Dawson's Web (5 page)

              Sarah Tidwell arrived twenty minutes early to her second meeting with Hans and had to wait in the lobby watching his secretary busy herself surfing the internet and taking calls.

Sarah wondered if Hans knew how much time she was wasting on his dime, but, given his secretary’s 36 DD’s, Hans probably didn’t hire her for her typing skills.

“Scumbag,” she muttered to herself.

Hans arrived promptly at 11:00 am, as he promised, walked briskly into the room and opened his office door motioning for Sarah to come inside. As she got inside, he took her hand and gave it a small kiss before seating himself behind his desk. This time, the papers were neatly stacked.

“I see you didn’t rearrange my files this time, Sarah. Am I to take this as a sign this interview will be more positive? Or am I mistaken?”

“That depends on you, Mr. Morganstern. It depends on your truthfulness and when you answer my questions.”

“Please call me Hans.”

“Ok, Hans. Let’s get started.” She sat the small tape recorder on his desk facing him.

“You don’t mind if I tape this do you?” Her tone was pleasant, but all business, something not lost on him. He’d have to be careful with his answers. She would probably have access to the interview he did with the SEC three months earlier.

“I don’t mind at all, Sarah. I welcome the chance to get my side of the story out.”

“Okay, let’s start with your background. When did you get into the real estate mortgage business? What was your motivation?’

A softball question if he ever heard one, Hans thought.

“I got into real estate back in the early 80’s after I graduated from business school and couldn’t get a job on Wall Street. I was introduced to real estate sales by a former roommate in college who dropped out after only completing two years. I ran into him in the city and he convinced me to join him to sell properties in New Jersey. Judging from the Ferrari he was driving and the amount of cash he spent when we went out, I figured the money must be pretty good.”

“So you were in it for the money?”

“Sure. Why not? It was the 80’s. Coke was expensive and so were women, and I was broke. Hell, I couldn’t even make payments on my student loans, and I was getting sick of eating Top Ramin. If I sold only two properties at $300K a month, I stood to make over $30K. That’s over $360K per year.”

“I can do the math.”  She wasn’t impressed by his “I was a starving graduate” diatribe.

“Sorry. Yes. I was in it for the money. I enjoyed it. Pretty soon, I was making over a half a million a year. But when I looked at the financing fees we paid to the mortgage brokers, I started thinking if we did what they were doing, it might be a hell of a lot easier way to make money. So, my friend and I started our own mortgage company and through the 80’s and 90’s, when real estate was skyrocketing, we made a killing.”

Hans smiled. This is the same thing he had told the SEC earlier. This interview was going to be a piece of cake.

“What about early 2000’s? What changed?”

“Let’s see,” Hans leaned back. He had to be careful here. “In the early 2,000’s, because real estate prices were skyrocketing, several classes of people were being forced to rent because they couldn’t buy. The internet bubble had pumped billions into the housing market and homes were becoming unaffordable. Our business started dropping. But the Fed stepped in and eased the loan qualification standards. And, well, everyone was making money. People who couldn’t afford homes were finally able to buy. They’d buy a home, own it for six months and flip it for a profit. We sold the loans. We packaged some of them and sold them as investments. They were repackaged and sold, each time at a higher profit. Everyone wanted in on the action. No one saw the real estate bubble about to burst. We were all caught up in it. In the early to mid-2000’s, everyone was making money. Then it all came to an end. I was fortunate enough to have gotten out six months before the crash. It was pure coincidence. Honestly.”

He waited for a reaction seeing if his story was being bought. Actually, he had friends who saw the crash coming and warned him to get out while he still could. He did and pocketed several million dollars, which he stashed in offshore accounts.

“So you’re justifying your actions as just being part of the crowd? Really? You believe that?”

Before Hans could answer, his secretary buzzed him on the intercom.

“Mr. Morgenstern, there’s a courier here. He has a package and says it’s urgent.”

He wasn’t expecting anything unless it might be from the SEC. They did say they might be getting back after interviewing several of his staff.

“Ok, Tiffany, bring it in.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Of course, her name would be Tiffany, but why not Mariah or Cinnamon?”

Tiffany sauntered in, hips swinging wildly from side to side. Her breasts bounced slightly, a fact not lost on Sarah, or on Hans, for that matter. She leaned over the desk and put the sealed brown envelope face up on the desk.

“Eyes only for Mr. Morgenstern” was printed in handwritten block letters on the outside. No other markings were visible.

Hans reached into his desk, took out a letter opener and slit open the top.

“Excuse me, Sarah. I don’t mean to be rude, but I wasn’t expecting anything today. I’ll be with you momentarily.”

Hans picked up the envelope, went into the washroom behind his desk and shut the door. He was inside for less than a minute. When he came out, he had lost all the color in his face.

“I’m sorry. There’s something I have to deal with. We’ll have to reschedule for next week. I promise. Ask Tiffany to set you up for Monday. Now excuse me.”

He rushed out of the office cell phone in hand leaving Sarah seated where she was.

Hans made his way down to the parking garage, got in his Jag and turned on his GPS. He set the course for Charlene’s and revved out onto the street. Her place was a few blocks away. He pulled up into the driveway, put on his emergency lights and handed the door attendant $20. “I’ll be right back. I have to deliver a package.”

Hans got out of the elevator, flipped off the safety on his Glock 9mm and pounded on Charlene’s door.

The person inside undid the deadbolts and cracked open the door. The chain was still visible when Hans spied a bleary-eyed young blonde haired man in his thirties through the opening.

“Where’s Charlene!” He brought the gun up and pointed it in Blondie’s face.

“Look man. Don’t shoot. No one named Charlene lives here. I only got to bed an hour ago. I flew in from London on a red-eye.”

“Open the door!” Hans demanded pointing the gun straight into Blondie’s face.

“All right. All right!”

Blondie opened the door and backed up with his hands up. He stood there in his tidy-whities as Hans barged in.

Hans scanned the room for any signs of Charlene.

Nothing.

“Sit down on the couch and shut up!” Hans motioned to the chair.

Blondie obeyed and sat down.

Hans went into the bedroom.

No sign of any women could be found anywhere. Blondie’s suitcase was open beside the same double bed he and Charlene had spent several hours in earlier that week, the baggage tag from Heathrow clearly visible.

Strange. The bed linen wasn’t the same.  Hans opened the closet door and found the laundry bin.

Empty.

The lavender sheets weren’t there.

He came out and sat down in front of Blondie.

“Ok. Charlene’s not here. Where is she,” he demanded pointing the gun between Blondie’s bloodshot eyes.

“For Christ’s sake, I don’t know any Charlene.” He looked terrified. He started to bawl.

“Don’t shoot. I was outta town for the last two weeks.”

Then it hit him.

Randy. He’d loaned his apartment to Randy.

“Maybe Randy knows. While I was gone, I asked him to house-sit for me. Water the plants. Pick up the mail. You know so the place wouldn’t look vacant. Even in this nice part of town you can’t be too careful.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Hans thought.

He put the gun down.

“OK. Who’s Randy?”

“He’s a friend. I met him in a bar a few months ago. We hang out together. I thought I could trust him.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know. We meet at Charlies’ a couple of blocks from here. I met him there after work a couple of days before my trip. I gave him my extra key. When I got back, the place was locked up. It was clean. The plants were watered and the key was under the mat. Honestly mister. That’s all I know. Maybe Randy had some chick named Charlene here while I was gone. I told him as long as the place was clean when I got back, I didn’t care who he had over.”

Hans believed him.

“All right, give me directions to Charlies’ and a description of this guy named Randy. I’ll track him down. In the meantime, if you run into him, give him my card. Tell him I want to talk to him and ask him if he knows where Charlene is. But if you say anything about this (pointing his gun at Blondie) to the police, remember I know where you live. Next time it won’t be me at the door. It will be one of my business associates who doesn’t know how to hold his temper as I do. Do you catch my drift?”

Blondie was shaking. “Right!”

Hans put his gun into his coat pocket and turned to the door taking one last glance back to Blondie to punctuate he meant business before he slammed it and left.

Blondie waited a couple of minutes until he heard the elevator ding. He locked the deadbolt, grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed Randy, who answered on the first ring.

Randy saw the caller id on his phone and answered. “So, Francis, you made it back from London. How was the trip and when did you get in? Did you find the key?”

“Where are you?” Francis (Blondie) asked.

“At Charlies’ having’ a cold one. Why don’t you come on down and join me? There are some really good lookin’ babes here.”

“Listen. I don’t have time for that and you certainly don’t either. Get the hell out of there now. There’s a guy with a gun who’s on his way to see you. He’s looking for you to find out about some chick named Charlene. (Randy had not told Blondie/Francis about her, choosing instead to keep her for himself. Blondie was notorious for being a babe magnet. He’s already jumped a couple of Randy’s accomplices, although that wasn’t the point. The point was Randy had used Francis’s place several times before. He couldn’t afford to piss him off, lest he loses his access to Francis’s place.)

Francis started speaking again. “He was here five minutes ago and I thought for sure he was gonna pop me with his gun. I don’t know what Charlene did to him, but he sounded seriously pissed off. So if I were you, I’d lay low.”

“So what’s this guy look like?”

“He’s in his mid-sixties. Salt and pepper hair. About 6 feet. Medium build. Dressed in a trench coat, which is where he keeps his gun.”

“Thanks. I’m leaving Charlies’ now. I’ll call you back in a couple of days.”

“Who’s this Charlene chick, Randy?” Francis pressed for an answer.

“She’s my new business associate.”

“You mean girlfriend?”

“Ok. She’s my girlfriend.”

“What happened between the guy and her? Why’s he so pissed?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Right now, I’ve gotta get outta Dodge.” Randy hung up the phone and left Charlies’ by the back door, which opened onto an alley filled with garbage cans. It smelled like rotten cabbage. He put his ball cap on and pulled the collar up to hide his face. Just then, Hans passed by the ally but didn’t see Randy.

“I’ll be damned. That’s him.” Randy said to himself seeing the person in the trench coat. He gave Hans twenty seconds and then ran down the alley the opposite direction onto the next cross street and hailed a cab. He knew there were plenty of his acquaintances in Charlies’ that would sell him out.

Blondie was really the only friend he had.

Giovanni Carlucci answered the phone on the first ring reading the caller ID. “Yeah Hans, what can I do for you.”

“Giovanni, I need you to run a couple of names for me. I need to know the whereabouts of this person named Randy Chappelle. That’s CHAPPELLE. He lives in New York. I don’t know what he does for a living. I don’t know where he lives. But I suspect he and his girlfriend, Charlene Messenger, have something to do with photos that were taken of me. I need to find out who they are, what they do for a living, and where I can locate them. I just left a bar where I found some people that knew him, but they said he hasn’t been around for a few days. They gave me his description. I know his girlfriend is blonde and very attractive. I helped her out of a jam on the highway.”

“What do you mean the blonde is very attractive?

“I mean just what I said. She’s very cute. She’s probably in her early 20’s. You know. She’s the Marilyn Monroe type: big tits, beautiful face, pouty lips.” Hans sounded irritated at his minion’s interrogation. For Christ's sake, Hans paid him handsomely to take care of these issues. It wasn’t the other way around.

“You don’t have to get hostile.”

“I’m not hostile. I need to find these two!”

“Do I need to do this now?” Giovanni was pressing a question he really shouldn’t be asking.

“You’re on my payroll, Gi (Han’s short name for his minion). If this is too hard for you, I’ll call someone else. Now can you do this for me or not?” Hans was short and was evidently perturbed.

Giovanni thought about it for a second and then replied. “Yes. I can do this for you. But…”

Before Giovanni could state his question, Hans barked. “And that’s all you need to know, Gi. Got it?”

Giovanni pushed the redhead that was in between his legs giving him a blowjob aside. He was sunbathing in the nude near the pool in his three-bedroom house that sat up against the mountains near Palm Springs. He had several of his girlfriends over, each one trying their best to please him. It was Red’s turn.  Red was a thirty-year-old natural red head (and yes the carpets did match the drapes).

“Look, Carlotta. I’m on the phone. We can do this later.”

Carlotta continued performing oral sex on it him. She was working on him vigorously and wasn’t listening.

He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her head up. The anger in his eyes told her it was time to stop. She immediately got up, smiled, and went into the Jacuzzi, but not before sticking her lower lip out and pouting. “I was only trying to do what you wanted.”

He didn’t reply. His scowl said everything.

He picked up the phone. “Look, Hans, I have some friends over and a massage therapist was working me over. Sorry for the interruption. Can you give me any more details of Randy and Charlene?”

Hans knew exactly what was going down, so to speak, and restated his request.

“Okay, so the guy’s name is Randy Chappelle. His girlfriend’s name is Charlene Messenger. That’s all I have.”

“Okay I’ll get on it later today. I’ll call you when I have some information.” Giovanni motioned for Carlotta to come back.

“I want you to do everything you can to find this guy immediately. Drop whatever you’re doing. It’s worth an extra $20,000 to me if I can get this thing resolved by the end of the week. That’s when the SEC is doing a follow up interview with me.”

This perked Giovanni’s interest. Twenty grand was four times his monthly retainer. This must be important.

“So boss, what’s the urgency?” Giovanni pressed again. He wanted to know.

“I’m being blackmailed, Gi.  It’s that simple. I met this chick on the highway a week ago. I helped her out. She invited me over for dinner. We had a bunch of drinks. And then we screwed. Somebody must have been filming it. I got some photos in the mail the other day with the demand for $100,000 ransom for the pictures. The note said if I didn’t pay they would go public.”

Giovanni knew exactly what Hans was going through. “Look, Boss, I was blackmailed in the past. But because I take care of my own business–, you know me--- that blackmailer ended up in a shallow grave in a desert between
LA
and Bakersfield.  That was six years ago. They still haven’t found the body. I’ve got your back.”

“Ok. Let me know when you find them.”

Giovanni put the phone closer to his mouth and whispered. “It won’t take long.”

Carlotta dropped down between Giovanni’s legs as he hung up.

It didn’t take long either.

But finding Randy and Charlene was another matter altogether.