by Diane Capri
The cab ride took eight minutes door-to-door in light traffic. The game was already in progress. She used the media entrance at 6th and G Streets Northwest. She flashed her badge everywhere she needed to. She found the best reception she was likely to get. She put a finger in her opposite ear to mute the screaming crowd. She called the number.
Finlay answered on the fourth ring. Boston accent. Rich baritone.
He said, “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me,” she said. “We’ve hit a snag.”
“Your partner knows you’re calling?”
“Yes. But he advised me not to.”
“Because you’ve worked your way up the food chain to the killer whale?”
“Correct.”
“And you want me to remove the obstacle in your path. Why would I do that?”
Trading favors. What did Kim have that Finlay wanted? “You tell me.”
“Much has changed since we met. You’re operating under a bright spotlight now.”
But his price might be too steep. “Can you help or not?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How far you’re willing to go.”
Kim paused briefly. Reflex. Only one choice. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Finlay. One more thing. Roscoe’s in trouble. Friendly fire. Fix it.”
Silence. Had he not anticipated her demand? He said, “Agreed. I’ve left a package for you at the Swiss embassy. Offer expires in twenty minutes. Your taxi’s waiting.”
Connection terminated.
She checked her watch. Fifteen minute trip in the opposite direction under current conditions. She burned five extra minutes to dispose of the phone, exit on F Street, and flag a new cab of her own. “2900 Cathedral Avenue Northwest. And I’m in a hurry.”
***
The cab pulled up in front of an unimpressive building. Tan brick boxes joined by a brown mullioned glass structure all seemed deserted. A lone security guard waited inside the locked gate. Kim asked the cab to wait.
“ID, please,” the guard said when she approached. She showed her badge. He checked his watch, examined the photo, compared her face. Returned her ID wallet.
“One moment,” he said.
He walked behind a majestic maple tree and retrieved a shrink-wrapped redwell accordion file. He handed it through the bars. He turned away. Kim ran back to her cab.
“Hay Adams hotel, please.” No time for further counter-surveillance maneuvers; she’d been gone too long already. She ripped off the shrink wrap, removed the attached elastic, opened the redwell’s flap, and pulled out its contents. She held them up to the cab’s window for passing ambient light. She stared. Flipped through. Too dim to read. Ink blurred on the pages.
Her smart phone rang. She answered without thinking. “Agent Otto.”
Gaspar said, “We’ve been released. Where are you now?”
“On my way.” She was maybe five blocks out, but traffic was barely moving.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Kim didn’t understand. “What about Sylvia?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Cooper had Hale pick her up twenty minutes ago.”
She saw the Hay Adams up ahead in the distance, but the traffic was stopped in all directions.
“Wait for me at the front entrance. I’ll be there in five.” She disconnected, grabbed cash from her pocket, paid the driver, and left the cab where it was.
She dialed the second pre-paid burner while she jogged along the sidewalk.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Washington, DC
November 3
9:45 p.m.
Kim had worked at the Washington Hilton, one of the biggest and busiest hotels in DC, during law school. She knew its eleven hundred guest rooms, its acres of function space, its forty-two meeting rooms, its four restaurants and bars. She remembered the service corridor, the loading dock, and the freight elevator. Tonight and every night, the hotel buzzed with crowd cover. The night manager was happy to help her. Returning felt almost like coming home.
Gaspar had asked no questions for the past hour while they collected Sylvia’s mail from the Crown Vic and transferred to the Hilton. He’d felt her urgency, perhaps, but whatever his reasons, he had stuck with her and demanded no explanations.
She wondered how long he’d wait.
Kim picked up the banker’s box containing Sylvia’s newer mail from P.O. Box 4720 and dumped it out on one of the beds. She pushed envelopes with both hands, seeking recognizable logos amid the junk. Marketers were ever smarter. Separating the gold from the dross wasn’t simple. Evidence was easily missed.
Five items looked promising.
She scooped junk mail into the box and shoved it aside. She carried possibles to the desk and rooted around for a letter opener. She unfolded contents and sorted them into piles.
Two senders: Jensen & Associates, C.P.A, and The Empire Bank of Switzerland.
Gaspar said, “OK, Sunshine, I give up. What’s all this about?”
Kim glanced at her watch. Seventy-three minutes of patience. She wondered if that was some sort of personal best. It probably was. She said, “I know why they killed Harry.”
He shrugged. “Everyone knows why they killed Harry. For the money.”
“It’s more complicated than that. If I’m right, Sylvia and Harry were about to be on the wrong end of the IRS for back taxes, penalties and interest of $137 million. More than twice Harry’s total Kliner stash. They’d have lost everything and gone to prison.”
No reaction.
She said, “And they would have taken Cooper down with them. And they still can.”
“How?”
She said, “You need to decide if you really want to hear this. It ain’t going to be pretty. It’s going to be a train wreck.”
“But you’re sticking with it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Because I’m not Zorro.”
“You have a family. And twenty years to go.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“You sure?”
“You deaf? How many times do I have to say it?”
“Sylvia’s mail tells the story,” she said. Then she hesitated. She took a deep breath. “And Finlay confirmed it for me.”
Gaspar said nothing. He just headed for one of the upholstered chairs.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Kim said. “We’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes at the Swiss Embassy and a flight to Zurich at 1:12.”
“Fill me in, Susie Q,” he said.
She pulled the redwell’s contents, and divided them into three batches. “We were right about the laundering. Harry figured out a way to exchange the Kliners for real money. Caribbean casinos.” She tossed the first group into his lap. “Photographs of Harry and Sylvia at blackjack tables in four separate establishments over four years. Tried and true. They bring the Kliners out of Atlanta in small batches. They buy chips, they gamble a while, they cash in the chips for real money. Pretty simple, even with Harry’s full time job. Short flights from Atlanta to the Caribbean. Easy enough to confirm by flight records.”
He asked, “But what did they do with the clean money? Stupid to bring it back and hide it in the closet.”
Kim tossed him the second set of redwell contents. “Bank records. Deposits to Caribbean banks.”
Gaspar thumbed through the half dozen statements. “They run for slightly less than five years. Stop abruptly three months ago. Offshore, like we thought.”
“But then they screwed up.”
“How?”
“Two ways. First, they never claimed any of their gambling winnings on their income taxes to get the clean money into the paper trail. Fraud would have been a lot harder to prove when the IRS got on their tails. Bought them extra time.”
He shrugged. Tax issues had never impressed him much. She figured he’d never been on the wrong side of the IRS. T
hose bastards were meaner than the FBI by a long shot.
“Second?”
She held paper in each unsteady hand. Raised Finlay’s contributions in her left first. “The Caribbean bank statements are fakes, too. Meant to comfort Harry, maybe. The money wasn’t there. It was deposited somewhere else. Might still be there.”
Gaspar lifted his eyebrow. Didn’t reach out for the paper. Touching meant plausible deniability destroyed.
Kim raised Susan Kane’s mail from box 4720 in her right hand. “These confirm.”
“Where is the money, then?”
“Empire Bank of Switzerland.”
Gaspar smiled. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”
She smiled back. “Poetic, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Washington, DC
November 3
11:25 p.m.
The Swiss embassy was alight and active inside when they arrived slightly ahead of a developing storm. Temperatures had dropped and lightning flashed in the distance. The wind had picked up. No rain yet, but Kim could feel dropping atmospheric pressure in her bones. The cab driver said, “I’ll wait, but if you want to make it to Dulles in an hour, you’d better hurry. They’re predicting hail the size of golf balls.”
Kim tried to ignore everything she knew about flying through thunderstorms as she rushed ahead of Gaspar into the glass enclosed center connecting the two brick wings. There was more lightning, followed by deafening thunder, and then wind-whipped rain started to fall. The effect of standing inside the storm while totally shielded and feeling none of nature’s outrage was surreal.
They were escorted quickly to Finlay’s contact, deep in the north wing. The office was decorated as if by ancient financiers. Teak floors, worn orientals, ancient vases. Likely real. As was Wilfred Schmidt, according to his desk nameplate.
Schmidt offered two hard chairs on the other side of his desk. He clasped manicured hands together on a burgundy desk blotter. He had gold links in his starched white cuffs. He spoke precise English, clearly not his first language, and maybe not his second.
“Please excuse the necessary abruptness,” he said. “My schedule is quite full as it is about to be tomorrow in Zurich. I have been instructed to disclose certain information. I am allowed to answer no questions. Agreed?”
Kim nodded because she had no power to demand more.
Herr Schmidt prompted, “Yes?”
Maybe there was an audio recording.
Gaspar said, “Agreed.”
Schmidt launched into rote speech he’d likely delivered to countless customers over the past twelve months. “As you know, Empire Bank of Switzerland will provide a list of depositors and amounts on deposit to U.S. Internal Revenue Service pursuant to new treaties signed by our respective governments. Understand?”
Kim nodded. He waited. She said, “Yes.”
Everyone knew the IRS was salivating like a starving Rottweiler before dinner. Negotiations with Swiss banks and treaties executed the previous year were well publicized all around the world. Looming deadlines for disclosing tax cheats had been preceded by a period of tax amnesty about to expire. Tensions on Wall Street and Main Street and in every criminal enterprise that touched the country had led to panic among legitimate and illegitimate alike.
If Kim’s theories were correct, the same panic had led Sylvia Black to murder her husband. Panic that could lead to solid testimony against Cooper.
Schmidt noticed Kim’s preoccupation. He cleared his throat to bring her back.
He delivered a rehearsed disclaimer next, with appropriate emphasis. “Swiss privacy laws demand strict secrecy. Penalties for privacy violations are severe. Accounts will be revealed precisely as required. Individual depositors are permitted six remaining days to complete satisfactory asset arrangements and agreements with respective governments. We have no information on the status of such activities. Understand?”
“Yes,” Kim said. She understood. The Swiss remained as politically neutral as possible. A policy necessary, some said, to maintaining the most opportunistic country on earth. A friend to everyone is a friend to no one, in Kim’s view, stacks of money regardless.
Schmidt reached the red meat. “Four individual depositors are relevant here. Four numbered accounts and two safety deposit boxes. Contents of boxes are not disclosed to the bank. Understand?”
Gaspar said, “We understand. Who are the four depositors?”
Schmidt passed another sealed redwell across the desk to Kim.
She tore off the shrink wrap, removed the elastic band, pulled out four account statements and two small brass keys affixed to numbered tags. She checked the account names. Susan Kane's on one box made sense. But the others? She blinked. Again. The names didn't change. Charles Cooper, Carlos Gaspar, and Kim Otto. How could that be?
She felt the stomach snake begin to uncoil.
Nothing is ever what you think it is.
Gaspar asked, “Where are the safety deposit boxes located?”
Schmidt said, “Zurich. They’ve been alerted to receive you. Your taxi is waiting.”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Zurich, Switzerland
November 4
4:00 p.m. local time
A delayed departure at Dulles due to weather meant they missed their appointment in Zurich. But they had a chance to make it to the bank before it closed. She jogged and he limped through the spotless terminal, all the way to a spotless cab at a spotless curb. He asked, “Doesn’t it worry you that Finlay is doing this?”
“Should it?” Kim asked back. She watched Zurich pass by out the side window.
“Cooper is a ruthless guy.”
“Clearly Finlay is just as ruthless.”
“Exactly. Two ruthless guys battle, other people die.”
She shrugged. Useful gesture, she’d concluded. Conveyed everything and nothing. Economical, too. “Everybody dies.”
***
The cab pulled up in front of an imposing grey brick skyscraper thirty minutes late, but still thirty minutes before closing. They climbed out together into dry but overcast twilight. The EBS logo was prominently displayed on the building. It was identical to the logos on the envelopes they’d found in box 4720, and on the four bank statements and the two keys in the second redwell.
There were patrons milling around inside the bank. Kim was slightly surprised. Who made personal visits to banks any more? Kim’s paychecks were automatically deposited, her withdrawals made at ATMs, and her bills paid online or by draft.
There was a very formal male receptionist in the lobby, seated behind a mahogany desk. He asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Herr Gartner is expecting us.” Kim showed regret and her driver’s license. “Our flight was a bit late, I’m afraid.”
The receptionist looked down at a print-out with the day’s appointments discreetly listed and unreadable from Kim’s viewpoint. “Yes, I see,” he said. He sounded like a bad guy in a bad movie. “Perhaps it is possible to accommodate you. Please be seated. I will contact Herr Gartner.”
Five minutes later a middle-aged man entered the lobby through one of the heavy wooden doors on the left hand side. He said, “This way, please.” They followed him down a narrow carpeted hallway. There were grey steel doors placed ten feet apart on both sides. Twenty feet in, he stopped. He unlocked a door into a carpeted eight-by-eight windowless room. The room held a wood parson’s table and four unforgiving chairs.
Inside, he asked, “May I see your identification, please?”
They produced badge wallets. He photographed their ID first, and followed with head shots. Then he extended his device to each of them in turn. “Please.”
Both agents pressed an index finger onto the screen. A green light signaled success. The man seemed satisfied.
“Please wait here. The boxes will arrive momentarily.”
Kim marked the time. Tested the lever when he left. They were locked in. A surveillance camera was
mounted at the corner ceiling joint opposite, with a red light indicating that it was operational. Kim suspected clients turned their backs on the camera while other hidden lenses created indelible records. If they failed to follow instructions, consequences would be immediate and unpleasant.
Precisely eight minutes later, the middle-aged man returned with a sturdy cart upon which rested two bottles of water, two glasses, a silver-plated coffee carafe, two cups, two saucers, two spoons, and cream and sugar.
And two heavy metal boxes.
Maybe fifteen inches by twelve by fifteen.
Each box had two locks.
The man pulled two keys from his pocket and put them on the table. “You brought depositor keys, correct? I will collect those before you depart. You may not remove anything from this room. Your authorization permits viewing only. No photographs or recording of any kind. We close in thirty minutes.”
He indicated a small rectangle on the wall. “Push this button and I shall return to escort you to the exit. Any questions?”
“No,” Kim lied. She was overwhelmed with questions.
The man left without ceremony.
Kim used the bank’s keys and Gaspar used the depositor keys Finlay had provided. They lifted heavy, hinged lids and let them rest fully open.
They peered into the boxes.
Susan Kane’s was full.
Charles Cooper’s was nearly empty.
Kim slipped latex gloves from her pocket. She said, “I’ll take Kane, you take Cooper.”
They worked quickly and followed standard protocols. They examined and sorted contents. They snapped photos surreptitiously with their smart phones, but used no dictation. Video capture by the bank’s system was inescapable, but they’d provide no sound track of their own.
Gaspar finished first. He poured coffee and moved to a chair and studied Cooper’s treasures.
Kim catalogued Kane’s contents robotically. She’d worked vice raids enough times to recognize the common sex-trade tools. They were secured inside a small canvas duffel. Harnesses, body paint, paddles, rubber belts, spiked shoes. French ticklers, satin gloves, pleasure mitten, massage oil. Polaroid camera, but no film and no photos.
