Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  Vermeulen shook his head. “Could you, even just for a moment, leave your prejudice aside? These men didn’t cook up the invitation letter scheme on their own. Somebody is behind this. Aren’t you supposed to guard the borders? Well, do your job.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Camille Delano sipped her Snow Queen. The ice-cold liquor flowed down her throat and warmed her body. Leave it to the Azure Lounge to stock a vodka from Kazakhstan, a country that most people hadn’t heard of. Made sense. Exotic liquor was a surefire way to attract Newark’s hipsters. And the Azure was the new bar in downtown. They had to try extra hard.

  The glass of Snow Queen was Delano’s ritual. After every successful transaction, she treated herself to one. Most people knew her as ‘The Broker.’ She arranged deals between people who needed something not legally available and those who had it or were willing to procure it. The last one had netted almost a hundred grand. Definitely worth a celebration. Maybe take some time off. Leave Newark’s dreary March weather behind and go diving in Bonaire. She could stop over in Cockburn Town on Grand Turk Island and check on her investments.

  The phone interrupted her dreaming. It was the doctor. She had half a mind not to answer. The doctor was a fussy client, always worrying, always second-guessing her choices. If his deals weren’t so lucrative, she’d have kicked him to the curb a long time ago. But the transaction she was celebrating had been with him. She got up and walked outside before answering.

  “Somebody just called my office.” He sounded shrill with panic.

  “Isn’t that your basic business model—people calling and making appointments?”

  “Don’t be cute. Somebody who knows about Abasi.”

  “Saying what?”

  “I don’t know for sure. He talked to my receptionist. According to her, he said, ‘Ask Dr. Rosenbaum why a dead man from Kenya has twenty-five hundred dollars and his address in his pocket.’ ”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that all you have to say? I checked the news and they said a dead man was found at Broad Street Station. How did Abasi even get there?”

  “I guess he walked down the stairs and then followed MLK Boulevard,” she said.

  “Did you hear my question? Why was he even outside?”

  “Why are you asking me? He was in your practice, which is in your brownstone. Not my problem if you can’t make sure the doors are locked.”

  “You were supposed to get him out of the country.”

  “That wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow at the earliest. Until then he was in your care. You should have done a better job sewing him together.”

  The pause on the other end told her the gibe had worked. Whenever the doctor forgot that his medical degree and his upper-class attitude didn’t mean shit, she had to put him in his place. Challenging his medical skills usually did the trick.

  “Nobody speaks to me that way,” he said in strangled voice.

  “I just did.” She ended the call. Let him stew a while. He’d be back, singing a different tune.

  Growing up in the New Jersey mob had taught her to act from a position of strength. Getting her MBA from NYU had taught her how to deal with people. Not getting to take over her father’s position after his untimely death had taught her never to rely on others.

  The doctor was a case in point. He was greedy. That made him work with her. But he still thought she was the criminal and he was somehow above it all. Funny thing was that if the shit ever hit the fan, he’d have to do a lot more explaining than she. For one, she wasn’t planning on being around when that happened. Her go-bag was always ready.

  She went back into the Lounge. Taking the doctor’s call outside meant that the ice in the vodka had melted. She ordered another glass.

  When the phone rang, she ignored it and took a sip. The phone rang again. She glanced at the screen. The doctor. Better let him stew a little longer. It’ll help him come to his senses. She finished her drink and left the Lounge.

  Outside, the phone rang a third time. The doctor, again. Probably ready to eat crow.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Last thing I knew, you weren’t in charge of my schedule.”

  “You’re right. What are we going to do about the man who called?”

  “I’m thinking. How does he know Abasi was Kenyan and had the money, unless he went through his pockets? Which means he found the guy before anyone else did and took his things.”

  “Why was my address in his pocket?”

  “To tell him where he had to go. It’s not like I have a reception committee at JFK.”

  “I can’t have that kind of information out there.”

  “Oh, get real. It’s not like people don’t know where your office is. You are in the phonebook. So what if he had your address? Lots of people have it.” Then, more to herself, she said, “I wonder why the guy called you. I bet he’s figuring out an angle. He had no problem taking the dead man’s money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at it from his perspective,” Delano said, continuously rearranging the bits of information in her mind.

  “Whose perspective? Abasi’s?”

  “A dead guy hasn’t got a perspective. No, the caller’s perspective. He finds a dead man with an open wound, a wad of bills, and a doctor’s address. There’s something off about that whole scenario. What would you do if you found a dead man?”

  “I don’t find dead men.”

  She rubbed her left temple. Why didn’t the caller just take the cash and split? I would have, she thought. But then again, maybe not.

  “Are you still there?” the doctor said.

  “Yeah, I’m still here. I think I figured the caller out. He’s thinking that whatever happened to Abasi wasn’t above board and he’s looking to cash in on that.”

  “Blackmail me?”

  “Maybe, or maybe get in on the action. Think about it. Would you take two-and-a-half grand from a dead man you found on the street?”

  “Of course not. I’d call the police.”

  “Right. And so would most upright citizens. Your caller didn’t. What does that tell you?”

  “He’s a crook?”

  “Let’s just say he’s looking out for himself.”

  “So what should I do? I can’t call the police.”

  “No, that you can’t. Don’t do anything. See if he calls back.”

  “What if he does?”

  “Then we’ll consider what to do next.”

  “I can’t just sit here waiting for a call.”

  “Then don’t. I assume you have patients to see.”

  “We have to do something before it becomes a crisis.”

  “So now it’s we again. Let me remind you, Doctor, that man is your problem, not mine. You screwed up, so don’t try to put that on me. Just sit tight and don’t be stupid. Remember, if this thing goes sideways, my risk increases. And you know how it is—higher risk requires a higher return.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Vermeulen resorted to his usual method of sorting out where he was in a case. He drew boxes on two pieces of paper, one for Odinga and one for Abasi. In each box, he wrote the facts he knew for sure, what he surmised, and finally, wild guesses.

  So far, it hadn’t helped. His facts were few, and everything else was too vague to allow for conclusions. There were two men from Kenya who’d made their way to the U.S. using fake paperwork to obtain visas. One is caught at the passport control and detained. The other makes it through. Within a day of each other, both men end up dead—one killed in detention, the other on the street.

  Maybe Sunderland was right and it was a coincidence. Odinga might have insulted the other man and paid for it with his life. Prisons were dangerous. The second Kenyan could have been robbed at knifepoint. Newark was a rough city, and foreigners don’t know what areas to avoid.

  He needed to speak to the other detainees who’d been caught with the fake letters. Only they
could shed light on what was going on. Alma could help him find out where they were. He picked up his phone and dialed her number.

  “Alma speaking,” she said when the call connected.

  “Hi, this is Valentin Vermeulen.” There was a moment of hesitation. “Apple pie and ice cream,” he said.

  “Oh, of course. Sorry. How are you? Thanks for the treat yesterday. Did you find out what you wanted?”

  “No, it turns out that Mr. Odinga was killed just before I got back to the detention center.”

  “Oh, it was him! What a tragedy. We’d heard that there had been a death, but nobody at the center would say anything. Our office has been getting calls all morning from anxious family members wanting to know what happened.”

  “Well, you can tell them their relatives are okay. I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to speak to one of the other detainees who came to the U.S. the same way. Do you know how I might find out where they’re being held? I really don’t want to play phone tag with ICE again.”

  “Sure. Do you have their names and A-numbers?”

  “What numbers?”

  “Their alien registration numbers. Homeland Security assigns each person a number. It starts with an ‘A’ followed by eight or nine digits.”

  He looked over the paperwork he’d gotten from Sunderland.

  “I’m afraid I can’t find any A-numbers.”

  “Okay, give me the names and countries of origin. The ICE web search doesn’t work as well with that, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “There’s an ICE web search?”

  “Yes. You didn’t know?”

  He’d spent hours on the phone, trying to find Joseph Odinga. Not one of the ICE people had mentioned the web search. He shook his head.

  “No. I’m sorry to bother you. I could have done that myself.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind. It’s probably faster if I do it.”

  He gave her the three names he’d gotten from Sunderland. The clicking of a keyboard came over the phone.

  “I found one of them—Mihaly Luca. He’s being held at the York County Prison.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “York, Pennsylvania, about three hours from here.”

  “Are any of the others closer?”

  “There are multiple listings for one of them, so we don’t know who’s who, and the other is listed as ‘not in custody.’ That could mean anything—he might have been released or deported. So Mihaly in York is your best bet.”

  “Thanks a lot. I owe you another slice of pie.”

  “That sounds lovely, but I’d better stop helping you. I’ll put on too many pounds.”

  The conversation with Suarez was far less pleasant. Vermeulen informed him that at least five people had obtained visas using fraudulent letters issued by UN offices in Nairobi and Vienna.

  “Are you still dealing with that?” Suarez said, scanning a report on his desk.

  “Well, yes. The Immigration and Customs Enforcement people are pretty upset that UN letters are used to obtain visas.”

  “Just tell Bengtsson and Dufaux to put a stop to it. We’re not going to waste investigator hours on such trifling matters.”

  “Two of the men involved have turned up dead.”

  Suarez looked up.

  “One was killed in the detention center and the other was apparently the victim of a robbery.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Suarez said.

  “It seems like more than a coincidence that two men who could’ve told us how they got the letters turn up dead the moment I begin to investigate.”

  Suarez shook his head. “There you go again. How often do I have to tell you that you are not a detective? We investigate fraud at the UN; we don’t investigate murders. And most certainly not murders in the host country that have no connection to our work.”

  “It’s clear that those letters were fraudulent. They were issued by someone working for the UN. There’s your fraud.”

  “Yes, and we have people in Nairobi and Vienna to take care of that. It’s not your job.”

  “Doesn’t it disturb you that two people are dead? And that they died before I could talk to them about how they got the letters?”

  “Not at all. You know as well as I do that U.S. prisons are hellholes where people get killed. And everybody knows that Newark has a high crime rate. I don’t see how it has anything to do with the letters.”

  Vermeulen was getting hot under the collar. Suarez was being deliberately obtuse. The connection between his investigation and the deaths was too obvious to overlook. But he knew his boss well enough to keep a calm façade.

  “I’ve located one more person identified by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A man from Moldova. He’s being held in York, Pennsylvania. I’d like to talk to him and find out what he can tell us about the letters. At a minimum, he could give me a name that I can pass on to Dufaux to help him shut this letter business down. Besides, Sunderland at ICE is livid. He has threatened to hold up any and all visitors coming here to attend UN events. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”

  It was his trump card. Increased scrutiny of visitors coming to the UN would cause the leadership to ask questions, questions that could eventually end up on Suarez’s desk.

  “Sunderland threatened to hold up arrivals destined for the UN?”

  “Yes. Of course not the diplomats—they have immunity—but everyone else is fair game for him.”

  “That’s not good. Can’t you talk to him? He can’t hold the whole organization responsible for a handful of fake letters.”

  “He’s serious about the holdups. His point is that the handful of letters is just the tip of the iceberg. I might be able to convince him otherwise, but only if I can show him that we are serious about this investigation.”

  Suarez shook his head again. For a moment, Vermeulen thought he’d overplayed his hand. “All right,” he said. “Go to York and talk to that man. And make sure Sunderland knows you are going. The last thing we need is to have our legitimate visitors hassled at JFK.”

  “Good. I’ll go in the morning. I’ll have to rent another car.”

  Suarez nodded with a glum expression. Vermeulen got up to leave. When he opened the door, Suarez said, “I’m watching you, Vermeulen. You may have gotten a commendation for your antics in Darfur, but I won’t stand for a repeat. Go to York, get what you can from that man, and pass it on to Dufaux. That’s it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Earle Jackson picked up his new phone to call Dr. Rosenbaum’s office again. He’d spent the night thinking about his next move. The doctor hadn’t called back. That surprised Jackson. He’d thought the message would be enough to cause alarm. Maybe the receptionist thought it was a crank call and didn’t even tell the doctor. But that didn’t seem likely. A dead man on the street with a wad of cash and a surgeon’s address. If it sounded iffy to Jackson, who’d seen his share of crooked deals, it should’ve shocked the doctor.

  Jackson didn’t know any doctors, except for Mulberry and Patel, his business partners. They were obvious crooks, ripping off Medicare and all. He’d always figured they were an exception. Rosenbaum was a surgeon. He cut people open and sewed them back up. Jackson had always thought surgeons were the rock stars of the medical profession. They didn’t have to resort to bilking Medicare for tests and procedures they didn’t perform. People like that should be alarmed to get the kind of message Jackson left with the receptionist.

  Maybe Rosenbaum was scared. Or he’d called the police and they were waiting in his office ready to trace the phone and grab Jackson. Or Rosenbaum was a crook after all and was waiting for his next move. Jackson decided he’d better call and find out. He promised himself he’d hang up the moment it sounded like the doctor was stringing him along. That was a sign the cops were there tracing his phone. If anything sounded fishy, he’d just hang up and toss the phone. He still had his twenty-five hundred dollars, or what was
left after he’d gotten himself some new clothes and a nice dinner.

  He dialed the number. As on the day before, the receptionist answered.

  “Yeah, I want to speak to the doctor about the dead man from Kenya,” Jackson said.

  Without a word, the receptionist transferred the call. That was suspicious. Were they already tracing him? He listened for suspicious clicks on the line. But that was probably something from the movies. These days everything was digital.

  “This is Dr. Rosenbaum,” a voice said.

  “Good morning, Doctor. How are you on this bright morning?” Jackson figured it wouldn’t hurt to speak nicely.

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, Doctor, I’m just curious how it was that a man from Kenya died in my arms on the stairs of Broad Street Station with a wad of cash and your address in his pocket.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.” The voice sounded agitated.

  Jackson smiled. Something might really come out of this.

  “Doctor, let’s cut the crap. I’m just curious what happened. Did you botch a surgery and get rid of the evidence? That’s not a nice thing to do. Think of the man’s family.”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “I’m curious why the man had twenty-five hundred dollars in his pocket. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d walk around with that much cash. So I figured you must’ve given it to him. To shut him up. Well, since I’m in the picture now, I figure I also deserve some cash for keeping quiet.”

  Still no answer. The man was stalling.

  “You know what, Doctor? I think you need a little time. I’ll call back in a while.”

  Before he ended the call, the doctor’s voice came through. “I did not botch an operation. I never botch an operation.”

  “Good for you, Doctor,” Jackson said and pushed the End button.

  Twenty minutes and several bus stops later, Jackson found himself a bench overlooking the track oval and football field at Nat Turner Park. He didn’t exactly know how cell phone tracing worked, but he’d taken the battery out of the phone the moment he’d ended the call and kept it out until he settled on the bench. Once again connected to the wireless network, he pressed the redial button.