Rebels and Thieves

by Russell Williams

  Malone felt himself tense up. He couldn’t stand to listening to someone lying to his face. “Stop feeding me a line of crap, all right?”

  “That’s it, Sergeant.” Kemp looked irritated. “I’m finished talking about this matter.”

  “Someone murdered your junior research analyst, Jason Roberts.” Malone moved to the penthouse window. Outside, it was beautiful, not a cloud in the crystal blue sky. Fifty feet below them, in the Biscayne Bay, several yachts headed toward the Atlantic Ocean. Malone suddenly found himself wondering what it would be like to be on an extended vacation.

  Kemp looked at his watch. “This is old news, Sergeant. We’ve already discusses that.”

  “Someone stole his business computer, jump drives, fax machine, and copy machine.”

  “That’s not uncommon.”

  “Given the nature of his business, everyone knows he deals with financial data.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Malone knew he was on to something important. Realizing research analysts worked around the clock, he figured Roberts was probably in the habit of taking some of Black Capital Investments’ financial records home with him to work on over the weekends. “I think someone stole broke into Mr. Roberts home and stole incriminating evidence.”

  Kemp looked incredulous. “Like what, Sergeant?”

  “Perhaps your hedge funds bank statements, financials, and tax returns.”

  “That’s pure speculation, Sergeant.” Kemp sounded uneasy. “You can’t back that up.”

  “On the night Mr. Robert’s was stabbed to death in the park, his cell phone records indicated that he called Steve James twelve times in a row. Something must have been really been bothering him, don’t you think?”

  Kemp rolled his eyes. “They were close friends, Sergeant.”

  Malone didn’t buy Kemp’s explanation. Given the terrible condition of the economy, coupled with the fact that hedge funds going out of business at a record paces, he suspected the two senior level employees knew Black Capital Investments was in deep financial trouble. “Now, Mr. James, you senior portfolio manager, is dead, too.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Sergeant. It’s a series of unfortunate events, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I think it’s a lot more than that. I think it points to a troubled firm.”

  Kemp looked disgusted. “Don’t go there, Sergeant. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence. I think their deaths are connected.”

  “Good luck finding out how, Sergeant.” Kemp’s eyes were cold and calculating. “But it sounds like a wild-goose chase to me.”

  “I think you’re running a fraudulent investment operation.” Malone knew the world was in a financial meltdown, with total debt in the neighborhood of fifty trillion dollars. The Federal Reserve had swept into action, purchasing record amounts of treasury bills, hoping to inject enough liquidity into the system to spur economic growth. Governments around the world couldn’t pay their financial obligations, threatening to default on their loans. Central banks vowed to keep interest rates low. But even after all these measures, large financial institutions and multinational corporations were still failing at a record pace. And in the face of this mounting crisis, Black Capital Investments stood tall among the carnage, shining like a bright star. Not in a million years. Malone knew the guy was bullshitting him.

  Kemp shook his finger at him. “Watch your step, Sergeant. Or I’ll slap a defamation of character lawsuit on your department.”

  “Black Capital Investments is a house of cards. You’re ripping off your investors.”

  Anger flashed in Kemp’s eyes. “Get the hell out of my office.”

  “I’m going to knock you off your throne, pal. And it’s not going to be a pretty site.”

  “That’s never going to happen, Sergeant. You’re just going to waste your time.”

  “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

  Malone and Peterson left the office. Walking through the main trading floor, they ignored a mob of reporters. Both silent, they got into the glass elevator and took it to the bottom floor. Leaving the building, they descended a flight of steps, got into the unmarked police car, and headed back to police headquarters.

  Chapter 16

  Benson parked his car in a crowded parking lot. Staying out of sight, he had tailed his wife from her job to Lemon City Park. Determined to find out who she was having an affair with, he grabbed his binoculars out of the glove compartment and searched through the crowd. Across the park, about sixty feet in front of him, he saw her sitting on a park bench, sharing an intimate moment with her lover. She’s nothing but a dirty, rotten liar, he thought. She was sitting next to an old man, her head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her. They appeared to be in love, lost in each other’s arms, not a care in the world. His cell phone rang. It was his best friend, Chris Allen.

  “I finally caught her in the act,” Benson said. “I knew she was up to no good.”

  “Huh?”

  “Missy is at Lemon City Park right now. She’s with her lover, sitting on a park bench.”

  There was a long pause on the line. “No shit.”

  “They’re having lunch together. She’s a lying, manipulative bitch.”

  “Don’t jump the gun.” Chris sounded concerned. “Don’t blow things out of proportion.”

  Benson felt like his heart was going to burst in his chest. He couldn’t stand to see her with another man. “I’m not blind. It’s happening right in front of my eyes.”

  “It’s a public place, bro. Lots of people go to the park. It could be perfectly innocent.”

  Benson raised his voice. “They’re not talking.”

  “Oh?”

  “Missy’s head is on his shoulder. And he has his arm around her.”

  “Oh, I see.” There was another long pause on the line. ‘That’s a game changer, bro.”

  Benson wasn’t going to let it go. “I’m going to get even with her.”

  “She’s not worth it, bro. File for divorce. And move on with your life.”

  Outside Benson’s car, a middle-aged couple stopped rollerblading. They stood on the sidewalk, both facing each other, holding hands. The man let go of his girlfriend’s hands, pointed at his feet, and glided backward. After he stopped sliding across the pavement, he gestured with his hands, motioning for her to follow his lead. She spun around, but tripped over her feet. Just before she hit the ground, he caught her in his arms. They both leaned against Benson’s passenger side door, laughing.

  “Hold on a second,” Benson said, aggravated. “I need to take care of something.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re not going to hurt your wife, are you?”

  Benson had to have a plan first. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that, bro.” Chris’ voice was sharp. “You need to let it go.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Benson opened his car door, got out, and approached the couple. Standing in front of them, he put his hands on his hips. Upset that they were leaning against his Thunderbird, he couldn’t wait to get even with them. “Listen to me,” Benson said. “You need to show more respect for other people’s property.”

  “Are you talking to me?” the boyfriend asked, obviously confused.

  Benson could feel his anger rising. “No, I’m talking to your mother.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, pal.”

  “Then get the hell off my car. And take your sorry ass girlfriend with you.”

  “Take it easy.” He looked angry. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  Benson grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. The man’s girlfriend started screaming. Standing over him, Benson lifted his right leg and stomped on the man’s head. Woozy, the man got up on his hands and knees, stunned from the blows, trying
to stand up. Benson whipped out a switchblade knife and placed it beneath the man’s chin.

  “Tell her to stop screaming,” Benson said. “Or I’ll cut your throat.”

  “Listen to him.”

  “That’s the ticket.” Benson grinned. “I like it when people listen to me.”

  “Please don’t kill me.”

  Benson wasn’t satisfied. “Beg me.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry, sir. I …I didn’t mean it.”

  “You tell anyone about this, I’ll find you and kill you.”

  The couple skated off, looking back, a look of shock and horror on their faces. Benson climbed back into his Thunderbird and put the switchblade knife into his front pocket. Looking into the rearview mirror, he ran his fingers through his long hair, tucking the brown greasy strands behind his ears. Smirking, he picked up the cell phone and placed it to his ear.

  “Did you get all that?” Benson asked.

  “No, I was listening to some tunes. You know, heavy metal is the only way to go.”

  Benson laughed. “That’s what I like about you. You’re always up for a good time.”

  “Hey, that’s me, bro. I’m the life of the party. Hey, you want to have a drink tonight.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Don’t let me down.” Chris sounded disappointed. “You know, I hate to drink alone.”

  “I can’t wait until tonight. I need to have a drink now.” Benson was having a hard time dealing with everything. He still couldn’t believe their marriage vows meant nothing to her. He had to get her off his mind.

  “Well, that’s even better. Don’t even give it a second thought. Just come on over.”

  Benson had a splitting headache. “Oh, I’m looking forward to getting wasted.”

  “That’s the spirit, bro. I’m looking at a bottle of Jim Beam. It’s got your name on it.”

  “I’ll be there soon, within an hour.”

  “Hey, hold on a second.” Chris’ voice was serious. “I just have one question.”

  Benson hated to be questioned. “What?”

  “You’re not going to go kill your wife, are you?”

  “Like I said before, I’m not ready to kill her yet. But it’s going to happen soon.”

  Benson hung up the cell phone and clipped it to his waist. He picked up the binoculars and looked at them again, this time catching a quick glimpse of the old man’s face. It made him sick to his stomach. He wouldn’t forget his face, the person who was screwing his wife behind his back. Obviously, she wanted his money and security, the two things he couldn’t provide for her. She was nothing but a gold digger. Right at that moment, he had a sudden flash of insight. He knew exactly how he would get even with her. First, he would stab the old man to death in front of her. Then, after she’d cried her pretty eyes out, he would plunge the knife into her chest, over and over again. Oh, love is so bitter sweet, he thought. It’s so damn bitter sweet.

  Chapter 17

  Oakmont Trail was lined with beautiful mansions—all protected by security gates. Each home was perfectly landscaped, with exotic plants, hedges, and Queen Palms. Up ahead, around a sharp bend in the road, was the Marriott Hotel. Malone parked his unmarked police car in the back of the parking lot. Unfastening his seat belt, he looked over at Peterson, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

  “All right,” Malone said, looking at her. “George Smith is inside.”

  “Let’s hear the plan.”

  “We’ll find out what room he’s in. I’ll go in and confront him, while you wait in the hallway. Make sure no one comes into the room.”

  “Someone may put up a fuss.”

  Malone wasn’t worried about this happening. No matter what, he intended to get a break in the case. “That’s not a big deal. You’ll just have to put up a bigger one.”

  “What if there’s trouble inside the room?”

  “Don’t sweat it.” Malone threw open the car door. “I’ll handle it.”

  Malone and Peterson walked through the double glass doors, into the hotel lobby. The room was floored with beige marble, and the walls were paneled in rich walnut. Two crystal chandeliers lit the room. Straight ahead of them, there was a long reception desk. The hotel clerk looked up from a stack of papers. He was a young man, with shaggy brown hair, buck teeth, and coke bottle glasses. He wore black pants, a white dress shirt, and a red bow tie.

  “Sergeant Malone,” he said, flashing his gold badge. “And this is Detective Peterson.”

  “It’s great to meet you,” the clerk said. He sounded sincere. “What’s up?”

  “George Smith just checked in here.”

  The clerk ran his fingers through his hair. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

  “You bet.”

  “I can’t believe it.” The clerk sounded shocked. “Not at the Marriott Hotel.”

  “Bad things happen everywhere, kid. Rich places, poor places. It just doesn’t matter.”

  The clerk bent over, grabbed two textbooks on forensic science, and put them on the reception desk. Next to them, he placed a yellow pad of paper with notes written on it. “I’m studying to be a criminalist.” He seemed proud of himself. “I just finished my first year of college, straight A’s. The University of Miami.”

  “That’s great,” Malone said, patting him on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

  “This is so exciting, Sergeant. I’ve never been part of a police investigation before.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

  The clerk’s eyes lit up, “Is it a big case, Sergeant?”

  Malone could tell he was enjoying the conversation. It was obvious the kid was eager to play a role in the investigation. “You bet.”

  “Do you think it’ll make the front page, The Miami Herald?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Damn it.” The clerk slammed his hand on the reception desk. “That sucks.”

  Malone got a kick out of his behavior. He couldn’t blame him for wanting some excitement to spruce up his life. “Take it easy, kid. It’s still an important case, though. And I could use your help.”

  “Tell me what to do, Sergeant. And I’ll follow your instructions to the letter.”

  “First, give me Smith’s room number.”

  The hotel clerk punched his name into the computer. He bit his bottom lip, obviously scanning through a long list of names. “I have him right here, Sergeant.” He pointed at the screen. “He’s on the third floor, room number 304.”

  “Great job,” Malone said, smiling. “I really appreciated that.”

  “Wait until my college professors hear about this.”

  Malone extended his hand, palm up. “Get me the key to Smith’s room.”

  “I’ll personally take you up there, if that’s all right with you.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Malone shook his head. He knew the clerk wanted to go with them but it was out of the question. He wanted him to stay at the front desk, where he would be safe.

  The clerk said, “But I know this hotel like the back of my hand.”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. We’ll manage.”

  The hotel clerk shrugged his shoulders, as if to say sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. He grabbed his textbooks, notes, and put them behind the reception desk. Frowning, he grabbed a plastic key card and programmed it to open the appropriate door.

  “Thank you,” Malone said, taking the key card. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I wouldn’t have been a third wheel up there, Sergeant.”

  Malone knew he’d only slow them down. “Thanks for your cooperation with us.”

  “I could still be your eyes and ears, Sergeant. Nothing will get past me.”

  “There’s always next time.”

  “Have a heart, Sergeant. I want to tell everyone how I helped you crack the case.”

  “Stay in school and get that degree.” Malone clapped him on the shoulder. He could se
e how disappointed the clerk was because he couldn’t’ do more to help him solve the case. “Before realize it, you’ll be putting you’re your skills to good use.”

  Malone and Peterson got into the elevator and took it to the third floor. They got off and headed down a short corridor. Peterson stood against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. Malone stood in front of the room, placed the key card into a metal slot, and saw the green light appear. He threw opened the door and dashed inside.

  “Don’t move a muscle.” Malone stared at Smith and a young woman lying in bed. It was obvious e they had just slept together. “Or you’ll both regret it.”

  “Who in the hell are you?” Smith asked. “You’d better answer me.”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Malone.” He flashed his gold badge. “Miami PD.”

  “You can’t just barge in here, not without having probable cause.”

  Malone gave him a big smile. He knew he was in the wrong, but it was all part of his plan. He was looking forward to getting a break in the case. “That’s a good point.”

  “I know my rights, Sergeant. Now, get the hell out of here.”

  Malone knew he had the upper hand. “Not until I’m good and ready.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Sergeant?”

  Smith pulled up the sheets, covering their naked bodies. The rest of the bed was torn apart, with the blankets bunched up on the floor. Next to the bed, on the nightstand, was a revolver. In front of the weapon, sitting on a six-by-six inch mirror, was a razor-blade, a rolled up hundred dollar bill, and a pile of cocaine. Malone took out his digital camera and took pictures, capturing the entire scene.

  “What the hell are you doing, Sergeant?”

  “I’m taking pictures.”

  Smith sounded worried. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Sergeant? I can see that.”

  “You’re the one who asked the question, not me.”

  “What the hell are you going to do with them?”

  Malone knew he had him by the short hairs. He intended to play him like a fiddle. “Well, it all depends on my mood.”