“Why would he do such a thing?”
“He wanted his boss to think he was a hero saving his life.”
Louise surmised that LaFontaine’s version of the events was consistent with that of Roblot so far.
“So, it was accidental?” Louise pressed.
“Officially, yes,” LaFontaine said.
“Officially? You don’t accept that explanation?”
“There are many who don’t,”
“Why?” Louise asked.
“Almasi was a known paranoiac. He had converted his dressing room into a saferoom that was impenetrable. Many consider it ironic at best that Almasi and one of his other nurses would take refuge in that saferoom, that no one can get into, and a fire just happens to burn out of control.”
“What a horrible way to die.”
“Tragique. I watched the fire in shock from this terrace along with many other hotel guests.” He motioned around where they were sitting. “Fire hoses had to be dragged through the lobby of the hotel and out to this terrace to combat the flames. It took three hours to put the fire out. The lobby was full of Monaco police dressed in riot gear and masks and carrying machine guns because they believed it was a terrorist attack. It was utter confusion.” The waiter brought dessert, and LaFontaine abruptly changed the subject. “So, what are your plans in Monaco?” LaFontaine winked.
After the waiter left Louise whispered, “You’re not supposed to talk about it?”
“No one talks about the case for fear of litigation. It was a top-secret investigation. Members of Almasi’s nursing staff, butlers, and assistants were required to sign confidentiality agreements. Some received as much as $100,000 to refrain from speaking to journalists.”
That was an interesting tidbit that Louise had read in Roblot’s notes. She was happy LaFontaine had brought it up so she could get clarification.
“I suppose it’s normal not to discuss an ongoing case.”
“It was more than that. Almasi’s death came at a particularly bad time for the principality. France had accused Monaco of being a major center for money laundering. Prince Rainier was seventy-seven years old and in poor health at the time of the murder. His son, Prince Albert, is in no hurry to get married and carry on the seven-hundred-year-old Grimaldi legacy. Princess Stephanie has had many unfortunate romantic alliances and an inappropriate marriage, making her an embarrassment. Even the beloved Princess Caroline’s third husband, Prince Ernst of Hanover, is proving unpopular for his drunken behavior.”
“So, Prince Rainier wanted to get the Almasi murder solved and out of the press as quickly as possible.”
“Yes. Mayer is currently in the Monte Carlo prison. His lawyers are George Blot, who is a citizen of Monaco, and Donald Manasse, an American employed by the monarchy. Todd Mayer needs an Alan Dershowitz to come to his rescue.”
“You mean someone capable of getting a person off on murder charges.” Louise was impressed with LaFontaine’s breadth of knowledge. Dershowitz was a famous American attorney whose most notable cases included getting the 1984 conviction of Claus von Bülow for the attempted murder of his wife, Sunny, overturned. He was also appellate adviser for the defense in the O. J. Simpson murder trial in 1995.
“A famous American attorney Michael Griffith has volunteered to assist with Mayer’s defense. He is the attorney who represented Billy Hayes.”
Billy Hayes, the name sounded familiar to Louise. “The American whose escape from a Turkish jail inspired the movie Midnight Express?” Louise asked.
“Bravo. Intriguing, non?” LaFontaine saw the server returning to their table. “So, what are your plans?”
“I was thinking of renting a boat to explore the coast.”
“You know how to skipper a boat?” LaFontaine asked.
“I mean charter a boat with a captain. It seems like a great way to see the area.”
LaFontaine sat up straight and gave her a military salute. “At your service.”
“You have a boat?”
LaFontaine guffawed again. “Not only do I have a boat. I have the boat. May I take you on a sunset cruise?”
“Yes, I’d love that!” Louise said. Taking his cue to move on, they got up and gave each other double cheek kisses.
“Rendez-vous at fifteen hundred hours in the lobby.”
Louise saluted him. “Aye, aye, Capitaine!”
F I F T E E N
January 1, 2002
Frédéric LaFontaine stood on the deck of the only home he’d known for the past four years. The boat was free to roam in the international waters of the world, one of the privileges of his considerable wealth. He owned the formula to a software program that had revolutionized banking, and the profit he had accumulated could take care of several generations of LaFontaines, if he would ever get around to fathering an heir.
He knew that the wealthy elite called him “Bruce Wayne” behind his back. Although it was true that he was orphaned as a child, his parents weren’t killed in a dramatic robbery, just an old-fashioned automobile accident. His mission of altruism, especially exposing the corruption of oligarchs, was the other reason for his nickname. They despised him but couldn’t touch him, given the nature of his financial knowledge – and most likely a backdoor access to all secrets in the electronic vaults – plus he was nimbly able to avoid having a fixed address living at sea.
Louise Moscow intrigued him, not only because she was a rare jewel of intellect and allure, but she seemed to have the same idealistic goals in regard to capitalism and wealth that he had, to even the playing field and let the best person or collective come out on top. The banking shenanigans she had exposed were part of the cheating and disruption that had collapsed the worldwide markets in the past, and both LaFontaine and Moscow instinctively fought against those who did evil in that realm.
LaFontaine had some secrets and he knew that Moscow was the person with whom he should share them, for she knew how to fit the pieces together. He made one more call to the ship’s First Officer to make sure all was at the ready.
After a half hour power nap, Louise checked her hair in the mirror noticing the sprouting of blonde roots, but her fatigued eyes and wan complexion were more startling. She was making progress in the case, but at what price? She drank a whole liter of water, showered, and brushed her teeth. In front of the closet, she contemplated her options. It was safe to assume the boat would be more like a yacht, the kind chartered for Cannes Film Festival galas. Not to be overdressed, nor underdressed, she chose black jeans and a chunky cream cowl-necked cashmere sweater over an untucked white blouse with black wedge espadrilles. She topped off the look with a black knit watchcap, another of the small gifts from under the Christmas tree. She headed to the lobby where LaFontaine was waiting for her.
“Your ship awaits,” LaFontaine said, taking Louise’s arm and leading her out to the marina. They boarded a boat the likes of which Louise had never seen. It was an 85-foot motor yacht that looked like something out of a James Bond film. It had a powerful military-like exterior, suggesting superior mechanical capabilities. But the lavish interior décor was fit for the affluent locals’ lifestyle. LaFontaine gave her a tour of the opulent cabins, ending in the expansive upper deck. It was well designed and tasteful with comfortable sofas, a saloon with full bar, and large windows, making it bright and spacious.
“The wide beam must make for smooth cruising,” Louise said.
“You know boats,” LaFontaine said.
“I read a lot.”
“Then you will appreciate this.” He took her to the engine room.
“Caterpillar C18 engines. What’s the top speed?”
“Sixteen knots,” LaFontaine said, now fully aware that she was more than a pretty face who read a lot. They went to the helm, and he maneuvered out of the harbor. As they cruised past the coastguard, several men stood at attention.
“Are they saluting you?”
A high-pitched laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand was all LaFontaine offe
red by way of explanation. He handed over the helm to the First Officer and they moved to the saloon where his crew worked quietly, opening champagne and putting out a platter of delicious cheeses, caviar and foie gras. They noshed and enjoyed the view of the Mediterranean coastline.
“La voila!” LaFontaine pointed to a sprawling estate. “Villa La Leopolda, Almasi’s other home. That’s where they filmed Grace Kelly and Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.” LaFontaine poured two glasses of champagne and handed one to Louise.
“I love that movie!” They clinked glasses. “Most people assume that Alfred Hitchcock created the story. It was actually based on a 1952 novel by David Dodge.”
“Speaking of writers, La Leopolda was built by American architect Ogden Codman Jr., who was close friends of Edith Wharton. They even collaborated on a book about interior design.”
“You read a lot too, I see.”
“I take pleasure in connecting the dots.”
“Who owns the villa now?”
“Mr. Almasi’s Brazilian wife, Julia Almasi. However, she has been living mostly in New York, working on her philanthropic causes. It is important to her to be well regarded at this point in her life. She had been treated quite unfairly in the French press.”
“Was she a suspect?”
“Never officially. But the French were suspicious of her. She has led a fascinating and tragic life.”
“Tragic? I mean, besides the murder of her husband, were there other tragedies?”
“She was wealthy before marrying Almasi. Her first husband, Mario Cohen, was an Argentinian multimillionaire. She divorced him and married a Brazilian named Alfredo Greenberg who changed his name to Freddy Monteverde. Freddy was a very rich owner of a chain of electronics stores and madly in love with Julia. After Freddy’s shocking suicide, Julia inherited $230 million, which she put into the hands of Ekram Almasi.”
“She must enjoy the high society lifestyle.” Louise had read quite a bit about Julia Almasi’s lifestyle in her research. But not much about her background, so she was interested in hearing more.
“Oui, Julia is an attention grabber with her haute-couture style and precious jewels. A diva.” He emphasized the last syllable di-VA. “Ekram was the opposite, avoided the spotlight, preferred to quietly discuss financial matters with world leaders. Julia came into $3 billion after Ekram’s death. Now her charitable causes are all that matter to her. She recently auctioned off $38 million in jewels for charity. In August, she donated a spectacular fountain to the restoration of Somerset House in London, with fifty-five jets of water shooting into the air, five being Ekram’s lucky number.”
“Five symbolizes protection in the talismanic hand.” Louise blurted it out, having just run across that bit of trivia in her research.
“Ah, yes, I never made that connection before.”
“So, if Almasi was so paranoid that he built himself a saferoom, why didn’t he also hire security guards?”
LaFontaine’s laughter rang out like a birdcall. “Almasi had a whole security team of former Mossad agents. But he didn’t house them in Monte Carlo.”
“Why not?”
“As a courtesy to the Monte Carlo police department, to maintain the perception that Monte Carlo was safe, the security team was housed right there, at Villa La Leopolda.”
“Not a bad gig.” Louise looked wistfully at the sprawling estate, its façade a blazing amber in the sunset. “So, case closed?”
“You ask the important questions.” LaFontaine refilled their champagne glasses then settled into the sofa. “The short answer is yes, as far as the chief prosecutor, Daniel Graham, is concerned. Judge Patricia Rueff is serving essentially as a one-person grand jury to decide which charges Todd Mayer will face. Rueff is expected to finish her investigation and issue a report later this summer or early fall to a three-judge panel who, along with three civilian advisers, will try Todd Mayer next winter. If he is tried and convicted of arson causing death, he would face life imprisonment.”
“That’s the official story.” The champagne was making Louise cheeky. “What couldn’t you talk about at the restaurant?”
LaFontaine gave another chortle, but this time his blue eyes pierced hers as though to say, I like your spunk. “Yes, that’s the official story. But there was speculation of a contract killing and cover-up. Mayer initially reported two masked men entered the penthouse and Almasi locked himself in the saferoom. The intruders were unable to break down the door, so they started a fire on the balcony, which spread to the roof causing Almasi and his nurse to die from smoke inhalation. There was no sign of anything having been stolen, which could indicate a contract killing.”
“But could also indicate that Mayer started the fire.”
“True. And, if there were attackers, according to Mayer they were armed only with knives, which should also rule out a professional contract killing.
“A contract killer would use a gun,” Louise concluded. “Unless, of course, they’re trying to make it look like an accident.”
“You are very good at connecting the dots.”
“I hate when things don’t add up,” Louise said.
“Well it gets stranger,” LaFontaine continued. “Mayer later retracted and confessed to stabbing himself. Authorities believe that Mayer’s nursing and military training made him capable of self-inflicting the non-life-threatening knife wounds, which he vehemently denied, initially. The problem with Mayer’s revised testimony is that one of the knife wounds took one hundred staples to close, so it is difficult to argue they were self-inflicted.”
“So, there could have been intruders armed with both knives and gun?” Louise tried to steer the conversation back to guns to try to learn more about the unreleased report of two bullet wounds found in Almasi.
“It’s possible. There were many rumors of two bullets in Ekram Almasi’s body. But no such information appeared in the official autopsy report that was released. A very high-level person was the source of the rumors about the bullets, but the coroner’s reports were misplaced.”
“Misplaced? As in, covered up?”
“Possibly. Apparently, the entire crime scene and investigation were irregular. For example, when Almasi’s chief of security arrived on the scene, the head of the Criminal Police Division immediately took him into custody and brought him to a military prison.”
LaFontaine was finally bringing up the CPD officer that Roblot had asked her look into, so she pressed him. “And that was irregular? Was he a suspect?”
“It was irregular considering that Julia Almasi told the head of the Urban Police Division that the chief of security had the only key to the saferoom. A key that could have saved Almasi.”
This information was already in Roblot’s notes, so Louise tried another tack. “What else was irregular?”
“The initial UPD law enforcement arrived before 5:30 a.m. But the CPD officer, believing that intruders might still be inside, insisted that the residence be searched thoroughly before permitting firefighters to enter. Firefighting efforts were impeded until 6:15 a.m. By that time the fire was raging.”
That information was not in Roblot’s notes. Was that something that had gone on behind his back? She decided to put a pin in it and ask Roblot about it later.
“Did anyone else see intruders?” Louise asked.
“Only Todd Mayer reported seeing them, but coincidentally the elaborate security surveillance system in the residence was inoperable on that night. Any surveillance videos that were recovered were subsequently destroyed.”
“That is very suspicious, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think,” he said ominously. “I know.”
“What would the motive be for a contract killing?”
“Have you heard of the banker’s grave?”
LaFontaine’s words chilled Louise. “Something about people who know too much get killed?” she choked out.
“Precisely. The prosecution’s conclusions were too simple. This was an illust
rious Lebanese Jewish family. The name Almasi means diamond in Arabic. The Almasi dynasty began well over a century ago becoming the most trusted bankers of the Ottoman Empire for diamond trade between Alexandria, Aleppo, and Istanbul. When the Ottoman Empire began to unravel at the beginning of the twentieth century, Ekram’s father, Joseph Almasi, opened the Joseph M. Almasi Bank in Beirut. Ekram joined the business at the age of sixteen and quickly took over the precious-gems division. In 1952 Joseph moved his base of operation to São Paulo, Brazil, opening the Banco Almasi de Investimento in 1955. Ekram was fluent in French, English, Italian, Portuguese, Arabic, and Hebrew. In Sephardic tradition, the family business should pass to the oldest son. But Ekram leapfrogged his elder brother, Elie, as the prime heir.
“By twenty-four years old, Ekram founded the Commerce Development Bank in Geneva, Switzerland, beginning with only $1 million and grew the bank to $5 billion. Almasi returned to the Americas in 1966 and founded the New York Republic Bank. In contrast to most banks, Almasi’s was built on deposits rather than loans. This strategy led some to view Almasi’s banks as attractive propositions for money launderers.”
Louise was shocked by this last detail. “Just like the BCCI banking scandal ten years ago! Agha Hasan Abedi built his bank on deposits, rather than loans. How did Almasi track all the deposits?”
LaFontaine’s laughter went up a whole octave. “The Almasis, well known for their discretion, keep all formal records in an ancient Arabic script known only to the Middle East’s well-educated Sephardic communities.”
“BCCI did the same thing. Only a few high-level officers kept records in Urdu,” Louise said. “I’m shocked at the similarities in business practices with BCCI. But New York Republic Bank was not a third-world bank.”
“On the contrary. By the mid-1980s, the New York Republic Bank was the third largest in the New York City, behind Citigroup and Chase Manhattan. Amazingly, the Almasi family had avoided scandal for centuries. But NYNB quickly became known for sending an armored car to pick up large sums of cash from its more secretive customers. At the time of Almasi’s death, American customs officers were investigating Almasi’s banks for laundering Colombian drug funds. Nonetheless, the prime suspects were not Colombian drug lords. It was the Russian mafiya.”
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