by Dale Nelson
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She owns a winery in Napa.”
“I thought she owned a baseball team,” Danzig said offhandedly. Ambassador McMillan had once owned the Los Angeles Dodgers with her husband, and they’d had a very high-profile divorce, where he’d falsely undervalued the team in order to avoid paying her alimony in the hundreds of millions of dollars. He was eventually forced to sell the team and split it with her. She, for her part, became a fairly prominent Republican donor. Prominent enough that it got her one of the most prestigious diplomatic posts in the world.
“That too, or at least she did, but she owns a winery in Napa. I saw in your files on Jack Burdette that he’s masquerading as a wine maker. When I briefed the ambassador on that, her interest spiked. She’s making this a bit of a crusade.”
When Danzig went after Burdette the first time, once she knew she couldn’t make the charges stick, she took him to the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department and had him fingerprinted. Then she regifted that in the FBI’s National Criminal Information Center database, along with Burdette’s picture and the note that he used Frank Fischer as an alias. That was how Heidegger was able to find and match him.
Heidegger paused and gave Danzig time to process.
“Danzig, the ambassador doesn’t want this guy in either of her back yards. All I’m saying is that if you want in, I can get you in. We can get TDY orders cut pretty fast. The ambassador will BNR you tomorrow. I’ve already got the paperwork written up.”
Danzig thought on this for a long moment. There was nothing she wanted more in the world, but even a US Ambassador by-name requesting her wasn’t going to change the bureau’s mind. It might even piss people off. Outward appearances would mostly likely be that she was going outside of proper channels to follow a grudge that the bureau had officially sanctioned her for.
But when had that stopped her before?
What was the worst they could do? Another shit posting? Fine. She was eligible for retirement in four years, and this wasn’t something they could kick her out over, just make the last couple years hellish and boring.
“Okay, let’s do it. I still think it’s a long shot that they let me play, but there’s a few things we can do right now.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“First up, you need to cut off his support. His fixer, who works under the alias Rusty, is actually Charles Robert Deutsch. Went by Robert. He was one of us.”
“FBI?”
“That’s right. Everything about him is locked up, and I never had the clearance to get at it, but whatever forced him out of the bureau left him with a pretty bad taste in his mouth for us. And the law in general. Now, he works with a select group of clients, like Jack Burdette, getting them whatever the hell they need—passports, cars, transportation, intelligence. Anything. Far as I’ve been able to tell, he works exclusively in Europe. If Jack is still in there, Deutsch is his lifeline. You need to cut that off, get him on the run. DSS should have info on him. I created a file and listed him as a passport forger. Taking him off the board will flush Jack out into the open. Send me everything you’ve got on the jewelry job, particularly on the crew.”
“It’s on the way.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Danzig opened up the contacts list on her cell phone and scrolled through it until she found Giovanni Castro.
It would be evening in Italy. Castro was now posted to the Guardia di Finanza headquarters in Rome. He’d made inspector, she’d heard. Danzig hadn’t spoken to him in a long time, not since she was with the transnational task force. He’d reached out after the Carlton investigation fell apart, but she never returned the call. Those were some dark days. Not just because she’d have to admit her failure, but also because Danzig believed at the time that she could’ve brought Jack in by herself. If she’d have checked her ego and ambition and accepted the help that she knew would’ve been offered, they probably could have gotten Jack while he was still in Europe.
“Well, well, well,” the voice on the other end said.
“Hey, Giovanni, how’ve you been?”
“Not too bad. How is Miami?”
“You heard, huh?”
“I like to keep tabs on my old friends,” he said. “That’s got a be a pretty good post, no?”
She had to be careful in her response. Danzig worked in a cubicle, and this wasn’t exactly the spot for private conversations. “The work is good, but it’s mostly forensic accounting. I’m more qualified in Excel than I am my service weapon. The people down here are interesting. I think the heat’s gotten to all of them.”
Giovanni laughed. “That’s what we think about the Greeks. So, tell me, what’s up?”
“I just took a phone call from the FBI LEGAT in Paris. They’ve got photo surveillance that matches Jack Burdette at the botched Hôtel Ritz burglary earlier this week.”
Castro was silent for a time. “Are you sure? I heard he retired.”
“I haven’t heard much of him in the last four years, but then, I haven’t been in a position to either. We’ve got one good photo, and our system says it’s a seventy-five percent match. I’ll need to get them cleared to send to you, but I think it’s him.”
“Why tell me? This happened in Paris.”
“My contacts with EUROPOL and INTERPOL are all pretty stale. I don’t have any connection with French law enforcement. I was hoping that you might.”
“Eh, not much. INTERPOL, I still have some friends there. But I’m not sure what good I can do.”
Danzig wondered why she’d even called him. INTERPOL wasn’t a law enforcement agency in and of itself, rather a collection of representatives from various national-level law enforcement groups designed to foster cooperation and information sharing. It wasn’t an executive body, and it couldn’t make any arrests. Still, INTERPOL could help get the word out that Jack Burdette was a suspect in the Hôtel Ritz robbery. It might help, but no one was going to pursue him with the same fervor that she would.
“I know. Maybe I got a little carried away. I just got this information. But he’s most assuredly not still in Paris. If I had to guess, he’s no longer in France. I’d like to close off any avenues of escape. He’ll need to sell that property before returning to the States. He won’t risk a smuggling rap.” She’d need to go to her boss with this to get the approvals necessary to share the intel with Homeland Security for when Jack inevitably tried to reenter the US. She wondered if there was an angle to play with her boss. She wouldn’t be happy. It wasn’t the Caribbean, but Jack was having to launder his money somewhere. That’s what that whole stupid thing with the winery was about. Maybe that was how to get the bureau involved …
“You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry, just thinking.”
“I will put in some calls to EUROPOL and INTERPOL and see what we can do.”
“Thank you,” Danzig said, distracted. She was already scanning her computer for the forms she’d need to fill out. “Giovanni, thanks. For everything. And it’s good to hear your voice.”
“You too.”
Danzig dropped the call and stood. She needed to see her boss.
Nine
“Mr. Fischer?”
Dimly, Jack recognized his name, or rather, his alter ego’s name, but it took a few repetitions before he snapped out of it.
“John, I’m terribly sorry. I took a red eye in from Amsterdam last night, and I’m incredibly jet lagged. I just couldn’t sleep on the plane, and it was kind of a—” Jack tripped slightly on the words as he caught himself talking about where he’d been. Stupid.
“Oh, what were you doing over there?”
“I, ah, belong to a small association. Mostly, I’m trying to bring some old-world growing techniques here to the valley.” Jack shrugged. “Not particularly original, I know, but I’m the type who wants to know how something works.”
“Oh, how interesting,” John said. John Able was a business deve
lopment executive for Sierra Wine and Spirits, which was a distributor focused primarily in the Southwest and Pacific states. They had contacts with some influential sommeliers in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Portland, the latter becoming a culinary hotbed in the last decade and an important stop on the way to getting high-profile exposure for new wines. Hugh put countless hours into getting this deal together, and Jack could tell by his sour, frog-lipped expression that he was not happy this didn’t have Jack’s full attention.
They were here to iron out the final deal points and talk about how much of a speaking tour Frank Fischer was willing to do. This was not a common practice, but Sierra’s executive team was trying something new. They wanted the smaller, boutique wine makers and brewers in their network to travel and meet with some of the most important clients and share their stories. These days, the stories behind the labels sold the product as much as the point scale. Sierra believed this is what set them apart. Jack didn’t know if any of that was true, but Hugh certainly seemed to think it was important enough for Jack to have to be there. He said that if he wasn’t, Sierra probably wouldn’t sign with them.
That, as much as the furious impulse to not have Aleksander Andelić tell him where he could and could not go, had him flying across the world.
“What’s the name?” John Able said. Able was a good natured, affable man in his early sixties with a neatly trimmed white beard and the jowly countenance one might expect in someone who’s job basically was to drink every day. He had an appearance that suggested a kind of seersucker Santa Claus in the offseason.
“I’m sorry?”
“Of the association.” Now he had pen to paper. “This is the kind of thing that would really make a great story.”
Jack scratched the back of his head, trying to find a precious few seconds to think of anything. He was too exhausted to lie convincingly, and he knew it. He felt like a watch that had run all the way down.
“Oh, it’s not really a formal thing. Maybe association is a bit of a stretch. It’s mostly other growers that I’ve met through conferences, trade associations, that sort of thing.” Jack gave a perfunctory laugh.
“Anyone I might know?”
He didn’t even have the mental energy to swear to himself. Frank Fischer did know some winemakers in France and Italy, and he did meet with them to do exactly as he’d said. Just not this time. This time, Jack was robbing the Hôtel Ritz. He knew that Sierra was the west coast distributor for several international labels and there was always the possibility, however slim, that Jack could mentioned someone that Sierra represented. He wanted to be out of this conversation as quickly as he could, so Jack mentioned a few of the smaller ones that he believed weren’t selling in the US yet.
John Able seemed mollified, if not a little disappointed, that there wasn’t a better story there.
Coughlin shot daggers from his spot at the table. He knew Jack well enough to know when he was lying—and poorly.
When Hugh found out Jack was a thief he was, to his credit, amusedly ambivalent. “Son,” he’d said, “I’ve been doing land deals in Napa Valley for forty years. I’ve got no room to point fingers for people stealing things.” And like that, all was forgiven. Hugh didn’t care that Jack stole jewels. He rather enjoyed some of the stories Jack was careful in telling. But at that point, when Jack first reveled this secret to him, Jack was attempting to retire from that life. His criminal life was all in the category of “colorful past,” but all that was on the assumption that it was over.
Now, with Jack stumbling through a story he was very clearly making up on the fly, it was obvious to someone who knew him—truly knew him—that he had not left that life behind.
Jack quickly changed the subject back to finalizing the negotiation. He told John Able that he’d be happy to meet with any and every sommelier, restaurateur, and wine shop owner that Sierra Wine and Spirits wanted to put him in front of, which made John Able’s cherubic face beam. They signed contracts. Jack poured three glasses of Peregrine, their high-end Bordeaux blend. They toasted to a long, successful partnership. Then he took John Able over to one of the large windows in his second story office and pointed out the various grape plots that they could see from there.
Listening to Hugh Coughlin working himself into a true fury was like watching a Dutch master paint. It was unfortunate, for the person on the receiving end, that Coughlin’s language was such that most people wouldn’t be comfortable even using it in a brothel. Hugh put on a good face during the glasses of wine and subsequent tour of the property, adding his own anecdotes here and there, but he was a tightly simmering, highly volatile kettle, and Jack knew the time they had before he popped was fleeting.
“What choice did I have?” Jack shouted back, eventually, tired of the tongue lashing.
“Do work honestly, like the rest of us!” Coughlin shouted back.
“Sharpe stole ten million dollars from this place,” Jack said, gesticulating toward the floor. “I had to cover that with my own money to keep this running. And that cleaned me out. The State of California has yet to find that money, and I think we know how that’s going to play out.”
The sad fact was that victims of embezzlement were rarely made whole. Often, the money was spent before it could be collected, and even if it was, it was usually tied up in the courts for many, many years. When Paul Sharpe stole that money from the winery, which was actually well above ten million dollars spread out over a four-year span, the state’s attorney said they would see very little of that money returned, in no small measure because Sharpe spent a lot of it. He bought expensive cars, clothes, and, inexplicably, rented a house in the Hollywood Hills. In the meantime, the winery was starting to turn a small profit, but it was still razor thin, and he was nearly broke.
Jack thought it would’ve been fair for them to at least give him the Ferrari California Sharpe bought with that money, but the state decided that was “evidence.”
Jack did get to drive it, though, but the state didn’t know about that.
So, with no other options and a nearly empty bank account, Jack worked.
But he knew the argument was thin. Jack could have survived without going back to pulling jobs, it just would have taken him much longer to break even.
It started the first year after the Carlton job. He’d cleared sixteen million from that, and ten went immediately to paying off the debts incurred by the embezzlement. Following his brush with the FBI, Jack worried about how much scrutiny the money he’d parked in various shell corporations would stand up to, so he took four million of what remained and loaned it to Kingfisher Wines as a capital and operational investment. He’d draw a salary of two hundred thousand a year from that, which was taxed as income. With the remaining money, just about two million, Jack purchased a villa and property in Tuscany.
He did it because he thought that more real estate was another way to legitimize his income, and Hugh advised him to lie low for a while and let his situation with FBI die down. So, following the harvest that year, Jack bought the place. He’d also, foolishly in retrospect, thought that perhaps if he and Megan could spend some time away from California, they could repair their relationship. He purchased her a first-class ticket to Rome and waited long hours at the airport. She never showed.
Now, he used it as a safe house.
With all of his money tied up in either the winery or his property, Jack felt like he didn’t have enough liquid assets should he need to disappear. The FBI almost caught him, and Danzig, not one to just let him off the hook, made sure that he was photographed and fingerprinted. For the first time in his life, Jack Burdette was on file. Jack always felt like he was waiting for the other shoe, for a knock at the door.
“Hugh, I’m not interested in a lecture, and I’m not asking you to forgive or approve of anything I’ve done. If you could at least understand it, that would be something, but really, I want you to just accept it. All I’m trying to do is get back to zero.”
“Get back
to zero?” Coughlin waved his arms. “Look at this place. If this is playing at a disadvantage, I’d love to see what you consider winning. You have to be kidding me with this shit. You guys are making money, and you should have more than enough to live on.”
“You know better than anyone that it’s not that simple. I can’t get a business loan, so where else is the money for CapEx going to come from?” Hugh grumbled something about financing and how he thought he could secure it, but the argument wasn’t convincing. “We talked about increasing production this year, right? Well, that’s going to mean buying another fermentation tank and more infrastructure.” The winery produced about ten thousand cases a year, which was a respectable amount for a small operation. They didn’t use all of the grapes they grew and sold off some very good fruit to other operations for some additional profit. While that was a fairly common practice, Jack and Hugh had been talking for the last two years about shifting that to producing more wine for Kingfisher. However, to do that he would need two more fermentation tanks and all of the associated equipment that went along with it. None of that was cheap. Coughlin’s counterarguments started faltering, and Jack could see in the old man’s eyes that he knew it.
Unless Jack was going to take private investment, which would also come with due diligence, that money wasn’t going to come from anywhere else.
“You lied to me,” Hugh said eventually. “I was willing to see beyond your past because I believed you were a good man at heart and that you deserved a second chance. After Sharpe and LeGrande, you said you were done. You were sincere. You tell me you’re going to Europe for a conference or to stay at that villa you bought in Tuscany? I believed you.”
