Under Hidden Skies (Shadows Between Lies Book 3)

by Nicky Webber

  With a shock of horror, he realized it imprinted his fingerprints on the exterior of the security box, as well as the combination lock. He dithered, contemplating his options about what to do and how he could overcome this glaring oversight. He fixed it later and not spend too much time in the security room. The guard was already peering at him through the steel grill. Fred had already learned that they dumped the security camera footage every seven days, so it would eliminate the visual evidence of his presence, but his own fingerprints on the exterior of the deposit box were another issue. He was aghast that in his intense focus on fingering Logan for the crime that he had stupidly overlooked this small, dangerous and damning detail.

  CHAPTER 33

  Slicing the Salami

  Over the following four months, everything was in place for the project to take off. Almost hourly during those first few days, Fred and Hawke sat together in Fred’s home study, watching the transactions roll across the second-hand computer screen.

  The men’s confidence grew as they watched the fractional amounts being sliced and quickly accumulating in their business account. Fred vacillated between self-hatred and fear, which alternated with elation and delight, as he slowly began siphoning the money into their personal accounts and making payments to reduce their collective debts. Fred was meticulously cautious, painstakingly vigilant, warning Hawke to be the same.

  ‘Never ever dump thousands of dollars into an account or pay any outstanding amount off in full,’ Fred explained. To add emphasis, he reached his hand out and gripped Hawke’s right shoulder. ‘Hey? You get it, right?’

  Hawke looked taken aback. ‘Sure, of course, I do. My fiery red Ferrari will have to wait.’

  ‘I’m not joking. A simple thing like throwing cash around could kill the whole thing and slam us in jail for the rest of our days.’

  With a broad grin, Hawke regarded Fred. ‘The rest of your days, Bud, but not mine!’ He chortled with mirth at his own joke. Fred looked stony-faced and unimpressed but said nothing.

  The government forms and demands for banking information from the IRS were almost a full-time job. Fred and Hawke shared the workload and ensured that each dummy Day Care business showed income and turnover. Hawke delivered precise targets and totals for realistic estimated volumes on specific times and days during every week. Fred wrote a short piece of code to set up an algorithm to ensure enough variations in the turnover, so no visible pattern developed during any week.

  The weekends were quieter, with most ‘day-care kids’ at home. Fred made sure that a transaction summary showed a much lower take in the evenings during mid-week before 9 pm and on the weekends across all four imaginary childcare facilities.

  Both Fred and Hawke spent long hours in their actual rented head office, where they both compiled fake data and tax returns, ensuring they paid all the VAT and company taxes on time and in full.

  Fred advised they start off with moderate amounts and gradually build it up as a regular business would show, so traction and volumes mirrored standard practice. After pulling across $132,467.50 after seven weeks, they both agreed they needed to open a few more fake day-care centers in another area to spread the cash around and maintain their camouflaged business status.

  The very next day, Fred gathered up his business folder, papers, and shoved a fresh pair of flesh-colored surgical gloves into the back pocket of his denim jeans. He compressed them into a small ball and squashed them into the bottom of his pocket. Turning around, he regarded his reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. Gratified, Fred thought it looked like an innocuous tissue jammed into his pocket. He loaded the folders and business documents onto the front seat of his car, and on his way into town, stopped at a drive-through to buy a double Americano. He told the young, friendly girl at the serving window to keep the change.

  Fred arrived at the bank feeling self-assured. He had already sealed a soft damp cloth soaked in medical-grade alcohol in a small zip-lock plastic bag and had carefully folded three sheets of paper-towel into quarter folds. They all sat comfortably camouflaged within his leather-bound business document folder, which he carried in his right hand.

  After he parked the car, he took his half-finished coffee, replacing the plastic lid, and slid it easily inside the pocket in the lining of his jacket. It looked bulky, but he held his business folder on the same side, obscuring the slight bulge in the clothing covering his upper torso. He entered the bank, walked directly to the security room, tilted his head in a silent hello to the security guard, flashed his bank ID, and the steel door was electronically unlocked, and swung open.

  Fred punched in his security code on the second safety door and entered the room lined from floor to ceiling with customer’s security boxes. He had been into the room four times before, removing and replacing various sanitized pieces of incriminating evidence and information. The guard closed the door behind him, and Fred walked towards ‘Logan’s’ security box. Opening it with his flesh-colored gloves, Fred shuffled the papers inside. He placed a tightly bound bundle of used dollar notes in denominations of $100 and $200 bills. Stopping for a moment and listening, he tugged on the shirt sleeve cuffs and distractedly pulled them down over the back of his gloved hands.

  Reaching for the pocket inside his jacket, Fred pulled out the coffee cup and, with a sudden movement, sploshed the liquid over the closed security box and onto the floor. He was very conscious of the video cameras trained on him and frantically rummaged in his business folder, removing what looked like a cotton handkerchief. He rubbed the alcohol-laden fabric quickly over the security box, across the combinations, dabbing and pressing it in a concerted effort for anyone watching the grainy video. His rendition of a person soaking up spilled coffee was impressive. No observer would consider Fred was doing anything else than cleaning up a spill.

  Fred shoved the damp cloth back inside his jacket and unzipped the black business folder before shuffling through some documents before removing the three precisely folded pieces of super absorbent paper towel. He rubbed down the security box just as the security guard opened the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the guard demanded.

  ‘Ahhh nothing,’ Fred said. ‘Just split a bit of coffee. Really sorry.’ He said these last words as he bent down to soak up the coffee puddle from the white, shiny linoleum floor.

  ‘How did that get in here?’ the security guard asked, stepping up to Fred, who was crouching on the floor and dabbing the damp patches on his gray suede shoes.

  ‘Damn, these are going to be wrecked now, too,’ Fred mumbled.

  ‘No drinks or food allowed in the security room,’ the guard announced, shifting his uniformed weight from one foot to the other and getting annoyed with this ignorant client.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had some wet-wipes and have almost cleaned it all up. So stupid. I was only going to be a minute or two and forgot about the half-finished coffee in my jacket,’ Fred spluttered. ‘Should’ve thrown it out on my way into the building. Really sorry.’

  The guard heaved a sigh. ‘Okay, lock it away now and let’s get out of here. Just remember no food or drink in the bank, in future.’

  Fred smiled disarmingly. ‘Sure. Really sorry,’ he said again and added in an almost subservient tone, ‘It’s all cleaned up now. Apart from my shoes.’ Fred shrugged, grimaced, and pushed the security box back into the wall and spun the combination lock.

  The guard frowned. ‘What’s on your hands?’ he asked, clearly his suspicions raised.

  ‘Oh, these. I have had a stomach virus, you know, an upset stomach, so didn’t want anyone to catch it. The doctor advised these as a precaution.’

  The security guard pulled a face of mild revulsion and stepped away from the culprit, ushering him out of the security room with a wave of his right arm.

  CHAPTER 34

  Audit Angst

  During Sunday morning, several months later, Hawke met Fred at the same local park. Both men expressed how pleased they were with the pro
ject’s progress. They strolled along the pathway, among the tall exotic trees blowing in the mounting breeze. There were fewer people around, and no children this time. Both men were relaxed and smiling as they chatted.

  ‘People are probably recovering from last night’s ball game,’ joked Hawke.

  ‘Yeah, and the hangover that came with it,’ Fred said.

  Fred spent some time convincing Hawke about the power and confidence in data being random. ‘Just like proper life, so as not to draw any unwarranted attention from authorities,’ Fred explained.

  The following evening the pair were at the office, forging documents and submitting VAT payments for their fake companies.

  Hawke agreed, impressed at how his father had stepped up to the plate and thought of every conceivable eventuality to pull the whole project off.

  ‘We’re keeping our ears to the ground, and I suspect there’s going to be an internal audit at CashGuard. I think it’s a good idea for me to hang back on Friday night and remove the project software from the server, just as a precaution.’

  Hawke looked confused. ‘Well, when will it go back on?’ he asked, his voice tight with concern.

  ‘Maybe in a week. If the audit team notice any anomalies, they may ask me to rerun the reporting software or develop some new parameters and formulas and cross-check the data,’ Fred said. ‘Don’t look so worried, Hawke. Ten to one, they’ll notice nothing. I’ll lock it back into place on Monday night after everyone’s gone home. It’s just a safeguard.’

  ‘Sure. It makes sense,’ Hawke sighed.

  ‘Of course, I’m the one that gets called in to re-process the data, so I’m the instant early warning system!’ Both men chuckled.

  The pair continued with this approach every few weeks unless there was an inkling of an audit or reporting query that looked like targeting data which could alert authorities of questionable transactions. Fred would remove the project program from one or both of the bank’s servers, store them at home under lock and key and position them back in place once the fear of exposure had passed.

  ‘Too easy,’ Hawke grinned. As the process passed the six-month milestone, it seemed to them both that the project was invincible. After ten months of running with the transaction slicing, the pair had already accumulated $686,749.20 after paying taxes and business overheads.

  ‘Where the hell did the twenty cents come from?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Milk formula, of course,’ grinned Hawke. ‘We ran out of it at one center, and I had to use petty cash to buy a tin. It came out of my pocket. You owe me $16.20!’

  ‘Very funny,’ Fred laughed. ‘But we need to think about shutting this baby down.’

  ‘No!’ Hawke responded.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fred countered, nodding his head. ‘I agreed to twelve months, and we have to clear out in eight more weeks.’

  When Fred returned home, it was past 7 pm. Both Logan and Maddy’s cars were in the garage, so he parked his car outside the double doors. As he strode into the house, brimming with confidence, he smiled at them both. The rarefied air of self-gratification permeated his being. It had been some years since he had felt so elated at winning. Scoring with the project gave him a temporary aphrodisiac against the drudgery of regular life.

  ‘Something smells good,’ he said, kissing Maddy as she stirred a large pot of Greek Stifatho beef stew. The aroma of bay leaves and cinnamon saturated the open-plan living area.

  ‘You’re really putting in overtime lately,’ said Logan, sitting on the barstool at the kitchen island watching Maddy cook. ‘Those slave drivers need to give you a raise.’

  ‘They sure do, Buddy, and I’m going to ask them next week,’ Fred answered, relaxed and happy. ‘I deserve at least $20,000 more than I’m getting!’

  ‘We’ll both drink to that!’ smiled Maddy, clinking her wine glass with Logan’s. ‘Pour yourself a drink, or do you want a beer?’

  Logan automatically poured his friend a deep red Pinot Noir, catching his eye and chuckling at Fred. ‘This is really what you want?’

  Maddy scoured the internet in the morning for tours and things to see and do in Morocco. She would make a convincing show and tell to convince both men of their desperate need to holiday in magnificent Morocco.

  It was only a week later when Maddy made a strong case for heading to North Africa. ‘We definitely need to go somewhere exotic with a little more adventure,’ she proposed over dinner one night. ‘Even if the flights cost a little more, the hotels are very reasonable, clean and organized. Besides, we’ll have wonderful memories for the rest of our days.’

  ‘The cost is not a major.’ Fred grinned, looking at the pair across the dining table. ‘I was about to announce that I got a $25,000 bonus today!’

  Maddy shrieked with delight and jumped out of her seat to hug Fred. Logan stood up to slap his friend on the back.

  ‘This is fantastic! How come you got a bonus?’ Maddy asked, breathless with delight.

  ‘Obviously, you are more than a legend in your own lunchtime, Bud!’ Logan chuckled, with all three of them excited about the real prospect of affording an overseas holiday.

  ‘The money laundering software code did the trick. My boss called me in at lunchtime after I’d emailed him the first quarterly reports and announced the cash bonus.’

  Now their travel plans really started, and over the next two weeks, they investigated all options, finally agreeing on flights to Morocco. Within a heart-beat they had the name of a brilliant tour guide recommended by friends, and he lived only a couple of hours out of Marrakesh, south of Casablanca along the coast. Logan stepped up to the plate and paid for the flights, and Fred covered their accommodation, food, and most of the spending money.

  Maddy took the research into touring Morocco seriously and every second evening delivered a show-and-tell with her laptop displaying highlights and delights to whet the appetite of the intrepid travelers.

  ‘We deserve this holiday,’ Fred announced, and in a flourish, grabbed Maddy’s shoulders while she and Logan stood in the kitchen. ‘I’ve got three weeks, holiday leave owing.’ he smiled. ‘Book the tickets to Morocco and let’s get it on.’

  Logan and Maddy stared in momentary shock before Maddy shrieked with delight. ‘I’ll book it before you can change your mind,’ she said.

  ‘No, there’ll be no mind-changing on my part.’ Fred laughed.

  Logan stepped forward and slapped his friend on his back. ‘We are going to enjoy the vacation of a lifetime. Morocco it is!’

  The trio continued to chat and joke about their day, and Maddy dished up their tasty, aromatic dinner before passing the gourmet roasted potatoes and vegetables to the two men.

  ‘I am so excited about this overseas holiday,’ Maddy said. ‘I can’t wait. It’s going to be a real adventure.’

  ‘Talking of real adventures. What did you do about that nasty note from the neighbor?’ Logan asked Fred.

  ‘That prick?’ Fred frowned. ‘He can eat my damn shorts!’

  Maddy looked up, amazed at how Fred seemed so casual and relaxed. ‘I thought you were going to talk to him?’ she said.

  ‘No, no point,’ Fred stated, shoveling a forkful of beef stew into his hungry mouth. ‘I’ve hardly eaten all day.’

  ‘I can tell,’ Maddy said, pulling a face. ‘But is it wise to ignore them? What about the video they mentioned? If they have that evidence…’

  Logan interrupted. ‘You know, I think Fred’s right. Let’s just ignore them. It’s an excellent strategy, and we’ve had no visits from the police so let them stew and feel uneasy not knowing what’s going to happen next. Huh?’

  Fred nodded, clinking his almost empty wine glass with Logan’s.

  ‘Okay boys, I’ll go with the majority here, just hope it’s a good strategy,’ Maddy said, reaching for more salad dressing.

  ‘Believe me,’ said Logan, ‘they’re the ones sweating blood right now.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Morocco Adventure


  Four lopping camels gently rocked back and forth across the hot desert sand while the blistering sun gradually retreated below the distant dunes. The three American tourists’ sat in the saddles of the tethered camels while the Moroccan guide, with his head bound in a beige linen chach and wearing loose cotton sarwal pants with a darra-iya shirt, held the long lead of the three animals behind him.

  The tour guide’s escorting beast steered the following camels along the circuit past a magnificent white Bedouin tent in the middle of nowhere.

  Maddy, her dark hair pulled up under a wide-brimmed straw hat, sat comfortably on the elaborately decorated leather saddle. Fred and Logan followed behind, each on their own beast of the desert, both wearing sunglasses with L’eroica branded linen baseball caps.

  The men had spent the morning laughing and teasing one another about a previous cycle race that Fred insisted he should have won.

  ‘That’s right Bud,’ chuckled Logan, leaning in the saddle towards Fred to keep him in ear-shot. ‘Just think about cycling in this heat.’

  ‘Our suffer score would be through the roof in twenty minutes!’ Fred responded.

  ‘Talk it up, Buddy!’ They were having the time of their lives and were enjoying the most fantastic holiday. Both realized they had Maddy to thank for this outstanding experience.

  ‘I’d challenge you to a camel race out here, and you wouldn’t stand a chance,’ Fred shot back. ‘I’m a natural, moving to the rhythm of this amazing animal.’

  ‘Let’s ask Ali when we’re back at the hotel if we can go watch a camel race,’ Logan suggested.

  Fred turned in his seat, slightly rising with his feet pressed into the stirrups to look behind at Logan.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s do that.’ Fred’s enthusiastic response produced a broad grin and a thumbs up from Logan.

  They continued talking about distances, cycling suffer scores, always suffer scores, one man trying to out maneuver the other.