Read Online Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) by Thomas L. Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas L. Scott
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isn’t that correct?”
I nodded. “That’s often true. But, keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”
“The Board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”
“Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie? In the vote?”
“Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”
“So who holds the most stock?” I said.
Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”
* * *
I had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and gone by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. Plus, there must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”
Nothing’s easy.
I had a few more follow up questions for Marriott, none of which went anywhere at all, so I pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”
Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”
“Well,” I said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”
Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying—there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”
“If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”
“My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”
“I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”
Marriott looked at me for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”
* * *
When I was finished with Marriott I stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area waiting for me, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.
“Get what we needed?” I said.
“Right here boss,” Donatti said, and handed me a file folder. Pate’s financial history with the bank.
“Alright, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”
The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trash can, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.
“You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”
“Robert,” I said.
“Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”
Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”
I nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”
* * *
Before I left, I found Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”
“Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget,
I nodded. “That’s often true. But, keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”
“The Board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”
“Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie? In the vote?”
“Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”
“So who holds the most stock?” I said.
Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”
* * *
I had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and gone by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. Plus, there must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”
Nothing’s easy.
I had a few more follow up questions for Marriott, none of which went anywhere at all, so I pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”
Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”
“Well,” I said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”
Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying—there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”
“If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”
“My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”
“I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”
Marriott looked at me for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”
* * *
When I was finished with Marriott I stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area waiting for me, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.
“Get what we needed?” I said.
“Right here boss,” Donatti said, and handed me a file folder. Pate’s financial history with the bank.
“Alright, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”
The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trash can, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.
“You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”
“Robert,” I said.
“Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”
Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”
I nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”
* * *
Before I left, I found Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”
“Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget,
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