The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  “From what I can gather,” Rob said, “as far as the escorts are concerned, it was ordinary sex for hire. They get a cut, and just as you said, around half of the money we were able to trace to the NCA charity.” He pointed to a chart on the computer. “It’s what Leanne found that’s interesting.”

  “Right,” Leanne said. “With the cooperation of our confidential source, who’s really a not-to-be-named senior banking vice president we taped shagging a couple of male escorts, we’ve been able to trace money going into a series of holding accounts that were then wired to a single Swiss account. Technically, the holding accounts are valid current accounts, but we’re certain they’re all owned by a dummy corporation called NR Holdings, LLC, registered in the U.S.”

  “In the States?” Foss asked.

  Leanne pulled out another printed file. “Yes, but it turns out NR Holdings is itself a shell company for another business registered in the Caymans.” She flipped a few pages. “Here. Buried in the corporate officers is the name Alexej Kováč, aka Kovac. It doesn’t give much information regarding him, other than to say he’s the majority shareholder.”

  “So there’s our link to Danni’s files,” Rob said.

  “Do we know who owns the Swiss account?” Foss asked.

  “No, but we do know who owns some of the UK accounts that have been feeding the NR Holdings coffers,” Leanne said.

  Foss asked, “Am I misunderstanding, or are those the escort ring’s money laundering accounts?”

  “No, you’re right,” Leanne said, her face in the beginnings of a smile. “Most of the deposits were cash transactions, but we’re finding an odd number of recurring charges as well.”

  “A hooker service that takes PayPal?” my partner asked.

  “Maybe,” Rob answered, “but if so, they must be clients with major sex addictions. Look here—from this one account, 10,000 pounds every two months, as steady as Big Ben.” Foss whistled. “There others even bigger, and a few one-time transfers in the high six-digit range. The more money people have in their bank accounts, the more they seemed to transfer to NR Holdings.”

  “What the hell?” Foss asked, looking at me. “They’re charging for sex using a percentage of the client’s wealth?”

  “Let me try,” I said. “I’d been quiet to that point, letting the others spin the details in their heads. It was time to go up a level. “You are all focused on the sex and money,” I said. “However, history has shown that money is only a tool used to acquire power. Likewise, sex is used as a display of power. If you look to a place where both sex and money are to be found …”

  “You find power,” Foss finished. He grinned at me and turned to the reporters. “Dark is right. This was never about money—even those six-figure transfers you’re talking about. Kovac is after something bigger.”

  “Correct,” I said. “If you interview the people who made those large transfers, I am certain you will find they are victims of extortion.”

  “What? You telling me this is all some sort of blackmail scheme?” Leanne asked.

  “Oui. It is less sordid a headline than Hookers Save the World, I grant you, but more accurate.”

  “So what are we talking about here?” Rob asked. “I need the who, the what, the when, the how.”

  “I believe that is your job,” I reminded him. “But let me give you an head start. Franchisees open an escort service in a new city, most of which are selected because they have an active financial center—London, Paris, Munich, New York, etc. Young, idealistic escorts are recruited from universities, nonprofit groups, civil action groups, you name it. They are told they can make money and at the same time help children in need.”

  “Yeah, we already know this part,” Rob said.

  Leanne shushed him.

  “Merci. Once set up, clients come in, they meet in discreet settings, meetings are catered by fine restaurants, everything is perfect. Except for one thing: all of the meetings are taped, all of the transactions recorded to the minutest detail. This continues until their clients include key members of the banking community.

  “Then, an anonymous figure, one Monsieur Kovac, contacts these bankers and lets them know they were recorded. Of course, in this day of scandal, many initially refuse to pay.” I looked at Foss to see if he was with me.

  “And that’s where the polonium comes in,” he said. I nodded. “Pay up or we kill you, your family, etc. etc. That’s pretty damned good incentive to set up a little lifetime annuity to NR Holdings.”

  “Oui, and Kovac selected key members of EU Parliaments and the American Congress, all of whom have one thing in common.”

  “Fucking hell,” Rob said. “They’re all members of various finance committees.”

  “Oui, ones who could apply pressure to the banking community, when needed, say, if certain international transfers were to be made without scrutiny.”

  Rob clapped in excitement, startling me. “We’ve got ourselves an old-fashioned bank fraud scheme, disguised to look like a prostitution ring.”

  “More than that, I fear,” Leanne said. “Some of these banking contacts are key figures in the bank’s information security programs.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Foss said, “This clown is trying to compromise the whole financial system.”

  The group of three was quiet for some time while they considered that. I brought the discussion back to the matter at hand. “Listen, we have a sex ring, insiders into the financial system, a pseudo terrorist group, and a cunning series of interlocking accounts that could not have been found without the inside information that Rosie provided.” They agreed. “So, what do you get when you put them together?”

  Rob and Leanne shrugged. Foss said, “I get a big, steaming pile of bullshit.”

  The reporters looked at him.

  I said, “I agree. Why?”

  “Because, it’s like you said, the whole point of this is to gain power. Why destroy the banking system if you can exploit it? There’s no power in that.”

  “Yeah, but why did Al Qaeda do what they did? Why did ISIS?” Rob asked.

  “I’ve met those guys. They’re in the terrorist business to gain power. The Taliban were trying to hold onto the power we helped them acquire after the war with Russia. Do you think any of them would attack their infrastructures if they were running their countries’ parliament?”

  “I guess not,” Rob said.

  “Then why this … what is it, Sixteen May group?” Leanne asked.

  “Seize Mai,” I said. “It’s as Foss said, once you have power, you keep power, oui?”

  “Yeah,” she replied.

  “So the best way to keep power is with a bogeyman. Kovac isn’t telling them a single man will kill their family. He tells them this famous Seize Mai terror group will poison everyone in the city and destroy the banking system.” Foss stood by me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Like he said, it’s all bullshit. This is nothing more than a theft ring, with bullies and scapegoats to keep the victims in line.”

  Rob was rubbing his hands over his head. “This sounds insane. Who in their right mind would think they could get away with something like this?”

  “Who said anything thing about Kovac’s being in his right mind?” Foss asked.

  “What one can get away with depends on who is protecting you and who is chasing you,” I said. “So far, the only ones chasing him have been us.”

  Foss looked at me, his eyes searching mine for clues. “Samuels and her damned rogue CIA group,” he said. “She wants this for herself.”

  “Why in the world would the CIA want a group threatening to compromise the banking community?” Leanne asked.

  “Not them,” I said. “She wants the victims, the ones who have been paying the money.”

  Rob was holding his head with both hands now. “I—I’m sorry, but perhaps I’m being a bit dense, but I still don’t understand this. Why would any spy agency want a corrupt English banker? What good could they do them?”


  Just then, precisely as planned, my surprise emerged from the other bedroom. “Not those idiots,” D.I. Arnold said. “Samuels just wants to ensure they don’t get caught and compromise the operation. What she really wants are all the local and national politicians who’ve been caught with their willies out.”

  No one said anything, as the reporters were standing with gaped mouths and Foss was giving me the angriest look imaginable. I introduced the Inspector to the reporters. “I asked D.I. Arnold to join us because there is information that even our noble members of the press haven’t discovered.

  Arnold placed a series of four photos on the table. Leanne recognized one of them. “That’s Sandra Delany-Chalmers, died of … what was it? Liver cancer, right?”

  “That’s what the doctors thought too,” before we heard from Dr. Dark, that is. Turns out, she died of polonium poisoning. The other three too.”

  “But, how did you know?” Rob asked.

  Foss waved his hand. “Voodoo.” I frowned at him.

  Rob looked from me to Foss. “You lot are going to have some amazing kids.”

  I blew Rob a kiss and showed Foss my tongue. “My voodoo was good detective work. I simply ran a list of the clients against obituaries from the last six months. I had four hits so far. I called in Inspector Arnold because he has access to resources we do not.”

  Foss whispered to me, loudly, “And why didn’t you tell your partner about this?”

  “Because,” answered the Inspector, “Dr. Dark and I agreed that I would hold her and only her accountable for all of your interference with police matters and tampering with evidence, if I agreed to keep my investigations confidential between us. In short, she was covering your arses.”

  “You can thank me later,” I said, frowning at him.

  He thanked me then, with a kiss. “Don’t do that again,” he said. “If you go down, I go down.”

  “Oui,” I said, nodding. I was lying.

  Rob practically hoovered the room with his inhalation. “So, can someone tell the dumb reporter with the handlebar mustache exactly where we stand?”

  Inspector Arnold raised his hand. “Four counts of murder, at least fifty counts of blackmail, and several counts of outright fraud and theft.” Rob raised his eyebrows. “It seems once this Kovac bloke poisoned the victims, he drained their accounts dry.”

  “Ah, so those were the large transactions I found,” said Leanne

  “Oui. The money was stolen over time in order to avoid inquiries.”

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me your theory about this case,” Foss said.

  I was confused by the statement. “I just explained the case to you. Weren’t you listening to me?”

  I suppose that answered his question, because he smiled at me and embraced me warmly, while everyone else laughed at my confusion. “Don’t ever change,” he said. It increased my puzzlement.

  When the room quieted, Leanne asked, “So what’s our next step? And more importantly, when do I get to file my report now that this is a matter of police record?”

  I said, “D.I. Arnold has agreed not to speak to the press until arrests are made. You will be notified when that happens so that you can file your report before the rest of the world finds out.”

  “You lot have done better work than half my squad,” he said. “You’re welcome to ride along on some of the arrests if you like.”

  That sent the two reporters off buzzing with excitement as they plotted their campaign, leaving Foss, the Inspector, and me. “Inspector,” Foss asked, “what’s the real likelihood you’ll be able to get your hands on Kovac?”

  The detective straightened his tie and stood to leave. “To be honest, not great. We have a pretty senior banker in custody who we’re fairly certain has been transferring account information to Kovac. We’re working on a plea agreement for the Magistrates Court that will take ten years off his sentence, provided he cooperates.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” Foss asked.

  “Apparently this Kovac bloke lives somewhere in Spain. Our guy doesn’t know where, but I’m guessing Madrid. In any case, he never sets foot in the UK.”

  “Well, you can arrange for extradition, can’t you?”

  “Not sure, mate. That’s way above my pay grade.” The Inspector shook our hands and departed.

  Foss sank onto our bed and lay back, looking at the ceiling. “So we were busy figuring out who was sending what money where, and all the while you were solving the case. I feel like an idiot.” He closed his eyes.

  I removed my blouse, shoes, socks, trousers, bra, culotte. “I only used the information you provided, chéri. Without your focusing the team on the details, we’d have no case, just my theories.”

  “Your theories are what set Arnold on the right track. You do good work.” He opened his eyes. “Wow.”

  “We do good work,” I said. “You and I are an amazing team.” I walked over to him and sat myself on him, looking him in the eye as I undid his belt. “And now, we are going to have amazing sex.”

  “Because that’s what partners do,” he said.

  “Oui.” I smiled at him and wiggled my moderate breasts at him.

  He laughed; it was a soft, pleasing sound. “What are you doing?”

  “Channeling your Rosie.” His expression changed and he began to stutter and explain. I placed a finger over his mouth. “Non, chéri. Energy is energy. It is, how do you say, all good?” I leaned over and kissed him, which he ravenously returned.

  “Jeannie, can I be lead partner on this case?”

  I tittered and rolled off him and onto my back. He eased his beautiful, hard body onto mine, a chocolate sauce to my flambé. “What’s our next step, Monsieur Foss?”

  He leaned in for another kiss. “I’ll let you know shortly. I’m working out a theory in my head.”

  I love Foss’s theories. They are so very creative.

  21 - A Shot in the Dark

  Foss and I had just left Rob’s office in central London and had settled into our hired car to travel back to the flat. It was late, nearing midnight, and we were all exhausted. By all accounts, Inspector Arnold’s team had acquired sufficient evidence that arrests were to begin the following week. We were working with Rob in filling out the last details of the timeline, as well as my providing him with my theories regarding the involvement of the Americans. Foss was in the driver’s seat, as usual, while I fretted with the mirror, trying to make something presentable of myself with the horrid blond hair. Rob wanted an on-camera interview, but I refused to do so with my buzzing hair distracting people from my words. Even more than closing the case, I was looking forward to the time when all of the sordid details were out in the open and I could go back to being the happy brunette. We had been hiding in London for six weeks and had been living out of suitcases for nearly three months. I was starting to feel as though the only time I’d truly been clean was the night of our first lovemaking. I could tell Foss felt similar frustration at our confinement, not to mention having to drive an econobox, as he called it, while Sylvie was mired in storage in the south end of the city. We both missed her so.

  Foss turned the ignition, backed out of the space, and I felt something cold and hard against the back of my neck.

  “Don’t turn. Don’t blink,” a woman’s voice said. “Just follow my instructions and everything will be fine.” The voice was being masked, as though by an electronic device. However, there was a familiar rhythm to the voice, one that reminded me of southern American music and pumpkin patches on an autumn night. Even through the electronics, I could detect her Midwestern twang. More telling was the cloying perfume whose smell was bright orange in my head.

  “Ms. Samuels,” I said. “I wondered if we’d see you again.”

  Foss shot me a glance and edged his left hand near my bag.

  “Tell your boyfriend if he moves that hand one more inch, I’ll blow the back of your head off.”

  “Telling him would be redunda
nt, since he can hear you.” The orange bitch was infuriatingly stupid.

  “So he can,” she said, her voice now human. I caught a glimpse of her in the side-view mirror. She was removing a black mask that fully covered her head but allowed her to see. “I should have known that nose of yours would be able to sniff me out.”

  “Perhaps an unscented antiperspirant would do,” I suggested. “I know heavier women like yourself sometimes sweat more. It would be better for you without perfume.”

  Foss sighed and shook his head. “Where to, Monica?”

  “Just follow the GPS unit’s instructions. I took the liberty of programming it while I waited.”

  We did as she told, given we were certain she’d tried to have us killed at least twice. The route was a circuitous path through the crowded city center that would have been more useful for a tour bus than for reaching a destination. She never removed the weapon from my head, but spent the first part of the trip turning and peering out of the rear window. Once satisfied that we weren’t being followed, she pushed a button on the GPS unit, and it sent us along the Thames to some abandoned warehouses that bordered disused loading docks. It couldn’t have been more of a cliché if the flame-haired idiot was wearing a trench coat. The light from the docks and the surrounding environs made visibility difficult, especially as misting rain had begun to fall. Foss was squinting, and I knew it was less to see where we were going than to see who might be waiting at the docks. He was assessing force measures, trying to determine whether an attempt to subdue Samuels would be worth the risk.

  “Destination,” the GPS said.

  “Out here,” Samuels commanded. Foss reached to open his door. “Uh-uh, slowly. Open your windows, both of you.”