You ain't never had a friend like me!
—Genie, Aladdin
Marlene Paulette's dark hair was streaked with gray. In her fifties, she was stylish in a blue brocade blazer and an eggshell-white blouse.
"I'm divorcing my husband," she told me.
We sat in a coffee shop near her house in Naperville. I don't have an office to meet with clients. "Okay. How can I help you?"
"I know he's cheating on me. I don't care. I just want to know where his money is coming from. He got—rich, all of a sudden, six months ago. Millions of dollars. He started buying cars, another house in Florida that I've only been to once, expensive art that he doesn't even care about . . ." She sipped her coffee. "I'm just worried it's mob money. I don't want to get mixed up in that."
She dropped a flash drive on the table between us. "This is what I've got. I don't understand it. I'm not stupid! I just can't figure out what it means."
I picked up the drive, then set it back down. "I'm just a private investigator, Ms. Paulette. But I can connect you with a very good forensic accountant." I pulled out my phone. "Sheila Storrow. Here's her number."
She copied it into her phone. "Thank you, Mr. Jurgen. What do I owe you?"
"Nothing." I finished my coffee. "Nice meeting you."
I didn't expect anything more to come of it. Like I'd said, I'm not an accountant, like my dad. I'm a private detective—Tom Jurgen—and most of my work is about cheating spouses and employee background checks. Along with the occasional vampire or demon from another dimension. This looked like a regular divorce case.
So I didn't think much about it until two days later. In the office I share with Rachel, my girlfriend, in our apartment, I was researching candidates for a CEO position at a local Chicago corporation—a high-level background check, more interesting than the ones I do most of the time. My phone buzzed. Sheila Storrow. "Hey, Sheila, what's up?"
"Marlene Paulette asked me to call you. I think she wants to hire you to check out her soon-to-be ex-husband." Sheila had a crisp laugh. "Here's the thing—looking at the documents she gave me, I can't determine where Marvin's money came from. At all. It's like it just appeared into his different accounts through . . . magic."
Uh-oh. "No shadowy offshore accounts?"
"None that I can find. I'd have to talk to his banks and his brokers, but he obviously won't let me do that. I think Ms. Paulette wants you to figure out what's going on."
I groaned. "I'm not sure what I can do. Send me the data? I guess—"
My phone buzzed with another call. "Gotta go. Thanks. —Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking."
Marlene Paulette. "Mr. Jurgen? I asked Ms. Storrow to call you."
"Right. I just finished speaking with her. It all sounds, uh, mysterious."
"Yes. I was just wondering if you could look into it for me? Now I'm more nervous than before."
At least it didn't sound like the Outfit. The mob would do a better job of laundering the money. "To be honest, I'm not sure how much I can do. But I can try, if you want." I never wanted to turn down a paying client, but sometimes I have to keep expectations low.
We discussed fees, and she promised to send me a check. Then we talked about Marvin for a bit.
He was in real estate, owning a bunch of office and apartment buildings around the city. He'd always been successful, but like she'd told me, everything had exploded in the last six months. They'd been married 22 years.
"Did anything in particular happen six months ago?" That's when the money had suddenly started rolling in.
She paused, then sighed. "He went on a business trip in September, a month or two before, I think. To Mexico City. Trying to make a deal there. He wanted to be the next Donald Trump. It fell through, but he didn't seem that upset. At least that's what he told me. But then—that's when he relaxed and stopped worrying about money."
After a few more questions, we hung up. Rachel swiveled in her chair. She has short red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and she looked good. As usual. "What's up?" She's also kind of psychic.
"New client. Rich husband she wants to divorce. Money from nowhere. Not sure what I can do, but it sounds suspicious. Plus, she can pay."
"Always positive." She started to swing back, then hesitated. "Unless it's the mob."
I nodded. "I thought of that. But it looks . . . different."
"Is that good or bad?"
I shrugged. "I don't know yet."
The next morning I started a deep dive on Marvin Paulette while Rachel worked on the other side of our shared office. She's a graphic designer, and she had a few big projects coming up.
Born in New Jersey. M.A. from the University of Pennsylvania. Several years at some of the major real estate management firms in Chicago. Then he'd founded his own company, MP Management, and started buying up properties around Chicago, using leveraged money. From what I could tell, not being a real estate magnate myself, he—along with his partner, Charles Pope—had done reasonably well, but he was usually teetering on the brink, balancing revenues and expenses and probably hoping to do better on the next big deal.
From what I could see—after years of this sort of work, I've gotten reasonably good at deciphering financial data—he'd stopped trying to make deals last October. Right after his trip to Mexico City. Which was around the time the money—$20.3 million and change—had abruptly popped up in his accounts.
It didn't make sense. Or did it? What happened in Mexico City?
Maybe Marlene Paulette would spring for a trip to Mexico City for Rachel and me to retrace his steps. Probably not.
I took a sip of coffee and called my client. "Did you ever ask your husband where the money came from?"
"I couldn't let him know I was snooping. Otherwise he'd change all his passwords—Not that he hid them very well. I mean . . ." She took a breath. "I did ask him about the cars, because he built a big garage next to the house for them. And the art. A Jackson Pollack? He just said he'd gotten lucky on some investments. That's when I got suspicious."
"Did anything happen in Mexico City that you know about?" I hoped he hadn't met with a drug cartel.
"He doesn't talk about business much, unless he's making money. That's one of the reasons . . . look, he's flashy and glamorous. And rich, even before all this. It's one of the reasons I fell for him. I was stupid, and plus, the money made me a little stupid."
"It's all right, Ms. Paulette." In addition to not being an accountant, I'm also not a therapist. But it's an occupational hazard when dealing with divorces and other emotional issues. "What happened after Mexico City? That's when the money came from nowhere."
"I didn't notice right away. I do remember Marvin's partner had a stroke. He went into a coma. As far as I know he's still in it."
"Right." I'd found pictures of Charles Pope—older than me, with a balding head. And his wife. Young, blond hair, and slender. According to what I could find, Emma was his second wife. Clearly a trophy wife.
I know he's cheating on me, Marlene Paulette had said. It made me wonder . . . "When you said your husband was cheating on you, do you, uh, have any idea who it is?"
She groaned. "It's that bitch Emma. Ever since Charles went into the hospital. Wait, do you think . . . what?"
"I'm not sure. It seems like he had a lot of luck after he come home from Mexico City."
"What do you think?"
It didn't sound like simple embezzlement from a partner. Even if they had that much money between them, he shouldn't have been able to shift it into a private account if Pope was in a coma.
Hmm . . . "I'll be honest, Ms. Paulette, I'm not sure where to go with this. I'm open to suggestions, but otherwise I'd advise you to save your money for a good lawyer."
She sighed. "I suppose you're right. Send me your bill."
We hung up. "Can't solve them all." I went back to the CEO work.
But I was wrong.
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