ColdScheme (12 page)

“You don’t think they’ll share the information?” Ken
interpreted my comment as skepticism as to whether the FBI would cooperate with
the police in this investigation.

“They might. I’d like to find out who was working on their
financial security measures system four years ago and who’s doing it now.”

“Do you think those people would be the targets?”

I stared at him with dawning comprehension. “You might be
right. If the large banking institutions had joined a syndicate, to develop a
super tool to track illegal money routes, then whoever was working on that
project might be a target. The banks don’t want to surrender their
confidentiality. But if they could implement a sophisticated system that would
be endorsed by government agencies and law enforcement, then the gate’s shut.
That would piss off a lot of the offshore enterprise. They’d be left with huge
amounts of illegal cash and no means to wash it through any international
monetary system. Our banking institutions would share their new
product—globally—for a price, of course.”

“A whole team of walking ghosts,” he murmured.

“Not all, just the key ones.”

“Jeffries was not a key figure.”

“Chess players need pawns and kings. In fact, they need more
pawns to sacrifice than more important pieces.”

“The FBI is going to get all the interesting work,” he
mumbled.

I laughed. “Banking conspiracies are boring. We’re going to
do the exciting field work.”

“Who else did we miss?”

“What else—the Creeslow Armored Security Automobiles.
They’re in Brooklyn Park. We have to check them out.”

“Maybe Brick just liked driving an armored limo.”

“Probably but there’s more to it, has to be.”

“Why?”

“There’s duality in everything we’ve come across. Brick had
a job and a part-time job, so did Jeffries. This case may be about money
laundering but it’s also about something else. There’s another component to
it.”

“The part-time component,” he chuckled.

“I think it’s more like part two. Part one is the need, the
motive—flushing money through the system—while part two is the means to ensure
cooperation.”

“The means to ensure cooperation is a bomb planted in a
victim’s chest,” he said.

“That’s the weapon, Ken. The means to assure cooperation is
control—on a grand scale.”

* * * * *

After Ken left, I went to the kitchen. Jazz sat at the
table, doodling. I saw several sheets of paper filled with concentric circles
and floral petals, heavily outlined and smeared with furious strokes. Quite a
few of the sheets were scored and punctured with the pencil.

I sat down, folded my hands and squeezed them hard. She
wouldn’t look at me. She never did when I tried to have an air-clearing talk.

“When you’re a little older,” I started. She cut me off with
a snort.

“I won’t need you when I’m older.”

“Maybe not but for now, if you don’t want to get detention,
you should do as Ken advised. Draw the family tree and put down the titles
instead of the names. Everyone has ancestors but quite a lot of people don’t
know their names, or even where they’re buried.”

“Mine are buried in your head,” she mumbled.

“Then you should be smart enough to realize that when people
bury something in their heads, they don’t want to remember.”

“Why don’t you want to remember my father?”

“What is it that’s really bothering you, Jazz?”

“I want to know who my father was.”

“Why is it so important? Your friend Jenny lives with her
mother and doesn’t know where her father is. So do quite a few others. I’ve
talked to some of them. They’re not angry about it. I’m sure they don’t leave
their mothers nasty messages on their pagers.”

“Jenny’s dad’s in Atlantic City. He’s shacked up with a
hooker. Her mother says she doesn’t want to know where he is. Jenny just
repeats what her mom says. She has his phone number. Her mom doesn’t know that.
She calls her dad or his girlfriend when her mom’s out with her little brother
at baseball. I don’t even have a name to put down. I wouldn’t mind calling a
hooker just to speak to my dad.”

I listened, hurting and raging at life’s injustices. I had
nothing comforting to offer her.

“I must have had a father, right?” Suddenly, she lifted her
head. She stared at me with anguish and intensity. It was frightening to see in
a child. It might have been just a stray reflection since the kitchen was
brightly lit but her eyes seemed to be filled with raw power. Light shone
through her eyes, just as green as her father’s. It went right through me,
passing through a hole in my heart that time hadn’t healed. I blinked to
control the pain and stood up.

“Mom, don’t leave! Why do you always leave when I want to
talk about Dad? I don’t care if he was bad or did something wrong. I don’t care
if he went to prison. I just want to know who he was.”

“Is Melissa’s dad out on parole again?” I murmured, with my
back to her.

“Yeah and he’ll probably take all their money again and go
buy drugs and get busted. I don’t care if my dad was like that. I just want to
be able to talk about him, like Jenny and Melissa. Was he into drugs?”

I smiled, knowing that she couldn’t see me. She was clever.
She had been trying to get me to admit, any way she could, that he existed. The
moment I admitted it—with a simple yes, he was, or no, he wasn’t—she would
attack, full force.

“If you’re not going to do what Ken said, then it’s time to
brush your teeth and get to bed,” I said.

“He couldn’t have been so bad that you wouldn’t want to
remember him,” she said in a tearful whisper. “Melissa’s dad is a junkie. He
beats up her mother and her sisters when he’s out of jail and she still talks
about him. I have nothing to talk about. The kids think I’m strange.”

“You can talk about your mother,” I said dryly.

“She’s strange too. That’s what my teacher said about you
when I told her that I don’t have any names to put down on my family tree.”

“Make sure you brush your teeth well and say your prayers.”
I walked down the corridor, toward my bedroom.

“What for? There’s no one to hear them,” she murmured. I
gritted my teeth to make sure nothing else came out.

Six months ago, I would still have said prayers with her. I
would stay to see that she fluffed up her pillows and beat up her duvet cover,
before I kissed her forehead, wished her good night and left. Once her quest
for the shadowy presence of father began, all such tender bedtime moments were
lost. I knew it was more than just feeling left out when her friends talked
about their fathers—most of them deadbeats or criminals. It was a need to know
that there was an event in my life that brought about her birth. Not the
physical, sexual part but the human one. She needed to know that there was a
man out there, who was connected to her by a bridge that would remain a link
for the rest of her lifetime. It wouldn’t matter to her if he rejected her, as
long as she knew that he was there, a building block that would give her
history. While all her friends had a role in life’s dark drama, she was an
outsider. She had no role to play, not even a line.

Melissa’s father was a junkie. He was out on parole for the
second time in three years. She got a lot of attention from her teachers.
Jenny’s dad was a gambler and a womanizer. He’d run out on his wife and two
children. Jenny got a lot of sympathy. Jazz got nothing. She was ignored,
because that’s what people did to those who were strange. She was not part of
the social fabric, black or white, good or bad.

I sat down on my bed, feeling hollow. Maybe I should make up
a story, fabricate an illusion.

I sighed. No one knew better than I did how dangerous it was
to be brought up on illusions.

The phone on my nightstand rang. My eyes went to the alarm
clock. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I suppressed a shudder, praying it was not
Ken—and another victim with an exploded chest.

I picked it up and looked at the call display. It showed
unidentified caller. It couldn’t be Ken, unless he was calling from a phone
other than his own. It could be my father. Then again, he wouldn’t bother
disguising his phone number.

“Yes?” I put the phone to my ear. I heard the faint sound of
breathing but no one acknowledged my greeting.

“Who is this?” I demanded, raising my voice. The silence
continued but the whisper soft breathing was still on the line.

“Who are you?” I asked impatiently. “If you’re not going to
talk, there’s no point in holding this phone to my ear.”

“I was going to ask you the same question. Who are you?” I
heard his voice. It was ghostly and familiar.

“Detective Sergeant Meaghan Stanton,” I said and hung up.

The phone rang again.

I picked it up. “Yes?”

“Don’t hang up.”

“There is nothing to talk about.” My voice must have told
him that the connection was about to be terminated.

“If you hang up, the next sound you’ll hear will be your
doorbell.”

It was the last thing I wanted. “What do you want?”

“An explanation, that’s all.”

I held the phone away, frowning. Explanations were needed on
my side, not his. “Of what?”

“Who are you? What are you doing? What happened?”

“I’m a police officer. At one time I may have wanted to know
what happened ten years ago. Tonight, I’m no longer curious. It’s late. I’m
going to have a busy day tomorrow. I need to rest. Good night.”

“Don’t! Why aren’t you a Tavistock?”

“My partner told me that you’re going to visit the bank
tomorrow. Ask the Chairman, Mr. Crossley Morgan Tavistock himself.”

“We’ve already talked. He told me you decided that our
marriage would interfere with your studies and your political career, that it
was a mistake and you were just momentarily confused. He explained why our
relationship would be a disadvantage and what it would cost you, in terms of
your future.”

“When did you talk to my father? Where? How? What are you up
to, Field? What’s this about?” I wanted to hang up. Suspicions and anger coursed
through me. His sudden reappearance, in my work environment was not by chance.
It had to be another one of my father’s schemes, to bring me back into the
Tavistock fold. I didn’t want to be a point of it.

“He came to see me in Potomac Hospital. He delivered your
message. Later on, he came to reinforce it, when I was in Meade Naval rehab.”

“When?”

“Ten years ago, when you left.”

The cordless phone slid out of my hand. I heard his voice in
the receiver. He was shouting. With great effort, I picked it up again.

“Meg, are you there? Meg! Dammit, don’t hang up! I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to know… All these years, why? I deserve to
know that. I would have understood. I don’t blame you. I don’t hold it against
you… Meaghan, are you there?”

“What is it you don’t blame me for?” I asked carefully.
Hell, these last couple of weeks, every day was more complex than the one
before.

“Not wanting our child, not wanting to be married—wanting to
finish your studies, working on your career.”

“Ah, those pesky details!” I have always believed that in my
darkest hours, someone from beyond draped me in humor. It was my coping tool.
“What else did my father say?”

He was silent for a long time. I wondered whether this was
where we would leave the issue, another deadly cliffhanger.

“Just that you would always be a Tavistock and what that
meant, along with your final message,” he replied slowly, carefully.

“How did I send my message?”

“What?”

“On paper, recorded, through a process server, chiseled into
a stone tablet, rolled in a bottle—written in sacrificial blood on a scroll?”

I didn’t hear him breathe. He had to be holding the phone
away, wondering about my mental state.

“Did you send a message, Meg?”

“You listened to it—and believed it. The messenger must have
impressed you very much. You took his word for gospel.”

“You signed the annulment papers. You asked me to release
you from our mistake.”

“Ah! I must have come to my senses.”

“Then why aren’t you a Tavistock?”

“Like I said, I must have come to my senses.”

“Stanton is not your married name.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked your partner.”

“You phoned Kenny?” I was shocked.

“He gave me his business card in the meeting. He put down
his home phone number. His wife answered the phone. She gave me your number.”

I started to laugh. Brenda’s campaign was no longer subtle.

“Meg, why aren’t you a Tavistock? Why aren’t you
representing their international interests, building your political career?”

“Is that what you thought my career goals were?”

“You were going to Paris as a member of a financial team of
experts, to work on the new regulatory standards for banking practices.”

“My budget only allows for stateside vacations.”

“When did you decide to become a police officer?”

“You’re an FBI agent. Surely you have access to this
information at the touch of a button.”

“I’m asking you!” he shouted.

I laughed choppily, still shocked by his call. “You’re
asking the wrong source,” I said. “Tomorrow, you’ll have the pleasure of
visiting the Tavistock banking stronghold. I’m sure you’ll still recognize the
principal officer. Ask him those questions. I’m going to sleep. Good night.” I
hung up. I knew that he wouldn’t call back. My laughter had trumped his
shouting and frustration. It told him that he had pushed me as far as I would
go tonight.

Chapter Seven

In the morning, we drove to Brooklyn Park. I caught a
glimpse of Mongrove as I cruised by, looking for the Hellenic Plaza.

“I wonder when it closed down?” Ken murmured, when I turned
into a long strip of abandoned stores and businesses. The place looked as if it
were on the city engineers’ demolition list. Another subsidized housing
development would spring up. I could not imagine anything else that would be
put up in this bleak, barren neighborhood, characterized by aluminum-sided storage
units and gas stations.

“Park over there.” He pointed at an empty space. It was
identical to all the other empty spaces in the pothole-filled lot.

My state of mind was just like the plaza, ruined by
unprofitable history. I looked at him. “Do you really like that spot? What
about two spaces over? That’s free too.”

“All right,” he said with caution. I saw that he wasn’t sure
whether I was going to laugh or yell next.

I fitted the car in between two huge cracks in the asphalt.
“How’s this?” I asked, staring ahead.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s a good parking job, don’t you think so?”

“I know you don’t like to be bothered with work issues at
home. Brenda shouldn’t have given out your number.”

“I couldn’t figure out how Inspector Weston obtained my
number but once he told me that your wife gave it to him, it clarified a lot.”

We observed a minute of silence, burying our loved ones,
gathering courage to get out of the car and stroll through this free enterprise
graveyard.

“He must have assumed that she was my wife,” he murmured
when we stood outside. I listened to the gulls’ shrill cries. They fought over
worms in the rain puddles.

“He’s a presumptuous man. I think Creeslow used to be
located at the far end, that way,” I waved down the row of yawning openings. The
store windows were no longer fitted with glass.

Other than the gulls’ chatter and our boots clicking hard on
the dilapidated concrete sidewalk as we moved down the strip, there was no
other sound.

“This is a spooky place,” Ken commented, when he peered through
one jagged window frame where slivers of glass poked out.

“Most graveyards are.”

“I wonder what made it go bust?”

“Demographics. The neighborhood changed. The customers
stopped coming to shop. The businesses closed down.”

“Why would they put up a plaza nearby a psychiatric
facility?”

“It’s not a prison, Ken, just a mental hospital.”

“I wouldn’t live close to a place like that, no matter how
cheap the rent.”

“People live next to cemeteries. Makes for a peaceful
neighborhood.”

“Cemeteries are different,” he maintained.

“How is that?”

“They’re dignified. It’s just like you said, peaceful. No
pain, no anguish…” he said, his voice trailing off.

I knew he was thinking about the young woman who looked like
Brenda.

“It’s a hospital. This plaza was probably a good place for
the Mongrove staff to come and grab a quick lunch or shop during their lunch
hour.”

“Well, they certainly wouldn’t need the services of Creeslow
Armored Security Automobiles,” he remarked, motioning. “And there it is.”

We came to the end of the strip where a large rectangular,
windowless structure sat attached in “L” fashion. The elevated apron in the
middle was the fuelling area. Two gas pumps, dented and vandalized, stood off
to a side. The corrugated steel doors were rolled shut. The metal banner
bearing the business name, Creeslow Armored Security Automobiles—Sales and
Rentals, was still attached above one of the three roll-up doors. It was askew.
I thought it was a classic message that no one could miss.

We walked around the building. We didn’t find any windows,
not even an air vent.

“We could check to see if they went bankrupt or moved
somewhere else,” I said after we completed an uneventful tour.

Ken stopped by the gas pumps. He prodded a dented panel with
the tip of his boot. He bowed his head, steeped in thought.

“Did you check out all the armored car services in
Washington yet?” he asked.

“I’ve talked to the managers and owners at five places. They
were all suspicious and edgy. None had an employee named Brick or any of his
aliases. The name Creeslow doesn’t exist in Washington. I checked it out on the
net.”

“They would have changed the name.”

“Why? I could check whether any of the Washington places had
ever used the name Creeslow or operated in Baltimore but I would have to do
that through official channels. That takes time and a lot of work.”

“The FBI could look after that.”

I liked his suggestion. “That’s a great idea.”

“Why did you want to come here?”

“It’s not in the same category as Guilford but I thought it
might be an off-shoot, a connection. I wanted to see what kind of people ran
this business—first look impressions. Whoever forced Brick into compliance,
valued his IMF expertise. They might have thought his part-time job was useful
too.”

“There has to be a connection,” he mumbled and kicked a
piece of metal until it fell off. I saw something fall to the ground. He bent
down and picked it up.

“Well, there’s nothing here but failure and garbage,” I
commented, turning around.

“Meg! Come take a look at this.”

He held a piece of paper, dirty and tattered. I went over
and he handed it to me.

“What do you think? A coincidence?”

It was a scrap of newspaper, half a page, folded several
times. That was the only reason the newsprint that was hidden inside the folds,
had survived.

“The Valencia Laboratories. I’ve never heard of it. That’s
something else to check out. I wonder how old this piece of newspaper is?” I
turned it over but the date was missing.

“They’re advertising for subjects to test a new product
line,” he said, tipping his brows at me. “They’re offering a thousand dollars
for two days of blood tests.”

“Amato had said that Jeffries did this for easy money.”

“Very easy. He should have questioned it.”

“How would an armored car service be connected to a
laboratory?”

He sighed. “It’s hard to say. They could have had a deal
with the lab to chauffeur their subjects.”

“In armored limos?”

“That would appeal to a lot of potential subjects. The
prestige angle, vanity and perks.”

“People who volunteer to spend two days to take drugs and
have needles stuck in their arm, do it for money.”

“That’s true but once they’re in the armored limo—who knows
what else might be tested on them.”

“Are you suggesting that the volunteer would be sedated in
the limo?”

“Maybe that’s how they could stick a device into someone’s
chest. Jeffries was a paid drug-tester. His chest exploded.”

“Do you think he would have told Amato about the other perks
besides the money?”

“He might have. If you’re paid a thousand bucks for two days
of discomfort and driven back and forth in a limo, wouldn’t you try to get your
friends to join you?”

“Then why didn’t Amato tell us?”

He smiled. “We didn’t ask him. A twenty-eight year old
vegetable whose mother serves him snacks as he watches TV, can’t be very
bright—or inquiring.”

An hour later, we faced Amato’s mother. I asked her to wake
up her delicate darling from his nap.

“I’m back at work and on a night shift,” he greeted us,
obviously irritated by our unexpected visit.

“This won’t take long,” I assured him pleasantly. “You have
all afternoon to sleep. Did Jeffries ever talk about the drug-testing jobs that
he did on the weekends?”

“They were legal drugs,” he said, scowling.

“No doubt. I don’t know of any commercial laboratory that
would dare to advertise in a newspaper for subjects to test illegal drugs. The
police read the papers too, you know. Did he talk about it at all? Did he ask
you to join him?”

He yawned, reached to scratch his armpit and reconsidered.
“Yeah, sure. It was good money. I think he made a couple grand one weekend. He
wanted me to come along.”

“Why didn’t you?” Ken asked.

“I’d go to test foods but the kind of shit Pete had to take
ruins your stomach—and your nerves. They stick needles into your arm, you know.
That’s not for me.”

“Did he ever talk about any other benefits?”

“Benefits? Well, no. I mean it wasn’t a real job. You don’t
get medical insurance or stuff like that. We hardly get that at the hotel.”

I sighed. Ken turned and cleared his throat.

“Did Pete ever say that these commercial laboratories
provided transportation—to the lab and back home?”

He yawned again and this time vigorously scratched his
armpit. “Oh yeah, sure. They would send a car to get you and bring you back.
You know, they don’t want you falling down if you’re still woozy from taking
that shit.”

“Was Pete ever woozy?” I had to work quickly, before he went
for the other armpit.

“Well, yeah, once or twice. Like I said, that shit ruins
your stomach so you can’t eat.”

“Did he ever mention what kind of car they sent?”

“A limo,” he snorted. “Pete liked that. It made him feel
important.”

“Did Pete always go to the same laboratory on the weekends?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe just a couple of times.”

“But they had always sent a limo to get him.”

“Yeah, that’s why he kept asking me to come along. He said the
limo was stocked with booze and the kind of foods we serve at the hotel. You
know, caviar, pates and truffles. He could eat on his way there and back.”

“Would you remember the name of the limo service and the
laboratory outfits?” I asked.

“Creepy something or other and spaghetti something…Lancia,
nah. I didn’t pay much attention. The guys at the hotel kitchen are decent.
They let me taste all that caviar and truffle shit. It’s not all that great
either.”

“Pete was a room-service waiter. He would be on good terms
with the kitchen staff. Why would he be attracted by a limo service that
offered free treats, when he could have had them in the hotel kitchen?”

He stared at me, as if measuring me for a coffin. “You’re
not vice, are you?”

“No. We’re homicide,” I assured him.

Ken moved closer. “Was there another benefit that the
laboratories provided, in addition to the limo ride and the free refreshments?”
he asked.

“You are vice,” he growled. His brows knit into a forbidding
V-notch.

“We’re homicide,” Ken assured him again. “We’re
investigating the murder of your friend. Now, did this limo service also
include live entertainment—of the female persuasion?”

“Yeah, that’s why Pete went. It wasn’t just the free booze
and snacks and a thousand bucks,” he answered in a tired voice.

We thanked him and let him go finish his nap. His devoted
mother tiptoed to the door and saw us off. She smiled and thanked us for
letting her darling get his much needed rest.

“That was good thinking, Ken,” I complimented him when we
were out on the street. “I wonder why it didn’t occur to me? Did you ever work
in vice?”

“No.”

“So it was intuition.”

“No limo service is complete without female entertainment.”

“Have you ever been in a limo that provided such fancy
service—free alcoholic refreshments, exotic snacks and blowjobs?”

He burst out laughing. “We hired a limo for our high school
prom night,” he confessed when he settled down.

“Does Brenda know about this?”

“That was before I met her. Yeah, she knows. She was in a
limo on her prom night too.”

“I was in a moving vehicle on my prom night,” I said,
knowing how he would interpret it.

“It sure is an old tradition,” he laughed.

I agreed. It was time to find a place for lunch. As I parked
the car in Denny’s parking lot, I wondered whether Ken would have still laughed
if I’d told him that I was in a corporate jet, cruising at thirty thousand
feet, with twenty classmates and Bruce Springsteen.

* * * * *

Bourke told us about a new protocol. We had to attend a
daily meeting at three o’clock with the FBI, to exchange information and plan
the next day’s activities.

When we walked in, we found that our team had increased. The
original nine who were present yesterday had swelled to fifteen. I didn’t mind.
Actually, I liked it. We had many leads to pursue.

Gould briefed us on the banking visit. She was a sight for
sore eyes—an accountant’s. She achieved an androgynous look in a blue pinstripe
suit, a white blouse and a silver bar, pinned on her lapel. She looked like a
piece taken out of a financial board game.

As she searched for overheads, I entertained myself by
dressing her in different costumes. I moved her from one cardboard scenario
into another. When I had her dressed like a construction flagman and was about
to drop her down a manhole, she started talking in her dry, lecture voice. I
had to abandon my pastime.

Tavistock and six other major financial institutions were
jointly developing a system. It would replace the existing safeguards imbedded
in banking practices. It would enable discreet two-way communication between
the banks and various law and government agencies if money routes suddenly
filled with indecent amounts of transactions.

Sometimes, those laundering money from an offshore fortress,
would purposely create such traffic—all of it bona fide—in order to flush
through one significant transaction they really wanted to push through. A team
of programmers, analysts, economists and mathematicians were working on a
program. It would flag down this kind of elusive shadow, trying to slink
through the financial hoops. The system, when finished, would basically define
the new infrastructure of banking practices.

“This is the second effort to develop such a system,
correct?” Ken asked her.