Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Jerusha Jones

  Now, to figure out the operational details. I hoped it was as easy as following the money. Thanks to Dwayne, that process might already be underway.

  In many cases, organized crime is a nepotistic enterprise. That’s not to say that crime families don’t adopt outsiders, but I’d lucked out in requesting the files for both Simon Ramos Senior and Simon Ramos Junior because like father, like son. Not only had Junior inherited his father’s name, he’d inherited his position with the longshoremen’s union and his criminal proclivities. So which one was Squeaky?

  I remembered how disturbed I’d been when Matt had suggested that I might know Zimmermann, might have already had some kind of contact with him. The idea had creeped me out, as though my life had been smeared with a dirty stain which Skip may have intentionally exposed me to. But as I read through the fine print in the Ramos men’s files, I realized I knew them too—both of them.

  And the standard six degrees of separation between us had narrowed down to just one—but a different one in this case. My dad.

  Dad had told me to find Squeaky—that Squeaky had the information I needed. Well, here it was. The dates lined up.

  Ramos Senior had been my father’s supervisor in the Inlandboatmen’s Union. He’d been the primary contract negotiator and organizer. Which meant, presumably, that he controlled the lists—the green list and the black list, essentially—those he favored and who received job assignments and those who didn’t. He’d also have been in a position to collect kickbacks and protection money from the major employers and to orchestrate harassment of those same companies if they didn’t provide the strongly suggested donations.

  My dad and Ramos Senior had worked together for fifteen years. But Ramos Senior was also dead—three years ago. I wondered if my dad knew that.

  And then I wondered if the two Ramos men also shared a nickname, as in Squeaky One and Squeaky Two. Because, by all accounts, Ramos Junior had taken up where his father had left off and voraciously expanded the rule of corruption that was his family legacy.

  Bigelow had indicated that Squeaky, presumably Ramos Junior, was a current and active underling of Whelan’s. Wow.

  And the numbers Bigelow had thrown out—the amounts I’d emptied out of Skip’s money laundering accounts, millions that had belonged in the Whelan funnel, some of which were presumably handled by Squeaky—had been accurate.

  It wasn’t logical to be surprised by the tangle of all these connections in the criminal organizational structure, but that didn’t keep my heart from pounding like a jackhammer inside my ribcage. I glanced up at Emmie to see if she’d heard it too. I didn’t want to awaken her.

  My own father and Squeaky’s father—buddies.

  And then another thought froze in my belly, banished all other worries to oblivion.

  Skip must have known.

  Known that I had a remote family connection to one of the largest criminal organizations in the Bay Area. I was never aware that my dad had done anything illegal, but given who his associates were, he would certainly have been presented with opportunities for under-the-table transfers, for influence peddling, for greasing the cogs. How could he have avoided it?

  Guilt by association? Guilt in reality?

  But Dad couldn’t tell me now.

  How does one deal with a conscience addled by dementia?

  The papers in my hands were trembling as though a tempest was whipping through the room. I dropped them and clenched my hands into fists.

  I bent over the knot in my stomach. Was this why Skip had married me?

  Everything else I’d learned about him since his disappearance on our honeymoon indicated that he was an extraordinary planner. Intricate, complicated, chess to the nth degree. Was I just another pawn on his ambitious game board?

  There was no denying that I was already neck-deep in his plot. And I’d involved others—many others. I couldn’t back out now. I had to hope the shortest route out of this mess was through it.

  And the truth was, there wasn’t anything I could do at the moment to trail or trap Squeaky Ramos or Dirk Whelan. They were out of reach.

  So I turned my attention to the Numero Cuatro tree and the Zimmermann problem. I read Angelica Temple’s file first, mainly because she fascinated me. Zimmermann had certainly brought her into the fold, treated her like progeny when it came to running his legitimate business—Roman & Bernard Men’s Clothiers.

  Maybe the old man didn’t have children of his own. Maybe she’d bamboozled him. Maybe he was thinking with a body part other than the noggin on his shoulders.

  Angelica had been a working-class girl up until about six years ago. She’d earned an associate degree in communication from a community college. While in school, she’d been a retail clerk at the Redwood City branch of Roman & Bernard. Obviously, things had blossomed from there. I guessed it would be fair to say she grew up in the company—just very, very fast.

  The FBI didn’t appear to be big on hobbies. Angelica’s file covered her family, education, and work history in excruciating detail, but there was nothing to glean about her personal interests. However, the file did note that she slept as many nights at Zimmermann’s mansion as she did at her own condo. Maybe keeping a ninety-year-old man happy occupied all her leisure time.

  Angelica took business trips. Several of her itineraries from the past couple years were included. In fact, she really got around—New York, Chicago, Miami Beach, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Dallas, even Paris, France. Some of those locations made sense from a men’s fashion product sourcing perspective, but others definitely didn’t. As far as I could tell, she went on the trips alone, so they weren’t vacations with Zimmermann.

  My fingers tangled with each other, flying over the keyboard. There had to be some commonality between all the locations and the dates she stayed over. It’s easy to find event calendars for major metropolitan areas online. I started a column on my notepad, and after a few entries the pattern was clear.

  Exclusive antiques shows—big ones which included fine art and jewelry. The kind that only the most sophisticated and dedicated connoisseurs were invited to. The kind where the exhibiting dealers also booked private rooms in the city’s five-star restaurants a year in advance in order to fête their favorite clients, all in the hope that they could also finagle a few spare million out of their pockets. “It’s just the thing for your dining room, dahhling” said with a sticky smile. “You know, Sheik Ahmed was looking at the same piece this morning,” etc.

  This was completely different from the bragging rights acquisition by Victor Lutsenko, my Numero Dos, of the stolen paintings by Modigliani, Picasso and Matisse. Angelica had invested a lot of time and expense in her pursuit. It wasn’t a fling for her. She was a serious collector—of something.

  From my memory of her appearance at the San Francisco Opera, it’d be accurate to say Angelica liked to sparkle. I wondered if Zimmermann showered her with gifts, wondered if she picked out her own gifts at these antiques shows.

  Ever since he’d gone missing, my husband had also gotten into the habit of sending me odd gifts, things that were weirdly out of context. First the massive bouquet of red roses, then a Texas ruby red grapefruit gift basket, and more recently an Art Deco emerald and diamond bracelet which he’d been caught on video purchasing from a pawnshop. Skip had mailed the bracelet a few weeks later from Silt, Colorado.

  Art Deco. The design aesthetic popular in the 1920s and ‘30s qualified as antique these days, right?

  My stomach whirled on a roller coaster joyride, realizing a fraction of a second before my brain did that this line of reasoning might be going somewhere.

  I skidded down the hall in my wool socks, slung around the door frame into my room and grabbed the padded pouch containing the bracelet, then darted back to Emmie’s room.

  The angled lighting from the bedside lamp was perfect. I immediately picked out the maker’s mark imprinted on the inside of the bracelet—JHM. A quick Google search revealed that Javier Horatio M
edellin was a much sought-after early Art Deco jewelry designer.

  Skip had paid $15,000 for the bracelet. Matt had been able to share that juicy tidbit with me because the pawnshop owners had cooperated with the FBI and turned over their copy of the receipt. But compared to the prices I was seeing in the few online auctions of JHM’s works, it was obvious the pawnshop owners hadn’t realized what a treasure they’d had. Skip had gotten a bargain.

  What did Skip know? I was willing to bet he knew more about Angelica’s tastes than I did, even though I was sitting with her FBI file on my lap. It had become evident that Skip had made a careful study of all his clients and their trusted lieutenants.

  I had failed to mention the arrival of the bracelet in the mail to Matt. Partly because it was a gift from my husband, and as such, seemed a private matter. Partly because I knew Matt would ask questions I wouldn’t be able to answer.

  So as far as Matt knew, Skip was still carrying it around in his pocket—a terribly incongruous item for a man on the run from both law enforcement and mobster enemies to keep. But I was perfectly positioned to do something useful with the bauble.

  Aficionados talked to each other, right? I tried another hunch and went looking for online chat rooms or forums that centered on the highly prized JHM jewelry.

  Bingo. I had my choice of several.

  I snapped an intentionally blurry photo of the bracelet with one of my phones, created a new bogus email address, and anonymously posted in the most active forum. I made up a little story to go with the picture—that I’d just inherited the bracelet from my grandmother, was wondering what it was worth, and was trying to decide if I should sell it since I wasn’t a big fan of the style.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are, Angelica darling.

  It was a bit of a long shot, dangling bait. But maybe she’d be lured by what appeared to be a novice seller, someone who didn’t know how much to ask for the piece.

  Hooking her was another matter. One which I’d worry about tomorrow if I got any nibbles.

  I climbed into the bed, curled around Emmie, and heaped the comforter over us.

  CHAPTER 18

  A pile of thick blankets over your head doesn’t make a ringing phone any less annoying. I groaned and rolled out of the bed, hitting the frigid morning air with a stifled gasp.

  I scooped up the phone and skidded over to the window, trying to keep my voice low. “Yeah?”

  “He talked,” Matt said.

  “Oh yeah?” I couldn’t suppress a squeak of exultation.

  The lump under the blankets moved, and a pale face with two wide eyes emerged. Her newly shorn hair stuck out all over like dark dandelion fluff. I smiled apologetically at her.

  “He straight-up confessed to taking Emmie. Kind of hard to hide the evidence all over his body. You guys really did a number on him. We had him admitted to the hospital overnight for observation. Slight concussion.”

  I was absolutely unable to muster any pity for Rod Kliever. “And Bigelow?”

  “Unknown. Kliever says Bigelow left about half an hour before he went to check on Emmie—a welfare check, he claims—and then had that altercation with you. He assumed Bigelow was going to deliver the money.”

  “To Dirk Whelan,” I added.

  “Whelan? No. Wait. What? He said to a guy named Squeaky, which seems to be an alias for a Simon Ramos. Those files I gave you? There are two Simon Ramoses. Whelan?” Matt sounded distracted, with uneven pauses between his comments, then there was soft thud as though he’d shut a door. “Dirk Whelan’s your Numero Siete.”

  It was like remedial math and calculus all wrapped into one. “I know,” I said. “I’m still figuring it out, but Kliever works for Bigelow. Bigelow works for Squeaky Ramos, and Squeaky works for Whelan. I expect there are other layers in between, but I’m sure of the sequence and the direction in which the money will flow.” I walked over to the papers on the floor that I’d neatly arranged into the structural organization of Whelan’s syndicate.

  “Do you have proof?” Matt jabbed.

  “Just watch those serial numbers.”

  “Speaking of which, where’d you get that money?”

  “I found it.”

  “I bet.”

  If he only knew that I also had gold bars squirreled away in a storage unit. It was a weighty struggle to quickly parse which bits of fact I could reveal and which I shouldn’t. At some point, the wrong thing was going to pop out of my mouth. “The forest can hold secrets for decades, even centuries, and I happen to own a lot of forest. Things crop up.”

  Matt grunted. “Yeah. Like that body in your cemetery. How long were you going to keep that a secret?”

  I blinked. This was so not where I wanted this conversation to go. I hated sparring with him, but revealing too many details—about anything—would also bring up my dad’s hazy involvement in the complex tangle of opportunistic business relationships I was in the process of unraveling.

  At least, I hoped I was unraveling it.

  Besides, there was no way I could answer questions about the body of Giuseppe Ricardo Solano, otherwise known as Numero Tres.

  Time to redirect the line of inquiry. “Can I get Dirk Whelan’s file?” I asked.

  “I can probably answer all your questions off the top of my head,” Matt said. “Whelan’s on my turf—Seattle, to be exact.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” I grumbled.

  Emmie was sitting on the bed cross-legged, the blankets poofed around her like hoop skirts. She had picked up the bracelet from the bedside table and slipped it onto her arm. She was so small that there was no need to unclasp the bracelet to do so.

  “The first time his name ever came up between us was about two minutes ago—other than being on Skip’s list of clients, that is,” Matt countered, sounding miffed.

  “You’re holding out on me.” It was my turn to jab. I imagined the color that was probably creeping into Matt’s cheeks. Although riling him up wasn’t usually to my advantage.

  “I just offered to answer any question.” Matt blew out a breath. “He’s toward the bottom of the list. I like working top priorities first. Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “Everyone on that list of money launderers is a head honcho,” I gritted out, “and needs to be taken out of action.”

  “Agreed.” Matt paused. “Ask away.”

  I snuggled in beside Emmie, and she rested her head on my shoulder while spinning the bracelet on her arm. It sparked a shower of starlight around the room.

  “What’s he do?” I murmured, stroking her hair.

  Someday, I would have to explain to her that phone chats with a dedicated FBI case manager before breakfast weren’t normal, weren’t usually how six-year-old girls and their legal guardians started their days. But she’d already been exposed to the worst, and although she was a sponge, she was so amazingly resilient. We’d tackle the truth together, one step at a time.

  “Everything.” Matt let the word out as though he was relaxing. Maybe he was in his car—he’d probably been up all night. “He’s the consummate wheeler-dealer. He has a lock on all the unions involved in transportation on the West Coast. If anything illegal is shipped, or if a legitimate shipment is moved in an illegal way, Whelan knows about it and is profiting from it. He has his hooks in everything from Point A to Point B.”

  “Why isn’t he in prison?” I asked. Obvious question if the FBI was so certain about Whelan’s activities.

  “Because he has an army of smart lawyers and he’s very good at shadow operations that aren’t linked directly to him. His name’s not on any of the incorporation records or bank accounts. He has top-notch lieutenants that take most of the risk. Our forensic accountants are still mired in the paperwork we can get ahold of. There’s a lot more that’s still out of subpoena reach.”

  “Squeaky Ramos Junior is one of those lieutenants,” I murmured. “I hope you’re bugging him. I mean that literally. Is Whelan violent?”

  �
��He’s earned his chops.”

  “How?” I turned my head, and thus the phone, away from Emmie. I didn’t want her to hear even the tinniest snippet of what Matt might say.

  “We suspect him of at least five hits. Three brutal murders of rival gangsters whose bodies were intentionally displayed as warning messages. No witnesses ever came forward, and no identifying forensic evidence was ever found. Those were early in Whelan’s career. Two years ago, a close associate of Whelan’s was found in Puget Sound—the body had come loose from weights that were tied to its ankles, so that one was probably more of a personal vendetta. Again, no incriminating evidence. But the bigger mystery is Whelan’s uncle and the former head of the crime family. We still haven’t found his body, but Whelan’s been in charge ever since he went missing.”

  So Whelan’s underlings would be afraid of him, and rightfully so. The cash had a long way to go. I had to hope that Clarice’s suitcase would safely make it through the relay handoff system and, when finally delivered, be impossible for the king of contraband to resist. Unmarked cash is the ideal currency because it’s entirely anonymous. Unless the FBI recorded the serial numbers forty years ago.

  “He doesn’t take kindly to being double-crossed,” Matt continued. “He might give the appearance of being a gentleman mobster these days, hasn’t performed his own hits—that we know of—for the past couple years, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t order them, Nora. When he finds out you’re not in custody, that Kliever let you go—”

  “He won’t,” I blurted. “Not for a while anyway.”

  “This is the guy who knows everything about everything regarding shipments up and down the West Coast and in and out of all the ports. He’s plugged in. He will find out—and soon. This is not the Numero we thought was going to come after you, which means there’s a double threat, if not more. I want a protection detail inside the mansion with you.”

  “No,” I ground out. “Wait. What do you know? Who else?”

  “I warned you.”