“First, they do exist. I’m prepared to provide proof by sending you a couple pages. Second, it’s not like we can use a title company to manage this transaction. You know that Mr. Pedace’s word is golden. You’ll have to count on that.”
Rosen remained silent for several seconds. Forsythe filled the void and said, “Let’s stop dicking around, Rosen. Your hour’s up. It’s your move.”
“We’ll pay the price,” Rosen blurted.
Johnny Casale’s pulse quickened when he saw Sy Rosen’s caller ID on his cell phone. He answered with, “I’m on it, Mr. Rosen. I’m parked outside the broker’s office. I—”
“Listen carefully, Casale. This might be our last opportunity. I just got off a call with the broker. I’ve agreed to buy the documents.”
An acid tap seemed to have been turned on inside Casale’s stomach. He thought, If Rosen’s got the documents, my fee just flew out the window.
“You listening?”
“Ye-yes, sir.”
“I believe Pedace is about to go into the wind. He can’t hang around Redondo Beach because he knows we know he’s there.”
“If you get the documents, what does it matter where Pedace goes?”
Rosen didn’t immediately respond, but Casale could hear the man breathing into the phone.
Rosen finally said, “You want to earn your fee, Casale?”
“Of course, Mr. Rosen.”
Rosen shouted, “Then don’t ask stupid questions. I got a feeling Forsythe will meet with Pedace. Follow that asshole until he leads you to Pedace.” In a voice vibrating with menace, he then said, “I don’t want Pedace to ever become a threat to me again. You take care of this problem and you’ll get your full fee. Even though you failed to find my documents.”
Casale was pissed about Rosen’s tone. But he wanted the man’s money more than he wanted to vent his anger. But he also saw an opportunity to tweak Rosen’s blood pressure.
“I’m sure you’re right about Pedace and Forsythe meeting. After all, they’ve been friends for years.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Casale smiled as he said, “The two of them grew up together. Hell, they both worked for your firm, back when Forsythe went by the name Massarino.”
“Sonofabitch,” Rosen blurted, then hung up.
Casale knew he had only one play. For a six figure finder’s fee, he would do whatever it took to finish the mission. He’d watched the Forsythe office building from a coffee shop across the street for the past two hours, observed traffic in and out of the lot, and chuckled at how drivers avoided the black-scarred slot where Forsythe’s Audi had burned. He wondered if Forsythe would replace the car today, and he got his answer when a man drove up in an Infiniti sedan with a rental car agency sticker on the door, followed by another guy in a Mercedes convertible sports car. The driver of the Mercedes parked in the company parking lot, went inside the brokerage offices for ten minutes with a clipboard in hand, and then came out and left with the driver of the Infiniti.
At 4:05 p.m., Forsythe exited the building, got behind the wheel of the Mercedes, lowered the convertible top, and sped away.
Five minutes into the drive, Casale figured the guy was on his way to his girlfriend’s place on Willoughby. Probably needs some loving to get over the loss of his luxury car, Casale thought. The Mustang convertible was already in the driveway when Forsythe arrived. He pulled in behind it. Casale slowly drove by as the young woman greeted Forsythe at the door. No nurse’s uniform this time. Just a bathrobe and a big smile.
Casale found a parking place at the curb a few houses down. He walked back to Forsythe’s rental car and dropped an envelope on the driver’s seat.
It was after 8 p.m. when Forsythe adjusted his tie and then took his suit jacket from his mistress. He folded the jacket over one forearm and hugged her with the other.
She kissed him. “It’s awful about the car.”
He shrugged and said, “Electrical problem. Hell of a thing with a car that pricey.”
She gave him her sweet and innocent smile. “I’m glad I could lower your stress.”
He kissed her long and hard. “Thanks, honey.” Then he said, “How’s day after tomorrow work for you?”
“Can’t wait,” she answered.
Outside, Forsythe opened the driver’s door and spotted something on the seat. This can’t be good, he thought. He picked up an envelope and opened it. Inside he found a typewritten note that read: Bruno Pedace or Katherine Wheeler Forsythe? Your choice. You don’t provide information that gives me Pedace and the documents, your wife will find out about your little love nest. You’ve got until 10 tomorrow morning. There was a telephone number at the end of the note.
Forsythe dropped into the driver’s seat and groaned. “You stupid sonofabitch,” he muttered.
DAY 13
CHAPTER 21
Roger Briscoe, St. Anne’s corporate attorney, looked across the conference room table and said, “Mr. Rosandich, as I understand it, St. Anne’s Shelter will receive a wire transfer later this morning in the amount of forty-three million dollars.”
Frank Mitchell, St. Anne’s Director, and Carol Harper, the organization’s board chairman, seated on either side of Briscoe, both looked pale and nervous.
“That’s correct. Is there a problem?”
“It’s been a long time since I believed in Santa Claus, Mr. Rosandich. I did a search of your name and couldn’t find anything. Before we spend a lot of time preparing a gift agreement between you and my client, I want to make certain we’re not wasting time.”
Rosandich bent to his left and lifted his battered briefcase from the floor. He placed it on the table and popped the clasps. Janet, seated on his right, was the only other person in the room who knew anything about Rosandich’s background. When Frank Mitchell gave her a questioning look, she just smiled back. Rosandich riffled through one of the compartments in the briefcase’s lid and pulled out a faded-yellow file folder. He dropped the case’s lid, placed the file on top of the case, and opened it. He then took out an ID card, a birth certificate, and copies of Google screen shots and slid them across the table to Briscoe.
He announced, “My real name is Bruno Pedace. I’ve used the Cecil Rosandich alias for the last nine years.” He pointed at the documents. “One of the articles I copied from Google states that the SEC wants to question me about several matters, but there are no charges against me.”
Briscoe studied the documents for a couple minutes, then looked up, and said, “Do you want to explain why you’ve lived under an alias?”
“No. It’s not pertinent to this transaction.”
The lawyer looked around the room as though to gauge the others’ reactions. Then he said, “Well, perhaps we should proceed.”
While the final, edited legal documents were being printed, Janet and Bruno moved to her office.
“You sure about this, Cecil? Oops, sorry. Bruno.”
“Yes. I’ve never been surer about anything. It’s time I did something that would benefit other people.”