“Aside from the big check you wrote, did he ask for any more monies?”
“I don’t think so.”
She was confused. Which check was he talking about?
“The one for $565,000.”
That just didn’t sound right. Could it have been so much?
She blanched, feeling the fool again. He picked up on that, handing her the glass of water that sat on the table.
“I know this is difficult, Mrs Herlihy. But I think you should consider yourself lucky. Most of the time these people prefer wire transfers — the money is then laundered overseas. They have electronic mail-drops where nothing can be traced. This particular group of individuals is off the charts in their degree of sophistication. Very creative. And they clearly enjoy their work! That’s why I’m so anxious to get my hands on them — I enjoy my work as well, and they’re going to find out just how much, believe me. Now, it’s fairly unusual that our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ didn’t become more aggressive about getting a hold of the remainder. (And believe me, they knew exactly what you had, to the penny.) They call that the ‘reload.’ That’s the parlance. And that they didn’t, I think, shows a fair measure of desperation — which is good. But not so good in terms of our catching up with them. I’m worried that they’ve skipped town; maybe even the country. I haven’t put all the pieces together, but one of our main concerns is that he may have learned we were getting extremely close to an arrest. In that case, our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ may have sped things up a bit. Cut his losses, so to speak. But, I want to stress, compared to some of the other marks I’ve spoken to — and remember, these are well-educated people, just like yourself — you, Mrs Herlihy, are one of the lucky ones.”
“I don’t feel very lucky!” she said, with a gracious smile.
“I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. And I shouldn’t have said ‘mark.’ It’s a lousy word.”
“Oh, that’s all right!”
“Is there anything I can do, to help you out? I mean, aside from finding the sonofabitch, pardon my French.”
“Well…I haven’t told my daughter yet. I’ve been wanting to call, but I’m just — so—embarrassed.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Joan. She’s an architect.”
“Would you like my professional opinion, Mrs Herlihy?”
“Yes!”
“I think you should call her. I think you could use all the help and support that’s available, and much of that will come from family. Your daughter is going to have a measure of sophistication and…objectivity—and believe me she is going to want to help — that’s what family is for. You need to know that what happened to you happens to thousands of good people each year. It’s pandemic. And you have to remember it’s the other guys who are bad. You didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs Herlihy. All you did was hope, and trust. So: make the call. Don’t leave your daughter out of this, you can’t afford to — and I don’t mean financially.” He stood. “And not to worry. We’ll catch these guys.”
Before he left, he told her that a “trap” had been installed on the phone line, just in case “our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ ” tried contacting her again. (He didn’t think that likely.) Agent Marone said she could make and receive calls as she normally did; she wouldn’t even know it was there. He also assured her that no one would be listening in on conversations. She was, of course, to alert him immediately should anyone from the gang get in touch.
SHE felt a little better, but couldn’t bring herself to think about having lost most of Ham’s legacy. He’d have been so upset with her. How stupid! One always expected this sort of disaster to happen to others — but there she was.
She went next door.
The grandkids were trying to play with Pahrump, but he cowered in a corner as if they were strangers. Cora said the veterinary people told her that wasn’t uncommon, given what her baby went through. She said that a special psychologist who knew the inner workings of the minds of dogs was going to make a housecall and maybe put Mr P on television. The grandchildren were so excited about the prospect, you would have thought it was Christmas! The world would finally see Pahrump for what he was — King Charles the 1st!
EARLY that evening, Agent Marone called. “Are you sitting down?” he said, warmly. There was a break in the case and they were about to make an arrest. He asked if he could drop by. “I have a little present for you.”
He came within the hour, accompanied by a woman in a blue business suit who worked at Wells. She smiled and presented Marj with a check for a hundred-thousand dollars. That was the amount the old woman’s money market account was insured for by the FDIC — and because of Agent Marone’s efforts, the bank had drastically shortened the reimbursement period, cutting through the red tape with a little-known statute that such funds might possibly be used to aid an ongoing federal investigation.
The agent winked at Marj and said, “We have our methods.”
She wiped away a tear and thanked both of them.
“This is marvelous.”
“A hundred thousand down, 450,000 to go,” he said, patting her arm.
But he’d said they were about to make an arrest…
“2 people matching the descriptions of ‘Bonita’ and our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ were in your branch only hours ago, just as it was closing. Guess what they wanted to know: your current balance. Now, that was a gross misstep — and a clear indication the gang is getting sloppy.”
“My balance?”
She was befuddled.
“They told the clerk that you were ill, and they’d been granted POA — power of attorney.”
The woman in the business suit spoke up.
“They even presented documents to my branch manager — very authentic-looking documents — a fairly amazing thing to do considering the current climate of fraud directed toward the elderly.”
“It’s the equivalent of waving a red flag — and they know it.”
“I’ve been in this business many years and stranger things have happened, but this…well, it’s pretty close to flabbergasting. They were cool as cucumbers.”
“And this is one cucumber we’re going to slice and dice — with your help, Mrs Herlihy.”
“It’s like a Sherlock Holmes!” said Marj.
“We’ll make a Miss Marple out of you yet,” said the agent.
LXI.Joan
HE asked her to fly with him to Paris for the weekend.
They hadn’t discussed the pregnancy any further.
There were 3 pilots and 3 stewards, 2 master suites, and a full spa. The bathrooms had special black toilet paper from Spain.
She was a little under the weather, but the Ritz didn’t make her feel any worse. On both days, Lew had a full slate of meetings, except for when he insisted she come with him to the Marais to look at a 4 foot tall 122-lb Christian Bailly automata, a complex mechanical figure called the Bird Trainer, in the lineage of 18th century creations. It took 6 years to build. 6 years = $6,000,000. Joan thought everyone was kidding.
She liked spending time alone.
The Bentley — which for some reason had a sink in the back — shuttled her to anonymous vintage clothiers, hidden away in unlikely arrondissements. Lew kept the car in its own climate-controlled “condo,” and the driver-caretaker lived above. He could view his collection, including a Czech Tantra 87 and a 1933 Maybach Zeppelin, on a Webcam from wherever he was in the world. He told her the Maybach’s orange paint had been matched to a Moroccan ex girlfriend’s pubes. Joan said, “TMI, Lew,” and he laughed.