Everyone Has Secrets

Chapter 2-4

I now had everything I needed to have a long, personal talk with Saunders. A very profitable talk as it turned out.

“I have a nine-thirty appointment with Franklin Saunders,” I told the girl at the reception desk on Monday morning, two days after photographing Saunders at the club.

“Your name, sir?”

“James Winston.”

She checked, then asked me to wait. “He’s with another client at the moment.” I nodded and killed the time checking out the photos on the wall. Since Saunders was a realtor, they were of various homes—with details and sale prices.

A few minutes later, she informed me he was available and told me his office was at the end of the hall. I went down, pausing briefly to check my reflection in a decorative mirror between two plants. Even my mother wouldn’t have recognized me. My hair was three shades lighter than normal; I was wearing green contacts, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and sported a trim mustache and small beard.

Saunders stood to greet me when I entered his office. “Mr. Winston. A pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.” He gestured to the visitor’s chair by his desk. After I sat, he said, “According to the information you gave my secretary, you’re interested in purchasing a house. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“Yes,” I replied, taking an envelope from the briefcase sitting in my lap. I slid it across the desk to him.

He opened it, taking out the contents. “What the hell is this?” he asked angrily when he looked at the photos.

“I think it’s self-explanatory. Those are copies, by the way. I have a several sets, one of them ready to send to your wife if the situation warrants. I can also give copies to a certain reporter who might find them very interesting, all things considered.” The reporter in question held no love for Saunders’ views and had written an op-ed piece for the local paper about a month ago explaining why.

“These don’t…” he sputtered, taking another look. Then he read the information I’d gathered on him. When he finished, he looked defeated. But then most people do when I face them down with what I know about them. Things they were certain were their own deep, dark secrets. “How much to buy these, and the copies back?” he asked.

“I’ve done my research,” I replied, smiling. “I think you can easily afford a one-time p*****t of a hundred thousand, in cash.”

“Are you out of your damned mind? How would I explain…?”

“I’m sure you can come up with a reason. You’re a smart businessman. I’ll give you until this time tomorrow.” I took back the envelope—because I didn’t intend on leaving my fingerprints with him—but not the contents. I’d worn latex gloves while handling the photos. “I’ll call to tell you where to bring the money.” Looking dead at him, I said, “Do not even think about getting in touch with the police. If that happens, a man I know will forward everything to your wife and the reporter I mentioned.”

“How do I know you won’t keep on blackmailing me?” he asked tightly.

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Saunders. If I tried, eventually you’d decide losing your precious reputation wasn’t worth what it was costing you. I really do not want to spend even a day in jail, to say the least of several years. You can believe me, or not, but it’s the truth.”

With that said, I left.

The next afternoon I called Saunders. It was quite apparent from his tone of voice he wished I’d died and gone to hell, but he said he had my money. I told him where to leave it, when, and how. He did as I’d ordered.

An hour later, having watched the area to be quite certain it was safe, I casually walked over to the bank of lockers in the men’s locker room at the fitness club. Opening number ten, I took out a gym bag and went into the restroom. After checking the bills—twenties and fifties, all of them used and non-sequential—I put them in my messenger bag. While I doubted he had contacted the authorities, or hired someone to follow me, I’m not stupid. I left the gym bag behind; on the off chance it held a tracking device.

When I got home, I put the cash in my safe, keeping out two hundred for spending money. Over the next few weeks, I would deposit it, in small amounts, into several bank accounts I held under various aliases. From there, I’d move the monies to my off-shore account. Someday in the far future I might decide to retire. If so, I’ll be able to live comfortably—and then some—much as I do now, but without the hassle of coming up with yet another scheme to blackmail another stupid person.