“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.”