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

by John Ellsworth

  When all four messages were received, he pieced them together until he was sure he had a bank routing number and a bank account number.

  Then, two days later, he received a fifth and a sixth text message. They said, in total, Hung Kai Bank & Holding, Ltd.

  Working with the worldwide banking data that went with his job, he read about the bank and studied its ownership. He satisfied himself that it was who it said it was and he prepared for the big day, the day he would transfer the $200 million to Hung Kai.

  First, he went online to Dubai Apartments and found a short term listing. The price was steep: $10,260 per month, but he had enough money in savings and stock options that he was able to make first, last and security deposit. He still had enough left to buy airline tickets, coach class, for his wife and infant son, to Dubai, Abu Dhabi.

  "You are going to have to trust me," he told his young wife one night. Her name was Aña Marie and she was the product of a modern upbringing in Mexico City. Travel and change came easily to her, especially when her husband told her the move underway was the result of a huge promotion he had received at his work. They were going to be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, Enrico told her, and she became excited. "Above all," he whispered, "when you reach our new home, contact no one. Don't even call your mother and tell her where you are."

  She followed his instructions, packing clothing and toiletries for one week and shipping personal items such as photo albums, precious items from their son's birth, and jewelry. The address she used was the apartment in Dubai. Management there had even offered to receive shipments and store them in the couple's apartment for their arrival.

  He procured a passport for her under her mother's maiden name. It was a name that would be untraceable; no one would think to try and locate her using the new last name.

  For himself he purchased a forged birth certificate and a forged passport. Now he was no longer Enrico Rodriguez, Jr. Now he was Ricky Wellman of Omaha, Nebraska. The passport was American. His plan after several years in Dubai was to move to the United States and retire there. He had seen pictures of Colorado and it had burned a longing deep into his soul, the Rocky Mountains and the remote lifestyle. And it would be a welcome change from the deserts of Dubai. Cool, green, wild and untamed, that was the Colorado he yearned for. Maybe it wouldn't take years to get there. Maybe a year. Maybe less.

  That was in the background of his mind as arrangements were finalized, accounts opened, withdrawals made, traveler's checks purchased for Ricky Wellman, and important papers packaged and shipped overseas.

  On January 21 it was all in place.

  The $200 million had waited for him day after day, the black numbers staring back at him on his computer monitor when he visited them each day. Now the numbers felt like an old friend. It had even begun to feel like they belonged to him.

  At nine o'clock that night, he went back into his office at the bank and logged in for the last time. He set up the wire transfer, input Hung Kai's routing number and account number, and clicked SEND.

  Like a phantom he was gone from the office, gone from Mexico City, and gone from the Western Hemisphere. All pre-arranged, all assumed names, all as agreed with Juan Carlos.

  He was sure the money had hit the Hong Kong bank and was now taking on a life of its own, traveling worldwide under the authority of Juan Carlos and his banking empire. When the wash job was done, the money would be returned to him--thirty-five percent of it--to a Dubai Bank, also pre-arranged and waiting to see its opening balance swell from $1000 USD to over $70 million USD.

  In fact, the money beat him to Dubai and was waiting for him when his plane touched down.

  The reunion with wife and son was joyful and tender. They talked the first hour, and he explained that she could contact no one from their old world for at least twenty-four months. She was shocked at this, and dismayed, but he explained it was being done for her safety and the safety of their son, as a protection against kidnappers, now that the family enjoyed great wealth. At last she said she understood and that she agreed. There would be no contact, not with any of them, not even a call to the mother she adored and to whom she was extremely close.

  It was better that way. She said she understood.

  But already she missed her mother. Twenty-four months seemed like a lifetime. She would do her best to obey her husband.

  That was it. She would do her best.

  20

  Chapter 20

  The next morning at 5:30 the cell erupted with activity when first one man then another relieved himself in the open trench along the back wall. The splatter and moans were punctuated with the flutters and whoops of gas passing. Soon the cell was stinking and noisy.

  Ansel and Thaddeus sat against one wall, on the floor, their knees drawn up to their chests as they hid in the early morning shadows. Neither wanted a confrontation. Increasingly, they were the unwilling recipients of angry glares and curses. "Pinche Gringos," they heard several times.

  "I think we're being discussed," Ansel whispered out the side of his mouth. His head was bobbing again, the metronomic beat having its way. Thaddeus thought him odd, but he was friendly enough.

  "I think you're right," said Thaddeus. "Don't make eye contact, please."

  "What are you here for?"

  "Misunderstanding. You?"

  "FBI had a hold on my passport."

  "That sounds bad. What did you do?"

  "That's just it. I didn't do anything. But my law firm is missing megabucks."

  "What are you, the accountant?"

  "Managing partner."

  "You're a lawyer? Where you from?"

  "Chicago. MacDevon Largent firm. I'm Largent."

  "You're Ansel Largent. I've heard of you."

  "You're from Chicago?"

  "Not from, but I have a law office there."

  Ansel clucked his tongue. "Small world. What area of law?"

  "Mostly criminal anymore. Some medical malpractice, but mostly criminal."

  "Got a card? Just joking. No, I'm not. Are you interested in taking on a new client?"

  "You don't even know me."

  "Are you A-V rated?"

  He meant Martindale-Hubbell, a legal registry of attorneys, publishers of a journal used by lawyers to find other lawyers when needed. A-V was the highest possible rating.

  "I am. Five years now."

  "What's your name?"

  "Thaddeus Murfee. Don't shake my hand."

  "I know you! You sued the State of Illinois and hit the lottery."

  "We did all right."

  "Seriously, Mr. Murfee. I do need a lawyer. The FBI will come for me once they hear I've been picked up."

  "Sorry, I'm in jail. Can't help."

  "I can get you out."

  "How could that be?"

  Ansel smiled what Thaddeus could only conceive was a mysterious smile. Several head bobs and a dodge.

  "Let me handle that. If I get you out will you represent me?"

  "That sounds reasonable."

  "All right then, done. When I get out, you get out. I've got fifty thousand dollars under this sweatshirt. Will that do for a retainer?"

  "That's the amount of my bail. Plus I need twenty-five thousand for a judge's fee."

  "Judge's fee? What in the world?"

  "You know. Grease the palm. This is Mexico."

  "Sure, sure. Well, I've got another twenty-five thousand on each thigh. Let's call it seventy-five thousand, then.

  "Done."

  Pulling deeper into the shadows, Ansel--before Thaddeus could stop him--had removed the slab taped to his chest and was passing it to Thaddeus. Thaddeus quickly unbuttoned and stuffed the bills inside his shirt.

  "That was stupid," Thaddeus whispered angrily.

  "Seals the deal. No quid pro quo, no deal. Now you're on the hook. You're my lawyer."

  "Don't do anything like that again. Not in here."

  "Won't need to. You're retained. Now, would you like to hear my story?"
>
  "Sure," said Thaddeus, "let me buzz for some coffee. Oh, that's right, they don't have room service here. My bad."

  "You're jaded, my friend."

  "I've been here almost a day. You'll get jaded too if you're in here that long."

  "My guess is, the FBI will be here before that happens."

  "Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

  "Remember, you're coming with me."

  "Sure. You bet."

  "I'm serious, Thaddeus."

  "Well, I've been paid. So I'm in."

  At which point Burton came awake with a gasp.

  "Who are you?" he asked Ansel.

  "I’m the dummy who got arrested last night."

  "Sure," Burton said. He yawned at the man and nodded, then went back to sleep.

  "Friend?"

  "My guide."

  "Okay."

  "Long story."

  "Okay. Now, whatever happens from here on, just try to keep up. Don't say much."

  "Who would I be talking to?"

  "FBI."

  "Sure. My lips are sealed."

  Ansel gave him an anxious look.

  "Please," he said and shook his head.

  21

  Chapter 21

  The two Special Agents crossed at Nogales where they were well known. They were officed out of Nogales and crossed the same border virtually every day in pursuit of bad guys who had thought Mexico offered respite from the long arm of American justice. How wrong they always were. In the Twenty-First Century the FBI pursued fugitives around the world. Foreign or domestic, it was all the same to the Fibbies. Even the No-Extradite countries were fair game. Won't extradite? Fine, we'll show up in the middle of the night and kidnap you. The new, improved FBI.

  They had a recent photo of Ansel Largent from the Illinois State Bar Association. It was mounted on the dashboard of their 2014 Ford Bronco where they could compare the guy in the holding cell to the guy in the photo. They had been fooled too many times to make that kind of mistake again.

  Their names were Cashman and Lockhart and they were both twenty year veterans of the Agency. Cashman was white and wore dreadlocks, which disguised his real identity when that was important. Lockhart was white and female. She had exceeded FBI weight limits for her height and she blamed that on the Ben and Jerry's Funky Monkey she couldn't leave alone. Every night, curled up in front of the wide screen watching Homeland, Season 1, it was the same for her: a pint of B and J, a glass of California Chardonnay, and a slow drift into the slumber where the FBI always got its man. Cashman was the exact opposite: rawboned and thin-faced, he spent his off-work hours playing driveway basketball with his twin teenage sons, both of whom wanted nothing to do with law enforcement. Cashman had no problems with any of this. He wouldn't force working for the FBI on his worst enemy, as he was totally disgusted with the Liberal leanings of the Bureau since the current administration began its run. He longed for a return to holy Right Wing esteem for professional law enforcers like him.

  "Enough with the bleeding hearts," he told Lockhart as they pulled through the border station. It was the morning following Ansel's arrest. "The President is a sorry Socialist."

  Lockhart, as usual, stared out the window, ignoring the diatribe and focusing on a mental image of ice cream in a bowl a-swarm with cashews. Anything but politics; it made her want to throw up. But she couldn't tell that to her partner, so she stared out the window and nodded automatically at each pause in her partner's rant.

  "Uh-huh," she said.

  "Our perp looks like a dweeb," Cashman said after several minutes.

  Lockhart gazed over at the dash-mounted photo.

  "He looks like your basic WASP lawyer. Two hundred million missing? We're going to be all over CNN with this."

  "I'm a FOX man, myself."

  "Whatever."

  "I can do news. I'm thinking of writing a book next year when I retire. Did I tell you that?"

  She nodded haplessly. "Yeah, you did mention something about a book."

  "I'm all over it," he said. "Picked up a new Macbook and I'm already making notes. Once I have my chapters laid out, I'll start fleshing it out. Gonna be hot, Lucky Lock!"

  "Please don't call me that, Cash Crash. I've asked you how many times?"

  "I like Cash Crash. It works for a pen name."

  "Jeez, I should have known."

  They pulled up alongside the Mexican border station.

  "We'll park around back. I'll be good guy."

  "I dibs bad."

  "You're on."

  They parked the SUV and went inside, flashing badges, which were ignored. The Mexicans knew all about the Fibbies, knew the two agents like two of their own, and were under strict orders to make whatever accommodations the FBI requested.

  "You've got an Ansel Largent in back. We need to talk to him."

  The Mexican Sergeant behind the desk nodded at the duty jailer.

  "Bring Largent," the Sergeant ordered. "Green room is empty. Go inside and we bring him to you."

  "Coolio," said Lockhart.

  The agents switched on the light in the green room and got comfortable. Cashman removed the plastic wrap from a cinnamon toothpick and inserted the wood between his lips. He liked the casual look, the street look, when interviewing suspects. As the good guy, the prop relaxed the perps right off the bat, took away some of the sting of FBI-ness.

  The jailer knocked once.

  "Coming in!" he called.

  "Enter," said Cashman.

  Ansel Largent stepped into the room, handcuffed and waist-chained as if escape attempts were likely. He looked around the room, bobbing his head as he took it in.

  "Sit," said Lockhart. She leaned back in her chair and assumed the hateful look of Bad Cop. Nothing Largent said would please her or wipe the look of disdain from her face. That was the role of the Bad Cop. She slouched and drummed her fingers on the table as Ansel was pushed down on a chair. His face was white and he looked to be in agony.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  Both agents produced badges, flopping them on the tabletop.

  "We're your worst fears," said Lockhart. "FBI."

  "Actually, what agent Lockhart means, is we're here to help you avoid some unpleasantness, Mr. Largent," said Cashman with a smile. "We're just here to talk, that's all."

  "You think I did it, don't you." It wasn't a question. "But I didn't. I swear it."

  "We don't know who did it," Cashman said. "That's why we're here. We're only gathering facts at this point. In fact, when we're finished here you'll probably never see either of us again."

  "Seriously?"

  The agents traded a look and nodded. All for his benefit.

  "Seriously," they said in unison.

  "Unless you want to do the right thing," said Lockhart.

  Ansel's eyes narrowed. "Right thing, as in--"

  "Tell us where the money went. Your login, your bad," Lockhart said, a scowl on her face.

  "We believe someone might have stolen your login and moved law firm trust funds, is what Agent Lockhart means," said Cashman. Good Guy. "Can you give us any help with that line of thinking? Anyone have access to your login?"

  "One person might have," said Ansel. "But I want Thaddeus Murfee in here before we talk about that."

  "That would be who?"

  "Thaddeus Murfee. He's from Chicago, like yours truly."

  "He has what to do with the missing money?"

  "He has fifty thousand dollars of the firm's money on him right now. I'm not at liberty to tell you how he got it. But I think he's who you're looking for."

  "What?" Again, in unison.

  "It's a long story. Look, search him and see if I'm telling you the truth. He's the guy you're actually looking for."

  Lockhart stood and went out of the room.

  "Wait one," said Cashman. "Let us bring Mr. Murfee in here and see what we can find out."

  Minutes later, Thaddeus was led, restrained, into the room. The jailers had manac
led his wrists and waist-chained him. He blinked hard under the bright lights and looked around.

  "Have a seat," said Cashman.

  "All right. What is this chamber of horrors about?" Thaddeus said.

  "FBI. We have some questions."

  Thaddeus nodded and considered the situation.

  "I don't think you're here about one lousy smuggled gun."

  "We've been told you have a large sum of money on your person."

  "That would be true."

  Cashman and Lockhart traded a look. It was Lockhart's turn.

  "Look, you're an attorney and you already know you don't have to talk to us. We get that. But right now things will go much easier on you if you just give it all up."

  "Give it all up as in what, exactly?" He looked from face to face, perplexed.

  "Mr. Largent says you have $50,000 of his firm's money in your shirt."

  "Maybe I do. And?"

  "And how did you come by it? No, let me ask it this way. What is your connection to the law firm of MacDevon Largent?"

  "No connection. Not that I'm aware of."

  "But you have $50,000 of their money, correct?"

  "If you say so. I have $50,000 of Mr. Largent's money. He hired me to defend him."

  "Defend him on what charges?" Cashman asked. He shifted the toothpick right to left, left to right. He looked friendly enough, but Thaddeus immediately recognized the ploy. Good Cop/Bad Cop. All right, he thought, let's get through this.

  "Can't say. I was told his firm was missing, as he put it, megabucks."

  "Did he say anything about how that happened?"

  Thaddeus smiled at the Good Cop. "Now you know I can't discuss my client's statements to counsel. Sorry."

  "So he did say something?" Bad Cop, frown, fiery eyes, angry mouth.

  "Look, I don't know what you all think is going on here and I don't know what crime you're investigating. But this much I do know: as we sit here, you know more about his situation than I do."

  "So tell us what you do know," Lockhart said.

  He saw no harm in that, so he went ahead.