Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3)

by John Ellsworth

  “True.”

  “You’re sure Drommie isn’t my kid?”

  “99.999999 percent sure. One chance out of six billion we’re wrong.”

  “Those are worse odds than the lottery.”

  “I know. And I love Ilene. I’m mad about her.”

  “So what is the plan?”

  “We’re going to keep her place in Orbit and we’re going to move her to Chicago.”

  “Shit, you’ve talked this all over with her.”

  “She wanted to call you, but I told her I needed to talk to you first. You and I go back a long ways and the whole thing was my error in judgment for going off the rails. So I felt like I owed it to you. But she begged to let her go first.”

  Thaddeus sniffed. He took a long draw out of the Coke can. “Does she want to talk to me? Do I just call her up and ask how she is?”

  “She wants to talk to you. Just not right now, not tonight.”

  “That’s cool. I don’t much want to talk to her right now.”

  “Don’t go there, Thad. You’ve been running off with Katy for the last year. It was bound to happen with Ilene sooner or later. If not me, then someone. She’s too beautiful and too attractive in so many ways to just walk off and expect her to wait. She waited almost a year, anyway.”

  “And then you got her in bed.”

  “It wasn’t like that. We fell in love. That’s not about you.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. And you’re right; I have no claim on her, no right to be upset. I had made my choice. I have no right to expect her to be sitting home beside the phone, waiting for my call. That’s not Ilene. Damn, I’m going to miss her though.”

  “I know you are. But that was then and this is now.”

  “True.”

  “And now I want to give you some free, unsolicited advice.”

  “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for your advice, Albert. But go ahead.”

  “Marry Katy. Now, don’t wait. Get her to transfer med school to UNLV and get her the hell out of Palo Alto. She’s too dreamy to leave running around alone up there. You’re a fairly decent-looking guy, but Brad Pitt you’re not. Grab her while you can.”

  “You know, you’re right about that. I think I’m going to do that very thing.”

  “Like yesterday.”

  “Like yesterday.”

  * * *

  At first the U.S. Attorney’s office was reluctant to agree to Thaddeus leaving the state of Nevada.

  His conditions of release on bail had required that he surrender his passport, which he did, and that he not leave the state of Nevada.

  He was sitting in Tubby’s twentieth-floor office suite while Tubby discussed the case with Assistant U.S. Attorney David Fisher.

  “What the fug, Fisher, it’s only a couple of days. Lighten up, man.”

  Fisher’s voice was tinny over the phone and Tubby wondered whether the line was bugged.

  “We don’t want him leaving Nevada. Why can’t he get married here? Tahoe would be great for it. Especially this time of year.”

  “Oh, so now the government gets to decide where Mister Murfee gets married? Are you bullshitting me? Are you actually serious, man?”

  “Well—”

  “Well, nothing. You can shoot me an email that he’s leaving with your permission, two days in California, or I’m going to the judge and I’m asking for and getting attorney’s fees for having to bring such a ridiculous motion to modify conditions of release.”

  “Are you threatening me, Tubby?”

  “You’re damn right I am! Now get that email to me in the next thirty minutes or I’m filing.”

  “Give me a couple of hours. I need to run it past Mouton.”

  “You want to run it by the U.S. Attorney himself? Why would he give a shit?”

  “It’s political too.”

  “I thought so. This whole chickenshit prosecution is political, isn’t it, Mister Fisher. Your asshole boss is going to toss his hat into the senate race, right? Or some such bullshit. Well you tell H. Mouton that he signs off on this by noon or I’m going to file in court and I’m going to hold a press conference and let the people know how the U.S. attorney is trying to manipulate where Nevadans get married. Especially Nevadans who haven’t been convicted of anything!”

  “Settle down, Mister Watsonn. We’ll work it out, I’m sure.”

  “Noon, Mister Fisher. Or I press FILE on my computer and take you guys to court.”

  He slammed down the phone, pulled a white handkerchief from his suit pocket, and fiercely wiped his face. “Get all lathered up over these assholes.”

  Thaddeus shook his head. “So? Do I get to go to Malibu or not?”

  “I’m sure they’ll get onboard. It’s just a matter of having it in writing.”

  “Is an email good enough? They won’t try to claim it’s not from them?”

  “Naw, we do this all the time with the feds.”

  “What about the fools who’ve been following me? Kroc and Magence? I get glimpses of them every day. Will they follow me to Malibu? Will they attend the wedding?”

  “Look, I’m sorry about that. But I warned you. These people will hound you and try to manipulate you into doing something that can cause your bail to be revoked. It would be huge if they could take you back into custody, even on some bogus claim of violation of conditions of release. That’s why I told you to always use your driver. That way, you can’t be pulled over even by the cops. The fastest way they can get to you, believe it or not, is if you drive. The second fastest way is if you leave the state and they find out about it. Let me do my job here and we’ll have you off to Malibu.”

  “Promise?”

  “That I can promise.”

  “I can go ahead and make reservations in Malibu? Get things set up for the ceremony?”

  “What date?”

  “One week.”

  “That wouldn’t give me much time if I did have to take it to court.”

  Thaddeus spread his hands. “Look, expedite it, then. I’ll pay what it costs, I don’t care. I want this wedding to happen and Katy wants Malibu. I don’t know why, I don’t care why. She wants Malibu and she wants her great-grandfather there so we have to start making plans for all these logistics like yesterday. Please. Let me know by noon too. Can you do that?”

  “Absolutely. Go ahead with your plans. It’ll work out.”

  “Then I will.”

  32

  First came the IRS agents, badges on chains around their necks, guns in plain view, storming the security officer’s headquarters.

  Systems were overrun, cameras shut down, and an incursion made into the count room where employees were chased out and cameras were planted in the HVAC vents.

  When they left, no evidence of their appearance could be found.

  All systems seemed to be in working order, so Thaddeus and Berenson took no further steps just then.

  Four hours later the BAG agents arrived, secured the count room, disabled the security system, and swept the room.

  The IRS spy cameras were immediately located and their digital images rerouted through BAG headquarters, where they were looped to play, over and over, twenty-four hours’ worth of count room activity. There were twenty-seven days’ worth of video feed available for the ruse. So in effect, what the IRS surveillance technicians would be watching—ostensibly from their spy cameras—were randomly selected day after day of prerecorded count room activities. Never would their feed be “live,” never would they actually receive a video signal that displayed anything like what was actually going on in the count room.

  Following the hack of the IRS video feed, the BAG agents then installed their own hidden video system that would provide a 24/7 live video feed to BAG headquarters where surveillance crews were in place.

  All footage would be analyzed. Any theft of money from the count room would then be pinpointed and reported to Thaddeus.

  Steps taken by the BAG agents were reported to Thaddeu
s and Thaddeus alone, orders of Langston Moretti, who had tapped the group for the job.

  The information given to Thaddeus was for his eyes only, as all steps were being taken to close any loop where there was the possibility that security measures were being disabled and uncounted money was being removed.

  It was a busy day in the count room.

  No employees were the wiser.

  Not even the CEO.

  33

  Bat reported to Thaddeus’ office at noon on Friday.

  It had been a stormy day in Vegas, which was very rare, and many gawkers and window-shoppers sought cover inside the casinos, so business was booming. The restaurants were busier than usual and Bat was serving eight tables.

  He was now averaging $300 a day on tips alone, not counting his minimum wage hourly.

  The job had enabled him to move out of the YMCA into his own one-bedroom apartment, purchase a used Honda with $500 down, and replenish the wardrobe that had been worn out from years of wear on the streets and back alleys of several American cities.

  He felt like a new man; he was happy.

  He had even gone to the dentist and paid $1,500 for some very basic hygiene and upkeep that was brightening his smile.

  To top it off, one of the cooks was making eyes at him and she was probably fifteen years younger and very fit. She looked enticing to him, even in her apron, and she often sought his advice on investments she was making in the stock market. He had no advice for her about such things, but the premise gave them the opportunity twice a shift to sneak off to a table together and have coffee while they discussed. Less and less the talk was about the stock market and more and more the talk was about them getting together for dinner—maybe even that weekend. Her name was Maria Consuelo, she was from Hermosillo, and Bat was head-over-heels.

  So it was with a certain amount of fear and trepidation that he reported to Thaddeus’ office that afternoon. Things had been going so incredibly well in his life, and he was praying he hadn’t done something wrong to put the kibosh on his great good fortune.

  “C’mon on, Bat,” Thaddeus said, and joined him across Vermont.

  The coffee table called Vermont was more and more bothering Thaddeus; it was too big and he was making plans to have it replaced. In fact, he was making plans to have the entire office redone—just as soon as he whipped the IRS’ butt.

  “Have I done something wrong, Thad? Is that why I’m here?”

  “Good grief no. I hear you’re doing a great job and everyone loves you. Are you making enough money to survive?”

  “More than I ever dreamed. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Thaddeus nodded solemnly, and said, “Actually, you can help me enough. If you will.”

  “Just say it, Boss. Whatever you want.”

  “Well, I’ve been charged with filing false tax returns.”

  “Who said that?”

  “The IRS said it about me. They charged me with a crime for it.”

  “You ain’t going to jail? I’m not about to lose my lawyer and best friend?”

  “No, Bat, but as your lawyer I needed to make you aware of my predicament, just so you could find other counsel if you wanted. And if you do want someone else, the casino will loan you the up-front money, just so you know.”

  “I don’t want anybody else. I want you, Boss.”

  “All right, thanks. Let me tell you want else is going down around here.”

  “Shoot.”

  Thaddeus leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Someone is stealing from the casino.”

  “In my restaurant?”

  “No. I need to write this down. My snoops tell me this office is bugged. We don’t know how they’re getting in here, or when, but it’s bugged. So read this.”

  Thaddeus tapped on his tablet and began writing his instructions for Bat.

  Bat sat politely upright, his hands folder in his lap, and waited.

  Thaddeus held up the tablet. Now it was Bat’s turn to read. As he did, his eyes grew wide as an owl’s and he swallowed hard. “You mean this?” he asked.

  Thaddeus nodded. “I do. And it’s okay for you to do.”

  “Promise?”

  “Bat, you have my solemn word. I will take care of it if anything happens to you.”

  “I’m—I’m—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Please, don’t say anything. Too many ears around this place. Will you help?”

  “You know I will.”

  “All right. Come here when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.”

  “It’s as good as done, Boss. What time you got?”

  “Twelve twenty.”

  Bat displayed his new gold watch. “Me too. Exactly.”

  “Then we’re synchronized, ready to embark.”

  “Ready to proceed, Boss.”

  “Thank you, Bat.”

  34

  At precisely 1:50 a.m. that same Friday night, Thaddeus buzzed security. Berenson picked up.

  “Thaddeus calling. I need your entire security crew in my office now.”

  “Who do I leave here to watch things?”

  “No one.”

  “No, I mean who do I leave down here to watch the count room when the shift changes?”

  “No one.”

  “Come again?”

  “Damn it, Berenson. Listen to my damn words. I want every member of count room security in my office. Now!”

  “Including me?”

  Thaddeus sighed angrily. “Are you a member of security, man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come the hell up here, please. All of you now. I’ll see you in four minutes.”

  Four minutes later they piled into his office and he waved them to the couches. There were the two screen men, who did nothing but constantly scan the security screens. These weren’t the same men just above the casino watching the tables. These men were watching for people who wanted to do the casino and its occupants harm. The card cheats were watched by an entirely different group.

  The system administrator for the entire computer system was there, drinking a Mountain Dew and popping his knuckles.

  There were the two uniformed officers who ordinarily were stationed outside the count room. They were looking nervous, their faces twisted and red, extremely fearful that the entire casino would be robbed while they were away. The guns on their hips were loaded and they were ready for any menace. Why they had been called to the owner’s office was beyond anyone’s comprehension.

  “All right,” said Thaddeus. “I want this in your logs. Write that you came into my office on this date, one fifty-five a.m. Write down the names of all those present, including me. Write that you stayed with me until two oh-five a.m. and then were dismissed back to your posts. Any questions?”

  They all looked at each other. There were no questions. Berenson cracked open his tablet computer and began making his notes. Three others began doing the same thing on their tablets. Everyone looked at his or her watch, noted the time, and did as they were told.

  * * *

  Four floors below, the count room was empty.

  At exactly 2:03 a.m. the banks from the tellers’ cages arrived on twelve carts. It was a huge amount of money, usually $600,000 or more from each shift. Of course part of the money would go right back out, after the count, and right back into the tellers’ cages to constitute the casino’s bank, a collective fund from all tellers’ cages, minus the profit from the shift, which remained in the count room, inside a ten-ton safe and electronic security, awaiting transport to the brick and mortar bank the next day.

  The carts were unloaded.

  The transport employees followed protocol and immediately left the room without talking. There was never to be any discussion coming or going about the funds being transported or, for that matter, any other topic.

  At exactly 2:06 a.m. a figure wearing a black ski mask entered the count room. The room was empty and the video cameras overhead were whirring. The BAG cameras, that is.<
br />
  The figure was wearing a black turtleneck, black denim pants, and white running shoes, no emblems on the sides.

  He walked to the count table and pulled a bank bag from under his arm, placed it on the table, and began stuffing it from the money piles.

  The entire process took less than one minute, then he was done, he zippered the bag, disappeared from the room, and the cameras recorded no further movement.

  Until the usual security staff, with the count room staff—also part of the security staff—returned to their normal jobs.

  Again, there was no discussion while the bills were fed into the count machines. The only sound was the high-pitched clatter of armatures as they riffled through the bills and scored their tallies on electronic displays, in tens, hundreds, and thousands.

  The men and women in the room were wondering what they had just been called to the Boss’s office for, but they were certain they would never know, except he had made what seemed to be a perfunctory and very general speech about count room security, casino security, the Heimlich maneuver, and other areas totally unrelated to their normal duties. It was almost like he was treading water, they thought.

  Which in fact he was. They had returned to their posts at 2:10, leaving him utterly alone.

  At exactly 2:30 there was a knock at the door and security stuck his head inside.

  “Someone to see you, Boss. Name he gives is Bat.”

  “Send him right in. And Charlie, send up some bagels and cream cheese. And a pot of coffee, two mugs, cream and sugar. Thank you.”

  Bat slipped inside. He was wearing white running shoes, black denim pants, and a black turtleneck. He handed a bank bag to his boss, who thanked him.

  “Here’s your cut, Bat,” said Thaddeus, and he counted out fifty $100 bills.

  “No, Boss, you don’t hafta do that. No way. You’ve give me enough.”

  “I owe you. Big time. I want you to have this. Save another five K and you’ll have enough for a down payment on an FHA loan. I’ll co-sign and you’ll have your own place.”