by Jeff Siebold
Zeke stepped in close and quickly planted his left foot between Roy’s feet. He moved, hooking Roy’s ankle with his free foot and pushing, driving the man to the floor, following him down. He felt the wind expelled from Roy’s lungs in a burst as he hit the ground with Zeke on top of him.
Ouchi Gari, thought Zeke. The Great Inner Reap. “You lose, Roy,” said Zeke as he punched the thin man twice in the solar plexus.
Zeke stood and easily took the pool cue from Roy. He looked around the room at the seated men. No one moved. Kimmy was on the other side of the pool table, her Jerico 941 casually in hand, but pointed at the floor.
Zeke nodded to himself, and stepped over Roy Calhoun, toward the hallway. Kimmy followed, watching the room as they left. Past the restrooms, the hallway ran the length of the building, and ended at a solid exterior door. The door was closed and barred shut. Probably doesn’t meet fire code, thought Zeke.
Between the restrooms and the back door, on the left side of the hallway, Zeke found a closed door that apparently led to the area behind the bar. He knocked on the door and waited a moment, a bit off to the side and out of the path of bullets, should they fly through the door.
“Hear anything?” asked Kimmy.
“No,” said Zeke. “But we know Hanson’s in there. Otherwise Calhoun and company wouldn’t have tried to stop us.”
Zeke knocked again, and the door swung open about halfway. Louie Brennan stood in the doorway, looking down at them.
“He takes up the entire doorway,” said Kimmy. Then, “Did I say that out loud?”
Zeke looked Louie in the eye and said, “We’re here to see Freddy Hanson.”
Louie hesitated a moment, and a voice from inside the room said, “It’s OK, Louie, let ‘em in.”
Louie hesitated a beat longer, then stepped back and stood against the wall while Zeke and Kimmy entered the small room. It was an office with paneled walls and two four-drawer file cabinets. The desk was an old, metal thing that looked like it came from Army surplus, and the floor was covered in vinyl tile. There were no windows in the room.
“You looking for me?” asked Freddy Hanson.
“We are,” said Zeke.
“Who are you?” he asked, disinterested.
“I’m Zeke Traynor.”
Hanson stopped and looked at Zeke with a surprised expression.
Freddy Hanson was young and pudgy. He had a meaty neck that lapped over the collar of his dress shirt, and his hands and fingers looked like plump sausages. His face was fleshy and his nose and jowls were pronounced. His only hair was on his eyebrows. Sitting behind the desk, he looked like a fat Pillsbury doughboy. Or an obese version of the Michelin Man.
“Well, what can I do for you?” Hanson asked Zeke, regaining his composure. His inflection was sarcastic while his voice was high and whiney. He sounded like a twelve-year-old Valley Girl.
“I’m here because someone tried to kill me. And you’re culpable,” said Zeke.
“Good word,” said Kimmy, smiling.
“I didn’t try to kill you,” said Hanson.
“He’s obviously a millennial,” said Zeke, mostly to Kimmy.
“How do you know?” she said.
“He thinks he’s entitled. Not responsible. And apparently self-indulgent.”
“Hey,” said Hanson. “What’re you talking about? I’m right here.”
“Yeah, I see that,” said Kimmy with a smile.
Hanson looked at Louie Brennan and said, “Just get ‘em out of here.”
Louie looked at Zeke, obviously remembering their confrontation in Cambridge.
Then Louie wrapped his arm around his big body, reaching for his gun.
“I wouldn’t,” said Kimmy, leveling the Jerico at the big man. “Just sit still.”
Louie looked at Hanson and shook his head slightly.
“So, OK, someone tries to kill you, and you think it’s me?” said Hanson. “That’s a stretch. People die everyday in Boston. But I’m not responsible for them.”
“You’re responsible, or you know who is,” said Zeke. “That’s the way things work.”
* * *
There was an urgent knock on the door.
Hanson said, “Yeah?”
The door opened and Roy Calhoun stepped inside. “You OK, boss?” he asked, eyeing Zeke.
“Yeah, fine,” said Hanson. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair near the door, and Calhoun sat. He was wheezing hard, still trying to catch his breath.
Hanson looked at Kimmy and then at Zeke again. “So…what?”
“You can start by calling off whoever’s trying to kill me,” said Zeke.
Hanson spread his fat hands and adopted an expression of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, shaking his head.
“There was an attempt on my life yesterday,” said Zeke again. “In Cambridge. And I can’t imagine that anything like that goes on in this town without your permission.”
Hanson thought for a minute. “My guys had nothing to do with it,” he said, and looked away.
“Right, this was a pro,” said Zeke. “Nothing like these amateurs,” he said, looking at Roy and Louie.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hanson with a grin. He rubbed his neck.
“Thing is, I don’t think it was you,” said Zeke. “I think someone ordered the hit with your permission. You’re a businessman, right, Freddy? That’s what Chief O’Malley told me. He said you’re a business man, now.”
Hanson was silent. Then he said, “Does O’Malley know you’re here?”
Zeke nodded.
He could see Hanson weighing the options, his eyes intense.
“You received a call from someone. He asked you for permission to kill me on your turf. They tried yesterday,” said Zeke in small sentences. “This was too big for you to handle, Freddy,” said Zeke.
Hanson riled again and stood up. “You have no idea who I am,” said the fat man. “I’m in control here. People come to me when they want something done. I say ‘Yes’ or ’No,’ you know. Nobody but me.”
“Uh-huh,” said Zeke, skeptically.
“Even big drug lords respect me. Even the MS-13’s respect me. They stay out of my way.” Hanson was almost screaming, now, demanding respect and recognition.
“Sure,” said Zeke.
“When the guys from out west come to Boston, I’m the first one they talk to,” he continued. “Doesn’t matter what they want, they show me respect,” he continued.
“We’re wasting our time here,” said Zeke to Kimmy. “Let’s go.”
Roy looked at Hanson, who screamed at Zeke, “Good riddance, and don’t come back! If you come back, I’ll kill you!”
* * *
“That was interesting,” said Kimmy when they’d exited the building and were driving away in their rental car. He can’t help but talk about himself.”
Zeke nodded. “He was lying about not knowing,” he said.
“What did you see?” asked Kimmy.
“Couple of things,” Zeke said. “Did you notice how willing he was to change the subject? He never answered my question about giving permission, and when I gave him an out, mentioned Chief O’Malley, he took that and ran with it. Trying to distract us from the issue.”
“Hmm,” Kimmy said. “Anything else?”
“Just a couple of common things. Liars often touch their face or neck when they’re lying. Hanson did.”
“Right, I remember,” said Kimmy.
“And he looked away when he said he had nothing to do with the attempt on my life.”
“He did,” said Kimmy.
“Add it up and you’ve spotted a liar. But that was really to be expected,” said Zeke. “Hanson had no reason to share anything with us.”
Kimmy nodded, bouncing in her seat happily as they drove back toward Cambridge. It looked to Zeke like she had a song playing in her head while they talked.
“I don’t think Hanson’s the guy in charge,�
�� said Zeke. “Even if he inherited the business.”
Kimmy nodded again, in time to her silent music.
“He clearly knew about the attempt to kill me,” Zeke continued. “He was surprised to see me alive.”
Kimmy thought about it.
“And think about the minds behind the student loan scam. That’s someone with a long reach, and a lot of power. You’d need to keep a lot of people in line and scared to death to make that work,” he said.
Kimmy was still nodding.
“So who has that kind of power?” he continued.
“Mob bosses?” she asked.
“Could be. Who else?”
“Politicians? Congressmen?” she asked.
“Perhaps. And more probably the Senators, right?”
“Sure.”
“And money men. Hedge fund guys and mortgage bankers, like that.”
“So how do we narrow it down?” Kimmy asked.
“It’s time to follow the money,” said Zeke.
* * *
Sarah Helms took a chair near the window in Clive Greene’s office, sitting quickly and setting her briefcase on the adjoining end table. She straightened herself and sat erect, waiting.
“Sarah, we need your help with some of this,” said Clive. “Need to shortcut the investigative process some.”
“Sure,” said Sarah. “I’ll help if I can.”
Kimmy sat next to Clive, and Zeke was standing, across the room from the window.
“It’s the money,” Zeke said. “We’ve talked with people involved in the scam. Students, Administrators, kids who are soliciting other kids to fill out fake applications…almost everyone in the food chain.”
Sarah nodded slowly.
“But there’s too much money involved. The people at the top have to be connected, powerful and, well, bulletproof,” he continued.
“We sort of thought the mob was running it,” said Sarah.
Zeke was shaking his head. “I think it’s beyond the mob’s comfort level,” he said. “This is being coordinated by some people who understand the law, the way the program was set up, the way the money moves, and they are essentially untouchable. It’s an organized operation, and there are a lot of people involved.”
“Like Washington insiders?” asked Sarah Helms.
“Or Manhattan. Or Chicago, or even L.A. But definitely financial and political guys with a lot of clout. And a lot of knowledge about how both money and government work.”
“And how they work together,” said Clive Greene. “Pretty extensive, specialized knowledge, I’d say.”
“To find the soft spots in the system and exploit them, I’d agree,” said Zeke.
Sarah was wearing a casual green sweater over brown corduroy pants and brown closed toed shoes. She had a minimum amount of makeup on today. It was Saturday.
She thought for a moment and then said, “If it’s Washington, we can find out who it is.” She paused. “Or at least isolate the possibilities.”
She spoke in the same short, terse sentences as when they had met in Assistant Deputy Director Stiles offices.
“What would you need from us?” asked Zeke.
“Is there anyone you can push from the other end?” she asked.
“We followed the trail to two academics,” said Zeke. “One is already in custody for the Student Loan violations. He gave us the other one’s name, and we spoke with him. He’s supposedly the one with the connections.”
“You think he may be a starting point?” asked Sarah.
“I do,” said Zeke. “We’ll give him another push and see what happens.”
“OK, I’ll work from the other end. Look for the leadership,” said Sarah.
“We’ll get it set up. Should have something more for you in a couple of days. Let’s stay in touch,” said Clive Greene.
* * *
“I’m glad you’re here, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, as if either of them had had a choice in the matter.
Stuart Williams III sat at the end of the small mahogany table in his Wall Street office, chatting with his two companions. His father had been a banker, and his father’s father had founded the First Bank and Trust of New Jersey, over a hundred years ago. That bank had evolved from a small lending institution in the late eighteen hundreds to become a megabank after World War I, based primarily upon first railroad lending, and later war industry lending. The conservative bank prospered during the great depression and World War II. And then, during the bank failures of the early 1990s, First Bank and Trust had worked closely with the Resolution Trust Corporation to gobble up a number of weaker, failing institutions and expand its scope nationally.
After the latest recession, the hungry bank had allied itself with the FDIC and expanded even further, nationally and internationally, taking over failing banks during the crisis. Presently, Stuart Williams III’s family bank influenced elections and dictated policy to governments.
The men sitting with Stuart Williams III were seasoned veterans of the finance world, and neither would show any weakness. In their world, as in the jungle, weakness meant death.
“No worries, Stuart,” said the closest man. “I trust there’s no problem with our arrangement.” He was a tall, white haired man with skin like parchment paper. He looked to be eighty years old, but he could have been older. Baron Holmes knew where all of the bodies were buried. Some, he had buried himself.
He reached and poured a glass of scotch from the decanter on the table. Stuart watched to see whether Holmes’ hand shook as he poured. It did not.
Holmes looked at the third man. “Milo, will you indulge? And you, Stuart?”
Milo Christianson was of a lineage that traced itself back to the Mayflower, and before that to the royalty of Britain. His relatives were known to have been Dukes and Earls, a fact that his wife, a Christianson by marriage, talked about endlessly. He said to Holmes, simply, “Of course.”
Stuart Williams nodded absently.
As he poured the drinks, Baron Holmes said, “So, Stuart, what has brought us together this time?”
The other two men held prominent positions in Wall Street firms and were no strangers to wealth. Old fashioned wealth.
“Well, Baron,” Stuart began, “it’s this Student Loan thing.” He paused, not quite certain where to start, or so it appeared.
“Yes?” asked Holmes.
“It may be in jeopardy,” continued Williams.
Both men stopped fiddling with their drinks and gave Williams their full attention.
Williams said nothing for a moment, and then Baron Holmes said, “How so, Stuart?”
Milo Christianson watched Williams carefully. His gaze never wavered as he set his glass of scotch on the table.
“It appears that someone, and by that I mean some organization, government or otherwise, is investigating the high number of student loans in default,” he continued.
“They’ve done that before,” said Holmes.
“Yes, but my sources say that we should be worried. They’re apparently looking for some correlation between defaults, lax admission standards, students withdrawing from the schools, and other such factors.”
“That hits close to home,” said Holmes. “Who’s this, ‘looking for a correlation’?”
“It seems to be coming from the ED,” said Williams. “Highest levels.” Both men recognized the abbreviation for the Department of Education.
“Do our contacts within the department know about this?” asked Holmes. Milo Christianson was silent, listening attentively.
“They say it came from the Director’s office,” said Williams, simply. “From the top.”
“He’s a politician,” said Holmes. “He can’t afford to take it too far. He’ll make too many enemies.”
“Just so,” said Williams. “But the reports I’ve received are disturbing, nonetheless.”
“What’s the extent of the damage?” asked Milo Christianson.
“We’re not sure, Milo,” said
Williams. “But I suggest we take it seriously until we hear differently.”
“Yes, of course,” said Christianson, looking away.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Holmes, quietly, sitting very still.
“Well, that’s the thing. I’m not sure. The attempt to, ah, neutralize the auditors on our behalf failed,” said Williams. “We can’t let this get out of control.”
“Will they try again?” asked Baron Holmes.
“We want them to. We’ve communicated that to our Boston contact, Hanson,” said Williams. “Through Worthington, of course. And Hanson said he shared it with his friend, Benito Diaz.”
“Can any of this lead back to us?” asked Christianson.
“Not directly, no,” said Williams. “There are layers. But the fact that someone’s looking into the situation is disconcerting. There are too many people involved. I wouldn’t doubt that someone would cooperate with the authorities in lieu of a prison term.”
The three men sat silently for a moment. Then Holmes said, “Yes. Well, what do you propose we do?”
Chapter 17
“I’ll heading out to Phoenix; we’ve got to wrap up this Ramirez thing,” said Zeke. “It’s a big loose end.” He was talking with Clive Greene in Clive’s offices in D.C.
“Now that you’ve pointed it out, it seems like Ramirez may have been involved from the start. Mostly blocking the ICE progress into some of the key investigations,” said Clive.
“Yep. And mostly by omission, by not doing anything when he could be taking action. Kind of a passive-aggressive approach to law enforcement,” said Zeke.
“So you think he’s helping out his old friend, Benito Diaz,” said Clive. “Wouldn’t have seen that without digging deep into his past.”
“And even with the connection, it’s still all circumstantial,” said Zeke. “I want to prove it.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Clive.
“We need to set a trap and monitor Ramirez’s reaction and response,” said Zeke.
“We’re not law enforcement,” said Clive. “We don’t really have jurisdiction here.”
“I know. We’ll need to be very careful,” said Zeke. “Let’s talk with Clark Hall and get his support.”
