by Matt Goldman
“Kill Ebben Mayer,” said Montanio, her mouth full of bread. “Make it look like a caffeine overdose.”
“Fucking A,” said Hall.
I said, “My guess is Thom gets to Ebben Mayer by saying he’ll work for no upfront money, you know, in the spirit of The Creative Collective. Now Thom has access to Ebben. He sees Ebben sucking down energy drinks all day. So he uses his access to slip Ebben caffeine powder—a teaspoon or two of the stuff is lethal—but somehow Ebben’s fiancée Juliana ingests it instead.”
Hall and Montanio thought it through, both nodding in silence. The tiny restaurant was filled now and loud with conversation and the clatter of forks and knives on plates. I said, “And think about this: since the 15 million was in cash, it seems likely the 5 million Thom skimmed is, too. And how’s a guy like Thom Burke going to handle 5 million in cash? How’s he going to hide it from the government? He’s not a career criminal. He doesn’t have the connections to launder that kind of money.”
Hall said, “Offshore bank account?”
“Possible. Did you find any paperwork in his files or anything on his computer that referenced an offshore account?”
Hall and Montanio looked at each other. Again, my seat was advantageous, not to block their communication but participate in it.
I said, “I didn’t think so. And an offshore account seems too complicated for Thom Burke. He was all about simple. All about practical.”
Hall said, “Maybe he bought cryptocurrencies.”
“Nah,” said Montanio. “Too volatile. Too risky. Too complicated.”
I agreed and said, “I think Thom planned on living the rest of his life on the 5 million, dollar by dollar.”
Montanio said, “You really think that much money is hidden somewhere in cash?”
“Yes.” I buttered another chunk of baguette. “Thom Burke bought a new Subaru. Didn’t have license plates yet. But the plate holders were an ad for Subaru of Sherman Oaks. I went there this morning and asked if it was possible to buy a car with actual cash. The salesperson said they try to avoid it. If a customer insists, they suggest a debit card or prepaid credit cards.”
“Fuck,” said Hall. “That’s the way to launder money these days. Gift cards and prepaid credit cards. There’s a whole market for ’em online.”
“And just out of curiosity I went to a CVS. You can buy a prepaid credit card for up to $500. Cash. You can stop into a CVS, a Target, a Rite Aid, a Von’s and pick up a few gift cards at each and launder four, five grand a day that way.”
Hall said, “But Thom probably only scratched the surface of that 5 mil.”
“I’m guessing 100 grand at the most. Could be half that.”
Montanio said, “So there’s 4.9 million in his house?”
“It’s worth a search.”
Hall and Montanio looked at each other a long time. Too long.
Hall said, “You think we should convince our CO to send a platoon of detectives to Thom Burke’s house and search it for $5 million?”
“Yes. And to release the original $15 million for Ebben Mayer’s ransom. Vasily’s desperate. He’s dead if he doesn’t pay back the 20 million. But paying 15 million would at least buy him a little time.”
“Can’t do it, Shapiro. Our CO will never go for it, and we ain’t sticking our necks out to fight for it. Got to choose your battles. Know what I’m saying?”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Montanio looked at Hall. I kept my eyes down. I knew what was happening. To confirm it I said, “LAPD all right with me leaving town now?”
“Please do,” said Hall. “It was nice knowing you.”
Our food came. Croque monsieur for me. An omelet and chicken leg for Montanio. A cheeseburger and escargot for Hall. And three orders of frites. Hall and Montanio each ordered a second glass of wine. As good as our entrées were, nothing could beat the baguette and butter when we first sat down. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy any of it.
We chitchatted through the meal then went our separate ways, Hall and Montanio full-bellied and buzzed on French wine, and me with a lunch receipt for $227 that would be reimbursed by Ebben Mayer.
If he lived.
42
I drove back to the big house in Hancock Park, grabbed a few supplies, then texted my best friend in Los Angeles. Jameson White waited for me on the front steps of Dr. Li’s house. He got in the Land Rover and said, “You want me to drive?”
“No need. I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Oooh, look at you! Minnesota boy driving in La La Land! I sure as hell hope your right foot put on a few pounds because last night you did not keep up with traffic. I’m surprised you didn’t get shamed off the road. What in the hell are you looking at?”
“Jameson White. As I know and love him.”
“Shut your mouth, Nils Shapiro. You and me, we’re friends. That is all.”
“Buckle up and tell me where to go.”
We drove five minutes to California Surplus Mart on Santa Monica Boulevard and Vine. Shortest drive in L.A. by far. We bought matching navy blue coveralls with color-coordinated caps, two duffel bags, and some equipment. We zipped ourselves into the coveralls then Jameson directed me to drive about a mile to Anawalt Lumber for tools.
When we got back in the Land Rover, the afternoon sun had baked the interior. I lowered the windows. It didn’t seem right turning on air-conditioning in January. Jameson sent us north on Highland. We drove in silence. I thought of turning around, going back to Ebben’s house, grabbing my stuff and continuing to LAX. I was free to go home. Ebben Mayer’s kidnapping shouldn’t have been my problem. The problem belonged to his parents and grandparents, to the LAPD and the FBI. But they were in negotiation mode. They didn’t understand Vasily had no room to negotiate. He owed someone $20 million. Someone dangerous. Not repaying that money would cost Vasily his life. None of the players understood Vasily’s desperation. None of them had seen all that fear concentrated in his one eye.
I didn’t want the responsibility. I didn’t need it. But the burden had infected me like a virus, and I was stuck with it until it ran its course. I stopped the car and said, “Grab the stuff. I’ll meet you around back.”
Jameson said, “Why’d you stop at the house? Shouldn’t we park far away?”
“I’m dropping you at the house. I’ll park down the canyon.”
“Oh, I get it. Can’t have a black man walking around in broad daylight.”
“I was thinking more like can’t have a six-foot-seven man walking around in broad daylight.”
Jameson White said, “I think we should wait until tonight.”
“Too risky. Pretty sure Hall and Montanio will be here tonight.”
Jameson shook his head. “You really think two LAPD detectives will try to steal $5 million?”
“I think those two will. Los Angeles isn’t different than anywhere else. There are honest cops. And there are not-so-honest cops. Montanio and Hall are the latter.”
“Why don’t we just tell the honest cops? They can stake out the place. Wait for Hall and Montanio to find the money and bust ’em.”
“You can’t count on cops to bust other cops. Even the good cops. Chances are one would tip off Hall and Montanio and they’d deny the whole thing. And worse, they wouldn’t cooperate with me anymore. Better for us to do this now.”
Jameson grabbed our purchases out of the tailgate and headed around back of Thom Burke’s house. He seemed to be in no hurry, like a house inspector or HVAC repairman. And something about brand-new blue coveralls says legit. Nothing suspicious. Just a person doing their job.
I parked a few hundred yards away, less for the neighbors and more for the police if they happened to drive by, then met Jameson behind the house. A bistro table under a large umbrella on a patio of fabricated stone. A simple hedge. A bubbling fountain. A tiny patch of lawn. Something about the landscaping made me think Thom Burke had done the work himself. It appeared professionally done, but th
e materials looked like something you’d buy at Home Depot. Maybe he bought the materials and hired the labor.
I picked the garage’s service door lock. Jameson said, “You think Thom would have hidden the money in here?”
“Maybe. But right now I’m looking to see what kind of tools he had.”
“What for? We brought our own tools.”
“That’s not what I’m curious about. I want to know if Thom was handy.”
The garage had a workbench under a wall of pegboard filled with hand tools. Power tools, stored in their original boxes, filled a shelf underneath.
“Shit,” said Jameson. “He was handy like a handyman. That money could be in the walls. Or in the floors.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why the hell did we look for tools?”
“To get a feel for Thom’s aptitude. I bet he hid the money in a place that’s accessible so he could take from it little by little. But accessible doesn’t mean obvious, and that’s where Thom’s aptitude comes in.”
“Accessible as in not-buried?”
I said, “Or not buried deeply. And it’s probably in a fireproof safe.”
We started in the backyard with the new metal detector we’d purchased at California Surplus. We found a few nails and a buried dog collar with tags but no safe. So much for a quick job. We snapped on our latex gloves.
I picked the back door lock. The last time we were in Thom’s house we saw only what our red-cellophaned flashlights allowed us to see. In daylight, I learned Thom Burke wasn’t the kind of person to get rid of things. His house was clean but cluttered. Too much furniture. None of it appealing. Too much art on the walls. None of it actually art. The kind of stuff you’d see at a flea market. Too many electronics. Even the obsolete machines like square TVs and cassette tape decks. Retro electronics can set a mood, an analog vibe reminiscent of when listening to music was a deliberate act that required physical interaction to select and play music long before Siri or Alexa were born. But Thom’s retro electronics weren’t that—they just looked like junk. Thom Burke had stuff. He didn’t have taste.
We split up and started with the obvious, going from room to room, looking under rugs and behind anything hanging on the wall for an in-floor or in-wall safe. We looked behind pictures. We looked behind wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. Nothing. We removed vent covers and checked the ductwork. Nothing. Outside, the California sunshine softened from blue-white to gold.
Jameson White shook his big head. “Man, we’ll have to take this house apart nail by nail. It’s almost five o’clock. Shap, you said the money would be in a safe and the safe would be accessible.”
“Well, I might have been wrong. It’s been known to happen.”
“It sure the hell has.” Jameson sighed a big sigh and said, “I’d think the dude would take a different approach to hide something he knew people might be looking for than to hide something no one knew existed.” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. It must have registered on my face. “Okay, if Thom thought people knew he was hiding 5 million in his house, he’d make it impossible to find, like put it in the bricks of the foundation and you’d have to dismantle the structure to get at it. But Thom thought nobody knew he was hiding 5 million because he skimmed it from the movie budget. Vasily thought that money was going into the production according to the $20 million budget. The production had all the money according to the $15 million budget. Only Thom knew he had $5 million. That means no one would be looking for it, so he could hide it in a jar of cookies or something like that.”
“Five million dollars wouldn’t fit in a jar of cookies.”
“I said or something like that. You definitely wouldn’t put it in anything a burglar might steal, which is just about nothing in this house. Haven’t seen so much junk since I visited my aunt Clara—I know, Bewitched had an Aunt Clara but so did I—and she hoarded shit like she wanted to be the star of that hoarders show. All she did was go to garage sales and bring home more crap and clean it with Q-tips while watching The Price Is Right and Let’s Make a Deal. Visiting her was like— Why you got that stupid grin on your face?”
43
We bought a bag full of tools and the only one we needed was a Phillips screwdriver. The TV was a Sony from the last millennium. Big and deep with a forty-inch screen. We popped the back off and Jameson White said, “Damn you, Nils Shapiro. Of all the shit in this house, how’d you know it was in the TV?”
A steel safe about eighteen inches square filled the inside of the old Sony. Thom Burke had gutted the TV’s components to make room for it, even cutting the back off the cathode ray tube. The safe looked like one you’d buy from a discount office supply store. It was probably waterproof and fireproof, but far from high security. Jameson pulled it out of the TV and lifted it. He guessed its weight somewhere around 125 pounds.
I said, “There’s a bar in The Line Hotel decorated with analog equipment. Amps, receivers, speakers, turntables, vinyl, tape decks, reel-to-reel machines. Analog is cool. But only in audio. No one misses big, heavy, energy-hogging, shit-picture TVs. There’s a flat-screen TV mounted in almost every room of this house. Why would Thom have kept an old, monstrous Sony?”
Half an hour later we were back in Hancock Park. Jameson called Dr. Li to say he’d be late, we watched a few instructional YouTube videos, then headed back to Anawalt Lumber. I returned everything I’d bought earlier and purchased the most powerful electric drill they sold, a few $500 drill bits, and a $1,500 magnetic drill press. We ate burgers on Larchmont, walked across the street and bought a burner phone at Rite Aid, then went back to Ebben’s house and started drilling.
By 10:00 P.M., the safe was open and we were looking at almost $5 million in cash, gift cards, and prepaid credit cards.
Jameson said, “You going to call him or text him?”
It took a while typing out text on the disposable flip phone. I had withheld one thing from the police—Vasily’s burner number. I had a feeling I might need it. And I did.
Do you miss your .22 that goes pop? I still have it.
Twenty minutes later I got a response. Buddy?
The police have 15 mil of your money. I have the other 5. Will you return Ebben for 5?
How you have 5?
Thom skimmed 5 from the 20. Was going to make Veins of Gold for 15. He scammed you.
He lucky he dead.
Return Ebben. I will give you 5 million. You can disappear for 5 million. Start a new life.
I need 20. Fast.
R you safe?
No buddy.
Is Ebben ok?
For now.
I promise you the other 15. After Ebben is back.
Twenty now. Ebben is my only chance.
The police know you didn’t kill Thom. They arrested the person who did. She confessed.
It took ten minutes for Vasily to respond. The text came from a different phone. He was switching burners in case anyone was trying to track him. Need 20. They will find and kill me soon. Even if I have 5 million they find me.
Who are they?
Twenty million tonight.
Bring Ebben home. No police. Five million will buy you time. Ebben will pay the other 15. Bring him home.
No response.
Vasily?
Nothing.
Jameson said, “Well?”
I showed him the texts. He shook his head. “Now what?”
“I’ll go bail out Brit and give the remainder of the 5 million to the police. They’ll log it in properly so it’ll be safe. Then we wait for the police and FBI to do what they do.”
“Hmm.” Jameson folded his arms on his chest.
“What?”
“The old Nils Shapiro would have come up with something more clever.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He shook his head. “End of an era.”
I loaded the cash and prepaid credit cards into my carry-on luggage and said, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride back to Dr. Li�
�s.”
I hated lying to Jameson White, but I saw no other way. We stopped at Salt & Straw for ice cream on Larchmont Boulevard, me wheeling my carry-on like a tourist, spot-checking to see if Vasily was following. He was not. There was a line in front of the ice cream shop. I do not line up for food, but I didn’t mind because I was with Jameson. Didn’t know when I’d see him again. Didn’t know if I’d see him again. I had to push the thought away or I’d break down right there between the velvet ropes on the sidewalk outside the ice cream shop.
I said, “You ever going to visit me in Minnesota?”
“Let’s not talk about that now.”
“All right. Can we talk about how typical it is for a nurse to marry a doctor?”
“Nurse practitioner.”
“Right.”
The conversation went like that until we were inside. Then I saw why the line for ice cream crawled like rush-hour traffic. Every customer was sampling flavors with tiny spoons.
I said, “Sampling flavors is bullshit.”
Jameson said, “What wrong with it?”
“You pick a flavor and you stick with it. Yeah, it’s a little risky because you might pick…” I read the chalkboard above the servers. “… Silencio Black Tea & Coconut Stracciatella but wish you’d picked Cupcake Royale’s Salted Caramel Cupcake. But that’s part of the fun. And why the hell did we wait in line for these flavors? I don’t even know what they mean.”
“That’s why you sample ’em.”
“Where’s the chocolate and vanilla and cookie dough? I don’t have to sample those.”
Jameson shook his head. “It’s gourmet. They don’t insult their clientele with the simple stuff.”
We each sampled a few flavors, made our choices, and strolled Larchmont Boulevard toward Dr. Li’s house, me pulling the carry-on behind me. Still no sign of Vasily. We walked in silence for a few minutes then I jabbed my spoon into my Smoked Sea Salt and Chocolate Crack and said, “I’m going to hug you goodbye.”
