Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  I finished the first draft of my response to the defamation suit and had just sat down at the bakery for a quick lunch when my cell riffed. “We have something big, my friend. You must come to my office immediately.”

  It was Nando, and he made it clear he didn’t want to talk on the phone. There was also no mistaking the excitement in his voice.

  Chapter Forty-three

  “You look stunning today, Esperanza,” I said, as I stood watching her making a fuss over Archie an hour later.

  She looked up, swept a lock of hair from her dark eyes, and smiled mischievously. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Cal Claxton.” I laughed at that, and she nodded in the direction of Nando’s office. “Go on in. He’s expecting you.”

  Nando and a young man stood up when I entered the room. Nando said, “Calvin, this is Mohinder Gupta. He’s the cyber expert I’ve been telling you about.” We shook hands, although I think a fist bump would have been more to his liking.

  Looking all of twenty, Gupta wore a plaid shirt, a dark leather bow tie, and skinny jeans rolled at the ankles above powder-blue canvas shoes. He was thin, with a mustache like a smear of coal dust and a pile of dark hair with all the order of a windblown haystack. “Call me Mo,” he said.

  “As you know, Calvin,” Nando continued, “Mo’s been looking at Global Mandate and Arrowhead Investments to see if there is any connection, and who’s behind the shell companies.” He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Take Calvin through what you’ve found.”

  “Okay.” Mo glanced at me with eyes radiating intelligence. “I started with Global Mandate, the Panamanian company. They bought a Gulfstream G150 for 14.1 million in 2015 using a Bank of Utah trust arrangement. As far as I can tell, that’s the only legitimate transaction that Global Mandate ever did. I tracked down all their listed directors and shareholders. All of them are shams.” I raised my eyebrows, and he explained, “People behind the shell paid what are called sham directors to use their names on the company’s documents. It’s a big business. The shams have real names, titles, addresses, so it lends an air of authenticity.” Mo laughed. “One of the directors has been dead for three years.”

  I glanced at Nando. “Surprise, surprise.”

  He nodded. “Indeed. The shell was created to buy the expensive airplane that could be registered in the USA.”

  “That’s right,” Mo said. “So, who set GM up? There were several possibilities, and all of them appeared to be blind alleys. I finally traced a wire transfer for the 14.1 million dollars to a law firm in Bermuda who represents a company in the Isle of Man called Morning Star.” I must have looked incredulous, because Mo smiled and said, “I’m not making this shit up. Anyway,” he continued, “judging from its bogus website and another set of sham directors, Morning Star’s also a decoy. From there, I found the company that set up Morning Star in the British Virgin Islands, another bogus shell called Hyperion Finance, which had set up yet another shell in the Cayman Islands”

  I laughed, half in amazement and half in disgust. “I’m starting to see a pattern here.”

  “Right,” Mo said. “These kinds of networks are built by lawyers to obscure the identity of their clients. The origin of the Cayman Islands company was the toughest to trace, but I finally wound up with the daddy of them all—Arrowhead Investments, LLC, out of Cyprus. The money for the Gulfstream originated there and zigzagged all over the globe before landing at Global Mandate.”

  “Bravo,” I said. Excellent work.”

  Nando beamed a broad smile and looked at Mo like a proud father. “There is more.”

  Mo said, “So, what stood out was the law firm in Bermuda that was right in the middle of this deal. It’s a big-time outfit called Appleton. It turns out the scumbags work with the Bank of Utah and banks all over the world to provide these kinds of strategies and other shady shit to help the uber rich hide their identities and their money.” He smiled slyly. “But the dudes got their asses hacked recently. I checked around and found a source.” He glanced at Nando.

  “We bought the information, Calvin,” Nando said. “It cost five thousand dollars. But I will pay half,” he added hastily.”

  I nodded. “So, you found who owns Arrowhead?”

  “Yes. It is one man, a Russian national named Stanislav Anapolsky,” Nando answered. The name didn’t mean anything to me. “He is one of the richest oligarchs in Russia, a protégé of Vladimir Putin. He controls massive oil and gas holdings but has been long suspected of being a key figure behind the global cocaine trade. From the little that’s available online, I learned Mr. Anapolsky is a big fan of the U.S. lifestyle, and enjoys traveling in our fair country.”

  I shook my head. “And he needs his own private jet to do this.”

  “Of course. Is there any other way to travel? He must keep up appearances as he searches for suitable places to launder his ill-gotten gains.”

  “And the tail number of his jet can’t be traced back to him, so he can travel anonymously once he’s in the country,” I added, then glanced from Nando to Mo and back again to Nando. He caught my drift and asked Mo to give us some privacy after we both thanked the young man profusely.

  When Mo stepped out, Nando handed me two photographs of Anapolsky, a headshot and a picture of him standing with a group of golfers. “How did your friend at the Aurora Airport describe the person who got out of the Gulfstream that night with his bodyguards?”

  I looked the photographs over. Tall and thin, Anapolsky stood out in the group of shorter, mostly overweight golfers. The headshot showed a man with intense dark eyes, a receding hairline and a neatly manicured mustache and goatee. I looked up. “The description he gave me fits perfectly.”

  “Hail, hail, the gang is here,” Nando said.

  I got up and started pacing. “Yeah, I think we know all the players and have a complete picture now. It looks like Anapolsky is fronting the money to buy Wingate Properties and finance the North Waterfront Project. Investing in a red-hot market like Portland would beat hiding his money in a low interest-bearing account in the Caymans or some other haven. He either knows or knows of Boyarchenko, so he uses Byron Hofstetter to help set the deal up. Maybe he cuts Boyarchenko into the deal to guarantee cooperation. It’s smooth sailing until Margaret Wingate goes to the Women’s March in Washington and comes back a changed woman.”

  Nando’s face darkened. “So they bring in Karlo Grabar, and that sets off the whole nasty chain of events.”

  An image of BB’s blank eyes flashed in my head, and I had to shake it off before I could continue. “That’s right. They were planning on just one hit, but it spun out of control.” I stopped and faced my friend. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you. Melvin Turner forged Margaret Wingate’s will, but I’m certain he didn’t know she’d been murdered. Brice Avery was in on it, and I think he talked Turner into the forgery.” Nando gave me a questioning look as I continued. “His wife came to my office last Saturday and asked me for help.”

  Nando’s thick eyebrows rose, and his eyes enlarged. “You are making a joke. What did you tell her?”

  “I told her to convince him to come forward, that I would help him. He’s an attorney, he knows he has leverage with the police if he wasn’t in on the murders. But he’d face disbarment and humiliation, and they’re threatening his family, so he’s frozen.”

  “What if he doesn’t come to you?”

  “I’m going to wait another day, then go see him again. He’s the only chink in their armor, Nando. I’ve got to convince him to tell what he knows. If that doesn’t work, I’m going back to the FBI with my hat in hand and fill in the rest of the picture for them.”

  Nando leveled his dark eyes on me. “I will go with you, Calvin.”

  I left Nando’s office that day, feeling a mixture of satisfaction and frustration. It was satisfying that we now had a handle on all the players and their motivati
ons in the North Waterfront scheme, but intensely frustrating that there was still no direct action I could take to bring down the whole house of cards. There was also a deeper feeling underlying it all—I raged at the thought of someone like Stanislav Anapolsky using his filthy money to wreak havoc on my city.

  Without Anaposky, none of this would have happened.

  If I were a religious man, I would’ve prayed for a special circle in hell for the oligarch and the opportunity to send him there personally.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Late that same afternoon I drove back to Portland and picked up Angela at the Bridgetown Artists’ Co-op. When she told me Winona was still out at the Rez, I said, “I’m starving. You like Thai food?” She told me she did, and fifteen minutes later we had a table at the Lemongrass on NE Couch. We ordered spring rolls, larb, gaeng pah curry, and a couple of Thai ice teas. I’d ordinarily have a Singha beer with Thai food, but I skipped it in support of Angela’s sobriety.

  After we ordered, Angela said, “Can you take me to my AA meeting Wednesday night? I’m getting my three-year sobriety coin.”

  “Absolutely. That’s a great accomplishment. Congratulations.” She thanked me, and I said, out of pure curiosity, “What’s the key to AA?”

  “For me, it’s support, I guess. The best advice comes from people who’ve been there, people in recovery. And structure, you know, the twelve steps. Even after I got sober, I flailed around, not knowing how to forgive myself for my shitty behavior. It wasn’t until I started making amends to people I’d hurt or insulted—that’s the ninth step—that things really turned around for me.” She hesitated then brought her deep brown eyes up and met mine. “Would you sit in on the meeting tomorrow night, Cal?”

  “I would be honored.” And that was the truth.

  While we ate I told her about Dorothy Turner’s visit, and also about Stanislav Anapolsky. When I finished she said, “So, you think Melvin’s just a forger and not a murderer?”

  “What do you think?”

  She wrapped some larb in a lettuce leaf, took a bite, and seemed to contemplate the question while she chewed. “Melvin disliked me, for sure, but I always thought he admired Mom. Maybe that’s why I felt more betrayed by him than by Brice Avery. Now that I think about it, Melvin isn’t a hater. And Dorothy, she was always kind to me, even when I was acting like a little bitch.”

  I nodded as I put some more gaeng pah on my rice. “That’s the way I read it. What about Avery?”

  She shrugged. “Aloof. Cold. It was always about the business with him. I wasn’t surprised when you told me you suspected him.” She lowered her fork and looked at me. “Do you think Melvin will cooperate?”

  My turn to shrug. “I hope so.” I told her about my plans to confront him again if I didn’t hear from him soon, but left out the bit about going to the FBI and back to the police if that failed. I was afraid she’d see that as capitulation, and frankly, that’s what it was beginning to feel like to me. I had a strong, internally consistent theory but was still short on incriminating evidence. What if the FBI was only interested in the money-laundering, and the powers that be in Portland let the matter drop?

  That was unthinkable, come to think of it.

  That evening, Tracey called. “Hey Cal,” she began, “Mia Cantrell told me something interesting today. Fred Poindexter had her cancel a dinner he had planned with his wife for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He’d booked a table at Andina weeks in advance. She asked him why, and all he said was he had a conflict. Mia thinks this must be a big deal, because she overheard Fred trying to smooth things over with his wife. She told me he said something like, ‘I have to be there. I have no choice.’ Anyway, I thought this might be important.”

  “Does she know where he’s going?”

  “No. But I asked her to stay alert tomorrow and let me know immediately if she learns anything more.”

  “Good work. Keep me in the loop. Maybe there’s another meeting coming up.” Tracey wanted to talk more, but I wasn’t good company that night, so I took the first opportunity to sign off.

  I awoke the next morning stiff and tired after a restless night filled with frustrating dreams I couldn’t even remember. My reverse commute to Dundee was slowed down by an accident on I-5, and I had just cleared Newburg when my Bluetooth lit up. “Good morning, Cal,” Valerie Thatcher greeted me with irritating cheerfulness. “The screenwriter loves your place and would like to make an offer. What do you think?”

  “Come on. I thought he just wanted to look the place over.”

  “He did, and it was love at first sight.”

  “Was the quarry operating?”

  She laughed. “Oh, yeah. In fact, they set off a blast while we were there. Didn’t even faze him. Cal, I think he’ll make you a very generous offer. What shall I tell him?”

  I paused for a long time. “Tell him he can make an offer, provided it’s effective the day after the county hearing—that’s June twenty-third. I’ll give him my answer then.”

  “That might cost you the deal. Didn’t you say you weren’t likely to prevail at the hearing?”

  “That’s my position. He can take it or leave it.”

  At midday I called Tracey to see if Mia Cantrell had come up with anything. “Not yet,” she told me, “Poindexter’s been in his office all morning, so she hasn’t been able to snoop around. Don’t worry. I’ll call one way or the other this afternoon.”

  It was after three when she called back. “The news isn’t good—he left his office abruptly, and Mia has gone through everything without finding a clue to where he’s headed tonight. Sorry, Cal.”

  I thought about calling Nando to see if he could try tailing either Turner or Avery. If a meeting was planned, they were sure to attend. But that would require him picking one or the other of them up at rush hour. That didn’t seem feasible, and the whole thing could be a false alarm, in any case.

  I decided against calling him.

  I left my Dundee office that evening feeling restless. Something was up. I could feel it. But what? I was back at Caffeine Central, had finished dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, and was pacing around like a caged lion when I got my answer. “Mr. Claxton?” the voice on my cell phone said, “This is Dorothy Turner. I’m frightened and worried sick about Mel.”

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “He just left, but he wouldn’t tell me where he’s going. He was really agitated. The worst I’ve ever seen him. I asked if he was coming to see you. He said no, that he was going to take care of the situation himself. I demanded to know what was going on, but all he would say was that he was doing this for me and the children. I begged him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Did he say why he had to leave?”

  “I heard him talking to Brice on the phone. I think he’s meeting him, but I don’t know where.”

  “Does he have an office in your home?” She said yes. “Go in and look around. See if he left any clues to where he might be headed. Can you do that, Mrs. Turner?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that right now and call you back.”

  I sat by the phone until it rang again seven minutes later. “Mr. Claxton? I don’t see anything in his briefcase, his appointment book, or his e-mail. He did scribble something on a notepad next to the phone. It looks like a code or something.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘November13Bravo64 at ten p.m.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  My pulse jumped ten points, and a surge of electrical current sluiced down my spine. “Yes, Mrs. Turner, it certainly does.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  “So, they are having a board meeting,” Nando quipped. It was forty minutes later in his office, and I had just explained what Dorothy Turner told me.

  “I’m sure of it,” I said. “They’re landing late, so maybe they’re plan
ning to meet on the plane. That would make sense. The airport should be deserted.”

  “They have much to talk about, I think,” Nando said.

  “For sure. I’ve had confrontations with Boyarchenko, Turner, and Avery, there’s been an unfavorable newspaper article, and we put that Nightshade bastard, Grabar, to flight. About now I’m sure Anapolsky’s wondering if the view’s worth the climb.”

  Nando chuckled. “Perhaps he would like to wash his money in a more welcoming city. What do you want to do, Calvin?”

  “I already called Aldous Jones, but he hasn’t returned my call. I think the FBI will be all over this, but we can’t be sure.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “I just said it was urgent for him to call me.”

  “What if he doesn’t call?”

  “We go to Aurora and get some video of the board meeting, a nice group shot showing the whole happy family.”

  Nando nodded, and his eyes narrowed down in a cold, murderous look. “I would like to go there and kill them all.”

  “I know,” I said. “One step at a time.”

  Fifty-five minutes later Nando’s big bolt cutters sliced through the padlock on the service gate at the Aurora Airport like it was made of balsa wood. I called Jones again, but he still didn’t answer. After all, I was just a small-town lawyer, in way over my head, right? Once inside the gate, we moved quickly and silently along the east side of the airport, using as cover a wide swath of low trees that ran behind a row of hangers. I put a hand out to stop Nando and pointed between two of the hangars to an open area maybe seventy-five yards ahead of us. The area was pooled in dim light cast by a series of security lights. “The hangar jock told me the Gulfstream taxied into that staging area last time,” I whispered. “It’s a good bet they’ll do the same this time.”