The Trust (39 page)

The banker saw no gun. He showed no fear. He was prickly, all attitude and bad mood. He snapped his fingers at a diminutive, bespectacled member of the staff and mouthed the word “Police.”

Mission accomplished.

“You’re about to lose two hundred million dollars,” I hollered, making sure everyone in the building could hear. “Unless you stop all outgoing wires. Now.”

Some customers joined the exodus from the building while more diners pushed their way inside. A carousel of angry faces circled me. Ricardo and Jake were nowhere to be seen in the mix.

One man, who had been standing near the restaurant’s cash register, pointed in my direction. “That’s the guy.”

The bald, thorny banker pushed to the front of the ring and winced at my face. He probably thought me daft from a beating. He spoke in slow, elongated tones, soothing and condescending at the same time. “Come sit down on the couch.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“I’m the manager,” he said as the crowd stared at me.

“So you take the hit?”

Now all eyes turned to him.

“What are you talking about?” Elbows bent, he threw both arms into the air. Even his pose reminded me of a cactus.

“First things first,” I demanded. “Think you could clear the lobby before somebody throws a punch?”

“A little space here.” The banker glared at the crowd.

The shoving stopped. The gawkers backed off, slowly, surely. Some left, but most stayed. Curiosity replaced their fear and anger.

My turn to take control. “What’s your name?”

“Smitz. I’m the president.”

“Of the Bahamas Banking Company?”

“No. Of the bank’s branch in TCI,” he clarified, using the abbreviation for Turks and Caicos Islands. “Who are you?”

“Grove O’Rourke. I’m a trustee of the Palmetto Foundation, which is a not-for-profit institution based in Charleston, South Carolina. According to your records, my organization maintains a sweep account with your bank. But we never set one up. It’s not ours.”

“Whose is it?”

“A money launderer controls the account. And he’s bribing your employees. I know him as Frederick Ricardo, though he may be using a different alias.” I avoided references to Ricardo’s cover, Maryknoll priest, and to his nickname. One mention of “Bong,” a common enough name in the Philippines, would have marked me as a nutcase in the Caribbean.

There were at least thirty people in the crowd. They fixed on me, jaws slack, eyes wide. They were no longer disappointed by the lack of punches. Bank robberies were so much better.

Still no sign of Ricardo or Jake.

“You either freeze all outgoing wires from the fake account,” I continued, “or tell the authorities why your bank lost two hundred million dollars.”

Smitz didn’t move. Not until several rubberneckers headed toward the teller stations. I questioned whether my charges would incite a small run on the bank. Apparently, he was wondering the same thing. The banker barked at one of his subordinates, “You heard him.”

A diminutive man with rimless glasses began punching instructions into his computer.

“Are the police coming?” Smitz asked him.

“Yes.” The man nodded.

“Today, U.S. authorities requested a freeze on that account.” I spoke evenly, methodically, hoping Torres had implemented her plan. “In addition, you received two hundred million dollars from my organization. Probably in the last few minutes. But someone in your AML department backdated the arrival time to Monday. So unless you fix this problem now, our money will be swept to ten banks around the world. And we’ll hold you liable.”

“Our computers don’t allow it.” Whatever Smitz had thought before, he no longer considered me a raving lunatic. He surveyed the crowd, knowing they could all be depositors.

“I hate to break the news, pal, but you’re wrong.”

“Our suspicious activity reports pick up anything unusual.”

“Yeah, when they’re legit. But your head of SAR is dirty.”

Smitz turned around. “Get Olivia,” he ordered.

“She’s at lunch,” the other banker replied.

“I don’t care.”

A tall, thin man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, and at long last, I felt safe. “I’m Digby. Financial Crimes Unit of the Royal Turks and Caicos Islands Police.”

“Thank goodness,” sighed Smitz. “Would you arrest this man?”

“Are you Grove O’Rourke?” the policeman asked me.

“Yes.”

“This man is working with the FBI,” he told the banker. Then, addressing the crowd, he said, “Show’s over, folks. Let’s break it up.”

A few shuffled away. Most stayed.

“Now,” he echoed. And the crowd made for the exits.

“Am I glad to see you!” I extended my hand to the officer.

“Who handles the account for the Palmetto Foundation?” Digby asked Smitz, not really responding to me.

“I don’t know without checking.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Okay, okay,” Smitz acquiesced, no longer combative.

“Has the money been transferred?”

“I just learned about the problem.”

“Let’s find out.” Digby gestured to the back office. And all three of us disappeared into the bowels of bank operations.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHARLESTON POLICE HEADQUARTERS

“You okay?” asked Torres.

“What do you think?”

“I’m sorry the doctors couldn’t do more.”

JoJo gazed at the swathe of bandages. Her hand had been mummified. It was the focus of everyone in the room.

They were sitting inside police headquarters on Lockwood Boulevard. Two detectives had joined Agent Torres to watch the interrogation. A thin manila folder sat on the table in front of her. The label on the tab read “FBI.”

“Any news from Grove?” JoJo’s face was throbbing, her heart racing. With her good hand, she rubbed her blouse collar between thumb and forefinger.

“Not yet.” In fact, Torres knew he was safe.

“I can’t believe he traded himself for me.”

“Yes you can.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cut the crap.”

JoJo stopped fiddling. Her eyes were knife blades. Her lips were a garrote. She thought back to her cigarettes aboard
Bounder
and would have killed for one now. “What’s this about?”

“Bong Batista.”

“That psycho?” JoJo raised her mummy hand.

Torres shook her head, feigning dismay. “Is that any way to talk about family?”

“I don’t understand.”

“And pigs fly,” the agent scoffed.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Really.” Head cocked, brow growing dark, Torres grabbed her chin and feigned concern.

“Chief Mullins is my friend.” JoJo shooed the officers, waving her good hand. “You boys get Arthur for me.”

“And bring back some tea and crumpets,” said Torres, turning sarcastic.

Nobody left.

JoJo sulked, the picture of confusion.

“You don’t know Bong Batista?” pressed Torres.

“No.”

“Never seen him before?”

“Never.”

“You’re sure?”

JoJo hesitated but only for a second. “I thought you wanted to find Grove.”

“Both Grove and Bong,” confirmed Torres.

“Then why treat me like a criminal?” JoJo ran her words together without inflection. She wasn’t speaking English. She was shooting syllables, rapid-fire, the same way she spoke Spanish.

“Because you’re lying.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You know what John Gotti said?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“‘You lie when you’re afraid.’” Torres reached into the manila folder and pulled out a color photo. Decent quality for an inkjet printer. She pushed it across the table. “And I think you’re petrified.”

JoJo glanced at the picture. Her face registered nothing.

“That’s you, right?” the agent pressed.

“What about it?”

“Yes or no, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“Yes.”

“Is that Bong Batista standing next to you?”

“How would I know?”

“We have a witness who confirmed his identity.”

JoJo said nothing.

Torres smiled and opened the folder again. This time the agent passed over a marriage certificate. It belonged to James and Joanna Berenson.

“Where’d you find Jim?” JoJo shifted in her chair.

“The Navy. Same place you left him.” Torres liked this part best. The perp was down, squirming, taking the ten count. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. It was time to pile on. “But it’s Master Chief Berenson now.”

“Jim doctored the photo. He hates me.”

“Give me a break.” Torres looked at the two detectives. “Can you believe she’s playing the ex card after fifteen years?”

“How’d you discover my previous marriage?”

“I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Torres sat back in her chair, a kitten toying with her trophy. “But let’s just say we had help from a guy named Biscuit.”

“I want my lawyer.”

Torres ignored her. “It’s always the little things, JoJo. You don’t mind me calling you JoJo, right?”

“I prefer Mrs. Kincaid.”

“Who in the world says, ‘Eat all you can’?”

“I asked for a lawyer.”

“Here in the States,” Torres pressed, “we say, ‘All you can eat.’ But in the Philippines, they say, ‘Eat all you can.’”

JoJo glared, seething through her bruises. “Can someone get me a cigarette?”

No one moved.

“The kids are what sold me.” Torres sat back and draped her arm over the chair. “You don’t have any.”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, it’s my business all right. And your ex tells us you’re fertile.”

“I want my lawyer.” JoJo looked at the two officers for help. They didn’t budge.

“Miscarriages are an awful thing.” Torres shook her head. “You ask me, Master Chief Berenson still sounds disappointed.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Vasectomies, now they’re a different story. You found out, and you were furious. You never forgave Palmer, right?”

JoJo stood up. The officers stood up too. One of them motioned for her to sit. She did.

“Your husband robbed you. First you lose your shot at being a mom. Then you lose the house on South Battery. Not to mention one hundred and fifty million dollars. You ask me, Palmer Kincaid’s gift to the Palmetto Foundation was ‘salt in the womb.’”

The two policemen watched with humorless expressions.

“I’d be pissed, too.” Torres cocked her head and pursed her lips.

“I didn’t know about the will,” mumbled JoJo, her words feeble.

“That’s not what your lawyer says,” bluffed Torres.

“I need to see Huitt now.”

“I doubt he’ll take your case.”

“Why not?” JoJo twirled locks of hair with her good hand.

“I doubt he’d help anybody who hurt Palmer.”

“Huitt will be furious when he hears what you’re suggesting.”

“He’s already furious. And I’m not suggesting a thing. You’re a low-life street thug who sold out your husband. We clear?”

“I’ve heard enough.” JoJo was stammering now. “Would somebody get me a cigarette?”

“But what do I know?” continued Torres. “Huitt’s a lawyer. Him forgoing fees. It’s like saying cobras play nice.”

“That psycho hacked off my pinkie, and you’re accusing me of murder?”

“That stumped me,” Torres admitted, not intending the double entendre this time. “I wonder whether I’d give a finger for two hundred million.”

JoJo held up her damaged hand. “You think I like this?”

The FBI agent shrugged her shoulders. “That doesn’t change a thing. Bong Batista is your cousin. And you’ve been lying to us.”

“I told you. My ex doctored the photo.”

“Not according to records we received from the Philippine government.”

“Hah. They get things wrong all the time.”

“Which is why my aides double-check everything. You know those two snakes on your cousin’s chest?”

JoJo said nothing.

“Your ex told us about those tattoos, too. How’d you piss Jim off anyway?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You stonewall, and I’ll get you ten extra years. It’ll be so much easier if you tell us what you know about Moreno.”

“Huitt will have me out in fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re doing time, lady.” The agent flicked her hand dismissively. “Your husband denied you children. He denied you the Kincaid family’s prominence.”

“I am a Kincaid.”

Torres ignored JoJo’s protests. “Along comes Bong. That one’s a real piece of work. Maybe the two of you don’t plan to kill Palmer, not at first anyway.”

JoJo shook her head no.

“A little money laundering. Nobody gets hurt. You’re living large, and there’s plenty of time to fix your husband’s will. But bang, the world changes. Palmer discovers the scam, threatens to tell the police, and all of a sudden your cousin has a huge problem with the same guy who let you down. We clear about the motives here?”

“No, we’re not clear. Palmer’s death was an accident.”

“I can’t figure out the split between Bong and you. Your face. Your finger. You earned your share, honey.”

“You’re delusional.”

“As good a sailor as Palmer was, there’s no way a boom hit him in the head. Hey, I get it. Couples grow apart.”

“It was an accident.” JoJo’s face clouded. Her almond-shaped eyes, the hints of Spanish and Malaysian ancestors, welled over.

“Spare me.” Long ago, Torres had decided tears were the last shards of conscience leaving a perp’s body. The interview continued for another fifteen minutes before the FBI agent threw in the towel.

JoJo called Huitt. He referred his best friend’s wife to another attorney. Under advice of counsel, she stopped talking.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
THURSDAY

At precisely ten
A.M.
, neither a second before, nor one after, twelve FBI agents stormed Highly Intimate Pleasures. They found the manager, asked her to send the employees home, and declared all twenty thousand square feet a crime scene.

The authorities arrived with boxes and left with files and computers. They paid special attention to the store’s internal surveillance system, hoping that daily videotapes would provide clues to Ricardo’s network. Or better yet, evidence to incriminate Moreno.