Saving Sophie: A Novel (4 page)

“I want my money, Jenkins,” said Kelsen, spitting out every word. “I hold your firm responsible.” He popped his finger on his watch. “It’s now twenty-five minutes overdue. I trusted you. I paid you a fortune. Now get me my money.”

“I’m sure everything’s okay. This is just a temporary snafu.” Jenkins dialed Roberts again. “Gil, forget the phone calls. I want you to go over to Midwestern Title, sit at Jim Ellis’s desk until this deal is closed, and make sure those proceeds are transferred to Mr. Kelsen. Call me every fifteen minutes.”

S
IX

T
HE HONOLULU TAXI DROPPED
Sommers at 264 Kaiulani Avenue, a two-story, white stucco motel. The script above the office read
THE CORAL REEF
in aqua blue. A neon sign in the window informed the world of a
VACANCY
. A balcony ran along the perimeter of the second floor. All of the motel’s rooms were accessed from the outside.

Sommers opened the office door and a small bell announced his entrance. A corpulent man in a loose Aloha shirt patterned with pastel coconut trees and hula dancers shuffled out of the back room. With his hands on the counter, he leaned forward and gave Sommers a once-over. “Ca’I help ya?”

“My name is Eugene Wilson. I spoke to you last week. I reserved a kitchenette. Sent you an eight-hundred-dollar deposit.”

The clerk nodded and stuck out his right hand. It was soft and sweaty. “Glenn. I got your deposit. You’re in room 212 on the second floor. Nicest one I got too. On the corner. I need eight hundred dollars.”

“I already sent you eight hundred dollars in a money order,” Sommers said. “We agreed on eight hundred dollars a month.”

“Right. But the money order was a security deposit. I gotta have eight hundred dollars more, in advance.”

Sommers huffed, reached in his bag, and took out his trifold wallet. The slot inside the cover held a picture of his daughter. He selected a MasterCard and slid it across the counter.

Glenn shook his head. “I don’t take no credit cards. Cash only.”

Sommers pursed his lips. “It’s a debit card.”

Glenn was unmoved.

“It takes the money directly from my bank account. Don’t worry, it’ll go through.”

“I ain’t worried, I just don’t take no credit cards. Debit neither. This is a small, friendly operation.”

“You didn’t mention that on the phone.”

Glenn shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Is what it is.”

Sommers leafed through the bills in his pocket and slid $800 across the counter. He looked at the balance of his cash. “I need directions. A place to eat and an ATM.”

Glenn nodded and pointed his pudgy index finger. “Five blocks to Kalakaua. All the big-buck-o hotels are there. They got lots of ATMs and restaurants. But if you ask me, Cappy’s Fish Shack round the corner got the best plates on the island.” Glenn handed two brass keys to Sommers. “Check out Cappy’s garlic shrimp. You won’t be sorry.”

Sommers opened the door to Room 212. The window air conditioner had been off and the air was stale. He flipped the switch and the fan came on with a rattle. He looked around. It was livable, minimally. The furniture had seen younger days, the woodwork had scratches and gouges, but the pieces were functional. The double bed had a chenille coverlet that had once been pink. A small, tube TV sat on a melamine desk. The kitchen had a greasy odor, but the stove worked. Through the dusty windows, Sommers had a view of an apartment complex across the street. Hip-hop music blasted from the bar on the corner.

Sommers took a five-by-seven, framed photograph from his case and set it gently on the bedside table. He kissed the picture of the little girl.
Soon we’ll be together and we’ll look for a new home,
he said to the picture.
But now we wait.

*   *   *

T
HE PHONE RANG ON
Greta Dahmshultz’s desk. She looked at the caller ID, shook her head, and pushed the speaker button. “If this is Gil Roberts, I still don’t have your payoff.”

Both Gil and Ellis hovered over Ellis’s speakerphone at Elli’s horseshoe desk. The Kelsen/Leland escrow file lay open on the desktop. “Greta, I’m with Jim. Can you give us an update on what’s being done to resolve this problem,
please
?”

“What’s being done by whom?” she said. “My task is to check to see if we’ve received your wire transfer. And we haven’t. What are
you
doing to resolve this problem?”

Gil reached for the Fed wire confirmation. Holding it in his hand, he waved it as though Greta could plainly see it. “I have proof that the funds were wired to Exchange yesterday morning, Greta. Right here. I’m looking at the Fed confirmation. Maybe if you took a copy down to your wire-transfer department, they’d be able to acknowledge receipt and we could put this to bed. Let me scan it to you along with the wire instructions that
you
signed.”

She agreed.

An hour later, the phone rang on Ellis’s desk. The two men jumped to their feet and pushed the speaker button.

“Gil, this is Greta, and I’m here with Jennifer Server. I took the liberty of contacting Jennifer after I received and reviewed your e-mail. She’s an attorney from our risk-management department. Gil, it looks like you do indeed have a problem.”

Jennifer interrupted, “The account identified on your wire confirmation is not connected to this transaction. Midwestern wired the funds all right, but it wired them into the wrong account. The funds were credited to a private corporation’s business account, not the Exchange loan account.”

“What?” Ellis said. “How is that possible? Midwestern wired out eighty-eight million dollars to the account identified on the Exchange payoff letter that bears Greta’s original signature. It’s sitting right in front of me.”

“When I first looked at the paper,” Greta said, “I was also confused. I saw what
appears
to be my signature on your copy of the instructions. It initially fooled me too. But when I compared it to the payoff letter that
I prepared
, I saw the difference.”

“What difference? What do you mean?” Ellis said.

Greta continued, “Your copy has a different bank account number, it’s not even an account at our main branch in Chicago. And it reads, ‘For the account of Loan Services, Co.’ You wired the money to an account belonging to some private company called Loan Services, Co. There is no division at Exchange called Loan Services.”

“But the wire instructions you signed—”

“No way. Someone altered the instructions after I signed them.”

“I don’t have any idea how such a thing could happen,” Ellis said. “Both Harrington and Sommers reviewed and approved the document. I followed the instructions exactly as written.”

“Let’s not argue about whose fault it is, let’s reverse the wire,” Gil said. Turning to Ellis, he said, “Get on the phone with the Fed and reverse the transfer. Get the money out of that Loan Services account and direct it to the correct Exchange account to pay off the loan.” Leaning forward and talking loudly into the speakerphone, Gil continued, “Greta and Jennifer, would you please take whatever steps are necessary on your end to freeze that Loan Services account until we can straighten this out?”

The response was direct: “It’s not in that account anymore.”

“In which account?”

“In any account,” Greta said. “It was withdrawn from the Loan Services account yesterday. After that, we don’t know what happened to the money. We’re looking into it. That’s why I have our counsel here.”

The line was silent for a moment.

“Greta,” Gil finally said, “please scan all the relevant documents and e-mail them to me immediately. I’m going to seek an injunction to freeze that money.”

“You just don’t get it. There’s nothing to freeze. It’s gone. It was wired out ten minutes after it came in.”

“I … I’m going back to the office,” Gil said. “I have to confer with Mr. Jenkins. We’ll call you later.”

“Call Ms. Server. She’s in charge now.”

*   *   *

J
ENKINS’S DOOR WAS SHUT
when Gil returned. “Is Mr. Jenkins in his office?” he said hurriedly to the secretary.

She nodded. “He’s in there with Mr. Kelsen.” She leaned forward and whispered, “In a real bad mood.”

“Who is?”

“Both of them.”

Gil quietly said, “Then would you buzz Mr. Jenkins and ask him to come out. Tell him I’m out here and I need to speak to him privately.”

A moment later Jenkins came out. “Well?”

Gil shook his head. “Sir, this deal is screwed up beyond belief. No one knows where the money is.”

“What are you talking about?”

He answered in a hushed tone. “I mean that the title company wired eighty-eight million dollars to a bogus account in New York, and the money was immediately withdrawn by some stranger and it’s not there anymore.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Jenkins pulled Gil into an adjoining office where a young lawyer was busy researching. “Would you excuse us, please, Jerry,” Jenkins snapped at the lawyer, and waved his hand at the door, shooing him out. “Please. Now!”

With the door closed, Jenkins said, “What are you talking about? What bogus account? What stranger? Explain this to me.”

When Gil finished, Jenkins said, “Then Midwestern has to make it good. They’re the escrow company. They have to send eighty-eight million dollars to Exchange, not to some phantom account. The missing money’s their problem. If they wired it to the wrong account—”

“They’re not taking responsibility, sir. Ellis says he precisely followed the Exchange payoff statement that was given to him. And he did. I mean he followed the written instructions that I saw.”

“Then it’s Exchange’s fault.”

“No, sir. Exchange denies that the instructions are genuine. They say it’s an altered document. And what’s worse is that both Harrington and Sommers signed off on it. Greta Dahmshultz insists that someone intentionally changed the numbers to redirect the funds. She had the bank’s lawyer on the phone. No one will take ownership of this fuckup.”

Jenkins stood dumbfounded, like a stuffed grizzly bear in the corner of a Northwoods tavern.

“Well, we need to inform the client. Let’s go talk to Kelsen.”

They rejoined him in Jenkins’s office where Kelsen sat nervously swinging his leg and tapping his fingers.

“Victor, does Kelsen have a business account at Exchange’s New York branch?” Jenkins said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, does it? Do you have an account called Loan Services?”

“No. Our accounts are all at Exchange in Chicago and at Evanston National on Davis Street. What’s going on, Walter?”

“Mr. Jenkins, I think we need to get hold of Sommers or Harrington,” Gil said. “They should have the answer. They’re the ones who were present at the escrow with Ellis. They signed the disbursement statements. Right now, neither the bank nor the title company will do anything further. They both refer us to their legal departments.”

“What’s going on, Walter?” Kelsen said again.

“I can’t reach Sommers,” Jenkins said through clenched teeth. “But I’m sure there’s an explanation to this debacle and a way to straighten it out. You can’t lose eighty-eight million dollars.”

“What do you mean
lose
?” screamed Kelsen.

“Hang on, Victor. Gil, go into Sommers’s office, into the closing file, and bring me our copy of the payoff statement. The one from
our
files.” Turning to Kelsen, Jenkins said, “Apparently, the funds were wired to some fuckin’ account in New York called Loan Services and weren’t applied to pay off your loan. From what I’m told, it was a private account and the funds were immediately withdrawn. This is crazy, but it’s all the responsibility of Midwestern Title. They’re the escrow company. They’re charged with the responsibility of disbursing the funds into the proper accounts.”

Gil double-timed it down the hall to Sommers’s office and started thumbing through the papers. The sounds of breaking glass blasted out of Jenkins’s office. “Get this fucking deal straightened out, you idiot!” Kelsen bellowed. Gil rushed back to Jenkins’s office. Everything had been knocked off Jenkins’s desk. Kelsen was storming out of the room, screaming, “I want that money in my account by tomorrow, you incompetent bastard!”

Jenkins, clearly shaken, looked at Gil. “Victor took his forearm and swept everything off my desk.” Jenkins wiped his hand across his brow. “I would have called the police, except, if I were in his shoes, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

Gil bent down to pick up some of the items on the floor. “Don’t bother,” said Jenkins, “I’ll have it cleaned up. Where are the payoff instructions? What did you find in Sommers’s office?”

“Here, sir.” Gil handed over the Exchange document. “The numbers are definitely different. But, sir, I also found this as well: a receipt for a ticket to Brazil. First-class seat on American. For a flight yesterday.”

S
EVEN

I
N THE BACK ROOM
of the Breadstone Bakery, in the narrow, winding streets just north of Hebron’s Bab al-Zawiyah market, ten powerful men, each an influence in his own way, sat around a circular, mosaic table. A silver coffee urn with several small cups sat in the middle of the table.

“The coffee is good and strong tonight,” said a thin, angular man, pouring a small amount into his cup, barely a sip.

Fakhir, the squat owner of the shop, nodded and chuckled. “Turkish. None of us would object, Ahmed, if you poured a little more into your cup. Then you wouldn’t have to get up so often.”

“Never fill a cup so much you cannot see the bottom,” Ahmed said. “I was taught that by my mother. It’s sociable.”

“Who called for the assault on the wedding party?” said Dr. al-Zahani.

The men looked at one another and shrugged. “What difference does it make, Arif?” said Nizar Mohammed.

“How does it further our grand plan to shoot a young girl on her wedding day?”

“How does it help us to remain silent under subjugation and occupation?” Nizar said. “Everything doesn’t have to stop because of our ‘grand plan.’ Are you going soft on us, Arif? Was this not warranted? The group was defiling the Al-Haram Al-Ibrahimi shrine with a Jewish ceremony and Jewish prayers
.
It’s a Palestinian heritage site and Israel is in violation of its international commitments by promoting ceremonies at Palestinian holy sites. Israelis now advertise buses to take people to perform Jewish ceremonies at the Tomb of the Patriarchs.”