Grass

by Steve Williams

  Verdant did a large cash business and was able to hide a large percentage of the massive cash flow generated by the grow houses. J.A. had recruited an IT department that managed everything from working around debit and credit card transaction information to seamlessly disguising the amount of income generated by the business. They were experts at finding and exploiting holes in the anti-money laundering software used by financial institutions since the passing of the USA Patriot Act.

  The Colonel set his sights on one final major score: the cash hub of Otis’s network of three hundred-plus grow houses. If he could find it, reconnoiter it, and crack it they could be on their way home within days and begin their battle to overthrow the corrupt government that had swept to power with Pyotr Ptushko’s help.

  “I believe we may need to find ourselves another insider like Terence, who we can squeeze for information,” the Colonel said to Diego. “Someone high enough in Otis Gaverill’s legitimate organization to know where and how he hides the cash.”

  Some of the other men had gathered around. Barros dug some engine grease from under his thumbnails. “Am I to go shopping for ginger ale?”

  They all laughed as they remembered how easily Terence had given up his knowledge of the inner workings of the grow house organization. “I think this time we should be looking more for an accountant than a foot soldier,” Hector said.

  The Colonel agreed. “I doubt we will need to resort to violence. Threats, yes. But I do not think a financial executive will need much physical persuasion.”

  Diego surfed the Verdant Florists and Greenhouses website. Under “Corporate Officers” they found a likely candidate. “Warren Shelburne, CPA, MBA. He is the executive vice president of finance and the company controller. I think it would be impossible for the greenhouse and florist company to be laundering that much money without him being involved.”

  Luis looked up from where he was cleaning his pistol. “Hector and I can begin watching his routine. Then it shouldn’t be too much trouble to schedule an appointment for Mr. Shelburne to meet with you. When are you free?” he asked the Colonel with a smirk.

  “For someone as important as Mr. Shelburne I will clear my schedule,” the Colonel said.

  Over the next four days Luis and Hector watched Warren Shelburne from the time he left his house in the morning to his return at night.

  He was an early riser. Up at five thirty to head to his squash club, where he occupied one of the higher rungs on the competitive ladder. He arrived at the office by 7:10, depending on the traffic, and was normally there all day unless he had a lunch outside the building. Twice during the week he met his wife for dinner out. Most other evenings they enjoyed supper at home with two or three adolescent children—it varied with the teenagers’ routines.

  On the weekend Luis and Hector discovered something very interesting. Shelburne was training for a marathon, which meant he took a two-hour run every Sunday morning. They scoped out the running organizations in proximity to his home and eventually found him on the website of the “Sole-Searchers” running club. His marathon was not for another three weeks, so he would most likely stick to the formal training regimen prescribed by the club.

  By grabbing Shelburne at the start of his run, odds were good that they could get the information they needed before anyone missed him. Taking him on a weekday would raise immediate questions from his peers and family, because his routine was so tight.

  The Colonel made a decision that they would act on the next Sunday. Once they had the information from Shelburne, they would plot an assault on Otis’s cash-counting facility. From there they would head straight to the freighter whose captain they’d bribed to help them leave the country, and sail back with it. There was very little margin for extraordinary events. But if the Colonel knew one thing, it was that he and his men had no problem adhering to a strict timeline under incredible pressure. Their lives had often depended on it.

  Mitchell and Sandovan checked in on Rammi Vargas at the hospital. He was still in a coma. Mrs. Vargas was there when they arrived, and she looked as if her faith was ebbing away. They did their best to console her, but sensed it was futile.

  “Damn, there’s a woman who can’t catch a break,” Mitchell said as they walked back to the car.

  “You got that right,” said Sandovan. “Makes me want to take matters into my own hands with the guys who put him in there.”

  Mitchell stared out the side window as they pulled out of the hospital parking. “Might as well pop by Emilio’s to see how the holy butter tart is doing.”

  Sandovan turned onto the ramp for the Broadhurst and punched it. Their unmarked Police Interceptor had the anemic acceleration typical of the older generation police fleet vehicles, but he merged easily with the midmorning traffic. He noticed a van three cars ahead and pulled up on its right rear bumper. “Hey, wanna run the plate on that van? It’s pretty similar to the drug house heist vehicles.”

  Mitchell punched the license plate into their computer. It came up as its side decals advertised, one of a dozen trucks in the Barton Brothers Plumbing fleet. “Couple of unpaid moving violations, but I don’t feel like hassling someone who’s punching a clock.”

  “Yeah, I’m with you. Now if it was one of those Wall Street hedge fund guys, with the fleet of Ferraris and the summer house in the Hamptons, I’d pull him over in a second.”

  They talked about the inequity of people who crunched numbers all day making hundreds of millions while someone like Mrs. Vargas scraped by working two jobs. “Not that I’m a socialist or anything,” Sandovan said. “It’d just be nice if they could arrive at some kind of merit scale.”

  “I’m with ya,” Mitchell said. “You know what Mya’s been offered? Close to eight hundred grand. Guy she works for wants her to join the inner circle.”

  “That ever bug you?” Sandovan asked. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s talented and smart and really great at what she does. But part of our job description includes getting shot at. It doesn’t seem right.”

  They talked the issue over until arriving at Emilio’s. To their surprise, the line of pilgrims to see the holy butter tart was gone. They walked in and Emilio waved from behind the counter. “My two favorite detectives! I saved you each one of Mrs. Vargas’s butter tarts. Rosangela, two Colombian with cream please!”

  Sandovan took the proffered pastry. “Mmm. That’s the only good thing I’ve had on my plate this morning.”

  Mitchell took a bite of his own butter tart and motioned to the display case where its more famous relative had once resided. “What happened to the shrine? Did the Vatican call and threaten to shut you down?”

  Emilio laughed as Rosangela handed them their coffee. “No, yesterday I had a visitor. The line to see the Madonna’s holy image was stretched out the door, and a stretch limo pulled up. A man in a dark suit and a cowboy hat got out and came into the store with a huge other man—I think it may have been his bodyguard. When they came in they asked if they could meet with me in my office.”

  “Uh oh,” Sandovan said, polishing off the remaining morsel.

  “No, quite the opposite of uh oh,” Emilio gushed. “This man said that he had been watching the bidding online, and wanted to make a pre-emptive bid right at the closing seconds of the auction, but in person.”

  “What’d you do?” Mitchell said.

  “I told him that would be fine.”

  Sandovan smiled. “And?”

  “And as the online bidding drew to a close, the man pulled out his checkbook and wrote me a cheque for ten thousand more than the last bid.”

  “How much was that?”

  Emilio lowered his voice. “Two hundred and eighty five thousand, four hundred dollars.”

  Sandovan sprayed a mouthful of coffee all over a shelf of dehydrated organic mushrooms. “Are you kidding?” he asked.

  Emilio grinned and shook his head. “The man wrote the check, and then he and his bodyguard put the butter tart in a padded stainless steel case
and drove away.”

  “Who was the guy?” Mitchell said.

  Emilio lowered his voice. “I am sworn to secrecy.”

  Mitchell turned to Sandovan. “You know, I’d love to try that new deli on 17th Avenue. I bet the whole precinct would like a change.”

  Emilio folded like a cheap lawn chair. “The name on the check was Horace Heatherstone Jr.”

  Sandovan nodded in recognition. “I read an article about him a few months back. He’s a Louisiana oil tycoon who suddenly ‘got religion’ and now buys up any sort of Christian icon or art he can find. Bit of a loon, but apparently he’s trying to make amends for decades of raping and pillaging the environment.”

  Mitchell finished his own butter tart and took a sip of coffee. “Hey Emilio, I was doing some thinking on the way over here. You have a daughter at art school, right?

  Emilio shifted uncomfortably. “That’s right. My youngest, Sophie.”

  “And if I’m not mistaken, she did a sculpture of the Madonna for your church last year, correct?”

  “What are you getting at, Mitchell?” Emilio said with a smirk.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud. You realize, of course, that if we start to see pastries with Jesus and the 12 Apostles mysteriously appearing in them, we may have to alert our Commercial Crime Unit?”

  Emilio’s smile broadened. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Sandovan was still trying to comprehend the staggering amount of money that had changed hands over a pastry. “So what are you going to do Emilio? We going to see a new Maserati parked out front?”

  Emilio looked at him with scorn. “Of course not. You know how much I love my ‘83 Fiat Uno. I talked with Rosangela. We’re going to give the money to Mrs. Vargas.”

  Sandovan and Mitchell were speechless.

  “Sainthood becomes you,” Mitchell said finally.

  For a moment, Sandovan looked like his eyes were welling up, but he composed himself by making a lame effort to wipe the coffee off the mushroom packages. “Emilio, that’s about the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. Have you told Mrs. Vargas yet?”

  “No, I’m waiting until the next time she drops off her baking. Then I’m going to hand her the envelope with the payment like I always do and tell her there’s a bit extra in it.”

  Mitchell smiled and grabbed Emilio by the shoulders. “You’re a good man, Emilio. That’s fantastic news. She really deserves a break like that.”

  Emilio blushed. Then he waved Sandovan away from the mushroom packages and began to wipe them down with the front of his apron. The detectives walked back to their car, still stunned from the generosity of the gesture. “Just when you think humankind is circling the toilet bowl, someone shows you different,” Mitchell said.

  45

  The war room dedicated to monitoring the activities of the fourteen game finalists was looking more and more like a one-room walkup in central Beirut. Junk food wrappers, pizza boxes, empty energy drinks, and paper coffee cups had long ago overwhelmed the wastebasket, since building maintenance was forbidden to enter the room because of the secrecy of the game.

  Mya, Arlo, Leah, and Sisha were watching the four separate big-screen wall monitors for any reports of stunts related to the client’s jeans. Two hours into the day another finalist managed to break through. The woman, an assistant producer from LA, managed to convince an actress friend to wear her jeans on Good Morning America while promoting her new movie. The cameramen were more than willing to zoom in for a close-up butt shot, which showed the unmistakable pocket detailing of the Zealot Jeans.

  Later the same day one more finalist made his move. A young man had rented the side of an old brick building near the center of the city. It appeared to be the canvas for a large mural. Three art students from the Salento College of Art & Design were suspended on a window-washers’ platform, and had begun to paint the side of the building.

  “Wow, this is going to be tough,” Arlo said.

  “No kidding,” said Mya.

  Sisha Wong scribbled idly on a note pad. “I think the stunts with longevity are more interesting than the flashes in the pan like the jeans appearing on Good Morning America.”

  “True,” Leah agreed. “Then again, GMA reaches millions of people, and a pair of jeans in a sculpture, no matter how noble, only reaches thousands.”

  “Don’t forget,” Mya joined in. “It should be something that reaches the same demo that Jean Zélat wants to reach. I don’t know how many GMA viewers are buying Zealot Jeans.”

  “About five,” Arlo said. “The media department says that most Zealot wearers are getting their news over the Internet.”

  “Or they don’t even care about ‘the news’ in the traditional sense,” said Leah. “Remember that research we did in San Fran? The Zealot Jeans wearers there consumed news the same way they consumed food—it had to come from a hundred-mile radius. They said they didn’t give a rat’s ass about who was blowing up what in the Middle East when they had their hands full with issues in their own back yard.”

  Mya rolled her eyes. “Let’s hope none of them ever become President. The last thing we need is someone who can’t find the Ukraine on the map.”

  Arlo laughed. “I haven’t the slightest idea where the Ukraine is. And I’ll bet nobody in the Ukraine has the slightest idea where Wyoming is.”

  Sisha and Leah looked perplexed. “We don’t have the slightest idea where Wyoming is.”

  They laughed it off and then resumed scanning a dozen different news feeds. One of the more prominent Salento feeds was profiling Pyotr Ptushko as his visit to the US approached. The group listened as the news anchor gave a three-minute bio. Orphaned at twelve. Enlisted in the Russian military at seventeen. Fast-tracked for promotions during a distinguished career in the Army. Ptushko was one of the select few who had used their connections to pull in lucrative oil and mining leases as Russia opened up for business. Then, once again exploiting his military discipline, Ptushko had expanded internationally to take on multiple natural resource plays in developing countries. In several areas he had adroitly out-maneuvered the Chinese to purchase rich mineral deposits. The reporter discreetly alluded to some of Ptushko’s detractors accusing him of unethical tactics, but in light of his heroic rescue of the American special forces soldiers, this part of his resume was glossed over. There was an interview with the mayor of Salento and a quick comment from the governor.

  The agency team’s attention span was diverted by a report of a kid in Florida who had taught his King Charles Spaniel how to play the glockenspiel. Unfortunately, that’s when Peter Dunn poked his head in the room.

  “Ah, yes, very good. What’s the billable hourly rate of this team again?” he said with a laugh.

  The other members of the team looked like they’d been busted, but Mya knew Dunn well enough to understand he was toying with them. “Have you seen what the finalists are up to? Some of it’s not bad. The media department is busy quantifying the dollar amount of the publicity. It’s coming in between three and four million so far. I think Jean Zélat will be pleased.”

  “Keep it going guys,” Dunn said. “Keep it going.”

  Just as Dunn closed the door Leah called out “Oh! Check it out on monitor three!”

  It was a link to one of the many web sites devoted to alternative pop culture, ephemeralartistry.com. The link was called “daring jeanius.”

  “Could be,” Arlo said, clicking on it. Sure enough, they were looking at finalist number twelve. Leah and Sisha had both informally crowned him the hottest of all the finalists. In a strange but mesmerizing bit of performance art, the man was wearing just his Zealot jeans, and sitting in a ten foot by ten foot glass case filled with rattlesnakes and tarantulas. He was in the lotus position and appeared to be meditating. His physique was incredible. Above his head was a trapeze. Every six hours he would be lifted from the bizarre terrarium to take nourishment and attend to other bodily functions. But otherwise he said he would live in this envir
onment until the contest deadline ended. During that time he would conduct extreme yoga classes online. He hoped the world would tune in to his video feed to thrive on his spiritual energy.

  As they watched, two of the tarantulas crawled up his back, over his chiseled lats and deltoids. The man did not flinch. One of the sidewinders slid by, its tongue flicking in and out as it checked the air for prey.

  “I don’t know whether to be sick or aroused,” Sisha said.

  The good news was that the screen showed over forty thousand people had visited the site in its first eleven hours. Time would tell if the public’s fascination grew or waned. Another ticker showed the number of marriage proposals the young man had received since going online. It currently stood at five.

  “Okay, I need a break from staring at the screens,” Mya said. “Who wants a latte?”

  “I can’t take my eyes off crazy reptile hottie pants,” Sisha said. Leah nodded that she was ready for a beverage. Arlo was busy trolling for other finalist mentions but signaled that yes, he’d go for his drink of choice, a cafe Americano with four shots of espresso.

  Mya left to see to the drinks. With just a few days to go, it appeared that they were going to create enough buzz to seriously move the needle on the Zealot brand’s awareness and mystique.

  46

  Mitchell was at his desk with Sandovan and Ryerson, poring over all the various threads of evidence they’d been able to gather. There was still no discernible pattern and their frustration was growing. They had Jak Mosely’s word that he had designed the Seraphim packaging for Curtis Montclair. But Montclair had stonewalled them. They had nothing on him, his brother, or Verdant Florists and Greenhouses.

  The phone on Mitchell’s desk rang. “Mitch here.”

  “Mitchell, it’s Danyluk in the evidence room.”