Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  Smith hadn’t been slammed that hard since he was a CIA operative years ago. He remembered the night well. He’d been waiting for his DGSE French Intelligence contact in a Marseille bar, when an anti-American drunk bashed him in the head with an empty Merlot bottle. Bleeding, he crawled back up off the floor and managed to wrestle the broken bottle away.

  Later, after meeting his DGSE contact, Smith stayed at the bar. Near closing time, he lured the drunk into the back alley with the promise of free cocaine. In the alley, he jammed the jagged bottle into the drunk’s gut, nearly disemboweling the bastard. Smith had no idea whether the man lived or died. It didn’t matter. What did matter was enjoying how he moaned for help as Smith walked away.

  Now, Smith parked his car and watched Madison and Kevin buy tickets for the Islander, then board the ferry.

  So they’re off to Nevis to see the fat banker again. Twist his flabby arm. Waste of time! Even if they learned something, it wouldn’t matter.

  Smith opened his theatrical case, took out a dark beard and matching ponytail hairpiece and put them on. He applied Instant Tan lotion to his face and hands, then pushed cotton padding into his cheeks. He donned his Royal St. Kitts Golf Course hat and reflective sunglasses and slung a Nikon Zoom 150 around his neck. He reached into his tourist bag beneath the Fugi film and flicked the Glock’s safety off.

  As he started to go buy a ferry ticket, something gave him pause. After yesterday’s attack, Madison would be scrutinizing all tall male passengers. She knew he wore disguises. And even though he looked completely different today, there was a remote possibility that she might recognize his tall, thin profile. He didn’t need the risk.

  Besides, there were other ways to Nevis. Like the one advertised on his rental car’s sun visor: LIAT Air Express. He phoned LIAT and chartered a flight. When Madison and Kevin arrived in Nevis, he would be waiting for them.

  Smith phoned Harry Burkett.

  “A man named Kevin just arrived here.”

  Burkett cursed under his breath. “He’s Kevin Jordan, an employee.”

  “She told him everything.”

  “Shit! Hang on a second.” Burkett put him on hold, obviously to tell the EVP. Moments later he came back on. “Handle Jordan, too.”

  “It’ll cost extra.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty grand.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Fifty or forget it.”

  Burkett spewed out another stream of obscenities. “Okay, fifty.”

  “Wire it to my account at Bank Bruxelles Lambert in Brussels.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Smith hung up, then watched the Islander chug out of Basseterre harbor. McKean and Jordan stood at the side rail, elbow to elbow, smiling at each other. A little Love Boat romance going on there, he thought.

  Too bad it’ll end so soon.

  Thirty Four

  Please come in,” Bradford Tipleton said, ushering Madison and Kevin into his office and over to the matching mauve Baker chairs in front of his immaculate mahogany desk.

  The banker seemed surprised that she’d returned.

  Madison saw another empty pastry box in his wastebasket. The box had smudges of chocolate, except for a thick smudge perched on Tipleton’s fleshy upper lip.

  She introduced Kevin and everyone sat down.

  “So how are you today, Ms. McKean?”

  “Still looking for answers.”

  “Of course. But as you know, our hands are still tied. Nothing has changed.”

  “Something has changed.”

  The banker stared back.

  “Yesterday, a man followed me from your bank. He tried to kill me on Mount Liamuiga.”

  Tipleton’s fleshy eyelids shot open. “Good Lord! Were you hurt?”

  She turned the scab on her cheek toward him, then touched the bruises on her wrist and pretended to wince, hoping for a little sympathy.

  “This is bloody awful!”

  “And, almost fatal!”

  Tipleton gasped. “Was he a local?”

  “No.”

  Tipleton exhaled with obvious relief.

  “I believe he’s the same man who probably murdered my father.”

  “But your father’s death certificate said ... suicide.”

  “My father would never take his own life.”

  “But....” Tipleton looked confused.

  “And, I don’t believe my father opened the 8.7 million dollar account here.”

  “But our records say that a Mark McKean with your father’s Manhattan address and P.O. Box did open it.”

  “I believe a man posing as Mark McKean opened it.”

  Looking concerned, Tipleton ran his tongue along his upper lip where he discovered the smudge of chocolate and flicked it back inside.

  “I saw a security camera in your lobby,” she said.

  Tipleton nodded.

  “Could I view the video or DVD for the day he opened the account.”

  Tipleton checked his calendar. “It’s video, but I’m afraid it’s been recorded over several times.”

  Madison’s hope dimmed. “Is the employee who assisted him here today?”

  “Yes he is.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  The banker fidgeted in his chair. “Well, as I mentioned yesterday, he’s not at liberty to give you any details about the account or the depositor.”

  Madison had expected Tipleton to say no. “Even though my father’s dead?”

  “Yes. That’s confidential information, protected under our country’s banking laws.” Tipleton took out a folded white handkerchief and patted perspiration from his chin.

  Beside her, she sensed Kevin’s growing frustration with the banker.

  She leaned forward. “There’s something else you should know, Mr. Tipleton.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The U.S. Senate Banking Committee may soon investigate this account. Maybe the FBI, too.”

  Concern flashed in Tipleton’s eyes, then he crossed his arms. “We have great respect for your Senate Banking Committee and the important work they do in your country. But, as you know, all Nevis banks and our Central Regional Bank are outside the legal jurisdiction of U.S. banking laws. We are bound by our own commonwealth’s banking privacy laws, and those laws are strictly enforced.”

  “But what if an account is directly linked to serious criminal activity? Wouldn’t your bank then share information about the account?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On all the circumstances.”

  Kevin leaned forward and locked eyes with the banker. “Mr. Tipleton, all the circumstances surrounding this account are serious and criminal. Mark McKean, the man who allegedly deposited the $8.7 million in your bank, was most probably murdered. The New York police are investigating. His daughter here was almost murdered a few days ago by a man in New York. The same man followed her to Nevis, and then to your bank yesterday, and after she left, he again tried to kill her. There is an obvious link between Mark McKean’s death, and the two attempts to murder Madison McKean ... and that link is the 8.7 million dollars in your bank.”

  Bradford Tipleton blinked anxiously, then stared at his cookie jar.

  “Imagine,” Kevin continued, “if the Wall Street Journal, or CNN, or your local newspaper, The Democrat, discovered that Mark McKean, a highly respected executive, had been murdered because of an $8.7 million account in your bank. Your customers will see headlines like ‘Caribe National Bank Customer Murdered’ or ‘Police Investigate Suspicious Millions at Caribe National Bank.’ The damage to your bank’s excellent reputation could be irreparable. Customers would drag their money out of your bank like they did back in our 1930s banking nightmare!”

  Tipleton looked like his customers already were dragging fat sacks of money out the door.

  “I have a suggestion,” Madison said.

  “What is it?” Tipleton lurched forward as though grabbing a life pre
server. The armpits of his blue shirt were dark with perspiration, despite the frigid air conditioning.

  “Your regulation says I can’t ask your colleague who opened the account, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Does it also prevent you from asking him?”

  Tipleton looked puzzled. “Well, no....”

  Madison took a photo from her purse and handed it to him. “This is my father, Mark McKean. Would you please ask your colleague if he’s ever seen this man?”

  Tipleton took the photo. “I suppose my asking a colleague that question would not strictly violate our privacy laws.”

  Madison hoped it didn’t, but frankly didn’t care much if it did.

  Tipleton hoisted his three hundred pounds onto surprisingly tiny feet encased in gray tasseled loafers, and scurried down the hall to another office.

  Madison reached over and touched Kevin’s arm. “Your big bad PR nightmare is working.”

  “Bad PR is like Ebola for a bank. Deadly.”

  Moments later, Bradford Tipleton came back and plopped down, whooshing air from his seat cushion. He handed the photo back to her.

  “My colleague has never seen the man in this photo.”

  Madison breathed out in relief.

  “He has met a man named Mark McKean who was twenty-five years younger, shorter and stockier with a brown buzz cut.”

  She couldn’t think of anyone fitting that description. “Was the money wired back to a Turner Advertising Citibank account in New York?”

  Tipleton paused. “No. It was not.”

  “So the money is still here?”

  “No.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Tipleton squirmed in his chair again, like he had a bad case of piles, then grabbed his cookie jar.

  “Care for a pinwheel? Chocolate lowers your blood pressure.”

  Madison and Kevin declined.

  Tipleton crammed a pinwheel cookie into his mouth and swallowed it quickly. Then he checked the doorway, leaned forward and whispered, “The money was transferred to Tradewinds Protected Investments, a bank in the Caymans.”

  “Do you know this bank?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Is the money still there?”

  “You’d have to ask them.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” she asked.

  “No, and let’s all agree on one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you anything!”

  Madison and Kevin nodded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tipleton, Madison said, standing. “We appreciate your candor.”

  Stepping outside the bank, the warm breeze felt good, but nowhere near as good as the confirmation that her father had not deposited the money in the bank. Nor had he misappropriated money from Turner Advertising. Her father was innocent, as she’d known all along. But now she had proof.

  Still, questions remained. Who deposited the money into the Caribe National Bank account in her father’s name? And who transferred the money to Tradewinds Protected Investments? And what about the money itself? Was it connected to the strange MensaPlan consultant fee her friend Linda had discovered at National Media?

  One thing she did know – whoever was behind the money was also behind the man trying to kill her.

  * * *

  Standing behind a clothing store sign, Eugene P. Smith repeated the last words of McKean’s and Tipleton’s conversation into his tape recorder. Once again, he’d sat at the café across from Tipleton’s office window, lip-reading the conversation between the banker, McKean and Jordan.

  Smith flipped open his cell phone and called Harry Burkett.

  “The banker blabbed,” Smith said.

  “Bastard!”

  “He told them the money was transferred to Tradewinds Protected Investments. He also told them the man who opened the account did not look like Mark McKean.”

  “Did he describe the man?” Burkett sounded anxious.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d he describe him?”

  “He described you, Harry.”

  “The bastard!” Burkett went ballistic for several moments. “Did he give them the e-mail address the bank sent the statements to?”

  “No.”

  “Eliminate that son of a bitch before he does.”

  “Sure, for a fee.”

  “But we’re already paying you extra for Kevin Jordan.”

  “Harry....”

  “Yeah?”

  “No tickee, no laundry.” Smith savored the agony he was giving Burkett. “But I’ve got good news, Harry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m running a special on fat bankers today. Just twenty-five grand.”

  Burkett mumbled something under his breath. “Your Brussels bank?”

  “Yes.”

  They hung up.

  Smith turned and looked through the window at Bradford Tipleton sitting in his office. The fat banker looked toward his door. Seeing no one, he reached into his desk, pulled out a Hostess Twinkie and crammed the whole thing into his mouth.

  This little piggy may explode before he ever goes to market ... and before I earn my fee!

  Thirty Five

  The noon sun felt hot on Madison’s face as she and Kevin walked down the long ferry dock toward the center of Basseterre.

  “So how do we persuade someone at Tradewinds Investments to give us the account information?” she asked.

  “We scare ‘em with the fear of devastating PR for their bank.”

  “Like we scared Bradford Tipleton....”

  “It worked.”

  Suddenly, Madison jumped back as two large goats bolted from an alley, chased by an angry chicken, squawking and flapping its wings.

  “What’s with all these chickens and goats?” Kevin asked.

  “I read they’re family pets who scrounge around town for food.”

  “Speaking of food, where’s this Hullabaloo restaurant?”

  “Ballahoo’s. And it’s just around the corner.”

  Suddenly, a dark blue taxi crept to a stop beside her. She felt every muscle in her body constrict. When she saw the driver was a woman, she relaxed, but still couldn’t shake the real sense that the Tall Man was always nearby, watching her.

  Kevin stopped walking and snapped his fingers.

  “What?” she said.

  “Craig Borden.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “My longtime pal. And an international banker over in Dominica. He visits banks all over the Caribbean. Maybe he knows someone at this Tradewinds Bank.”

  Kevin flipped open his cell phone and began searching for Craig’s phone number. As he did, Madison couldn’t help but notice how the sun brought out streaks of gold in his auburn hair and lightened the blue of his eyes.

  They stepped into Ballahoo’s restaurant and were met with the mouth-watering aromas of fresh seafood sandwiches and garlic-lemon chicken. A waitress led them past some window latticework and large hanging plants to a table overlooking the town square. A breeze eased through the open windows. They ordered lobster sandwiches with cole slaw and glasses of white wine.

  Kevin dialed Craig’s cell phone, and seconds later gave her a thumbs up that Craig had answered.

  “Hey, man, it’s Kevin. I need your help.” He listened, smiled, then said, “No, you owe me for Drucilla.”

  Madison wondered who Drucilla was.

  “Yeah, Drucilla is nice,” Kevin said, “She’s also six-three and wrestles professionally as The HumVee.”

  Madison smiled.

  After catching up with Craig, Kevin quickly explained everything about the money and the banks. Moments later, he hung up.

  “Craig is over on the island of Antigua. He’s flying here this evening to attend a meeting tomorrow morning at the Royal Bank of Canada. He can meet us for dinner at Stonewalls tonight.”

  “Terrific. Does he kn
ow anyone at Tradewinds Investments?”

  “No. But he knows a guy who dates a loan officer there.” Kevin smiled.

  Kevin’s smile caught her off guard. Again. It always reminded her of his innate kindness. He’d been the friend she needed after her father’s death. He’d asked his friends like Dean Dryden and now Craig Borden to help her. He’d made her laugh when she didn’t think she could. He’d even flown down to St. Kitts to help protect her. And, did I mention he’s handsome?

  But despite his easygoing manner, Madison got the sense that Kevin was holding something back. Something personal that he wasn’t ready to share, or maybe never would share. Perhaps he’d been married and divorced, or seriously hurt by a relationship.

  Whatever it was, she didn’t feel comfortable asking him about it.

  * * *

  Eugene P. Smith positioned his chair so the sun would be in Madison’s and Kevin’s eyes if they faced him. He tossed two more Tylenol-#4 with codeine in his mouth and washed them down with a decent Pinot Noir. His aches had nearly vanished.

  Watching them through the branches of a leafy plant, Smith had just lip-read Kevin Jordan’s phone conversation with a friend about the money at Tradewinds Investments. A friend they planned to dine with at Stonewalls tonight.

  Maybe you’ll dine ... maybe you won’t.

  He sipped more wine and looked out the window at a group of tourists window-shopping along the street. A skinny-legged old man with baggy Bermudas and rolled-down black socks was being dragged along by an obese woman in an orange moo-moo. A young schoolboy with a blue bookbag ran past them.

  Smith’s mind raced back to his blue bookbag, the one his mother bought him at Kmart. He loved the multi-pocketed bookbag, just one of many gifts his middle-class parents had given him.

  He’d been fortunate that his parents were decent, loving, friendly people – but unfortunate that he didn’t inherit their nice and friendly genes.

  Early on, Eugene knew he was different. For one thing, he didn’t like kids. For another, he didn’t like adults. What he did like was military games and weapons. By age fourteen, he’d hidden twelve guns and twenty-three knives under the oak floorboards of his bedroom closet.

  In high school he got straight A’s, and his tall, wiry frame helped him excel in basketball and track. But he was a loner, and shunned by the in-crowd cliques. Shunning never bothered him. It was like water off a duck’s back.