Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  “The railroad bombing alone made him over three million dollars,” said Lopez. “He’s been doing that a half dozen times a year.”

  “And how do you know this?” asked Jefferies.

  “Yesterday afternoon Chuck drove me to a covert office where Wallace keeps a cabinet full of files on the companies he’s attacked over the last few years. We spent the afternoon reviewing the evidence. It’s the real McCoy on how the scheme worked.”

  “Tell him the bad news, Gene,” I said.

  “We can’t touch Redwood—legally.”

  “The arm of the Justice Department is long,” Jefferies said. “We can touch anyone we need to.”

  I shook my head. “Wallace and Redwood are kindred spirits when it comes to global warming. They’ve talked on the phone for years now. Wallace said they’re almost friends. Based on things Redwood let slip over the phone, Wallace says that Redwood is on the U.S. Attorney General’s Christmas card list, literally. Wallace knows for a fact that Redwood is on the White House Christmas card list, but that doesn’t mean anything because thousands of people are. Redwood has at least the Cabinet Secretaries of the Department of Energy and the Department of the Interior on speed-dial, maybe others. He’s tight with the Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency. Redwood’s loot on this scheme has financed large campaign contributions to environmentally conscious politicos for at least the last five years.”

  “I don’t think we can touch him in court,” Lopez said.

  Jefferies sighed. “Chuck, Diane, can you give Special Agent Lopez and me the room for a few minutes?”

  I stood. “Diane, it’s time for a break. Let’s get coffee.”

  Jefferies picked up Diane’s tape recorder. “Take this with you and wait for us in the kitchen please.”

  No one else was in the office late on a Sunday afternoon. Nevertheless, I closed the door to the coffee room. Diane sat at a small table near the kitchen counter. “What do you think they’re talking about, Chuck?”

  “Discussing justice for Redwood.”

  “Justice for Redwood?” she echoed. “What does that even mean?”

  “Everyone in that room today knows that Redwood has committed several capital crimes. Gene’s an attorney, just like Jefferies. They speak the same language. He’ll explain to Jefferies why they don’t have enough evidence to bring Redwood to trial, and he’ll tell him that they’ll probably never have enough evidence legally. Maybe they’ll even discuss whether I can help them bring Redwood to justice… another way.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s what you’ve been angling for? You want them to engage your services to investigate Redwood so you can prove their impossible case for them?”

  “The FBI doesn’t hire outside investigators, Diane. They think they’re the smartest guys in the room. Gene is typical of them. It’s just gadles on their part, but that’s the way they think.”

  “Where did you learn about gadles?”

  I grinned. “Abe said it this morning. Did I pronounce it right?”

  “Close enough. You have to be Jewish to get it right.” She smiled. “So if they won’t hire you as an investigator, what do you expect from them? Are you going to find Redwood and burgle his home or office and send the evidence to the FBI as an anonymous tip like you did with Katharine Shamanski?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a shame the bagels are gone.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Chuck. Surely you don’t expect them to send you off as a… a hired killer, do you?”

  I looked at Diane and didn’t say anything. We both knew there was no legal way to stop Redwood. She may be my attorney and our conversations may be privileged, but I draw the line at discussing my plans with her.

  “You’re out of your mind if you think the U.S. Attorney and a Special Agent of the FBI will turn you loose as a sanctioned executioner.”

  That wasn’t a question, so I said nothing. A Florida attorney is ethically obligated to blow the whistle if he or she knows that a client intends to commit a crime—any crime. Even if the target deserves to get hit, she’ll feel she needs to report my intention. Then she’ll feel guilty if she does report me and equally guilty if she doesn’t. I won’t snag Diane on the horns of an ethical dilemma.

  “Well?” Diane asked.

  I gave Diane my most sincere look. “Diane, you are a wonderful criminal defense attorney. I value your opinion and Abe’s on criminal matters. You both saved me from a life sentence for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  “Thanks and all that, but what do you have to say about this ‘sanctioned kill’ thing?” She made air quotes.

  “You’re a great attorney, but you don’t know doodly squat about how the real world operates. Let’s wait and see what they say.”

  The kitchen door opened and Lopez came in. “Will you join us in the conference room?”

  Jefferies stood when Diane walked in. “Diane, you don’t need to turn the recorder back on.”

  When we were seated, Jefferies placed his hands flat on the table and moved them from side to side as if he were smoothing an invisible tablecloth. “As you know, most FBI agents are educated as attorneys or CPAs. Special Agent Lopez has a Juris Doctor degree. As such, he appreciates the, uh, difficulties sometimes of proving a case beyond a reasonable doubt…” He glanced at Lopez. “…even in the face of moral certainty.” He stood and put his notepad back in his briefcase. “This meeting is over.” He shook hands around and left.

  Diane looked stunned. “What just happened?”

  Lopez smiled. “The meeting is over. Michelle gets her deal. I have two guys assigned to pick up Wallace. Chuck has not committed any crime. Everybody’s happy. Good job, counselor.” He stood up. “Chuck and I will walk you out.”

  Diane and I stopped on the steps where Abe and I had stood a few hours earlier. Lopez walked to the bottom and waited out of earshot.

  “What are you going to do about Redwood?”

  “I have your phone numbers, Diane. I’ll call you if I need you. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  She grabbed my arm. “You’re on thin ice here, Chuck. You shouldn’t talk to the FBI without representation.”

  “Gene and I have a few things to discuss.”

  Diane started to object.

  “Diane, I don’t need counsel for this, uh, discussion. Gene said I’ve committed no crime. Take the win, Diane.”

  Chapter 60

  Lopez pushed his plate away and rubbed his stomach. “Man, that was good.” He washed his banana cream pie down with more milk.

  We had met at the Day and Night Diner. Veraleesa didn’t work Sundays, but the pie was still good. This was where the case had started when I met with Michelle. Was it less than three weeks ago?

  I finished the last bite of my pecan pie. “What did you tell Jefferies to get him to come around?”

  “I told him the truth: We would never pin anything on Redwood. The evidence wasn’t there beyond a reasonable doubt. I told him that I reviewed Wallace’s files on the companies they attacked, that I interviewed him over the phone yesterday to clarify the elements and events of the scheme, and that Redwood was a powerful, twisted man who would find some other poor schlub like Wallace to do the dirty work. I also told him that Great Southeast Forest Products has dozens of locations that could be the next target for violent protests or, worst case, eco-terrorism. Lives are at risk; he understood the urgency.”

  “I meant how did you get Jefferies to agree to a plea bargain for Michelle. We both know you’ll never call her to testify against Redwood, and Wallace has already turned State’s evidence. What’s the consideration for letting Michelle off easy?”

  “Officially, Michelle agrees to testify in Redwood’s trial, and there’s always Katherine Shamanski for Michelle to testify against too. That’s plenty of consideration for offering the plea deal.” He pushed his milk glass to one side. “Between us, I think that Michelle was criminally foolish in the protest banner fiasco. She’ll pay a small price
in probation for the Justice Department to have plausible deniability concerning Redwood’s future. The Department can demonstrate their intent to prosecute Redwood. We know Wallace will plead out. Any good criminal defense attorney will convince the Shamanski woman to plead out too. We located the house on the canal where the bomb was built. By the time our forensic guys finish processing it, we’ll have plenty of evidence that Shamanski helped build the bomb.”

  Lopez handed me a piece of paper. “This is the personal cellphone number for Andy Cabela, an agent in the Chicago field office. He’s also a friend. I told him about you. If you need any resources or logistics, you call him. Naturally, I never gave you this number.”

  “Of course not.” I entered the name and number in my phone’s contact list. “You want me to eat this piece of paper, Gene?”

  “Nah, I’ll take it.” He tore the paper slip into tiny pieces and dropped them onto his dirty plate. “Godspeed.”

  The Willis Tower claims to be North America’s tallest building. Whether that’s true or not, it is gigantic. I shivered on the sidewalk in the raw April wind with my overcoat collar turned up and rubber-necked straight up at 110 stories of glass and steel. Thousands of people worked there. It’s a small city. Checking the internet, I learned that dozens of law firms with hundreds of attorneys officed in the building. Most buildings within five hundred yards also used a Willis Tower cellphone tower.

  Wallace had assured me that Redwood was an attorney and that he had a raspy voice. He sounded perpetually hoarse. I called Terry. “Any luck recording Redwood’s voice yet?”

  “Last night he called the leaders of both teams. I’ll play you the recording of his call to John L. Janowicki. Johnny J. must be the leader of the three stooges. I’ll hold the speaker up to my phone.”

  Redwood’s voice was creepy. It sounded ominous, methodical, and cadenced. Little more than a whisper, the raspy words sounded like someone reading an obituary. Something is wrong; it is too quiet. Wallace has not been seen at his home or on campus, Michelle is somewhere on Mango Island, and we don’t know where McCrary is. If you don’t see any action by tomorrow’s check in, call it off and come home.

  I couldn’t call and ask to speak to hundreds of attorneys until I heard the creepy voice. There must have been a hundred or more attorneys living on the north side who officed in or near the Willis Tower. The search field was too broad. I had to narrow the search somehow.

  I remembered my conversation with Diane Toklas before Michelle’s interview with the FBI agents in her office. I had told Diane I needed to find the connection between Walter Eliazar and Katherine Shamanski’s parents. I felt at a bone-deep level that there was a connection somewhere. Then I had forgotten about it in the rush of the following days. Dumb mistake. I was glad Snoop wasn’t in Chicago to bust my chops about it.

  I went for coffee in the Willis Tower Starbucks and used their Wi-Fi to research a few suspects on my tablet. I punched up Morris Shamanski, Katharine’s father. He officed at 233 South Wacker Drive, in the very Willis Tower where I sat. Walter Eliazar officed across the street from the Willis Tower. It couldn’t be that easy. I plugged in earbuds and searched YouTube for video clips of Eliazar or Shamanski. I found an interview Eliazar had given after a trial. His voice was normal. Not Redwood. There were no video clips of Shamanski. I Googled Morris Shamanski’s home address, not listed. Figures. I called Flamer. “I need the home address of Morris Bertram Shamanski in the Chicago area. There’s no listing on Google.”

  “This guy Katherine Shamanski’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  Flamer hung up without saying goodbye.

  Two minutes later, my email dinged. Flamer sent me Morris Shamanski’s home address. It was in Kenilworth, the right neighborhood. If Morris Shamanski was Redwood, it explained why he hadn’t sent a kill squad after his own daughter. I did a little research on Shamanski’s law practice then called his office. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Shamanski, please.”

  “One moment and I’ll connect you.”

  It couldn’t be that easy. It never is.

  “Mr. Shamanski’s office.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Shamanski, please.”

  “Mr. Shamanski is with someone. May I take a message?”

  “This is Walter McNeil. I’m a neighbor of Bob and Elaine Fineman. The Finemans said that Mr. Shamanski got them over a million dollars when that fellow ran the red light and hit their car.” I had learned that on Shamanski’s website.

  “Yes, Mr. McNeil. Do you have a similar problem?”

  “I sure do. My wife got T-boned by some idiot and damn near died. She just got out of the hospital. I want to sue that son-of-a-bitch for everything he’s got, and, believe you me, he’s got plenty. That jerk drove a brand new Cadillac Esplanade, so I know he’s got money.” I left the number of the burner phone I had bought that morning at a discount store near my hotel so I could have a local Chicago number.

  “I’ll make sure Mr. Shamanski gets your message, Mr. McNeil. Thanks for calling.”

  I went back to the hotel and waited. I was close to the target.

  Two hours later, Morris Shamanski returned the call. I knew when he said “This is Morris Shamanski” that he wasn’t Redwood. Dead end. I blew smoke up his skirt for a while and hung up.

  I called Flamer and explained the situation. “There’s a connection between Walter Eliazar and Morris Shamanski or his wife, Virginia McAllister. Find it.”

  “I already looked. Not a to-the-ends-of-the-earth look, but pretty deep. What if there isn’t a connection?”

  “Then I’ve wasted my money and I’ll think of something else. Just find it.”

  I called Lopez’s colleague in Chicago.

  “Andy Cabela here.”

  “Do you know who this is?”

  “I recognize your number. Our mutual friend said you might call.”

  “Can we meet?”

  “Give me ten minutes. I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

  “I’m in the Willis Tower. You’re a twenty-minute cab ride away.”

  “You know where I am?”

  “Our mutual friend gave me full contact particulars.”

  Security was tight at the federal building. I checked my weapon with the guards and waited while Agent Cabela came downstairs. “Let’s go to my office.” Cabela’s office was on the tenth floor. It had a view of the federal parking garage across the street. “Gene said you were on a special project and I should help you any way I can, but off the record.”

  “Thanks.” I gave Cabela a full rundown of what I knew about Redwood, including the particulars of the people whose deaths he had caused. I wanted him firmly on my side. I handed him a paper with Redwood’s current cellphone number. “Can you give me any addresses on the north side, maybe near Kenilworth or Winnetka, where this number made phone calls from?”

  Cabela punched up the number on his computer. “We can’t give you an exact street address because this cheap phone doesn’t have built-in GPS. I can get the location of the cell tower it used. Right now, for example, it’s pinging off the Willis Tower. He’s probably in his office. Thousands of phones use that tower, as I’m sure you know.” He hit a few more keys. “This phone made a half-dozen evening voice calls and over twenty texts from these towers here on the north side.” He touched the monitor that showed the cell tower maps. “From the distribution of the towers used, I’d bet he lives in Kenilworth.” He leaned back. “That’s as close as I can get. Is that any help?”

  “Not much. I knew he commuted from the Kenilworth/Winnetka area.” I stood. “Thanks for trying.”

  “Look, you have my number. Gene Lopez said this guy Redwood is a second-hand serial killer with another target already picked out. You need to find him—and sooner rather than later. If you come up with any more leads, no matter how far-fetched, you call me. We need to stop this guy before he kills more people.”

  “I will. Is there a cab stand downstairs?”

/>   “You’ll never get a cab out here. It’s not like in the Loop. You’d better call Uber.”

  A half-hour later, I was in my hotel room scratching my head about what to do next. Then Flamer called. “Chuck, repeat after me.”

  “Huh? Okay.”

  “Flamer, you are a freakin’ genius.”

  “Not until you show me the genius.”

  “I found the connection between Eliazar and Morris Shamanski. You would never find this on your own.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I sent you an email. Call it up on your monitor. I’ll wait.”

  I did. “It’s on the screen.”

  “Shamanski’s law firm incorporated SAVY Energy LLC seven years ago,” Flamer said. “The S is for Shamanski, of course. V is Victor, one of Shamanski’s partners. A and Y are two other investors from New York and L.A., also attorneys. That’s why you never would find it. The connection is in L.A.”

  “I’m looking at the list of investors,” I said. “Albertson and Young are corporate attorneys; Albertson in New York and Young in Los Angeles. Says here that the four founders invested ten million dollars each, most of which was for research and development for a new type of solar energy collector… yada, yada… applied for a government-guaranteed loan… yada, yada… loan application went nowhere.”

  “Right,” said Flamer. “Scroll down to the next section. One year later, SAVY has run through its initial investment and is about to fold its tent. The company again applies for a government bailout. This time they go big. They ask for a grant instead of a loan. Can you believe this? They don’t even have to pay the money back. Free money, courtesy of United Santa Claus. Notice the amount.”