Archer would comply with any requests for information, but he wouldn’t bring the matter up to his board of directors. The loan debacles of the previous few years and the demands and increased scrutiny of regulators had nearly caused the bank to fail. He’d lost his title of chairman of the board and something like this could be the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as the board’s confidence in his leadership as president and CEO. Archer was sixty-three, his stock options were worthless, and his retirement funds tied up in real estate ventures that once looked solid but now would take years to recover their value.
He took a deep pull of the Wild Turkey. The liquor deadened the pain better than aspirin. Things would look better by Monday morning. The Fed would have discovered its error, and the transfer, well, coincidences do happen. Two-hundred-twenty-one thousand is a round enough number, and it went through a customer’s account that had been properly set up. Thank God for that.
His cellphone vibrated on the end table by his chair. His wife’s name flashed in the ID screen. Eight-thirty. She should be making her after-dinner speech. Maybe things wrapped early and she was going for drinks with some of her cronies.
“What’s up, dear?” He spoke in a whisper so she’d have no doubt he was still suffering.
“Are you alone, Mr. Archer?”
The glass slipped from Archer’s hand and shattered on the hardwood floor. One word flashed through his mind. Kidnapping.
“Mr. Archer?” The man’s voice was calm, cultured, soothing.
“Yes.”
“Sorry to alarm you. Your wife is fine. I just wanted to make sure you’d take my call.”
“You stole her phone?”
“No. Temporarily borrowed her number.”
“What do you want?” Archer’s fear turned to anger.
“Nothing other than to give you a heads-up. I know you spoke with Amanda Church of the Federal Reserve this morning. And you’ll probably be getting a follow-up visit from someone saying he works with Church. Technically, that’s true, but he’s really a third-party contractor.”
“And who are you?”
“Agent Nathaniel Brown with the Secret Service. We’re running a parallel investigation.”
“Into what?”
“A possible cyber-crime. I’m with the Electronic Crimes Special Agent Program.”
“You’re investigating our bank?”
“No. We believe you’re an innocent victim of an international money laundering operation. One that has assets in place within the Federal Reserve.”
“Assets? What kind of assets?”
“Human assets. A person or persons in the pay of a criminal or terrorist organization. Someone who can make what happened happen.”
“And this parallel investigation is separate from the Federal Reserve?”
“Entirely. And it’s important it stays that way. Amanda Church and her colleague Russell Mullins are probably innocent, but they are in sensitive positions. I would be remiss if I didn’t first clear them of any involvement.”
“Mullins? That was the name on the Cayman account.”
“Yes. Which makes it likely he was being framed.”
“I see.” Archer stood and paced unsteadily, trying to clear his head. “But why are you calling me?”
“I want you to cooperate with them. Tell them what they need to know. Technically, they don’t have subpoena power or the authority to make you divulge confidential information.” The man laughed. “They’re not like us, the guys in the black SUVs who can pretty much demand anything and everything.”
Archer got the point. He needed to cooperate with this guy.
“We want to see how thorough they are in their investigation. So, assist them as much as you can without revealing your bank’s own confidential matters. Then I’d like you to write up a report of that meeting and any subsequent conversations. By hand is preferable, as it carries more weight in court.”
“I’ll be called to testify?”
“If we succeed in building a case. Your role in protecting the integrity and security of our core financial institutions won’t go unnoticed.”
That was the kind of publicity Craig Archer did want to bring to his board of directors. And to have the FDIC and the Fed in his debt would be huge.
“All right,” Archer said. “If I can be of service, I’m happy to help in anyway I can.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch early next week. In the meantime, tell no one. Not even your wife. And there’s no need to share your visitor is even from the Federal Reserve. It might make your employees nervous.”
“I understand.”
The caller hung up. Archer took the phone from his ear and stared at it as a reality check of what just occurred. For a split-second he considered that Nathaniel Brown hadn’t given him any ID to show he was who he claimed to be.
But then the man had hijacked his wife’s cellphone number. In Archer’s mind, that was far better proof that he was dealing with the government than any wallet overflowing with credentials could provide.
Chapter Thirteen
At nine o’clock Friday night, Detective Robert Sullivan read through the autopsy report a final time. Paul Luguire died from a single gunshot to the right temple. Powder burns on his head and right hand were consistent with a self-inflicted wound. Luguire was right-handed. The only other notation made by the medical examiner was the presence of a small dab of aluminum sulfate on a nick under his jaw. The report stated it was most likely residue from a styptic pencil used to stop the bleeding from a shaving cut.
Sullivan jotted a note to remind himself to ask Rusty Mullins if he’d noticed it when he picked Luguire up for work. Then he locked the case file in his desk drawer and went to the office of the duty lieutenant Charlie Crouch.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
Crouch looked at the wall clock. “You sick?”
“No. I was up all night with the Luguire murder and worked through the day. I’m beat.”
“Sure. Things are quiet. The captain will be happy to save the overtime.”
“You know I work more hours than I put in for.”
Crouch waved him away. “You don’t have to sell me. Go home, Rob. If something comes up, I’ll take it myself.”
Sullivan started out the door.
“Hold up a second,” Crouch said. “You might have a reporter waiting for you.”
Sullivan turned. “At this hour? What’s he want?”
Crouch shrugged. “He said he needed to talk to you about the Luguire case. I told him there was nothing new to report, and that you were tied up with other investigations.”
“When was this?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
“You think he’s gone?”
Crouch shook his head. “I don’t know. He said he was here to give, not get information.”
Sullivan stared at his supervisor.
“I know. I should have told you. But the guy’s not with any real news organization. And I suspected you were trying to wrap up early. Frankly, I forgot about him.”
“That’s okay. If he’s still here, I’ll talk to him.” Sullivan hesitated as a thought crossed his mind. “Charlie, do me a favor, will you?”
“What?”
“Put a call through to the M.E.’s office and ask that someone take a closer look at the shaving nick recorded on Luguire’s autopsy report.”
“What are they supposed to be looking for?”
“Damned if I know. But I saw an expensive Braun electric shaver charging in the bathroom.”
As Sullivan entered the public waiting room, the duty officer at the desk gave a slight nod toward a white man sitting alone in a plastic chair by the wall. He wore black jeans and a blue dress shirt th
at was untucked, either through a style choice or sloppiness. The frumpy guy looked about forty, and if he was a reporter, he certainly wasn’t television.
The man was writing in a journal, one of those blank page books that populated the swivel stands in stationery stores. He glanced up at the sound of Sullivan’s footsteps.
“Are you waiting for me?” Sullivan asked.
The man snapped his journal closed. “Are you the detective on the Luguire case?”
“I am. You have information?”
“Maybe.” The man stood. “My name’s Sidney Levine. I used to be a reporter for The Washington Times.”
“Used to be?”
“I wrote a book about the Federal Reserve. It did okay. But with a certain element it did really well. I was, shall we say, embraced by their extremist camp.”
“Because of what you wrote?”
“Because of the way my book was interpreted.”
“And how does this relate to Luguire’s death?”
“I don’t know. How did he die?”
Sullivan glanced over his shoulder at the desk officer. The man was watching to make sure Levine wasn’t some loony about to go off the deep end. Sullivan mouthed, “It’s okay,” and turned to the reporter.
“Look, we issue our information through the press briefings. Nothing has changed since the last one. If you’ve got information regarding the death, I’ll be glad to hear it. Otherwise, we’re wasting each other’s time.”
“I have one question. Are you one hundred percent certain that Paul Luguire committed suicide? If you are, then I’m sorry I wasted your time. If you’re not, then I might provide access to a suspect pool whose fervor against the Fed runs hot enough to include murder.”
Sullivan studied the journalist. The man stood calmly waiting for his reply. Rusty Mullins’ misgivings were contagious, but Sullivan needed hard evidence and a strong motive if suicide were to be ruled out.
“So what does that mean?” Sullivan asked. “You hand me a thousand emails?”
“No. I’d be your filter. Ninety-nine out of a hundred posts are pure junk and speculation. But kernels of truth are scattered here and there. These people aren’t stupid. Luguire might have been a symbol of the Fed and bad money policies, or someone might have had a very specific grudge against him. Odds are whoever’s behind his killing will want to get the motive out, even if hidden between the lines. That’s what I’ll try to elicit through my reports and my blog.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Sullivan asked.
“Your undying gratitude for starters.”
The detective laughed. “Stand in line.”
Sidney lowered his voice. “And some information that’s more than spoon fed at the briefings. Things I can say are from a source close to the investigation.”
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know about that. I’ve been burned before.”
“I’m not talking about something that would blow the case. Just enough to show a serious investigation is underway. I’ll provide the speculation on theories to ignite the on-line response. Then, if something comes of it, I get the inside track on the story. You give me the game-winning interview.”
“What do you really think?” Sullivan asked.
“About what?”
“About Luguire’s death. Is this some desperate attempt to thumb your nose at your former bosses?”
“No. If it’s murder, you have two of the strongest motives you could want. Money and power. The Fed embodies both, our country’s money supply and an unequaled power to regulate it that many say is unconstitutional.”
“Unconstitutional how?”
“Article 1, Section 8, ‘The Congress shall have the power to coin money, regulate the value thereof, and of foreign coin.’ There’s a strong argument to be made that Congress has no constitutional authority to abdicate its responsibility to a central private bank that orders the Treasury to print money at its decree. Then that private bank holds the U.S. taxpayer responsible for the debt.”
“So, why Luguire? Why now?”
“He could be a target caught in the middle. On the one hand, he’s viewed as progressive and pushing for more transparency. There are powerful forces who want the Fed’s actions to remain secret. Luguire agreed with the decision for the Chairman to hold a news briefing after their closed meetings. That happened for the first time in 2011, ninety-seven years after the Fed’s founding. Such secrecy makes the CIA look like a town hall meeting in New Hampshire. The murder could be a message. ‘Keep the doors closed.’”
“And on the other hand?”
Sidney pointed to the chairs behind him. “Mind if we sit?”
Sullivan debated taking the reporter back to an interview room, but decided to keep the discussion more informal. He wasn’t sure where this was headed.
“Okay. I’ve got a few minutes.”
They sat and Sidney leaned closer. “There are those who consider the Fed nothing less than the hand of Satan, not only running up debt that will destroy our country, but financing wars destroying other countries. I’ve heard a rumor that when Osama bin Laden was killed in Pakistan, they found evidence the target of the fourth plane on 9-11 wasn’t the Capitol or the White House, it was the Federal Reserve headquarters on Constitution Avenue. Bin Laden saw the Fed as the primary financial resource funding our foreign policy.”
“You’re not serious,” Sullivan said.
“I’m not. It’s not my rumor. But there’s truth that the Fed provides the deficit-spending mechanism that enables presidents to engage in military operations that couldn’t be paid for otherwise.”
“Luguire was killed by terrorists?” Sullivan didn’t bother to hide his incredulity.
Sidney shrugged. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. At least foreign elements of some kind. There’s also an international connection to the pro-Fed, pro-secrecy side.”
“I’m listening,” Sullivan said.
“In 2011, after an extended court battle, the Federal Reserve was forced to reveal it provided billions of dollars to foreign-owned financial institutions during the meltdown of 2008. In fact, nine of the twelve largest payments went to foreign interests.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course not. Makes for bad politics. You’re out of work, you’ve lost your house, and the government bailout goes to foreigners.”
“What was their justification?”
“These were financial firms doing business in the U.S. The impact of their failure would hurt Americans. I’m not saying that’s not a valid reason, but the court battle broke ninety-seven years of secrecy that hid the identity of foreign banks using our money, money we’re having to back with debt-generating U.S. securities.”
“And you hate secrecy.”
Sidney smiled. “I’m a journalist. I even carry a journal to prove it. Banks, Wall Street firms, and companies are owned by people. People who at the top make lots of money. That’s the arena you’re playing in, Detective Sullivan. That’s also your suspect pool.”
“If Luguire was murdered,” Sullivan said.
“If Luguire was murdered,” Sidney agreed. “And that’s the whole point of my being here. Was he?”
Sullivan sighed. This reporter’s claims, wild as they sounded, couldn’t be rejected outright any more than Rusty Mullins’ claim of Luguire’s intention to be alive the next morning. But making a deal with Sidney Levine went against every instinct.
“Look, I’m not going to be able to do what you want, at least not yet. The investigation is still in its early stages.”
“At least not yet?” Sidney repeated the phrase most important to him.
“I will say Paul Luguire exhibited certain behaviors last night that were not indicative of a man planning to take his own life.
”
“Such as?”
“That’s for you to learn.”
“Then who was with him last night?”
“He had a driver provided by Prime Protection. Russell Mullins. You didn’t get his name from me.” Sullivan reached in his coat pocket and gave Sidney his card. “Call me if you come across something.”
“Prime Protection. Sounds like they were sub-prime.”
“A word of advice. Don’t start the interview that way. Mullins won’t talk to you. Or if he does, you won’t hear him because he’ll have knocked you unconscious.”
Sidney tucked the card between the pages of his journal. “Know where I can reach him?”
“Yeah, but only if you wait till tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.”
Sullivan gave him the address for Mullins’ Shirlington apartment, and then escorted him to the door of the police station. He watched him walk away in the opposite direction from the nearest Metro stop. He either drove a car or lived nearby. Sullivan would check him out in the morning.
He returned to his desk and opened the case file for Rusty Mullins’ phone number. Mullins wasn’t the kind of guy to talk to the press, but Sidney Levine had said some very interesting things and he could be useful. Sullivan wanted a second opinion about that. Rusty Mullins was just the man to give it.
Chapter Fourteen
“Paw Paw!” Josh squealed the words as he leaned over the back of the sofa and peered out the front window.
As Mullins parked his Prius, he caught a glimpse of his excited grandson. The beaming face of the boy magically lightened the weight he’d carried since Detective Sullivan called him with the news of Luguire’s death.
Mullins picked up the CVS bag from the passenger seat. After dropping Amanda Church at her car the night before, he’d gone to the store and purchased a Nerf baseball, something Josh could carry to the T-ball game. Luguire’s twin grandsons wouldn’t be there, but Mullins felt an obligation to carry through with the last plan he and Luguire had made.
Mullins pressed the buzzer by his daughter’s condo number and the electric lock clicked. Before he could step inside, the door of his daughter’s unit opened and Josh scrambled out. Mullins hustled up the short flight of stairs and caught the boy as he leaped from the top step into his grandfather’s arms.
The 13th Target Page 6
