The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  “You can’t be here. I can’t allow a civilian to be put in danger. It’s against the rules. I could get into all kinds of trouble for this. Go home, Wainwright, now!”

  “You know, Greg, the airline took my money and acknowledged my passport was in order. Since the mid-eighteenth century, the Bahamian Islands have been an open country. I can be here and do as I like, notwithstanding FBI orders. Hey, now that I think about it, you don’t have any authority here, do ya?”

  “I have the cooperation of the constabulary, and I have my badge and gun,” Mulholland responded.

  “Good for you. Let’s hope the gun won’t become necessary. Shall we go?”

  Wainwright turned and walked across the street, thinking, I sure do hope your revolver won’t be necessary. Not with me at your side. Mulholland left what he hoped were enough Bahamian dollars on the café table and followed Wainwright to the hotel.

  The two men stood on white floor tiles of the hotel’s comfortable lobby. Four massive pillars supported the five floors above their heads. The reception desk to their left was unmanned, and on the right was the panoramic pool terrace with the Caribbean Sea beyond. The corridor straight ahead of them led to the elevators—Mulholland and Wainwright’s destination.

  The floor selection panel in the elevator for the sixth floor had a card slot instead of a button. Without a key card, they were denied access to the Dannenberg penthouse. At the reception desk, Mulholland paused until a uniformed young man appeared. He introduced himself and offered his credentials.

  “We need to be admitted to the Dannenberg suite on six.”

  The assistant manager declined. “Our guests are assured of their privacy, sir,” was his reason.

  “We can override your privacy concerns by getting the chief constable to order cooperation. Getting the chief here will take time and could feasibly allow suspected felons to escape. That won’t do your career any good,” Mulholland pointed out.

  The negotiation ended positively for the Federal government and the three men stepped into an elevator bound for the penthouse.

  Thirty-one

  “To be busy is man's only happiness” ~ Mark Twain

  WEDNESDAY—LATE AFTERNOON—JANUARY| The Assassin continued watching both of the people below him in the penthouse, periodically repositioning his mirror above the veranda to avoid the setting sun. The woman woke, picked up her things, and walked into the living room. She leaned over and shook Bennie gently, her breasts swaying erotically with the effort.

  “Bennie, wake up, honey. Let’s get showered for dinner.” Louder: “Avery, oh, Avery.”

  After a beat, Bennie was alert enough to stand and follow her into the back part of the suite. The Assassin could no longer see him in his mirror. He waited ten minutes more, listening for the sound of running water in the shower. He heard nothing, assuming the sound just didn’t carry to the roof.

  It was a gorgeous evening with a fragrant breeze that gently brushed sun tender skin. This was a tourist’s favorite time of the day—a Caribbean sunset. The Assassin was about to spoil it for the two people in the penthouse.

  He relocated on the roof to the far end of the veranda. Here he dropped the rolled wire rope ladder that was retrieved from the attaché case. Next, he removed the Mossad-issued assault knife. The Assassin kept the blade razor sharp. He recalled the Mossad admonition: A good craftsman is no better than his tools. He placed the blade in the shoulder holster he wore under his suit coat. The ladder could be seen from only two places: the penthouse terrace and from the beach, six floors below. With sunset upon him, he doubted the beach was a problem. If he hurried, he would avoid the other risk as well.

  The Assassin climbed down the ladder, stepping over the balcony railing, his supple athletic shoes silent on the veranda tile deck. He saw no movement on the other side of the French doors. Now, sounds from the shower did carry to him. Bennie was singing an old Kingston Trio number about someone named Tom Dooley, a poor boy who was about to die. How very apropos! The distraction would help him, but the a cappella vocal was difficult to tolerate. Now he wanted to kill him just to stop that lousy singing voice. Moving into the living area and reaching under his jacket, he withdrew the weapon with his right hand.

  “Hey, BJ, why don’t you jump in here and join me? I’ll scrub your back.”

  “You just get yourself cleaned up and I’ll wash my own back as soon as you’re out of there.”

  The Assassin heard the water shut off. He went to his left, away from the bedroom’s double doors, into the suite’s foyer where he was mostly concealed from view. Crouching low behind a large easy chair, he only had to await the right set of circumstances to develop.

  Bennie emerged from the bedroom with a bath towel wrapped around his waist and beads of water clogging his chest hairs. He had shaved and run a comb through his hair a few times. He was looking for his spectacles, searching the couch where he napped, behind the cushions, and a sofa table behind the couch. Nothing. Bennie’s search brought him ever closer to the foyer, and the Assassin’s knife.

  The preferred method for a knife attack taught to Mossad agents was an underhand thrust between the ribs. Inserting the blade to the left of the sternum positions it into the heart muscle, then, a small sideways slicing action, using the sternum as a fulcrum, causes massive internal bleeding and death in seconds. The Assassin was ready.

  Bennie paused in his search. He stood as if in deep contemplation, scratching his head he turned back into the bedroom. “Honey, have you seen my glasses? I can’t find them anywhere.”

  From inside the shower stall, BJ responded, but the Assassin couldn’t hear the reply over the water noise. He waited some more. Bennie came out of the double doors a second time in his continuing search for his glasses. He turned right, taking slow, measured steps straight toward the Assassin. Bennie was looking over his left shoulder at the place he’d just searched, but kept moving toward the foyer.

  With one quick step, the Assassin jumped in front of Bennie. He came out of his crouch, the knife low, his elbow pivoted back. Realizing he was not alone, Bennie instinctively raised both arms to ward off the out-of-focus attack. That, together with a deep breath he inhaled, expanded his chest, opening the space between his ribs. The knife effortlessly found its mark.

  The Assassin kept moving through the thrust, twisting the knife in Bennie’s chest as he stepped behind him. With his left arm, the Assassin covered the shorter man’s mouth to prevent a scream as Bennie’s legs collapsed. But the Assassin did hear a scream—a blood-curdling scream came from behind him. It was the woman with the hourglass figure. She entered from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, in time to see the Assassin thrust the lethal blow.

  As Bennie’s legs crumpled, the Assassin allowed him to slip to the floor in death’s embrace. She screamed again, louder than the first time. His knife was buried to the hilt in Bennie’s chest, and the Assassin bent to retrieve his tool just as the entry door burst open.

  Mulholland, his revolver held in the Quantico-approved two-handed grip, sprinted forward out of the foyer, Wainwright and the assistant manager quickly following. As he entered, Mulholland mentally inventoried the room with a quick scan. It revealed a man bending over a prone, semi-nude male body with a knife protruding from his chest. He heard a female scream and smelled the copper-like scent of puddling blood on the tile floor.

  The S&W.357 Magnum revolver in his sweaty palm felt slippery. He shouted, “FBI. Stop where you are. Hands on head. Get on your knees—now!”

  The Assassin looked up at the revolver in the agent’s hand, which was pointed at his forehead. The woman continued to scream behind him at the top of her lungs. He watched Mulholland’s eyes glance behind him to the sound. The screamer had dropped her bath towel and stood bare-ass naked, clutching handfuls of her blonde curls with both hands. He had the instant impression she was yanking out her hair and shouting with the pain.

  The Assassin saw the man he recognized as Wainwright move
from behind the man with the gun toward the screamer. He put an arm around her naked shoulders to calm her, leading her into the bedroom. The Assassin saw the agent’s line of sight drop back to him, still standing over Bennie’s body, his hands raised in surrender.

  Mulholland addressed the assistant manager over his shoulder, still standing in the foyer with his mouth agape. “Get on the phone and call the chief. Get him here with EMT, stat!”

  The shaken assistant manager moved into the living room, picked up the phone, and nervously dialed the hotel operator, repeating the FBI agent’s message he wanted delivered to the chief.

  “Sir, what is meant by ‘EMT, stat,’ please?”

  “Get medical help and an ambulance as fast as possible.”

  Mulholland watched as the Assassin stood taller, ignoring the command to kneel. The FBI man was six feet away from the killer; he closed the distance to four and said with a calm but authoritative voice modulation, “Get on your knees, now, or I will shoot them out from under you.” He complied. “Lace your fingers together on top of your head.” The Assassin did as he was told, still not having spoken a word. Mulholland kept his weapon trained on the Assassin, in unquestionable command.

  The chief constable arrived with two male officers, a female detective, and medical personnel. They took charge of the suspect, cuffing his hands behind his back. The medics ministered to Bennie for a few minutes, then pronounced him dead. They left him on the floor for the crime scene investigators, the knife still heart-deep.

  While the local cops placed the killer under arrest, Mulholland inspected the living room and veranda. He saw the wire rope ladder and informed the chief, “I’m going up to the roof.” He left the suite, accompanied by one constable.

  On the roof, he found the ladder hooks secured to the building and the attaché case near the veranda. Both men put on the requisite latex gloves before examining the contents of the satchel. They saw the telescoping mirror, an empty knife case, an airline ticket to Tel Aviv, and a large manila envelope. After the officer had photographed the location of the satchel from several points of view, he carried the attaché back down to the hotel suite.

  “Chief, has our caught-red-handed suspect said anything?”

  “Not a word, but we’ll give him more encouragement at the constabulary. We’ll find out everything we need in due course, Supervising Special Agent.”

  The first words from the Assassin were, “You’re FBI?”

  “I am Supervising Special Agent Mulholland from the Sacramento office in California.”

  “Yes, I know where Sacramento is. Why are you here?”

  “Hey, pal, we ask the questions! ¿Comprendes?”

  Wainwright stood at the side of the room away from the prisoner with BJ, now dressed in hot-pink workout gear. “Bennie was all I had. He asked me to be his wife… He was going to take care of me…forever. He said that, he did. Now I’m all alone. Oh, Garth, you have Lacey, and I have no one.”

  Mulholland, beginning his interrogation of the Assassin, said, “Who hired you?” The question met with silence. “Why was Bennie your target?” he asked, pointing to the body. More silence from the Assassin, but BJ could be heard sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Chief,” Mulholland said, “how about we review the contents of the packet?”

  “That is acceptable. Please, at your pleasure.”

  The Assassin gave a visible cringe as Supervising Special Agent Mulholland opened the envelope and emptied its contents onto the coffee table. Photos of Bennie and the screaming woman were on top of the pile. Mulholland looked again at the body.

  “Good likeness.”

  Wainwright could clearly see everything deposited on the table from where he stood.

  “Two passports, now that’s a bit unusual…Israel has Mr. Ariel Amiti, and Germany has Herr Gambol Schwartz, and all this cloak-and-dagger gear in the attaché case. Sure looks suspicious to me.”

  Mulholland picked up two folded sheets of paper. He swiftly read the background information on Bennie Rubens and Barbara Joyce Dreaver. The paper contained the room location in the hotel, employment history for the couple, and miscellaneous data. The last sheet was signed Dallas.

  Mulholland rescanned the document and stopped on the line that described a suitcase full of cash. He turned to the woman standing with Wainwright. He now knew her to be Barbara Joyce Dreaver.

  “Ms. Dreaver, where is the small brown leather suitcase?”

  Through her sobs and tears she said, “I don’t know. Bennie took it out of the room the day we got here. I haven’t seen it since. What will happen to me now that he’s gone? Who will look after me?” She sobbed.

  The assistant manager was still in the room with the other nine people. The count was suddenly increased by half again, the large room becoming overcrowded. Five crime-scene techs entered the suite. The chief, in charge of the investigation, briefed the technicians.

  Mulholland spoke to the assistant manager. “Sir, please bring us the checked luggage and anything belonging to them from your safe. Chief, would you ask one of your officers to accompany the manager, please? Thank you.”

  He then continued inspecting the envelope’s contents. He looked at the Assassin, who maintained the mandated kneeling position, hands cuffed behind his back.

  “You seemed a bit perturbed I’m going through your stuff. Why?”

  He didn’t get an answer.

  “You know, pal, it’s pretty sloppy work to carry all this with you to the job site, don’t you think? That smacks of amateurism. Maybe you’re not a pro, just a rank amateur. Is that it? Are you always this sloppy on an assignment?”

  No response from the prisoner.

  “Yeah, that is very poor tradecraft. Tell ya what, pal. We’re gonna find out the whole story anyway. Since you are just an amateur, it’s my duty to advise you of your rights in these things. And something else; we may delay extradition to California. They have different laws here in the islands than those in the States, so there may not be much left to extradite when they’re done questioning you.”

  The Assassin said nothing.

  Wainwright continued to watch from the sidelines, with his arm still around BJ’s shoulders. He looked at Bennie’s sheeted body being removed from the suite.

  “That definitely is not the CapVest Way,” he muttered to himself.

  “Who is Dallas?” Mulholland asked the Assassin.

  Wainwright recognized that name, but wasn’t sure where or how he had heard it before, so he said nothing.

  The Assassin spoke his first words in several hours. “He, ol’ pal, is the person you want. That’s his brother.” He nodded his head toward the gurney being wheeled out.

  Wainwright had reacted to the name Dallas, then, and remembered Hockney said the impersonator used that name with Meyer, Bennie, and Borstad. He suspected more than blood connected Dallas to Bennie. Wainwright refocused on the FBI agent’s inspection of the contents from the envelope. He watched as Mulholland found a scrap of paper with a phone number scratched in pencil. He handed it to the chief and asked if it was a local phone number.

  “Do you have a reverse phone directory, so we can get an address?”

  “We do have that resource, but unfortunately, it is in my office. We might consider another methodology in this case.”

  “Okay, I’m game. What is it?”

  The chief picked up the phone, dialing the numbers on the paper fragment. The phone answered on the second ring. “Slocum and Rubens Law Offices. How may I direct your call?”

  After questioning BJ at the penthouse murder scene, the chief concluded she was not complicit in any crime perpetrated in Grand Bahama. Mulholland had no interest in the woman who had obviously been seduced by Bennie and brought to this place. The chief released her with the admonition she should not leave the island and would make herself available for further questioning, should that prove necessary.

  The very considerate and efficient assistant manager offered to reloca
te Mrs. Dannenberg to another room. Unfortunately, the facility had only the one suite, now sealed off by the authorities. BJ couldn’t stay at the murder scene any longer. She took some clothes, toiletries, and a small brown leather suitcase from under the bed and left the hotel.

  The chief and one of his two officers, followed by Mulholland and Wainwright, ran the few short blocks east of the hotel to the lawyer’s office. Mulholland had both names. The dead Rubens was Bennie, also known as Avery Dannenberg. The other guy, aka Dallas, was Bennie’s older brother, Larry Rubens of Slocum and Rubens, Attorneys at Law. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed he’d read the name Slocum in connection with the Bahamian Trust Company.

  Neither of the two lawyers was in the office. The improvised posse learned from Slocum’s secretary that both men had been there earlier. She reported Mr. Slocum was still inebriated from the night before and the two partners had argued violently. “I couldn’t hear what the disagreement was about, but it was fierce. They crashed furniture, a lamp, and threw law books at each other.”

  Then, she said, “It got very quiet all of a sudden. Both men left the office, but not together. First Larry Rubens. Slocum followed after a few minutes. This was less than half an hour ago.”

  “Do you know where they went from here?”

  “No, but if I had to guess, I’d say the Anchor Chain. It’s a few doors down. Kind of a run-down place, but Mr. Slocum likes it there. He’s there a lot.”

  “I know it. Follow me, please,” the chief told Mulholland as he descended the rickety outside stairs to the street followed by a parade—a constable, the FBI agent, and Wainwright. They were halfway down the stairs when the secretary appeared on the landing and called after them, “Constable. Mr. Slocum—his gun is not in the drawer where it was kept.”

  The four-man party came to the unpaved alley outside the south side of the bar. A small crowd was already there, and some were shouting. The chief detoured to the alley’s mouth and pushed through the crowd, staring at the ground in their center. “Please let me through here. Police business, let us pass.” Mulholland and Wainwright followed close behind the chief.