CON TEST: Double Life

by Rahiem Brooks

  “Sir, I understand your grievance.”

  “Oh, I have no grievance.”

  “My partner and I are prepared to stay until the bastard is in custody,” Delia said, confidently. “We’ve discovered that he is actually living a double life, which is the title of his latest novel. He publishes as William Fortune.”

  “He must be sitting on millions,” Lemieux said matter-of-factly. “A bigger budget that yours, I presume.”

  “We have factored that in, sir. We are searching bank records to freeze them.”

  “Sounds good. I’m quite confident that you will surprise him with a late rally and win.”

  “I am sure, too, sir,” Delia said and hung up.

  Delia stood dumbfounded and scanned the loft. She was obviously disturbed by Lemuex’s subtle chide. Her feminine urge to worry was manifesting through her eyes. Just when her confidence had been up and she enjoyed the chase, Lemieux had brought her back to reality. He had stripped her of a bevy of emotions: happy, joy, ecstatic, to name a few. As an agent, she knew that fine police work had the potential for a topsy-turvy investigation.

  Delia turned to her partner and he looked defeated with hurt and anger in his frown.

  “It’s always a pleasure, Delia, to be chewed out by Lemieux,” Jared said, smiling. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get that ass.”

  “Another four years from now?” she scoffed.

  Jared continued to sort through the contents that had been pulled from the desk. Despite the SAC call, nothing had changed for him. Their man was on the run before they arrived to LA. He and Delia had been deployed to conduct a man hunt and that was what they did.

  Frustrated, Jared looked at the other agents lifting the fluffy mattress to search. A gun box was found, but no gun. No nude mags. They removed a Rembrandt and four other frescoes from the wall, too. No hidden safe. They tapped the walls lightly. No hollowness.

  “If this guy has a secret safe, it’s not here,” said Agent Gibson. He was from Philadelphia, but studied at Stanford University and joined the LA Secret Service Office. He wanted to send the Philadelphia agents home happy, so that he could get an easy recommendation to transfer back to his hometown. “Check those records for a safety deposit box or storage payment,” he suggested.

  He then turned his attention to the walk-in closet. He searched through the clothes that neatly hung there. Nothing piqued his interest. Nothing was left in the pockets. He began to open shoe boxes. There were approximately 50 of them. He found nothing before, he claimed, “This guy has been squeaky clean!” His supposition was interrupted by the home telephone ringing.

  Every agent rushed over to the phone and found that it had an answering machine attached. After the greeting they heard, “Pick up the phone, Secret Service Agent Williams. Either will suffice,” the caller said with a chuckle to show how hilarious the comment was.

  No one in the room was prepared for that. The audacity. The nerve. The gall. The chutzpah. Justice Lorenzo was un-fucking-believable. The magical throwback had been manifold and included five novels, three free years, two block buster movies, and a partridge in a pear tree. That move was sure to catapult Justice to that class of criminals in the stratosphere reserved for masterminds. He did it without a wacky joint marketing scheme with KFC, too. He had single-handedly gone there on his own.

  The agents listened to Justice breathe, before he spoke again. “I’m sure it is not a simple move. It’s a decision. A choice that’s hard because the call won’t be traced and by the time you get through the AT&T red tape, I will be long gone. You have 25 seconds left to make a decision. The training you received prepared you for this sort of critical thinking. Twenty seconds. I promise not to keep you long. If you ignore me, your superiors chide would be placed in your furnace of worst high school memories. And as police, I am sure that the furnace is packed. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.”

  “Mr. Lorenzo, this is Secret Service Agent Delia Williams,” she said, as if she had run to the phone.

  Delia’s body quivered. Not because it was cold, either. Her partners and colleagues echoed her sentiment. Their brows furrowed, too. Heads shook and eyelids closed, as they envisioned that furnace. They were not cowards, just honest with themselves.

  “You sound breathless, Delia. Certainly, you’re not out of breath. Maybe my ferocious kick took your breath away,” the caller said and snickered.

  “Not hardly,” Agent Quadir Gibson said, and asserted his authority.

  “Which idiot is this?”

  “I am Special Secret Service Agent Quadir Gibson.”

  “Oh, hi. I’ll make a note of you,” the caller laughed. “I’d much rather match wits with a man. Thanks for stepping to the plate to get your head knocked off.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Lorenzo?”

  “First, you can stop insulting me by calling me that creep. I am William Fortune.”

  “Are you ready to turn yourself in? If not, why are you calling?” Agent Gibson asked.

  “Funny. You’re in my home, unwanted by the way, and asking why am I calling a phone that I pay the damn bill for? Some set of balls. I’m looking for a little quid pro quo.”

  “To bad, Mr. Lorenzo. I do not--”

  “Understand English. That’s what you don’t understand. Fortune! My fucking name is William Fortune. Make a mutha-fucking note of it, asshole Gibson!”

  “I do not bargain with wanted men. You can turn yourself in and we can tell the AUSA that you helped us substantially by preventing the dollars we have planned to track your ass down and saved us from going any further than a home search. Then you can take your three point reduction like everyone else and go on off to the pen.”

  “No dice.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “Your mother’s a murderer. I resent the name calling. You can barely make my fraud charges stick, but murder, now that’s laughable.”

  “Then where is your pal, Amir?” Delia asked.

  “That’s your job.”

  “Right, my job is to conduct a search of your home and you’re obstructing that right now. When you are ready to reach me, contact the LA Secret Service. You know the number and address. You have been there many times stealing our information.”

  “No, that was one of your own. I bought her. If I wanted, I could reach you right now! This second!”

  Quadir took off running. “He’s in the area watching us,” he yelled, as he dashed down the loft stairs. He had drawn his handgun and emerged out on Robertson Boulevard and was met by the LAPD. They too had their guns drawn.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Amir hung up on the agents and laughed hysterically as he watched them rush out the loft onto Robertson Boulevard. The trap was sinister. He had called the locals and informed them that a home was being burglarized by men posing as federal agents. The plan worked perfectly. Shoot you sons of bitches, he thought. He hoped that the Philadelphia agents were killed for disturbing him and Justice from living happily ever after.

  * * *

  Sergeant Harold Mott searched the men with his eyes. He then yelled to the agents, “Put you weapons down, now!”

  The rich spectators that shopped on Robertson could not believe their eyes. Their early day of shopping had turned into a matinee. That had to be a television shoot.

  Jared looked at the trap disbelievingly. He had no idea what had happened, but he would not lose his life at the hands of pretty Hollywood policemen. He looked at the helmets that covered the locals’ faces and imagined the cast of 90210 beneath them.

  “Hold your fire,” Jared yelled to his partners. He then told the LAPD, “Sir, we are Secret Service Agents and have a search warrant for this property. We informed your department and two police cruisers escorted us here.”

  Both police forces kept their guns raised at each other. Both squads murmured entreaties to their Gods asking that they live through this. West Hollywood Station officers tried to avoid this type of drama by not joi
ning the South Central division. Their West Hollywood beat was much smoother.

  “Put your goddamn weapons down!” Sergeant Mott yelled again. “We have information that you are impostors. Please place your weapons on the ground. If you are truly policemen then you will follow my command.”

  No agent was in the mood for the emotional kick. Just when they thought Justice had done the unthinkable by calling them, he had handed them another blow, that one far more severe. A life could have been taken. This was better than any literary creation William Fortune had come up with. They had to catch Justice Lorenzo before any more time had passed. The agents felt that they were being lowered into a vat of superb and thoughtful doom.

  Jared turned to his men. He hoped that he made the right move. He instructed his team to put their weapons on the ground. He would clear up this hoax and wreak equal havoc in Justice’s life pronto. He had no idea his current defeat was handed to him by the very man he believed Justice Lorenzo killed four years ago.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  The federal search became naught when the search squad was placed on the wall and frisked like common thieves. The harshness of the LAPD had further infuriated the agents. Being patted, searched, and handcuffed made them more nauseous than Justice’s unexpected call. Jared was disoriented and utterly neglectful of coolness. His major characteristics dissolved as he awaited confirmation that he was in fact a veteran Secret Service agent. There was no way that any of the agents were not prepping to negotiate with each other how to cover up killing Justice Lorenzo. Especially after they spent one hour explaining their identities to shielded, helmet-wearing, rifle-toting LAPD.

  As Jared drove toward Washington Mutual Bank, he could not control his thoughts of Justice. If Justice could have thought up a daunting act of playing two policing agencies to potentially slaughter each other and innocent bystanders, what could he pull next? That scene would have been a catastrophe and would have been to Justice’s benefit only. Out of desperation, Justice would attempt any grandiose stunt to overcome the overwhelming odds that favored the police. Albeit, the agents have a chance to put Justice away for life.

  A chance. And only a chance. It could happen, Jared thought. In law enforcement anything could happen, beginning with the most important thing that the SS had on their side: the best men, devices and tactics to track a con man turned murderer.

  No matter the tasks or obstacles they faced, Jared was up to the challenge, especially since Justice had called him out. Combine that with the fear of defeat and Secret Service Agent Jared Williams would use his acuity to come out a winner.

  Jared pulled into the bank parking lot and looked over to Delia. They proffered each other encouraging nods and then hopped out of their vehicle. Jared’s blazer swayed in the wind exposing his holstered service pistol. Delia’s hair blew in the wind and stopped cold when they entered the bank lobby. The bank security rushed to them. They were startled. They had their share of being approached by any type of sentry. They flashed their badges and the security suggested that they lock their pistols in the trunk of their vehicle. They ignored the man and were ushered through the lobby by bank manager, Robert Roth.

  Roth greeted them dressed severely professional. Not a hint of flamboyance in the gray, heavily tailored pinstripe suit. He stuck his hand out and shook both agents’ hands as they had a seat in his office.

  Delia produced a court order from her attaché and slid it over to Roth. She watched him pick up his unifocal and then speed read over the order. Satisfied that he had read enough to get the point, she said, “We’re ordered to seize all assets of Mr. William Fortune.”

  Roth felt he was being rushed and decided to read the document with a fine tooth comb. Agents or not, this was his playing field and his rules reigned supreme. After reading the three page order twice, he sat his lens to the side and looked at the agents stonily. He clasped his fingers together and let them fall onto the desk.

  “I wish I could help you, but--”

  “Uh, Mr. Roth,” Delia began, “I do not want you to presume that I am a stiff-dicked agent, but you have the court order. It’s clear and concise, and without error in language. We need for you to comply this instant, or I will take you for a little ride to SS headquarters,” she hissed calmly.

  “Agent Williams, I do not conform to idle threats. I have Mark Gargagos as a barrister that will sue the pants off of you and expose your stiff dick,” Roth replied and leaned back in his chair. He had a serious dislike for cocky agents. “I suppose it’s in your nature to be rude for the sake of justice, but before you interrupted me I was going to tell you that Mr. Fortune wired all of his money to a foreign bank.”

  Both agents looked at each other searching for something they could not find. Their bodies dithered after hearing Justice, even if not used as a first name.

  Jared broke the silence and said, “And, may I ask when that occurred?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Do you have any idea why he closed his account and what was the net worth,” Delia asked lightening her tone.

  Roth reached in his top drawer as he told the agents about his encounter with William and Silverstein the day before. He pulled out a folder marked with a long account number on the top. He opened it and flipped through several pages. “Between all of his accounts he had six million with us and a seventy thousand dollar BMW loan. His banker Mr. Silverstein was not in on the day that the transaction was made, and was quite irate when he was informed of the loss of business. However he was not as irate as Mr. Fortune, who was in the bank demanding to know what happened with his money. Roth paused and went into his desk drawer and pulled out a VHS tape with the flair of a magician. Ta-Da! “This tape shows him closing his account and his performance yesterday.”

  “So, what happened to the money? What was he claiming happened?”

  Jared asked.

  “Apparently, he believed that the tape was altered and it was not him.”

  “So?” Delia asked wanting a detailed elaboration.

  “So,” Roth said. His words dripped sarcasm. “I sent the tape to a specialist to check its authenticity.”

  “And?”

  “It was forged. Compound that with a call I took routed from Silverstein’s secretary from the Bank of Luxembourg located in that nation, I surmised I had a problem at my bank and Silverstein was the problem. The foreign bank informed me that over $12 million were transferred to their bank and that two people called in without knowing the password placed on the account. I checked Silverstein’s log and found nothing suspicious, so I checked the associate who closed Fortune’s account and her account log showed that she had several wire transfers to the same routing exchange. Problem is she was out sick on the date the transactions were made.”

  “And, let me guess. Silverstein had access to her system?”

  “Don’t bother answering that,” Jared said. “Where can we find Silverstein?”

  “He did not report for duty.”

  “Can we see the tape to see Mr. Fortune?” Delia asked.

  As they watched the TV monitor disbelievingly, shock ran across the agent’s face. They looked at footage of Justice Lorenzo conning another tender, greenhorn banker.

  Delia and Jared both stood with synchronized precision. They requested Silverstein’s address and informed Roth that they would be in touch for a copy of the surveillance and other pertinent documents.

  When they hopped into their vehicle, Delia told Jared, “I bet you dollar to donuts, Mr. Silverstein skipped town.”

  “I’ll bet you he is fluent in French, too!”

  * * *

  Donald Jacobson, entertainment editor of the LA Times, was an unorthodox man who somehow enjoyed attending celebrity parties. He sat around listening gallantly to gossip, so he caught, Jewel Blacksmith bragging about being William Fortune’s agent. He later heard new movie release gossip, sequel development gossip, and who’s zooming who gossip. Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! As one of the four readers of ne
w novels for the newspaper, he could either offer his star, or not, after reading a novel. An author needed all four readers to offer their star to receive the famed four stars.

  He enjoyed sitting in his elegant, futuristic inspired office writing pieces for LA’s finest publication. However, all of the stories that he crafted had to be put on hold while he investigated the identity of William Fortune. It had taken some time, but he approached the task methodically and after a year of research, he had found the agent of the man that had robbed his father and forced him to have a heart attack. Jacobson was well aware of the fact that William was intimately close to the illusive, Justice Lorenzo based on a scene in one of his movies which spelled out a crime that affected his father. He was right, he learned after he began to tail Fortune.

  He had vowed to up the ante after the San Francisco Zoo stunt that Fortune pulled. And he had.

  Don was at his chrome desk at the Times mulling over an extraordinary article he had written about William Fortune. His desk was covered with William’s novels, past articles and his research to track the man. He still was pissed about the zoo event, even though he had stolen William’s money. Proofreading his latest copy, he was interrupted by his telephone ringing.

  He pressed the speakerphone button and upon hearing the caller he snatched up the receiver.

  “Sam, Rob Roth here. The Secret Service just left. They lingered on to every word and are en route to Bel Air to arrest Paul,” he said, snickering.

  “Good job, buddy. Good damn job. See you tonight at Touch.”

  “I’ll call Nyoka,” he said, lying. Robert Roth had no idea that Sam had already killed Nyoka LaCroix and that he was next.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Lundin donned one of Margarette’s pink Chanel suits and walked into the bank. She sat in the customer service area and rehearsed her opening lines. She wore an invisible ear piece, so that Amir could coach her. They could not chance an error. A single error could cost Lundin her freedom and William his life.