Page 42 of Billion-Dollar Ransom
“I’m buddies with a guy from law school who travels in the same circles as Schraeder’s money manager.”
“Does Boo have a prenup?”
“Yeah, but it’s downright miserly. I suppose Schraeder or his lawyers learned from their past mistakes.” Mike drummed his fingers on the table. “What do we know about Mrs. Fifth Wife?”
“They met on TV,” Nicky said. “It was a segment on a cable show about the army’s abortion policy. Randolph Schraeder was firmly against the policy, and they invited a female active service member to debate him.”
“Which would be the woman who became Mrs. Fifth Wife.”
“Exactly. They really got into it too! Boo tore him apart. The clip went viral for a couple of days. And it went viral again when the news broke that Randy proposed to her.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Because he’s the kind of guy who just loves a strong woman, right?”
Nicky smiled. “Just like you, Detective.”
“Me? Nah. I’m drawn to the gold-digger types who are just in it for my fat police pension.”
“I’m not sure Boo Schraeder is a gold digger.”
“You’re going to have to show me your math on that one.”
“She’s forty years younger, true,” said Nicky. “But close friends say she’s super-down-to-earth and not afraid of a messy fight when it comes to defending her family or the Schraeder name. Apparently, she’s also a good stepmom to Cal and Finney.”
“Speaking of, where is Mrs. Fourth Wife?” Mike asked. “Should we be looking at her?”
“I understand she’s been on a rotation tour of spa resorts and rehab clinics ever since the divorce,” Nicky said. “But we should have someone contact her anyway.”
“That’s more your world than mine,” Mike reminded her.
CHAPTER 45
Thursday, 2:45 p.m.
WHAT DOES A billion dollars look like?
Virgil Tighe was curious about that. And he was on his way to Randolph Schraeder’s place in Omaha, Nebraska, to find out.
Virgil had taken this flight countless times over the past year, a private jet from Burbank to Omaha. The flight ate up three hours, maybe a little less if the pilot pushed it. He wished the old man stayed in his Bel Air castle more often.
Not that Schraeder’s Omaha spread wasn’t impressive, but it was more of a small town than a mansion. As a young man, he’d inherited a dilapidated A-frame built at the turn of the century that was still underwater to the local savings and loan.
Schraeder’s uncanny knack for savvy investments turned that around. The first thing he took over after he started making money was, naturally, that savings and loan. Then he boughtthe land all around that sad A-frame, then the next parcels of land, then the next, and so on until Randolph Schraeder owned a sizable chunk of Sarpy County and found himself clubbing with Warren Buffett. The original family house, now essentially a museum, was surrounded by buildings in a variety of architectural styles.WELCOME TO SCHRAEDERTOWN, POPULATION ONE GIANT EGO.
One of the company drivers met Virgil at the private airfield and sped him to Randolph’s “work shed,” a euphemism for a brutalist structure the size of a small airplane hangar.
Virgil Tighe had seen many crazy things in his career, but nothing compared to the sight waiting for him inside the work shed.
“Virgil! Get on over here and help me think.”
The interior of the work shed was lined with folding tables, each of them supporting tall piles of cash bound with paper wrappers. Each table was manned by an armed guard—personnel vetted and hired by Capital, naturally. A few of the tables held gold bars. Fewer still had a variety of jewelry in Ziploc baggies. The place looked like it contained the life savings of the head of one of Mexico’s more successful cartels.
And still, it was only afractionof Randolph Schraeder’s fortune.
“Looks like you’ve got the situation well in hand” was all Virgil could say. He knew his boss had been pulling from his investments all over Omaha, which was where most of his money was tied up.
“Eh,” Schraeder muttered, “I don’t think we’re even ninetypercent of the way yet. And I’m still waiting for the duffel bags to arrive. Can you believe that? It’s easier to gather all this folding money than a pile of goddamned duffel bags.”
“I’ll make a call, Mr. Schraeder.”
