Peterson rolled her eyes. She opened the folder and studied the report. “The victim was Jason Roberts. He was thirty-four, five-foot-ten, and weighed two hundred and ten pounds.”
“Cause of death?”
“Multiple stab wounds to the chest.” Peterson was quiet for a moment, obviously still reading the report. “His vital organs were punctured—heart and lungs.”
Malone thought about this. “He must have pissed somebody off.”
“The murder weapon was a butcher knife, at least nine or ten inches long.”
“Were there any defensive wounds on the victim’s hands or arms?”
“No, the medical examiner didn’t indicate any.”
Malone leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. He knew this only happened in a small percentage of cases. “Usually, there are signs of a struggle. Most victims put up a fight.”
Peterson gave him a blank look. “Perhaps he never saw his attacker coming.”
“Or it was someone the victim knew.” Malone thought this was more likely. When the murder weapon was a knife, it usually meant that the killer wanted to make a personal statement. Stabbing the victim over and over again helped to settle all those pent up emotions.
Peterson continued reading the report. “There was no foreign DNA under the victim’s fingernails. No skin, no hairs, no fibers.”
“Did they determine the time of death?”
“He died between the hours of midnight and five A.M.”
“Give me the dirt on the victim, the bad things he was involved in.” Malone got up and moved to the counter, where he stood in front of a white coffee maker. He grabbed a mug and poured himself a full cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he sat back down behind his desk.
Peterson cocked her head. “It seems like he was a model citizen.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
“No, everything points in that direction. No criminal record, no arrests, no complaints.”
“Everyone has a skeleton in their closet, though.”
“I poked around a little.” Peterson closed the folder and laid it on his desk. “The only thing I found out was that the victim worked at a hedge fund—Black Capital Investments. He was a junior research analyst.”
“Now, that’s an interesting development.” Malone thought about the financial world. Hedge funds engaged in complex, sophisticated investments. Under ideal conditions, these funds were supposed to generate annual returns of twenty to thirty percent, both in good and bad markets. But the world’s economy was in deep trouble. Everyone was losing money, hand over fist. It was a bloodbath on Wall Street.
“I don’t follow the stock market.” Peterson scratched her head. “It’s too damn boring.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Malone took a sip of his coffee. “I’ll give you all the nitty-gritty details about the hedge funds. In fact, I’m even willing to skip my lunch break.”
Peterson looked alarmed. “No, that’s quite all right. I’ll read up on it later.”
Malone decided to tease her a little bit. He knew she hated hearing about how the stock market worked. “Sure you will. I bet you’ll even buy some books on the economy.”
“You know, I’d rather have a root canal.”
Malone laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Economics bores a lot of people to tears.”
“I’ve heard about Black Capital Investments, though. Nothing bad. All good things.”
“Don’t believe a word of it.”
“Some people think the stock market has bottomed out.”
Malone felt his stomach tense. Over the past year, a lot of investors and business journalist had been wrong about the economy turning around. “The stock market is down thirty percent this year. And it’s poised to go much lower.”
“Do you think Black Capital Investments is in financial trouble?”
Malone didn’t give it a second thought. “Everyone else is losing their life savings.”
“So, do you think the victim lost someone’s fortune?”
“They’re not called sharks in suits for nothing.” Malone smelled a rat. The economy was in dire straits—a housing crisis, a sovereign debt crisis, a banking crisis. Corporations were going belly up all over the world. The future appeared bleak, with long lines of unemployment and growing social unrest. “That wouldn’t surprise me,” Malone said, his tone serious. “It goes without saying that a good portion of them are dirty.”
“Who are you referring to?”
“Stock brokers, investment counselors, financial advisors, the so-called experts.”
Peterson cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re not being too cynical.”
Malone reflected on recent events. He knew a lot of investment firms had been burned in the stock market, and most of them needed a flood of new investors to keep themselves from going under. “I want you to think about something, all right? Has a butcher ever told you that he was selling bad meat?”
“Well, you do have a point there.” Peterson nodded. “That’s just the way it is, I suppose.”
“No, that’s only part of it.”
“Do you ever wonder about the other part?”
Malone knew the investment world was filled with unscrupulous businessmen. They specialized in swindling innocent people out of their life savings. “No, it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “It won’t change anything.”
“Well, I think it’s because—”
Malone didn’t want to go down that road. “Forget about it.”
“It’s just human nature, that’s all.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s because corporate greed and cruelty go hand in hand.” Malone checked his watch. “Meet me at Black Capital Investments in two hours.”
“That sounds good to me. I’m up for it, rattling the fat cats on Wall Street.”
“That makes two of us.”
Malone got to his feet and moved to the window. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black dress slacks. Outside, the afternoon sky was overcast, with dark thunderclouds. There was a loud clap of thunder, followed by a steady downpour.
Chapter 7
Malone and Peterson rushed into Black Capital Investments. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and the tiled floor was white and spotless. Surrounded by shrubs and palm trees was a beautiful water fountain in the center of the lobby, shooting a bubbling jet of water at least eight-feet into the air. To the far right, there was a group of business people standing in front of a glass elevator, some of them whispering, others nodding. At the back of the room, there was a reception desk, manned by a middle-aged secretary.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Malone,” he said, flashing his gold badge. “And this is Detective Peterson.”
“I’m Kate,” she said, smiling. “Kate Hill. Welcome to Black Capital Investments.”
“Who’s in charge?” Malone asked.
Kate stacked a pile of folders on her desk. She was an attractive woman, with cream-colored skin, shoulder length black hair, and large brown eyes. She was wearing black slacks and a white top. “That would be Mr. Kemp.”
“Tell him we’re here to see him.”
“Oh, I’m afraid he’s booked for the day.”
Malone knew she wasn’t telling him the truth. Things were so bad in the economy right now that most hedge fund managers were alone in their offices, making cold calls, trying to drum up new business. “Tell him to clear his schedule. It’s important we talk to him right now.”
“You’re both eager to invest with us, aren’t you?”
“No.” Malone’s voice was firm. “We’re not the slightest bit interested in that.”
“Oh, come on.” Kate’s face brightened. “Everyone gets cold feet in the beginning. But trust me, you’re money couldn’t be safer with us.”
“We’re here on a serious police matter.” Malone didn’t care for her attitude. Unless she changed her tune, he would have to be harder on her. “So, you need to let him kno
w we’re here.”
“This won’t take long.” Kate handed him a stack of papers. “Read these forms and fill them tout.” She paused, as if she was waiting to hear an objection. “It’s just some personal financial information, that’s all. And don’t forget to sign on the dotted line. That’s important.”
Malone tore up the papers. “Stop stonewalling me. Or you’re going to be sorry.”
“Settle down.” Kate gave him a nasty look. “Tenth floor. Room number 1005.”
“Thanks for your cooperating.” Malone winked at her. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Malone and Peterson took the glass elevator to the tenth floor. They walked through a double door, into a huge office. The walls were painted light blue. The room was floored with white marble, brushed with gold veins running through it. Along the right wall, employees sat behind their desks, some glued to their LCD monitors, others punching data into their computers. Above their heads, fastened to the wall, hung twenty-two-inch flat-screen televisions, all tuned to the business channel. People rushed back and forth, talking about financial investments—stocks, bonds, options, and exchange traded funds. Out of the crowd, a tall man walked over to them, a bright smile on his face. He was in his mid-thirties, with broad-shoulders, bushy eyebrows, and blue-gray eyes. His brown hair was parted on the side and flecked with gray, particularly around the temples.
“Roger,” he said, extending his hand. “Roger Kemp. Chief Executive Officer.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Malone with the Miami PD. And this is Detective Peterson.”
“I know who you are, Sergeant. I just got off the phone with my secretary.”
“So, she told you we were anxious to meet you, right?”
Kemp held up his hand, like a traffic cop. “Skip the pleasantries, Sergeant. She said you’re a real ball-buster.”
Malone didn’t care for his attitude. It was obvious the guy thought he was a notch above everyone else. “Sometimes, I have to be like that.”
“Is this going to be one of those times, Sergeant?”
“That’s up to you. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Like my secretary said.” Kemp’s gaze swept the room. “I’m busy, pressed for time.”
“I can see that.” Malone looked over Kemp’s shoulder. People were rushing around the room, talking about corporate earnings, unemployment rates, and interest rates. Malone found the conversations to be interesting.
“I’ve got a lot going on right now, Sergeant. So make an appointment with my secretary.”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I knew it, Sergeant. You came here to bust my chops, after all.”
Malone looked him straight in the eye. He decided to apply a little more pressure. “Well, that all depends on you.” His tone was serious. “Time will tell, I suppose.”
“It all depends on me?”
“That’s right. On how fast you wipe that grin off your face.”
Kemp’s assistant tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a clipboard. Kemp signed his name, grabbed a white envelope, and slipped it into his black suit jacket’s pocket. “I’m late for an appointment, Sergeant.” Kemp looked at his watch. “So, I only have ten minutes.”
“Do you know a guy named Jason Roberts?”
“Yes, he was one of our junior research analysts. Substandard, though.”
Malone nodded. “I’m listening.”
“We fired him a week ago. Late, lazy, irresponsible, that sort of thing.”
“Well, we found him in Lemon City Park. Dead. Stabbed to death.”
“That’s too bad.”
Malone could tell he said it without showing any emotion. It was clear that his death meant nothing to him. “Do you know anyone who would want to kill him?”
Kemp shook his head. “No, I don’t, Sergeant. I don’t have the slightest clue.”
“Perhaps one of your wealthy clients? Someone who’s lost a fortune with your firm?”
Kemp’s BlackBerry vibrated. He slipped it off his belt. Using his thumb, he composed a short text message and sent it. He clipped his phone back onto his belt and then glared at him. “We haven’t lost any money, Sergeant.” Kemp’s voice toughened. “Black Capital Investments is up twenty percent for the year. And for your information, we’re just getting warmed up.”
“Other hedge funds are going belly up,” Malone said. “One right after the other.”
“It happens, Sergeant.” Kemp’s tone was cold. “This isn’t a job for the Boy Scouts.”
“What makes your firm so special?”
Kemp gave him a crooked smile. “Firing people like Jason Roberts. He spent a lot of time on Stillwater Cruises. His was the life of the party, so to speak.”
“Are your employees in the habit of entertaining their perspective clients there?”
“We’ve been known to do that.” Kemp gave him a smile. “Some people enjoy cruises.”
“So, you guys live it up there, huh?” Malone knew it wasn’t uncommon for members of the investment team to entertain perspective investors. During these times, they wined and dined them—all in an attempt to convince them to invest money in their hedge fund.
“I don’t like what you’re implying, Sergeant.” Kemp’s tone was guarded. “Black Capital Investments doesn’t condone excessive drinking or gambling.”
“I’m sure you do it all the time, though. I mean, to drum up business, that is.”
Kemp tightened his red tie. “That’s not how we attract our wealthy investors.”
“Did Roberts associate with dangerous people on the cruise ship?”
“Go talk to the cruise director, Sergeant. I’m sure he’ll be a tremendous help to you.”
More people rushed past them, some checking messages on their cell phones, others discussing options, currency swaps, and short selling. One woman dropped a stack of files on the marble floor. Two men bent over to help her, almost knocking heads. They picked up the files, handed them to her, and disappeared into the crowd. Malone had to admit the Black Capital Investments appeared to be functioning like a well oiled machine.
“I’ll pay the cruise director a visit,” Malone said. “In the mean time, stick around town.”
“I’m scheduled to fly to Las Vegas next week.”
“Delay it.”
Kemp looked irritated. “No, Sergeant. I have an important business meeting there.”
Malone wasn’t going to let up on him. He suspected that Kemp new a lot more about his former employee’s death than he was letting on. “That’s fine. But I’m going to pay you another visit soon, right after you get back from your trip.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, sure it is. I’ve got a lot more questions for you.”
Kemp’s voice became stern. “Oh, come on, Sergeant. This is getting old.”
Malone patted him on the shoulder. He wanted to let him they were far from finished. “This is just the beginning. In fact, I’m just getting warmed up.”
“You’re just going to be wasting your time.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. We’ll talk again soon.”
Malone and Peterson walked through the double doors. Both silent, they got into the glass elevator and took it to the bottom floor. They walked out of Black Capital Investments, got into their unmarked police cars, and headed back to police headquarters.
Chapter 8
Benson lay in bed, next to his wife, whose back was turned toward him. He threw his big arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and buried his head into her long blonde hair. She was the love of his life. Overcome with desire, he wanted to be intimate with her. “I’ve had a rough day,” he said, snuggling closer to her. “Turn over.”
“No, I’m not in the mood,” Missy said, sliding closer to the edge of the bed.
“I just got bailed out of jail.”
“You shouldn’t have been drinking and driving.”
“Those cops set
me up. They needed to make their end of the month quotas.”
“Let’s talk about it later.” Missy sat up and removed a red barrette from her hair. Shaking her head, she let her long blonde hair tumble down her shoulders. She had a soft oval face, full lips, and big blue eyes. Leaning forward, she switched off the light on the nightstand. She lay back in bed again, this time closer to the edge of the bed.
“Come on, baby,” Benson said, feeling a deep ache in his groin. “I need you tonight.”
“I can’t do it.” Missy’s voice was cold. “I have a pounding headache.”
“It’s been months.”
“Uh-huh.” With her back to him, Missy curled into the fetal position.
“I’ll be up all night, tossing and turning. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Put sex out of your mind.”
Benson’s patience was fading. With his hormones raging, he was determined to get some relief. “I can’t stop thinking about it, baby. It’s on my mind, twenty-four-seven.”
“Deal with it.”
“Oh, I intend to.” Benson felt a wave of anger. “You can count on it.”
Benson threw his arm around her waist again, this time snuggling up to her. He wasn’t going to let her play hard to get with him anymore. He leaned over to kiss her, but she jumped out of bed. Missy switched on the light and stood there, her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
“Who is he?” Benson asked.
Missy bit her lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The guy you’re seeing, the guy who’s ruining our marriage.”
“There’s no one else.”
Benson felt a wave of disgust. He didn’t want to believe she was capable of breaking their marriage vows. “Then make love to me. Like you used to, when we were first married.”
Missy’s cheeks reddened. “I just got done telling you I don’t feel well.”
“I’m a man, you know.” Benson raised his voice. “And I have needs.”
“Wait until I feel better.” Missy put on her housecoat. She buttoned it up to her neck, obviously trying to conceal her body. She picked up a paperback novel from the nightstand and walked to the door. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Rebels and Thieves Page 3
