White Collar Blackmail: White Collar Crime Financial Suspense Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  His fully furnished one-bedroom apartment was on the second level of an old four level building on East 60th Street. The rent set him back more than five thousand a month and was way more than he could afford. However, the burning desire to impress his parents and family overrode more sensible and less expensive options. Despite it being more than he could afford, he loved the lofty ceilings, the king-sized bed and the open kitchen with every conceivable stainless steel appliance. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the Carnegie Center, but it was dark when Todd opened the door and entered the spacious living room. He flicked the lights on and went to the recently renovated bathroom and splashed water on his face. He could have had a doorman and concierge in one of the high-rises, but it would’ve been half the size.

  Todd turned the heat on full blast and grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge. He made himself comfortable on his suede sofa and settled down to do some hard, enjoyable work. With his iPad in hand, he entered the results of today’s race results. It was slow, methodical work and he listed details of positions, track conditions, jockeys, trainers, weights, times, odds, distances and margins. Each category had a simple numerical weighting assigned to it. Once the database was complete, he inputted fields for tomorrow’s races. Then he got to the fun part and ran a scan that produced the forecast results for every race. The results were listed in order of probability, and a numeric rating between 1 and a 100 was assigned to each horse. Todd’s success had come from forecast winners with a rating of 95 or higher.

  Chapter 4

  Brock Borchard eased into his first class seat and accepted a glass of orange juice from the flight attendant. As the jet departed La Guardia, he mused about how easy it was to become rich in America. He had only known poverty in Bosnia but had learned the lessons of fear and violence well. Killings in Bosnia were an everyday occurrence, so New York held no fears for him when he disembarked from a merchant ship, alone at the tender age of sixteen. By the time, he was twenty-one he had murdered five men and attempted to murder another. New York became too hot for him, and he took off for Chicago, the best decision he would ever make. He had no education or qualifications, but he was a smart man who sucked up knowledge like a sponge.

  It was by chance that Borchard found out about Vulture Inc., and he’d only been a shareholder and director for two years. He was still getting to know his co-directors. Arthur Ridgeway had been doing diligence on a transport company in Chicago that Borchard also wanted to acquire. In normal circumstances when Borchard was bidding against another party, he’d instruct his men to persuade that party that they shouldn’t be bidding. The usual tools of persuasion were baseball bats, but there were no limits to what Borchard would do to win. For some reason, he decided to have dinner with Ridgeway before he broke his kneecaps. At the dinner, Borchard found out about Ridgeway’s record and the business he had built with tainted lawyer, Dermott Becker. Borchard may not have been educated, but he knew what villains were. As he listened to Ridgeway, he realized he was talking to a master, legal crook. Someone who knew enough about business and law to walk the tightrope, and sometimes fall, but with enough know-how and contacts to pick himself up and recover unscathed. By the time dinner was over, baseball bats had been forgotten, and Borchard had agreed to withdraw his bid, subject to meeting Dermott Becker.

  Two days later Becker flew into O’Hare for what he thought would be a short meeting with Borchard. He returned to New York seven days later, having reluctantly entered into an in-principle agreement with Borchard to sell him fifteen percent of Vulture Inc. Part of the consideration was Borchard’s cocaine business and his Colombian contacts. Vulture was running cocaine in New York, but the quality and purity was vastly inferior to what Borchard was running in Chicago. Borchard knew his investment was going to be extremely profitable and would’ve been prepared to accept less than fifteen percent. What he wanted to see was how these white collar criminals operated. Once he’d learned all they could teach him, he would buy them out. Should they be disinclined to sell, he would remove them.

  He hadn’t been disappointed and had come a long way in a comparatively short time. He remembered his first board meeting when Dermott Becker had said there were a hundred companies interposed between Vulture and ACME. Borchard had no idea what interposed meant, but he wasn’t shy about asking. He’d sat in many meetings where the participants were too embarrassed to ask what they saw as dumb questions for fear of being ridiculed. Brock Borchard had no such reservations and asked any question that came to his mind. Only the brave and the stupid laughed. He’d always known that the mega-rich had international bank accounts but had no idea of their intricacies. Now he could differentiate the pros and cons of Liechtenstein, Hong Kong, the Caymans, Swiss and Irish banks. His businesses now operated under complex corporate and tax structures and Ridgeway had shown him ways to launder cash that defied belief. ACME owned legitimate retail chains comprising more than a thousand outlets and banked large amounts of cash daily. A perfect cover to launder drug monies. When Borchard had asked about the taxes the retail businesses paid on the drug monies, Dermott Becker had said, “We don’t mind paying our fair share of taxes. No one around this table is going to meet the same fate as Al Capone.”

  When Borchard got off the plane, he was greeted by a gigantic man with scraggly black hair and a swarthy complexion not dissimilar to his own. “Did ya have a successful trip, boss?”

  “It was fine, Farik,” Borchard replied. “We have little time to waste? Where’s the limo?”

  “At the front of the terminal with the engine running. I knew you’d be running short of time, so I brought Ahmet with me.”

  The limo was in a no parking area, and the rear door was being held open by a man only slightly less monstrous than Farik. “Ahmet, take me to my penthouse and wait while I get changed,” Borchard said. “I’m havin’ dinner with Joe Brereton of the Federated Laborers Union, and I don’t want to be late. Did you get the cash, Farik?”

  “Of course, boss,” Farik replied, “fifty thousand in a plain envelope just as you said.”

  “Good, and, in case I forget to tell ya later, I want ya to pick me up at five in the mornin’. I’ll need a run, some cool air, and a hard workout after puttin’ up with Brereton’s bullshit tonight.”

  It was a bleak morning; the wind was howling, and it was bitterly cold when Farik pulled up at the front of the Rialto Towers in exclusive North Wabash Avenue. Sitting next to him was the third member of the Serbian Mafia, a wiry little man who had changed his name from Dragan Voinovich to Dirk Vaughan shortly after coming to America. A master of disguise, he was the smallest and most deadly of the trio. They saw their boss coming out of the revolving doors wearing a white t-shirt, black tracksuit pants, and Nikes. He immediately started running at a rapid rate, enjoying the feel of the icy wind cutting through his lean body. He lengthened his stride and increased his pace as he turned hard right onto East Ohio Street. A few minutes later he was on North Lake Shore Drive heading to North Beach. It was pitch black, but he could hear the lake’s water lapping up against the shore. He looked down at the stopwatch on his right wrist before glancing at the heart rate monitor on his left. It was reading 185. His doctor had told him that his maximum safe heart rate was 150 beats per minute, but still he pushed harder. He’d completed two miles and knowing that he only had another mile to go, he again increased the pace. His lungs were burning and despite the cold, sweat from his forehead dripped into eyes and blurred his vision. His legs ached but still he drove himself. He was one of that rare breed who loved pain. He knew that he was within range of breaking his personal best time, but the shrill beep from his heart rate monitor warned him that he’d just gone through 190. All it did was drive him harder.

  The two men in the limousine following fifty yards behind him wore thick overcoats, and the heat was turned up to the max. Every second morning they watched their boss go through this ritual and on the other mornings he sparred six rounds with a former contender for the
light heavyweight title. In the winter when there was heavy snow and the lake was frozen he was forced onto a treadmill. He hated it and on those days his men did everything they could to avoid him rather than feel his wrath.

  “He’ll be in a great mood today.” Farik smiled. “I might ask for a raise.”

  “Stupid is as stupid does,” Dirk replied.

  Farik didn’t respond. There were only two men in the world that he was wary of, and they were both within range.

  With four hundred yards to go, Borchard demanded that his body and legs give more. His face was contorted, and the heart rate monitor began emitting a constant beep. He disregarded it and instead focused on his stopwatch, breaking into a full sprint knowing he was about to break seventeen minutes for the first time in years. As his feet touched the sand, he came to an abrupt halt and hit the red button on his stopwatch. Seventeen minutes and three seconds, an outstanding time for a man his age. As he bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath, he scowled and wondered whether he’d started his stopwatch a few seconds too early. Dirk got out of the limo, the collar of his overcoat turned up around his neck. “Great run, boss. Do ya wanna drink?” he asked, handing Borchard a bottle of water.

  “I broke seventeen minutes. There are very few men in the world my age who could come even close to that.” He took a swig from the bottle, dropped to the damp sand, and in one motion did the first of two hundred push-ups. He followed with two hundred sit-ups and then in push-up position, held himself for five minutes. It was five degrees, but the wind chill factor made it closer to minus ten when he kicked his Nikes off, dispensed with his tracksuit pants and threw his t-shirt on the sand. He was wearing a black pair of Speedos, and his body was ripped. His long, sinewy muscles rippled, and his six pack was cut to the max. The scars on his body told a story; one ran across his left arm, another about four inches long crossed his left pectoral, and the largest and ugliest sat just below his Adam’s apple.

  He pulled his goggles down before striding into the near freezing water. Without pausing he dived in and surfaced free styling strongly, churning through the water with smooth rhythmic strokes. When he was about three hundred yards from the shore, he turned, took a deep breath and started back, pulling the water through his powerful hands.

  As Borchard neared the shore, Farik climbed out of the limo carrying a large towel, a thick white dressing gown, and small bag. “Make sure the heat’s turned off before I get in, Farik,” Borchard shouted.

  “It’s done, boss. When have I ever forgot?” Farik shouted back as he picked up the damp and sandy t-shirt, the tracksuit pants, and Nikes. As he bent down, his overcoat opened at the top, and a gust of wind cut through his chest like a knife. He silently cursed his boss’s eccentricity.

  Borchard strode from the lake, hands locked behind his head, breathing deeply.

  “Good swim, boss?”

  “Yeah,” Borchard replied, taking the towel and rubbing his body vigorously. After a few minutes, he dropped his goggles, Speedos and towel on the sand and fully naked, held his arms out so Farik could put his dressing gown on him. “Is that okay, boss?”

  “Yeah,” Borchard grunted, striding toward the car with Farik waddling close behind.

  Dirk was holding the rear door of the limo open, a small hand towel over his arm. Borchard climbed in and swung his legs out of the car so that Dirk could clean the sand from his feet.

  “They’re clean,” he said, slipping into the slippers that were waiting for him. His water was on the console and the newspapers were sitting next to him on the adjoining rear seat. He picked up the Tribune and turned to the sports section. “Let’s go, Farik. I’ve got a lot to get through today.”

  Chapter 5

  It was unusual for the partners of Montgomery Hastings & Pierce to ever brawl in public, but loud voices coming from Doug Lechte’s office belied that convention. Managing partner and the firm’s other representative on the national committee, Phillip Cromwell, was laying down the law. He was everything that Lechte despised. Cromwell had done everything to convince the committee to accept the Enron audit, and it was only Lechte’s astute presentation of the case against that had thwarted him. He was pompous and overbearing and even after Enron collapsed hadn’t had the good grace to apologize to Lechte. Cromwell’s white shirt was immaculately pressed, and gold cuff links protruded from under his Zegna suit’s sleeves. He was tall, slim with an aquiline nose and receding dark hair. For him, the perfect weekend was an evening at the opera followed by a day yachting around the Hamptons. In contrast, a great weekend for Lechte would start with a day at the baseball field or basketball with a few close friends, a can of beer and a hot dog. Making it perfect would be spending a day fishing the following day.

  “Your vote’s killed her twice,” Lechte shouted.

  “She’s not ready for partnership.” Cromwell sniffed.

  “Is it because she’s black or is it because she’s a woman?”

  “That’s a cheap shot. If you haven’t noticed, Martin Lawrence is an African American and we have six female partners. Face it, she’s too young, too inexperienced and hasn’t put in enough hours.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry, Phillip. It’s not because she’s black, and it’s not because she’s a woman. It’s because she’s both. Now, understand this. The firm’s never had a smarter employee and that includes you,” Lechte yelled, thumping his fist on the desk. “If we don’t admit her as a partner, another firm soon will. It may have escaped you, but we don’t have a monopoly on talent.”

  “You know, Doug, there’s only one thing wrong with that little summary. It’s your opinion, and that’s all it is. If you want to nominate and vote for her, be my guest. She’ll not get my vote or the votes of my bloc.”

  “You’re making a mistake, and you’re as closed-minded as you were with Enron. Didn’t you learn anything?”

  Cromwell turned bright red and momentarily lost control before he smiled. “How’s your other star, Todd Hansen, performing? I’ve been getting some poor reports from some of the other partners about him. Seems he’s away from the office quite frequently and yet he’s not with clients. Where’s he going? What’s happening?”

  Lechte silently cursed. Todd had called to say that he was feeling ill and wouldn’t be in today. It was a regular occurrence, and Lechte wondered whether the wheels were falling off. “I haven’t seen those reports, and he’s responsible to me! Why are the partners complaining to you?”

  “Maybe because I’m managing partner.” Cromwell yawned as he stood up. “Don’t embarrass yourself again by nominating her, Doug. She doesn’t have the numbers.”

  “Asshole!”

  Cromwell swung around as he reached the door. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “You heard,” Lechte said dismissively.

  Todd Hansen hadn’t planned on taking the day off but, when his system threw up three winners all rating higher than 95, he had no choice but to head to the betting parlor. He was confident and when he saw the four to one odds on offer for Dancing Girl in the second at Turfway Park he struggled to maintain his calm demeanor. She had rated 99, the equal highest rating that had ever come up on his system. The two other horses who had rated that highly had won easily and Todd had had some nice collects.

  The teller looked up abruptly at the words ‘fifty thousand for the win on my tab,’ and asked Todd to wait while he disappeared out the back. When he returned, he said, “That will be fine, Mr. Hansen,” and handed him his ticket. It was twenty minutes to start time, and Todd ordered a mineral water and sat down at a vacant table. It was the biggest bet he had ever made, but he gave no thought to losing, and had already worked out how much he’d have in the bank at the end of the day. He looked up at the monitor and saw the horses being pushed into their gates.

  A few minutes later, the commentator shouted, “They’re racing,” and then “oh no, Dancing Girl was slow out and lost four lengths at the start.” Todd watched in horror. After two furlongs, D
ancing Girl was still last and fifteen lengths from the leader. With a furlong and a half to go, the jockey let her go, and she surged around the field, and Todd’s hopes surged with her. Her run was short lived and by the time she drew up to the leaders she was spent. The jockey on the leading horse gave it two cuts with the whip and it shot four lengths clear of its nearest rival. Todd had had losers before and knew his system wasn’t foolproof, but he’d never lost fifty thousand, and it was the first time a horse ranked 98 or higher had been beaten. His face was white, and he was finding it hard to focus. He called a waitress over and ordered a black coffee.

  Todd struggled to get clarity of thought. He had planned to have thirty thousand on Viking Flyer in the fifth at Belmont Park. Now he was confused. Viking Flyer ranked 96, but he’d just watched a horse ranked 99 lose. His painstakingly crafted plan was in tatters. He saw a hard-faced blonde with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth reading the Belmont Park form guide and asked if he could borrow it. He ran his eyes down the starters in the fifth race and studied their recent form. He’d never done this before and had always relied on his system, but yet again, he’d never bet sixty thousand dollars before. Satisfied that Viking Flyer was the best horse in the field, Todd made his way to the betting window, but the confidence he’d felt two hours earlier had disappeared. It was only thirty minutes to start time but for Todd time seemed to stand still. As the minutes dragged on, he again felt himself losing control. Perhaps after Viking Flyer won, the calm would return. As the starter called the horses into the gates, Todd prayed for Viking Flyer to make a fast start.