by Mel Odom
“What we’d expected. Stolen auto parts, hospital supplies, cigarettes, electronic hardware.”
“The usual crap any bust of this type will bring in.”
“Yeah.”
“But no red market organs?”
“No.”
“So you and Omega Blue have made another bust that appears to be unrelated to your investigation into Sebastian DiVarco’s jackal network.”
“The key word here is appears.”
“You and I can keep that in mind,” Vache said, “but the local law-enforcement people don’t have to see it that way. From their viewpoint, you’re trespassing into their jurisdiction, something the FBI isn’t supposed to do unless they’re invited.”
The light changed to green and Wilson rolled forward, checking his rearview mirrors to make sure the other two vans were with him. DiVarco had to have people out moving on the streets now. The team’s mobility at the moment was both an asset and a handicap because they had no real safe house to retreat to. “How are the warrants coming for Staghorn Publishing?”
The publishing house was also owned by DiVarco business interests. Producing pornographic video, books, and magazines, it was another millions plus a year operation.
“It’s not coming,” Vache said. “Shoemake’s dragging his feet.”
“Why?”
“I can’t figure whether it’s because I keep calling him up every couple of hours with something new, or because he knows how flimsy your reasons for the investigation are. And we both know you’re reaching on this one. Also, I’ve been told that Congressman Cashion has been in touch with the judge.”
“Somebody traced the warrants.”
“Probably your friend the police commissioner.”
“That puts him in bed with Cashion, who we think we can tie to DiVarco. But what’s the link between Isaacs and Cashion?”
“DiVarco would have been the logical choice.”
Wilson scratched his chin as he considered. “Yeah, but DiVarco’s out.”
“Only because Triumbari put him there.”
“I believe Triumbari.”
“Could be the old man doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.”
“There’s still the Korean angle,” Wilson said. “I haven’t quite figured out where that fits in. The Mafia is pretty prejudiced when it comes to people they’re willing to do business with, and DiVarco doesn’t seem the type to go against the grain of his raising.”
“Yet he’s busting caps on people that have links to his own family.”
“That scans, though. That’s part of the heritage. You have to wonder what he has to offer the Koreans, and why he’s so sure they won’t try to take it away from him when the dust settles on this thing.” Newkirk’s voice trickled into Wilson’s mind, telling him to trace the money, reminding him that cash flowed like a river and could be tracked back to all its points of origin. “Back to Staghorn Publishing.”
“I’m pushing. If I get anywhere, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Remind Shoemake about the snuff films rolling out to the people on Staghorn’s preferred customers list.”
“You don’t have anything solid to tie the jackal network to Staghorn.”
“I’ve got DiVarco.”
“Maybe. Maybe, you’ve got DiVarco. Let’s not kid ourselves here.”
“Remember the homeless slayings five months ago in Portland, Oregon?”
“Yeah.”
“Snuff films started circulating through the underground special-interest groups only a few weeks after that. At first the distributors claimed they were only showing unused footage the media had shelved. But investigators were able to prove that the footage was shot an hour and more before the bodies were ever discovered, and that the vid had scenes of the killers.”
“The video company later claimed they bought the video from a citizen who stumbled on the bodies, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember the case,” Vache said.
That case was one of the reasons Wilson had decided to pursue the jackal organizations so aggressively, in spite of political pressures on the team to stay away from controversial subjects.
“The DA’s office was trying to get a line on the photographer through the video company and get the vids squelched as evidence. Instead, the video company gave limited showing rights—of the killers in action—to one of the television newsmagazines before the judge made a ruling, and moved the film into public domain”
“And even when that film was released, it showed no incriminating evidence that could be used in a court of law.”
“It also showed signs of being edited. The scenes showing some of the killers at work were thought by experts to have been tampered with to cloud the features and ruin them for identification purposes.”
“That was never proven,” Vache pointed out.
“Close enough. The lawyers just raised the question of whether the tampering had been done by the company or by the photographer. The DA couldn’t decide who to go after.”
“And your point in bringing this up?”
“Once the vids were released from Portland, they went international. The video company made a fortune off of them, and it started a new onslaught of snuff films in the private video sector. Staghorn Publishing may have demo recordings of the killings in Miami.”
“And the moon may be made of green cheese.”
“No,” Wilson said. “People have been to the moon. I haven’t been to Staghorn Publishing.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“Keep your nose as clean as you can tonight,” Vache warned in a more somber tone. “Besides chatting it up on the phone with Judge Shoemake, rumor has it that Cashion may be jetting up your way by early morning to look into your recent activities.”
“By invitation?”
“I haven’t confirmed that but at this point I’d say so.”
“It would be nice to know who extended the invite,” Wilson said. “I’m betting it wasn’t DiVarco, and it could be our missing link.”
“I’ll look into it.”
Wilson said thanks and broke the connection. He stopped at the traffic light on Clarendon Street. The John Hancock Tower covered the block. He blew into the T-jack’s mike then let the rest of the team know they would be standing down for an indeterminate period.
“Do we find a hole and pull it in after us?” Mac asked.
“No,” Wilson said. “We proceed to the Staghorn stakeout just like we planned. When the warrants come through, I want us to be in position to act on them.” He put his foot on the accelerator when the light changed, and the van surged forward. He couldn’t help wondering how much time was left before the investigation was labeled off-limits.
“Want to hear what I’ve got so far?” Valentine asked.
“Sure.”
“I need somebody to bounce it off of. I feel like I’m going around in circles inside my own head.”
Wilson handled the van easily and periodically checked the rearview mirrors. A feeling of vague unease trickled across the back of his neck as he drove through the dark streets, but he couldn’t name what had instigated the reflex.
“The warehouse was shoving eight percent of their profits into a special account in the Cayman Islands,” Valentine said. “Just like the bookie operation.”
“The same account Hobart was interested in?”
“Yeah. I was able to track it to the point of origin this time.”
“And the percentage was the same?’’
Valentine nodded. “From what I see here, the money disappeared in the States, was lost in the dummy account books the warehouse was running, then it resurfaced in the Cayman Island account . If we hadn’t gotten our hands on these files and if they hadn’t been as complete as they are, we wouldn’t have been able to trace the cash. Once it was there, it showed up as overseas profits in business interests held by JetStar Investments
, then was brought back into Boston.”
“What’s DiVarco’s connection?”
“He’s on JetStar’s signature card.”
“Who else is on it?”
“Tonsung Min and Alexander Silverton.”
“Who are Silverton and Min?”
Valentine shrugged. “So far, names on a bank account.”
Wilson took out his cell and voice called. Scuderi answered on the second ring. “Quinn’s turned up two names. Tonsung Min and Alexander Silverton. Run a background check on them and see what you can get, then get back to me.”
Scuderi said that she would.
“Tell me about JetStar Investments,” Wilson said.
“Not much to show here. They’re an investments company specializing in Boston development. They hit the boards three years ago, showed marginal success for the first two and a half years, then started moving along. No doubt aided by the monies contributed by DiVarco’s little empire.”
Wilson considered that, turning it over in his head and trying to figure out how it fit. Sebastian DiVarco was hardly the investments type. And if the dirty business the man controlled was turning the profit Wilson suspected, there would be no reason for DiVarco to attempt to branch out into legitimate ventures. The man simply wasn’t trained for it, and Wilson didn’t believe for a moment that DiVarco would place his fortunes in anyone else’s hands.
Unless DiVarco had no choice in the matter.
The thought struck Wilson and he toyed with it, refitting the pieces until a restless, nervous energy filled him. DiVarco didn’t have anything on the surface to attract the attention of the Koreans. Changing the focus, he looked at the problem from the Korean viewpoint, wondering what they might have had to offer DiVarco, why they would make the offer, and what they might hope to get in exchange. It didn’t scan. There was still too much information missing, but he felt they were getting closer to the whole truth.
“What exactly did JetStar invest in?” Wilson asked.
“Electronics firms, assembly and development. Canneries and fisheries. Video and film. Medical and dental instruments. The service economy. High-tech defense weapons manufacturers. Banks, savings and loan associations, and venture-capital organizations.” Valentine checked the tablet’s monitor. “They also invested heavily in public transportation systems, Logan International Airport, and warehousing along the seaport.”
“How much capital is involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re talking about a substantial amount,” Wilson said. “Could DiVarco’s business have come up with that much?”
“I’ll have to dig more to let you know how much of it came from DiVarco,” Valentine said. But I can tell you right now there were other investors in JetStar. A couple of accounts from Zurich poured money into the JetStar bankroll at the first of every month for the last eleven months.”
“The same time frame that DiVarco started making his move through Boston Mafia circle.”
“Yeah. And as the profits from the various rackets DiVarco gained control over went into JetStar’s coffers, the amounts coming in from Zurich went up as well.”
“It wasn’t all from DiVarco’s proceeds?”
“Don’t see how it could be. A rough estimate puts DiVarco’s interests contributing a third of the operating capital.”
“Back up a moment to Hobart, the bank manager.”
Valentine caressed the virtual keyboard on the tablet. “Okay.”
“Hobart was tracing activity going on in that account?”
“Yes.”
“So he knew when JetStar invested in a company or corporation?”
“I’d think so. According to his personal files, he made a number of inquiries.”
“Without getting caught?”
“I’d assume so,” Valentine said.
“Did he have access to that account?”
“No. I can see by his files that he was using an info dump and cutting out the Cayman bank security.”
“Illegally?”
Valentine nodded.
“Is stock for JetStar up for sale?”
“No. It’s privately owned.
“Okay,” Wilson said. “Given that Hobart had knowledge of JetStar’s movements in the stock exchange, there was only one way Hobart could have managed to make any kind of profit from the transactions.”
“He could buy up the public stock he knew JetStar was trying to accumulate, then sell it later when the prices went up, provided JetStar was going to make a bid for a hostile takeover.”
“Right,” Wilson said.
Valentine busied himself with the tablet.
Wilson crossed Dartmouth Street and angled down toward Huntington Avenue. His cell rang and he answered it.
“Alexander Silverton,” Maggie Scuderi began without preamble, ”is old money in Boston, and he’s very proud of that fact. His ancestors were reputed to have come over on the Mayflower. He’s very active in political circles.”
“Any ties to Cashion?”
“Silverton headed up the reelection campaign both terms.”
“And probably does some heavy lobbying on the Hill supporting his favorite congressman’s views.”
“I think that goes both ways,” Scuderi said. “Without checking, I’ll bet you that Cashion has reflected Silverton’s views on every ballot in the House.”
“No bet. How else is Silverton connected in Boston financial affairs?”
“Family businesses are docks and canneries, with a slight resurgence of new growth directed toward the computer industry in the late 1990s. He’s very conservative, and has had numerous public arguments with labor organizations regarding concessions made to employees over the last few years.”
“What kind of arguments?”
“Silverton’s businesses have been laying off employees because of the decline in the state economy. Lately, he’s become increasingly paranoid about appearing in public. A few disgruntled workers attacked him at business functions and at his restaurant, the Crystal Palace. His approach to foreign investors has made him even less popular with the working class.”
“What approach?”
“Silverton has campaigned for years for state and federal regulations to be loosened, allowing less restrictions on foreign investments in the United States. Tonsung Min has been one of the chief investors Silverton has been trying to bring into Boston financial circles. So far, the attempts have netted nothing.”
Wilson understood the resistance. Too many people were still afraid of foreign investors, with good reason. America had been founded on ideals of free enterprise and free trade. But the last four decades had been nothing but grim, as foreign investors treated the nation as a fatted calf that had come to fruition, carving off choice pieces and leaving the unwanted carcass behind. “Who does Min represent?”
“Officially,” Scuderi said, “a group of Korean businessmen wanting to bring Korean industries into the nation. The Bostonian resistance has centered on the fact that the proposed work force is Korean, not American. Unofficially, Min’s connected with a number of the larger crime families in Korea, often acting as a negotiator of sorts for areas of conflicted interests.”
“Min doesn’t take an active part in casting about for new profits?”
“His fortune’s already made,” Scuderi said.
“Where is he?”
“In Boston.”
“Why?”
“By invitation of Alexander Silverton.”
“Who is looking for investors interested in American business.”
“Yes.”
The pieces fell into place in Wilson’s mind as he rearranged the motivations of the three principle players the team had uncovered. He thought he had most of it, but proving it was going to be difficult if not impossible. The Staghorn operation might shed a little more light on the scheme, provided they got the chance to uncover it. Either way, when morning came, Omega Blue would be making its final play to stay alive on m
ore than one front, and he knew it.
18
“Agent Wilson, is it true that you’re not only going to be relieved of command of the Omega Blue unit, but that you’re going to be arrested on the grounds of repeated aggravated assault as well?”
Sliding out of the van, Slade Wilson put a hand over the camcorder’s lens and shoved the cameraman out of his way. It didn’t exactly set a precedent for FBI relations with the media, but it did cause the other reporters who were waiting like carrion birds on the steps of the main police station to back off and give him space.
The sunlight streaming down onto the street was harsh and sharp. Wilson was grimly aware of the camcorders and cameras pointed at him as he made his way around the front of the van and started up the steps. It was 8:05A.M. Although he’d changed clothes, he hadn’t shaved or had breakfast. All the sleep he’d gotten had been in intermittent snatches during the night in between the reports Valentine and Scuderi had collected.
The planned raid on Staghorn Publishing had never come off. However, Vache had called to let him know Cashion was going to put in an appearance at the police station that morning and wanted Wilson on hand. There’d been no doubt in Vache’s mind that the congressman was bringing the ax down. Wilson hadn’t said anything in his own defense.
McDonald, January, and Rawley joined him at the steps, falling in behind him as they moved toward the front doors. Scuderi and Valentine were hidden away for the time being as they continued to break through the cybernetic defenses put up by Silverton, Min, and DiVarco.
A dozen uniformed officers formed a flying wedge at the top of the stairs and started backing the media people out of the way, barking orders and brandishing their nightsticks as they came down the stairs.
Wilson and his team stopped halfway up and let the policemen approach them. Without looking up, he knew a number of SWAT sharpshooters had him and his team in their sights.
“Wilson,” a burly sergeant called out, “you people are under arrest. Put down your weapons and lie face down.”
“I want to talk to Vache and Isaacs and Cashion,” Wilson said quietly.
The media recorded the images as the two lines of men closed in on one another.
