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

by John Ellsworth

  There was a layover and change of planes in Frankfurt, where they traded the Boeing 747 for an Airbus A319. From there they were in the air less than an hour to Zurich.

  The Zurich outside air was stuck at -15°C when the Lufthansa flight touched down. But a warming trend was expected.

  By the next morning it was 5°C when Thaddeus went for his run.

  The sky was slate gray and overcast, with no sign of the sun.

  Thaddeus knew a little about Zurich and remembered that cold nights usually brought sunshiny days, which was exactly what they found after breakfast when Thaddeus and Ansel caught a cab to the first bank where the purloined funds had been wired. The sun was out, traffic was dense but polite in allowing cars to blink and change lanes, and flowed smoothly to the banking district.

  They climbed out of the cab at Bank Royale & Co. on Bahnhofstrasse, a one-way street with light traffic. The bank was housed in a four story building, cream in color, with tall windows and two-hundred-year-old architecture. Ansel followed Thaddeus through the double glass doors.

  Their plan wasn't to chase the wire transfer from bank to bank asking the same questions. Rather, at this first bank, Thaddeus knew that it had tracked the funds to a final destination, thanks to a little known wire transfer remediation against illegal wires, called packet loading. Which meant, simply, that when a wire transfer was sent out from Zurich, the piggybacking packet broadcast the name of the bank, routing information, account number, and time of arrival and departure (if required) from each succeeding bank. Interpol required this data be kept and Switzerland was one of 190 Interpol signatories. The availability of packet data had first been brought to Thaddeus' attention when he had been forced to wire a huge sum of his own money as ransom for his daughter. An incident which he planned to re-visit sometime.

  At the first desk they were greeted by a smiling woman, silver hair, purple business suit, and cameo brooch, who asked if she could help. They gave their names and they introduced the reason for their visit.

  "Ah, you will want to speak with Paul Georg, our security analyst," she said. She waved them into two customer chairs. Moments later she replaced the phone and said Mr. Georg would be with them in about five minutes. A smiling CSR brought two coffees and the men sipped and talked while waiting.

  Mr. Georg's office, when they were led inside, consisted of paneled walls, silver carpet, two silver tapestries, and a world class desk kept neat and free of commercial debris. Everything he did was electronic, so there was little need for paper and his clean desktop underscored that.

  He was a suave and delicate man, neatly dressed down to and including a pearl tipped collar pin. He wore his gray hair short on the sides and brushed back on top, a style current in Europe. His small nose and light blue eyes seemed the features of a lesser man, but Thaddeus knew anyone would be foolish to think that about the guy. He was clearly, at least clearly to Thaddeus, an Interpol intermediary, and his job was to keep police tabs on all wire transfers into and out of the bank. Thaddeus guessed he had started his professional life as an Interpol agent out of Lyon, France. He was certain the man could take care of himself and was probably armed.

  "Please," he said simply, and waved his two guests into client chairs. "Now, how can I be of service?"

  "We are two American lawyers," said Ansel, taking the lead, "and it is a wire transfer out of my Chicago law firm that brings us to you."

  "Your firm wired money to our bank and now you want to know where it's gone. Is that it?"

  "Exactly!" said Ansel only too happily. Thaddeus watched the lawyer bob his head as he customarily did when something pleased him.

  Who could tell, Thaddeus thought, maybe he was onto something here. "Can you discuss this wire transfer with us?"

  "It's possible. Please give me the name of the transferring bank and the routing and account number. Plus I will need the amount, date and approximate time of the transfer."

  "I have that all written down for you right here, including my credentials for account login," said Ansel, and passed a note of paper to the Interpol agent. He had written the note at the suggestion of the woman out front, while they were waiting. "Except I don't have the time of the transfer. Approximate only, sometime between noon and nine p.m."

  The diminutive man had already turned to one of three computer screens that flanked him and was busily typing and clicking away.

  Ansel looked at Thaddeus and winked.

  Thaddeus simply stared at him. He wondered whether the FBI no-fly would still be in effect when they tried to fly to wherever this lead took them. Time would tell.

  So far, they had been lucky. The no-fly had been removed before they left Chicago with the agency's blessing and flew to Mexico City. There had been no time limit stated and whether it remained lifted due to oversight or planning, Thaddeus wasn't sure. In fact, he wasn't sure of much of anything, and guessed that about half the time they moved about they were being followed by agents. Then again, he thought maybe he was just being paranoid. But knowing the FBI and its unlimited resources as he knew them, a tail was probably to be expected.

  Finally the agent looked up. He removed his round spectacles and began to polish them with a pocket square. His lips moved as he held up the lenses and observed them in the window light. Then he resettled them on his nose, looped the curves behind his ears, and folded his hands.

  "Well," he said. "I am printing out some information for you."

  "Well, what about my money? Did you trace it?" Ansel said in a rush.

  "I did."

  "And?"

  "Well, your money was wired out of Chicago. The records say the account was accessed and the money transfer made by the credentials of one Ansel Largent."

  "That would be me."

  "Are you telling me you didn't wire the money?"

  Ansel gave Thaddeus a helpless look.

  "My client," Thaddeus began slowly, "suffers from a thought disorder where sometimes--"

  "Sometimes I don't remember things," Ansel said, to finish the sentence.

  "So you don't remember making the transfer? Did someone else have access to your login and account credentials?"

  "Yes. No."

  "He originally thought it was his son."

  "That would seem to make sense."

  "Except his son is deceased."

  "Well--"

  "Sometimes I imagine him still alive. In my imagination he has aged and grown up. He has attended law school and now works with me in my law firm."

  "Interesting. Well, if there's nothing more--"

  Clearly the agent was uncomfortable with this and Thaddeus could see he suspected a ruse being tried.

  "No," said Thaddeus. "The son is deceased and my client--imagines things."

  "A mental case."

  "Those are your words, Mr. Georg," said Thaddeus. "We have yet to speak to his doctors about all this. In fact, it's only just lately, in the last couple of days, come to light."

  Without a word, the agent turned in his chair to the soundless laser jet at his elbow. He extracted a single sheet of paper, print on one side only.

  "Here's your data. I wish you both the best."

  Thaddeus scanned the printout.

  "So, last stop Mexico City?"

  "Yes. From there we lose it. The next transfer is fragmented into a thousand recipients. How that was done, I can only guess. Which of them is the correct one, I would have no way of knowing. It's a new technology that does that. To date our own systems administrators haven't come up with a way around it."

  "You're telling us my money went to a thousand different recipients?"

  "Please. Read what is said."

  Thaddeus nodded. "It says the money was wired to a thousand different recipient banks. But you're telling us this was done to confuse, that actually only one of these banks received the funds."

  "Exactly."

  "And this name at the bottom. Enrico Rodriguez. Clarify, please."

  "Mr. Rodriguez is a v
ice-president at Banco Nacionale. He authorized the wire fragment."

  "He sent the wire that put my money in a thousand banks?"

  "He sent the wire that makes it look like your money went to a thousand banks. Actually it went to only one of those."

  "Can we contact them to find out which one is the real one?"

  "We could. The problem is, your money will no longer be there and, worse, your money's packet data will have been washed. This is what it means to wash money by wire transfer. It means the packet data is removed so your money can no longer send us a message and tell us where it has gone."

  "So, I'm just out."

  "Probably."

  "Unless we can get it out of this Enrico Rodriguez," said Thaddeus. "Am I right?"

  "That would be correct. Even then, he might not have the answer himself. There was a party on the receiving end who received the funds. Mr. Rodriguez might not even know the identity of this person. He might have simply been told to make such and such a wire and that wire triggered the fragment. Either he's in on it or he's not. You will have to speak with him."

  "At Banco Nacionale in Mexico City."

  "Precisely. Assuming he's still there. And assuming that's still his name. Which assumes that was ever his name. Now, gentlemen, I must get on with my day. So, if you will excuse me?"

  "Thank you," said Ansel, and stood up.

  "Yes, many thanks," said Thaddeus.

  Together they hurried out of the office, Thaddeus folding the printout and placing it in an inner pocket.

  Outside, they set about flagging a cab.

  "So, we came all the way here just to find out we were in the right place when we were back there."

  "Looks that way," said Thaddeus back over his shoulder, as he waved at a passing cab.

  "So, back to Mexico City."

  "I'm afraid so."

  The young lawyer knew the FBI wouldn't take its hands off either of them until it got the money back. He would be harassed and harried by them until then. They might even send him back to that stinking Mexican jail if he tried to bow out now. So--the deal was made with the devil. He would stay in, he would continue to help Ansel, until that was no longer possible. They couldn't force him to do the impossible if the trail ran out.

  He finally got a cab to pull over.

  That was as good as it was going to get that day, a win in the cab wars.

  Ansel chatted about this and that all the way back to the hotel.

  Thaddeus stared out the window. The sun had returned to Zurich and it had warmed up another twenty degrees.

  It was going to be a great day for a nap until it was time to go to the airport. He would call Katy and check in, spend a moment listening to his two daughters’ reports, and then sleep.

  The sleep of the innocent.

  The sleep of the foolhardy.

  He kicked himself for the ten-thousandth time. Damn fool, smuggling a gun into Mexico in the first place. What had he been thinking?

  What could go wrong? That's what he had been thinking.

  Well, welcome to reality.

  He was just about to find out how really bad it could get, and he knew this deep down. Two hundred million dollars floating around Mexico was not a good place to begin. There would be some very bad people involved in this next part.

  Some very bad people.

  27

  Chapter 27

  Paul Georg ate lunch solo. There were five star restaurants within walking distance of the bank in Zurich. When he desired company he would take his lunch with him to the bank and eat in the employees' lunch room. But the five stars—those were too wonderful to share.

  The day of Thaddeus and Ansel's visit he had brought his lunch with him. But after they left his office he informed the operators that he would be out for lunch. Until two o'clock.

  Three blocks away, on Bahnhofstrasse, was a French restaurant where he was led to a booth enclosed on three sides.

  He dialed the mobile and waited. There was a nine hour time difference between Zurich and Tijuana, but Georg didn't concern himself with that. He knew the man on the other end of the call to that particular number would answer anytime, day or night.

  Juan Carlos Hermeda Ordañez answered on the second ring.

  "Juan Carlos, Paul Georg."

  "Si."

  "They were here."

  "You sent them where?"

  "Mexico City. In search of Enrico."

  "Follow them. We will switch off in Mexico City."

  "Consider it done."

  "We have also sent the present to your account at Credit Suisse."

  "I checked. Thank you."

  "Ten percent."

  "I checked. It is correct."

  "Destroy your phone."

  "It will be done."

  "Until next time."

  "Until then."

  Before destroying the phone, however, he did place one more call.

  They had to be followed.

  With one call he made that happen.

  28

  Chapter 28

  None of the partners were surprised when the Chicago PD detectives O'Connor and Wainwright showed up at the offices of MacDevon Largent with a search warrant for the law office of Ansel Largent.

  Melinda thought it rude and a huge time sink, but even at that, she wasn't surprised by the search. After all, Ansel had virtually disappeared from the face of the earth. He hadn't called in, there was no one at his home, and his cell phone went unanswered.

  Jake O'Connor worked his security resources at Midway and O'Hare airports and located the passenger manifest with Ansel and Libby included, destination Mexico City.

  Naturally, then, Chicago PD concluded he must have had something to hide and that he was on the run. Of course the cops would want to take apart his office. Who could really blame them?

  Rumors of Ansel's complicity in both the embezzlement and the Suzanne Fairmont shooting raged like wildfire. One enterprising rookie lawyer named Shel Agenstein even started a pool. Odds on Ansel's complicity in both the embezzlement and the shooting were running eight to one, while complicity in only one crime was running three to one. Even Melinda laid down a bet on the sheet that circulated inauspiciously around the firm. Trouble was, according to Agenstein, even some of the junior grade partners were wagering--probably ignoring the real threat of ejection from the firm if a senior partner learned of it. And so, the names of the players were removed from the sheet and numbers inserted in their place. Only Agenstein had the key connecting names to numbers and he was sworn to secrecy by his boss, a tax court litigator who kept three Shel Agenstein's hopping with work.

  Introduction of the news of the search warrant into the flow of gossip surrounding the underground wagering scheme heated things up to boiling. Would the search turn up anything? New bets were laid down. Shel Agenstein took in $3500 in new money. He found himself overwhelmed with emails and calls--all from people in the firm.

  The two plainclothes officers and three uniforms swept into Ansel's office at 8:32 a.m. and didn't leave until 2:25 that afternoon. They worked until eleven and they were extraordinarily close-mouthed about their progress in turning up any kind of evidence when Melinda took their lunch orders for Little Brown Bag, downstairs in the building.

  Melinda heard bags rattle and cop talk through Ansel's intercom, which she had activated. More than anything else they were looking for a gun or evidence of a gun, even gun magazines or NRA newsletters--anything that might suggest Ansel possessed a firearm. When that turned up nothing by noon, they switched gears and a forensics expert in computers began disassembling the computer and removing the hard drive. Again, it was a complete fishing expedition but one that was expected by the firm’s Curious George's, who repeatedly stopped by and asked Melinda, "Anything?"

  Then she heard a cry both over the intercom and through the closed door.

  "Got it! Bring an evidence bag!"

  "Gun!" said a second voice.

  "Someone call a
grand jury," shouted a third.

  "Settle down," said a command voice, and Melinda was sure it was Jake O'Connor speaking, for it was stern and tough, like Jake. "We got us a shooter, here, Wain-o," he said to Detective Wainwright. She said something in reply but it was indiscernible.

  Soon a photographer entered the outer office and let herself into Ansel's inner sanctum. Orders were given and, Melinda presumed, pictures were snapped. Lots of pictures, because the door didn't open again for another thirty minutes. This time from the inside.

  "Now," O'Connor said to Melinda, as he settled himself into a reception chair in the outer office, "I need you," pointing at her with two fingers, "to help me find your boss. Now I know you'd do anything in the world to protect the man. I get that, and I don't blame you. But this thing has taken on a new life. We found a gun in your boss's office, a revolver. We believe it's the same caliber gun as shot Suzanne Fairmont. I'll be very surprised if it's not the same gun. That will take us three days to determine. The crime lab is swamped, but this is a homicide investigation and they'll move it to the head of the line. Not to mention, but I've got some drag down there anyway."

  "Oh."

  "So I need you to think real hard. Do you know where he might be in Mexico City?"

  "Don't you talk to the FBI?"

  "Us? No, we don't. They're working on a theft case, anyway. We'd have no reason to speak to them."

  "Well they told me they had sent Ansel--Mr. Largent--to Mexico City on business."

  "Really? How did you find this out?"

  "I called their office and asked them."

  "Who did you talk to down there?"

  "Special Agent Freyer Smothers."

  "You're sure that's who?"

  "Of course. I made him spell it and I wrote it all down."

  "Let me see that, please."

  Melinda handed the detective the spiral pad on which she had made the note. He nodded and handed it back.

  "Roger that. You called them."

  "Mr. Largent had court and hearings and depositions and meetings. I had to clear his calendar, but the judges always need a date certain to continue to. So I needed to know where he'd gone so I knew how long to continue."