Death of a Bankster
Death of a Bankster
A Maddie Richards Mystery
by
David Bishop
DEATH OF A BANSKTER
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Copyright © 2013 David M. Bishop. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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ISBN: 978-1-939337-77-1 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-939337-78-8 (Paperback)
Version 2013.04.29
Table of Contents
Novels by David Bishop
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
The Beholder
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Note to Readers
Future Writings
About the Author
Novels by David Bishop
For current information on new releases visit:
www.davidbishopbooks.com
Mysteries currently available:
The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery
Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery
The Woman, a story of an ordinary woman facing extraordinary circumstances
The Third Coincidence, a Jack McCall Mystery
The Blackmail Club, a Jack McCall Mystery
The Original Alibi, a Matt Kile Mystery
Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story
Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery
Future Working Titles
Find My Little Sister, a Matt Kile Mystery
Collection I: Short Fiction
The Red Hat Murders, a Maddie Richards Mystery
The Schroeder Protocol
Murder by Choice
www.davidbishopbooks.com
david@davidbishopbooks.com
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to all my fellow authors who, like me, toil at keyboards everywhere striving to use words the world knows, configured in some special way to entertain readers. To create characters with whom those readers can relate, can like or hate as they reach deep within the story to learn if those characters get what they deserve, are captured or saved or seduced or simply survive. The magic of the author-character-reader triad being that the readers who like the characters living within the pages of fiction, have themselves endured the trials and tribulations brought to them in their own lives, rather than through an author’s pen. Those readers are the true heroes for us all as they sustain us all. They procreate, pack our school lunches, educate each generation, and mend us when we break. They build our homes, grow our food, and do all of the countless things which must be done to sustain the greatness of being. To say what should be said. To love those who should be loved. To capture, hopefully rehabilitate, or simply punish those who deserve the darker conclusions of life.
I would like to acknowledge all who have found their way into this man’s life, enriching me by their presence, goodness, and affection. And last, but certainly not least, this book, as with my others, is dedicated to my sons and my grandchildren, nieces and nephews, my sister Diane Kilby, and brother, Bill Bishop.
My special thanks to the wonderful people who read early drafts and made suggestions which unfailingly enhanced this novel: Martha Paley Francescato, Kim Mellen, Jerry Summers, and the many talents of the people at Telemachus Press, including, but not limited to Terri Himes, Steve Himes, and Johnny Breeze.
Recognition is also due to a man who unselfishly brought his special knowledge to this particular writing: Joe Wolfinger, retired assistant director of the FBI, co-author of Rico—How Politicians, Prosecutors, and the Mob Destroyed One of the FBI’s Finest Special Agents.
Death of a Bankster
A Maddie Richards Mystery
Chapter 1
“Come in, mother. It’s open.”
“My God, Paige. You’re drinking wine. It’s eight-thirty in the morning. What’s wrong? On the phone you sounded all in a panic. By the way, your yard looks wonderful. Did you hire that gardener I told you about last month?”
“Yes, Mother. Yes. I hired your gardener. Damn it … I didn’t call you to talk about … screw the frigging flowers, Mother.”
“Relax, Paige. Relax. Nothing is worth getting in such a dither. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee. Oh, I see you’ve already made some. So, the bottle has not completely replaced the bean in your mornings. Whatever it is, dear, together we’ll find a solution. We always do. I’m always here to do what must be done.”
“The coffee’s on a timer Mother; it just comes on. Screw the damn coffee. Did you shut the front door tight? If not there’s a draft.”
“My God, Paige, what’s chewing on you?”
“My husband is having an affair. That’s why I’m drinking wine this early. Sam is cheating on me.”
“The man turned fifty last month,” Paige’s mother said. “You’ve been married nearly sixteen years.” She poured two cups of coffee. “He’s probably had them before.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mother?”
“Your father had affairs. At least a dozen that I knew of, so there had to have been more, lots more. God rest his soul. I just love that new rug you have in the entryway. Persian?”
“Screw the rug, Mother!”
“Drink your coffee, dear. I put hazelnut creamer in it. Does that shock you? Your father having affairs, I mean, not my putting hazelnut creamer in your coffee. Anyway, it’s time you joined the real world.”
“You’re being flippant at a time like th
is?” Paige said. “Sometimes I don’t believe you’re human. Certainly it isn’t your opinion that husbands should be free to dip their pens in any ink wells they wish?”
“Paige, give up the silly metaphors. Your Sam is fucking other women. Like I said, it happens.”
“You don’t think I haven’t had chances? Plenty of them, pppplenty. I’m eight years younger than Sam. But I have remained faithful. Is it too much to expect that Sam keeps it zipped?”
“Boys will be boys.”
“Oh, wonderful Mother. Now you’re trite.”
“When we women start feeling haggard, we get a new hairdo, buy some new outfits. All our friends tell us how youthful we look. When we’re feeling bored with our lives, we redecorate the house. Those same friends tell us what wonderful taste we have—how marvelous it all looks.
“When men feel their youth slipping away or get bored, they get a piece of strange tail, to use their term. Yes, I think that’s how the fellows describe it. They’re only pursuing the same lies women pursue: That we still look young, are still desired. In short, the guys take to the bush hunting the same strokes we gals are hunting. No pun intended, dear.”
“But Sam isn’t that old.”
“You’re forty-two; Sam’s fifty. He’s always been too old for you. I’ve been telling you that ever since you got engaged. You started going with him while you were still in college. It was cool to have an older man, a banker, interested in you. Then you married him right after you graduated. He was worldly. You were still a child and quite naïve. You married him because he reminded you of your father.”
“Speaking of father, is that why you were seeing a shrink all those years before he died, and after, because he was cheating on you?”
“It had nothing to do with his—you know. That was just the stress I was feeling with the change, stopping my monthly rides on the cotton pony. That and some old work related stuff I hadn’t been able to shake off and put aside.”
“But if Sam loves me he’d be faithful.”
“Hogwash. Women equate sex with love. Men equate sex with lust. The ancient philosophers said that women were nurturers and men were warriors. There are no longer dragons to slay or gauntlets thrown down to issue a challenge on the field of battle. For modern warriors, conquest is seduction. In medieval times they strove to earn the generosity of a grateful king. Today they settle for the love of a grateful trollop.”
“I’m not a prude, Mother. Sam and I have sex, healthy sex. Although, I admit not as often as we once did. But I never say no to him. If he wants me, he knows I’m here for him.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you, dear. Sort of like keeping hot bread in the oven and cold beer in the fridge.”
“Oh, Mother.”
“Okay. It’s time to get down to it. What does Sam want to do that you don’t want to do?”
“I’m not about to go into that stuff with my mother.”
“You think it’s somewhere mothers haven’t been, and long before you modern gals I might add.”
“I said I’m not going to talk about that.” Paige pushed her cup toward the center of the table, coffee sloshing over the rim. “I need something stronger than this damn coffee.” She set her napkin over the small puddle and slammed the palm of her hand onto the paper. They paused to watch the white paper spread brown, the color hurrying toward the outer edges of the napkin.
“Now that’s the way to deal with it dear, a good healthy morning drinking problem. I see your wine glass is empty. How about some martinis? I mean if we’re going to drink, let’s get serious. But I can’t overdo it. Rusty and I are going shooting this afternoon.”
“I thought you and Uncle Rusty had stopped shooting. I remember you saying you were both getting too old for that tomfoolery. I think that’s what you called it.”
“We did pretty much stop last year, but the last few months we’ve been getting back to it. Truth is we missed it. We’ve been shooting together since we were children.” Without waiting for her daughter’s reply, Barbara Davis descended the one step down into her daughter’s wet bar just around the corner from the kitchen. “I’ll make a pitcher. I can hear you fine so go ahead. So what is it Sam wants you to do that you won’t?”
“I told you, I’m … oh, what the hell. Yes. There are things. He likes role playing with costumes, and he wants me to—”
“If you aren’t doing it dear, you know some chippie, as we used to call them, is.”
“Whore, is more like it.”
“Chippie is much more ladylike than whore. You know, the language of my day was much more colorful. Your generation has replaced the creative slurs of my day with talk that is at best unimaginative and coarse. Not to mention laced with curse words. But, putting that aside for another discussion, names, snames. She’s kissing his monkey while he drives on the interstate, or in the bank’s high-rise elevator, no pun intended.”
“Why should I have to do what I don’t want to?” Paige said, sounding somewhat deflated.
“Why should he have to be denied something he wants? That knife cuts both ways.”
“You’re impossible, Mother.”
“No. Not at all, dear. It’s the same question, from the other side of the room. Same string, different yo-yo, as we said in my day. See what I mean, Paige, more colorful talk, more charming, not just hard-edged and nasty. But, like I said, we’ll talk about that another time. As long as what he wants isn’t illegal, or horribly immoral—”
“Oh, Mother, there’s so much you don’t understand.”
“You can’t believe that, Paige. You’re old enough to realize that women of my generation have been everywhere your generation goes. And, I might add, we got there wearing slips and girdles, not to mention traveling under a heavier shroud of sexual discrimination.”
“I meant things about Sam, things that have nothing to do with sex, just plain meanness and emotional isolation. I’m so angry I could kill him.”
“Now there’s a plan. Replace an act you don’t enjoy with a murder. That’s solid thinking, dear.”
“I didn’t mean kill him. Not literally. Aside from my thoughts, you know, it’s just an expression. Maybe even a secret wish, a fantasy. You know, after my high school and college drama classes I’m fully capable of acting the grieving widow. … Oh, I don’t know. I’m so confused. There are times I want to save my marriage. Make Sam want no one but me. Does that mean I still love him or simply that I’m competitive?”
“Do you mean that, the part about saving your marriage?” Paige nodded, so her mother continued. “Okay, then you must stop just being there if he wants you. You need to start ringing his bells. Go out today and buy the sexiest lingerie you can find. I said sexiest, not cutest. Take one of your girlfriends with you. If she says, ‘oh, that’s cute or pretty,’ don’t buy that one. When your girlfriend raises her eyebrows and says, ‘wow, you wouldn’t wear that, would you?’ Get that one. If you can’t find really seductive stuff in the store, shop online. And don’t forget spike heels. Wear it all. Surprise him. Let him know you want him. Not just that you’re available, which sounds about as inviting as his right hand.” Paige turned away from looking at her mother who sniggered and then went on. “Sex isn’t pizza through home delivery, it’s fine dining with great ambience, a culinary adventure, to continue the simile. Come down the stairs after he walks in from work. Don’t speak. Just take him. The other women are coming on to him. Compete.”
“I shouldn’t have to compete. He’s my husband.”
“Stupid! Stupid! Is taking your man for granted, your idea of the perks of matrimony? Of course you compete. There are hot babes out there every day, and many of them love the idea of coming on to a rich and attractive mature man. Compete or you’ll lose by forfeit.”
“You make it sound like a game.”
“In a way it’s just that, and in this game you want him to do all the scoring. Sometimes I think your father and I carried that sweet girl thing with you much too far. It’s
time to stop playing little princess and start playing horny housewife—the wench in the topless bar, the policewoman with handcuffs. Let him pick the costumes. You wear them with style. Study up on how to give a lap dance. Bottom line: Some men are good, some are bad, but they’re all men. Your only decision is whether he gets what he wants at home or somewhere else. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘if you don’t the next one will.’”
“You make it all sound so simple, Mother.”
“It is simple, dear. When you trim off all the fat, your choices fall into two categories: forgiveness or revenge.”
“And with father, you chose forgiveness.”
Paige’s mother downed the rest of her martini.
Chapter 2
Paige Crawford pressed her finger against the volume button on her dashboard radio, strangling the classical CD that didn’t fit her mood. She had just left an eleven o’clock meeting with a divorce attorney. She pressed the accelerator, forcing her automobile forward into the desert heat rising from the paved road in shimmering waves. The air conditioner roared on high, the cool bursts struggling to hold off the attack of the Arizona sun ceaselessly slamming the outside of her car windows.
Her mind kept replaying the last thing the attorney had asked. “So, after everything I’ve told you about this process, do you still want to divorce your husband?”
She had decided to try what her mother suggested, but she felt the need to be ready in the event it didn’t get the desired results. “Yes,” she had said. “I still want to divorce my husband. Sam is having an affair, probably not his first. I can’t just do nothing. We live in a community property state. I didn’t want it this way, but, by God, my half of what I know about will net me a few million. With that I’ll move on. Fuck ‘im. He can have his bimbos, I’ll settle for his money.” She remembered wincing slightly when she swore in front of the attorney. She had been worked up and it just came out.
Now, alone in the car, she thought, besides, murder … despite its considerable attraction, shouldn’t be an option. So, yes, I’ll divorce his ass.