Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  “Way-ul, y’all remember 2008 when the bottom dropped out of housing prices?” Everyone nodded. “Some derivatives are based on mortgage-backed securities. If the value drops, you can lose a whole lot of money. You see, they can ‘own’ these securities by only puttin’ in 10 or 15 percent of the cash value. But if the value of the security drops instead of goin’ up, they have to keep puttin’ more money in to cover the difference. The first time property values dropped like that was the Great Depression. Trouble with this kind of financial instrument is that no one really knows what they’re worth so valuations can be wild.”

  “That’s gobbledygook to me,” said Krystal.

  “But that’s the way it is, darlin’” smiled Ruth. “Remember, in 2008 the whole economy dropped into a recession because the banks overreached in mortgage backed securities.”

  “How does this relate to Pushkin’s files?” asked Strachey, impatient for her to get to the point.

  “I’m still studyin’ it,” said Ruth. “These files are dense, but I can tell you this, the bank was losin’ ground to margin calls in futures trades when the price of oil fell. And it looks like there was a bunch of other bad investments, as well. But there were others that showed a profit. It sort of evens out.”

  “I don’t see how that could be a motive for murder,” grumbled Strachey.

  Ruth favored them with an arch smile, having saved the best for last. “It could be, if they were hidin’ gains as losses,” she said. “But the real kicker is that there’s another set of records with almost the same data with one exception. And you know what they’re doin’? They’re hidin’ the gains, at least some of them, in dribs and drabs.”

  Everyone stared at her for a moment. Finally, Strachey spoke up. “You mean to say that Pushkin somehow managed to get his hands on two different sets of books for the same accounts?”

  Ruth nodded. “Somehow, the trader, presumably Mr. Yang, had to keep track of what was really happening. If he didn’t, things could easily fly out of control. And they don’t use paper ledgers anymore. He must have hidden the file somewhere in the database he thought was safe and protected it with a password. That Russian fella must have been pretty smart to have sussed it all out the way he did.”

  “You said there was only one difference between the records?” asked Strachey.

  Ruth nodded. “Way-ul, not exactly. You see, your dead Russian discovered that wherever there was a profit, the amounts are slightly lower on one ledger than the other. He added all the discrepancies which go back several years and found the exact same amounts as the discrepancies were regularly deposited into the account of a bank customer called Emerald Trading Partners. The account is in the Cayman Islands. Now, this company, Emerald Trading Partners, appears in both data sets, but in one they invest small amounts with the bank, and in the other they receive much larger cash transfers.”

  Krystal’s heart was beating a little faster now. “Well,” she breathed, “that sounds like a motive for murder to me. They’re skimming money that belongs to the bank into their own account.” She discovered a newfound respect for Ruth.

  “I agree,” said Strachey with an enthusiasm that betrayed his own excitement. “Well done, Ruth, very well done. How much money are we talking about?”

  Ruth beamed at them and took another sip of tea. “Way-ul, accordin’ to the records this has been goin’ on for some time, like I said. The total deposits add up to over a hundred million dollars, almost a piddlin’ amount for the bank, but high on the hog for individuals.”

  Strachey whistled. “The question is,” he said, turning to Krystal, “do we take this information to the police or do we continue investigating on our own?”

  He was looking directly at Krystal, and she knew why. “The police are heavily invested in Padruig Nessmith, and the feebies think it was some sort of Russian assassination and want the cops to hold onto Padruig for cover. I can’t see any of them buying into a new theory until we have a lot more information.”

  “There’s something else,” said Amy. “We need to find out who owns Emerald Trading Partners. For my money, no pun intended, that information is crucial.”

  “Dollars to donuts,” said Krystal, “the account belongs to Raymond Yang.”

  Amy agreed. “That seems the most likely, but it’s still just speculation. Obviously, Yang is in the scam up to his neck, but he may not be alone or even the chief culprit. But it’s tricky trying to peek into bank files in the Cayman Islands, maybe impossible. I could have done it, maybe, back at the Agency with the right tools from NSA, but here?”

  Strachey considered this and said. “OK, then, the next step is to mount a surveillance against Yang.”

  *****

  Krystal volunteered for the first shift of the surveillance of Raymond Yang, which began early the next morning. It gave her an excuse to go to bed early and avoid drinking because she had to be fresh.

  She rented a nondescript mid-sized car at an agency on South Boulevard and was parked down the street from Yang’s house at seven A.M. Thursday, after stopping at a MacDonald’s for a breakfast sandwich and a surprisingly good cup of coffee. She’d have to watch the coffee intake because peeing behind bushes was frowned upon in Charlotte, but she was incapable of starting the day without it.

  The house was a McMansion that filled most of a quarter-acre lot. In this neighborhood Krystal estimated the house would have cost well over a half-million dollars. The driveways were occupied by a variety of BMW’s, Mercedes, and Audis, with the occasional top of the line American make.

  The day promised more Summer heat, and Krystal hoped her target would begin moving soon. She didn’t want to leave the engine running, but in a few hours air conditioning would be de rigeur.

  She regretfully placed the empty paper cup in the McDonalds bag with the detritus of her breakfast and reclined the seat back until she was looking through the steering wheel. Surveillance operations involve a lot of waiting interspersed with short bursts of activity. She expected to see nothing unusual. Yang would most likely drive to the bank where he would remain most of the day. It would be more interesting to see what he did after work and on weekends. Of course, there was no guarantee the surveillance would reveal anything, at all.

  At 7:30 Yang’s garage door opened, and a moment later a late model Mercedes E-Class sedan backed into the street and pulled away. Wishing she had more coffee, she raised her seat back to the driving position and followed at a discreet distance. As expected, Yang drove directly to the bank, and his car disappeared into the attached multi-level parking garage. The only new information Krystal gleaned was that Yang was an appallingly poor driver.

  She parked across the street from the bank and sat there pondering her next move. She didn’t intend to sit there all day as it was unlikely Wang would leave before the bank’s closing time. What she was considering was whether she could get into the parking garage and examine the Mercedes.

  She watched the entrance for a while. There was no guard. Entry was controlled by a barrier that lifted when a card was inserted into a card reader. After half an hour, she had seen many employees enter the garage. She assumed there was an interior entrance to the bank.

  By 9:30 the flow of employees had petered out, and she decided to see if she could find Yang’s car. Strachey would probably think it was too early to take chances, but she was bored. She crossed the street and walked up the ramp where she paused at the entrance, watching and listening for signs that someone was inside. Hearing nothing, she proceeded into the dark interior, stopping just inside past the barrier.

  The garage consisted of three decks, each with a door on the interior wall that presumably led to a staircase. Given the security screening she’d passed through when she met Pushkin’s boss, she could assume there was a security post or card reader behind each door. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt and had taken the precaution of donning dark glasses and stuffing her hair under a baseball cap. She was right to have done
so because she spotted cctv cameras mounted high up on the walls. From what she had seen, the bank’s security was tight, so she turned on her heel and walked slowly back down the ramp and across the street wondering if there was an exterior camera following her. It was much too early in the game to risk unwelcome questions from bank security. There would be other opportunities. She got in the car and drove away.

  CHAPTER 25

  After two days, surveillance had uncovered nothing suspicious about Yang. It was Friday just after noon, and Krystal was in the office. One of her newly hired contract men would cover the bank at closing time. They hoped Friday evening would bring Yang out, but they weren’t hopeful that it would reveal anything.

  Her desk phone rang. The line was routed through the front desk, so Ruth answered whenever there was a call. “It’s Sergeant Wolf from the police,” she announced in Krystal’s ear. “Should I put him through?”

  Krystal said, “Sure. I’ll talk to him.”

  Given the tone of their last meeting with Captain Curry she was both surprised and intrigued that his Chief of Staff wanted to talk to her.

  The phone clicked as Ruth transferred the call. “Sergeant Wolf,” said Krystal in what she hoped was a welcoming tone, “what can I do for you?”

  The Sergeant’s voice had a backwoods twang that reminded her of Frank Watson back in Arlington. She couldn’t recall his having spoken at all during their first meeting with Curry, but she remembered piercing blue eyes that bespoke a sharp intelligence. “I need to have a conversation with you,” he said, “but not over the phone. Is there someplace we can meet?”

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Hey, it’s your town, Sergeant, you say where and when.”

  Wolf’s response was not immediate, and she could picture him thinking. Finally, he said, “Scene of the crime. Six o’clock. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  As soon as she hung up, she dashed to Strachey’s office. “You’ll never guess who just called,” she breathlessly announced.

  She told him about Wolf’s call which elicited a low whistle from him. “Maybe he has a message from Curry. More threats to get us off the case.”

  “That’s logical,” she said, “but why act so secretive about it, and why call me instead of you. If Curry was involved, they could always call us back to their office, not set up a semi-clandestine meeting. I think it’s something else.”

  “Well, we’ll find out this evening. In the meantime, I think it’s prudent to pause the surveillance on Wang.”

  “You think he’s noticed and called the cops?”

  “I doubt he could have spotted us, but you never know. Let’s find out what the cops want and then decide how to proceed.”

  *****

  Krystal arrived early at the rendezvous. The park was far from empty as the longer days of summer kept people there later into the evening. She pulled into an empty space in the parking lot and settled down to wait. She’d rushed home after informing Strachey and changed into jeans, her Arlington County Police T-shirt, and sneakers. More out of habit than anticipation of trouble, her Smith & Wesson .380 was tucked inside her jeans in a soft inside-the-belt holster.

  At precisely six o’clock a late model black Jeep Wrangler with oversized knobby tires drew up in the space beside her. Its sides were liberally spattered with mud. From behind the wheel, Sergeant Archie Wolf stared at her for a second before getting out and walking to the side of her VW. She opened the passenger side window and he leaned in. “Let’s get out and walk,” he said in his twangy voice. He was not in uniform either and was now clad in similar style to Krystal: jeans, a white polo shirt worn outside his pants, and black half-boots. The short sleeves revealed stringy, muscular arms. In the sunlight his narrow face and sharp features reminded her more of a ferret than a wolf.

  She stood out of her car and scanned the lot, which elicited a reaction from Wolf. “I’m here alone,” he said in a pleasant baritone voice. “And,” he added with a smirk, “I’m a police officer. You’re perfectly safe.”

  Only slightly embarrassed, she walked around the car. Wolf held out his hand, and she took it. His handshake was firm and dry. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “You said you had something to tell me,” she said. She leaned back against her car and folded her arms, waiting for him to speak.

  “I said we needed to have a conversation.” His ice blue eyes didn’t leave her face which at a subliminal level pleased her because most men’s eyes inevitably strayed down to her chest as though drawn there by some primeval force.

  “OK, so let’s talk. What’s this about?”

  “Let’s walk,” he said, waving vaguely in the direction of the park.

  She pushed off the car and followed him in silence, her curiosity building, until they were on the footpath which led around the pond where the murders took place. He said, “I don’t like what’s happening with Padruig Nessmith, and I’m certain you know as well as I that he had nothing to do with the murders.”

  She hadn’t expected this and wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Does your boss agree?” she asked.

  Wolf shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Curry has some political irons in the fire. He likes the publicity, but I’m not sure he sees your client as a killer. The Feds have him boxed in, though, and even if he wanted, which he doesn’t, there’s nothing he can do.”

  “Does Curry know you’re talking to me?”

  Wolf barked a sharp laugh, like an axe splitting wood. “Hell no,” he said. “He’ll skin me if he finds out. I’d be back walking a beat with fewer stripes on my sleeve.”

  Krystal wasn’t sure she believed him, but she wanted to. He was beginning to sound like an earlier version of herself in the Arlington County Police. “So,” she asked, “why are you here?”

  “I’d like to know where you and your boss are in the investigation.”

  Aha! “First, he’s my partner, not my boss,” she began, “And second, why should I trust you with any information. You’re likely just to take it straight to Curry, who is your boss.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched upward as he stopped walking and turned to face her. She returned his stare.

  “I can see how you would think that,” he said, “but it’s the last thing I’d do, for the time being anyhow. How about this: let’s start over again, cop to cop. Let me tell you what I think and see where we go from there.”

  His denial was beginning to ring true, and the reason he had called her rather than Strachey was that she had been a cop. “Sounds OK to me. Shoot.” She liked the ‘cop to cop’ part.

  They turned and resumed walking. “We both have trouble believing that Padruig Nessmith is the killer,” he started.

  “What about the traffic cam footage?” she asked.

  “At best, it’s circumstantial, and he has an excuse for driving to Asheville. That’s why the judge let him out on bail.”

  She nodded her agreement. “Pretty thin stuff when you think about it.

  “Yes, but it was enough to wind Curry up, and then the Feds insisted he stick to Nessmith as the prime suspect and make it public. They think it will give them cover to catch a Russkiy hit team they believe was after Davis.” He snorted in derision. “Russkiy hit team. Craziest thing I ever heard. Damn Feds are nuts!”

  She couldn’t help but agree, given her experience and her general attitude toward the Federal Government and its minions. Nevertheless, she had to admit that the “Feds” had pulled her bacon out of the fire a few times. And this made her think of Strachey. How would Bob handle this situation?

  “And?” she asked. “Where does that leave you?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.” Those sharp eyes raked across her face again, caught her eyes and held them. “I have a feeling you guys have made more progress. Anything the police might do is stymied by those gummint boys’ orders to stand pat on Nessmith.”

  “You’re confirming that the Feds are willing t
o sacrifice Padruig while they run around in circles?”

  Wolf grimaced and nodded. “And while we’re stuck in a holding pattern the case gets colder by the minute.”

  “Why doesn’t Curry tell the Feds to piss off?”

  He grimaced. “In many ways Curry is a good guy. Normally, he’d be full steam ahead. But he tends to defer to the kind of authority the CIA and FBI wield. And there’s local political pressure, as well. Nobody seems to like Padruig Nessmith. The mayor is a member of Jaidon Nessmith’s country club.”

  Despite his words, Krystal wondered if Curry, frustrated by the hold the Feds had put on his investigation, had sent Wolf to see her. There was no way she could be sure, but she could guess what was coming next.

  “So,” said Wolf, “is there anything you can tell me about what you’ve found out? Is there something we’re missing that would break the logjam?”

  She wasn’t about to tell him anything about Yang and the bank documents. In any event, she needed to consult with Strachey and the team on this development. “We’re still pursuing our own line of inquiry,” she said carefully.

  Wolf interrupted her. “So, you’ve identified a third suspect besides Nessmith and the Russkies?”

  Wolf was quick. He was a good cop, and this made her want to trust him, but she couldn’t, not yet.

  “I didn’t say that,” she said. “There’s really nothing more I can say right now.”

  Disappointment flooded his face. “I understand,” he said. “I probably wouldn’t trust me either if I were in your shoes. Still, I want to stay in touch. I might be able to help you, or vice versa. Talk it over with your boss, er ‘partner,’ and let’s meet again. I contacted you because you used to be a cop. I want to solve this case, and I hope I didn’t make a mistake coming to you. Here.” He held out a business card. “I wrote my cell number on the back. Call me any time of night or day.”

  They walked back to the parking lot where Wolf paused before getting into his car. “One thing,” he said, “Not even the Feds believe it was Nessmith. If the killer was really after Davis, Russian or not, then Nessmith’s alleged motive doesn’t work. And if the killer wasn’t Russian, then we and the feds are looking in the wrong place. But maybe you’ve already come to that conclusion.”