Sex, Lies & Serious Money

17

Laurence called Dino Bacchetti and was put through. “Good morning, Dino, how are you?”

“Not bad, Laurence, and you?”

“I’m afraid your advice about bad people in New York has proved to be accurate.”

“I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Nothing like that, only my checking account is damaged. Someone appears to have forged six checks for a total of three hundred thousand dollars.”

Dino excused himself for a moment and covered the phone, then came back. “I’m sending Detectives Kehoe and Grappa of our financial fraud squad over to your place. They’ll be there in half an hour.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Dino.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll personally keep track of the investigation.” They hung up.

Half an hour later, the front desk announced the officers and they were sent up. Laurence met them at the door and escorted them back to Marge’s office. “Marge, these are Detectives Kehoe and Grappa,” he said. “Please walk them through what’s happened.”

Marge did so. “Something else — I’ve just noticed the check numbers, which are higher than the checks I’ve written.” She opened the checkbook. “I discovered that two sheets of three checks each have been ripped out and were used for the forgeries. The bastards are even using the same check-writing machine I use.” She showed them the machine, then she remembered. She dug an index card out of her desk drawer. “I noticed a thumbprint clearly visible on my machine, and I did my best to preserve it.” She handed Kehoe the card.

“Ms. Mason,” Kehoe said, “you’re a very smart lady. If you ever get tired of working for Mr. Hayward, I wish you’d join the NYPD.”

“I watch way too many cop shows on TV,” Marge said.

“We’ll run this print today. Tell me, Mr. Hayward, who has a key to this apartment?”

“Marge, my girlfriend, Theresa Crane, and me. And, of course, the hotel has pass keys. Theresa and I were out of the country when this happened, and she certainly would have had nothing to do with this.”

“Does your girlfriend live here?”

“Yes.”

“Is she here now?”

“No, she’s at work.”

“And who is her employer?”

“Ralph Lauren, at the store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth, but perhaps you’d better call her before you show up.”

They took charge of the canceled checks, asked a lot of questions, then left. Grappa drove over to Fifth Avenue, and Kehoe found Theresa Crane and introduced himself. “Ms. Crane, Mr. Hayward tells us that you have a key to his apartment, and that you were recently out of the country together.”

“That’s correct,” she replied.

“Can you tell us where your key was when you were traveling?”

“In my purse,” she replied, “which was with me the whole time we were gone.”

“Is there anyone else of your acquaintance who might have had access to the key at some point?”

She shook her head. “No one at all.”

“Thank you, Ms. Crane. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother,” she replied.

“If you think of anything else we should know, here’s my card.”

She tucked it into her bra. “Thank you. I’ll call, if I do.”

The detectives returned to the 19th Precinct and processed their evidence. They ran the fingerprint, but there was a computer glitch and a delay for the results. They phoned the manager at the bank that cashed the checks, Harmon Wills.

“Yes, I remember some of those checks,” the man said. “The company, an art gallery, opened the account a couple of weeks ago and deposited a check for seventy-five thousand.”

“Who opened the account?”

“A man named Harold Bremmer. He had all the required documents and ID. He gave me a PO box number for an address, and a cell phone number.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I’d say, mid-thirties, about six feet, brown hair, medium build, dressed in a business suit and tie.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“None that I can recall.”

Kehoe called the cell number and found it not in use.

Grappa phoned the post office and learned that the box number did not exist. He went back to Kehoe. “We’ve got a dead end here,” he said. “Anything on the print yet?”

“Yep, we’ve got a match.” He handed his partner a rap sheet with a photograph. “Name of Marvin Beemer Jones. Looks like that guy in the Three Stooges. Currently in a cell upstate.”

“Mr. Jones has a pretty long reach, if he can leave a thumbprint on Park Avenue.”

“We better do some checking.” Half an hour later they had determined that Jones had been released, and they had the name of his parole officer.

“We cut him loose last week, on orders from above,” the PO said. “We’ve been overworked and understaffed since the big prisoner release that’s going on right now, statewide. We discharged the ones with nonviolent records from parole, and Jones was one of them. My record has him staying at the Y in Chelsea.” A call to the Y revealed that Jones had stayed one night, then checked out and left no forwarding address.

“Well,” Kehoe said, “we can list him as wanted, but unless he gets busted for something, we’re at a dead end.”

“You’d better call the commissioner,” Grappa said.

“Me?”

“You’re the one he called to give us this case.”

“Oh, all right.” Kehoe called the commissioner and told him the results of their investigation.

“Congratulations on identifying the suspect so quickly,” the commissioner said. “Now find him.”

“His name will be on the list of wanted felons tomorrow morning,” Kehoe said. “But unless he gets himself picked up, we’ve got nothing to go on.”

“Friends and relatives in the city?”

“None. Jones is from New Jersey and has no next of kin listed. He had no visitors in prison.”

“Keep me posted,” he said.

Dino called Laurence. “My detectives have identified a suspect,” he said.

“That was fast.”

“He left a thumbprint at the scene. His name is Marvin Beemer Jones, an ex-convict, recently released from prison, where he was serving a sentence for possession of drugs with intent to sell. We’ve listed him as a wanted suspect in a felony, but since we have no other record of him or his whereabouts, we’ll have to wait until he’s arrested for something else before we can lay hands on him.”

“Any idea of how long that might be?”

“No idea at all. Since he appears to have plenty of money — yours — he may not feel moved to commit another crime anytime soon.”

“Thank you for trying, Dino,” Laurence said.

“You can probably get your household insurance company to reimburse you for some of the cash.”

“I’m self-insured.”

“Then it’s unlikely that you’ll ever see that again. I’d suggest keeping your checkbook in your safe.”

“Good advice, Dino, and thank you again.” They hung up, and Laurence buzzed Marge.

“Yes, Laurence?”

“Do we have a safe?”

“No.”

“Please order one for your office — no, better make it two, I’d like one in my dressing room, as well.”

“Right away.”

Laurence hung up and dismissed the incident from his mind. After all, he could afford the loss.