Death of a Bankster

by David Bishop

  “Women’s intuition?”

  “That’s what the lieutenant said too.”

  Ryan chuckled low and easy. “I say again, you’re a hell of a detective, Sergeant Madeline Richards. I’m impressed.”

  “Your flattery and a dollar will get me a cup of coffee, although not in here. What I need to know is how close to right am I?”

  “Your reasoning is sound. It all tracks. If we knew why Sam was killed, your opinion would gain merit.” Maddie nodded to indicate she knew that already. “Let me level with you,” he said. “I don’t think Norbert did it or knew about it until after the fact.”

  “Explain that.”

  Ryan finished his beer and motioned to the bar for another round for them both. Maddie started to say no, but Ryan told her she’d need it. “We’re far from finished,” he said.

  Chapter 27

  “Maddie, we need to talk first about the rationale behind plea bargaining,” Ryan said, “letting low-level criminals go in return for evidence and answers about high-level crooks.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with this?”

  The bar had gotten busy enough by now that their next round was brought over by an attractive brunette wearing a tight, above-the-knees skirt. When she left, Ryan moved further into their conversation.

  “We often read about cases where the district attorney, even sometimes the police themselves let a fringe criminal skate on a charge because he offers up an alternative: a bigger fish. Do you agree with the reasoning for that?”

  “In most cases, sure. The greater protection and law enforcement comes with taking the bigger bust. So what?”

  Ryan extended his beer bottle. Maddie raised her wine glass and clanked it softly against the upper rim of Ryan’s bottle. “Maxwell Norbert is the fringe criminal. The little fish, I’m considering letting skate.”

  “The little fish!” Maddie said too loudly. She lowered her head and executed a long, slow inhale. “The little fish?” she repeated, with the inflection of a question mark hanging on the end. “Little? He’s the fucking president of the bank. Who the hell is the big fish that you’re after?”

  “This goes no further than the two of us.”

  “I can’t promise that. To let a murderer walk. I’m homicide.”

  “I understand you’re a cop, Maddie. Your professional behavior is dictated by lots of neat little regulations. Paragraphs and subparagraphs followed by sub-sections ad nauseam, all written by nerds at a desk somewhere in a safe, air-conditioned room. All of which is heavily influenced by the need to protect elected officials from being embarrassed by how the police get it done. You know damn well, some real situations on the street just don’t fit any of those numbered and lettered allowances and prohibitions. Situations sometimes require we adapt. Improvise. This is one of those situations. You say you’re homicide. I say you’re also an American.”

  “I … no … I’ll listen and decide but no promises on the front end.”

  “Maddie, no threat, but just to get it said, I can call Washington and have them call your governor, who will then call your mayor. From there it will come down to your chief of police who will put a cork in your investigation. You will be ordered to stand down and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want that to happen. Neither do you. Someday, I expect you will get the evidence you need and will arrest the murderer who hired Gibbons to kill Sam Crawford.”

  “What you refer to does happen, of course, but political shutdowns are rare. I don’t know you can do it or that this matter warrants it.”

  “Believe me, it’s a slam dunk.”

  “Then why haven’t you done it, Mr. Federal Agent man?”

  “That process involves multiple layers of politicians who are not famous for keeping their mouths shut. I’d rather first try to trust a friend. A woman I care a great deal about—”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t play us. Our relationship. My feelings for you, as confused as I am about them. Just keep this at arm’s length. Whatever I decide about whether to cooperate or blow the whistle will have nothing to do with us or my feeling for you, or, for that matter, my son’s thoughts of you. This is our job. Well, mine anyway. I still have no clue what you do.”

  “Maddie, I am going to trust you and answer your questions. Then we’ll go from there. Okay?” Maddie nodded.

  The nearest occupied table was two from them. Still, Ryan leaned in close, so did Maddie.

  “Your guess on the money laundering was right. My man goofed when he said that.” Maddie's eyes got bigger, one eyebrow raising slightly higher than the other. Her forehead wrinkled, but she kept her word and remained quiet, rolling her lips inward. “Sam Crawford and Maxwell Norbert launder money, but not for drug or human smugglers, for terrorists. You recall Sam spoke some Middle Eastern languages. He brought money in for Middle Eastern fronts which raise money for terrorist cells in the U.S. Here in Phoenix. New York. Chicago. L.A. And several other cities.

  “That money maintains their standard of living, allows them to appear as regular citizens. It funds their activities on behalf of Al Qaeda and similar groups. They do it for front organizations set up as foundations to raise money for children of Middle Easterners killed by U.S. drones.”

  “Maybe these foundations are legitimate.” Maddie said, unable to remain silent.

  “No. Legitimate foundations don’t need to sneak money into the U.S.”

  “Banks are required to report amounts over ten thousand to our government.”

  “True, as far as that statement goes. But we’re speaking of monies brought in through interbank transfers from banks located in countries which are not signatories and hold no membership in the Egmont Group.” When Maddie’s face showed she did not know what Egmont was, Ryan explained. “The Egmont Group is an international network of countries that have agreed to track transfers of funds. Some countries have not signed onto Egmont and have no process for the reporting.”

  “But the U.S. bank has to report it.”

  “Ah. If they do. When the transfer comes from an Egmont Group member, that institution has reported the transfer out of their country. Then the U.S. bank reports an incoming deposit and the two match-up by computer. If that transfer comes from a non-member country, then the system relies only on the U.S. bank reporting its receipt of the transfer-in. Sam Crawford was the front man inside Nation’s First Bank & Trust. It was his job to run interference on those transfer-in deposits to assure Nation’s First did not report the arrival of the money to our government. The result then is that the money comes in and funds terrorist organizations inside the U.S. without our government having any record of those funds in any regard.”

  This checks with what Wendy Carson told me. “I know who we can contact to get corroboration,” Maddie said.

  “I’m guessing you mean Wendy Carson, Sam’s former secretary. Sure. She’ll talk. She didn’t like what was going on. But we can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?” Maddie repeated, straining to keep her voice low. Her face stern.

  “Because the terrorist fronts will continue to exist. They’ll continue to get the money. All we’ll do is force them to find a new bank or a new avenue for getting the money in. Then we’ll have to find them all over again, without knowing what they’ve been up to until we do. We’ve got them under a microscope now. We know what they’re up to. How they spread out this money. Who is spending it, and on what.”

  “My God. You’ve got Maxwell Norbert in your pocket. He’s giving you whatever you need. If not, he goes to the federal penitentiary.”

  Ryan smiled. “I told you, you’re a crackerjack detective.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it? You masterminded the bit at the Crawford home. The fake FBI agents were your guys. You took Sam’s body. You had him under surveillance. You didn’t want Sam Crawford killed. You needed his cell and his computer to be sure there was nothing that pointed to you. Nothing
that revealed Sam had become a government informer.”

  “Now do you understand why we must keep things as they are?”

  “I’m still not convinced Norbert didn’t order Sam murdered. Sam could have been squeezing Norbert for a bigger cut.”

  “I can and do promise you that someday, some way, Maxwell Norbert will get what he deserves, but not yet. For now, Maxwell Norbert is helping keep this country safe from possible terrorist attacks. Reluctantly, but that doesn’t matter really. Norbert has been turned. He takes his orders from me. We need him in that position, doing what he’s doing as long as I deem the data we get is worth having him there. Eventually, his usefulness will end and he will get what he has coming. I will see that it happens.”

  “You’ll kill him, you mean. And feel good about it.”

  “On some level, yes, I’ll feel good, just as you do on some level if you put down a vicious killer who deserves it. Despite our civilized desire to believe otherwise, some people do deserve to die. Now, I’m not telling you I plan to shoot Maxwell Norbert. I’m telling you he will get what he deserves when he’s helped enough for me to determine what he deserves.”

  “What do you believe in? What principles do you live by?”

  “Not important.”

  “Bullshit. Of course they’re important. It defines who you are.”

  “I have them. Sure. But in my business, you don’t want anyone knowing what they are.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your enemies will know what to expect of you. Know what you won’t do. What you will do and why. I prefer for men like Maxwell Norbert to think I am capable of anything. That there is no safe ground when dealing with me.”

  “I’m not your enemy. I’m asking.”

  “Okay, Maddie, for you alone. I am a man who believes in his country. Americans are inherently good people, not perfect, but good. Down deep I’m very much like you. That’s part of why I’m nuts about you. But there is nasty work to be done to preserve what we have for Brad and all who follow. Sadly, I’m good at what I do. Frankly, I’m very good at what I do. I’m needed and that is more important than what I want. If I could think only of myself, I’d stay here and help your son throw sliders and share my life with him and his mother.”

  “I’d like that too. But it sounds like a different decision has been made. You’re staying on the job. So, let’s get back to business. One day, God knows when, Maxwell Norbert could end up in some witness protection kind of thing. Living a fat life somewhere under an assumed name, protected by the very country to which he was a traitor. Is that what you mean?”

  “We have put murderers, drug dealers, traitors, Nazi war criminals, Mafioso, all kinds of people in witness protection after we forced them to do the right thing. After we get from them everything they have which can help us. Yes, they can end up with a get-out-of-jail-free card. Sometimes it’s the only thing that will work. It’s the point where it gets really basic. The scum does the right thing in return for a protected freedom. Their going free is wrong, but often a lot of right happens because of what they give to buy that protected freedom.

  “As a general statement, witness protection, which is run by the U.S. Marshall’s Office, helps a lot of really innocent citizens who find themselves with information that puts their life at risk. Having said all that, I doubt Norbert will get witness protection. It’s more likely he’ll just be allowed to retire from banking and live out his life as he chooses taking whatever risks come to him.”

  “This does explain the source of the quarter of a million Paige Crawford said disappeared from her safe-deposit box. It came from these payoffs you’re referring to.”

  Ryan nodded, “But she didn’t know. Not about her husband or the bank.”

  Maddie sat there for what seemed like forever, tracing her finger around the rim of her wine glass until Ryan spoke again.

  “In a perfect world, all the bad guys would get what’s coming to them, but that’s not the world we live in. Maddie, can I count on you leaving the bank angle alone? Let me continue to work Maxwell Norbert so I can track this terrorist money?”

  “I don’t know, Ryan. I understand. Believe me I’m sympathetic. But Sam Crawford was murdered and it’s my job—”

  “Maddie, Maddie. Sam Crawford was a traitor, just as is Maxwell Norbert. Crawford was working with me then. I had turned him just as I have now turned Maxwell Norbert. There are many honest and loyal bankers, but these two are banksters. I’m sorry Crawford is dead, but I’m not very sorry Crawford is dead.”

  “Ryan, have you ever considered that maybe these terrorists you speak of killed Crawford. Maybe they found out he was giving you information about them, their activities.”

  “I spent several days tracking certain things before concluding they did not kill Sam Crawford.”

  “How did you determine that?”

  “These are fanatics. If they believed they had been betrayed, they would not have stopped with killing Sam. They would likely have killed Paige, even more likely killed Norbert. They would no longer need him and he knew their identities. Maybe even Norbert’s wife, Joan. They would have, at the very least, closed the foundation, moved it to another state, with a new name, and established a new foundation outside the U.S., and a new charity inside. None of that happened. They continue with business as usual. The killing of Sam Crawford was not related to the bank’s laundering of money for these people. Norbert’s way would more likely have been to payoff Sam, not murder him. With rare exceptions, bankers deal in buck not bullets.”

  “That figures. But I’m still homicide and Crawford was still murdered.”

  “But not by Norbert or the terrorists. Well, certainly not by the terrorists and likely not by Norbert. We would let a known murderer walk if he could give us information to prevent the assassination of the president. The government released Charles Lucky Luciano from the federal penitentiary and deported him to Italy because of his aiding the U.S. Navy in preventing German sabotage along the New York docks during World War II. Luciano also aided the Army in its invasion of Sicily. The government makes deals. Deals we don’t like to make. Deals we must make in light of the bigger picture.”

  “Look, Ryan, I’m not a big picture, girl. I’m a homicide cop. I get the people who murder other people. That’s my job.”

  “Yes, Maddie, it is your job. You’ve got a prosecutable case against Bennie Gibbons. You don’t know who hired Gibbons. He doesn’t know. Stopping terrorism is the job of all law enforcement officers. Your job as homicide, you just said it, is to stop people who murder other people. Well, help me stop people who murder lots of other people. Terrorist attacks harm sons, mothers, husbands, wives. Continuing to track this money will allow us to expand our knowledge about terrorists in America and those who help them.

  “When you read about the FBI or other federal agencies arresting someone who is about to carry out a terrorist attack, how do you think the government got the information before the deed? Prevented it from happening? They did it with missions like this one. With surveillance like I had on Sam Crawford. By leveraging people like Maxwell Norbert. It’s a dirty business. It requires deals with disgusting people. Right now, we don’t have any better way. Human intelligence is the grist of counterterrorism.”

  “What kind of man is Maxwell Norbert?” Maddie asked.

  “A man with whom coin can accomplish what conscience cannot.”

  “In your heart of hearts, you truly don’t think Norbert hired Gibbons to kill Sam Crawford?”

  “No. I don’t. I admit I’m biased. I admit that my position would be the very same even if I knew absolutely that Norbert hired Gibbons to kill Sam Crawford. None of these people are important. Not when compared with trying to learn enough to stop the next World Trade Center disaster. Are you with me?”

  “I agree what you do is important. I’ve just got a lot to think about. For now, I’ll sit on the bank angle. But my commitment only goes this far: if I change my mind I’ll give you
a couple days notice beforehand.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Maddie.”

  “I don’t know. When I set out to act like a fool, there is little I let impede my progress.” Then Maddie reached over and held Ryan’s strong hand.

  “Let me change the subject,” Ryan said, putting his hand on top of Maddie’s. “I know there are a lot of moving parts to our lives. You and I both have unfinished business. Still, I’d like us to share some time whenever we can, which may not be all that often. In the end, fate and time will bring us together, or leave us be.”

  “Ryan, you swept me off my feet. I brought you home to meet my son and my mother. I had never before had a man I was interested in romantically home for dinner. That tells how I feel about you better than anything I could say.”

  “But?”

  “But, at this point, I can’t invite my son into a life with a surrogate father involved in the things you do. I just can’t. I won’t. Not now, maybe someday.”

  Epilogue

  Ten days after Maddie Richards left Ryan Testler sitting in the bar of his hotel, Paige Crawford called.

  “Sergeant Richards. This is Paige Crawford.”

  “Hello, Paige. It’s good to hear from you. How are you doing?”

  “I'm fine, thank you. Sergeant . . . Maddie, I'm not certain why, but there's something I feel I must tell you. I know you believed me from the start. And, well, I just thought you should know or maybe that you would want to know.”

  “What is it, Paige?”

  “You remember my telling you about the two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars that disappeared from our safe-deposit box?”

  “Yes.”

  “I really appreciate you never reporting that to anyone. I still don’t know how Sam accumulated it, but I don’t think it was totally on the up and up. I wish I didn’t think that, but I do. Well, anyway, I got the money back.”

  Maddie sat forward, the toe of her shoe going to the always waiting ledge of her bottom desk drawer.

  “I don’t know who returned it to me. I came out of Fry’s, you know, the supermarket.”