Taylor was thrilled, of course, but what I loved about this girl was that she didn’t appear any more excited than when she got the lacrosse case from my mother.
When we finished examining every gadget on the ultra-expensive vehicle, we returned inside the house, and settled in for the remainder of the morning. I moved to the buffet table and grabbed a bagel, along with another very merry orange juice.
“You need to slow down—you’ve got to drive me to the soup kitchen this afternoon,” I heard Taylor’s voice behind me.
“Cut back on orange juice?”
“Can I have a sip,” she said and reached for my glass. I pulled it away, proving her point.
She smiled, satisfied. “I wouldn’t underestimate my observational skills.”
“It’s noted. Soup kitchen?”
“I’m working as a server this afternoon in Stamford. Mom said you were in charge of my carpooling until she lifts your suspension.”
“Didn’t you just get a new car?”
“Mom doesn’t want me driving there alone.”
I nodded that I would take her, and smiled proudly. “I’m impressed.”
“I don’t need compliments for helping people. Besides, it’s in my blood.”
She gauged my reaction like she knew something, waiting for me to walk into a trap. It reminded me of my courtroom days, which concerned me that she really might have her father in her blood. But maybe I was just being paranoid.
Our conversation was interrupted by a
Breaking News
report coming from the television, and the room went silent. A young female anchor, who probably thought she’d drawn the short straw by having to work on Christmas morning, was suddenly sitting on a big story.
“We reported earlier this morning about what is now being called the Santa Burglar, who broke into a Mount Kisco home last night. But instead of robbing the place, the burglar actually set up a Christmas tree and surrounded it with gifts. Stockings were hung by the fireplace, filled with goodies.
“What made this story even more amazing, was that the ‘victims’ of this break-in were former Kerstman Publishing employees, part of the group whose lives were ripped apart by the infamous scandal.
“As most are aware, Diedrich Kerstman became the poster child for corporate greed when he allegedly stole his employees’ identities in part of a fraudulent sale of the company, which netted him in excess of a billion dollars, while the employees were left with nothing. Kerstman was never convicted—dying during an escape attempt in the Caribbean—but his lawyer, Kris Collins, served three years in jail for his role in the botched escape.”
All eyes went to me—like they just realized that I’d gone to jail. Not real newsworthy. But I had a feeling what they were about to learn would be.
“But as the morning has progressed, we’ve learned that this wasn’t just an isolated incident. Reports are coming in of a rash of break-ins across Westchester County and parts of Connecticut, which appear to be part of a systematic plot. As in the ‘Miracle in Mount Kisco’ these burglaries also brought Christmas to struggling former Kerstman employees. We are now going out to Teresa Rivera who is on the scene in White Plains.”
A pretty reporter who looked like she’d just graduated college, stood in front of a house on a suburban street in White Plains. “Yes, Jennifer, it has been a morning of Christmas miracles. And the story of the Santa Burglar keeps growing,” she belted out with enthusiasm, her breath visible on the cold morning.
I thought about pulling the plug from the television, while making it look like I tripped. But it was wireless. Damn technology.
“We have learned that not only did Santa Burglar provide traditional Christmas items like a tree and gifts for the children, but also dropped a much larger gift in their parents’ bank accounts. A note was left behind to inform the families that all the money stolen from them by Kerstman had been returned, plus interest, and a million dollar bonus for hardships incurred since the heist.”
“Sounds as if this would confirm our earlier reports that this is connected to the Kerstman victims,” the anchor said, stating the obvious.
“We contacted as many former employees as possible this morning, and every one of them was touched in some way by the Santa Burglar. Even those who had no break-in, or had moved out of the area, still received the payment into their bank account. And one person we talked to said that the gifts left for their children were so specific, it was almost like the Santa Burglar was listening to their private conversations.”
“Well, they say he sees you when your asleep, and knows when you’re awake,” the anchor said, laughing at her attempted witticism. “But it would also require a very sophisticated plan to be able to get into bank accounts, and to reach that many people in one night. It’s mind-boggling.”
“They say Santa has helpers, and this Santa appears to be no different,” Teresa responded. “The internet is already buzzing with rumors of who might be behind this—one source said they saw two men run from their neighbor’s house and enter a van, but that’s unconfirmed at this time.
“We do have one confirmed report of a sighting inside a house in Sleepy Hollow, where a husband and wife, Jeffrey and Sharon Yu, stumbled upon the burglar, and were tied up and blindfolded, before being placed in a closet. They were unable to see a face or make an identification, but were convinced that there must have been more than one person involved. It seems there are more questions than answers when it comes to the Santa Burglar.”
“Not exactly the traditional story of Santa and his reindeer, but I’m sure for those involved, they’re just happy to get back what was stolen from them, and now can try to put this nightmare behind them.”
“The ones we’ve spoken to certainly are, although they are stunned. And it’s never a comfortable feeling to know someone could penetrate your home or bank accounts, especially for these people who’ve been victimized in the past.”
“What is the reaction from the authorities?”
“The FBI, which handled the Kerstman investigation, and subsequent arrest, had no comment this morning. Although, a source told us that initial investigation showed little or no evidence left behind, confirming that this was a professional job. Strangely, one of the few pieces of evidence being tested were half-eaten cookies left for Santa, which are being tested for DNA.
“We also talked to the local police in many of the communities that were involved—all said they are investigating, but didn’t consider it to be a high-priority at this time. But they did remind us that it is a crime to break in to a home or bank account, no matter the motive.”
“I would imagine these ‘victims’ would not be so quick to press charges in this case, and it wouldn’t be easy to get a conviction against the Santa Burglar.”
“That is if they can ever find him or her.”
“Maybe they should start at the North Pole,” the anchor said with a chuckle. “We’ll be looking forward to your reports the rest of the day, Teresa. Thank you for your work in getting this story out this morning.”
A piece of paper then came across the anchor desk. “This just in—a statement was released by Alexander Wainwright, whose investment company, Wainwright & Lennox, was involved in the Kerstman sale. Mr. Wainwright says that the money that was stolen from him, believed to be in the neighborhood of six-hundred-million dollars, had been returned in full, with interest.
“He went on to announce that he will be using a large portion of the returned money to set up a fund for victims of identity theft throughout the world. And his organization was looking into investing in technology that can protect future victims.
“In a related story, Stone Scroggie, who partnered with Wainwright on the Kerstman sale, is currently in jail for attacking Wainwright and his family on Christmas Eve, with other charges pending the outcome of an investigation. It’s another strange twist in a case full of strange twists.”
While the statement caused me to almost choke on my bagel, everyone else in the room seemed to buy the self-serving snake oil that Alexander was selling. “Way to go, Grandpa,” Taylor exclaimed, and Libby gave him a hug, ending their brief cold war.
I returned my attention to the screen, where the anchor looked into the camera with the serious news-look usually reserved for major tragedies, and broke into editorial, “To repeat our breaking news this morning, we have confirmed that there really is a Santa Claus. In our increasingly cynical society, many question or doubt the existence of Santa. But today is no different than when Virginia O’Hanlon wrote to the editor over a hundred years ago, wanting to know if Santa really existed. And Francis Pharcellus Church’s famed response has never been more relevant than this morning. I quote:
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus.”
She looked directly into the camera, adding, “I’m glad it looks like we’ll never have to find out. Thank you, Santa Claus, and your helpers, for once again reminding us of the importance of believing in you, and all you represent.”
“Why don’t you just give the money back?” I asked Diedrich Kerstman. Just as I had numerous times before that day when he slipped out under my nose, only leaving behind instructions in case he didn’t return. I had the feeling that he didn’t think he would.
And the answer was simple. If the money was ever exposed to sunlight, Scroggie could have regained it, and they never would have seen it again. But if he handed it over to the FBI, the money would have been held up in the belly of bureaucracy. Good luck getting that back in full. The Kerstman employees probably would have had to sue to get back what was rightfully theirs, and the majority of the money would have landed in the pockets of bottom-feeder lawyers like myself, even if they won. The term ‘class action lawsuit’ is a legal term for ‘lawyers get rich’. So we had to keep it hidden until the right moment.
But it was more than that. In Diedrich’s final letter, he pleaded that I couldn’t just write a check to his victims—it wouldn’t make things right. He had stolen away something much more precious than money—he took their innocence, their trust, and most of all, their belief. He put it on me to restore it, and I accepted the challenge.
Maybe I saw the parallel to my own crumbling life, and my own loss of innocence and belief, or perhaps I’m just a lunatic thrill-seeker. Regardless, I’m not sure what made me risk everything for a man I barely knew, and for a concept I no longer believed in. But as I stood in the rain at Diedrich Kerstman’s funeral, which was attended by less than ten people, I vowed that I would restore belief. I said it was for those who had been victimized, but I knew it was just as much about restoring it to myself.
Following the funeral, I was offered a ride home by one of the mourners. But since I no longer had a home, Harry Crawford took me to his ranch. When we arrived, the FBI was awaiting at the front entrance to arrest me. Two days later I agreed to a plea deal that made sure I wouldn’t see the light of day for three years.
“Any ideas on who might be behind these break-ins?” Libby quietly asked me, even though I was pretty sure she knew the answer.
“I think it might be Gooch,” I whispered.
“Gooch? In our brief encounter I hadn’t pegged him for virtuous.”
“He wasn’t—when he had me cornered in the cellar, he threatened everyone in the house if I didn’t hand over the location of the treasure. So I didn’t have a choice except to give it to him. But with Scroggie arrested, and likely to turn evidence against him, I think he tried to get rid of the money. And what better place, than to return it to the bank accounts of the original owners? Besides, who else would have access to the accounts, other than the people who were behind the original theft?”
Libby shook her head. “I find it incomprehensible that all those juries bought your delusional theatrics all those years. The answer is so obvious who is behind this.”
“Then who do you think did it?” I asked hesitantly.
“Santa Claus.”
I was puzzled. “I thought you didn’t believe in Santa Claus?”
She held a firm stare on me. “I didn’t, but I always base my opinions on evidence. And when new evidence comes to light, I am open to re-examining my position.”
I was in need of a subject change, and it came in the form of ponies. We’d let the twins go almost an hour without a major gift, and I suggested we take them to the barn to meet their new friends. Mercifully, their mother agreed, and we made our way outside.
“It’s the best gift ever, Daddy!” they exclaimed upon meeting their ponies. They also gave me a big hug, which was the true best gift ever.
“Did you take the Ferrari out, Dad?” Taylor suddenly asked me, interrupting the twins’ jubilation.
“No, why do you ask?” I replied nervously.
“It seems like it was parked differently when I was in here the other day.”
I shrugged. “The only time I’ve been at the house recently was to pick you up yesterday morning.”
“I allowed the workers to move it, if need be, when the stalls were reconstructed. Perhaps that’s what occurred,” Libby backed me up.