Nodding toward the whiteboard and the list of cars, I continued. “Every car listed has been kept off the company inventory, including any consignments at our clients’ request. If the Feds look at the inventory we have on the books and are able to gain access to the Cayman accounts, they’ll know Dad was hiding cash — which means I was too.”
“To break it down in plain English,” Dax said, “they’re building a money-laundering case. Tax fraud. Embezzlement. Take your pick. It’s a total cluster.”
“How much money?” Laney asked.
“Dad handled the financials, so I never asked. Honestly, after the last few years I thought we were broke, except for Bird Street which was the only real asset of value.”
“Chase, how can that be?”
“He leveraged the business to the point where we needed to be bailed out by a close family friend.” I leaned against the wall with my arms folded. “But since the crash, we’ve brought in nearly five million.”
“Where is the money?”
“A safe place,” I replied. “It’s all part of the contingency plan.”
Laney ran her hands through her hair in utter disbelief.
“Chase…”
“You asked for the truth — here it is.”
Dax pecked at the keyboard and brought up a list of names. Scanning each one, I pointed out the top buyers for the next auction. “Once we’ve crossed off the cars on this list and a few other items, we’re gone.”
“That’s the plan?” Laney waved her arms around the room. “To be fugitives on the run for the rest of our lives?”
“This is happening.”
Her gaze hardened as we locked eyes. “Where will we go that the FBI won’t find us?”
“It’s your choice if you’re willing to trust me.”
“Why not take what you’ve found to the authorities?”
“Laney, whoever is behind the crash buried my dad — and the investigation. I won’t let that happen to us. We need to disappear and go off the grid. Only then will we have a chance to find whoever is behind my dad’s death.”
“I got the hangar lined up for tonight,” Dax interrupted. “What’s the next move?”
“I’m meeting with Vaughn.”
“Then you’ll want to see this.” Dax snapped his fingers. “Your dad met with Vaughn a dozen times over the last six months.”
That bit of news caught me off guard. “Show me.”
Dax opened another set of files, including FBI field reports. “Russell Vaughn was listed as the lead agent on the case, and he was also on the original flight manifest the night of the crash.” He pulled up a second copy of the manifest. “You’ll notice on this version his name is deleted.”
My eyes zeroed in on Dad’s name highlighted on each page. What were they meeting about? Why hadn’t Vaughn boarded the flight? My mind raced through the possibilities. Then it hit me.
“A Trojan horse,” I mumbled.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Dax admitted. “What if they were using the laundering case as a cover.”
“Or leverage.”
Laney chimed in. “Why would the FBI need leverage with your dad?”
“Dad wasn’t just a deal maker in the auction world, he was a politician who negotiated on behalf of the President in countries who viewed the United States as an adversary.”
“Chase, I thought your dad was retired from politics,” Laney said.
“Yeah, but politics wasn’t done with him.”
Dax gave a sharp laugh. “He could sell skinny jeans to a gang banger.”
“The government leveraged his relationships.” I was walking a fine line. “Let’s just say it was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“You’re sure the next move is Vaughn?” Dax asked.
“It’s the only lead we’ve got.” Picking up the forty-five, I slipped it behind my back. “We need to know which side he’s on.”
With my cell, I snapped a tight headshot photo of Laney, kissed her, then headed for the door in hopes to escape before she cornered me. No such luck.
She pulled me aside. “This is crazy.”
“Laney, I wanted to protect you.”
“Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
“We have no clear evidence. It’s just a theory.”
“You think carrying a gun while going to see this FBI agent is a good idea?”
“He was on the flight manifest, and then he wasn’t. That tells me he knows more than we do. Besides, I have a concealed carry permit.”
“Chase, you’re talking about a government cover up.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Could be why Vaughn wants to talk.”
Laney glanced at Dax, then back to me. “What was it you two did in the Middle East?”
For a moment silence loomed heavily in the room. It was the one question I hoped she’d never ask. While my mind struggled to keep the secrets locked away, my heart compelled a confession.
“When the US invaded Baghdad in 2003, thousands of artifacts were looted. Many of those artifacts were smuggled from Iraq, through Iran, to Afghanistan where the Taliban sold them on the black market to fund their fight against the West. Over a decade passed without much recovery. Dad met with the President and convinced him we were the best ones to recover them and track the money trail. In less than two years, we recovered thousands of artifacts and slowed the Taliban’s pipeline of cash. Each item was handed over to our government, but over the years some ended up back on the black market.”
“Do you think your dad had anything to do with that?”
“I don’t think he did – I know he did.”
EIGHT
BURBANK, CA
The parking lot at Tallyrand was packed by the time I pulled up to the curb, unsure of whether I was making the right move. Too many questions swirled about the crash and what we found on the thumb drive. An uneasiness lingered. Regret. Uncertainty. A deadly mix for anyone dealing with the aftermath of loss. I’d pulled Laney deeper into the fray than I wanted and pitched her between Dax and me.
But if my Trojan Horse theory was real, then a tsunami threatened to unleash a wave of secret deals, leveraged assets, stolen artifacts, and favors owed to the wrong people. All thanks to Dad. I should’ve been angry with him, but what good would that do? The truth was, I was no Boy Scout. Sins of a father and son — committed far more often than we ever admitted — unraveled a nightmare at locomotive speed.
None of the customers seated near the windows resembled Vaughn. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the vice grip of a cover up squeezed out any chance of a conversation. I couldn’t shake a sense that the clock of freedom was counting down. If there was a sliver of hope that he was willing to talk, then facing him was the only option. Strange to think of his name on a copy of the manifest — the sole survivor.
Elena’s words rang as a reminder that I’d been watched far longer than I realized, which explained why Vaughn picked a place I frequented for its legendary turkey and avocado melt.
At exactly three o’clock, I turned the corner and parked in a residential neighborhood, then walked through the back parking lot, looking for the government issued plates, before entering a diner frozen in the 1950s. Customers lounged in red-leather booths, enjoying their favorite comfort food. Seated in the far corner, partially hidden behind a menu, Vaughn glanced toward the entrance.
I slipped into the booth. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“I’m glad you decided to show.” Vaughn set the menu down and sipped his coffee. “I knew your father for twenty years.”
“He never mentioned you.”
“I was assigned to his detail when he was elected Governor, then stayed with him until he left and recommended me to the Bureau. You were young – but I remember you loved the Brickyard.”
“Then why the investigation?”
“Your father contacted me regarding one of your clients.” Vaughn eyed the patrons in the diner, then finished off his coffee. “We
have reason to believe he was referring to Dmitry Vihkrov.”
“You raided our company because of Vihkrov?”
“With the accident, there was little choice. Your father believed one of your clients was a threat to national security. Vihkrov is the kingpin of the Russian mob — he’s at the top of our list.” Vaughn shifted his gaze toward the street outside. “Chase, we don’t care about the money laundering — what we need is a list of your private clients. We’ve searched the company files, but that particular list is nowhere.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“As owner of Hardeman Auctions, you’ve inherited the mess your father left behind. You are solely responsible for what we’re estimating to be nearly a hundred million in laundered cash.”
“Show me the proof.”
“For starters, we’ve got transfers from the company accounts to the Caymans. It’s only a matter of time before we get access to those offshore accounts and cross reference those transfers with the Cayman balances. You’re in over your head.”
“I don’t know anything about laundered money.”
“That’s strange.” Vaughn reached into his coat pocket, then slid a copy of a bank deposit to Dad’s personal account with a company check for two hundred grand. “Is that your signature?”
Sure, I’d signed checks without asking questions. Yes, I’d told a white lie to Laney about the transfers offshore. I suspected Dad was hiding money, but I didn’t know where. I never pushed the matter because I trusted him. But, I hadn’t signed a hundred million worth of checks. That much I knew for sure. Why had Dad asked Uncle Randy to bail us out a year ago when we faced bankruptcy? When there are no good answers, you bluff.
I held out my hands. “Arrest me.”
Vaughn pushed several photos across the table that captured me walking down the pier with the attaché case, then aboard the Midnight Moon with Elena.
“We have enough to indict you on the laundering case alone,” Vaughn said. “And that’s before we add collusion with the Russian mob.”
Glaring at Vaughn with fiery eyes, I replied in a steady tone. “You won’t indict – not until you have the names.”
“Which is why you’re not in cuffs.” Vaughn kept his poker face and retrieved the photos. “Chase, we’re offering you a clean slate. Give us the names and this all goes away. If you’re willing to roll the dice on a conviction, this conversation ends.”
I clenched my fists under the table and seethed. “Was it an accident?”
Vaughn’s expression never changed. “Yes.”
“Then there’s nothing left to say.”
I slid from the booth and stormed out. By the time I reached the Escalade my hands shook as I tossed my cell on the passenger seat.
Twenty minutes later, I exited the 134 and drove the streets until I reached the corner of Figueroa and San Fernando. Mario Robles, known in the barrio as Sleepy, climbed into the passenger seat. Late twenties, sleeved tattoos, he’d proven himself loyal from the start. He handed over a manila envelope. Inside were two passports with new identities. I reached under the seat and held out a bundled stack of cash.
He waved me off. “You’re family, Eesse. No charge.”
“It’ll cover the passports and delivery charge – and I need one more rushed.” I texted Sleepy the photo of Laney. “There’s also a bit extra for the twins’ birthdays. Sorry I’ll miss it.”
“I can’t believe they’re turning ten, man.” Sleepy reluctantly took the cash and stuffed it inside his hoodie. “We’ll hook up when you’re back.”
“Might be a while.”
“You know I got you covered. Whatever you need.” Sleepy held up his cell to confirm he’d received Laney’s photo. “I’ll get this to you tonight.”
“When we’re done, lay low for a while. There’s gonna be a lot of heat and I don’t want you or your homies getting burned.”
“Oralé.”
We fist bumped, then Sleepy was gone. Taking the passports out of the envelope, I slipped them inside my jacket, then pulled out into traffic. Late afternoon turned into early evening as I cruised the main stretch of Chinatown with its neon characters lining the streets, signaling authentic Chinese dives with the best dim sum and Peking duck outside of Monterey Park. Heading further downtown, I cut over to Third Street into the heart of Skid Row.
In one block, the City of Angels morphed into an alley of demons. Addicts. Homeless. Mentally ill. Felons. Lost amidst cardboard shanties and trash-filled shopping carts were the forgotten of humanity. Looming beneath the smog of the city was a harsh reality far from red carpet Hollywood premieres.
I parked at a rundown warehouse and entered. An electric sander whined against metal, echoing off the walls of our makeshift garage. A few of Sleepy’s homeboys were busy restoring a ‘67 Camaro Z28. A mixture of grease, grunge, motor oil, and exhaust permeated the air. Deeper into the warehouse there was a side door leading into a main room where we stored the classics and collectibles left on our list ready to be auctioned to the highest bidder.
A dozen of the cars were once showcased on the display floors of Hardeman Auctions, until Sleepy and his homies moved them out in record time minutes before the Feds raided our building. Sleepy, Dax, and I were thick as thieves, and anyone allowed inside the garage was sworn to secrecy. To see these beauties lined up inside a grungy warehouse in the heart of Skid Row was surreal.
“Crates are delivered.” Dax approached me. “Your girl wanted to hire a DJ and catering. I had to shut her down.”
“She grew up on Rodeo Drive, so she’s used to Hollywood bashes.”
“I dropped her off at the hangar and told her to keep the place locked tight – no valets.”
We strolled down the row of classics. Dax pointed out which ones were original and which ones were restorations. Honestly, I couldn’t tell the difference. He knew the history of each one and suggested the opening bids.
“We’ll go live with both auctions at the same time,” I said. “You’ll have an hour to sell as many of these as possible.”
“Sleepy’s good with delivery?”
“We’ll send him instructions once we’ve got the buyers. Transfer of cash and title goes through when the cars are delivered — no exceptions.”
Dax nodded. “What happened with Vaughn?”
“Laundering case is legit – but that’s the least of it.”
“Cut and run?”
“With the shirts on our backs.” I stared at the fleet of collector cars. “I’d say we’ve got less than a week.”
“You think Laney’s up for this?”
I weighed my words before I answered. “I hope so — I love her.”
NINE
When the invasion swept across the desert, devastation left in its wake the demise of Saddam Hussein’s failure to defend his regime. While the world searched for a powerless dictator hiding in a hole, thousands of rare antiquities from the National Museum in Iraq were destroyed in the rubble. Amidst the turmoil, questions swirled amongst collectors, archaeologists, and Iraqi officials who believed antiquities were stolen by allied forces during Iraqi Freedom.
A decade after the invasion, as forces occupied Baghdad, rumors leaked of billions of Iraqi currency seized by the US government. Years of searching for historic antiquities diverted to diplomatic discussions to retrieve the billions believed to have been transferred from Central Bank to undisclosed American accounts. In a country once known to early civilizations as Mesopotamia, it seemed cash was still a more valuable commodity than culture.
Wooden crates were set in a row between a Learjet and Gulfstream inside the RC Engineering hangar. Each crate stenciled: PROPERTY OF US GOVERNMENT. The contents of the crates were a closely guarded secret, and the acquisition of the antiquities remained an even greater mystery.
I looked inside the first crate where 3,500-year-old Jewish manuscripts from Babylon were neatly displayed. In the next crate, ancient cylinder stone seals were engraved, each wi
th a unique story. Another crate held the Harp of Ur dating back 4,500 years, as well as a beautifully carved 5,000-year-old vase known to the Iraqi’s as the Warka. The last crate was the largest and protected the most valuable antiquity stolen from Baghdad. The Bassetki was a copper statue showing the legs of a seated nude figure.
“They’re called the Artifacts of Exile.” Laney and I strolled between the crates. “Originally, they were stolen from the National Museum during the Iraqi Freedom invasion. For years they were off the radar, until we tracked them down near Mosul while posing as black-market smugglers. We built trust with the locals and through our contacts set up a buy with Abu Haji Fatima – a known terrorist leader. Allied forces on the ground had searched for Fatima for years, and the antiquities were an opportunity that couldn’t be ignored. We arrived at a heavily guarded compound with a SEAL team a few hundred yards out in the dark. Orders were to close the deal, retrieve the artifacts, confirm Fatima was there, then disappear before the compound was raided.”
I ran my fingers over the copper statue, lost in a memory.
“Hard to believe Dax and I found each one of these that night standing face to face with a terrorist. Then all hell broke loose. We were lucky to get out alive. By sunrise, the compound was secured, the dead were left to rot, and the artifacts were loaded onto a transport plane. All that’s left of Dad’s legacy are the spoils of war.”
My eyes wandered over the crates as flashes from that night struck like lightning, snapping out of it only when my cell chimed. I checked the text and cleared my throat. “Dax is going live in five minutes. We better get ready for our guests.”
Laney reached out and stopped me. “Let’s leave, right now.” She waved at the crates. “Forget about all of this. I don’t care about any of it as long as we’re together. Four million is enough to start a new life.”
“Money may not be the root of happiness, but off the grid it’s a necessity. Four million won’t last forever.” I opened an app on my cell, then showed it to Laney. “All you have to do is enter the sales amount, buyer account number, hit send, and it’ll go directly to an offshore account. I’ll handle the rest. Buyers leave with what they’ve bought. No exceptions.”
The Auctioneer Page 4
