The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6)

by John Ellsworth

  Ansel found his feet and steadied himself. He then turned and fled into the hallway, where he headed north, toward his office. There he would close the doors and segregate himself from the mob that would be only too happy to lynch a wrongdoer. And if it became known that Ansel had turned over the kingdom's keys to his son--set him loose in the trust fund vault--Ansel's lynching would be fiscally indicated, of that he was certain. Those men out there were acquired from Ansel’s own mold; should one pilfer the whole, they would see him swing. Now it was only a matter of time, moments maybe, before they appeared at his door with a coil of rope.

  Time to run.

  In his office then out the other end. Luck was with him: Melinda was in the ladies' room.

  Seventy-eight flights of stairs and he reached the airlock and stepped onto the sidewalk. There were no cries behind him. Not yet.

  The crush of Chicagoans frantic to get to the next important moment in their lives surrounded him and bore him south toward Madison Street. There, he started looking for cabs. They darted and glided toward him, closest lane then furthest, then closest again, and finally one swung to the curb and hit its flasher.

  He swung in, surrendered to the momentum of entry, and prostrated himself in the rear seat.

  "Evanston," was all he could choke out. It was like a giant hand was encircling his throat. He watched buildings glide by out the top of the rear window. He recognized none of them and why would he--he'd never looked up before. How odd, he thought. He told himself to grab hold. Take a deep breath and hold... hold. Release slowly, now another.

  They moved with the traffic in the direction of Lake Michigan. He sat upright and his OCD kicked in, the compulsion to freight the meaningless with meaning. He found there was a count of one-to-fifteen for each city block of travel followed by a count of one-to-fifty for each red light. There was a metric, a poetry in his travel, and in considering that he caught himself and realized he was losing his mind, that it was running downhill much faster than he would have predicted for himself. Had the pills been downed that morning? No image leapt to mind.

  First off, he needed money. Lots of money. To make his escape.

  Then he considered Libby. They had been together beginning senior year in Ithaca twenty-five years ago. They had mostly been true to each other. As a practical matter they never divorced even when he or she held the moral high ground and had every right. In the end, divorce was just too predictable and it was small. They considered themselves and their lives and their kids' lives larger than divorce. So they stayed together.

  He would definitely take her along.

  David would listen to her.

  Who?

  David, damn it, David.

  7

  Chapter 7

  Vice President of New Wealth, Banco Nacionale, was the title on the business cards he handed out all over Mexico City.

  His name was Enrico Rodriguez, Jr. and he was a third generation grad of the Wharton School, and a third generation officer in Banco Nacionale. His great-great-grandfather had served twenty-two years on the bank's original board of directors. Except for his father, all his forebears had held high positions there.

  His own father was a dreamer, a graphic artist who was responsible for the monthly exploits of four Mexican Superheroes in the gaudy Mexican monthly comic Revista de Superheroes. His father earned millions with his comics and it was his artistry and renown that had introduced him to the Tijuana Cartel's leader's son, Juan Carlos Hermeda Ordañez.

  Ordañez was one of four sons, the eldest, and he was in awe of the superheroes penned by Enrico Rodriguez Senior, so much so that the two families became connected.

  As a result, Enrico was connected, albeit distantly, to the Tijuana Cartel. So, when the $200 million USD flowed into his bank and flagged him with a screen alert, his astonishment at the size of the new account was without measure and his first thought was larcenous. He had the credentials and knew how to move the money with a single login. His second thought was Juan Carlos' father, Miguel Ordañez, who, for a fee, would wash the funds and bank them offshore, perhaps in Asia. Enrico Rodriguez would be set for life, the life of all his kids, and the life of his kids' kids. Hong Kong? Maybe. Shanghai? A strong contender. Most favored: Dubai, Abu Dhabi. He could fashion a lifestyle in Dubai that rivaled that of the oil sheiks.

  They met on a trawler in the Pacific Ocean, off La Misión. The meeting location was Ordañez' requirement. Enrico was taken there on a smaller boat and transferred to Juan Carlos Ordañez' boat in three foot seas. Juan Carlos greeted him and they went below decks. An angry looking black man searched him, roughing him up in the process. Ordañez watched all this with little regard. Then, in the boat's galley, they were served coffee and glazed donuts, Ordañez' preferred conference refreshments.

  "I have access to two hundred million USD," Enrico said.

  Ordañez' expression never changed. He was young--early twenties--and worked for his father in the Tijuana Cartel. He was dark complexioned with a sweet face that perhaps would look less surprising at the front of church leading Mass instead of working for a father who headed up a multibillion dollar crime family that killed, looted and exploited fearlessly and without boundaries.

  Coffee and pastries served, the possibility of making a deal was taken up.

  "You have two hundred million to wash," said Juan Carlos between mouthfuls of donut.

  "Yes. It came in unexpectedly."

  "Who did it belong to?"

  "That's just it. A single individual. A name none of my contacts seems to be able to track down."

  "Which is?"

  "Ansel Largent."

  "And what do we know about this man?"

  "Very little. There is a man with this name in Chicago. A lawyer. But I don't see how he would have access to such money."

  "Why wouldn't he?"

  "He works for insurance companies. Abogado."

  The young criminal's face was contemplative. Then he said, "Really? He must have hit the lottery."

  "That's just it. We haven't been able to connect him to any huge verdicts. It's always minor stuff, low millions. And he's never the winner, always the loser. So it doesn't add up."

  "Maybe it is money he is holding for someone else."

  "I've thought of that," said Enrico. He chewed slowly and seemed lost in thought for several moments. "I think I might know how that would work."

  "Go ahead."

  "Well, he defends insurance companies, this man. Perhaps the money he transferred wasn't his money at all. Perhaps it was money belonging to insurance companies."

  "You mean he's a thief. A thief like you want to be."

  "Exactly."

  "How much for me?"

  "Fifty cents on the dollar."

  "My father washes two hundred and keeps one hundred. Is that it?"

  "I think that's fair."

  "I think we get seventy-five percent, you twenty-five percent. But since our families are friends, we will accept sixty-five."

  "And I get thirty-five. Consider it done, Juan Carlos."

  There was a handshake and smiles all around.

  "Your company will be named Eastern Star Lines, Ltd.," Ordañez told the banker. "Organize under the laws of Canada. The money will be in a bank in Hong Kong under that name. Routing and account details will be provided by four text messages. You must never contact me again."

  "Agreed," said Enrico. He felt a tingle of excitement run along his back. He shivered.

  "Cold?"

  "Excited."

  "Excited is good. That means I have been fair with you."

  "More than fair," said Enrico. He had hoped for twenty-five. He was going to get that plus another ten. It was beyond imagination. He could only think how much they loved his father, the cartoonist. It all made him giddy.

  He ran up the short stairs to the railing. Small seas, big bellyache. Sailors' woes.

  But he was happy. Even while he threw up the donuts into the Pacific Ocean.
<
br />   He was deliriously happy.

  8

  Chapter 8

  The stroke had done its work.

  Libby now talked out the side of her mouth and the mouth and the food drooled and the coffee splashed around as she struggled with enunciation.

  It wasn't just her ear for good speech the stroke robbed from her; rather, it was the ability to make the sounds that anymore she could only dream to utter.

  Stroke victims are often angry, Ansel had learned, and Libby was no exception. While Ansel might have meant to do it only with the greatest love in his heart, the serving of a simple mug of her favorite Starbucks could make her erupt into a longshoreman's curse. What once created intimacy now created rage all too often.

  He was having second thoughts as the cab neared home. Did he dare take her with him when he ran after David? She had her home health aides during the day; she had him at night. Could he handle her alone without the refuge of a job? He honestly didn't know, but he knew that he was not a born caretaker.

  With him, it was an acquired skill, not unlike learning to draw freehand, except that his model was always moving, always changing, full of needs that ebbed and flowed and always blurring in unexpected mini-dramas and difficult presentations.

  Bottom line: if not him, then who? Who else was there to take care of her? Their youngest, Winston, was away at school in Berkeley. He was clearly out. Besides, he'd given every indication that he had dropped out of the family, as he didn't even bother to return home during summers any more. So, no Winston. And Ansel believed that David was already spoken for by some bankrupt ministry for needy kids in Mexico City.

  So if he left--when, rather--it would have to be with Libby in tow. He resigned himself to that. He would be reduced to the role of fugitive-caretaker. There was no romance in any of it.

  Those thoughts plagued him as they made their way on Lakeshore Drive, finally arriving at his gated home at 11:20 a.m.

  He jumped from the cab, hit the gatehouse button, and announced myself to Libby. Moments later the gate swung open, and they finished the ride. Again he jumped out, this time to pay the cabbie.

  At the double doors he repeated the intercom process and Libby finally pushed open the door herself, a streak of orange juice mapping the right side of her face between mouth and chin. She forced a half-smile, literally, and said, "Whersh ya car?"

  "Long story," he said, and planted a kiss on her face. She tasted vaguely of OJ and oatmeal. He brushed on by and headed for his office. "I'll explain in a few. First I've got a couple things I must hurry to."

  "Ash ushual."

  "Thanks, but this time it’s really urgent, I'm afraid. I'll explain it all shortly."

  Libby's mind was unaffected by the stroke. She would follow exactly the dynamics of the tale he planned to unload on her in a few. But first--first there were financial arrangements to be made.

  He reach Jim Decker at Fifth Third Bank on Michigan Avenue. Jim was his college roommate. His official title was regional manager at Fifth Third. He commanded twelve banks and made them profitable. He was a small wiry man who played intramural field hockey in their yahoo days and was the league's top scorer for his foot speed and tenacity.

  "Jim, it's Ansel," he said when Jim punched in.

  "Anse, old dog. How's tricks down at the ATM?"

  He referred to Ansel's law firm as his personal ATM. They went way back, and there was nothing that was off-limits between them.

  "All good. We're still making more money than Exxon."

  "What about Libby? Recovering?"

  "Getting better just about every day. She's a fighter, Libby."

  "And your last little bout? You feeling better?"

  "Jim, I have no complaints. How about Marianna, have the kids made her a grandma yet?"

  "You know, they're trying--they have to be, they're related to me."

  "But I hope without your notorious perversions?"

  "Still spoken of in hushed tones down at the SAE house."

  "Listen, Jimbo, why I'm calling..."

  "You found a smaller house? It's just the two of you now isn't it? Ever since David—”

  "It is. But I've hit a little snag and need some cash money. Real cash."

  "Hot real estate? Want me to drop a few hundred thousand into your personal account?"

  "Thanks, but what I really need is cash. I'm wondering--would it be too much to ask you to send a courier to my house with a couple hundred thousand cash?"

  "Whoa! This must mean you've got some poor young thing pregnant!"

  "No, nothing like that. I've just had something come up. I'd rather not discuss by phone."

  "I don't see why I can't do that for my old roomie. Two hundred thousand? Same home address?"

  "Yes and yes."

  "Personal signature required. You going to be there to sign?"

  "Sure."

  "Done, brother. What else can I do you for?"

  "That's about it for now. But let me get back to you if I think of anything else."

  "We'll just put this on your line of credit and I'll make a note for the examiners that you made a verbal request on today's date."

  "Perfect. Thanks, Jim. You know how much I appreciate it."

  "Call me some time. Let's catch a Bulls game and get drunk."

  "You're on. I'll call in a week and we'll make plans."

  "Looking forward."

  So they hung up. Ansel crept up to the office window and peeked out the curtains. No black-and-whites, no anonymous white vans from the Fed Fleet. He tried to calm the paranoia rattling through his brain. But again, his hands shook and he gulped air like they were going to stop making it. He'd have a drink to steady things down, but he wasn't allowed. Doctor's orders.

  His mobile chimed. JM on the other end. Nervous.

  "Hey, JM, I had to scat for a few hours."

  "Dammit, man! The cops want to talk to you. Where the hell did you go?"

  "I had to run home. It's about Libby."

  "But your car's still in the garage. Did you take a cab?"

  "Wanted to work on the way. I brought my laptop."

  "What time will you be back? We've got two Chicago homicide detectives snorting around for an official statement. You know how pushy those animals are. That's number one. Number two, have you called the XFBI guys yet? We need them online like today. Also I'm looking into FDIC coverage for something like this. I highly doubt there's anything there, but I'm looking."

  "No, I don't think FDIC covers situations where the account holder steals from himself. You're barking up the wrong tree."

  "Well the FDIC covers $250,000 per depositor, per insured bank. Now I'm wondering if that's cumulative where there are different depositors in one account. I don't know."

  "I really don't know about that."

  "So what time can we expect you?"

  "Let--let me have a talk with Libby. She might need me to run her by the hospital for a scan. I don't know yet."

  There was a pause. A meaningful one.

  "That's evasive, friend. Should I be worried about you?"

  Ansel pressed a fist against his head. It had begun to throb in back. He told himself it was all the stress. David, JM, Libby, Melinda, Suzanne--it was overwhelming. One thing his doc had insisted: no stress. Plenty of sleep, no stress.

  He caught a glimpse of Libby passing by his office door. He whispered, "No need to worry about me. Why, am I a suspect?"

  "Tell that to the frigging cops! They're falling all over themselves down here looking for you. One of the FBI jerks wants your home address. I told him I'd have to get back to him on that."

  FBI? Really! His throbbing head reacted. A drum pounding. He was thinking he might need one of his pills. Which he tried to avoid during the day, as he needed to be clear-headed.

  "Hell no, don't give the FBI my home address. That's all Libby needs is for the FBI to slime up our house. Just tell them I'll get back to them. Say I've got a medical emergency with my wife."

>   "Do you? Emergency? Really?"

  "No, but--you know. Hold them off until I get there. Just stall, JM."

  "And I have nothing to worry about with you?"

  "Like what? Come on, man. How long have we known each other?"

  "Since we were pissing in the wading pool."

  "Look, let me deal with Libby's little flare-up and I'll be back in. It might be this afternoon late, it might not be until tomorrow morning. Probably tomorrow, knowing how long we'll have to wait on films at the hospital."

  "Brain scan?"

  "Something like that."

  "Give her my regards. Hope it all goes well."

  "See you in the a.m. Peace out, brother."

  He ended the call and dropped the phone in his shirt pocket. It was time to get moving. He want to get them packed so they could leave when the money hit the door. There was no time to waste. He thought he knew right where David had gone and he had to get to him before the authorities ran him to the ground.

  9

  Chapter 9

  Every year the Defense Counsel Institute held its retreat in the Cayman Islands. The customary haunt was the Marriott Hotel, where the Grand Ballroom would be reserved for the three day soirée, including the capstone Turtle Soup Dance. The Institute's annual joke was that no turtles had actually been harmed in the making of the Dance's table decorations, which were phony sea turtle shells adorned with local Birds of Paradise and Denbrobium Orchid bouquets.

  It was at the 2012 retreat when Ansel had found himself dancing, after midnight, with Suzanne Fairmont. While she was a criminal attorney and did zero insurance defense, she had accompanied a young attorney from the firm of Blasingame and Richards to the retreat. Showing all the customary signs of conservative insurance industry living when he took himself off to bed at midnight, the young attorney was upstairs in their room, asleep, leaving his date alone at the Turtle Soup table, where, like the lovely sea creatures after which the dance was named, she awaited poaching.