Growing up, there wasn’t much sibling rivalry between them. In fact, there wasn’t a whole lot of interaction of any kind. George had been a “surprise” to his parents, so by the time George was five, Snapper was about to graduate from high school and head off to college. To George, he had always been the distant big brother.
With their parents gone, and no other family, it became incumbent on Snapper to see to George’s well-being. He knew he couldn’t care for George at home, so he decided to find a quiet place for George to live out whatever life he still had left to him.
Insurance only covered the costs up to a certain point, and Snapper had to make some hard decisions. But no one ever thought George would have remained alive for this amount of time. Nope. The two and a half million hadn’t lasted nearly long enough, and five years ago, Snapper had started to become desperate about how he would be able to continue to provide for George.
He supposed that his need to care for his brother was one of the reasons he was so particularly fond of CJ. Her brother had cared for her when the family was in crisis. Another was that he had no other family to speak of. Yes, other than George, CJ was about as close to family he had.
Billy Sykes had now been off the grid for over five years. Otto “Snapper” Lewis still didn’t quite understand how Billy had managed to set up the trust so Snapper could access it without question from the financial institutions and the convalescent center where George lived . . . if one could call what George had a life. But Billy arranged for all transactions to come from the trust fund although the original funds in it had been depleted over time. In this way, it was possible to keep George’s condition a secret, allowing Snapper to avoid the inevitable media attention knowledge of George and Snapper’s relationship would bring. The media loved horror stories, and Snapper wasn’t going to allow him and his brother to become an act in a media circus.
Standing by the door to the stairway, Snapper thought back to one of the strangest and saddest days of his life.
* * *
He and Billy would often meet for a getaway in the Everglades. Snapper loved to take photos of the mangroves and the gators. One Friday afternoon, he got a call at the office from Billy, who said, “We gotta meet, Snapper. I’ll be at the fishing hut in the Everglades tomorrow afternoon. Be there. It’s urgent.”
Snapper couldn’t recall a time in the past when Billy had pressured him to meet him anywhere. Billy’s voice was tense, almost panicked. Snapper got off the phone and booked a flight on the next plane from DC National to Miami. He’d have a car rental waiting, then make the hour-long drive to the airboat marina where he and Billy would load up their gear and head out for fishing and shooting photos.
Snapper was trying to quell the tension. A few shots of whiskey on the plane had helped calm his nerves. He could not imagine what the emergency was, but it had to be bad if Billy needed to see him. And see him in a very remote location.
It was about six o’clock when Snapper maneuvered the light craft through the canals, skimming the surface of the water. He had mastered this unique vessel years before, allowing him to enjoy the quiet and solitude of the Everglades. It was the contrast with the fiery debates, long, drawn-out arguments, and seemingly unending committee meetings that made his time in the Everglades so alluring.
The sun was setting, and the sky was a panorama of pink, purple, and puffy orange clouds. In the summer, the thunderheads coming off the Everglades water would create havoc, with downpours and horrific lightning. One needed to be prepared for such an occasion although most of the trips Snapper and Billy took were in the early spring. Snapper marveled at the sight of the colors in the sky.
As he rounded the last mangrove before the campsite, he saw Billy, dressed in a sweat suit and wearing hip boots, building a small fire, which Snapper assumed would be used to cook their dinner. Whatever they caught, they cooked. Alligators, of course, were off-limits as far as hunting was concerned. Photos of those reptilian creatures were all one was allowed.
Snapper skimmed the marsh and shut down the propeller. He gave his sports bag a heave and tossed it over the side of the boat. “Billy! What the hell is going on? Everything okay?”
“Snap. Things are really heating up. We gotta, or at least I gotta, pull out of this. I’ve been hearing they are getting into bank accounts and trusts to try to follow terrorist money.”
“What are you talking about? They? Who?”
“FBI, I heard. Listen, you’re okay, and the transfers will remain intact. I made all the arrangements for you, but I have to disappear.”
“Billy, what the hell are you talking about?” Snapper repeated his original question, but he was a little more aggressive this time.
“Snapper. There has been a lot of chatter about the source of the money for these terrorist cells.”
“But isn’t that confidential? I do work for the US government. I think I have a grasp of the law!” Snapper was getting impatient.
“Yeah. Well, there is a lot of crap going down. While they were looking for the money chains for terrorists, they came across a lot of stuff that had nothing to do with what they were originally searching for. A lot. Not just transfers of money but insider trading as well. The FBI is under a lot of pressure lately to prove they know what the hell they’re doing. Ever since nine/eleven, people have been asking questions, and not many of them have been answered. It’s causing a lot of trouble in the Bureau. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you! Anyway, the NSA started audio surveillance on major players, and when they got some intel about money transfers, they brought in the FBI. Then the FBI discovered some large deposits in the accounts of high-ranking government officials. There is a lot of trouble brewing, and I have to become invisible. Real soon. Like now.”
Snapper was stupefied. “Okay. Slow down. Let’s take this one piece at a time. I knew the NSA was investigating some people, and yes, I know it’s an invasion of privacy, but with the Homeland Security Act, they can pretty much look up anyone’s ass if they want. So you’re saying that they caught some chatter about large wire transfers?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. And with me being a broker and handling those kinds of transfers, they’re looking at everything I touch. So I created a dummy account that cannot be traced back to me that you will be able to access and still do what you need to do for George. Here.” Billy handed Snapper a thick envelope. “It’s all in here. The passwords, the account numbers. And the deed to my condo. It’s yours. I have got no family, so use it for the ‘George Project.’ It can be your secret office.”
Snapper could not believe what he was hearing. “This is giving me the creeps, Billy. What are you going to do?”
“I have places in Belize and in Costa Rica. I’m a small enough operator that I doubt they’ll waste time and effort to make a case and come after me. They’re looking for bigger fish . . . no pun intended. But if I stay, I might get caught up in some sting operation they initiate so they can get people higher on the food chain.”
“But wait. What about this insider-trading thing? Do you think we’ve been exposed in some way?” Beads of sweat were forming on Snapper’s forehead, and it wasn’t from the humidity.
“I’ve got you set up so you can move the funds in small increments, which won’t set off any bells. It’s all in there.” Billy pointed to the pouch. “Trust me.”
“I always have, Billy. How will I contact you?”
“You won’t. This is it, mi amigo. I love you like a brother, but if you know where I am, it could ultimately end up bad for both of us. The less you know, the better. In fact, the only things you need to know are in that folder. Save yourself, Snap.” Billy moved closer to Snapper and threw his arms around him. “Be well and take care of George.”
“Billy, aren’t you going to stay and have some supper?” Snapper could see that he’d already caught, cleaned, and spitted some fish.
“Sorry, Snap, I’m out of here. My plane is leaving tonight, and I intend to be on it.” And with th
at, Billy jumped into the airboat he had rented earlier and took off, leaving Snapper standing alone with a most bewildered expression on his face.
That was the last time Snapper ever saw Billy, and he never heard from him again. Nor did anyone ever ask any questions after Billy “moved out.” Not one. The man had no family and no friends, just business acquaintances and Snapper. And anyone who was acquainted with Billy just assumed he had moved to Costa Rica, something he had spoken of doing a number of times. As far as the world in which Billy had moved was concerned, it was as if the man had never existed.
Snapper knew Billy would have covered all the bases and secured the folder in a waterproof cooler. He wasn’t up for any dense reading that night, and he wouldn’t feel safe going through that kind of paperwork in a swamp anyway. No, reading what Billy had given him would have to wait until he returned to DC the next day.
On the flight back, Snapper wondered how someone like Billy Sykes managed not to leave a footprint. But Billy was stealthy and clever, which was another reason Snapper had trusted him as much as he did.
* * *
Still standing by the door, Snapper returned his thoughts to the task at hand. The door had a stainless steel Bio-Mastic Fingerprint Deadbolt. Snapper pressed his finger on the lock and opened the door to the stairway that led down to Billy’s—make that Snapper’s second—condo. He turned on the lights and checked everything—the appliances, the door locks, the windows. He turned the air-conditioning unit higher to get rid of the musty smell. Even though he visited the condo once a week, it still held an empty, no-one-lives-here feel to it.
Snapper headed straight for the spare room Billy had used for his office. He hadn’t changed a thing except Billy’s password, which was now “Gator.” He hated the word but knew he needed to use something he would never forget. And what had happened that day in the Everglades would be something he would never forget.
He turned on the computer and waited for it to boot. He moved the mouse to the icon that would bring up the brokerage account that Billy had arranged. He e-mailed the broker, bought a few stocks, and then, as an afterthought, sent a personal e-mail to the broker, asking him what he thought of Robotron. The broker replied that it had been a solid company with an excellent business model, but its stock had been steadily declining. It had been at one hundred dollars a share in January, but had slipped to sixty over the past several months. Its earnings report had been disappointing. Snapper instructed him to place an order for five thousand shares with a limit of thirty dollars per share. There were no questions from Billy’s broker because Snapper made sure he never deviated from Billy’s trading practices and instructions.
Three days later, the news of a Robotron recall hit the media like a tornado. Thousands of robotic operating devices, it seemed, were going to be recalled. The stock tumbled and lost 50 percent of its value within a week—hitting that magical number of thirty dollars per share. The recall was the tipping point for Robotron.
This was going to be the last one. The last bit of financial sleight of hand. Billy had been right those five years ago. He had seen it coming. There was a growing speculation in the capital about inside information being used to make killings in the market, but using the information he had on how to make a bundle was too much to resist, especially considering the twenty-five thousand dollars he had to pay out each month for George. Shortly after Billy’s departure, President Obama signed STOCK, the Stop Trading on Congressional Knowledge Act. The heat was on. Yes. This last trade would be the end of it. It had to be.
* * *
The following week, when the vote on the Medical Advancement financing bill came to the floor of the House, as agreed, Snapper voted yes. Yes to increased spending on medical research. Research in robotics.
Within days of the bill’s passing, a press conference was held, and a spokesperson from Robotron made a startling announcement. There was going to be no recall. The report of such a recall had been part of the “fake news” tidal wave. The spokesperson went on to say, “Unfortunately, our entire computer system was hacked. We have called in the NSA to assist in finding and apprehending the criminals who so boldly breached our system. We regret any and all loss of value for our shareholders, but we can reassure everyone that we will make this right by continuing to provide the best and most advanced technology in robotic medical technology.”
Shareholders who sold off their stock when it was in freefall were furious, but those who bought the shares after they fell were ecstatic.
With the passage of the Medical Advancement financing bill, Robotron executives immediately sought out the new government funding. They were wise not to take company jets—as those idiots from the auto industry had done back in 2008, a piece of idiocy that had allowed the media to have a field day criticizing government bailouts even though, as things turned out, the taxpayers actually saw a substantial return on the government investment. In any event, it took very little to convince the overseers of the money that some of it should be used to help Robotron advance the field of robotic surgery. The news of the financial infusion gave Robotron stock the kick in the ass Snapper and his cohorts had been counting on. The stock raced up to seventy dollars per share. The market went wild over the stock—just like Abracadabra when they went for their IPO. Snapper was relieved and dismayed at the same time. He knew that what he had done was wrong. It was illegal and immoral, but he saw no other way to help keep his brother in a good health-care facility.
Snapper reviewed the last two weeks to himself. Time to get out of this game. I have about four more years’ worth of money for George socked away in that account, and it just keeps getting riskier—especially with that weasel Leonard Franklin. Cripes, does he have to take a bath in that cheap cologne? This has to end. That pharmaceutical distribution bill is coming up, and I don’t want to be any part of fueling the opioid epidemic. Even with all the PR and antidrug ads, it would be years before two million addicts got clean. If ever. No. I don’t care who else is involved. Let them make the money. I’m done. It’s over.
Chapter 3
CJ had noticed that Snapper had been very edgy over the last two weeks. When she tried to talk to him, he would blow her off. She realized she hadn’t asked him about the black-tie dinner for fear she would slip up and mention the guy with the stinky cologne, but then thought it would be odd if she never asked him.
“Hey, boss, I meant to ask, how was that black-tie dinner at the Armory week before last?”
“Huh? What? Black-tie . . . oh yeah . . . must have been some kind of bug; my stomach was upset, so I decided not to go. Eating a rubber chicken would have just made it worse.”
Considering the wallop he took from Mr. Crappy Cologne, CJ wasn’t surprised that he had not gone, but she wasn’t going to push any further. Something was amiss, and her inner self was nagging the hell out of her.
“Boss, I’m going to get some lunch. Want me to bring you anything?” A typical, normal, everyday kind of question.
“What? No.” That was becoming an automatic response to almost everything she asked.
“You okay? You seem a little stressed. Is there anything I can do? Schedule a massage?”
“I’m fine. I just need to clear my head. Go. Get some lunch. I’m fine. Really.”
CJ was not convinced he was fine, but she grabbed her jacket and headed out for a stroll and a salad. She, too, needed to clear her head. What is going on with Snapper? He is certainly beginning to behave like his nickname. She shrugged, took the stairs, and strolled past the security guard’s station.
“Getting a bite. Want me to pick up a cup of java on my way back?”
“I’m good, but thanks.” Marcus, the security guard, gave CJ a two-finger salute.
Suddenly, she noticed a familiar smell. That god-awful cologne again!
“Hey, Marcus,” she said, turning back to the guard, “did someone just come through stinking like a French whorehouse?”
“French whorehouse? What hav
e you been doing with your free time, Ms. Jansen? How would you know what a French whorehouse smells like?”
“No, seriously. There’s a guy who’s been in the building who wears this absolutely abominable cologne. More like takes a bath in it.” She screwed up her face as if she just smelled horse manure.
“I thought I smelled something, but I thought it was the cleaning people trying out some new kind of disinfectant, but can’t say I saw anybody with a cloud hanging around them . . . you know, like that kid in the Peanuts cartoon?”
CJ smiled at the thought of Pig Pen. “No, I think Pig Pen probably smells better! See you in a bit.”
That smell. She could not get it out of her nose. And she knew it was the same stench that had wafted from Snapper’s office that horrible night.
When CJ returned with her salad, the smell was still pervasive. “Marcus, are you sure you didn’t smell anyone come through? The odor is still in the air!”
“I took a quick break a few minutes ago. Maybe. But let me check with Carl.” Marcus picked up his walkie-talkie. “Yo, Carl, you have anyone come through smelling like a French whore?” He winked at CJ. “No. Everything is cool here. Just got a noseful of something and was wondering.” The voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie signed off, saying, “You got too much free time on your hands, brother.”
CJ, still not convinced, headed toward her office with lunch in hand only to find that Snapper had left. And without leaving a note. Nothing. Except that smell again! His coat was gone and so was his briefcase. She checked both calendars: his and her own. Nothing on either one. No committee meetings, no appointments. This was really out of character for Snapper. He was diligent about always letting her know his whereabouts in case there were any emergencies, calls, or meetings that were arranged at the last minute.
Deep Harbor Page 3
