Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  Walter squirmed in his seat and was slow to respond. Obviously, thinking of a way to avoid it.

  Charlie lifted the gun, pointed it at him then made a couple of motions with it to indicate to Walter to get on with it and tell him.

  “Come on, Walter. I don’t have all night.”

  “Who are you?” Walter again asked.

  “We’ll get to that when I’m ready. I still have the guns, Walter.”

  “Okay,” Walter said with a resigned sigh. “We liquidated CAR Securities today. We’ve been planning this for a couple of years. We sold off everything then emptied all of the client and firm accounts. We had set up a series of electronic transfers all over the globe. The money got split up and sent out automatically through bank accounts we had in countries that aren’t too cooperative with U.S. law enforcement. It will be done sometime tomorrow. Then it’s all supposed to be split up into five accounts, one for each of us. But I knew they were going to screw me out of my share so I screwed them first. The money is going to end up in five accounts, all right. But only I know where they are.”

  “How much?”

  “A little over two point six billion,” Walter reluctantly answered him.

  “Two point six billion! Billion with a ‘B’ billion?” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, billion with a ‘B’,” Walter acknowledged. “Now, tell me who you are?”

  “You mean you don’t know? You don’t know who I am? I’m surprised,” Charlie replied. “I’m an off-the-books, independent contractor, employed by CAR Securities for a special job.”

  When he heard that, the light went on in Walter’s head and he realized who Charlie was.

  “You’re the guy Rask hired. The guy he…”

  “Yeah, I am,” Charlie pleasantly answered him.

  Now thoroughly terrified Walter Pascal nervously chattered, “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you half. You’ll have more money than you dreamed of. But only if you keep me alive.”

  “Wow, that’s very tempting, Walter,” Charlie said with mild sarcasm. “But I’ll tell you what. I wouldn’t touch that money with a hundred foot pole. Two point six billion. How stupid and arrogant are you guys? Do you really think you can steal that much money and get away with it? I’m sure you ripped off some important, rich people didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Walter reluctantly agreed.

  “Do you think the feds are going to stop looking for it? They’ll never stop. Sooner or later and probably sooner, they’ll find it and you. No thanks, Walter. I’m not that greedy and I’m not that stupid. I want nothing to do with it. No, Walter, you’re on your own.”

  “There are countries that don’t have extradition treaties with the U.S.” Walter said.

  “So? You think that will protect you. Believe me, if they have to, they’ll kill you to get the money back. No, good luck.”

  “You’re not going to kill me?”

  Charlie stood up and placed his own gun in his coat pocket and removed Walter’s silenced .357 from the other pocket.

  “You know, I don’t think so,” Charlie said while rolling the gun over and over in his gloved hands. “Nice piece,” he said referring to the handgun.

  “God, thanks,” a very relieved Walter said as he exhaled and sat back on the couch.

  In a split second, before Walter had a chance to realize what was happening, Charlie pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. ‘Woomp!’ it loudly went off. The bullet hit Walter directly in the forehead, blew out the back of his head and lodged in the windowsill behind him.

  “Sorry, Walter,” Charlie said. “I guess I changed my mind.”

  Charlie stepped up to the glass-covered chrome coffee table and placed the gun on the table in front of Walter. He looked at Walter’s bloody corpse and said, “The cops will want to have that.”

  Before he left, Charlie had one more task to perform. In the kitchen, he rummaged around through the cupboards until he found what he needed. He then went back into the living room and slipped a plastic bag over both of Walter’s hands and tied them closed at the wrist.

  “There, Walter, now you’re all set for the cops to find you.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MPD Detective Owen Jefferson parked his department issued Chevy outside the taped-off crime scene. With his partner Marcie Sterling hurrying to keep up with the long-legged Jefferson, they went under the yellow-tape toward the uniformed sergeant.

  “Morning, Norm,” Jefferson said to the patrol sergeant, Norman Anderson. “What do we have?”

  “Guy’s name is Jordan Kemp. His wife has been calling all night,” Anderson said as he handed Jefferson the man’s wallet. “Looks like a single, large-caliber, gunshot wound to the forehead.”

  Jefferson removed the driver’s license from the wallet and held it so both he and Marcie could read it.

  “Jordan Kemp,” Jefferson quietly said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcie replied, “but you’re right, it does.”

  “And his address, he lives in Coon Rapids,” Jefferson said referring to a suburb north of Minneapolis. “What was he doing here?”

  They were standing in the parking lot of the University Inn, a motel across the river from downtown.

  “Trolling for hookers?” Marcie asked.

  “Maybe,” Jefferson replied. “Let’s take a look. Morning, Clyde. What brings you out on a Saturday morning?” Jefferson said to the man leaning into the car over the body.

  “My weekend, Owen,” Clyde Marston, a pathologist with the medical examiner’s office said as he stood up and turned to face the two detectives. “Hi, Marcie.”

  “Us, too,” Jefferson said referring to it being their weekend to work also.

  “Take a look,” Marston said then stepped aside.

  Both detectives carefully looked over the body and the car’s interior. When they finished they stepped away to let the M.E. go back to work.

  “He knew him,” Marcie said. “He was sitting in his car and looked right at whoever did this.”

  “Yep, I think you’re right. That’s why the neat hole in his forehead with the gunpowder stippling around it. He was right on top of him but our victim never expected it.”

  Marcie’s hand-held radio beeped and she placed it to her ear. She listened for a moment, walked to a car parked nearby, removed a small notebook, placed it on the car’s hood and wrote something in it.

  “That’s Edina,” Marcie said into the radio. “Why are we…”

  The dispatcher gave her more details and Marcie listened.

  “How was the body found?” she asked to have the dispatcher repeat it.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’re on our way.”

  “What?” Jefferson asked.

  “Got another one,” Marcie answered him. “And it sounds identical to this one. They want us to go check it out.”

  “What do you mean, ‘identical’?”

  “Single, large caliber gunshot to the head of a guy sitting in his car. I got the address.”

  Three blocks away from the second crime scene, Marcie looked at her notes again.

  “Ethan Rask,” she quietly said looking through the windshield. “Ethan Rask and Jordan Kemp.” She turned and looked at Jefferson and said, “Weren’t they two guys that worked at that securities place that was involved in Maddy Rivers’ case?”

  “CAR Securities,” Jefferson said. “Yeah, I think you’re right. That’s why the names sound familiar.” Owen glanced over at Marcie with a puzzled expression. “If that’s who they are what the hell is going on?”

  Mike Anderson and Holly Byrnes trudged up the steps leading to the front door of Walter Pascal’s home. Anderson impatiently rang the doorbell several times then waited barely three seconds before pounding on the door.

  “Just what I wanted to do,” Anderson grumbled, waiting for a response from inside. “Spend a Saturday of a holiday weekend trying to find this nitwit.”

  “You had other pla
ns?” Holly asked the divorced Anderson.

  “Don’t start,” he said to her then hammered his fist on the door several more times.

  “I wonder where he could be?” Holly rhetorically asked.

  “What’s this about?” Anderson said. He was looking at an MPD patrol car stop at the end of Pascal’s driveway effectively blocking their car from leaving. A lone MPD uniformed officer exited the car and walked toward them.

  “Good morning, Officer,” Anderson said as he and Holly came down the front steps toward the man.

  “Morning,” the cop warily replied.

  “We’re with the FBI. I’m going to remove my ID from my inside pocket for you,” Anderson told him.

  The two feds gave their FBI credentials to the officer who looked them over. Satisfied he handed them back.

  “What are you doing here?” the cop asked them.

  “I guess I’d ask you the same thing Officer Stanton,” Anderson said reading the man’s name from his name tag.

  “You know Owen Jefferson?”

  “Sure, I know Owen,” Anderson replied.

  “I got a call from downtown. There’s been a couple homicides last night. I’m not sure about the details. I was just told to check on this guy, this Walter Pascal at this address.”

  “Holy shit!” Anderson almost yelled.

  Both Anderson and Byrnes turned and sprinted back up the steps. Without slowing down, Anderson ran a shoulder into the door and blew it open.

  “Hold it, wait, wait…” Stanton was yelling after them as he followed them up the stairs and into Pascal’s living room. When he got there he found both feds silently staring at the body of Walter Pascal still sitting on the couch.

  “Everybody, outside,” Anderson said as he turned to leave.

  “I need to clear the house,” Stanton told him.

  “You’re right, sorry. Holly, will you give him a hand? I need to make a call.”

  Anderson went back out front while Holly and Stanton, guns drawn, split up to make sure the house was empty. Ten minutes later they joined Anderson in the driveway.

  Anderson looked at Stanton and said, “Call it in and get me Owen Jefferson’s cell phone number, please. I need to speak to him right away.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stanton said as he removed the radio mic from his shoulder.

  “We have a gigantic mess on our hands,” Anderson said to Holly. The two of them had walked several steps away from the cop for privacy.

  “What the hell is…” Holly started to say.

  “I don’t know yet. I called Joel Dylan at home. Told him what we found. He’s going to get a warrant to go in and shut down CAR Securities today. For now, keep that to yourself.”

  “Agent Anderson,” they heard Stanton say, “I have Jefferson’s phone number for you.”

  Less than a minute later, Anderson told Owen Jefferson what they had found. Jefferson also told him about finding Jordan Kemp and Ethan Rask.

  “Why were you at Pascal’s, Mike? What the hell is going on?” Jefferson asked him.

  “Owen, not now. I can’t get into that right now. You need to find the address for Corbin Reed and Victor Espinosa and get cars out to check on them, too.”

  “Already done. We’re waiting to hear from them,” Jefferson told him. “We need to have a little chat, Mike.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can,” Anderson answered him.

  “You stay at that crime scene,” Jefferson said. “You’re a witness. I’m on my way.”

  “What the hell?” Holly asked after Anderson ended the call with Jefferson and told her what they talked about.

  “I don’t know,” Anderson replied.

  “Did you see the gun on the coffee table in front of Walter? And somebody bagged his hands. Why?”

  “Well, he didn’t commit suicide by shooting himself in the forehead then putting the gun on the table. The only reason I can think of is because that is the gun used to kill Rask, Kemp, Walter and maybe Espinosa and Reed. And his hands are bagged…”

  “To preserve the GSR,” Holly said.

  “Yeah,” Anderson agreed.

  “Which means Walter shot Rask and Kemp…”

  “Maybe,” Anderson said cutting her off. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

  Anderson’s phone went off. He checked the ID, then answered it. He listened for a minute then said, “Okay, Owen. We’ll be here.”

  “What?” Holly asked when the call ended.

  “They found Corbin Reed on his living room floor. Victor Espinosa is gone. They went into his place and found luggage, clothes and personal stuff missing. They’ll check flights but he likely used false papers. We’ll need to check video tapes from the airport. Sonofabitch!” Anderson yelled then stomped off a few feet away.

  An hour later, Anderson was on the phone with Joel Dylan. He was still hanging out at Pascal’s in the driveway when Owen Jefferson came out of the house and walked up to him.

  “I have to go,” Anderson said to Dylan. “I’ll call when I’m done here.”

  “Okay,” Jefferson began talking to the two feds, “you’re investigating CAR Securities and our D.O.A. in there is your snitch. What’s the deal, Mike?”

  “I can’t confirm that. In fact, I can’t talk to you about anything, Owen,” Anderson answered.

  Jefferson looked at Byrnes and said, “Holly?”

  “I’m with him,” she replied nodding at Anderson.

  “And how much of this had to do with the death of Robert Judd and the case against Madeline Rivers?”

  “We don’t know anything about that, Owen,” Anderson told him.

  “Then, once again, why were you here?” Jefferson solemnly asked.

  “We told you everything we can. Sorry,” Anderson replied. “What can you tell us about these murders?”

  Jefferson ironically laughed and said, “Information is a two-way street, Mike. I’ll let you know what I can when I can.”

  “Can we go?” a clearly annoyed Mike Anderson asked.

  By the time Anderson and Byrnes arrived at the offices of CAR Securities there were twenty FBI agents and personnel on scene. Joel Dylan was there supervising.

  “Hey,” Dylan said as he shook hands with Anderson. “We’re going to grab everything and take it to your offices. Including everything across the hall,” he continued referring to Suite 2007.

  “Everything’s gone,” Anderson quietly said as he watched the crew pack up and carry items out. The feds had two moving vans in the building’s basement. They would carry everything, every desk, chair, computer, file cabinet, scrap of paper they found down to the trucks to confiscate all of it.

  “All the money’s gone,” Anderson continued. “We got played by Pascal. You’ll see. We found him with his hands bagged. Looks like he, and probably Espinosa, set up everybody. Then Espinosa killed Pascal with the same gun. God, I feel like an idiot. Why didn’t we see this coming?”

  “You sure that’s what happened? Pascal and Espinosa killed everyone?” Dylan asked.

  “Looks that way,” Holly said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Dylan said. “We checked flights south out of the airport. The last one was at 7:22 last night to Houston. If Espinosa was on it, depends on the time of death, well, we’ll see.”

  “Seriously?” Anderson asked. “Let me check with Jefferson. Holly, find the personnel files of the employees. I want every one of them brought in for questioning.”

  “You got it,” Holly said then went off to locate the paper files.

  “Owen, it’s Mike Anderson,” he said into his phone. “What do you have for a preliminary time of death on Pascal?”

  Anderson listened for a moment then said, “Yes, please. It’s important.”

  He listened again, thanked Jefferson and ended the call.

  “The best they have for a T.O.D. for Pascal is between 11:00 and 2:00. Long after that flight, if Espinosa was on it.”

  “We’ll find out,” Dylan assured him.


  “He did have one other thing,” Anderson said referring to Owen Jefferson. “They found a rental car abandoned in the parking lot of Corbin Reed’s place. He figures that’s why Pascal’s car was not in his garage. He drove to a rental place, got a car and used it. Probably to avoid us following him. Jefferson said they would check it out. If that’s true and Espinosa was on that flight at 7:22…”

  “Or an earlier one,” Dylan said.

  “Yeah, or an earlier one,” Anderson continued. “How did Pascal get from Reed’s to his place and who shot him?”

  The two men silently stared at each other without answering the question.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Victor Espinosa was on the flight leaving the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport at 7:22 the night of the killings. It would take a couple of days because of the disguise he wore, but the feds would identify him. They were also able to track him to Houston and a connecting flight to Cancun. By the time they did this, they were already too late.

  Espinosa was awakened Sunday morning by the sound of the shower coming from the master bedroom. He smiled at the image of Pablo’s naked body in the shower and briefly thought about joining him. Instead, he pulled the king size comforter up to his chin, rolled over to face the bedroom window overlooking the Gulf and closed his eyes.

  Fifteen minutes later, wearing nothing but silk, black, boxer briefs, Pablo Quinones strolled into the bedroom vainly brushing back his thick black hair. Before he crossed the threshold to reenter the bedroom he started to speak.

  “We need to firm up our…”

  At this point, he was now completely in the bedroom and could see Victor, still in bed. Espinosa was sitting up, his back against the bed’s headboard, holding the comforter up under his chin, a look of terror in his eyes. Pablo had stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in fear, looking at the reason why his lover was seated in the position he was with the look on his face that he had.

  Seated in one of the room’s matching armchairs against the wall facing the bed, was Pablo’s boss, Javier Torres. He was dressed as he normally was, casually in white linen slacks, a silk, light-blue shirt, loafers and no socks. He had an unlit cigar in his right hand, his left leg loosely crossed over his right. Even in this comfortable posture, the man was the epitome of terror.