Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  “Very well. Make sure my number is unblocked.”

  “I will.” What a jerk. No wonder people hated lawyers. But, unfortunately, she needed this guy’s help.

  “Let’s find somewhere private.” He strode away, while Tawny rushed to gather her tote bag, following him down a hall to a small annex. When they were inside, he closed the door. “Now, Albritton brought me up to speed on your situation. Sizeable cash deposits started to appear in your bank account and you claim you don’t know where they came from. However, the bank has video showing a woman who looks exactly like you making those deposits. Is that correct so far?”

  “I didn’t make those deposits and the woman isn’t me.” She hurried to unpack her laptop but he flicked his fingers, don’t bother.

  The man hardly paused to breathe. “A few days ago, this woman who looks like you withdrew one-hundred-thousand dollars in a cashier’s check payable to you. At that point, FinCEN froze the account due to suspicious activity. In addition, your unrelated assets and a credit card were also frozen. Correct?”

  “Who’s FinCEN?”

  “Financial Crimes Enforcement Network.”

  “I don’t know who froze everything.”

  “Did you receive notice beforehand that your accounts were going to be seized?”

  Tawny pulled the official, but incomprehensible, letter from her bag. “The bank manager was supposed to give this to me but held onto it for several days. Long enough for my checks to bounce all over town. If I hadn’t gone to the bank, I don’t know how long he would have kept it without telling me.”

  Rosenbaum gave it a quick glance then resumed his machine-gun questions. “Did you contact Maximillion Grosvenor?”

  “No.”

  “Any contact from any federal or state law enforcement entity?”

  “No. Uh, well, I got stopped by a highway patrolman yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “He claimed it was a burned-out tail light but he kept checking me out and following me. I had a strong feeling it was more than—”

  “All right, so no contact at all—”

  “Wait a minute, please.” Tawny felt breathless, intimidated by the impatient, towering lawyer. “The bulb was gone. Someone must have taken it out so I’d get stopped. Also, someone broke into my house, searching, getting into my computer.”

  “Did they take the cash you withdrew?”

  Tawny’s tote bag suddenly felt weighted with lead and guilt. She shook her head. “I took that money to get the bank’s attention because they weren’t taking my complaint seriously. But now that I’m dead broke because of the seizure, I’m damn glad I have that cash.”

  “Fine, fine, but what about any contact from—”

  Tawny held up her hand, trying to push back against his tidal wave of questions. “Please, wait.”

  He beckoned impatiently, head thrusting forward. “Yeah?”

  “Two men came to my house a couple of days ago. I think they might have been feds.”

  “Yeah, yeah, so what happened?”

  Heat flushed her cheeks and she looked at her navy pumps.

  “What? Come on, dammit!” he snapped.

  She swallowed. “I hid. Didn’t answer the door.”

  Her cowardice shamed her but didn’t appear to bother Rosenbaum. He grunted, “Wish some of my other clients hadn’t answered their doors.” Then he rushed forward again. “You said your son has been kidnapped?”

  “He’s a sergeant in Army intelligence. Last I knew, he was in Afghanistan. He’s been abducted and is being held for a quarter-million dollars ransom.”

  “Who contacted you?”

  “He did, by text on the phone.”

  “Have you spoken with him?”

  “No, just the texts.”

  “No contact from the kidnappers? Or the Army? His commanding officer? The State Department?”

  “I called the family liaison emergency number. She confirmed his abduction but when I called again, a recording said there was a communication blackout in place. The Army does that when a soldier is…” She bit her lip and forced out the word. “…is killed until family is notified.”

  Rosenbaum yanked a cell phone from his vest. “What’s that number?”

  Tawny scrolled through her contact list and read it off to him.

  He placed the call, thumping the heel of a Gucci loafer while it rang. A frown bunched his forehead. “Listen.” He tapped the speaker on.

  A recording said the number was not in service. She stared at the lawyer in disbelief. “Are you sure you dialed the right—”

  He grabbed her phone and compared it with his. Same number.

  “What?” Her question trailed off into bewilderment.

  He glared at her. “Mrs. Lindholm, you’re being shaken down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. Are. Being. Shaken. Down.” His tone rasped with exasperation. “Your son may or may not be kidnapped. Someone may be posing as your son. In fact, your son may be the one trying to extort money from you. Right now, what you have is bupkis.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You are a patsy, a dupe, a mark, a pigeon.”

  Each insult felt like a slap across Tawny’s face. “I’m scared for my child. Someone is setting me up to look like a criminal but I’m not. I don’t deal drugs or launder money or cheat on my taxes. I’m an innocent victim.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  She slumped against the wall. If this lawyer was supposed to be on her side, why did she feel like she’d been worked over by a thug? “Can you help me?”

  “About your son’s supposed abduction? No. In fact, hell no. Emphatically, hell no. About the seizure of your property without due process? Maybe. I’ll call Max and get back to you.”

  “Max?”

  He flicked the business card. “We’re old buddies. I’ve defended damned near every asset forfeiture case he’s prosecuted since the Patriot Act.”

  “Mr. Rosenbaum—”

  “Call me Tilly.”

  If not for the critical circumstances, Tawny would have burst out laughing. A better nickname would be Attila the Hun. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay you. All my money is tied up except for forty-thousand in cash I withdrew.”

  “For God’s sakes, don’t talk to me about that.”

  She recalled Kit’s point about unclean hands and how he’d refused to advise her to do something illegal. Maybe Rosenbaum didn’t want to know the source of his fee. “All right. I’m not rich. I haven’t worked in years but I’ll get a job. I’ll make payments. I just want you to know up front.”

  Again, the dismissive flick of his hand.

  She noticed a gold wedding band and a fleeting question occurred to her—what kind of woman could put up with him?

  “If all this takes is a few phone calls, forget it. If it turns into a federal case…” he cracked a wry grin at his joke. “I’ll do it pro bono. If you’re as squeaky clean as Albritton says you are, if you really are the innocent victim of overzealous prosecution, you could be my poster child case for the Supreme Court to overturn the Patriot Act.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Poster child? Supreme Court? She had the uncomfortable feeling his proclamations were the lawyer’s version of promises she’d heard from scummy modeling agents: Kid, I’m gonna make you a star.

  He started toward the door.

  “Mr. Rosenbaum…Tilly, one more question?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can they take my house? It’s free and clear, worth about two-hundred fifty.”

  He paused. “The same amount as the ransom?”

  “Yes?” What was his point?

  Dark eyes bored into her. “You aren’t going to pay the ransom, are you?”

  He didn’t understand being a mother. Otherwise, he wouldn’t hurl insults like pigeon and mark. “Neal is my son. End of story.”

  For the first time, Rosenbaum’s harsh, aggressive expres
sion softened. “You’re a very nice lady, Mrs. Lindholm, but don’t be a stupid one.” He started through the door but turned abruptly. “Hey, why don’t you stay for lunch? My talk happens to be on seizures and forfeitures. You might find it interesting.”

  Tawny hesitated. The last place she wanted to be was a roomful of lawyers. “Uh, how much does it cost?”

  He pulled a face and waved his hand. “You’re my guest.”

  “Well, OK. Thank you.”

  Back in the lobby, she returned to the same secluded table, trying to sort out the rude, abrupt conversation. Kit was a lawyer but he sure didn’t act like this guy. In less than five minutes, Rosenbaum had insulted her, accused her son of extorting money from his mother, offered to drag her in front of the Supreme Court, and invited her to lunch.

  Kit, whom she knew and trusted, had also said don’t pay the ransom. Both were so emphatic about it. They were smart, educated, and certainly more experienced in such matters than she was. She needed to consider their advice carefully.

  Tawny put on her readers and pulled the smartphone from her pocket, tapping the number for Rear D. The same communication blackout message played as before. Something weird was going on. The Army didn’t shut down emergency contact lines. So why had Rosenbaum gotten a disconnect recording from his cell?

  Next, she brought up the screen that showed Neal’s three texts.

  Mom, W/c if I can. In trouble. Pray 4 me.

  Abducted. Need help bad. W/s details soon.

  Ransom 250K. Details to follow 48 hours.

  Three short messages that had turned her world upside down.

  She tried to suppress her emotions, her mother’s instincts, and analyze the texts logically. How would Kit or Rosenbaum assess them? Rosenbaum suggested the messages might not even be from Neal.

  Was he right?

  Someone posing as Neal could be targeting her for money.

  She needed to hear his voice. Then she’d know. She tapped his number. It rang fifteen times then clicked off again, dead. Still no voicemail option.

  She reread the texts. Would Neal ask her to pray for him? She and Dwight had raised him with the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule, although they didn’t attend church. In college, he’d actively questioned the existence of God and decided to be an atheist. When he came home on leave after his first tour, one night at the dinner table, he blew up. He’d shouted there was no God because, if there was, He would never allow the evil that Neal had witnessed. Dwight had slung his arm around Neal’s shoulder and guided him downstairs to the den, where they talked for hours with the door closed. Both got roaring drunk on Canadian Club.

  Asking her to pray for him didn’t sound like Neal. Yet Dwight always said there were no atheists in foxholes. In crisis, Neal might have changed his mind.

  Need help bad. Did that sound like Neal? Not really but communicating by text created new abbreviations, clipped phrases, and slang. With Tawny’s dyslexia, she liked texting’s shorthand. But Neal had graduated from college with a minor in journalism, so he spoke and wrote with precision. She remembered struggling to read one of his published essays, thirteen pages long, but bogged down after only two pages, embarrassed because she didn’t understand what her son was writing about. Somehow need help bad didn’t sound like Neal.

  The last message resembled a terse, no-nonsense, business demand that a creditor might send. Neal knew her assets were pretty slim after Dwight’s death. He would know the value of the house matched the ransom, as Rosenbaum had pointed out. But Neal wasn’t aware of her troubles with the feds or that even the ownership of her house could be in jeopardy.

  Maybe Rosenbaum was right. Someone had to be posing as Neal or forcing him to make the demand.

  She almost wished the third possibility the lawyer had suggested was true—Neal trying to extort money from her. Only that choice meant her son was safe. But he’d never do that.

  Rosenbaum might be wrong. What if Neal was tied up with a hood over his head in some filthy hovel, guns pointed at him? Just because the Rear Detachment number hadn’t worked for Rosenbaum didn’t mean it was bogus. From Dwight’s and Neal’s stories, she knew the Army was capable of screwing up a perfectly foolproof system.

  Flipping through the log, she noticed the calls she’d made to Tillman Rosenbaum’s office and remembered his accusation that she blocked his calls. Could Lucifer be pulling another stunt to confound her? Kahlil had showed her various icons to push when she got stuck. The only problem, she never remembered how she’d backed herself into a corner in the first place. She tried tapping on various prompts. An unfamiliar screen popped up with Rosenbaum’s numbers displayed. Below it, a box was checked “Disconnect incoming.”

  Did that mean her phone rejected his calls?

  Kahlil had explained sometimes settings changed accidentally from jostling around in her pocket. “You’ve heard of butt dialing?” he’d asked with a mischievous smile. She’d laughed, but that only gave her another reason to hate the smartphone. If it disabled functions without you knowing it, that sounded like a big fat inconvenience, anything but smart.

  She unchecked the box. At lunch, she’d ask Rosenbaum to make a test call and see if unchecking fixed the problem. That is, if she ever got a word in edgewise.

  People clustered at the entrance to the ballroom. Tawny drifted over to join them. Under her dressy suit, nervous perspiration made the silk camisole stick to her back. Around her, lawyers chatted. From listening, she figured out “CLE” meant “continuing legal education.” Other snippets of conversation touched on Rosenbaum’s upcoming presentation.

  “The legislature needs to address ‘policing for profit.’ Cops make a fat commission when they turn over assets to the feds. Too damn tempting.”

  “It’s armed robbery. If dopers do it, it’s illegal, if the feds do it, it’s legal. The net effect is identical.”

  “Tillman’s a showboat but he gets the job done.”

  “I’ll endure anything to get a day out of the office, even listening to this prick. At least he’s entertaining.”

  At the door to the ballroom, a woman checking off names directed Tawny to table three, near the podium. She wove among round linen-covered tables set with sparkling glasses, candles, and fresh flowers. Despite the elegant surroundings, even the women attorneys wore jeans or casual gear, as if on their way to yoga. Maybe lawyers only dressed up to appear in court. Several offered polite curious smiles and leaned their heads together to speak softly. She thought, they’re probably wondering who this overdressed woman was.

  Rosenbaum engaged in intense noisy debate with a group near table three. Tawny slid into a seat, wishing herself invisible, regretting that she’d accepted his invitation. She sipped water and pretended to read the program notes. When he lowered his lanky body into the chair beside her, she almost jumped out of the way.

  His long arm waved at a server. When she approached, he demanded a bowl of hummus instead of butter, not even saying please. Then he turned to Tawny. “I called Max. After my presentation, we’re going to his office.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in Helena. Might as well get this taken care of today, save us both another trip.” He must have noticed her look of surprise because he added, “You not leaving right away, are you?”

  “I guess not.” Nothing required her to rush home. It didn’t really matter where she was when Neal contacted her. If Rosenbaum got the feds off her back, the trip was worth it.

  “Good.” He reached into a basket of pita chips and dipped one in hummus, crunching while he continued to talk. “When we meet him, keep your mouth shut. Even if he asks you a direct question, don’t answer. Let me handle it.”

  Fine with her. Rosenbaum seemed intimidating enough to handle a federal cop. “OK.”

  In her tote, the phone rang. She pulled it out to silence it. Kahlil. She’d talk to him later. But it reminded her of the blocked calls. “Uh, you said you couldn’t reach me. I checked my phone. It’s new
and I’m not very familiar with it but it seems I must have accidentally hit something that rejected your calls. I think I fixed it.”

  “Let me see that.” He reached out, practically snapping his fingers. “I just bought my son the same model.”

  She gave it to him. He swiped through several screens then frowned at her. “You can’t accidentally reject calls. It requires a specific app and takes about eight steps to activate. See?”

  He thrust the phone under her nose. She fumbled for her glasses, peering at the screen. “I’ve never done anything like that. I don’t even know how.”

  “Well, there it is, right in front of you.”

  Tawny shook her head. “I haven’t had the phone very long. My son sent it to me as a gift and I’m totally lost trying to use it. A friend has been helping me.” Unspoken worry niggled at the edge of her mind.

  “What is it?” The lawyer squinted suspiciously at her.

  The image of Kahlil, resetting mysterious screens, floated through her memory. “I wonder if my friend did it.” But why would Kahlil set the phone to block calls from the lawyer?

  “Who’s this friend?”

  “Someone I recently met. He taught a class on how to use this instrument of the devil.”

  A stout, angry-looking woman pushed between Tawny and Rosenbaum, facing the lawyer. “We need to talk. Now!”

  He jumped up and moved away from the table with the woman. Their noses practically touched, like feuding cats spitting at each other, while they muttered in low, emphatic tones.

  Tawny studied the strange screen, perplexed.

  A chime sounded for a new message. She played it back. Kahlil’s gentle voice said, “Tawny, you do not have to worry any more about your son. The money is available whenever you need it.” A pause. “I miss you.”

  Her heart clenched. This man she’d only known for a few weeks was handing over a quarter-million dollars, without hesitation, to rescue Neal. Again, she marveled at his touching generosity. But she couldn’t in good conscience take the money without paying him back. She’d ask Rosenbaum how to sign over her house to Kahlil, if the feds didn’t seize it first, and if the abrasive lawyer ever gave her an opportunity to speak.