Chapter Thirty-four
Jake turned to see the conference-room door opening and Amy ushering in two men, one middle-aged and the other in his early thirties, both dressed in dark suit jackets and slacks.
“Jake,” Amy said, calmly. If she was upset with Jake from his outburst, she was too professional to let it show. “This is Detectives Zwerling and Woo, from Shakertown.”
“Thanks. Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Jake Buckman.” Jake approached them with a false smile and an outstretched hand. He couldn’t tell from their impassive expressions whether they had seen the photos and videos, much less suspected him of Voloshin’s murder.
Amy returned to the door, then paused. “Jake, they didn’t want coffee or anything, so I’ll go.”
“Thanks.” Jake nodded, and Amy slipped out, closing the door behind her.
“I’m Bill Zwerling,” said the middle-aged detective, who had a raspy voice and smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke. He was a chubby five foot seven, with wavy gray hair, slack jaws, and a bulbous nose. His paunch popped through his unbuttoned jacket as he gestured to the younger detective. “This is my partner, Rich Woo. We showed our ID to your secretary, I mean, assistant. But if you want to see—”
“No, that’s okay. Hello, Detective Woo.” Jake extended his hand to Detective Woo, who was tall and lanky, and his grayish suit fit him perfectly at the waist, as if he worked out.
“Good to meet you.” Detective Woo flicked back his glossy black bangs, which flopped longish over his forehead and ears. “My father always says I should see a financial planner. Invest what I’ve saved.”
“Your father’s right. Detectives, please sit down.” Jake gestured them into chairs, giving them the view facing the window. “I’d be happy to advise you, Detective Woo. It’s never too early to start saving for retirement.”
“Problem is, you have no idea what my pay grade is. There’s not a lot left over, if you follow.”
“I hear that, but you have to start somewhere. You’re young, and I wish I knew then what I know now.” Jake met Detective Woo’s gaze, but still couldn’t tell what the police knew or if they suspected him of Voloshin’s murder. He sat down at the head of the conference table, which he hoped would reinforce his credibility.
“How much money do I have to have to use your services, Mr. Buckman? Do you have a minimum?”
“Please call me Jake, and no, not at all. We’d be happy to put you in our Gardenia mutual fund, which contains the same blue-chip stocks that we put high-net-worth individuals in.” Jake checked the walnut clock on the credenza against the far wall. It read 10:28. That transfer had to be stopped or he was dead meat.
“What’s the cutoff, money-wise, between me and high-net worth?”
“Those with assets over $500,000. I’d be happy to meet with you, anytime.”
Detective Zwerling cleared his throat, as he pulled a slim spiral notepad from inside his breast pocket and flipped open its cardboard cover. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? We have a busy day ahead of us.”
“Fine.” Jake forced himself to stop checking the clock so often. He didn’t want to show his hand to the cops, like he had Guinevere LeMenile. “I’m very sorry to hear about Mr. Voloshin’s murder. That came as a shock. We don’t have many of those in Concord Chase.”
“He lived in Shakertown, the north end. Trust me, it happens.” Detective Zwerling shifted in the chair, his belly lipping the table.
“How was he killed?” Jake wanted to make sure he asked any questions that seemed appropriate.
“He was stabbed to death. Another tenant found him in his apartment, because he left his laundry in the washer.”
“Ugh, that’s terrible.” Jake didn’t have to feign repugnance. “Do you have any suspects or is it too soon?”
“Way too soon. It’s not like TV, where the body hits the floor and they already cleared the case.” Detective Zwerling curled his lip in a way that suggested he’d given the lecture before. “Me, I’m a big Dexter fan. They get at least a few episodes to solve the crime.”
“I wonder why somebody would kill him. He seemed like a nice, harmless guy.”
“The details of our investigation are confidential, but his valuables appear to be missing. Wallet, laptop, phone, like that.”
“How sad.” Jake clucked unhappily, though relief surged through him. If Voloshin’s laptop and phone had been stolen, the police probably didn’t know about the video and photos incriminating him and Ryan. Still he couldn’t be certain, and if the wire transfer wasn’t stopped, it could blow everything. He checked the credenza clock as discreetly as possible—10:34.
“Mr. Buckman, Jake, you don’t mind if we tape this, do you?” Detective Woo slid a handheld tape recorder from inside his pocket, pressed a button on the side, and set it down on the table between them.
“No, I don’t mind at all. So how can I help you?” Jake hadn’t anticipated the meeting would be recorded, but his answer appeared to be moot anyway.
“We have a few questions.” Detective Zwerling clicked the back of his pen with a chubby thumb. “Jake, just tell us something about yourself. Family? Residence?”
“I’m married, and we have one son, in high school.” Jake didn’t supply any names, to keep them out of it. “I live in Concord Chase.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty years, and I’ve had the business the past five.”
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough.” Detective Zwerling took notes. “Tell me how you came to meet with Mr. Voloshin.”
“I was at my son’s basketball game at North Mayfield, last Sunday afternoon. He sat next to me.”
“You’re a big guy, Jake. Did you play hoops in high school?”
“No.”
“College?”
“No. I worked.”
“Okay.” Detective Zwerling took notes. “Why was Voloshin at the game, do you know?”
“Yes. He was with North Mayfield and was watching his kid, a sophomore.” Jake decided to stick with the story Voloshin told him, because it was too risky to improvise. He didn’t want the detectives to know that he knew Voloshin had lied about his name, family, job or anything else. He doubted the police had asked Amy any questions, because she knew Voloshin as Deaner, and he doubted the police would go find the tiara moms.
“Did Voloshin tell you what he did for a living, at the game?”
“He was a freelance writer.”
“How long did you speak with him?”
“About five minutes.”
“That’s all?”
“You know how these games are. You end up sitting with people, trying to make conversation or drum up business. Network. I told him I was a financial planner, I gave him a business card, and he said he’d come see me.” Jake heard himself volunteering too much, out of nervousness. “To make a long story short, he came by my office Monday morning and we met.”
“Where, here?” Detective Zwerling took more notes on his pad.
“Yes, but not in the conference room. In my office.”
“For how long did you meet?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“So, short?” Detective Zwerling took another note.
“Yes.”
“Is that typical?”
“No.”
“Why did it end so soon?”
“He seemed like he’d heard enough.” Jake swallowed hard. “He ended it.”
“Did you make notes during the meeting?”
“No.”
“Do you, usually?”
“No.” Jake sneaked a look at the credenza clock—10:40. He could hear it ticking in his brain.
“What did you talk about?”
“I told him about the company and our investment philosophy, like I do with any new client.”
“You were hoping to get his business?”
“Yes, I was hoping to sign him.” Jake kept his answers short. He wasn’t about to take any chances, in case the detectives had somehow seen the photos or video.
“What do you mean, sign him?”
“We have an agreement that new clients sign, called an Investment Advisory Agreement.”
“Did he sign it?”
“No, I didn’t offer it to him. We didn’t get that far.” Jake remembered that he ought to mention his phone call to Voloshin, to preempt any suspicion when the police found Voloshin’s phone records. “By the way, I called him on Monday night, to see if he had any questions or if I could help him further, but he said no.”
Detective Zwerling made a note. “What time did you call him?”
“About nine o’clock or so.”
“After business hours?”
“Yes.” Jake tried not to look at the clock and to keep his focus on Detective Zwerling, in a natural way.
“Is that typical for you to call a client, a prospective client, outside of business hours?”
“Sure, especially if I want his business.” Jake wasn’t lying. “I’m self-employed, so I work all the time.”
“But he turned you down, so why did you call him?”
“To follow up, to make sure.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was thinking it over.”
“I see.” Detective Zwerling made another note. “So then why were you calling him at home, this morning?”
Oops. “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.