Coming to Rosemont (8 page)

Chapter 11

Alex Scanlon planned to spend his
day preparing a motion for summary judgment. He had no client appointments
scheduled and was looking forward to a day of research and writing. He was good
at both and enjoyed them.

He opened the large envelope that had been shoved
through the mail slot of his office. As Tonya promised, it contained copies of
the pension plan annual reports. He put them on the corner of his desk and took
one of them into the break room to thumb through while the coffee brewed. By
the time he filled his cup and returned to his desk, he was hooked. He spent
the rest of the day pouring through the papers, compiling notes and making
lists of items to follow up on. His assistant said goodnight hours ago. He took
off his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and placed a call to Maggie Martin.

“Maggie? This is Alex Scanlon. Tonya said you’d be
back in town. I’ve spent the day looking at the pension fund reports. Have you
had a chance to review them yet?”

Maggie replied that she had just started and asked
him if he had come to any conclusions. Alex let out a heavy sigh and spent the
next thirty minutes going over his notes. Maggie listened attentively and
interrupted him only occasionally for clarification. “I don’t want to sway your
analysis,” he said. “But I don’t think the information can be interpreted any
other way.”

“I don’t think so either,” Maggie agreed. “I’ll
get through this material tonight, and I’ll call you in the morning if I
disagree with you or have anything to add. Assuming I corroborate your
conclusions, we need to bring this information to the committee as soon as
possible.”

“If I haven’t heard from you by ten tomorrow
morning, I’ll call Tonya,” Alex said.

 “You sound exhausted. There’s nothing more
to do tonight. Go home, try to relax and get a good night’s sleep,” Maggie
added in a motherly tone.

***

Tonya Holmes arrived at Scanlon
& Ryan shortly before five on Wednesday night. She wanted to copy an agenda
and set out materials before the committee arrived at five thirty. The call
from Alex the morning before had confirmed their worst fears. She wondered if
this small group could tackle what appeared to be ingrained and pervasive
corruption in the town’s government.

Beth was the next to arrive, toting homemade
hummus and crudités for the group to snack on. She set her refreshments in the
center of the conference table and went in search of the coffee maker to brew a
fresh pot.

Sam and Maggie pulled in right after each other at
five thirty. Alex’s assistant told them that he was wrapping up a call and
would be right in. Maggie doodled on her agenda and kept an anxious eye on the
door, watching for John. He had not arrived by the time Alex joined them at
five forty-five.

Tonya thanked them all for coming and invited
Maggie to recap her conclusions from her review of the bank statements.
Everyone listened attentively. The mood in the room was somber. Tonya then
turned the floor over to Alex to report on the pension fund.

“Maggie and I both reviewed the paperwork. We’ve
reached the same conclusion. The fund currently manages slightly in excess of
forty million dollars in assets. As you know, Ron Delgado is the investment
advisor. The pension fund has never had an independent audit.

“Delgado ran the pension fund as if it were his
personal piggy bank,” Alex said. “He invested the pension fund heavily in commercial
property in this part of the state. We need to do more research, but it appears
that he’s made loans on a number of strip malls, both of the new golf courses,
and one of the resorts. We have a list of the properties from the fine print in
the latest annual report. We’ll need to find out exactly who owns them and what
the loan terms are. He’s also loaned money on at least twenty-five condos in
the Miami, Florida, area. Again, we need to know what they’re worth and who
owns them. We don’t know if the amounts of the loans were appropriate or if
someone was using the loans as a way to skim money from the fund. And we don’t
know if the loans are being repaid.

“We might find that these were good investments at
the time, and that the recession has affected the fund and nothing more
sinister has occurred,” he continued.

This remark was greeted with grunts and moans of
disbelief.

“I don’t think so, either,” Alex agreed. “I bet
we’ll find that these loans were all made to Wheeler and his crowd. Some of the
loan proceeds were probably used legitimately, but I’ll bet that a significant
portion of the money can’t be accounted for. And that these condos in Florida
are taxpayer-subsidized vacation homes.”

“What research do we need to do?” Sam asked. “If
you want to know about the condition of the properties here and whether they’re
occupied or not, I can drive around and do that for you. I’ve probably done
maintenance on most of them. If I know the tenants, I can ask questions and
find out about the landlords. I’ll just need that list.”

Beth leaned forward. “I desperately wanted to find
that everything was in order. But the more I thought about the people involved,
the more nervous I got. Wheeler was one of my students, and he was always up to
no good. With what I’ve heard tonight, I’m convinced we’ve got a big problem.
My brother-in-law is Tim Knudsen. He’s the realtor with signs all over town.
He’s got all the contacts we need to get the ownership and mortgage documents
on these properties. And I know he’s interested in this because we talked about
it last week. If you approve, I’ll ask him to get the information for us, and
I’ll organize it all into an Excel spreadsheet,” she offered, proud to contribute.

“I was just going to suggest Tim,” Sam said. “I do
a lot of handyman work for him. He’ll be discreet. We can assess the properties
together, and get the info to you.”

“Perfect,” Tonya declared. “You know, after I
talked to Maggie and Alex, I was feeling daunted by all of this. And now, I’m
feeling like we’ve got the right team to get this thing turned around. I can’t
thank you all enough. It may take some time to gather this information, but how
about we all get together next Wednesday, same time, to see where we’re at?”

Electronic and old-fashioned paper calendars were
consulted and the consensus was that Wednesday nights were open and would be
reserved for a standing meeting. “One last thing,” Alex said and paused until
all eyes were upon him. “We’re looking at major corruption here. Felonies.
Possibly mob connections. We need to be very cautious. Don’t talk about what
you’re investigating or what you’ve found out, other than within this group,”
he admonished. “At least for now.”

The mood in the room was somber as John rushed in
with apologies for being late. “Looks like you’re all done,” he observed as
people were rising and retrieving coats.

Alex asked Maggie to stay back so they could give
John a summary of the meeting. Beth told them to keep the hummus. “I know
John,” she said. “He was probably too busy to eat lunch.”

“Cat lovers are the best cooks,” he teased. “I’m
starved. I appreciate it. I’ll drop the plate by your front door tomorrow.”

John ate while Alex and Maggie filled him in on
their research and conclusions. “Embezzlement from the general fund and
probably from the pension fund, plus insider investments. We’re turning over
some big rocks here,” John said. “I hope everyone knows to be careful and keep
quiet.”

“We covered that very issue, and everyone knows
we’re playing with fire,” Alex assured him.

“So Sam and Tim will get us info on the pension
fund investments, but how can we find out about the offshore accounts
implicated in the general fund transfers?” John asked.

“Unless our source at Town Hall can give us some
additional documentation,” Alex answered, “they’ll have to turn it over voluntarily,
or we’ll need to subpoena the town. I’m researching how to do that. I’m
doubtful that they’ll cooperate voluntarily, no matter how much public pressure
we put on them.”

Alex yawned and looked at his watch. Maggie stood,
saying that it was late and she needed to get home to feed Eve. John gathered
up the now empty serving dish and helped her with her coat. When they reached
Maggie’s car, John held her door. How long had it been since a man had opened
her car door for her? Maggie wondered. Paul had abandoned this gallant gesture
years ago. She murmured her thanks as she made a conscious effort to get into
her seat as gracefully as possible.

“How about I pick you up at five thirty on
Saturday? Wear pants and clothes you can move in. Dress warm. It’s supposed to
be a clear day, and we’ll be outside for about an hour.”

Maggie’s emotions ran the gamut from elation that
he had not forgotten about their date (is that what this was?) to terror that
he had remembered (good Lord, was she going on a date after all of these
years?). She returned his smile, hoping to hide the panic she felt, and answered
in as casual a tone as she could muster, “Perfect. Will do. Thanks for the
heads up. So—what do you have planned?”

He cocked one brow. “I thought you wanted more
surprises in your life. How about we let this be one?” He was enjoying the bit
of mystery he was creating. “I remember you said you didn’t know what you liked
to do for fun. Well, one of the things we’re going to do is something you used
to be good at. I thought that would be a good place to start. Don’t worry about
a thing. We’ll have fun. And if you don’t like it, we’ll do something else,” he
assured her. “How does that sound?”

His manner and his very presence were a balm to
her. His face was hidden in shadow, but she sensed his concerned gaze.
He’s
put a lot of thought into this,
she realized with surprise. Maggie felt a
sudden surge of tenderness toward him. “I’m sure it will be great fun and I
can’t wait,” she replied. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his step
held more spring in it as he walked to his car.

Chapter 12

Grateful to get off work a few
minutes early, Sam pulled the list of pension fund properties from a folder as
he turned out of the school parking lot at two forty-five on Thursday
afternoon. Maggie was true to her word and didn’t mind that he wouldn’t finish
painting her kitchen until Saturday. He and Tim were going to meet at seven
after the realty office cleared out. He had time to do an assessment of three
or four properties before then.

The afternoon was sunny, with wispy clouds set
high in a vibrant blue sky. He loved driving on the curving roads he knew so
well. He accelerated up a hill and around to the right as he approached a small
strip mall. He pulled in and parked in front of the Thai restaurant at the
north end. In midafternoon, the restaurant was empty and the hostess sat on a
stool by the door, listlessly swinging one foot while talking on a cell phone.
She raised her head and nodded at Sam through the window as he passed by.

Only a handful of cars were in the lot at this
time of day. Tenants consisted of a dry cleaner, a cell phone store, an
optometrist, a beauty supply, and a physical therapy center. The therapist was
the only one that looked busy. While Sam inspected the center’s physical condition,
two cars arrived: parents dropping off school-aged kids getting therapy for
sports injuries. The lot and building were in good shape, and even if business
did not appear to be booming, all of the spaces were leased and open for
business. Sam made notes on a pad of paper.

The next property was larger, with bigger stores.
Two buildings by the main entrance stood empty. One had been home to a movie
rental store, and the other had been a branch office of a major bank. Neither
survived the Recession. It appeared that the theme of this center was discount
goods. It housed a used appliance retailer, a thrift shop benefitting the local
hospital, a clothing consignment store that catered to the young and hip, and
the Forever Friends animal shelter. This center was busy. The clothing store
was packed with high school kids, socializing more than shopping. Groups of
teens were clustered by their cars in the parking lot.

The thrift store was empty, and he recognized the
volunteer behind the counter. Debra attended his church. “I didn’t know you
worked here,” he said as he entered.

“I volunteer three afternoons a week,” she told
him. “I’m good at bargain hunting and thought they could use my help. I usually
work in the back, sorting through the donations and pricing things. I also do
the displays,” she said proudly, sweeping her arm toward the store behind her.
“I’ve arranged things by color. I got the idea from that home-goods store at
the mall. Looks terrific there, and I think it works even better here. Plus our
prices are a fraction of what you pay there,” she said. Before he could reply,
she continued, “We’re short-handed this week, so I’ve been working the
register. It’s been pretty steady all day. Only got quiet a few minutes ago.”

Sam remembered that Debra was a nonstop talker and
realized that this trait might be an advantage now. She launched into a tirade
about the way the kids clogged up the lot after school, probably driving away
customers. When she paused to take a sip of her coffee, Sam asked, “Does your
roof leak? I couldn’t help but notice the stains on the ceiling.”

Debra laughed. “You are a handyman through and
through, aren’t you? Yes, the roof leaks. Has the whole time we’ve been here.
We pay exorbitant rent to some out-of-state landlord that never fixes anything.
You don’t even get to talk to a person when you call. You can only leave a
message. We’ve sent letters with our rent checks, but it does no good.
Personally, I would break our lease and move out, but the hospital board won’t
even consider it. They say that the income is good enough and don’t want to
stir up trouble by breaking the lease. It’s an out-of-state landlord, for
heaven’s sake. What do we care? I don’t see it myself,” she said.

“The appliance store can’t get their repairs made,
either—I talk to those girls. They say the same thing, their management
is afraid to rock the boat. Except at the consignment store. They get
everything they want, and the landlord doesn’t make them stick to any of the
rules about keeping the parking lot and sidewalks clean, or anything. I don’t
get that. Of all the tenants, they are the worst. Those kids drive around here
like maniacs, leave fast-food trash all over the lot, and intimidate the other
shoppers. They even take the handicapped spots,” she huffed as she peered over
her half-moon spectacles at him. She lowered her voice and leaned in. “I
suspect that some of them are selling drugs in that lot. I’ve seen how they do
it on TV. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that’s what’s going on.

Sam looked dutifully shocked and thought that she
might be on to something. Before he could comment, she straightened and said,
“You didn’t come in here to chat with me. Are you looking for something in
particular?”

Not a good spontaneous liar, Sam collected his
thoughts as he cast his glance around the shop. He spotted a small ceramic vase
and said that he wanted to surprise Joan with flowers and get her something new
to put them in. He indicated the vase and Debra praised him for his good taste
as she wrapped it carefully in newspaper and collected the three-dollar price.
Sam made a mental note to buy Joan flowers as he headed to his truck.

***

Frank Haynes turned into the
shopping center, a malnourished lab secured in the large crate in his backseat.
He was following the driveway around to the back entrance of Forever Friends
when he spotted an older man with a slight limp walking purposefully toward a
truck at the far end of the lot.
He’s out of place,
Haynes mused.

Haynes completed the intake paperwork quickly and
skipped the one ritual that he truly enjoyed: spending time with the animals.
The receptionist was surprised when Haynes shook his head and snapped that he
didn’t have time to take any of the dogs out to the exercise pen. This was a
first, she thought, but based upon his brusque manner, she didn’t comment.

Haynes snatched his keys off the counter and
headed out the door without a backward glance. When he drove around to the
front of the center, he was dismayed to see that the truck was still there and
that the man was eyeing the area in front of the consignment store.
What the
hell is he still doing here?
Haynes quickly pulled into a parking spot and
awkwardly craned his neck to see what was so interesting.

Both men observed three boys and one girl
surrounding an older male, probably in his late twenties, off to one side.
Their heads were bent, looking at something the man was holding. They weren’t
laughing and jostling, or engaging in the easy conversations of the other
groups. Obviously a drug buy.

Damn those Delgado brothers,
Haynes
seethed.
They never know when to stop! I was a fool to allow them into this.
They knew the rules: no drugs, no prostitutes, no numbers running anywhere
near the shopping centers. Clean financial fraud they’d be able to cover up forever.
That’s why I agreed to those condos in Florida; they can run their girls and
dope down there. White trash, bottom-feeding petty thugs.

Haynes turned back to the truck at the far end of
the lot.
That nosey bastard is still here. He knows what’s going on. I’ll
bet the other tenants do, too. Not to mention the high-school kids.

Haynes watched the man start up his truck and pull
out of the lot. He followed. The man’s next two stops—both at centers
that were part of their scheme—confirmed Haynes’ worst fears. Someone was
on to them. Haynes ground his teeth as he spun his car around and accelerated
back to his office. No sense letting this bastard in the truck know that he was
being followed. He reached into the giant bottle of antacids he kept in his
console and popped a handful like they were M&Ms. Time to make sure that
everything was in place to finger Wheeler. And that nothing could lead to
himself.

***

Dr. John Allen was busy that
Thursday afternoon as well. He had a rare break between patients and decided to
drive out to venerable old restaurant and inn on the outskirts of town known as
The Mill. Built in 1922 on the site of a nineteenth-century sawmill that
harnessed power from the Shawnee River, nothing remained of the original
structure except the old red bricks that had been reused when the inn was built
and the wood from the millwheel that had been incorporated into the bar. The
Mill had seen its ups and downs over the decades. When it opened, it housed a
still and speakeasy. During the thirties a fire destroyed the structure and
locals considered it a point of pride that patrons carried the bar out of the
burning restaurant to the safety of the lawn and continued to drink while the
rest burned to the ground. The restaurant and bar were rebuilt and The Mill
left its wild adolescence behind and settled into middle age as a gracious retreat
of comfort and hospitality.

In a bid to attract families and a younger crowd,
The Mill operated an outdoor skating rink in the winter months. Weather was
unpredictable and synthetic ice was now readily available and more dependable,
so The Mill offered skating on its synthetic rink set on the banks of the
Shawnee. It was this rink that drew John to The Mill that afternoon.

The restaurant was deserted except for an elderly
couple lingering over coffee as John approached the hostess stand. A trim young
woman in a conservative black dress and heels approached him with a smile. “Dr.
Allen. I’m Katie McConnell. You take care of our cat, Felix. Lunch?” she asked.
“We’ve closed the restaurant until dinner, but I’m sure we can serve you
something at the bar,” she offered.

“Not necessary,” John said. “I’ve come to make
reservations for dinner Saturday night and to see if the ice rink will still be
open on Saturday. Your website said that you close it down the end of February,
but I see that it’s still there.”

“We aren’t planning on having it open. No one
wants to skate in March anymore. I guess we’re all too anxious for spring. The
maintenance crew is taking it down on Monday.”

“Any chance I could pay for a couple of hours of
exclusive use of the rink? Make it worth your while to keep it open for me?” he
asked.

“You know ...” Katie said. “I’m sure we could. How
many people are you bringing?”

“Just me and my date,” he said, and the words
sounded both foreign and welcome to his ears. “She used to skate as a kid, and
I thought it would be fun. I played hockey when I was young but haven’t been on
skates for years. Hope I don’t break a hip,” he added.

“No. I’m sure you won’t,” Katie said reassuringly.
“It’s like riding a bike. You’ll see.”

John made the arrangements, thanked Katie, and
whistled his way back to his car.

***

Sam waited in his truck across the
street from New Way Realty until only Tim’s car remained in the lot. He knocked
on the locked back door at seven fifteen, and Tim immediately let him in. The
two old friends were not in the mood for small talk. They both had information
to share.

They headed to the break room to brew a fresh pot
of coffee. Sam broke the ice by telling Tim he had driven around to several of
the pension fund properties that afternoon and his conclusions were not
comforting. Two of the centers were well maintained; two were not. Two of them
were fully leased; the others were half vacant. He then recounted his
conversation with Debra at the hospital thrift shop and his observation of a
suspected drug deal in the parking lot.

Tim listened thoughtfully. “This ties in to what I
found,” he said. The two men took the pot of coffee to a conference room. Tim
slid a stack of papers over to Sam. “I’ve printed out all of the ownership
records for the properties that the pension fund has loans on. I’ve printed out
the loan documents, too,” he added. “They fall into two different groups. One
set of properties is owned by Wheeler or his cronies or offshore entities. The
other properties are owned by people I’ve known for years who try to make their
living as decent landlords. I gave copies to Beth, and she’s going to put it
all in her spreadsheet tonight. I thought we could drive around and look at the
properties together. You could determine their condition, and I could come up
with a rough guess as to their value.”

Sam agreed. “Let’s look at the documents on the
centers I went to this afternoon. I’ll bet we’ll find that the well-maintained
ones are owned by the Wheeler bunch and the struggling centers are owned by the
honest landlords.”

“I’m guessing Wheeler has big loans with low
payments and below-market interest rates,” Tim added. “And the other loans have
adjustable rates and huge payments that are crushing the honest landlords. They
may be driving the honest ones out of business and buying their distressed
properties for a song at foreclosure, without anyone suspecting that they are
part of a conspiracy to drive them out of business. The more we look into this,
the worse it gets.”

 “Pretty clever plan they had going,” Sam
said. “Don’t they call it predatory lending? If they hadn’t done so much of it
and jeopardized payments to pensioners, we would never have investigated.”

Tim nodded. “Yep—that’s what happens when
you get greedy. And this group is really greedy.”

***

Chuck Delgado was nervously pacing
in his upstairs office while Russell Isaac wearily scanned a discarded copy of
the morning’s sports section.

“For Pete’s sake, Chuck. I’m too old for this two
a.m. clandestine-meeting nonsense. Why the hell couldn’t we have met with him
earlier? Next time, grow some balls when he calls.”

“Why don’t I just let you clean up this mess?
Jackass.”

“Your brother is the genius who was keeping the
tab. He wasn’t supposed to let us run short of money. Didn’t you guys have this
all set up with guaranteed annuities or something like that?”