Power Blind (21 page)

Chapter 57

A
lex Z brought Shakir a cup of tea after Gage left and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You doing okay?” Alex Z asked.

“I guess.”

“You sort of faded out of the conversation.”

Shakir shrugged. “I'm not sure I'm in the right line of work.”

Alex Z pointed at the bandage on Shakir's cheek covering the stitches. “Because . . .”

“No, not because of that. I could've just as easily been mugged walking down the street from my old job.”

“You mean you don't like working for Graham?”

“It's not that either. He treats everybody like an equal, never talks down, never snaps orders, never is afraid to admit he's been mistaken about something. I don't think I've ever had a job where my boss took me so seriously.”

“Then what?”

“I . . .” Shakir took a sip of his tea, then held the cup in front of his chest. “I don't think I can do what he does.”

“What's that?”

“Hover.”

Alex Z's eyes fixed on Shakir. “What do you mean, hover?”

“At the Federal Trade Commission, at least in the section I worked in, things tended to be black and white. You could spot telemarketing fraud or false advertising at first sight. And even if you were puzzled by something, you could make a call or do some research, and get it figured out by the end of the day. It was like there was always a solid place to put your foot down. But here it's not that way.”

“I get you.” Alex Z held his hand out, palm down, and rocked it. “It sometimes seems like Graham floats.” He lowered his arm. “I've seen him work on a case, everything going every which way, him in three countries in four days, back home and gone again a week later. And he's e-mailing and texting and calling me. ‘Can you find out this?' or ‘Can you find out that?' Sometimes he spends months and months and months with everything in flux.” Alex grinned and raised his eyes skyward. “Then all of a sudden we're standing on top of a mountain I didn't even know we were climbing.”

Alex Z's grin faded, then he tilted his head toward their work area and asked, “What's this all about?”

“I guess it's about how these guys moved money through Cayman Island accounts.”

“Beyond that.”

“Brandon Meyer?”

Alex Z shook his head.

“Charlie Palmer?”

“Closer.”

“Socorro?”

“Almost.”

“Then what's it about?”

“Tansy and John Porzolkiewski's sons. The tragedy. Their suffering. That's what anchors Graham in the world. Once we fight our way through all the words and all the paper and all the money traveling through cyberspace, for Gage that's what's real and at the heart of everything we've been working on.”

Alex Z looked away for a moment. “I never expected when I started working here that what comes to mind when I think of Graham is that he has a kind of tragic sense. It's something he carries with him, but it never seems to weigh him down or paralyze him. Maybe it's because of his mother dying from MS when he was young.” He gestured toward the window facing San Francisco. “Ask Spike and Tansy about his mother's last years. Graham won't talk about it, but they may. Spike knows about it firsthand, Tansy knows from old Yaqui patients of his father.” He paused in thought. “Maybe part of it was growing up along the border. In some places it was more like the 1860s than 1960s. His father helpless to save cotton pickers and copper miners dying from lung disease and chemical exposure. Sometimes kids can witness too much, too soon.”

Alex Z noticed a seasick look on Shakir's face, revealing more than the vertigo of unknowing. “And that's what's really bothering you, isn't it? It isn't just the uncertainty, it's the cloud of tragedy that seems to envelop what we're doing.”

Shakir's gaze fell on his now-cold cup of tea, then he sighed and nodded as he looked back up.

Alex Z pointed at him and asked, “You ever hear that line from Isak Dinesen, ‘All sorrows can be borne if you can tell a story about them'?”

“Sure. A lot of those new age self-help books use it and I've seen it on a bunch of places on the Internet.”

“You know how it ends?”

Shakir shook his head. “That's all they ever say.”

“Graham told me once when I was trying to work it into a ballad. It goes something like ‘At the end we'll be privileged to view and review it, and that's what's called judgment day.' ”

Shakir's eyes widened, then he nodded again and said, “I see why they leave the last part out.” Shakir shook his head, exhaling. “It seems to be saying that not just any story will do, not any life will do. But I'm not sure I can take that kind of pressure. I don't think I'm tough enough. I've struggled for two years looking to find a way to tell my parents the truth about me and Rodrigo.”

“But you will.”

“I think so . . . I hope so. We've been trying to gather up the courage.”

Alex Z looked at Shakir as if at a younger brother.

“Remember this. Lots of people want to work with Graham, but he saw something in you and knew when the time came you'd see it in yourself.”

“But how do you deal with feeling like you're out to sea?”

“My girlfriend, my music.” Alex Z smiled and tapped the blue-line image of Popeye on his upper arm. “And an occasional tattoo.”

Chapter 58

P
lay it again,” Gage said. He was sitting in Viz's office lined with metal shelves crowded with computers, sound enhancement devices, monitors, and surveillance equipment.

Viz ticked the play arrow on his screen, and Brandon Meyer's voice came to life against the background of cars and buses passing on the street in front of Tadich Grill.

“They each wanted a million. Part for them, and part for PACs and 527s.”

 . . .

“But the problem is how to explain a huge influx of money so far in advance of their primaries.”

 . . .

“And what if Starsky and Hutch don't get confirmed? Then every dime will get reported.”

“I wish I could've gotten more,” Viz said. “Back in my old DEA days, I'd have tapped his line and gotten both ends of the conversation.”

“If they were dope dealers.”

“Yeah. But somehow whatever is going on here seems worse.” Viz looked over his shoulder at where Gage sat. “What are they talking about?”

“My guess? The votes on the Supreme Court nominees.”

“How come so fast? I thought that took months and months.”

“They were confirmed for appeals court seats less than a year ago. They're known quantities. No need for lengthy FBI checks or extended committee hearings.”

“And the Meyer boys are paying off some senators for their votes?”

“Not them. Their campaigns.”

“Same difference.” Viz pointed at his notes written on a piece of scratch paper. “I know what political action committees are, but what's a 527?”

“It covers a lot of things, but I suspect the Meyer boys are using the type that can raise all the money it wants but doesn't have to register with the Federal Election Commission and doesn't have to report where the money came from or where it went. Like the Swift Boat Veterans. Now a lot of contributors are going even further and are using super-PACs that sprang up after the
Citizens United
decision, but the public is getting suspicious of them so they might not go that way.”

“And I take it the idea is to launder the money though these groups to hide the sources?”

Gage nodded. “That's how it looks. And it ties in with Landon's genius as a strategist. He would get an initiative on the ballot in each state that he could uniquely tie to the senatorial candidate he was backing—abortion, gay marriage, stem cell research—then would flood the 527s supporting the initiative with money whose sources he doesn't have to disclose.”

“And Brandon's the bag man? I'm not sure a federal judge ought to be doing that.”

“He's a federal judge who's spent his whole career doing what he shouldn't be doing—so stay on him.”

Viz glanced at his watch. “He should be leaving court in a half hour or so.” He smiled. “Maybe tonight we'll find out why he had the condom in his wallet.”

“We know the why, we just need to figure out the who and where.” Gage rose. “I called Socorro and offered her and the kids the ranch for a couple of weeks. I made it sound casual so she wouldn't get panicked.”

“I spoke to her right afterward.” Viz pointed north. “Why not your cabin?”

Gage shrugged.

“Was it because it's easier in the desert than in the forest to spot someone sneaking up?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Mine, too.”

“I've got a security system with cameras covering the property,” Gage said. “I'll have Alex Z link into them through his computer in the loft so he can keep an eye on the place.”

Chapter 59

G
age lowered the lid on his gas barbecue, then sat down in one of the four chairs surrounding the wrought-iron table on the deck of his hillside home. FBI Special Agent Joe Casey was seated in another, sipping a beer and gazing out at the bay.

“It's another world up here, isn't it?” Casey said. He pointed at San Francisco. “I thought you made a mistake when you bought this place because it meant having to look every day at a city where you worked so many homicides.”

Casey surveyed the three-story glass-walled house, the four acres on which it sat, and the pines, oaks, and redwoods surrounding it, then nodded and said, “But it doesn't feel that way.”

“It's a mystery to me,” Gage said, “but somewhere between the time I start up the canyon and when I pull into the garage, the magic happens. Maybe it's because from up here I can see the whole, and not just the parts.”

But that wasn't entirely true, for sometimes he dragged parts with him as he ascended the eleven hundred feet. And that was the reason Casey was sitting across from him now.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “Most of all, it's because this place is about only one thing: Faith and me. And whenever we're here, it seems like the center of the universe.”

They fell silent as they watched a young hawk ride an updraft and pass over, flying toward the crest of the hill behind them.

Casey sniffed at the aromas drifting over from the grill.

“Smells good,” Casey said, “but you shouldn't be cooking my dinner, I should be cooking yours. Maybe all your dinners. OptiCom is the third case you've handed me in the last four years. The special agent in charge keeps wondering if I'm paying you off.”

“He knows that's not true. He's seen your paycheck.” Gage winked. “He knows you can't afford me.”

Gage twisted the cap off a beer bottle and took a sip.

“Has Oscar Mogasci stopped trembling yet?” Gage asked.

“I don't know. I got the judge to release him on a no-money-down bail this morning and then I pushed him out the door. The idiot thought he was going to get the federal Witness Protection Program, but all he got was a Caltrain ticket back to San Jose.”

“San Jose? You're not telling me his wife took him back after almost ruining her.”

“Not his wife, his mother.”

“I should've guessed it would be something like that,” Gage said. “He struck me as a mama's boy. The only powerful woman he could stand to have in his life was his mother, so he had to try to break his wife when she'd become successful.”

Casey tilted his head toward the kitchen window. His wife, a former FBI agent and now a supervisor of the nuclear detection unit at the Oakland Port, was huddled with Faith drinking wine and displaying pictures of her new niece.

“I should ask Illyse,” Casey said. “She reads
Psychology Today
like it's the Bible. She says it helps her manage her underlings. Every month or so the magazine has what they call self-tests. I missed something she said last week so she gave me one to check my attention span.”

“How'd you do?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I got a failed miserably.”

“On purpose?”

“Of course. It's best to keep the bar as low as possible.” Casey flashed a grin. “She made a point of failing it, too.”

Gage returned to the barbecue, flipped over the steaks, and then laid a salmon fillet next to them.

“But enough about my disabilities. What's going on with the Charlie Palmer thing?”

Gage filled him in while he kept an eye on the grill.

“Now that I lay it all out in one piece,” Gage said, “it sounds kind of outlandish.”

“What part? The planting of sodium monofluoroacetate in some Tenderloin shopkeeper's storeroom? Naming the whole operation after a constellation? Or maybe just the part about the shopkeeper cutting off his comb-over in the county jail?”

“Is that multiple choice?”

“Yes.”

“Then the answer is all the above.”

Casey shrugged. “It wouldn't be the weirdest crime I've ever heard of. Close, but not quite.” He sipped on his beer. There was no reason to retrade war stories. “What can I do to help?”

“How difficult would it be for you to access the wire transfer database the government started gathering up after 9/11?”

“It's just a couple of keystrokes,” Casey said. “You want me to put in the Arabic names and see what comes back?”

“That's all it would take.”

“I don't need actual probable cause, but I'll need some articulable suspicion. Got any ideas?”

“Call it money laundering. That covers a host of sins.”

N
ot exactly a home run,” Casey told Gage over the telephone the next day.

“A triple?”

“I don't think so, but maybe. You got your list of names and the spreadsheet?”

“Hold on.” Gage retrieved both from the safe in the opposite corner of his office. “Okay.”

“Let's go over a few and I'll e-mail the rest.”

Gage heard keystrokes ticking in the background.

“The Pegasus wire transfer records go back about ten years,” Casey said. “But none of the Arabic names show up until about four years ago.”

“Start from the beginning.”

Gage heard Casey tap a couple more keys.

“Ten years ago, May 16th. Two million came into Pegasus at the Cayman Exchange Bank, then a couple of months later . . .”

“Why the suspenseful pause?” Gage asked.

“So you can ask where the money went.”

“Okay. Where'd the money go?”

“Five hundred thousand was wired to the client trust account at Brandon Meyer's old law firm.”

“Helluva fee paid into a confidential account,” Gage said. “What about the rest?”

“Broken up into chunks of a hundred or two hundred thousand, some wired to the States and some to foreign banks.”

“Let me make a guess about the original two million.”

“Take a shot.”

“It was it an insurance premium?”

Casey laughed. “You got a camera hidden in my office? All the senders until four years ago were U.S. companies, and the details of payment line all read ‘Insurance Premium.' ”

“It's brilliant.”

“What's brilliant?”

“The whole TIMCO payoff scheme was covered by fake insurance premiums and real legal fees. Their attorneys couldn't go to the board of directors and say they needed to pay off a witness, so they fudged up an offshore insurance premium payment to Pegasus. They could call it whatever they wanted. Coverage for international operations or supplemental insurance for domestic accidents.”

“In a twisted sort of way, it makes sense. What's insurance anyway, except a means to manage risk?”

“And then the money got broken up and forwarded on to Hawkins in India and Karopian for his Bethel Island house. The rest came back to Meyer's firm as a legal fee.”

“If that's true,” Casey said, “the scheme is over. No money has been wired from Pegasus to Meyer's firm, or anywhere else, in the last four years.”

“You mean it's all still in the Pegasus account at CEB?”

“I have no idea. The database only shows transfers between banks, not internal account balances.”

“What about the Arabic names and the dates on the list in Brandon's wallet?”

“Let's take the first one on his list. Matar on July 1st.”

“Hold on.” Gage highlighted the transfer in yellow. “Three million?”

“That's it. The wire transfer's details-of-payment line shows Matar-GRID, but it doesn't say insurance.”

“Any idea what GRID is?”

“Not a clue.”

“Who's the sender?”

“It just says ‘from a client.' The client's account is at the Bank of New York.”

“I'm sure Charlie knew who it was from,” Gage said. “It was his job to work with a private banker at CEB to keep track of the money.”

Casey paused on the other end of the line. After a long moment he spoke, “It sort of makes you wonder whether Judge Meyer—”

“Was using Pegasus to receive offshore payoffs from companies appearing in his court?”

“Exactly,” Casey said. “And somehow I don't think this is the first time you wondered that.”