A Tale of Deception

Back in Spokane that afternoon, the FBI executed two search warrants, one for the Lawrence home and the other for Lawrence & Fenway Diversified.

  Upon checking at the Lawrence home, the FBI found a livid and angry Sabine Lawrence. She had found, not only her jewelry missing, but a lot of her money from their joint account was gone.

  “His closet is empty. Everything he had of value is gone, along with my things. If you ever find him, just let me know where he is and you’ll never have to prosecute him, I guarantee it!” she yelled. “He won’t live long enough to go to jail!”

  When the FBI raided the offices of Lawrence & Fenway Diversified, they seized the company books. Employees were devastated, interviewed and told to go home. The business was closed indefinitely.

  Mr. Trevor Howard, the CEO from the Fenway side of the business was outraged. He had no clue to what was going on, or why. Everything they did had been above board, and out in the open for everyone to see. They even had a third party overseeing their operations. Closing the company, even for a few days, along with all the bad publicity, could kill it.

  His secretary, along with their Financial Control Officer, Charles Fenwick, opened the company safe and discovered the bonds and cash missing.

  “We’ve been robbed, Mr. Howard,” the controller told him, shaken and pasty.

  In pain, grief and anger, Trevor Howard said, “Give the details to the FBI and make sure they get everything they need Charles. And help them in Mr. Lawrence’s office, please. I believe this will be the longest day of my life,” he moaned.

  Sitting down heavily, he knew his life was never going to be the same again. He just prayed he could salvage some of it, from the grievous harm it had just been dealt.

  Peter’s safe was eventually opened. It was empty. All signs pointed to the head CEO, and partner of Lawrence & Fenway Diversified, as a thief. The hunt was on and intensified for Peter Lawrence.

  Eventually the news reached Ralph Walters, the company pilot. Calling the office, he was told to speak to the FBI and give them every detail of his trip to Florida. Soon, the FBI was out in force, swarming the Miami area, scouring the region for the missing fugitive. All modes of transportation were checked, his photo shown at every hotel, motel and inn, but Peter Lawrence wasn’t found.

  In the dingy hotel, in downtown Miami, Phillip Lewis sat on his bed and used the phone to call the airplane rental agent, giving them his hotel phone number and room.

  “The Cessna is on schedule, Mr. Lewis. We’ll contact you tomorrow on its status. It should be on time,” the agent told him.

  “Call me, if anything changes,” Phillip requested, anxious to be leaving.

  He sat back on the bed, trying to watch TV. Nothing of interest was on. The sound of traffic down in the street, drifted up, over the clanking of the old air-conditioner trying in vain to cool the room.

  As the evening wore on, memories of the last few days began to harass him. Getting up he walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner. As he ate, he spotted a liquor store across the street.

  Soon, he was back in his hotel room with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Leaning back against the propped up pillows, he watched mindless shows, and drank from the bottle, eventually falling into a drunken stupor.

  The former Peter Lawrence wouldn’t have recognized the disheveled, bedraggled, man on the shabby bed, drunk and vulnerable, with a vast fortune next to him without a guard, protector, or security.

  Day two for Phillip Lewis was coming to an end.

 

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