Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  Altman’s brain couldn’t take any more. He grabbed the TV remote. “You wanna watch a sitcom?”

  Glenda smiled. “Definitely.”

  Chapter 19

  Kimberly decided that her brother’s requests for secret data had to go through the courts. She loved him deeply, but the last round of giving him account information made her nervous and paranoid. She looked up from her desk to see Ken coming through the door of the bank. He had that look on his face—the one that said he was a detective in hot pursuit.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m working.”

  Detective Manshu smirked. “That’s good timing. So am I.”

  “I’m not giving you more bits or bytes.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Kim was surprised. Just like that, he gave up on squeezing her for more details? Maybe they moved him to traffic detail. “Is that only for today, or do you mean that you are going to stop putting me in difficult positions?”

  He leaned in close to her. “I’ve got a strong lead on a possible murder suspect.”

  “Something I gave you? Which account?”

  Ken nodded and reduced the volume of his voice to a whisper in the quiet and dignified Jefferson Town Bank. “The Martin German account.”

  “That account holder died years ago, brother dear. I doubt he’s doing evil deeds and then making deposits.”

  “Agreed.”

  She gave him a quizzical stare, and he continued whispering. “His daughter.”

  She leaned back in her leather office chair. “You’re delusional or so bored that you are making up stories. I mean, I took statistics in university; what is the probability of your fairy tale.”

  Ken grinned as if he’d just snared his sister in a trap of her own making. “Are you ready? Her mother died in a freak elevator accident at home. The kind where she got wedged between the doors and the elevator went down. Do I need to elaborate?”

  Kimberly shivered involuntarily. “Stop. I don’t want that image in my head.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, that was the mother. The father? Also in his house. He fell on a pair of scissors.” He waited for his sister to absorb that picture in her mind. “How are your statistical curves looking now?”

  She sighed and shrugged at the same time. “Not out of the realm of possibility.”

  “I agree. It’s not inconceivable. But just a few months ago, the daughter, Claire German married a very wealthy man. And only a few weeks ago, he disappeared in his sailboat off the coast of Sicily. He was declared dead, lost at sea.”

  “That’s three bizarre deaths,” she replied. “All of them making your orphan girl rich or richer. I mean, I’m guessing that that is your suspicion.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I’m a miss, not a madam.”

  “Okay, whatever, big sister, but I think that blows away your idea that they were just uncanny events.”

  She looked around the bank. The manager was never troubled when Detective Manshu came for a visit. Kenny had the kind of weird personality that allowed him to win people over—especially executive types. It explained how he charmed his way out of a patrol car and into the detective unit.

  “And you think those deposits came from Fortier and also the last victim?”

  “You’ve heard of means, motive, and opportunity?” he asked.

  “From you, repeatedly.”

  “I’m glad you listen. Claire German, was here in Belize when Fortier and the previous murder happened. The one before was a woman from New York. She was on vacation alone. And the daughter of Martin German deposited—,” he looked at his notes. “—$375,000 the same week.”

  The brother and sister, both smart people, gazed at each other.

  “You said she wasn’t on the boat with the rich guy in Sicily.”

  Ken waved his hand like he was swatting away an annoying insect. “She’s got millions in this bank, right? A cold-ass serial killer can find people like her to pull off a bad event. Case in point; are you ready for this? The news reported that a hired sailor they picked up in Sicily went with Claire’s husband because she claimed to be seasick.”

  “How convenient.” Ms. Manshu drummed her fingers loudly on the wooden desktop. The odds were stacking up against the New York widow.

  Her brother looked satisfied. “Do you see that? In a matter of minutes, I won you over with the facts. Oh. I forgot one other thing. My teenage witness down on the beach looked at the picture. She put a better than 50 / 50 chance that the blond on the beach could have been the widow.”

  “What can you do about it?” she asked. “The woman lives in New York.”

  “Yes. She does. And I happen to be flying up there next week.”

  “You’re kidding. How’d you get permission to do that?”

  “If I tell you, then you have to keep your mouth shut for eternity, or at least until the trial. Do you consent?”

  “Are you a lawyer now? Yes. I won’t talk about it,” she replied.

  “Zahidah, my boss’s daughter, is the witness on the beach. She is sharp as a razor and very convincing. I’m telling you that this New York woman is the killer.”

  Kim thought about that. “Maybe you should let the New York police handle this?”

  “I’ll be working with them. When there is an arrest, they will make it. After that, it’s all about the lawyers and extradition treaties. But I’m going to investigate with them.”

  “I don’t like it. Stay here. You can do video conferencing with the N.Y.P.D. That city is crazy. They hate cops, and they hate island people like us.”

  “Island people? That’s your take on America? I’m going. It will be fine. Maybe I will meet a nice rich girl in a bar and get married.”

  Kimberly jabbed him immediately. “Bro,’ I think it’s your imagination that makes you a good cop.”

  *

  The flight to San Pedro was quick and bumpy. Mike was glad to be off the commuter plane and heading onto the street. He looked up and down the road. The sign said Coconut Drive. Several taxis were parked out in front; he grabbed the nearest one.

  The Hispanic driver spoke perfect English and charged him three pounds for the short trip to the Belize Happy Tropical Villas. It was white stucco with green, blue, and some other colors thrown in for good measure. The roof looked like concrete and tiles, but it was hard to be sure. Pretty palm trees lined the perimeter, and hopefully, the hotel wouldn’t bust his chops because of paying in cash.

  There was a black wrought-iron gate with pillars in front of the entrance. Mike pushed it open and went up five steps to the lobby. The hotel was a little weathered, but it was an island after all, so it would be a little ambitious to think that the place would be sparkling.

  A tall, native woman dressed in bright pink smiled at him from behind the counter. He smiled back. Immediately she began speaking to him in German, which continued for maybe ten seconds.

  “Do I look like I’m from Germany?” Casper asked as non-aggressively as possible.

  She seemed embarrassed. “I am so sorry. We are expecting Austrians today. How may I help you?”

  “I just need a villa for the next week or two.”

  “But of course.” Her name tag read Gretchen, which was odd considering that she was very central American looking. But then there was the German language. She typed something and looked up. “Can you fill out this form?”

  He took the paper from her hand. She had two fingers missing. It seemed that everywhere he went, there was something odd. Casper resigned himself to being a freak magnet in human form. The paper asked for his name and permanent address. It also had a space for credit card information.

  “I don’t have a permanent address right now. I’ve been on the road for half a year. I’ll pay for my room in cash, British pounds if that will work. You can use my passport for identification?”

  Gretchen looked at him then typed some more things into the computer. She flipped open the passport.

  “
I’m going to enter your passport number into the system. Is that all right? I can write it on a small note if you would like to avoid being in our system.”

  Mike thought about that. “Is it common for guests to request that?”

  “It depends on why they are here. If it is to meet a girlfriend or boyfriend, then yes.” She snorted in an appealing sort of way. “Also, we are very friendly with the banks here, so we like to keep things anonymous if it will make you feel better.”

  “That is fascinating. I’m not here to meet someone, and I’m not a secret banker, so I think you can put me into your computer.”

  The clerk scanned his passport. “Very well, Mr. Collin Jones. For one week, it will be 450 pounds in advance.”

  Casper pulled out 500. “Please put fifty on my account in case I decide to order up a drink.”

  “Yes, Mr. Collin Jones.”

  She handed him a sheet to sign and a key. He almost signed Mike Casper but caught himself in time. “Right, so you go out the back door to the left and down the path to Twenty-One. Thank you, Mr. Jones. Enjoy your stay in San Pedro.”

  The rooms were adequate, and the bed was fair. He opened up the backpack to stare at its pathetic contents. Mike was cash-rich and property-poor. Three pairs of underwear, some socks, one pair of pants (with a hole in the knee), a t-shirt, a toothbrush, and a nail clipper.

  His reflection in the mirror told a sad story. The stubble on his face said “Indigent,” so there was no alternative but to go shopping. He had 8,000 pounds and a few thousand dollars. It was a miracle that security in Spain didn’t pull him aside for a search—but never look a gift horse in the mouth. His dad used to say that, although as a child, Mike had no idea what a “gift horse” was. First things first—a trip to buy some basics was obligatory.

  He checked his watch. The bank was already closed for two hours; that challenge would have to wait. There was a map on the desk of his room. It looked like gooey ice cream had left a sticky film over one corner. But it had a “You are here” arrow, and he could see that there were shops nearby on Pescador Drive. Getting out and spending money would help take his mind off of Cassie, and that was a must because if he thought too much, he would break down into a worthless lump of human despair.

  He looked at the map again. The place with a bunch of stars was called “Man on the Run.” Funny name for a clothing store, but at least the name matched his predicament. For the first time in nearly a day of traveling, it occurred to Mike that he had to get his game face on and get his shit together. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the fact that he was in a war. One murderer was dead—so far. He zipped up the backpack and tossed it into the small closet.

  Mike turned the key and headed out. He would muster his strength and carry on until taking out Claire German with intent.

  The risks were high, but Collin Jones was going back to America and back to New York City. Bruner and the drug boss would never expect that. Let them look all over the planet; Mike was going to be in their backyard. First, Claire German. Anything beyond that would have to wait, or wouldn’t matter.

  Chapter 20

  Casper purchased a very cheap tablet without a Simcard. For the first time in a year, at least, he was online using WIFI. The strange thing was that he couldn’t think of a thing that he really wanted to look at. Indeed, without a VPN, Mike couldn’t search for the names Claire German or John Bruner.

  Breakfast at the hotel was not bad. He sat in the small dining room in a cane chair, enjoying coffee, toast, hash brown potatoes, and a nice omelet. The new clothes were good, too. Collin Jones was a satiated British passport holder.

  Mike checked his new digital watch. It was after ten a.m., which meant that the Jefferson Town Bank was open. Because of account rules, all he needed was basic information and the various codes. But his main objective was to get a credit card. The passport was his I.D., but he needed an address.

  “What the hell. How do I get an address?” Mike muttered. He sat and thought about that; perhaps running to the bank was a bit ambitious—he could not look amateurish. Casper flicked the tablet on and connected it to the hotel WIFI.

  “Jones. Jones.” He began searching the U.K. for elderly widows named Jones. They had to be off the beaten path. He found a lady who was listed as Mildred Jones on a street called Privet Way. The town was called Blue Lodge, and it was a good distance away from London and somewhat rural. Even more noteworthy was that Millie had no phone listed at her home. And her name sounded like she was probably born in 1945—the woman just became his elderly mother. “Perfect.” He shut off the tablet and left.

  It was a few hundred meters to the bank. Mike shaved, put on a dark blue button-down shirt and a pair of slightly uncomfortable dress shoes.

  The bank was imposing. Its facade was accented with large white pillars, and it looked very well kept. The total of the assets there was a secret, but it must have been a huge number. The windows were sparkling; the doors looked like they were imported oak with brass handles, knobs, and decorative knockers. At the entrance stood a guard who broadcast unyielding professionalism. He was some mix of Central America and the Caribbean—big, powerful, and the man positively dissected Casper as the latter stepped nonchalantly up the eight stone steps to the entry.

  “Sir. Are you carrying any weapons?”

  “Uh. No.”

  The security guard looked him in the eye. It felt like Mike was being X-rayed.

  “Who are you here to see?”

  “Just checking on my account,” he replied.

  “Are you currently a client here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have identification, Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The guard stepped back slightly. “Go straight in and have a seat in front of that lady sitting by the pillar to the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. Have a pleasant day.”

  He’d passed security’s questioning and headed inside the cavernous building. Straight ahead was a desk staffed by a very pleasant-looking woman. He watched her stow some files into her desk from a distance of thirty feet and look up expectantly. When Mike was close enough, in her estimation, She stood up and smiled. Her outfit was conservative and classy—it made him feel a bit underdressed.

  “Hello. I’m Kimberly Manshu. How may I help you?”

  Her voice was melodic, liked she’d practiced that line a thousand times in case a client with a billion dollars walked in and expected the utmost courtesy.

  “Good morning Ms. Manshu.” He tried his best to sound like someone who could and should have a couple of million pounds in a bank. “My name is Collin Jones, and I have an account here.”

  “That’s fine.” Kim stuck out her hand and shook his. Her grip was warm and confident. Mike was not dealing with an amateur. “Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  It was an offer he didn’t expect. “Um. Yes. That would be great. Plain black. No sugar or milk.”

  The bank clerk turned to her left and made a signal with her hand. At the far end of the hall, a young man turned rapidly and went through a doorway.

  “So. Mr. Jones. How may I help you?”

  “One of my accounts is in your bank, and I need basically two things. I would like to make a withdrawal of $20,000—spending money while I am vacationing. I would also like a credit card that I can use anywhere.”

  “Neither of those requests is difficult,” she replied.

  The assistant waited for Kimberly to signal him, and then he placed a fine cup of fresh coffee to Mike’s right.

  “What is the name on the account?”

  “CC Investments.”

  She began typing into her computer. “Right. I found your account. Do you have some identification? Ordinarily, entering your various passwords would be enough, but lately, we’ve been instructed to check a picture I.D.”

  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his passport. “Does this qualify
?”

  She looked it over. “I believe that the picture is a match. Do you have anything else?”

  Anxiety flooded in, but he flattened it. “Is my British Passport inadequate? I didn’t bring anything else.”

  Kimberly grinned. The man’s account held more than two million pounds. One I.D. was enough considering the irritation she might cause the fellow by asking him to go away and bring additional documents.

  “That’s fine. There is no better identification than a British passport. Would you like to authorize the withdrawal first?”

  Casper nodded.

  “I will need you to enter the codes and passwords associated with your account on this device. The keypad does not store anything you type. Afterward, I spray the keypad with alcohol to remove any trace of your fingerprints. The keypad is surrounded by barriers to prevent me or anyone else from seeing your entries. Are you satisfied with this form of verification?”

  “Do you say that paragraph often? Because I have to tell you that your delivery is perfect.”

  Kimberly smiled. Now and then, someone with personality showed up. It was refreshing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

  “Yes, I am satisfied with the security of your entry device.”

  She handed him the keypad, and he entered the required codes, which Cassie had made him repeat a hundred times. Ms. Manshu took the pad and sprayed the surface with cleaner immediately. “Your codes are verified. Would you like us to convert 20,000 pounds to dollars? All in hundreds?”

  “That will be fine, thank you,” Mike replied.

  “The cashier will prepare that. Now, as for the credit card, we can put a limit of up to 10% of your balance. Will that be sufficient?”

  Two-hundred-thousand pounds, he thought. “What is my current balance?”

  Kimberly looked at her display. “Two-million, seven-hundred, fifty-two thousand, five-hundred and ten. That’s 2-7-5-2-5-1-0.”

  That was more than Cassie told him. “The amount you just quoted exceeds what I have in my records.”

  “Let me check again.” She looked again at her screen. “I am so sorry, sir. It is 2-1-5-2-5-1-0.”