No End of Bad Guys

by Jeff Buick

  “Gotcha.” Bobby said, his eyes going straight to the name. “Hanna Van Warner.”

  Bobby printed the page and leaned back in his chair, reading the text. She was born in Albuquerque on July 11th, 1978, making her forty-one years old. She had graduated from Stanford with a Masters in Finance, then worked at Goldman Sachs for six years before moving to a company called Logi-line Inc.”

  Bobby set the paper on his desk. Six years at Goldman Sachs—that confirmed two things he already suspected—this was one very sharp woman, and she would have substantial financial resources at her fingertips. He needed to tread carefully.

  He leaned forward and read on. Her last known residence was on Central Park West in Manhattan. According to the system she hadn’t lived in the continental US or filed a tax return for seven years, appearing to have cashed out and moved to Grand Cayman. Bobby tapped his finger on the page.

  “So, Hanna, what are you doing in Orlando? And why the new name?”

  Bobby turned out his light and headed home. Tomorrow was soon enough to start figuring out Hanna Van Warner.

  chapter four

  “Here’s your warrant.” Stacey Daniels held it up like a trophy. “Take Vern and a couple of uniforms with you. I’ve talked to CSI and a tech should be there when you arrive. And Bobby, I know what you think about this guy, but keep it under control.”

  “Don’t know what you mean,” Bobby said, taking a close look at his boss. Everything about her looked happy—the tiny curl at the edge of her lips, her eyes, even the way she stood with one hand on her hip.

  “White might be a dirt bag, but he has rights,” she said calmly.

  Bobby couldn’t resist. “LT, you’re in a fine mood. Have a good night?”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.

  “Ahh, I see.”

  She handed him the warrant, then spun on her heels and left. Theirs was a solid relationship, but it had come at a price. No one had seen it coming when Stacey Daniels was promoted to lieutenant over Bobby, and most everyone expected him to react like an agitated volcano. Instead, he showed up for work and headed straight for Daniels, shaking her hand and telling her he was looking forward to working with her. While Bobby meant every word, there were days when he sat back and wondered why the promotion had gone her way. It was something he lived with and never let bubble to the surface.

  Vern Foster was hunched over a stack of printouts when Bobby invaded his cubicle. “LT has you coming with me on this warrant,” he said.

  Vern glanced up with tired eyes. “Thank Christ. I’m fucking dying here on this stuff.” He slipped in a bookmark and slammed the stack of paper shut with his huge mitt.

  “What is it?” Bobby asked.

  “Electronic card access for an entire office building for three days. Absolute crap.” He grabbed his coat and hurried out of his cubicle ahead of Bobby.

  “Might jack him up while we’re there,” Bobby said. “LT said it was okay.”

  “What are you thinking?” Vern asked as they walked.

  “Just get in his face, tell him we know he did it.”

  “You watching his phone in case he makes a call?”

  Bobby nodded. “There’s no surveillance on him. We should hang back after and see what he does.”

  “Right,” Vern agreed. “How many dirtbags have we nailed like that?”

  “A lot.”

  They rounded up two uniformed officers and gave them a location a block from White’s address, then jumped into Bobby’s car. It was just before ten when they pulled up beside a white van parked out of sight of Cedric White’s place. The CSI technician was waiting for them and she rolled down her window.

  “Madison,” Bobby said, happy she was the tech who got the call. He’d worked with her numerous times and she was top notch at working a scene. “Good to see you, and thanks for coming on short notice.”

  “Hi Bobby, Vern.” She smiled when she saw it was them.

  “You ready?” Bobby asked and she nodded. He took the lead, with the CSI van and patrol car in tow. They arrived en masse and were out of their vehicles and moving up the sidewalk in seconds. Bobby knocked on the door and when White answered he held up the warrant.

  “I’m back,” Bobby said. “This time I get to look around.”

  White scrutinized the warrant, line by line, for almost a minute, then reluctantly stepped back from the door. He started toward the kitchen, but Bobby stopped him.

  “See that chair?” Bobby pointed to a recliner near the living room window. “You’re going to sit there until we’re done. If you move out of that chair, I’ll have one of these officers take you to the station. Do you understand?”

  White didn’t answer, glowering as he sat down and clenching his teeth together so hard his jaw was white.

  Bobby turned to one of the uniforms. “Stay here and watch him.”

  They walked to the far end of the foyer and Bobby said to Madison, “We’re looking for traces of a teenage girl who was abducted about ten days ago. You probably know how you want to run your grid better than I do.”

  “Yup, I’m okay.” She set her bag on the floor, flipped it open and slipped on her gloves.

  “Take the upstairs,” Bobby said to the other uniformed officer. “Vern and I will concentrate on the main floor and the crawl space. If you see anything call Madison to have a look.”

  Bobby had pulled the condo plan from land titles and knew that the builder had included a crawl space. Basements in Florida were almost non-existent, and even crawl spaces were unusual, which had Bobby thinking Cedric White may have purchased the house specifically because of that. Crawl spaces made excellent places to hide bodies.

  “Main floor is all yours,” he said to Vern.

  “Christ, this place is clean,” Vern said, looking about.

  “Too clean?” Bobby asked.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Bobby started searching for the access panel to the crawl space and found it in the back hall closet. He gave the handle a hearty pull and the heavy door groaned loudly as it lifted back on its hinges. Bobby flipped on his flashlight and aimed the beam into the darkness. The space was about four feet high, and it looked dry even though the escaping air smelled damp. He slid through the narrow opening, then crouched and shone the beam in a long sweeping arc around the space.

  “Aw, shit,” Bobby said, staring at the stack of packing boxes against one wall. “What’s with all this?”

  Bobby poked his head out the hole and yelled for the uniform working the upper floor to come and help him. He opened one of the boxes and had a look. It was filled with file folders, neatly labeled with company names, probably financial records for White’s accounting clients. The officer arrived and together they started hauling the boxes out and setting them on the kitchen floor. There were almost forty and all of them were heavy. When they were finished there was a substantial pile in the center of the kitchen.

  Bobby stuck his head back into the crawl space to check and see if they missed anything, and heard a commotion in the kitchen behind him. The officer watching White was yelling and telling him to get back in the living room. Bobby spun around and jackknifed to his feet.

  “Those are confidential.” Cedric White was at the kitchen door.

  Bobby made a beeline for White. “I told you to sit in the chair. Now sit in the fucking chair.”

  A wave of fear swept across White’s face and he scrambled back to the living room. “I’ll have your badge for this,” he managed, albeit unconvincingly.

  Bobby stood over him and stared down. “You grabbed that girl and killed her. You get no respect from me.”

  “I’ll report you,” White stammered.

  “And I’ll put you away for life. I’d rather be in my shoes, you pathetic piece of shit.” Bobby backed off a couple of feet. “Don’t fucking move.”

  He looked at the officer charged with watching White, but didn’t say a word.<
br />
  The next four hours were a living hell for Bobby. After her first grid search, Madison went back through with Luminol, looking for evidence of blood spatters or residue. There wasn’t the slightest trace. The uniforms found only neatly folded underwear and socks, racks of freshly laundered shirts and a row of blazers and dress pants. The sheets on all the beds were clean and showed no signs of blood or semen. Vern’s search of the main floor came up empty as well. They congregated in the master bedroom, where Cedric White couldn’t hear their conversation.

  One of the officers read his notes. “Undisturbed wood chips in the attic, bathtub and shower very clean, toilet recently scrubbed, and what appears to be one day’s soiled clothes in the hamper.” He snapped the book shut. “Nothing, really.”

  Bobby looked at Madison, but she shook her head. “I’ve got nothing, detective.”

  “Fuck.” Bobby walked over to the window and stared out at the quiet street in front of the complex. “This isn’t good.”

  It was worse than that. Stacey Daniels had gone out on a limb for him when she pushed hard for the warrant. She had pulled a valuable CSI resource off her workload for almost a full day and he had treated White like a convicted criminal. This was not going to play out well for him.

  “Wrap it up.” He turned back from the window. “Thanks, guys.”

  Cedric White was waiting when he got to the bottom of the stairs. The look on his face said it all—vindication.

  “I’ll be speaking with your superior, Detective Greco.”

  “You do that.” He stood a few feet from White, figuring the damage was mostly done already. There was no sense backing off now—it was time to rachet up White’s blood pressure and hope he did something stupid.

  “I had a case once where every clue went up in smoke and there was no evidence the guy did it,” Bobby said. “Then, when everyone except me was looking in other directions, one tiny detail popped up. That was all I needed to put together a solid case. The DA took it to trial and won. That guy, he’s rotting in jail for life.” Bobby leaned in closer. “What I’m saying, Mr. White, is that I don’t give up.” He walked out and went straight to his car.

  What was he missing?

  It was all he could think about as he and Vern sat in the car a block away, watching White’s condo. After an hour and no action, they drove back to the station. Cedric White’s timeline was missing eighteen minutes the night Jocelyn Buchanan had been taken, and the guy had been in the area, only a short drive from where she’d been abducted. It was circumstantial at best, not the kind of detail that could drive an investigation ahead. The vehicle search hadn’t turned up any trace evidence, and the requisition of his bank records, credit card expenditures and travel schedule didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Either White wasn’t Jocelyn’s killer or he was one smart son of a bitch.

  Bobby was all for the latter. Still…

  All was quiet when he arrived at the station—nothing had hit the fan yet. It was coming, but there was no sense dwelling on it. He made his way through the maze of desks and ducked into his cubicle. Alyssa Vaughn’s file was sitting on his desk and he dropped into his chair and opened it, mulling over where to start. The company she had worked for in Manhattan stood out as the logical place to start and he Googled Logi-line. There were a few veiled references to the equities market, but no real indication what sort of services the company performed. He sat back and kicked it around for a minute.

  Bobby checked his phone and dialed Tom Martin, his financial advisor. If anyone would know what these guys did, it would be Tom. When he answered, Bobby opened with a bit of small talk, then asked, “Do you know of a company called Logi-line?”

  “No, but let me check online and see.” There was a minute of fingers on keys, then Tom said, “It looks like they’re high-frequency traders.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, the scum of the earth is a good start, but the more I tell you the worse you’ll think of them.”

  “Really.” Bobby sat forward. “Can we meet? I’d like to hear your take on them.”

  “Sure, in an hour at Luke’s Kitchen and Bar?

  “Done, and thanks.” Bobby hung up and took a quick look at Hanna Van Warner’s face on his screen. He stared at the woman’s eyes for a full minute. “You’re a cold one, aren’t you?” he said, then snapped his laptop shut and headed out to meet Tom.

  chapter five

  Bobby spotted his financial advisor tucked into a corner, nursing a beer and helping himself to a small bowl of pretzels. He nodded as Bobby pulled up a chair.

  “Thanks for coming,” Bobby said after ordering. “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. What’s going on?” Tom asked, sipping his beer.

  “There’s a person on my radar and I’m trying to get an idea who it is.”

  “And he’s a high frequency trader,” Tom said.

  “Used to be,” Bobby said, and added, “And it’s not a guy.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “A woman. Even more interesting.”

  “So what can you tell me about them?”

  “They’re bloodsucking leeches,” Tom said, taking on a little color. “I don’t even like thinking about it they piss me off so bad.” There was a book on the table next to the pretzels and he pushed it toward Bobby.

  “Flash Boys. What’s this?” Bobby asked.

  “Give it a quick read. You’ll get a feel for what kind of person is attracted to high frequency trading.”

  “Maybe, not sure I have time.” The bar was crowded and noisy for mid-afternoon and Bobby pulled his chair in closer. “Could you just fill me in while we’re here?”

  Tom finished his beer and waved to the server for a refill. “The HFT guys, that’s what they’re called, set up shop as close to the stock exchange as possible, then they use fiber optic cables to front run the market.”

  “What’s that mean?” Bobby asked, turning the book over and perusing the back cover, then setting it down. Tom’s explanation would be much faster.

  “They have software that shows them the buy orders coming in from the other traders, then they use speed to get to the exchange before them.”

  “Is that even legal?” Bobby asked.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Jesus, they know what’s coming before it happens?”

  “Yeah, exactly. If they beat the order by a millisecond or two, they can manipulate the price the other trader buys at and skim the difference. It might be a fraction of a cent, but it adds up really fast.”

  “How fast?” Bobby asked. “What sort of numbers are we talking here?”

  “Hundreds of millions of dollars a year. No, it’s more like billions.” Tom’s beer arrived and he took a long swallow, then pointed at the book. “There’s a story in there about a hedge fund manager who was losing about $300 million a year and he couldn’t figure out who was gaming him. Or how they were doing it. Finally these guys at Royal Bank put together what was going on. The HFT companies were stealing $300 million a year from him by front running the market.”

  “Holy shit,” Bobby said.

  “Yeah, holy shit. Think about it. This guy was sitting on billions of dollars in a hedge fund and he couldn’t figure it out. How the hell is your average investor supposed to know what’s going on?”

  Bobby was starting to get a better picture of Hanna Van Warner. He settled in, realizing he had hit a sore spot with Tom, whose rant was far from over.

  “They manipulate the market by bumping the value of stocks for nothing but personal gain.” Tom was leaning forward now and talking fast. “When they pump up a stock, it eventually comes back down. Anyone who bought when it was high loses money. They create nothing. All they do is take huge chunks of money out of the system.” He shook his head in disgust. “They’re scum, Bobby. Heartless scum. Just think of 2008.”

  Bobby felt his anger bubbling up to the surface. The markets had lost 20% overnight and the crash had put a massive dent in his and Janis
’s savings. A good chunk of it had come from his dad’s estate, money his father had worked all his life to save.

  “Oh, yeah,” Bobby said. “I remember that.”

  Tom tapped the book again. “You had $700,000 in your portfolio in 2008 when the crash hit. You lost $152,000. Why don’t you tell me how you feel?”

  Losing a huge chunk of cash to Wall Street had never sat well with him. Even less so now. “So these were the guys.”

  Tom leaned back in his chair, his rant over. “It wasn’t just the HFT guys, it was Wall Street in general, but they were partially responsible.” Tom sipped his beer, slower now, starting to relax. “You said this woman used to work at Logi-line.”

  “She did.”

  “I had a quick look at the company and they trade for some heavy hitters.”

  “Lots of money on the table?”

  “Staggering amounts.” He finished his beer and set the empty on a coaster. “You know, if you really want to get the skinny on her, talk to whoever her assistant was.”

  “Good idea.” Bobby nodded. It was time for a new topic. “By the way, how are my investments doing?”

  Tom smiled and held up a file that had been sitting on the table. “Really well. Glad you asked.”

  An hour later Bobby left the bar in a fine mood. Tom was doing a good job with his portfolio and his savings were back on track. The bubble burst when he got back to the station and saw Stacey Daniels coming down the hall. She didn’t look happy.

  “What the fuck, Greco?” She stood, feet apart, hands on her hips, staring at him. “I told you to keep it under control.”

  “I did.” Bobby thought about telling her she had said it was okay to shake White up, but figured this wasn’t the time. “We had the suspect sit in a chair in his living room while we searched the place. Standard procedure. I didn’t want him touching anything.”