by Jean Martino
Scott hesitated. “I can’t give you that information, sir,” he said. “It was a confidential source and one I trust implicitly.”
“But how can I be sure it’s not some kind of hoax?”
“I can vouch for it,” said Scott, staring back determinedly at Mathews.
Max, who had remained quiet during Scott’s explaining the case to Mathews, interrupted. “Sir, if I may say something here, the names on that list are more important than the source who gave them to Scott. If we could identify who they are then I think we would have a gold mine of information that could finger some very important underworld figures.”
“Understood,” said Mathews. “However we could be accused by the FBI of withholding information on their case too.”
“That’s true,” added Scott. “But these people are just the tip of the iceberg. At this point the FBI doesn’t even know these discs exist. The investor accounts also were, after being cleaned out, deleted, and this disc is the only record of their having been in existence. If we could find out the names of the owners in the consortium who have ownership in Carl Denholm’s hotels, I believe we could also trace them back to some of these names somehow.”
“And what then?” asked Mathews.
“Sir,” said Scott, “these could be organized crime lords who could be actively working in California and all around the United States right now under different aliases. As you know, money laundering has become the third largest business in the world. We all know about the drug trade, but there is more than just narcotics dealing going on with these money launderers. Their aim is to create wealth for themselves and they don’t give a damn how it’s done, whether through narcotics, gun running, or selling components to make nuclear weapons, to name a few of the illegal activities that create dirty money. But the one thing that strikes terror in everyone’s hearts today, since September eleven, is the funding of terrorism against Western countries. These people have it all sown up. They can move their money through underground banks in the Middle East and into this country with an ease that is mind boggling. They have a crime organization running through this country that is sophisticated and lethal. I think if we uncovered this consortium and the people in it we would also find some things that amount to national security being tampered with.”
“Are you suggesting these people are financing terrorism?” asked Mathews, his brow furrowing.
“It’s not an impossibility,” said Scott. “These people are not the type of people who have the country’s well being at heart. There have been suspicions that al-Qaeda is funding its operations by smuggling drugs in the Persian Gulf, so what’s to stop them extending their operations to this side of the world if they can find the contacts to assist them. Today’s technology has seen the Internet expanding at an alarming rate, creating a nightmare for authorities like the FBI to keep a check on such things as internet banking; which is totally unregulated, allowing money to be transferred in and out of it around the world without leaving audit trails. These are not people who run by the rules. Their only interest is in getting richer and they don’t give a damn how.”
The three men went silent for several minutes. They all were aware of the FBI’s DCS1000 Web monitoring technology which included their alleged surveillance system, Echelon, with its satellite and underground cable wiretaps. But even that kind of sophisticated technology could not break down the encryption and decryption codes that those involved in the underground banking used. Not even the person who encrypted the message could decrypt it; the originator of the encryption and the recipient using totally different codes that neither would be aware of. It was a fail safe method that had the FBI experts in cryptography stumped.
What Scott had said had made Mathews realize he held in his hands now the means to solving more than a few crimes that had been unsolvable before now. Since September Eleven, the country’s security forces had been working round the clock to protect American citizens. If the people on this list could be found to have connections with terrorism then money laundering would become a minor issue. He knew also if he turned those discs over to the FBI they would exclude his involvement entirely. If Scott was right, this information could help him extend his protection of Californians and that was something he didn’t want to be denied.
“So if I go along with this,” he said, “when we do hand all this information over to the FBI you realize they will want to use Brampton as a witness to prosecute these people.”
“If that is the case,” said Scott, “then there would have to be some agreement that Michael Brampton is given immunity from any involvement. However, I feel that the information on the discs, and our tying these account holders in with certain well known criminal elements and their activities, would be enough information for the FBI to proceed with their case without the need for Brampton to become involved.”
“What do you think, Max?” asked Mathews.
“Sir, I don’t think we can afford to ignore it.”
Mathews flipped through the list again, scanning the names silently. Then he put the papers down. “We wouldn’t want it getting out right now what we were doing,” he said. “It would have to be done in absolute secrecy until we could decide if there is anything in it. If we find there is, then it would all, eventually, have to be turned over to the FBI for dealing with.”
Scott and Max nodded.
“Could you spare some time to help Max work on it?” he asked Scott.
“I could, sir.”
“Then let’s get started immediately. You can use the back office where all the files are located. There’s a computer set up in there you can use with all the police data bases and FBI data bases from around the country. If anyone asks what you are working on you will have to figure out something to tell them to not gather suspicion. I just hope you’re right in all this. If you’re wrong it could be my head on the line.”
* *
When Scott had left, Linda called Jessica. “It’s me,” she said. “Run over with me again that brochure you said was in my mail the other day.”
“We found the envelope it came in too,” said Jessica excitedly. “It was mailed from San Francisco but with no return address. The brochure is just one of those travel agency folders that open to three pages showing the city’s tourist spots. You know, like nightclubs, the golden gate bridge, Chinatown, Fisherman’s Wharf, the cable cars and so on.”
Linda’s heart was beating so fast she had to put her hand over her chest to contain it. “When was it mailed?” she asked.
Jessica went quiet for a minute then said, “It’s very faint, but it looks like June 12, 03, although it could be 13. It has an airmail stamp on it but it only arrived two days ago, took twelve days to get here. But that’s not surprising. Australia Post is very slow and sometimes your letters took two to three weeks from California. Has something to do with wharf strikes in Sydney when the mail reaches there.”
“Oh God!” cried Linda. “It was mailed the day Cindy was to fly to Australia.”
“Do you think she mailed it?” asked Jessica. “The address is typed not written. And would she have been in San Francisco that day?”
“I don’t know,” said Linda. “Perhaps she had someone else mail it.”
“Linda!” Jessica cried excitedly. “That man, Joe, who came by looking for you the other day, said he was from San Francisco too. Do you think there’s a connection?”
“I’m not sure,” said Linda. “You said there was no return address on the envelope but does it have a travel agency’s name on the brochure?”
“Yes, it does,” said Jessica, feeling Linda’s excitement and starting to feel some herself. “It’s from the Southern Coast Travel Agency, 2103 Newport Boulevard, Newport Beach, California. Does that help?”
“I don’t know right now,” said Linda. “I doubt if they would have sent it to San Francisco for mailing though. It could be an old brochure Cindy and Michael had. Or it could be just that I’m on someone else’s mailing l
ist. These people get your name and address through the internet and other mailing sources. Were there any other travel brochures in my mail like that?”
“No,” said Jessica. “I opened all your mail like you asked me to and discarded anything I thought was just advertising, but I‘ll go through the garbage bin again to see if I missed anything. From now on I won’t toss anything. I’ll keep everything just in case there’s something important on them.”
“You did right,” Linda said. “Thanks, sis, for all you’re doing.”
“Oh before I forget,” said Jessica. “Bill somehow checked that license plate on that Joe’s car. It was from a car rental place in Adelaide. Bill called them and said he was trying to locate a friend who had hired a car from them and asked could they give him an address where he could find him.”
“And did they?” asked Linda curiously.
“They said they couldn’t give him that information, but write this down, perhaps Scott could contact the police here or something and they could find out. It’s Adelaide Car Rentals, Kent Town.”
Linda wrote the name and address down. “Thanks, sis, I’ll run it by him soon as he gets home.”
“Any other news?” asked Jessica.
“Not for now. Scott’s still working on some things. I can’t believe how hard he’s working to help me. I owe him so much and don’t know how I’ll ever repay him.”
“I don’t think he expects it, Linda,” said Jessica. “It sounds like he cares an awful lot about you.”
Neither sister wanted to say out loud what was on both their minds. Jessica wanted only for Linda to find happiness even though it might mean she would lose her again. Linda didn’t want to think any further than today. Life was too complicated to start thinking beyond that.
Scott called an hour later. “Honey, I’m gonna be working on that stuff I told you about longer than expected. Probably won’t be home for a few more hours. You OK?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m catching up on some reading. Hope you don’t mind but I used your computer to access my Australia AOL mailbox.”
“Not at all. Anything there?”
“Just junk mail.”
“Sorry,” he said, hearing her disappointment.
“It’s ok,” she said. “I didn’t expect anything anyway. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“Just remember not to answer the door while I’m gone,” he said. “At this point I have a feeling there could be FBI agents lurking around waiting to pounce.”
“Then why haven’t they done so already?” she asked. “If they want to talk to me then they must surely know I’m here now.”
He didn’t want to alarm her anymore than necessary. If the FBI knew where she was and hadn’t contacted her then they could be watching to see if somehow Michael or Cindy did, not that they would know she was there. But for some reason the FBI was laying low on it all for now and he didn’t trust them. Right now the house was secure and no one could easily break in, but he still didn’t want her there alone for too long. “You’re probably right, honey,” he said. “But let’s just be on the safe side for now okay?”
When she hung up she went to his bookshelf and found the atlas book, but when she tried to pull it out it caught on something and she reached back to free it. Her hand touched a piece of stiff paper and, yanking it out, she found herself staring down at a graduation certificate. She was about to put it back when her eyes caught on Scott’s name and she read it was a college degree certificate, testifying to Scott having completed a Bachelor degree in Psychology at the Davis College. How typical of Scott, she thought, noticing the date was two years ago, to add something like this to his list of achievements through life and just stick it behind some books in a bookcase. She smiled and then put it back in its hiding place. So Scott was a psychology major. He had finished his college education after all then, part time no doubt during his working; the education that had been disrupted after his marriage. Well done, Scott, she thought proudly. You are a remarkable man. She remembered her own education had ended after graduating from high school and she had taken a job bookkeeping to pay for her trip overseas. Apart from those few courses she took after Vito died, she hadn’t pursued further education too much. Perhaps when her life became settled again she would look into getting a higher education herself.
Her mind returning to her problem, she opened the atlas to San Francisco, staring at it in confusion, not knowing what she was looking for but feeling that something about the brochure and the man looking for her in Australia had to be connected to Cindy and Michael somehow. Feeling her frustration mounting, she took several deep breaths. It had to be a message of some kind from Cindy. She just had to figure out what. At least it was something that told her they were alright and wanted her to know it. But why couldn’t they have been more specific? She felt a twinge of anger. She didn’t like all this mystery. Surely they could have let her know somehow where they were. Then she admonished herself silently. Of course they couldn’t. Scott had explained that to her hadn’t he? They didn’t want her to get involved for her own safety. If she knew where they were someone could be tracking her and find them, some unknown faceless person who would like to have gotten his hands on Michael for what he knew about them.
As she continued to stare at the map of downtown San Francisco, she thought back to anything she would have told Cindy about the trip she and Vito had taken there, before Cindy was even born. It had been only a four day visit and they had stayed at the Mark Hopkins hotel. She remembered the lovely room they had had overlooking the city, the dinner in the restaurant and dancing at the Top of The Mark bar after. On their second day there they had taken the cable car down to Fisherman’s Wharf, where they had wandered around the market there buying little souvenirs before heading back to the city. The next day they had walked part way across the Golden Gate Bridge, until she got so dizzy from the heights they had to turn back, and then they went to Chinatown, where Vito bought her a little Chinese doll---
She let out a startled cry. That doll! She had given it to Cindy to start her doll collection when she was just three years old! It had to be a clue of some kind; that man who told Jessica he was an old friend from San Francisco, the brochure on San Francisco stamped with the Newport Beach Travel Agency address but mailed from San Francisco. Cindy and Michael were in San Francisco! She was sure of it now. But where? They could be anywhere and she’d still not find them. She put the atlas book back on the shelf her frustration growing. San Francisco was only about 60 miles from Sacramento. The thought of them being in that city somewhere hiding out from God knows what made her feel even more helpless. If only she could find them and talk to them and do something to help them.
She walked quickly to the front window and stared out, searching the suburban street for signs of anyone watching the house. She saw no one, and only a few empty parked cars. Could it be that no one was watching the house or her as Scott thought? Perhaps the FBI or anyone else who had been hoping she would lead them to Cindy and Michael had given up and decided it was a waste of their time. Perhaps after all it was safe to go out and she could even drive to San Francisco and look around.
Her excitement started mounting as she thought about renting a car and driving there alone. But if she did, where would she start? She couldn’t just go off half cocked and drive around like a fool expecting Cindy and Michael to magically materialize on the streets somewhere. If they were hiding from those criminals then they surely would have disguised themselves somehow so that even she wouldn’t recognize them.
She had to think it out more, search for a clue in her mind that would lead her to them. She didn’t want to tell Scott what she was thinking either because she knew he would tell her she was grabbing at straws again, just like he thought about the scratch on Michael’s Camaro, the C shaped scratch she knew Cindy had deliberately put there as some kind of a secret message to her. But she was positive right now that Cindy and Michael were in San Francisco somewh
ere and, as far as she could tell, no one was watching the house or her. If she didn’t get out of the house and go for a walk she would go crazy. But she didn’t have a key to get back in. Scott had not thought it necessary to give her one. He didn’t want her going outside anyway. She felt like a prisoner in some luxury jail cell. Well, she had had enough of hiding from unseen elements. If someone was watching the house, and her, then too bad.
It was still light but dusk was gathering when she impulsively opened the front door, clicking open the dead bolt so it would not lock behind her. She closed the door and walked a short way down the path towards the driveway, looking up and down the street at the few cars parked along the curb, before setting off at a fast jaunt.
CHAPTER 23
Las Vegas, Nevada…Friday evening, June 27th:
Carl Denholm, flanked by two of his security guards, walked cautiously into Tony Bianca’s private suite at the hotel on the Strip in Las Vegas; his eyes darting swiftly around the room, noting two of Bianca’s security guards standing nearby, one at the window overlooking The Strip, the other hovering behind Bianca.
