Rebels and Thieves

by Russell Williams

  “Why should I?”

  “You’d better pull yourself together, Sergeant.”

  Malone read between the lines. He knew something bad had happened. “Come on, Lieutenant. Don’t make me pry it out of you.”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Sergeant. Detective Peterson’s father is dead.”

  Sirens blaring, Malone blew through a few yellow traffic lights. Bearing right, he rounded a sharp bend in the highway and sped onto another long, flat straightaway. In front of him, several cars pulled into the slower lane, allowing him to race past them. He turned onto Clayton Beach Blvd., fishtailing sideways, and tore down the road. Three miles later, he pulled into Grand Palms View. He took the first left and parked behind several marked and unmarked police cars. On both sides of the neighborhood, the street was being cordoned off by a barricade of blue-and-whites. Malone ran to the front yard, where he saw a young police officer manning the outer perimeter. He signed the log, ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, and ran into the home. Several uniformed police officers stood together, talking and shaking their heads as they directed him down the long hallway. Inside the master bedroom, Dan Henderson, the Crime Scene Unit crew chief, stood next to a large canopied bed. On either side of him, crime scene techs were busy working the scene. They were dusting for fingerprints, bagging evidence, and taking photographs.

  “I’ve been here for a long time,” Henderson said. “I’m just finishing up.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Malone said. “Bring me up to speed.”

  Henderson met his gaze. “No sign of forced entry. No sign of foul play.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “We don’t know much, other than he’s dead.”

  Malone couldn’t believe this happened. “Who called it in?”

  “Detective Peterson came over here to see her father this morning.” Henderson shook his head. “She found him like this, dead as doornail.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s a basket case, Sergeant. She’s outside, sitting in a squad car.”

  “That’s a good place for her. There’s no reason for her to be in here.” Malone looked around the room. Mr. Peterson lay in bed, a blue comforter draped over his torso. He was on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth opened. There were no signs of a struggle. Maybe he just passed away in his sleep, he thought. On the floor, next to the far side of the bed, were jeans, a polo shirt, socks, and a white pair of tennis shoes. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, half full. Next to it was a prescription bottle of medication.

  “He appeared to be in good health,” Henderson said. “But he was taking Lipitron.”

  “That’s a cholesterol lowering drug, isn’t it?”

  Henderson nodded. “That’s right, Sergeant.”

  Malone was silent for a moment. So far, he didn’t see anything that struck him as being unusual. “It’s a safe medication, though. I mean, millions of people take it every day.”

  “It’s been on the market for a long time.”

  “Was he taking any other drugs with it?”

  “No, it doesn’t seem like it.” Henderson pointed toward the bathroom. “There’s nothing in his medicine cabinet, other than a bottle of cough syrup and a bottle of aspirins. That’s it.”

  “So, he took the prescription medication right before he went to sleep?”

  Henderson gave a nod. “The directions on the bottle say take one tablet before bedtime.”

  “How much medication is left in the bottle?”

  “He’s only taken two pills out of a thirty day supply.”

  Malone considered this for a moment. It was obvious he had just got the prescription filled. “Well, that rules out a drug overdose or suicide. That’s something positive, at least.”

  Henderson shrugged. “I’m going back to the lab. I’ll get back to you on the prints.”

  “It looks like he probably died of natural causes.”

  “I agree with you, Sergeant. But the ME will have to confirm it.”

  Henderson walked out of the bedroom, his crime scene techs trailing close behind him. A few seconds later, the ME came into the room, followed by two male assistants. Flood set the black bag down next to the bed. He pulled back the blue comforter, carefully folding it in half, so that it draped across the foot of the bed. Using a gloved hand, he turned the deceased’s head from side to side. He palpated his scalp, throat, and shoulders, obviously probing for lacerations, fractures, and other signs of physical trauma.

  “He looks fine,” Flood said. “No visible trauma, no wounds, no signs of a struggle.”

  “When do you think he died?” Malone asked.

  “He’s still warm to the touch. There’s no rigor. So, I’d say two to three hours ago.”

  “Do you have any other thoughts?”

  “I’m not making any pronouncements until I do the postmortem examination.”

  Malone bit his tongue. No matter what, he couldn’t get him to stop saying this at crime scenes. “I’ve heard this before. I know the drill.”

  “It doesn’t look suspicious, Sergeant. I mean, he appears to be in his late seventies.”

  “So, you think he died of natural causes?”

  “He had a medical condition.” Flood pointed at the pills on the nightstand.

  Malone got the message. The medical profession considered high cholesterol to be a universal warning sign. “So, it looks like he had a heart attack or a stroke, right?”

  “It’s too soon for me to say definitively. But I’ll do the autopsy this afternoon.”

  Flood looked at his assistants, pointed at the deceased, and nodded. At once, they went to work, carefully folding the sheet over Peterson and placing him into a black body bag. They zipped it shut and proceeded to carry the body out to the van. Malone stood in front of the bedroom window, watching at a group of uniformed police officers talking to each other in the front yard. Well, at least Kemp wasn’t behind this, he thought. No even someone as twisted as him could have done something like this—all to get back at them for investigating his corrupt hedge fund. His cell phone rang. It was his boss, Lieutenant Harper.

  “I just finished talking to the ME,” Malone said. “It doesn’t look like a homicide.”

  “The hell is wasn’t, Sergeant. I just got off the phone with the chief.”

  Malone was confused. “What are you talking about, Lieutenant?”

  “People are dropping dead all over Miami.”

  Malone recoiled in shock. He had a hard time believing what he just heard. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. What did you just say?”

  “It has to do with a prescription drug, Lipitron. So far, six people who took the drug before they went to bed last night are dead.”

  Malone felt his gut tighten. He knew thousands of people were taking the medication to lower their cholesterol levels. “So, someone poisoned the prescription drug supply chain?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. The chief says it was a terrorist attack.”

  Malone hung up the phone and blew out a long breath of frustration. He turned around, headed for the door, but stopped dead in his tracks. A tall woman with auburn-hair came into the room. Her green eyes darted everywhere, as if she was making a mental note of every important detail in the room. What the hell is going on? She was wearing a navy two-piece pantsuit with a cream colored button-down blouse and low heeled black shoes. Standing on either side of her were two men, both dressed in black suits, white button-down shirts, and black dress shoes.

  “I’m Special Agent Emily Raven,” she said. She held up her credentials. “FBI.”

  “Who called you?” Malone asked.

  “This is Special Agent Parker and Special Agent Meyers.”

  Malone felt irritated. He didn’t like it when people were evasive with him. “I just asked you a question. So please answer it, all right?”

  “Sergeant Rick Malone, is it? We’ve been investigating Black Capital Investments, too. We’re going to fil
l in the blanks for you.”

  “You’re going to do what?” Malone felt himself redden. She wasn’t in even in the room for five minutes, and she was already throwing her weight around.

  Raven held her hand up. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’re not here to take over the case.”

  “That thought never crossed my mind.”

  “We’re going to coordinate our resources. We’re going to use our superior databases.”

  “You think Black Capital Investments is behind what’s happening in Miami?”

  Raven pressed her lips together. “It’s much worse than that.”

  Malone could tell the situation was dire. He didn’t want beat around the bush. “Don’t keep me in suspense. I can’t read your mind. Tell me what’s going on?”

  “We believe they’re responsible for people dying across the country.”

  Malone’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re going to cooperate with us, Sergeant. Or we’re not going to be kept in the loop.”

  “That’s not going to be a problem.” Not happy about the situation, Malone had to play his cards right. If he made a fuss about some jurisdictional issue, the Feds could evoke the USA Patriot Act and actually take over the entire case. That wasn’t going to happen on his watch. He couldn’t let Black Capital Investments slip through his fingers, not after he’d devoted so much of his time to trying to apprehend Kemp. He had to keep the ball in his court. He raised his chin, stared at her, and kept a stiff upper lip.

  Chapter 55

  Railroad Trail was lined with expensive one and two story homes. The homes were set far back from the main highway on at least one or two acre lots. Each home was beautifully landscaped. On the right side of the street, at the very end of the block, was Smith’s home. Malone pulled the unmarked police car into the long driveway and parked behind a black BMW. He glanced at his watch. It was eight o’clock in the morning. The suspect hadn’t left for work. There was still time to confront him, to find out what he knew about Black Capital Investments’ dealings with Stillwater Cruises and the terrorist attack on Florida. Unfastening his seatbelt, he looked over at Peterson, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Are you still up for this?” Malone asked.

  “I have a pounding headache,” Peterson said. “I still can’t believe my dad’s dead.”

  “This is a bad idea. I should take you home.”

  Peterson folded her arms across her chest. “No, I’ll push through it.”

  Malone’s heart went out to her. He knew she needed some time to pull herself together. “You shouldn’t be here. Not after finding your dad like that.”

  “After we’ve interrogated Smith, I’m going to take a few days off.”

  “You can start right now, if that’s what you want.”

  “No, let’s get to the bottom of this.”

  Malone respected her determination. Her father had just died, and she was still trying to solve the case. “We’ll find out what Smith knows. You can count on it.”

  “He’s part of Black Capital Investments. He probably knows about the terrorist attack.”

  “We’ll make sure he talks, one way or the other.”

  Peterson smiled. “At times like this, I wouldn’t want anyone as my partner but you.”

  “What are friends for, huh?”

  They got out of the unmarked police car and walked to the black BMW. Malone reached into his blue blazer’s coat pocket, pulled out a knife, and stooped to his knees. Careful not to be seen by anyone, he punctured all four of Smith’s car tires. They walked up to the front porch and rang the door bell. Behind the door, Malone heard a man and woman arguing with each other.

  “Why did you flatten his car tires?” Peterson asked, looking at him.

  “I wanted to send him a message.”

  Peterson’s brow furrowed. “It’s not like he’s going to get away from us.”

  “I just wanted to get under his skin, that’s all. There’s no harm in it.”

  “Let’s get him to turn on Kemp.”

  Malone’s thoughts raced ahead. He looked forward to bringing him into the station and putting a lot of pressure on him. “That’s the plan. We’re not going to stop until we succeed.”

  “If it doesn’t work, we’re not going to have anything on Kemp.”

  Malone pounded on the door. Inside, behind the locked door, two people stopped yelling. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. They’re probably trying to figure out what to do next, he thought. The door opened, creaking on its hinges. A man stood there with his right hand raised in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the morning sun.

  “It took you long enough to answer,” Malone said. “I was about to kick down the door.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Smith said. “You’ve got some nerve coming here.”

  Malone meant business. “Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

  “We had a deal, Sergeant. I cooperated with you. I told you everything I knew.”

  “Well, something else has come up. Something, I need you to shed light on.”

  “Forget about it, Sergeant. I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

  Malone felt a spike of anger. No matter what, he intended to get him to answer his questions. “Tell your wife to join us. Let’s tell her about your double life.”

  Smith’s cheeks bloomed red. “Knock it off, Sergeant.”

  “No, I want to talk to her right now. So, go get her for me.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Smith stepped outside and pulled the front door shut behind him. He walked past them, onto the driveway, and turned around. “I don’t have time for this. I’m getting ready to go to work.”

  “Look at your car,” Malone said, pointing down the driveway.

  Smith’s expression hardened. “How in the hell did that happen?”

  “Bad luck, I suppose.”

  “That isn’t right, Sergeant. You can’t go around, damaging people’s personal property.”

  “Someone poisoned the prescription drug supply chain.”

  Smith looked scared. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Malone felt his face getting hot. He stood a better chance at getting Smith to talk in an interrogation room. “I want you to come downtown with me. And put that statement in writing.”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere, Sergeant. So, I want you to leave me alone.”

  Malone decided to turn the tables on him. He wasn’t going to waste his time, especially when innocent people’s lives were hanging in the balance. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of your crap. Go get your wife for me.”

  Smith stiffened. “Huh?”

  “I’m done threatening you. I’m going to show her the dirty pictures.”

  “All right, Sergeant. You win. But this is the last time you’re going to intimidate me.”

  Malone and Peterson escorted him to the unmarked police car and shoved him into the backseat. He wasn’t going to let up on him. Come hell or high water, Malone intended to get him to admit everything he knew about the terrorists attack. He backed out of the driveway, punched the gas, and sped toward the Miami Police Department.

  Chapter 56

  Kemp sat behind his mahogany desk, watching the stock market plummet another eight hundred points, and he wondered how the Chairman of the Federal Reserve was going to stabilize the economy. There was mass panic on Wall Street, the sovereign debt crisis in Europe spreading across the globe. Most economists, stock analysts, and business leaders were pounding the table, predicting that a world-wide economic collapse was inevitable. The largest banks around the world were failing at record paces, all of them on the wrong side of complicated trades—credit default swaps, securitized investment vehicles, and sub-prime mortgage backed securities. Unless their respective governments stepped in and bailed them out, a world-wide depression loomed on the horizon.

  “It’s a bloodbath,” Kemp said. “Ever
yone is getting slaughtered.”

  Basov narrowed his eyes. “My family gave you two hundred million dollars.”

  “I put it to good use.”

  “We need to see huge returns on their investments.”

  Kemp felt himself getting upset. He didn’t like answering to anyone. “I’ve already proved myself to you, haven’t I?”

  “You’re only as good as your last trade, you know that.”

  “Ripping people off is simple. In fact, it’s like second nature to me.” Kemp looked at the portfolio, paying particular attention to Razor Edge Laboratories, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. According to their statistics, one in every five adults suffered from high cholesterol. Every thirty-four seconds in the United States, someone had a heart attack. In anticipation of the big event, the day that would rock the financial markets to its core, Kemp had shorted over one million shares of Razor Edge Laboratories’ stock. So far, there wasn’t any breaking news on CNBC. Damn, something has to happen soon. There’s a lot riding on this. He slid to the edge of his leather chair, hoping everything would go as planned.

  “You better be as good as you claim to be. You’re not going to get a second chance.”

  Kemp was offended. “I’m the best. No one has insight like me. You know that.”

  “You’d better hit the nail on the head. Or it’s going to be your funeral.”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong.” Kemp shook his head. He was sick the mobster telling him how to do his job. No one understood the stock market better than he did. “This has to do with you pulling your weight, not the other way around.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “If I lose your family’s cash, it’s because you didn’t come through for me.”

  Basov’s face darkened. “We held up our end of the bargain.”

  Kemp stared him down. He was a lot smarter than everyone playing the game. Right now, he needed to see results. “If you didn’t do your job, we’re not going to make a fortune.”

  “Everything went as planned. No hitches. No problems. No obstacles.”