, business owners.”

  She considered Edward’s comment. “Interesting. That might have some appeal to our readers.”


  She fiddled with her keyboard again and pulled up a story headlined: FEDS TAKE OVER BROAD STREET NATIONAL.

  Edward remembered the article from last Sunday’s edition. “Not a happy day for me.”

  “Any suggestions of who we should talk with?” Loughridge asked.

  “I included a list of names on the last page of the write-up I gave you.”

  “Thanks. We’ll consider doing something.”

  Edward stood and shook her hand. He started turning to leave when he glanced at Loughridge’s computer screen. Something caught his attention. He leaned in closer. In the first paragraph of the story, the writer had quoted Donald Matson.

  “I just heard that Matson, the FDIC guy, was shot and killed last night.”

  Loughridge looked at the screen. “I heard someone got shot out off Ridge Pike yesterday, but I didn’t make the connection. Interesting.”

  “Anyway, let me know if I can be of assistance,” Edward said and walked out.

  Kelly Loughridge had been a newspaper woman for twenty years. Naturally curious and suspicious, she didn’t believe in innocent coincidences. She plugged Donald Matson’s name into the newspaper’s database, skimming the string of references his name popped up on her screen. After discarding the citations that were obviously not the FDIC’s Matson, she collected the balance of fifteen and sent them to the printer. An instinct told her there might be something to Winter’s story, but there might be more to the Matson story. She’d wasted a lot of time over her career chasing wild geese, but a few of those geese had yielded great stories. She stacked the printed articles and shoved them into her briefcase. “A loaf of bread, a glass of wine and thou,” she muttered, although “thou” was more often home work rather than human companionship.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Detective Anthony Castiglia had gone through Wendy Folsom’s file without saying a word or showing any emotion, not changing his expression when he picked up the photographs of Wendy. When he finished reading the documents, he closed the file, looked at Wendy, finally reacting. “I gave a heads up to the D.A. that I might need one of his people. I think there’s plenty of cause here to have them send an assistant D.A. to meet with us.”

  Sylvia Young exhaled in relief. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

  Castiglia chuckled and said, “You’ve never brought me a bum case, Sylvia.” Then Castiglia turned to Wendy. “I’ll recommend to the D.A. that he issue an arrest warrant for your husband; I’ll serve that warrant as soon as I get it. After looking at these photographs, I’m going to enjoy throwing Mr. Folsom into jail. But I don’t want to waste our time here.

  “With Folsom’s wealth, after I arrest him, I doubt he’ll be held more than overnight. He’ll probably be lawyered up in ten minutes. I suspect the last thing Folsom wants is the negative publicity that would follow his arrest. His lawyers will offer you a settlement to drop the charges and to make a public statement that you and your husband had a misunderstanding. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll bring charges against you that’ll make you look like Jack the Ripper and Mata Hari, all wrapped into one.

  “I need to know, Mrs. Folsom, if you’re committed to the long haul on this case. If you want to work out a settlement with your husband, and are using the police department as a negotiating tool, then we’re done here.”

  Wendy said, “I suspect Gerald abused his previous wives, and that he would keep on abusing women. I can’t let that happen. And one other thing: I’m tired of being a victim.”

  “Do you have a prenuptial agreement with your husband?” Castiglia asked.

  Wendy blushed and nodded. “I get $5 million, no questions asked, if we get divorced.”

  Castiglia whistled. “And what’s your husband worth?” he said.

  “I don’t know for sure, but a newspaper story about his business a couple years ago estimated his net worth at several hundred million dollars.”

  “Why don’t you take the $5 million and run? Avoid the aggravation.”

  Wendy narrowed her eyes and glared at Castiglia. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”

  Castiglia blurted a laugh. “That’s what I wanted to hear. So you’re in this until the end?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Castiglia stood and thanked them. “I’ll get on this right away.”

  After Paul, Sylvia, and Wendy left, Castiglia picked up his phone and dialed D.A. Lincoln Marx’s number. “Lincoln, it’s time to send over that Assistant D.A.”

  Marx asked, “Is the case good?”

  “Oh yeah, Lincoln. It’s got power, money, sex, violence, intrigue. Best seller material. In fact, you might want to try this one yourself. The media’s going to be all over it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Gerald Folsom was so frustrated he couldn’t focus. It was 6 p.m. and he’d been drinking for an hour, fuming. He couldn’t find Wendy, and as long as she was walking around she was a threat. Jefferson had come through with the hit on Matson, eliminating that potential liability. Folsom chuckled. It cost him ten grand to have Matson hit, and he had Matson’s two million plus dollars sitting in his vault. Not a bad investment. Folsom knew with Matson out of the picture he might not get future special treatment from the Feds. But he’d made a fortune off his relationship with them and he’d performed well. He wasn’t worried about competing for future deals; he’d get his share.

  But he was worried about Wendy. His previous wives both jumped ship when he began roughing them up. Folsom had to admit, however, that neither of them had been treated as badly as Wendy. She had been turned on by rough sex in the beginning, which stimulated even more violence. When he beat her, he’d always show remorse afterward, and she always forgave him. Another sucker, Folsom thought, just like Frank Winter and Winter’s kid. But he’d never beaten any woman like he’d beaten Wendy last weekend.

  He knew he’d screwed up. He should have locked her up in one of the rooms in the attic until her injuries had healed. Then he remembered that the night Donald Matson had called about the damn safety deposit box, Folsom had intended to work Wendy over again. He suspected that if he had not been called away, he would have killed her. The thought gave him a sick thrill.

  He poured himself another scotch. If he couldn’t focus, at least he could get drunk. Maybe the booze would help him sleep through the night. Downing the drink in one gulp, he reached for the bottle again. But the gate bell rang, interrupting him. Lurching to his feet and swaying slightly, Folsom walked to the intercom speaker in the bar and, pushing a button, shouted, “We don’t want any. Go the fuck away.”

  “Gerald Folsom?” a man demanded.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “The Philadelphia Police Department wants to know. Open the gate; we need to talk.”

  “What’s this about?” Folsom asked, momentarily worried that the cops had somehow tied him to Matson’s murder. He told himself that was impossible. Even if Toothpick Jefferson tried to implicate him, there was no proof of his involvement.

  “Open the gate, Mr. Folsom. Now!”

  “Hold on.”

  Folsom pressed a button that opened the front gate. He realized he was still holding the scotch bottle and returned it to the liquor cabinet before opening the front door and waiting for the police in the entryway. He tried to come up with a reason why the cops were here. A sudden thought hit him. Maybe Toothpick had found Wendy on his own and the cops were here to inform him of his wife’s death. He started laughing, but quickly composed himself, remembering that the cop’s tone hadn’t sounded too sympathetic. And he noticed there were two cars coming up the driveway—one patrol vehicle and an unmarked.

  Two uniformed officers got out of the first car, one white, the other black. They both looked like weight lifters, with muscles stretching their tailored uniform shirts. Two men in suits got out of the second one. One of them was a short, slightly overweight black man of about fifty years of age. The other was twenty years younger, tall, rail-thin, and white.
The older detective presented his identification and said, “My name is Detective Simon Carruthers. My partner here is Detective Bobby Duncan. Step down into the driveway, Mr. Folsom.”

  Folsom was getting worried now. He walked down the three steps to the driveway. “What’s going on?” he asked, truly confused.

  The two officers circled behind Folsom as the detective announced, “Gerald Folsom, you’re under arrest for the assault and battery and attempted murder of Wendy Folsom.”

  Folsom felt the cops grab his arms and pull them behind him and cuffs snapped on his wrists. Detective Carruthers read Folsom his rights.

  “I want to call my lawyer,” Folsom cried.

  “You’ll have the chance to do that once you’re downtown.” Then he told Folsom, “We have a search warrant which we’re going to execute now. “Bobby,” Detective Carruthers said to the other detective, “why don’t you start the search on the top floor? I’ll start on the ground level. We’re looking for anything with blood on it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Edward had had a difficult and disappointing day. Two newspaper editors, two television station producers, and a radio station producer had treated him respectfully, but he’d felt patronized all the same. He decided he needed to be around people he loved, and who loved him. At 6 p.m., he called his wife and mother as he drove back from his last media appointment, and suggested they go out for a good meal. He told them he’d pick them up around seven o’clock.

  He didn’t want to think or talk about banks or regulators or even Winter Enterprises at dinner; all he wanted was to enjoy his wife and mother’s company.

  On the drive to his house, against his will, Edward’s mind wandered back to the company. Paul Sanders had told him that legal maneuvering could delay any action the bank might take. But, to Edward, that was just postponing the inevitable. He was quickly becoming fatalistic about his company. No, he wasn’t going to stop fighting, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be unrealistic.