Keep Quiet (28 page)

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. “I’m persistent.”

“Did he tell you how much money he had?”

“No.”

“But you still tried to sign him, as you say?”

“Yes.”

“You tried that hard to sign him, but you didn’t even know how much money he had?”

“Yes.” Jake could see he wasn’t buying it.

“You must really have wanted his business.” Detective Zwerling frowned so deeply, three lines creased his brow.

“I really want everybody’s business.” Jake could see he had to convince him. “To be frank, five years ago, I lost my job. It turned out okay, I founded Gardenia, but I never want to go back there again. It’s a mentality.”

Detective Zwerling blinked. “How typical is it that a client doesn’t tell you how much money he has?”

“Very typical.”

“How so?”

“Clients like him, who aren’t referred to us by an accountant, estates lawyer, or a banker, aren’t well-versed in what we do. Like Detective Woo.” Jake gestured casually at the younger man. “Not everybody in that situation wants to disclose their assets. They’re concerned about confidentiality. They don’t understand, or really trust, that all of their financial information is confidential. We’re very careful about that here.”

Detective Zwerling made another note, then looked up at Jake, cocking his head. “Did Mr. Voloshin tell you where he worked as a freelancer?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you his salary or anything about his finances?”

“No.”

“Again, you didn’t ask?”

“No. I don’t want to come off as prying, too early in the relationship. I never begin a relationship with a new client by asking them about their assets, because as I say, they regard it as prying. I give them my sales pitch and explain how we can tailor their portfolio to meet their investment goals.” Jake gestured at Detective Woo again. “As I told you, the truth is, it doesn’t matter how much money someone may have. I know I can grow it over time, no matter how much it is, and that’s the point I make at the outset.”

Detective Zwerling didn’t seem impressed. “Did he tell you where he kept his money? What his bank was?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask him that either?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Same deal.”

Detective Zwerling lifted an unruly eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. When you talked to Mr. Voloshin, you had no idea if he even had the money to invest?”

“Yes that’s right.” Jake stole a glance at the credenza clock—10:54. He began to sweat under his starched shirt.

“How do you know he wasn’t wasting your time?”

“I don’t, but most people don’t come in if they don’t have the money or close to it. In any event, I think long-term. They may not have it now, but they could someday.”

“Did Voloshin seem wealthy, to you?”

“I never make an assumption about how much money anyone has by their appearance or their manner. My assistant Amy calls it paydar, and my paydar is terrible.” Jake smiled when Detective Woo did, though Detective Zwerling didn’t. “Mr. Voloshin wasn’t an ostentatious man, but I know from experience that someone like that could have a fortune socked away, or they could be a waiter.”

Detective Zwerling frowned again. “You mean a waiter, like in a restaurant?”

“No,” Jake answered, grasping for purchase on the terra firma of shop talk. “In my profession, a waiter is somebody who’s waiting for an inheritance. They live on the interest of trusts during most of their adult life and many of them live very frugally. They tend to look and act like Mr. Voloshin.”

Detective Woo clapped his hands together, smiling. “You mean they’re
waiting
for their parents to die? Oh, that’s
cold.
”

Jake flushed. The clock read 10:56. “I didn’t make up the term. We all use it. I guess it is harsh.”

“
Waiters!
” Detective Woo laughed.

“Enough, Richie.” Detective Zwerling pursed his lips. “To get back on track, Jake, did Voloshin tell you that he expected to be coming into money?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he ask you about setting up an offshore account for him?”

“No, he didn’t. In point of fact, we’re not a bank, so we don’t set up any bank accounts, offshore or otherwise. We’re an investment company and we invest our clients’ money in stocks, bonds, and the like.”

Detective Zwerling hesitated. “We did find evidence that would suggest Voloshin had set up an offshore account, himself. We’re trying to understand where the money to fund it would be coming from. Do you have any information about where Voloshin was getting the money?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

“None.”

“Where do your clients usually get money from?”

“What about inheritance?” Jake shrugged, casually.

“Don’t think so. He has a mother and we notified her as NOK, or next-of-kin. But she’s upstate in a nursing facility, with insurance footing the bills. Did he mention anything to you about a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Detective Zwerling frowned. “He didn’t mention a girlfriend?”

“No.” Jake wondered if Voloshin had a girlfriend, because the detective’s tone sounded surprised.

“There was no talk of providing for anyone?”

“No, no beneficiary or anything like that.”

“Didn’t you think that was strange, since he had told you he had a son, and an ex-wife?”

“No, because as I say, he didn’t give me much information at all. He played it close to the vest, and I pitched him.”

Detective Zwerling pursed his lips as he took notes. “So he didn’t say anything to you about a woman.”

“No.”

“Did you see what kind of car he drove?”

“No.”

Detective Woo shrugged, glancing again at Detective Zwerling. “Give it up. I’m telling you, I’m right.”

“Give what up?” Jake sneaked a glimpse of the credenza clock—10:59.

Detective Woo answered, “One of the tenants heard Voloshin arguing with a woman last night and saw a brunette leaving his—”

“Richie,” Detective Zwerling interrupted. “Enough.”

Detective Woo fell silent, and Jake remembered that Kathleen’s mother was a brunette. Maybe she had found out that Voloshin was stalking her daughter. But he didn’t know why she would kill him.

Detective Zwerling returned his attention to Jake. “To move on, Voloshin was never married. He had no ex-wife. No kids either. This isn’t confidential, it’ll be in the newspapers.”

Jake faked a confused frown. “But he said he was watching his son at the basketball game.”

“That wasn’t true.”

“So he’s not a dad? He doesn’t have a kid on the team?” Jake recoiled in fraudulent shock. The clock read 11:00. Either the transfer was stopped, or he was dead. The realization stressed him to the max. His heart beat wildly, throwing itself against the inside of his chest, as if it were trying to escape his very body.

“You say that financial planners don’t set up offshore accounts?” Detective Zwerling set down his notebook, laying his pen on top.

Jake tried to recover. “No.”

“So why did he want to meet you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thought we did, mistakenly.”

Detective Zwerling narrowed his eyes, making his crow’s-feet look even deeper. “But you said he didn’t ask you if you did.”

Jake felt his mouth go dry. “Maybe he decided against it, after he saw the offices or something.”

“But why did he come to you, in particular?”

“Because we met at the game.” Jake struggled not to choke on his words. “I pitched him. I wanted him to come in.”

“Then why would he lie to you about the son, and the ex-wife? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know. Maybe to fit in, to make himself seem more normal, more like one of my clients?”

“But why? Why you? Did he go to the game to meet you?”

“I don’t know. I am one of the top ten independent financial planners in the region, rated by
Barron’s.
The other top guys are in Philly and Pittsburgh.”

“So why not just come to your office, like any other client? Why make up some story and meet you at the game?” Detective Zwerling shook his head, his dissatisfaction evident.

“Maybe he didn’t want to wait until Monday.”

“But how does he even know you’ll be at the game?”

“My son’s a well-known high-school basketball player, in the newspapers all the time. It’s a logical assumption I’d be there.” Jake didn’t elaborate. He wanted to keep Ryan’s name out of it altogether.

“Do you go to his games?”

“Not all of them, but this was the playoffs. I go then.” Jake saw a way out. “So maybe Voloshin made it a point to run into me. Maybe he thought he’d feel me out at the game, then he listened to my pitch and decided to come in, but saw that we don’t do the kind of thing he was interested in.”

“Why didn’t he ask you about it then?”

“An offshore account? Would you, if you saw this place?” Jake gestured at the conference room. “We’re obviously not the kind of place that deals in shady offshore accounts. We don’t even breathe that word around here.”

“Hmph.” Detective Zwerling paused. “Anyway, so he expected to come into money. But I don’t know where he expected to get it from. Do you have any idea?”

“No.”

“In your practice, or whatever you call it, how do clients generally come into money?”

“Inheritance, gift, stock windfall. He could’ve even won the lottery. I have two lottery winners among my clients.”

Detective Woo’s face came alive. “The
lottery
? Whoa! That’s incredible! What’s it like to win the lottery?”

Detective Zwerling snorted. “It ruins your life, right?”

Detective Woo laughed. “Come on, Bill! Only
you
could find something wrong with free money! It’s the best thing
ever
!”

Detective Zwerling snorted again. “Be careful what you wish, grasshopper.”

“Winning the lottery can be a wonderful thing,” Jake jumped in, relieved to change the subject. “I’ve seen it change lives for the better.”

“Tell me!” Detective Woo leaned forward. “What do they do when they win? Give a party? Buy a Lamborghini? If I won, I’d take all of my buddies to Cabo!”

“Not on my watch.” Jake managed a smile. “We’d discuss it, but I’d invest you consistent with your goals, and I’d refer you to an accountant, a private bank, and an estates lawyer.”

Detective Zwerling scowled. “And a shrink, because you’ll need one.”

Jake let it go, and the clock ticked to 11:02. Suddenly his phone signaled that a text had come in. He rose and reached for his pocket, looking for an excuse to end the meeting. It had to be Harold or Marie, calling with the best or worst news of his life. “Detectives, excuse me, I was waiting for that text and I need to make a call. We’re finished here, aren’t we?”

“Well, yes, I suppose we’re done.” Detective Zwerling flipped his pad closed. “For now.”

For now.
Jake fled for the door, glancing at his phone screen. The text wasn’t from Harold or Marie, but from Pam, and it read:

Don’t worry. I took care of Voloshin.

Chapter Thirty-five

Jake pressed in Pam’s cell-phone number, hurrying back through the reception area to his office. He’d been expecting to hear from Harold, not his wife. What did she have to do with Voloshin? And last night? It struck him suddenly that Pam could be the brunette that the detectives were talking about, who had been spotted at Voloshin’s apartment complex.

Oh my God
.

Jake hustled down the hall and caught Amy’s eye. Pam wouldn’t have
killed
Voloshin, would she? It was almost unthinkable, but she was the best mother on the planet. Would she have killed Voloshin to protect Ryan?

Jake waited for the call to connect while he motioned to Amy that he was finished with the detectives and she should see them out. He slipped into his office and closed the door behind him. “Babe?” he said, as soon as Pam picked up. “What did you—”

“I
told
you not to call me.” Pam’s voice sounded thick with frost. “If I wanted to speak with you, I would’ve called you. I spent last night and this morning cleaning up after your mess. Plus I stopped by the mall, bought Ryan a new phone, then dropped it off at school. Now I have to get to work and I can’t take the time—”

“Pam, what did you mean by that text?” Jake hurried across his office to his window, so that he could see when the police left the building. His heart was pounding in his chest. His shirt was damp with flop sweat. “We have to talk—”

“The hell we do, and I’m driving. The traffic is terrible and I’m not about to get killed because you want to kiss and make up—”

“It’s not about us, it’s about your text. What did you do to Voloshin?”

“I handled the situation. I don’t think it’s wise to talk about it over the phone.”

“Why not? Pam, what did you do?”

“Trust me. Not over the phone and not now.” Suddenly Pam gasped. “
Damn
you! I almost hit that truck! Haven’t you caused enough trouble? I’m hanging up—”

“No, don’t! Pam, the police were just here.” Jake was about to explain when he heard his phone signal that another call was coming in. He prayed it was Harold or Marie. He glanced at the screen, which showed Harold’s cell-phone number. He had to find out whether the transfer had been stopped. “Pam, where are you?”

“In Fraser, about to get onto 202.”

“Meet me at the quarry, there won’t be anyone around. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“The quarry? What quarry?”

“Where we used to go, you know, when Ryan was little. Go in the entrance we used to use.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“See you there. Good-bye.” Jake pressed
END
and picked up Harold’s call, breathless. “Harold, did you stop the transfer?”

“Yes, but what the hell is going on—”

“Thank God!” Jake almost shouted with relief. He leaned for support against the large glass window, leaving a sweaty handprint. Outside, the police hadn’t yet appeared, leaving the building. “Harold, you’re
sure
you were able to stop the transfer?”