Part 6 (1/2)
”No,” said Stillman. ”They may even add five inches to your pen back in the stable.”
”How do you know?”
”McClaren's is a peculiar operation. There are lots of bigger companies. They're probably more efficient and their rates are cheaper. What gets people to do business with McClaren's is the same thing that got you to work for them. It's the name. If McClaren's refused to pay that Werfel character on his father's insurance policy-for any reason, legal or illegal-it would be the beginning of the end.”
”If enough people heard about it, maybe, but-”
”Of course they would. Rich people know other rich people. They go to the same two hundred private schools, then the same twenty-five colleges. They take vacations-more of them than other people do-in the same seventy-five spots on the earth, where they stay at the same seventy-five hotels. I'll bet it's sometimes hard for them to believe that the world contains six billion people, because they spend their whole lives b.u.mping into the same six thousand. They won't talk to anybody but each other. And they file lawsuits. If Werfel v. McClaren Werfel v. McClaren got filed, McClaren's would have to settle quick and throw in a few million extra to soothe Werfel's ego and rea.s.sure everybody else.” got filed, McClaren's would have to settle quick and throw in a few million extra to soothe Werfel's ego and rea.s.sure everybody else.”
”I saved them money?”
”Lots. Also probably Winters's a.s.s. They wouldn't fire him for being fooled; they might for being dishonest.”
Walker scowled. ”Why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell me that?”
Stillman shrugged. ”It wouldn't count if you had known the right thing was also the smart thing. You had to say to yourself, 'If this job means I have to stiff this guy, then they can stick the job in their ear.' Now you'll never have to wonder.”
”What if I'd made the wrong decision?”
”The wrong decision?”
”What if I had looked at those two and said to myself, 'Alan Werfel is just a rich a.s.shole who is going to get richer, and Winters is probably a decent, hard-working man who started with nothing and isn't all that much better off now, and will probably lose his job. He's fighting for his life, and I should let him take his shot at it?'”
”You wouldn't be much of an a.n.a.lyst if you couldn't figure out that much.”
”That doesn't answer my question. What would you have done?”
”Nothing,” said Stillman. ”I'm not in the insurance business.”
Stillman was gliding along Colorado Boulevard when, without warning, he braked and swung quickly into a driveway. Walker made a grab for the dashboard, but his seat belt tightened across his chest and held him, his hands grasping nothing. ”What?” he gasped. ”What's wrong?” He held the door handle, not knowing whether to get out or clutch it in case Stillman accelerated out again. Walker was vaguely aware that they were in a large parking lot.
”Not a thing,” said Stillman. ”I just happened to see a vacancy sign, and we ought to get a place. There aren't many of them in this part of town.”
Walker's breathing slowed to normal while Stillman eased the car into a parking s.p.a.ce near the entrance to the lobby. ”What happened to the other place on Wils.h.i.+re?”
”Why? Did you leave something in your room?”
”No,” said Walker. ”I just-”
”It's not smart to get too attached to hotels on a case like this,” said Stillman. ”You get too predictable, you're liable to get popped.”
”Popped?” repeated Walker. ”You mean those two guys would kill us?”
Stillman said, ”Unfortunately, Pasadena's finest showed up before I could ask them about that. But somebody stole twelve million bucks. You shouldn't let that slip your mind.”
”That doesn't mean they'd kill us.”
Stillman sighed. ”There's no reason to get all sentimental about it. There are people within a block of here who would kill you for the change in your pockets. I'm pretty sure I'm one of them.” He got out of the car and waited while Walker joined him.
”Then what's the difference between you and them?”
Stillman smiled peacefully. ”If I have enough to stay alive you're safe from me. No matter how much a thief has, he still wants yours.”
8.
Walker found his room and unlocked the door, then realized that Stillman was following him inside. Stillman tossed his pile of files on the bed, sat down, and opened one. He looked up. ”You weren't planning an afternoon nap, were you?”
”No ...”
”Good. Then let's get started.”
Walker set his suitcase down and stood still. ”Doing what?”
”Figuring,” Stillman said. ”It's been three weeks since Andrew Werfel died. He was in New Mexico, and the cause of death was congestive heart failure.” He looked up. ”I suppose you read that on the death certificate.”
”Yes,” said Walker. ”They always say that. Or pneumonia.”
”Yep. It's always heart or lungs. I checked with an acquaintance in Santa Fe, who checked with the coroner's office. The cause was verified. No foul play, as they're fond of saying. Then, after about a week, when the certificate was issued, the bogus Alan Werfel showed up in Pasadena with a copy. He also had Alan Werfel's real ID, and collected a check. Your friend Ellen seems to have handled everything.”
”I saw that too,” said Walker. ”Her signature is on every piece of paper.”
”Another week pa.s.ses, and who calls the Pasadena office but the real Alan Werfel? He wants to know the procedure for collecting on his father's insurance policy.”
”Did he talk to Ellen too?”
”No, Winters. He asked for the manager, so that's who he got. Winters thought it was somebody trying to pull a scam, so he told him what he would need to bring, set up an appointment, and called the cops.”
”What happened?”
”There were two plainclothes cops sitting at those desks out front when he got there. They waited until he had presented his claim, signed some papers, then showed their badges and dragged him downtown. After a couple of hours they managed to get his prints run and realized an apology was in order. They issued a bulletin for a guy who looks just like Werfel and uses Werfel's name.” Stillman smiled. ”I wonder how long it's going to take for Werfel to realize what they've done to him.”
”Is that when McClaren's called you in?”
”Not yet,” said Stillman. ”The company traces the check it issued to the first Alan Werfel a week earlier. It was drawn on Wells Fargo in San Francisco. It was endorsed by the artistic but fake Alan Werfel and deposited in an account at Bank of America.” He nodded to himself. ”This is, not surprisingly, a new account. But it's a different branch of the same bank that Alan Werfel uses, and the check is to Alan Werfel from McClaren's, so it won't bounce. This keeps them calm, and they only put a hold on the three million they can't cover with his other accounts.”
”Where is the money now?”
”It traveled. On day two, the fake Alan Werfel starts moving it fast. He gets a check to a real estate company for a new house. This is one of those certified, guaranteed, immediate-pay cas.h.i.+er's checks for closing escrow. This one is for seven million, six hundred thousand. He gets another check to an insurance company on the same basis: who wants to accept owners.h.i.+p of a seven-million-dollar house with no fire insurance? It's expensive. A hundred grand. Another hundred for earthquake. He also pays two hundred to a contractor as an initial payment for remodeling, four hundred to an interior decorator for antique furniture and s.h.i.+pping, two-forty to a landscape architect. On day five, he pays a million six to an art dealer for paintings. In fact, this guy manages to move ten million, two hundred and forty thousand before noon on day five. Then he takes a one-year lease on another house to live in while his is being fixed up: ten thousand a month for a total of one hundred twenty. He pays a probate lawyer three hundred thousand for settling his father's estate. He even pays for the funeral-twenty grand, plus twenty-five for the caterer.”
”For a funeral?”
”An imaginary one, sure. Why be cheap? That must be the going rate, because it didn't raise any flags. That left the account with a million two ninety-five. He transferred a million two to an account at Union Bank with a notation on the check that it was for the rest of the remodeling, and closed the B. of A. account with ninety-five grand in cash. Presumably for tips.”
”That's it, isn't it?”
”That's it. All before McClaren's knew enough to stop payment on the first check. Of course, each of the imaginary companies had its own account at a different bank. That bought them more time to move it before it could be tracked down.” He paused. ”What I'm interested in is this money at Union Bank.”