Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Geez. Five hundred million dollars.”

  “They use political connections with the Department of Energy to get the grant. The company struggles along for three more years and burns through the half a billion dollars. They go broke, throw several hundred people out of work, and cost the US taxpayers a half billion dollars.”

  “Hmph. Where’s the connection between Eliazar and Shamanski?”

  “Next section. Look at the biographies of the four founders.”

  I scrolled the page down to the biographies. “You said the connection was Young… there he is, Jason Young. I see him. What’s the connection?”

  “Jason Young graduated from Brown University law school. Walter Eliazar graduated from Brown the same year.”

  “Flamer, you’re a freakin’ genius.”

  Chapter 61

  If the SAVY partners were involved in the put options scheme, any of them could be Redwood, except for Morris Shamanski, whom I’d already eliminated as a suspect. Redwood commuted from Kenilworth to the Willis Tower. My prime suspect was now Nelson Victor, the V in SAVY, the only other SAVY partner who lived in Chicago. I searched YouTube for any video clips of Nelson Victor. None. I re-read the biography section of Flamer’s email on SAVY. Victor specialized in environmental law and policy, whatever the heck that meant. I couldn’t spoof him into a return phone call since I didn’t have a clue what his specialty meant.

  I needed to find out where he lived. If it wasn’t in or near Kenilworth, I would be at another dead end.

  I Googled him. No luck. I checked a half-dozen other websites that I use to find people. Lots of items on his work and his law firm, but nothing on where he lived. I searched the Cook County Property Appraiser’s website for any property he owned. Nothing.

  I called Andy Cabela again. “It’s me again.”

  “Sure, fire away.”

  “Not over the phone. Where can I meet you?”

  “There’s a coffee shop near here called A Cup of Kindness.” He gave me the address. “Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

  I grabbed a large chocolate chip cookie and a cappuccino and joined Cabela at a table in the back. After pleasantries, I asked the favor. “Nelson Montgomery Victor, attorney-at-law. He offices in the Willis Tower. He’s Morris Shamanski’s law partner.” I paused while he wrote that down.

  “Okay, got that. What about him?”

  “I need his personal cellphone number and home address, residential phone number, along with a description and license plates on his cars.”

  “You think he’s Redwood?”

  “Maybe. I want you to ping his personal cell and back trace it to March 27. See if his personal phone pinged the same towers at the same time as Redwood’s phone. I have the number Redwood used before the current one.” I handed him a paper slip with the number.

  “Give me ten minutes.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  I texted Flamer: Find me everything on Nelson Victor, especially political connections.

  Cabela came back in twenty minutes. He leaned in closer to my ear and lowered his voice. “It’s him. I’ve emailed you the back traces on the phones so you can see for yourself, but it’s him. Nelson Victor is Redwood.”

  Chapter 62

  I checked the Cook County Property Appraiser’s website again, using the street address Andy Cabela had given me. Victor’s house was owned by Trust Number 672. The official mailing address to receive Cook County property tax notices was in Liechtenstein. I dug deeper on Trust Number 672; the trustee was McKinley Travers Bank & Trust Company.

  Rule Seven: There is no such thing as a coincidence—except when there is. Not likely this time. There it was—a possible key to finding the evidence to make a successful prosecution against Redwood.

  I looked twice to make sure I had read the information correctly. The three stooges had rented their car with a credit card issued by McKinley Travers Bank. Wallace’s share of the put options loot had been wired from McKinley Travers Bank. McKinley Travers Bank owned Nelson Victor’s house. I recalled one of my favorite lines from Goldfinger: “Once is happenstance; twice is coincidence; three times is enemy action.”

  I emailed Gene Lopez this additional information about the offshore bank. My phone rang immediately. “It’s seven o’clock in Port City, Gene. I didn’t expect you to still be at the office.”

  “Like you said, the Bureau never sleeps when we’re on a case. I looked up McKinley Travers Bank in our files. Other FBI offices are already working three cases involving this bank. None of them knew about the Chicago connection, and none of them had ever heard of Nelson Victor. This link could let us get the evidence to bring Redwood to trial. Maybe he won’t need to slip in his bathtub and break his neck. I just sent an internal memo to Andy Cabela. Call him and see if you two can work out some way to get the evidence against this guy—especially since we now know his name and the bank connection. Maybe we can bring him to trial after all.”

  I called Cabela’s cellphone. He had left the office and was on his way home. He offered to meet me for dinner. It was six o’clock, seven in Port City, and I was hungry. I hadn’t worked out for a few days, so I jogged the mile to the mom-and-pop restaurant he recommended. It featured Chicago soul food, and I ordered smothered pork chops, green beans, fried corn, and candied yams. I lingered over banana pudding and a second cup of coffee.

  “I accessed Gene’s memo on my phone and made a couple of calls to two other agents before you got here,” Cabela said. “Based on what the other agents told me, we can get a warrant on Victor’s home and office with this connection to the Liechtenstein bank.”

  “How long would it take to get the warrants?”

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Couple of days, maybe three. Our SAIC is pretty conservative. He’ll make me pull together all the leads from the other FBI offices and put all our ducks in a row. He’s a belt-and-suspenders kind of guy.”

  I shook my head. “That’s way too slow. Victor knows we’re only one step away from nailing him. He’s avoided detection for years—stayed completely below the radar. He’s panicking. I think he’s pulling into a shell like a turtle with a dog barking at it. We’ve got to act now—like tonight.”

  “Why the rush? Victor’s not going anywhere. He’s lived in Chicago all his life. He owns a multi-million dollar mansion. He’s a partner in a successful law firm. He’ll still be there in a few days.”

  “No, he won’t.” I shook my head. “His last message to his thugs in Port City said he would shut down the whole Port City operation today if his guys hadn’t found me or Michelle by now. He hasn’t found me, obviously, and I’ve got Michelle buried where he’ll never get to her. Redwood intends to cut his losses, dig a hole in the ground for all the evidence, jump in after it, and pull the dirt over his head.” I leaned forward. “He’ll go missing. With his offshore connections, he’s probably amassed a fortune sitting in Liechtenstein. If Wallace has accumulated nine million dollars, you can bet that Victor has ten times more. What he’s got in Chicago is chicken feed in comparison. Faced with life in prison, he’ll disappear forever while your SAIC has you jumping through hoops. We need to move now, not three days from now.”

  Cabela shrugged. “I’ve worked for the Chicago SAIC for seven years. He won’t be rushed; he’ll just dig in his heels.”

  “Well, I don’t need a search warrant, and I don’t worry about due process. Any evidence I find, I can send to you as an anonymous tip. That way, it’ll be admissible. What should I look for if I limit it to stuff I can carry at a dead run?”

  “Look for computers, tablets, and cellphones, particularly the burner phone he’s using now. The other stuff would be more than you can carry on a dead run: bank statements, files, crap like that. We always take a van to cart away the evidence when we execute a warrant.”

  “Okay. I need to know what I’ll be up against, Andy. You can help. I want to know if Victor is a veteran—in other words, does he have any firearms trainin
g. Does he have any gun permits? Assuming that Kenilworth requires burglar alarm permits, what kind of burglar alarm system does his house have? Is it wired direct to the Kenilworth police and fire departments? If he’s married, will his wife be home? What about children? What kind of conditions will I find in his house?”

  “I can get that info tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “Say, eight-thirty.”

  By the time I returned to the hotel, Flamer’s report on Victor’s political connections had arrived. Nelson Victor was supposed to be a hotshot on environmental law and policy. It was natural that he would have arranged to testify before one or two congressional committees. I searched C-SPAN for his name. Bingo. I punched up his most recent appearance before the Energy and Commerce Committee hearing on the EPA’s proposal to regulate carbon dioxide emissions from power plants. It was from seven years ago, right about the time SAVY Energy had been incorporated. Why hasn’t Victor testified on anything more recently? I wondered. Is he avoiding making his distinctive voice accessible?

  I tapped my fingers on the desk in the hotel room while the video, over two hours long, buffered its way to my laptop. I pushed play. The camera opened on a shot of the witness table where Nelson Victor waited to be introduced. Victor watched while the chairman took the floor himself to make a five-minute opening statement lauding the EPA and its administrator as a potential savior of the planet that served both the public and the world in general. Every few minutes the view switched to Victor, waiting with practiced patience at the green-draped witness table for his turn. His eyes had the warmth of your average iceberg. Dark blue suit, white broadcloth shirt, striped tie. I couldn’t see his shoes, but I would bet he wore Allen Edmonds or comparables.

  The chairman recognized the ranking opposition leader sitting to his right. She read prepared remarks in which she claimed that the EPA’s regulatory overreach was wrecking the economy with expensive mandates on the nation’s utility companies. The chairman recognized four more representatives, two from each of the political parties, who each needed five minutes to preen and posture for the camera. Occasionally, the C-SPAN camera showed Victor or another committee member. Victor did his best to look focused and interested in every platitude the committee members uttered. The other members frequently whispered to aides who leaned near them. One dozed. Finally, the chairman introduced Nelson Victor and read his credentials. The camera switched back and forth between the chairman, reading a long curriculum vitae and Victor, waiting patiently with a half-smile on his face. Was it just me, or did it look more like the sneer of an arrogant man? Thirty-nine minutes after he first appeared on the screen, he took the microphone.

  Victor’s smile for the camera did not reach his eyes. “Mr. Chairman…” The creepy, raspy voice was unmistakable. Nelson Victor was Redwood, all right.

  Chapter 63

  As I watched Victor drone on in favor of the EPA regulations, I imagined what it would feel like if he caught me breaking into his house. If he refused to produce his burner phone and his computers, could I point a gun at him and pull the trigger? A few days before, I couldn’t force myself to shoot Arthur Caprese even when he begged me to. If I couldn’t pull off a mercy killing, how will I psyche myself to kill Nelson Victor in his own home? How will I feel as I watch his blood splatter the wall behind him? I’ll feel guilty; that’s what I’ll feel. This wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. This wasn’t a shootout with well-armed assassins sent to kill me. This was burglarizing a homeowner and gunning down a man in his own home if my plan didn’t work.

  Could I do it if it came to that?

  Then I thought of Winston Taylor, the night watchman at the Hillside Pines Apartments construction site, and of his widow, his children, and his grandchildren. I thought of the two railroad workers who drowned in the Seeti River in the submerged train engine. I thought of what it would feel like to be trapped in a locomotive at the bottom of a river, watching the water rise around your feet, scrambling frantically and unsuccessfully to escape through the mud. What would their last thoughts have been as the water claimed them?

  No, Nelson Montgomery Victor killed those victims as surely as if he set the fire or exploded the bomb with his own hands. Nelson Victor was not an innocent victim; he was the assailant, the killer of innocent people. If push comes to shove, I’ll think of him not as a person, but as a killer.

  It’s easy to kill someone. If you’re using a handgun, you get within ten yards—five yards is better—then squeeze the trigger. Up close and personal. With a rifle, you shoot from hundreds of yards away. Both a physical and an emotional distance. Line up the crosshairs on the telescopic sight, then squeeze the trigger. The killing is easy; the hard part is getting away with it, to leave no clue for the detectives to tie you to the crime or the victim.

  I muted the sound and watched Victor’s body language as he spoke. He looked down to read his notes. He flipped pages in a file. He reached to switch file folders. He turned right and then left to face various committee members as he answered their questions. I stamped his image and the way he moved indelibly in my mind. I didn’t know what conditions I would face in his home. It might be pitch dark. His wife might be there, maybe children. If I confronted Victor I had to recognize him instantly.

  I also had to ensure that no innocent people died with him. I couldn’t shoot if a family member was behind him because a miss could hit an innocent. A through-and-through bullet travels a long way after ripping through a body so I needed to be careful of the area behind him.

  I had brought along the Browning .380 that I’d taken from one of the Team Dead bodies after the gunfight. I didn’t know if the Browning was registered or not. The odds were that it had been used in another crime in the Chicago area. If I had to shoot, the ballistics on any bullet recovered from Victor’s body would lead to a different Chicago crime and a different Chicago criminal. I slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and thumbed out three cartridges from the magazine. I was in luck. The dead man had loaded his pistol with Federal Premium Personal Defense cartridges. No surprise, since these were the cartridges preferred by most police departments, including mine in Port City. The cartridges would split and mushroom when they hit a target. The odds were that they would not go through his body and come out the other side. I held the three cartridges closer to the light. Caprese’s fingerprints were visible on the casings. I reloaded the Browning.

  My cellphone rang; it was Cabela. “Victor is married. His third wife lives with him and, as far as we know, they are both home tonight. He has two adult children from his first marriage, both of whom live elsewhere. He has no military service, but he has a permit for a pistol. I don’t know what kind. His burglar alarm is state-of-the-art and it’s connected directly to both the Kenilworth police and fire department.”

  “Bummer. Looks like I won’t be able to break in. Okay, time for Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “You don’t want to know, Andy.”

  Kenilworth had been developed decades before rich people needed guardhouses and gated communities. As a result, the streets were public; anyone could drive anywhere. The streets were literally lined with multi-million dollar mansions, most of them the better part of a century old.

  I looked up Victor’s house and neighborhood on Google Earth and Street View. The house reminded me of the White House, but on a smaller scale. I don’t see any security fence around the grounds. Maybe I can approach from the back. There was no alley, only a lot of trees behind. That guarantees privacy if I approach from behind, but I’d have to park a block away and sneak through a few hundred yards of woods; it would take too long to exfiltrate after the mission, especially carrying a sack full of computers and other crap.

  From the Kenilworth Police Department website, I learned they had over a dozen well-trained, full-time sworn officers and a half-dozen part-time, most of whom had been on the job for over ten years; they knew the town well. There had not been a murder or a robbery in Kenilworth in the last five years. The
cops would make frequent street patrols. They would notice a strange car parked on the street where the houses had off-street parking, especially at night.

  I didn’t use the rental car’s GPS; that would show up in the device’s history. I didn’t use the GPS in my phone for the same reason. No point having Victor’s home address stored anywhere connected to me. Instead, I overpaid for a Chicago area street map from the hotel gift shop. Convenience costs.

  I drove to the long-term parking lot at O’Hare International Airport and spotted a late-model Hyundai with Illinois plates parked in a secluded spot in the crowded parking lot. I circled the aisles. I didn’t expect any more arrivals this late at night but you can’t be too careful. I parked nearby, made sure I was alone, and switched license plates with the Hyundai.

  Fifteen minutes later, I found a Walmart on the way to Kenilworth and bought a bunch of flowers and a vase. I cruised the streets for a two-block radius around Victor’s house and found no vehicles parked on the street. I passed one Kenilworth PD patrol car, making its rounds in the chilly night. On my final reconnoiter, I zeroed in on Victor’s block. There were three houses on his side of the street. His was the middle one. Three streetlights lit the block—one on each end and another across from his house.

  I pulled into the circular drive from the left so the driver’s door faced the house. I left the engine running and the door open. I grabbed the flowers from the passenger seat and climbed the front steps to the double front doors. As I rang the bell, I noticed that the forest green doors were made of steel. On a hunch, I rapped on the doors with my knuckle. Thunk, thunk. They sounded like they might be bulletproof.

  A raspy voice came from a brass-plated speaker discreetly mounted next to the video camera above the doors. “Who’s there?”

  “Flowers for Mr….,” I glanced at the clipboard, “Nelson… middle initial looks like an N, or maybe an M… Victor.”