The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

  “Hello, boys,” said Billy jovially. “I’m glad you didn’t forget about me.”

  Zeke smiled. The FBI agents had arrested Forester and taken him to their offices in the Federal Building on Simonton Street in Key West, where Zeke had joined them.

  The younger man said, “I’m going to read you your rights again, Billy.”

  “I think I know what they are,” said Billy. “No need to be redundant. But what did you arrest me for?”

  “Forgive me, but I’m an attorney. We’ll do this by the book. And for the camera.” He looked at Agent Williams who took the cue and Mirandized Billy Forester a second time, for the camera.

  “OK, good, now tell me, who are you?” said Forester.

  “I’m the Federal Prosecuting Attorney for the Southern District of Florida.” The younger man spoke with a slight Hispanic accent, maybe two generations away from a Spanish-speaking household. “My name is Ortiz.”

  Forester nodded slowly, his smile gone. “Federal Prosecuting Attorney,” he said. He looked at the two agents. “I don’t know what you think happened, to bring in the big guns, but…”

  “Let’s start with your friend, Skinny Gonzalez,” said Ortiz.

  “Not really my friend,” said Forester.

  “How about ‘Business Partner’?”

  “What…” Forester started.

  “We know all about Skinny,” said Ortiz. “We’ve had a file on him since he arrived from Colombia in the 1980s.”

  Forester was silent.

  “When Escobar sent him to keep an eye on you, Billy,” Ortiz continued. “When you were running his cocaine.”

  Ortiz continued. “We all know that Pablo didn’t turn his cocaine import business over to you, Billy. He wasn’t a trusting guy. So Skinny relocated to the Keys to make sure everything was above board. As above board as cocaine smuggling could be, anyway.”

  Forester furrowed his brow and said, “This is all ancient history, Mr. Ortiz. Why are you even interested in it now? Escobar was killed in Colombia in the early 1990s. And the five-year statute of limitations on Federal drug conspiracy charges ran out years ago.”

  “It did,” said Ortiz. “But there is no statute of limitations on a first-degree murder charge.”

  Billy Forester suddenly looked furtive.

  “The witnesses against Escobar. The Traynors. You killed them with the bomb.”

  Billy said, “You have no proof of that…”

  Ortiz smiled. “Skinny Gonzalez is going to testify,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Billy.

  “To keep his granddaughter out of prison,” said Ortiz. “We booked her as an accessory after the fact.”

  “For murder? That’s a stretch. She wasn’t even born back then,” said Forester.

  “No, not for murder,” said Ortiz. “For smuggling drugs. We closed down their operation yesterday.”

  * * *

  “You did what?” asked Tracy Johnson, shocked.

  “It wasn’t a big thing,” said Zeke. “I just took the transom drain plug out and shut off the bilge pump.”

  “And his boat sank?” asked Tracy. “Right there at the dock?”

  “It wouldn’t have taken long,” said Zeke. “Maybe overnight. I thought it prudent to disappear before it went down.”

  “Oh, my. Can they catch you?”

  “Not likely. Four times as many boats sink at dock each year as sink while under way. And most sink because of ‘operator error.’”

  “What causes it?” asked Tracy.

  “Generally, it’s too much beer.”

  “No, silly, what causes the boats to sink?”

  “I suspect that usually someone forgets to put the drain plug back in and floats the boat with the hole open. The bilge pump keeps pumping the water out for a while, but eventually, it gives out. Bilge pumps aren’t designed to run 24/7.”

  “Did you really do that? Sink his boat?” asked Tracy.

  “No, I didn’t,” Zeke confessed. “But that man loved that boat, and it gave me some pleasure, thinking about doing it.”

  “I understand,” said Tracy. “Do you have closure now? About your folks’ deaths?”

  “Not really. I’m glad that we know what really happened. And I’m glad the guilty parties didn’t get away with it. But I don’t feel closure. Just melancholy when I think about it, I guess.”

  “I have just the cure for that,” said Tracy. “Let me make you lunch and we can talk.”

  * * *

  “Guess how I’m feeling?” asked Tracy with feigned innocence.

  “Hmm,” said Zeke. “I suppose I’d narrow it down to something between ‘frisky’ and ‘randy’ based on what I’m seeing.”

  Tracy was dressed in a loose, short beach cover-up, and nothing else. She’d pulled the cotton belt tight, which accentuated her small waist. She sipped a Seabreeze unselfconsciously while Zeke worked on a single malt and soda.

  She had pulled a large leather chair around in the cottage, inside the sliding glass doors and facing the ocean. They were sharing it, side by side. The sun was approaching the blue horizon.

  “You smell good,” said Zeke. “That’s Ex Nihilo. Devil Tender, right?”

  “You know it is,” said Tracy. “You said you liked it, so I brought it along.”

  “‘Out of Nothing.’ I do like it,” said Zeke. “I’m glad you have it with you.”

  “So what’s next?” asked Tracy, taking a small sip.

  “As soon as we finish these beverages, I’ll be chasing you back to the bedroom,” said Zeke with a sparkle in his eye.

  “Won’t happen,” said Tracy.

  “How would you stop me? I know you’re not carrying your gun in that outfit. It would show,” said Zeke, pretending to look.

  Tracy smiled. “No, silly. You won’t be chasing me. ‘Cuz I’ll be chasing you!”

  Chapter 24

  Chester Kirby sat comfortably in the back seat of the black limo and smiled a winning smile at his three companions. They had been driving in New Jersey traffic for forty minutes and were still a half hour from their destination.

  “I need to charter one of those helicopters,” he said to no one in particular. “Just to get around. Especially in New York.”

  The limo was headed for a newly renovated brownstone located in Alphabet City, a few blocks from Tompkins Park. Kirby had received a call from his partner, who owned the entire building as well as the two next door. He had requested a meeting, and the car had been dispatched to pick him up.

  The man closest to Kirby, the oldest son of his partner, said, “My father’s concerned about these losses.”

  Kirby nodded sincerely. “I am, too. More than anyone. But we’ve got it under control.”

  “We’ve been doing business for a long time,” said the man. “I believe it’s been good for both sides.”

  Kirby nodded and smiled nervously. “It has, Ghafran. We’re very pleased with this ongoing relationship. And I assure you, you won’t see any of the losses. We’re absorbing all of that.”

  * * *

  At the brownstone, Kirby joined the men on the sidewalk as the limo pulled away from the curb. They walked up the front steps, in through the ornate door, and took the recently replaced elevator to the fifth floor. They knocked and entered an opulent space that occupied the entire floor with wide views in every direction. The suite was decorated with antique furnishings arranged in several small groupings. The art on the wall was obviously expensive. Kirby noticed a picture that might have been painted by Gustave Courbet.

  “Hello, Chester, my friend. How are you?”

  Kirby turned to see Ferman Khoury entering the room through an interior door. He walked directly to Kirby and the two men shook hands.

  “I’m well,” said Kirby, “It’s good to see you again, Ferman.”

  The Lebanese man signaled for tea to be brought in, and the men arranged themselves around a low table set with cups, saucers, and a small pitcher of heavy cream.

/>   “Ghafran mentioned that you were disappointed in the recent losses,” Kirby started, still slightly nervous. “I assured him that none of them will make their way back to you.”

  “That is reassuring, Chester,” said Ferman. “I wouldn’t want to take such a loss. You promised me that this investment would be risk-free.”

  “Yes, absolutely, Ferman. We’re taking the losses. And we’re fixing the problem, so it won’t happen again.”

  “Using my men,” said Ferman. “Wilbur and Harry.”

  “It seemed most expedient to do so,” said Chester, not certain where this was going.

  “How will you stop this from happening in the future? Other pawnshop owners may get greedy, also.”

  “Yes,” said Chester. “We’re working on that, too. Our Risk Management people have that as their first priority.”

  “Your Risk Management people?”

  “Yes, Julia Conners. I hired her to manage this problem, to make it go away.”

  “She is the one with ties to Sinn Fein?” asked Ferman.

  “She is,” said Kirby. “Her husband was killed by the Brits some years ago. She’s an angry one.”

  “I see. Is there an action plan?” asked Ferman.

  “Yes, most definitely. We’re having the bank do random audits.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “We’ve increased scrutiny for our franchisee applicants. We’ve gone back and reviewed the files for each franchisee, looking for prior arrests or trouble with the law. And we’re weeding out anyone we catch skimming. Zero tolerance.”

  “That is all reassuring, Chester,” said Ferman. He sipped his tea. “We go back a long way, almost since I started selling the weapons internationally. Both of our businesses have grown quickly and are very profitable. But I can’t risk my entire operation just to clean my money. You know I will hold you personally responsible for any failures.” This last was a statement more than a question.

  Kirby squirmed in his chair, and said, “I understand, Ferman.”

  * * *

  “So how can we help you today, Mr. Ryder? Mr. Chamberlain?”

  The sign on his large, wooden desk read, Cal Harmon, President of the Union First Bank of New Jersey.

  “We recently bought Pawn 4 All franchises, Pardner,” said Zeke. “Chester Knowles asked us to transfer our accounts to your bank.”

  Clive nodded.

  The big man was going to flab, and he had sharp, beady eyes like a weasel. But his manner was cordial, even engaging.

  “We handle the bulk of Chester’s business accounts,” Harmon said. “Not just bank accounts, but loans for expansion, cash flow management, real estate acquisitions, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, we wanted to meet the man in charge,” Clive said. “We’re actually franchising all seven of our locations.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Chamberlain, I’m always glad to meet our new clients. And I think you’ll find the transition to Union First seamless.”

  “Yes, that would be good,” said Clive.

  “It’s our understanding that Pawn 4 All is interested in expanding further,” said Zeke. “Mr. Kirby said so. I thought we could help with that.”

  Cal Harmon looked surprised. He looked at his office door, as if to verify that it was closed. Then he said, “Well, uh, yes.” He’d clearly made a decision in those few seconds.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Clive.

  “Well, no,” said Harmon. “We try to avoid talking about our customers’ business here in the bank. Or in Chester’s offices. We don’t want to be overheard, you know.” He smiled warmly, his mental balance back.

  Clive looked around at the closed door. “We do have a couple questions we were hoping you could help us with,” he said.

  Harmon said, “Well, I guess there’s no harm in that, this one time…”

  * * *

  “I hope that answers your technical questions about Union First’s role in all of this,” said Harmon. “But, as I said, we tend to follow Mr. Kirby’s lead.”

  “I understand,“ said Clive. “And thank you for explaining the details.”

  “One thing, though, Mr. Harmon,” said Zeke.

  “Yes, Mr. Ryder?” asked the banker.

  “Where does the extra money come from?” asked Zeke.

  Cal Harmon sat still for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “Well, I don’t know. Perhaps that’s a question better answered by Chester Kirby…”

  “OK, we’ll do that,” said Zeke. Then, looking at his watch, he said, “Well, we’ve taken enough of your time.”

  * * *

  “I wanted to circle back and thank you for your assistance in this takedown,” said Agent-in-Charge, Francis Donovan.

  Zeke and Clive were sitting at a low table in Clive’s office, talking with the FBI agent on the speakerphone. Kimmy was standing next to them, bouncing slightly with her kinetic energy.

  She’s in perpetual motion, thought Zeke.

  “How did the operation go?” asked Clive.

  “Very well. We were able to close down over one hundred Pawn 4 All shops, and we arrested as many owners in the process.”

  “That’s great,” said Zeke. “What about the franchise operation? The headquarters?”

  “Yes, that, too. We’ve got Chester Kirby and Jack Thurmond in custody, along with a handful of their middle managers. Now’s when they start giving each other up, rolling on each other to get reduced prison sentences,” said Donovan.

  “And the remaining franchises?” asked Clive. “You said there were about 130, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right. We have paper for the rest of them, and agents camped out to arrest them as soon as they show up. Most of them aren’t aware of the operation yet, so I expect we’ll get most of them,” said Donovan. There was pride in her voice.

  “Nice job, Donovan,” said Clive.

  “All that remains, then, is the Union First bank,” said Zeke. “Is Cal Harmon involved in the money laundering?”

  “The Federal Prosecuting Attorney says it’s possible,” said Donovan. “We executed a warrant for Harmon and the bank records, thanks to your work. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Zeke said, “What about the owner suicides? The killings? Did you come across anything that could help us figure out that part of it?”

  Donovan said, “Not yet. But if anything comes up in our interviews, we’ll definitely pass it along.”

  * * *

  “Damn it,” said Julia Conners. “I’ll have to go underground. I can’t risk being picked up by law enforcement. If someone rolls and gives me up…”

  She was talking with Ferman Khoury, the Lebanese gunrunner, at his brownstone in New York.

  “Is there a link back to my operation?” he asked.

  “That could only be Kirby or myself,” said Julia. “And neither of us would give you up, Ferman.”

  “Tell me again what’s going on,” said Khoury.

  “Someone organized the arrest of a number of our franchisees. It started yesterday. They used local cops in each city to scoop up the owners. The papers they served said it’s about money laundering.” She hesitated before saying anything more, then looked at Khoury.

  “How did this happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was a total surprise.”

  “What’s changed recently? What have you noticed that may be related to this?”

  “Nothing really. Business as usual. We took on a small chain of pawnshops in several new territories, but nothing extraordinary,” said Julia. “And we’d almost finished dealing with the money skimmers.”

  Khoury said, “Yes, that was very stupid on their part. They were being compensated very well for their efforts.”

  “Human greed,” said Julia. “We’ve eliminated the problem shop owners. But the bigger problem…law enforcement…”

  “How well do you know these new franchisees? The ones with the ’small chain’ you mentioned?” asked Khoury.

>   “Not well. None of us do. But Chester has been feeling the pressure to expand, to handle more illegal cash. He’s been on a tear to add more shops since the summer,” said Julia. “When these guys showed up with multiple shops in their chain, he was just about salivating.”

  “Where is their file?” asked Khoury.

  “Actually, it’s in my briefcase. I was working on some of the ‘security’ details for the Risk Management plan for their shops when the arrests started,” she said. “I had to get out quick.”

  “Give the file to me. I’ll have Harry and Wilbur see if there’s any connection between the new franchisees and the arrests.”

  * * *

  “We’ve found them,” said Harry into the cell phone in the Office Tavern Grill, a Morristown bar. “Some of the fingerprints on the franchise paperwork they submitted track back to a Clive Greene. My friend in the New York PD ran the fingerprints for me.” He was smug.

  “And what do we know about this Clive Greene?” asked Ferman Khoury.

  “It’s a thin file, boss. Like it’s secure or something. But we were able to dig around and find a home address. And his office, called The Agency, is on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington.”

  “A neighbor of the President, then,” said Ferman from his New York brownstone. “Good, you know what to do.”

  Harry hung up the phone and turned to Wilbur, who was on the barstool next to him drinking a dirty martini. Wilbur glanced at him and Harry nodded in the affirmative.

  “How do we do this?” asked Wilbur, with one eye on a television broadcasting the Giants game.

  Harry started to speak, but Wilbur cut him off with, “First down!” Harry sipped his small batch Bourbon and decided to wait for a commercial.

  * * *

  “We head to D.C. tomorrow,” said Harry. “We’ve got his home address, so we’ll follow him there from his office after work.

  Wilbur said, “OK. Do you want to wait until he gets there? Or take him on the road?”