A Lot Like Love (3 page)
Nick nodded at Huxley and said a quick greeting as he took the seat opposite him at the marble conference table. Davis sat at the head of the table and got things started. “So I told Nick how you’ve been working on the Eckhart investigation for the past couple of months.”
At least he had a name now, and one he was familiar with—a name many people in Chicago were familiar with. “Xander Eckhart? The restaurant guy?”
“Nightclubs and restaurants, actually,” Huxley corrected him. He adjusted his glasses, sitting straight in his chair. “Eckhart owns three restaurants and four bars in the Chicago area, all expensive, upscale establishments. The crown jewel is a French restaurant, Bordeaux, located just west of the Loop. It sits on the river and has an exclusive VIP-only wine bar that caters to a wealthy clientele.”
“I’ve already filled Nick in on the fact that the investigation is connected to the Martino cases. Why don’t you pick up from there?” Davis suggested.
Huxley had his laptop out, prepared to do just that. He picked up a remote control, and with the push of a button, a screen dropped down from the ceiling in the front of the room. The lights in the conference room dimmed, and Huxley began his presentation. “Subsequent to the arrests of Roberto Martino and other members of his criminal organization, we’ve begun to realize that the scope of Martino’s illegal activity is far wider than we’d suspected. Like his connections to this man here.”
On the screen before him, Nick found himself looking at a photograph of a man in his midthirties who had medium-length brown hair stylishly swept back from his forehead. He wore a suit that appeared even more expensive than Huxley’s and had a tall, willowy brunette in her early twenties on his arm.
“That’s Xander Eckhart,” Huxley said. “The girl’s inconsequential, the flavor of the month. Based on evidence we’ve acquired over the last few months, we believe that Eckhart has been laundering large sums of drug money for Roberto Martino. Martino combines his money with the profits of Eckhart’s restaurants and bars—the nightclubs in particular deal heavily in cash, providing the perfect cover. Eckhart then reports the dirty money as part of his revenue, and voilà, it’s clean. We’ve been working with the IRS to find proof in the tax records that Eckhart has filed for his businesses over the last couple years, but in the meantime the U.S. attorney has asked us to come up with additional evidence.”
“Something a jury would actually pay attention to,” Davis explained to Nick.
Nick understood the U.S. attorney’s thinking behind this. He’d worked with enough prosecutors to know that they disliked cases where the evidence was primarily document-driven. Putting a boring IRS investigator on the witness stand to walk through pages and pages of indecipherable tax filings was the surest way to put a jury to sleep—and lose a conviction.
“So what other evidence do we have?” he asked.
“I’ve been watching Eckhart for the last few weeks and observed him meeting with this man.” Huxley pulled up another image, a photograph of a man with jet black hair who appeared to be in his mid to late forties. He wore a dark overcoat with the collar turned up as he hurried into a building Nick didn’t recognize.
“That’s Carlo Trilani, being photographed outside Bordeaux,” Huxley said. “He’s been there on several occasions to meet with Eckhart, always when the restaurant is closed. We suspect that Trilani is one of Martino’s men, although we don’t have enough evidence yet to make an arrest. Hopefully, we’ll nail both him and Eckhart as part of this investigation.”
Nick was quickly catching on. “I’m guessing the tangible evidence we want lies in those meetings.”
Huxley nodded. “What we need is a way to listen in on Eckhart and Trilani’s conversations.”
Nick saw where Huxley was going with this: electronic surveillance. More commonly used by the FBI than he suspected the average person realized, it was an investigative technique that often provided them the hard evidence they needed. The trick, however, was setting up the recording devices without tipping off the suspects. But the FBI had its ways.
“You said they meet at Bordeaux?” Nick asked.
“I should have been more clear. They don’t actually meet in the restaurant. Eckhart, or more likely Trilani, is smarter than that.” Huxley pulled up computer-generated blueprints of a building with two levels. “This is the layout of the building where Bordeaux is located.” A progression of images flashed across the screen, with different areas on the blueprints highlighted in yellow as Huxley continued. “There’s a restaurant on the main level, with an outdoor terrace overlooking the river. The VIP wine bar is located next to that, in this space right here. Below the restaurant and the wine bar is this lower level, where Eckhart keeps a private office. That’s where he and Trilani meet.”
“Can you get into the lower level through the bar?” Nick asked.
“Yes and no.” Huxley zoomed in on the blueprints for the main level. “There’s an interior door in the wine bar that leads to a staircase to the lower level. There’s also this separate exterior entrance here, right next to the back door for the main bar. The problem is that both doors to the lower level—as well as all the windows—are protected by an alarm system.”
“Eckhart has a separate security system for his office?” Nick asked.
“I think he’s more concerned with this space here.” Huxley brought up the blueprints for the lower level and highlighted a large space located down the hall from Eckhart’s office. “This is the wine cellar for the VIP bar and the restaurant. That’s the reason for the security system—Eckhart’s got over six thousand bottles of wine down there. Really top stuff. I did some research; apparently Eckhart’s a huge collector. Last year,
Wine Spectator
did a whole cover story on him and the cellar at Bordeaux. And a few weeks ago, he made a big splash in the wine community by paying two hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars for a case of rare wine.”
Wine Spectator
did a whole cover story on him and the cellar at Bordeaux. And a few weeks ago, he made a big splash in the wine community by paying two hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars for a case of rare wine.”
“A quarter of a million dollars for
wine
?” Nick shook his head in disbelief. The things rich people did with their money.
wine
?” Nick shook his head in disbelief. The things rich people did with their money.
“And that’s just one case out of six thousand bottles,” Huxley continued. “By all accounts, between wine and champagne, Eckhart’s got over three million dollars in drinkable, easily transportable goods sitting underneath his restaurant.”
Davis whistled. “Explains the security system.”
Nick scoffed at this, not so easily impressed. Sure, maybe Eckhart’s collection was worth a ton of money, but it was still just
wine
. Call him unrefined, but he wasn’t about to get all hot and bothered over a bunch of fermented grape juice. A man’s drink should be strong, and burn a little on the way down. Like bourbon. “Who has access to the password for the security system?”
wine
. Call him unrefined, but he wasn’t about to get all hot and bothered over a bunch of fermented grape juice. A man’s drink should be strong, and burn a little on the way down. Like bourbon. “Who has access to the password for the security system?”
“Only Eckhart and his two general managers, one of whom is required to be at Bordeaux whenever it’s open. And according to our reports, they change the password every week.”
“What reports?” Nick asked.
“We’ve got a female agent working undercover as a bartender—we set her up in the position a few weeks ago,” Huxley said. “We’d planned to use her to get into the lower level of the restaurant, but Eckhart’s security has proven to be more of a challenge than we’d expected.”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t see why we even need her—our next step seems simple enough. We get a court order forcing the alarm company to turn over the password to Eckhart’s security system, then go in and bug the place in the middle of the night.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option in this case,” Huxley said. “Eckhart uses a company called RLK Security. I checked them out—they do security for private homes and businesses. Including, notably, Roberto Martino’s home.”
Nick was impressed by Huxley’s thoroughness. “I doubt that’s a coincidence. I’m guessing Martino hooked Eckhart up with his security team once they went into business together.”
“Even with a gag order, it’s too risky to let RLK Security in on the plan. Anyone Martino trusts is not a friend of the FBI,” Huxley said.
No disagreement there. “So where does that leave us?” Nick asked.
Huxley looked over at Davis. Nick sensed that this next part was the reason he’d been brought in for consulting.
“It means we do this in plain sight,” Huxley said. “Every Valentine’s Day, Eckhart hosts an exclusive charity event at Bordeaux. One hundred people on the list, five thousand dollars per head. As part of the event, Eckhart offers tastings from some of the rare wines he owns. He keeps a security guard stationed in a private tasting room near the cellar as a precautionary measure, but guests have general access to the lower level. Which means that an agent posing as a guest could slip away from the others during the party, break into Eckhart’s office, and set the microphones in place.” He cleared his throat. “That will be me.”
Nick was missing something here. “Why not just have this agent we’ve already got on the inside plant the recording devices? Why else do we have her pretending to be a bartender?”
Huxley conceded this with a nod. “Originally, that was the plan. But Agent Simms has learned that employees don’t have access to the lower level during the party—Eckhart has hired a private sommelier to pour the most expensive wines from his cellar for the guests. That was an unexpected development, but not a total loss—Simms can serve as backup upstairs while I plant the bugs in Eckhart’s office.”
“And how, exactly, do you plan to get into the party?” Nick asked. “I’m guessing the FBI isn’t on Eckhart’s invite list.”
“True. So instead, I’m going to pose as the date of one of the guests.”
Nick paused and eased back in his chair, taking that in. “That means getting a civilian involved.” Generally, he didn’t like using civilians in undercover operations. They were unpredictable and, frankly, a liability. Sometimes, however, circumstances made it necessary.
Huxley was quick to continue. “It’s a one-shot deal, and the risk of harm to the civilian is minimal: she doesn’t have to do anything except get me into the party. Once inside, I can take it from there.”
Davis spoke for the first time since Huxley had begun outlining the parameters of the assignment. “What do you think, Nick?”
Nick studied the blueprints on the screen before him. Without the ability to bypass the alarm system, he didn’t see any other way. “I’m not saying it can’t work. But clearly this isn’t the most typical way to plant recording devices.”
“Good. The boys in Rockford can handle the typical stuff,” Davis said.
Nick smiled at that. “True enough. But the trick will be to find Huxley here a date to this party. One who will be willing to play ball with us.”
Huxley turned back to his computer, efficient as always. “Actually, I’ve already gone through the guest list. I’ve got the perfect candidate in mind.”
“Just out of curiosity, how much longer is this presentation of yours?” Nick asked.
“Only eighteen more slides to go.”
“We’re going to need more coffee,” Nick muttered to Davis. Then he looked over and saw the photograph on the screen before him of the woman Huxley apparently wanted to bring into the Eckhart operation.
Oh,
hell
.
hell
.
Nick recognized the woman instantly. Not because he knew her personally, but because everyone in Chicago—and probably half the country in light of certain recent events—would recognize her. “Jordan Rhodes?” he asked incredulously. “She’s the richest woman in Chicago.”
Huxley brushed this aside with a wave. “Not quite. There’s Oprah, of course. Nobody tops Oprah.”
Davis pointed, throwing in his two cents from the head of the table. “And don’t forget the Pritzkers.”
“Good call. I think I’d put Jordan Rhodes more around fourth richest,” Huxley mused.
Nick leveled them both with a stare. “Fine, let’s just say top five, whatever.”
“And technically it’s her father’s money, not hers,” Huxley noted. “The
Forbes
list of the four hundred richest Americans puts Grey Rhodes’s net worth at one point two billion dollars.”
Forbes
list of the four hundred richest Americans puts Grey Rhodes’s net worth at one point two billion dollars.”
One point two
billion
. “And we want to drag this man’s daughter into an undercover op?” Nick asked. “
This
is our best option?”
billion
. “And we want to drag this man’s daughter into an undercover op?” Nick asked. “
This
is our best option?”
“The list of people attending Eckhart’s party is extremely exclusive,” Huxley said. “And we don’t exactly have the luxury of interviewing candidates. We need someone that we can be certain will agree to help us. Someone who has a great deal of incentive to agree.”
Nick took in the photograph of Jordan Rhodes on the screen. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Huxley raised a good point—fourth richest woman in Chicago or not, they did have leverage over her. Significant leverage.
“What’s the matter, McCall? Afraid she’s out of your league?” Davis asked with a sly grin. “Professionally speaking.”
Nick had to fight back a laugh. Over the last six months, he’d posed undercover as everything from a drug dealer to a thief to a con artist, he’d spent nearly thirty nights in jail, and he’d taken down twenty-seven corrupt Chicago cops. He could certainly handle one billionaire heiress.
Xander Eckhart was his target now, at least for the next five days, and Jordan Rhodes appeared to be their best shot at making the investigation a successful one. Which meant that it was no longer a question of whether she cooperated with them, but when.
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