by Roy Glenn
Patterson began to skim money from those accounts and started filing false reports to cover the wire transfers reserved for those undercover operations to accounts that he had setup in Spain and the Netherlands. The accounts were established in someone else’s name, and he used the unknowing victim’s forged signature and social security number to make the transactions look completely legitimate.
He began to spend lavishly on homes in Cartagena, Puerto Rico, and South Florida, a Land Rover, and a BMW. He hosted wild yacht parties with bikini-clad prostitutes. Those parties raised several red flags within the agency; but since those parties were attended by fellow agents and supervisors, it was swept under the rug, and Patterson was transferred to the field office in Caracas. That’s when things went bad and Patterson knew that it was time for him to get out.
The one thing that Patterson picked up during his journey from police detective, to DEA cyber analyst, to corrupt DEA field agent, was that he knew how to get information that he could use to his advantage. That skill was indispensable in his new profession.
Coleman Patterson was now a blackmailer.
The lighting was set appropriately, and a 2016 Ramey Rochioli Vineyard Chardonnay lay chilling in an ice bucket. The soft sounds of Freddie The Freeloader from the Miles Davis classic was playing in the background. Patterson took a final look around. He was ready to receive his guest.
It really didn’t seem to matter to him that their entire relationship was based solely on the fact that he was blackmailing her. Despite that, he thoroughly enjoyed her company and her conversation. She was a highly intelligent woman, and the fact that she was beautiful wasn’t lost on him either. When the doorbell rang, Patterson got up to answer the door.
Without looking to see who it was, Patterson opened the door with a flourish. “You’re early.”
“Am I?”
“Dutch? What are you doing here?”
“I can’t drop in to see an old friend?”
“No, it’s not like that at all,” he forced a smile, but his sudden appearance did concern him. “I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”
“So, you gonna invite me in?”
“Yeah, sure, Dutch. Come on in,” Patterson said and stepped aside.
“Thanks,” he said and entered the house. “I take it that you were expecting somebody … a little softer and wetter maybe?”
Patterson looked around outside before closing the door. “Just a client.”
“Everybody’s a client to you, or a potential one,” he laughed as he went into the living room with Patterson following behind him.
“You could say that,” Patterson laughed nervously and looked him in the eye. “So, what’s a high roller like you doing coming to see lowlife scum like me? Especially at a time like this?”
“Like I said, I just came to see my old partner,” he said, and now Patterson was worried.
Everybody’s a client to you, he thought.
It forced him to think about their so-called partnership, what he had on Dutch, what happened in Caracas and how that influenced his decision to get out of the DEA. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Whatever you’re drinking is fine.”
“Bourbon?”
“If it’s Woodford Reserve Baccarat Edition, you were expecting me,” he chuckled.
“Yes, it is and no, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s right, you were expecting somebody softer and wetter.”
When Patterson turned to go pour the drinks, Dutch took a silencer clad Beretta M9A3 from under his jacket and shot Patterson in the back of his head.
Chapter Five
Valencia DeVerão drove her midnight blue Ferrari up the steep hill, nodding her head to the music, feeling good about where she was, and the way things were going.
“There’s always room for improvement,” she said aloud as she rounded the curve. But for the time being, things were good.
She was born Valencia Delores Porter, the second of three children that grew up in a lower middle-class neighborhood in the Bronx, a graduate of Syracuse University with dual degrees in Information Technology and Finance. During senior year at Syracuse, Valencia began working on a dating website for black people at a time when there weren’t too many out there. She ran into some issues early on in the project, but after Valencia brought in Sherwin Blake and Darnel Wilkes to work out the coding issues, the site launched, and Valencia was on her way to being a self-made millionaire at the age of twenty-two.
Her fifteen minutes of fame began when Valencia landed her first magazine cover. It wasn’t a major publication, but it was big enough to get her model good looks noticed. Television interviews followed, followed by more magazine articles and photo shoots for covers about the twenty-two-year-old self-made millionaire.
Then came the opportunities to model, and Valencia was all into it. Her involvement in the fashion industry, even on the small scale, led to an ill-advised clothing line. The company failed miserably, and that signaled the end of her fifteen minutes of fame. After a brief, but tragic marriage to Gustavo DeVerão and a move to his hometown in Brazil, Valencia returned to New York determined to rebuild; not only her life, but her company as well. She opened a consulting firm and went back to school and earned a Master of Information Services degree from New York University and a Ph.D. in Computer Science from Columbia.
Now Valencia was the head of Porter Technologies, one of the top technology firms in the industry that specialized in cloud-based services such as Business Management, Storage, Marketing, Communication Media, Productivity Enrichment, Application Development, Testing and Deployment, and Big Data Analysis. So, things were good; and if the next day went as she hoped it would, and there was no reason to think that it wouldn’t, there would be one more thing off her plate and that would be absolutely fabulous.
“Other than the fact that I’m being blackmailed, you mean,” she said aloud, and laughed as she arrived at the home of Coleman Patterson and put the car in park.
As strange as it may seem, she’d come to look forward to, even enjoy these little encounters, for lack of a better definition. At first, she thought that he was trying to seduce her, and maybe he was. But after two years of conversation and cocktails once a month, Valencia had come to believe that Coleman just liked to talk about politics, global finance, social media, and their impact on the environment. Besides, Coleman had the absolute best taste in wine.
As requested, and as she always did, Valencia parked the car down the street from the house, turned off the music, got out of the car and headed for the house. Her black and multi-color Versace puff-sleeve mini dress hugged her curves as she walked. She never really understood why Coleman always insisted that she never park in front of the house and definitely not in the driveway, but it was his house, his rules, and he was the one who was blackmailing her.
“So, whatever,” she said aloud as she got to the door and rang the bell. When he didn’t come to the door right away as he usually did, she tried the doorknob and was a little surprised that she found it unlocked. Since she was expected, Valencia went inside.
“Coleman!” she said, when she stuck her head in the door and got no answer. She could hear Miles Davis’s All Blue playing as she continued into the house.
“Coleman!” she said louder, as she walked toward the living room. Valencia saw the glasses on the table and the wine chilling in ice, as it always was. What was strange was that Coleman hadn’t rushed excitedly to greet her, as he always did. It was his excitement about her arrival, the way he gushed over what she was wearing and telling her how beautiful she was, that made Valencia think that he was trying to get her in bed. The front door being opened and Coleman being nowhere to be found, made her feel apprehensive and a little scared as she moved farther into the room.
“Are you here?” Valencia questioned, and that was when she saw Coleman’s body lying face down in a pool of his own blood.
“Hu—” she gasped and covered her mout
h.
The sight of all the blood took her breath away, and Valencia began backing up slowly out of the living room. Her breaths were short and choppy, her head was hurting, and her heart was pounding in her chest. The second that she was out of the room, Valencia turned and ran out of the house. She ran down the stairs and up the street to her car as quickly as she could in the Christian Louboutin Iriza multi-color pumps she was wearing, digging frantically for her keys along the way.
Once she found them, Valencia pointed it the car as she ran. She got into her car, started it up, and drove away from there as fast as she could. So fast that she didn’t notice the man that was sitting in a car at the end of the street; nor did she notice that he pulled out and followed her.
As she sped away from the house, Valencia was scared; so scared that she was shaking. But despite that, she had no intention of slowing down. She had just seen Coleman Patterson’s body dead, lying on the floor of his living room, shot to death. She gripped the steering wheel tighter and stepped on the gas. It seemed to calm her nerves enough for her to think clearly.
Valencia began trying to think of an alibi.
I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him, was her first thought, and that thought allowed her to breathe a little easier. But since being black and innocent of a crime didn’t necessarily mean you wouldn’t be going to jail for it, she quickly began running through possible scenarios to deal with the police.
Suppose someone saw her running out of the house?
What if someone’s doorbell camera caught her driving away?
What if some nosey neighbor tells the police that they had seen her Ferrari parked on the street many times?
What would she say then?
“I did not kill Coleman,” she said aloud this time.
But the fact was that she had motive to kill him; after all, he was blackmailing her, and she did have opportunity, so the fact that she didn’t do it didn’t mean much to her, she’d still be in jail for murder.
But she didn’t do it, and a police investigation would prove that. Coleman was a blackmailer; Valencia was sure that there were plenty of other suspects, and that could and would keep the police busy and away from her, because here again, she didn’t do it.
Valencia paused and took a breath.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said aloud. And then she slowly began thinking about the upside.
Coleman Patterson is dead.
The hold that he had over me died with him.
And with that thought, Valencia began to relax.
There was no evidence, no proof of her crime that could be left around waiting for the police to find. His power over her came as a result of what he knew, not what he could prove. It was information that, if it were to become public, would ruin her. Valencia was the face of Porter Technologies; she met with all of her clients; personally, closed and signed every deal herself. The last thing that she needed was a scandal at a time when she was taking the company public.
As she drove further, Valencia’s thoughts began to move slowly away from the events of the evening and to the important business that she had in the morning. She looked in her rearview window and began thinking that now there was only one person who knew her secret; one other person who could ruin her. And all she had to do to get rid of him was to deliver Mike Black.
At least I hope so.
Chapter Six
With a deep marine Saint Laurent leather purse over her shoulder, a Sac De Jour leather satchel and a file folder in her hand, Valencia rushed through the parking lot at Prestige Capital Associates. Dressed smartly in a blue Chiara Boni La Petite Robe Cassandre wrap-effect boatneck dress, and Balenciaga square knife point-toe stiletto leather pumps, Valencia was there for a Monday meeting with Mike Black.
In what was a turnaround of company policy, and over Wanda’s strong objections, he had made the decision to allow the use of third-party vendors on their IT platform. Now that all the details had been worked out between James Cox, the head of IT at Prestige, and Drew Morgan and Christian Rivera from Porter Technology, Valencia was there to meet with Black to personally close the deal. Once that was done, then she could move to her other agenda; the one that really mattered.
“Did you get the revised talking points on the centralized dashboard and how it will allow managers to handle project details, schedule tasks, and view progress?” her assistant, Adrianna Gray asked.
“I got it right here in my hand,” Valencia said with the phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, trying her best to walk, talk and get the file in the satchel at the same time. “Did you remember to send the finalized agenda for the meeting to Drew and Christian?” she asked, and there was silence on the line.
“I did,” Adrianna said after a few seconds.
She had been with Valencia for a long time. Longer than anybody, except her lawyer, Becky Jacovitz. Valencia hired her when Sherwin Blake and Darnel Wilkes sued her in an attempt to break the work-for-hire contract they signed and tried to claim partial ownership of her company. Adrianna was a great assistant, the best assistant that Valencia ever had, but her attitude, at times, left a lot to be desired. And after the night she’d had, Valencia was in no mood for it.
She was tired when she got home the night before. But despite that, Valencia couldn’t sleep. Each time that she closed her eyes, all she could see was Coleman’s body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Eventually, Valencia took Ambien so she could get some sleep. That put her out cold, and she answered the phone the third time that Adrianna called.
“If you didn’t answer me this time, I was on my way over there.”
“I’m alright. Just had a tough night, that’s all. I’ll be alright,” Valencia may have said, but she was far from being all right that morning.
She was still feeling the effects of the Ambien. She was anxious about the police, and Valencia was worried that she wouldn’t be at her best at a time when she most needed to be. The deal with Prestige was, at this point, a foregone conclusion. This meeting was more of a formality to address any final concerns that they had and to answer any open questions. It was what was going to happen when the meeting was over that she was worried about. The events of the last evening made this day that much more important because now, with Coleman dead, Valencia saw a way that she could finally be free.
“I’ll give you a call when it’s over and let you know how everything went, and we’ll talk about next steps.”
“Sounds good.”
“Talk to you later,” Valencia said, finally getting the file in her satchel, but in the process, she dropped her phone. “Great,” a frustrated Valencia said, and started to stoop down to get it.
A woman walked up behind her. “Here. Let me get that for you.” She crouched to pick the phone up and handed it back to Valencia.
“Thank you,” she said before both women proceeded toward the building.
Valencia looked over at the woman who was wearing a Ralph Lauren Collection WelElsie blazer double-breasted front dress and Gianvito Rossi leather ankle boots, with enough jewelry to make you notice, and didn’t recognize her. She had been to Prestige a number of times over the past year and thought that she had met all of the members of their senior management team.
Dressed like that, she must be somebody, Valencia thought, and then wondered how she would find out who this woman was.
“I guess I’m a little nervous,” Valencia said as they walked toward the building. “I have a meeting with Mike Black and I’m running a little late.”
“What time is your meeting?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Oh, you have time. It’s only a quarter till.”
“I know, but I always try to arrive fifteen minutes early before appointments. I think that punctuality goes a long way toward making a good impression.”
“I see.”
“Do you know Mr. Black?”
“I do.”
“I met him once before, but I couldn’t get a r
ead on him. Any tips you can offer me on how to deal with him?”
“Be honest with Michael. He can see a fake from a mile away,” she said as they reached the building.
“Good advice,” she said, while the woman held the door open for her to go in. “Where are my manners? I’m Valencia DeVerão.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Black,” Lenecia, the receptionist, said as she stepped in. “How are you this morning?”
“Good morning, Lenecia. I’m fine,” Shy said, and then turned to Valencia with a smile. “I’m Cassandra Black. Michael is my husband.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Black,” Valencia said, shaking Shy’s hand, feeling a little embarrassed, and thinking that the seduction of Mike Black, if it came to that, may have just gone out the window, but Valencia was still confident that she could bring him to the table. She had to. It was the only way that she could be free.
“Good luck with your meeting. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Shy said, walking down the hall to her office as Valencia turned to Lenecia.
“Good morning, Lenecia,” she smiled as her associates, Drew Morgan and Christian Riviera, joined her at the reception desk.
“Good morning, Ms. DeVerão.”
“I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Yes, and if you would please have a seat, I will let Ms. Brazil know that you’re here.”
“But my meeting was with Mike Black.”
“Yes, it was, and I apologize, but Mr. Black was unavoidably detained,” Lenecia said, and Shy laughed as she went to her office because she knew that Black was in the building, just not excited about meeting with Valencia, “so you’ll be meeting with Meka Brazil in his absence.”
Shy was still smiling when she closed the door to her office, put down her things, and sat down. It had been a good year for her. She had given birth for the second time to an eight-pound, five-ounce baby boy, and his parents couldn’t be happier. The entire family was overjoyed with the new addition to their family. As promised, when the baby was born, Black sent Gladys on the Cessna to Saint Vincent to pick up Scarlet. And when the Cessna returned to New York, his father, brothers, along with their wives and children, were with them. They stayed for a month celebrating his birth before returning home.
