“A piece of cake. I slept most of the way. Hey, listen, I got a call from the New York State cops this morning. They went into Dr. Don’s apartment with a search warrant yesterday and tore it up pretty good. They found the deeds to over eight hundred houses and apartments and eight hundred grand in cash in his safe, plus two handguns in the basement storage unit.”
“Wonderful,” Stone said.
“Not so wonderful. A slick lawyer named Theodore J. Saxon showed up, cited the Supreme Court ruling on guns, and they left empty-handed.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. One of Arthur Steele’s insurance companies insures all those residences, and Arthur sent the info to the director of the FBI yesterday. You might give the director a call and give him the location of the deeds.”
“Yeah, I can do that. What’s the deal with the deeds, anyway?”
“They apparently belong to Calhoun’s followers. It’s got to be some kind of scam.”
“No doubt. I’ll call the director right now.”
Agents June Craven and Donna Madison were holding a meeting in a conference room at FBI headquarters.
“The director got word this morning that Dr. Don has the deeds to all those houses in a safe in his New York apartment.”
An agent held up a document. “I got one of the owners to fax me his contract,” he said. “What Dr. Don did is pretty smart: he refinanced all those houses and paid off the old mortgages. Since most of these people are in their fifties and sixties, they have a lot of equity, and if any of them leave the Chosen Few or displease Dr. Don, he can foreclose and they forfeit their equity.”
“That can’t be legal,” Craven said.
“Don’t be so sure. There’s no evidence of duress, the property owners did it because they hold Dr. Don in high esteem.”
“I’ve talked to a couple of dozen of these people, and I’ve found six who are disenchanted but are afraid to leave the cult, for fear of the wrath of Dr. Don.”
“Sounds like the basis for a class-action suit,” Madison said.
“Yeah, but we’re not in that business.”
“I’ll bet we know a lawyer who’d be glad to take the case.”
“You have somebody in mind?” Craven asked.
“There’s this New York attorney called Stone Barrington, who’s with Woodman & Weld. His son, Peter Barrington, is the director of Hell’s Bells. How about I put a flea in his ear?”
“I can’t think of anything wrong with that,” Craven said.
“I’ve got his cell number,” Madison replied.
Stone hung up his phone and called Herbie Fisher at Woodman & Weld, in New York.
“Hey, Stone, you still in England?”
“I may never come back. I’ve got some business for the firm, though, and I think you’re just the guy to handle it.” He took Herbie through the saga of Dr. Don.
“Yeah, I saw the movie — loved it.”
“I’ll tell Peter. I’ve got a list of six disaffected members of the Chosen Few who want their houses back.” Stone read him the list. “Call them and see if they’d like to sign on to a class-action suit, and if all of them don’t want to do it, Arthur Steele has a list of all of them, and you’ll have to start cold-calling them.”
“I’m on it,” Herbie said.
“You and I will co-represent,” Stone said. “I want my name on the suit, so Dr. Don will know I’m not through with him.”
“No problem. Call me for lunch when you get back, if you ever do. I’m buying.” Herbie hung up.
Stone called Dino and told him what was afoot.
“Oh, yeah, I like the sound of that,” Dino said, chuckling.
“See if you can think of a few other ways to rattle Dr. Don’s cage.”
“I’ll plumb the depths of my devious mind.”
“It would be interesting to know if Dr. Don has an automobile in New York City.”
“I’ll bet he does.”
“Maybe he has a few unpaid parking tickets?”
“Could be.”
“Then you could introduce Dr. Don to the intricacies of recovering a towed vehicle from the city pound.”
“I’ll bet that would take up a day or two of his time.”
“Let’s find out.”
Back at Dr. Don’s apartment, he and his wife were cleaning up after the cops when he found a fistful of paper. “What the hell are these?” he demanded, showing them to Cheree.
“Oh,” she said, “those are just parking tickets. They’re years behind on collecting — don’t worry about it.”
43
Dr. Don was reviewing his e-mails in the account available to his members when he got a jolt.
Dear Dr. Don, I got a call this morning from a man who said he was an FBI agent, asking about my mortgage. He wanted to know when I took it out, how much it was for, the interest rate and the amount of the payments. He also wanted to know if I entered into the arrangement voluntarily and if I knew that, if I left the Chosen Few, I would forfeit my house to you. Is that true? If so, it’s a disturbing development.
He found three more similar e-mails in his in-box. Cold sweat ensued. He sent one answer to them alclass="underline"
I want you to know that everything in your mortgage is legal and proper and that you have nothing to worry about. The FBI is just harassing me through you. I’ve come to expect it, and I’m sorry they bothered you.
He saved the message for use in the future, if he had any more complaints. Then, later in the day he got another e-mail from the first correspondent.
Dear Dr. Don, I’ve had another phone call, this time from a man who said he was an attorney, asking me if I would join a class-action suit against you in the matter of my mortgage. What should I do?
He wrote back:
This is just a follow-up from the FBI call and part of their plan to harass me. Please don’t concern yourself; everything is fine.
But for the remainder of the day, every time he opened his e-mail there were more such messages. He went into the bedroom where Cheree was engaged in the always-lengthy process of applying her makeup.
“Something’s up,” he said to her, then told her about the e-mails.
“Is that about all those deeds in the safe?”
“It is.”
“Are you vulnerable?”
“Maybe — probably not.”
“Then don’t sweat it, just call your lawyer.”
He nodded and went back to his study, fighting panic.
Stone got a call from Herbie Fisher the following day. “I’ve got eighteen of Dr. Don’s homeowners signed up,” he said. “Given my progress, if I call all of them, I’m going to have a hundred and fifty or more. Shall I continue?”
“Sure, call them all, get some help around the office.”
“By now, I’m sure Dr. Don has heard from some of these people.”
“Good, I don’t care if he knows.”
“He could be packing his bags.”
“Great, I’d love for him to end up in Venezuela or Somalia — someplace really uncomfortable.”
“Okay, we’ll call ’em all.”
Stone hung up and called Dino. “Herbie Fisher is making real progress on getting together a class for a lawsuit.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m beginning to think that as we close in on Calhoun, he might take it on the lam, as they used to say in Warner Brothers movies.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think you might find a way to mention to the director that Dr. Don could be a flight risk?”
“I think I could do that. If he buys it, he could probably get the guy’s passport on a watch list.”
“I would just love that.” Stone hung up and called Herbie. “How many you got in your class so far?”