"I am a trust account signatory. There's James MacDevon, James MacDevon and Nedra, and Louis Rammelkamp."
He spoke up, Agent Honeycomb. "Rammelkamp was removed from the account two weeks ago. By you."
"Louis was? I must have forgotten."
"Recall why you took him off?"
He shrugged. "I must have had my reasons."
"Being what?" Agent Smothers asked. There was no tell about him, no reading him.
"Louis hasn't been well. We--I--just thought it would be best to remove him."
"Would that have anything to do with his real estate venture going belly-up?"
"It would."
Louis had invested in a five-acre-horse-farms venture near Barrington. Zoning had failed although the proper payoffs to board members had been made, so Ansel took Louis off the trust account. You couldn't be too careful, was his slant at the time.
"How would that be necessary?"
"His real estate investment plan fell through. JM and I talked it over and thought it best to remove Louis."
Smothers steepled his fingers. He was wearing a gigantic class ring on his left hand, a ring with a huge ruby stone. The stone tossed a laser of red light at Ansel's face. He blinked, hard. And pulled his face to the side like one dodging mirrored sunlight. Smothers smiled, just barely, but he smiled.
"So when the money went missing, only you and James MacDevon had access to the account?"
"Far as I know, that would be correct. Plus--"
"Yes?"
"Well, my son had--"
"This would be your son away at school?"
He shook his head. "No, that would be his brother, David."
The agents traded a look. "And where is David? If he had access to the account we'll need to talk to him, too."
"David is out of town, business."
"Where?"
"He was supposed to be in the air on his way home. Should be back late tonight."
Whereupon, Libby called in from the kitchen, "Are we going, or what?"
Agent Honeycomb smiled. A tease had been tossed his way. He accepted. "Going? Where are you going? Are we keeping you?"
"No--Yes. We're having to visit someone who's ill. We're about to leave for the hospital."
"Sorry about that," said Smothers. "Who is ill?"
"That would be confidential."
"Well, that wouldn't be David, would it? Is David having problems we might need to be made aware of? Mental problems?"
"No, no, no, nothing like that. No, it's not David, anyway. Family member. Family friend."
"Sorry for that. We both are."
They both nodded solemnly. They traded a look. Which didn't surprise Ansel one bit. He was being evasive, unsure, all the things you don't want to be with the FBI.
He half-stood. "Well, then, we really need--"
Agent Honeycomb raised his pudgy hand. "You know what? This might be totally off the wall, but would you mind if we just took a look around?"
"A look around at what?"
"Oh, you know. Just snooping"
"Why on earth? Yes, I mind. We're leaving."
"It wouldn't take ten minutes."
"Yes, I mind."
"Do we need to get a search warrant?"
"Yes, no. If you could come back around six this evening, or in the morning, a look around would be just fine."
Honeycomb gave him a querulous look. A pout. "I meant now. Please?"
He climbed to his feet.
"I'm going to have to shoo you out now. Libby and I need to hit the road."
"Hit the road? That sounds like a major trip to me. Does that sound major to you, Agent Smothers?"
Agent Smothers nodded at Agent Honeycomb. "It sounds major."
Two against one. Definitely time to end it.
"Whatever. I'm asking you to leave now, so please: to the front door."
He spread his arms like one herding chickens.
"Thank you," he said at the door as they prepared to step out.
Without a backward look or another word, they moved off. Then at the edge of the porch, Agent Smothers turned his black, island face, and said, simply, "We'll be back at six. With a search warrant. Be here, please. If not, we'll let ourselves in. And that's never pretty."
Ansel watched them climb into their car and pull slowly away.
He waved. He couldn't think what else he should do, so he waved.
"Who wash that?" asked Libby, making an appearance with silver tray, coffee carafe, and four cups.
"Business acquaintances."
"At the house? Why are they at our housh, Ansh?"
"Mistake. They couldn't stay for coffee. Big doings."
"What should I do with all this coffee? Pour it out?"
"Yes. Pour it out. We're leaving. Now."
15
Chapter 15
Twenty-five minutes later the cab buzzed. Ansel buzzed back and it materialized at their front drive. It was green with a green-yellow checkered stripe along the side.
With no time to waste Ansel loaded Libby's plaid bag and his overnight bag. Then he steadied Libby down the stairs and at the bottom she pushed him aside and caned herself to the cab. She leaned against the front door, pulled open the back door, and swung her left side onto the seat. She then reached with both hands to grasp her right leg and drag it inside. She pulled the door closed. Ansel watched all this labor and admired his wife. He then ran around and jumped in beside her.
"O'Hare," he told the cabby, who nodded but just barely. He was a dark, Middle Easterner, earphone plugged into his right ear, softly speaking into an invisible mike. Whether he had heard him, Ansel was unsure, so he repeated himself. "O'Hare, please." The driver caught Ansel's eyes in the rearview and gave an annoyed look. He had definitely heard and his attention was definitely elsewhere and Ansel was definitely, definitely interrupting his conversation. Well, excuse me, Ansel thought, and looked away.
Ansel clicked the handheld and triggered the front gate. It swung shut behind them, its electric eye watching their egress.
"I don't believe you've told me where we're off to," Libby announced while at the same time flipping lint from her navy slacks. She was wearing the slacks, starched white shirt, and houndstooth jacket, gray and white. Her ladies' London Fog with faux fur was buttoned at the waist. The day had developed into one with blowing snow like confetti with a promise of much more to come toward evening. Ansel thought they would want to be airborne long before because, while O'Hare was the world's greatest airport when it came to clearing wintry runways, other flights would cancel and theirs would then oversell. The threat of being bumped was unthinkable and he guided his restless mind toward happier thoughts. Such as David, seeing him, maybe even later that night. And having the talk he desperately needed to have as he retrieved the firm's money.
Libby nudged him with her elbow. "Did you hear me? Where are we going?"
"We're going to Mexico City."
She leaned forward and punched the driver.
"Excuse me," she said in her most strident Libby-voice, "take me back home, pleash. Thersh been a mistake."
The cabby's eyes found Ansel's eyes in the glass. As well as eyes could shrug, Ansel's did. The driver looked at him quizzically.
"No, please keep driving," he countermanded. "My wife is just upset."
She punched his shoulder again. "Do you want to be arreshted for kidnapping? I'm not fooling around here, mishter. Take me home immediately."
Predictably, the driver took his foot from the accelerator.
"I doan know," he turned and said to the twosome. "Who is boss here?"
"I'm definitely boss," Ansel said. "This woman is my wife and she's been ill. We're going for treatment now."
"Thash a lie straight out of the pit of hell!" Libby cried. "Now shtop before I jump out!"
He began pulling into the right lane. It was clear he intended to take the next right and come back around heading to the pickup point.
"Listen to me
," Ansel told him. "Here's one thousand dollars for you to listen to me, not her."
He freed ten hundreds from inside his sweatshirt sleeve and tossed them up front.
"There's another thousand when you get us there."
"I am sorry, missus," the cabby said, and steered the cab back to the fast lane. Their speed picked up and they were doing ten over. Ansel congratulated himself on having instincts that were right on: a grand never looked so good to that guy as right then.
"Policesh will be called and heads will roll," Libby promised the man. He didn't react at all, didn't seem to have heard her. She shrugged and looked out her window. Ansel watched her jaw move as she talked to herself--a willing audience since the stroke. That's fine, let her talk it over with herself, he thought.
That was close.
His mind raced ahead, scouting out his moves. How did he plan to get her on the plane? How would he ever get her out of the cab and into the airport? A million ideas were served up and were rejected in his brain. She was too damn wily for most of his scenarios, too experienced, too accustomed to his machinations. He knew he was a known quantity to her, predictable and avoidable. Then it came to him: her mother. Old, poor and feeble. Living in a cubicle in Boca. A twelve-by-twelve with easy chair, blaring TV, two burners and mini-fridge, and bathroom you couldn't bend over and tie your shoes in. Like he said, poor. Broke.
"In law school, in contracts law, we studied contracts," he told her.
She continued staring out her window and moving her jaw.
"Contracts have beneficiaries. One type of beneficiary is called a third-party beneficiary."
No change. Window-jaw, it was all the same.
"Imagine this. A and B make a contract. As part of their deal, C benefits. C gets something because of B's promise to A. A gives something to C because of B's promise to A."
"See where I'm going with this?"
The cabby nodded in the mirror. He got it.
Ansel pushed ahead. “So let's say I'm Mr. A, you're Mrs. B, and your mother is C. You and I make an agreement and your mother benefits."
Her head turned and then she was looking at the road ahead.
"What would my mother get? What would I have to do?"
"Your mother gets--fifty thousand dollars."
"What?"
He had her full attention then.
"That's right. I pay your mother fifty thousand dollars if you will go to Mexico City with me."
"Show me the money."
"It's taped to my right leg."
"I don't care. I want it right now or I'm not going."
He unzipped and untaped. Fifty packages of one thousand each were eased out of his pants, still attached to a volume of clear tape. He passed it over.
"Deal?" He still clutched the package.
"Deal."
He relaxed his grip. She unzipped her carry-on and forced the package inside.
"Do I have to give it all to her?"
"She's the beneficiary, I would hope so."
"All right then."
"Done. No more arguments?"
"I'm in. I have no idea what you're up to thish time, but my mother can damn well ush the money."
"I know."
"Thanksh. She thanksh you."
"I know she does."
"Thish will supplement her Shocial Shecurity every month."
"Good."
"Maybe I'll dole it out sho she can't go nuts. Maybe five hundred a month."
"That's six thousand a year. It will last nine years and change."
"She's sheventy-eight. That should be long enough. Her mother died at sheventy-nine."
"Good. We might get a refund."
"The hell with you, Anshel. Thash terrible."
"Sorry. Can you step it up another ten?" he poked the cabby. "We're going to hit heavy westbound on the Kennedy."
The cab moved appreciably faster.
Money.
No wonder David made off with two hundred million of it.
You could rule the entire rush hour flow with enough hundreds.
16
Chapter 16
Ansel's Google search confirmed that Mexican travel visas were issued at the destination airport. So that worked; they would acquire them there when they touched down.
But first, United Airlines ran a passport check at its O'Hare terminal fourteen.
Ansel passed the agent their two passports. Libby stood beside him, cane firmly planted on the speckled tile, impatience written on her face. Stroke victims could be very impatient. Stroke victims, hell, so could Ansel, he thought, and there was no stroke in his history. At least none that he knew of.
His impatience with the lady at the counter mounted by the second.
She looked at his passport and compared the name to his driver's license. Same thing with Libby's. Then eyes: up-down, up-down a dozen times while she compared their likenesses to reality. Finally she closed both booklets and passed them back.
He gave her his what-the-hell look. She smiled United Airlines-ly and spread her hands.
"Sorry. No-fly list."
"What?"
"You're both on the no-fly list. As of 2:40 CST. I can't check you in."
"Who do we talk to?"
"The State Department."
"Washington DC?"
"Uh-huh. Now, will you let me help the next in line? Next?"
He felt pressure against his back. A young couple buckled up against them insistently. There was nothing they could do, Libby and Ansel, except stand aside and give them their place at the counter. Then they were in no-man’s land, that spot at the counter where there was no terminal and no smiling face.
"Ansh, are you in trouble?"
"I can explain."
"Lesh go find a quiet corner. I might talk funny but the brainsh shtill operative. Yours--not so much."
17
Chapter 17
They sat and talked and finally decided to take the next indicated step: they fell in line at Avis. Driving to Mexico City sounded hot and long and interstellar in miles, but what was actually left to them? If you couldn't fly, drive; they decided.
Libby hobbled off in search of the restroom while Ansel parked himself in line behind three Midwesterners--bulky topcoats in the dull blacks, grays, and blues of Chicago. Behind him was a cluster of three Asians speaking what he assumed was Chinese, and they were turning a roadmap end-to-end, exclaiming loudly as they tried to finger-trace some route. Call me racist, he thought, but it was astonishing that Asians would be using a tool so ancient as a roadmap when they all had GPS on their phones, iPads, and the car they would rent. But they were animated and several hands grabbed the map at once. Ansel turned away and began tapping his foot as the terminal operator told her patron to initial the circles and sign at the bottom. And so the litany continued, "Will that be full-size, mid-size, or economy?"
His mind played with the agent’s speech rhythm: Will that be brain-scan, therapy, or lobotomy? Full-size, mid-size, economy? It was all the same to him. Just please hurry.
Until someone poked him in the back. Half-expecting to see gold FBI badges, he turned around. An Asian face smiled up at him. He was probably mid-forties, squat but muscular, round face and brown eyes like chocolate almonds. "Can you help?" he said.
"I can try," Ansel replied. "What's up?"
"We want to go to Grand Canyon. Is it far?"
"About two thousand miles that-a-way," he said and pointed west.
"One day, two day?"
"A good two days. A comfortable three. Why are you in Chicago if you're going to the Grand Canyon?"
The man checked his smartphone. Ansel saw he was using a translation app.
"My wife has been to OB-GYN conference. We came from Hong Kong."
At which time Libby reappeared. She looked refreshed and relieved.
"Hi," she said, and extended a hand to the visitor. "I'm Libby. Do we know you?"
"My name Herman Wang. This Mira Wang, my wife."
"You're the doctor?" he asked, bringing Libby up to speed.
"Yes," she replied and suddenly took Libby's hand and began pumping. "Hello, Libby. Are you driving west?”
“Yesh. We’re off to Mexico Shitty.”
“Is near Grand Canyon?”
“Not exactly,” Libby said. Her speech was half-speed in appreciation of the language differences. "But we're going right by there."
"So nice," Dr. Wang said and nodded at her companions. They all joined her, nodding: it's nice they're going right by there.
"Sho--" Libby exhaled, "Maybe we could drop you there."
It never ceased to amaze him what the stroke had done to her logic faculty. What, they were offering a ride to three total strangers, from Chicago to the Grand Canyon? Didn't she remember they were actually in a hurry to get to Mexico City? Was being in a hurry nothing to her?
"I'm sure they'll want to stretch out in their own car," Ansel told Libby and took her by the elbow as if to turn her toward the Avis agent. But she pulled away.
"It would be nicesh to have female company," Libby said with All-American cheerleader spirit. "You should ride with us. We can shplit the cost."
A rapid-fire discussion overcame the trio. Finally the first man surfaced from the noisy confabulation.
"We go with you," he said with an eager smile. "You rent the car, I buy the gas."
"Fair enough," chirped Libby. "Off we go then. Here," she said, and moved them out of line like a mother hen managing her chicks. "Shtand over here while we get the car. We'll need something full-shize," she told Ansel. He started to object. They wanted to keep a low profile and take a circuitous route. Back roads, secondaries, streets the FBI wouldn't think to monitor. No, they definitely needed to be on their own.
The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 7
