The Devil on Chardonnay

by Ed Baldwin

  She looked up, surprised at seeing an airport so close.

  “Navy guys have to land on aircraft carriers, so they train to hit the approach end of the runway with authority. They can’t afford to have the ground effect float them along for a hundred yards. They’d drop off the carrier deck. Air Force guys glide a plane down soft; Navy guys hit the runway.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  Their drinks arrived. Pamela took a gulp of her bourbon, then seemed to remember he was there, and nodded in his direction, “Cheers.” Then she took another drink. Her eyes were restlessly searching the room as if something evil might come through the door.

  “Cheers,” he responded and took a pull on his longneck. “I fly the F-16.”

  “Is that one of those little planes?” She took another gulp. The double bourbon was now mostly ice.

  “Single engine fighter.”

  “One of those fast ones, like the Hell’s Angels fly?”

  “It’s the Blue Angels, the Navy exhibition team. The Air Force exhibition team is the Thunderbirds.”

  “How fast?” She motioned for the waitress.

  “Fast.” He took a draw on his beer, still mostly full. “I could come up the river here, at sea level, about 900, and it’d break out all these windows.” He nodded out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Potomac River just on the other side of the Reagan National runway. “If I went up to 35,000 feet, I could make 1,500, and just make a loud noise.”

  “Another Jack,” she told the waitress. “And a bud.” Then, turning to Boyd she added, “This round’s mine.”

  “So, does the FBI usually investigate banks?”

  “No. This sleazeball in Oklahoma turned up when the bank examiners did the books at a bank he controlled. Then the IRS caught him cheating on his taxes, and the Securities and Exchange Commission caught him selling unlicensed securities.”

  “They had him, why did they need you?”

  “They didn’t have him, couldn’t pin it on him. They couldn’t find the irrefutable trail of money leading to him. He was living like a king on the money, trying to spend it all before they sent him away,” she said, beginning to relax.

  The rage was slipping away and now her eyes were mostly on Boyd. She leaned forward on the table, intent, conspiratorial. “They needed someone to get into his business, to find out how he did it.”

  “How did you get him?” Boyd asked, enjoying the transformation.

  “Follow the money. That’s what I do best.”

  “Did you go undercover?”

  She paused.

  He waited.

  “Sort of.” She took a sip. “He had an accomplice, a guy who worked at his bank. He was the bag man for all this, the enabler. I got him. He ratted out the big guy to save his skin.”

  A long pause as she looked into the ice in her glass, thoughts elsewhere.

  Boyd nodded, silent, watching the agent remember. He finished his first beer and took a sip of the second.

  “In a case like that, someone always has a record of where the money went. You just have to find out who it is, and make them give it to you.”

  Boyd nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I tricked him,” she said quietly, looking back into her drink. “It was a lawyer’s trick. He had been very careful to act only in his capacity at the bank, taking orders from the bank president and board. But, in prosecuting a conspiracy, you only have to show he knew the details of the illegal activity. He revealed to me he knew the location of an off-the-books property, and that tied him to the whole thing.”

  “We don’t have time for anything very elaborate. Someone has Pandora’s Box open and we need to find out who it is.”

  “There are constitutional safeguards in this country that protect private citizens from their own government going on a fishing expedition through their financial records. We could, pretty quick, get the depositor list from Planter’s National. We could then pick likely candidates to be involved and subpoena their records. Depending on how many wire transfers they’ve done in the past year, we could probably find who sent the money to Paris.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that this afternoon?”

  “General Ferguson was so busy trying to control everything. You don’t need me. If the bank would cooperate, you can get what you need from them.”

  “What if they’re involved?”

  “Then you have to go to court.”

  “Two years.”

  “At least.”

  She twirled her drink again, then finished it and looked up.

  “Your general and the Director seem to have already come to the conclusion that the only way to get the information you need is to resort to dirty tricks, and that’s why they sent for me.” She paused, looked out the window, then back at her drink. “Shit!”

  “Not your field?”

  “Apparently, it is my field. I’m becoming the ‘go to’ girl for barely legal, shady, undercover work.” She paused again. “Look, I cleared that case in Oklahoma by betraying a man who thought I was his friend. His involvement was peripheral to the real fraud, and now he’s a convicted felon and can never work in banking or the securities business again.”

  “But, he was a crook.”

  “Yeah.”

  Boyd laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, looking morose.

  “That’s ‘Black Ops’ off the books, the same thing I do.”

  She furrowed her brow, as if she didn’t follow his terminology.

  “We call secret operations Black Ops, and we have a whole command that does that kind of stuff. But, when they want to do something barely legal, shady, undercover, something that might involve some ass-kicking, they call on me. I’m someone nobody knows, and nobody would miss if I didn’t come back.”

  “‘Black Ops’ ... off the books,” she smiled, thinking about it. “Maybe we could have some cards printed up. I fit the same profile.” She thought some more. “Damn, those bastards …” She didn’t finish.

  Three hours passed. Pamela Prescott had two more Jack Daniel’s doubles, and Boyd kept up with longnecks. He told her about his previous adventure; including the classified part, and she did the same. They had dinner, and she sketched for him where the legal boundaries were that had to be honored to get the U.S. Attorney to do any kind of takedown, and how they might stand on one side of them and reach across to get information – way across. A plan emerged, but they’d need some specialized help. She knew just the person.

  There was a pause, each looking out at the night and the Reagan National runway lights, contemplating the next adventure in their lives.

  “What do you do when you want to shoot your gun?” She asked, elbows on the table, eyes on Boyd, a sweet, innocent look on her face.

  ********

  Pamela’s breasts spilled out of her bra as she opened the clasp in back. Boyd stood against the bathroom door in his room in that same hotel, watching as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her wool jacket on the dresser, removed her blouse, and now turned, bare breasted, flushed.

  He removed his shirt, stretched languidly and began removing his khakis. Pamela unzipped her skirt, allowing it to fall to the floor. She attempted to remove her panties and pantyhose all in one motion, but they caught at her knees and she fell sideways to the floor, struggling to pull one leg out.

  “Cool move, Pam,” she said thickly, pulling herself upright and hopping to the bed.

  Her breasts jiggled as she kicked her feet to free them from the pantyhose. Still unable to free herself, she pivoted on her buttocks and pointed her feet toward Boyd on the bed behind her, barely able to contain a laugh.

  “You didn’t leave your socks on did you?” Pamela asked as he pulled her pantyhose off, pivoting her buttocks back to lengthwise on the bed so she could see his feet. “Nothin’ worse than doin’ it with a man who won’t get naked.”

  Her intoxication was ever more evident as she fell backwards onto the pillow and
stared at the ceiling for a moment before rising on one elbow to look at Boyd, now stretched out beside her.

  Boyd was troubled by being here in government-provided quarters, naked with a co-worker. Pamela’s breasts straddled his face as she rolled sideways toward him. The warmth, and her intake of breath as he began exploring them with his face, redirected his thoughts. The buttocks that had seemed too large for the wool dress now seemed to be ideal, the curves providing a fascinating landscape for his roving palms.

  “When I’m drunk, I like to drive,” came Pamela’s voice from above him somewhere as she rolled off of him and sat on the bed. “But, I’m not sittin’ on that thing without a rubber.”

  Boyd got up. When he returned from the bathroom she was seated on the side of the bed.

  “Let me,” she said, taking the condom from him and fumbling with the package.

  He stood patiently while Pamela rolled it on, and then made room for him to lie beside her.

  “Black Ops, off the books,” she said with a laugh, throwing a leg over him and rising to sit astride.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MacDonnald Wilde

  “In these days when Congress watches everything the military does, do you suppose Ferguson and the FBI director have any anxiety about springing a bank robber from Leavenworth and then sending a Lear Jet to fly him here?” Boyd asked Pam as they waited by a staff car parked in front of Base Operations at Andrews Air Force Base.

  “He’s not really a bank robber. He was convicted of conspiracy to commit securities fraud and perjury,” Pamela said absently, eyes on the empty sky at the end of the runway. The Command Post had radioed that the C-21 was on final.

  “Interesting idea, using a crook to catch a crook,” Boyd said.

  “Donn has unique abilities. If that banker in Charleston knows anything, Donn Wilde will find it.”

  “We could wrap this thing up pretty quick.”

  “Your part, yes.”

  “Big difference from my last job. Fractured my skull, broke three ribs and collapsed a vertebra.”

  “Kicked some ass, too, didn’t you?”

  Boyd smiled.

  “I need to straighten out what happened last week,” she took her eyes off the end of the runway and looked across to the Air National Guard Base across it, not looking at Boyd. “Sometimes I drink too much, way too much. I do things. I get slutty.”

  “I should have stopped,” Boyd said, remembering her breasts spilling out of her bra.

  “Please, let’s just work together. Maybe when this is over, we could try again.”

  Now she looked at him.

  “Deal. Just business,” Boyd said, briefly locking eyes, then turning back to the south. “Uh, plane’s here.”

  The landing lights of the C-21 could be seen in the distance.

  *********

  “High card, double or nothing?”

  The man, in his middle 30s and his hands cuffed in front of him, spread a deck of cards out on the suitcases stacked in the narrow isle of the aircraft as Boyd climbed the steps.

  “No way, you already got my per diem,” the aging federal marshal said, shaking his head. He wore Western boots and a tooled leather belt.

  “Was luck. Could’ve gone the other way. You dealt half the hands.”

  The younger man was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt sporting the logo of a golf club in Oklahoma. He wore expensive loafers.

  You must be Donn Wilde,” Boyd said, offering his hand, and then pulling it back when he saw the cuffs.

  “That’s right, and delighted to be here to serve my country,” he said, his bright eyes and smile lighting up the passenger compartment.

  The marshal opened a briefcase and removed papers, arranging them on the makeshift table.

  “Pamela, you bitch,” Donn said gaily, as Pamela climbed the steps.

  “Donn, you criminal,” she grinned, unable to resist his smile.

  “Strange way to greet the person who got you out of the pen and could send you back just by refusing to sign this paper,” the marshal reminded Donn soberly.

  “Naw. Pammie and I go way back. What is it now, Pam, couple, three years?”

  Donn seemed relaxed and in control, as if this were his plane and Boyd and Pamela were coming to pick him up from a routine business trip.

  “You can sure have him, ma’am. Just sign these papers. You gonna want to keep him in cuffs?” The marshal offered Pam a pen, pointing to the custody papers.

  “I think Capt. Chailland can control Mr. Wilde,” she said, signing. The marshal unlocked the cuffs. Donn rubbed his wrists, stood up and stretched his shoulders.

  “Well, Mr. Wilde, it’s been a pleasant trip. I want to wish you luck, but the next time I fly with you, we ain’t playin’ no cards, OK?”

  The marshal laughed, his oversize belly bouncing like Santa Claus. He gathered his bag and briefcase and climbed down the steps, heading for the passenger terminal a few yards away, as if he’d done this before.

  “Is that where they keep the president’s plane?” Donn asked jauntily, looking around as they walked out to the staff car. He pointed at a large hangar in the distance.

  “Probably,” Boyd said, not knowing whether that was true or whether it was classified.

  “What does his seat look like?”

  “His seat?” Boyd asked, opening the trunk and dropping Donn’s slender bag in.

  “Yeah, where the president sits. He flies all over the world, travels with all the heavy hitters. He’s the top guy. What does his seat look like? Is it some special made thing with controls and knobs all over it, or is it plush so he can sleep in the air?”

  Boyd shrugged, started the car. Donn got in back, still talking.

  “Pamela, thanks. You know I didn’t mean that back there. We’re old friends.”

  Then, turning to Boyd, “She put me in there, you know. She’s the one who finally caught me.”

  “I just followed the money, Donn. It led right to you.”

  Boyd could see Donn’s face in the mirror, it hardened as he looked at Pam, who had turned in the seat with her last lighthearted comment.

  “I went down because I took a date to Buck Wayne’s penthouse, Pam. You never caught me with anything but knowledge.”

  “Well, you’re out now,” she said, turning back to the front.

  “Indeed. And now we’re on the same team,” Donn said, bright again.

  “That could be a mixed blessing,” Pam said without turning.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Plan

  The hotel room was spotless. Sunlight streamed through the open drapes. A lively sonata played from the classical music channel on the hotel’s entertainment feed. Boyd, returning to the room he shared with Donn, had just finished a run down the road to the Pentagon, across the south parking lot to the George Washington Freeway, up the path along the Potomac to the Memorial Bridge and across to the Lincoln Memorial. He was hot and sweaty

  “Boyd,” Donn exclaimed as he stepped out of the bathroom. He was adjusting a Windsor knot on a beautiful silk tie. He wore a lustrous white cotton broadcloth shirt with long collar points and generous cuffs.

  “A Gen. Ferguson called and wants us all down at the office in an hour. Better hurry. But get some coffee first. It’s excellent.”

  He slipped on the jacket of a chalk-stripe, double-breasted wool suit and poured from a silver coffee service that sat on the table, steam rising from the pot.

  “Where’d you get that?” Boyd asked, staring at the transformation.

  “It’s off the rack, but it’ll do until I can have something made.”

  “I’ve just been gone two hours. You didn’t have that in that little bag you brought in last night?”

  “No. When you buy a $1,500 suit and tell them you’re in a hurry, you can get the pants done in 20 minutes.”

  “How did you buy a $1,500 suit?

  “With money,” Donn said. “You gonna take a shower?”

  He handed Boy
d a cup of coffee.

  Boyd accepted the cup from the resplendent Wilde, who was obviously enjoying Boyd’s confusion. He took it into the bathroom and stripped off his wet clothes and ran some water. He took a sip. It was rich and delicious. He’d lived at the hotel for a week and hadn’t tasted their coffee.

  ********

  Donn had seen the slides and paced the room as he spoke.

  “So the problem, Gen. Ferguson, is that your only clue to the identity of the individual or organization hiring those unfortunate laboratory workers we saw the remains of is a wire transfer from a bank in South Carolina.”

  Ferguson, Smith, Prescott and Chailland were seated, drinking coffee in the late morning.

  “Correct. Agent Prescott tells us you have a special knack for gaining the confidence of business people. We can give you a week to find out what we need to know. If you haven’t gotten it by then, we rely on the FBI and the U.S. Attorney in South Carolina.”

  “I appreciate Miss Prescott’s recommendation. My lawyer assures me the parole is complete and final and as soon as I have completed this, uh, project, I am a free man.”

  “Yes, Donn. You’ll be free as soon as I sign a letter releasing you from probationary custody,” Pam said.

  “What about expenses?” Donn asked.

  Boyd thought about the suit.

  “No problem. Just fill out an expense voucher,” Ferguson said.

  “I may need some leeway here. Bankers travel in different circles than military officers. The usual government rules on lodging and dining may become, ah, restrictive.”

  “I have a special account. Itemize your expenses and I can authorize payment off the usual government per diem system,” Ferguson answered.

  Boyd nudged Pam and mouthed the words, “Off the books.”

  She smiled.

  “OK, we have a deal then,” Donn said, smiling his most winning smile. He walked the length of the room, turned and looked at the audience.

  “Planters National Bank in Charleston is involved with the people who are bankrolling this operation. Wire transfers are an insider’s tool, done by bankers for trusted customers.”

  Ferguson nodded, happy to hear some positive talk for a change.