“Good news, gentlemen,” he said with a tired smile.
They huddled around, eager for the results.
“It’s still there,” he said.
Then the great question, the one they’d been planning, the one that would verify whether Argrow was a fraud or a player.
“How much?” asked Spicer.
“A hundred and ninety thousand, and small change,” he said, and they exhaled in unison. Spicer smiled. Beech looked away. Yarber looked at Argrow with a quizzical frown, but a rather pleasant one.
According to their figures, the balance was $189,000, plus whatever paltry rate of interest the bank was paying.
“He didn’t steal it,” Beech mumbled, and they shared a pleasant memory of their dead lawyer, who suddenly was not the devil they’d made him out to be.
“I wonder why not,” Spicer mused, almost to himself.
“Well, it’s still there,” Argrow said. “That’s a lot of legal work.”
It certainly appeared to be, and since neither of the three could think of a quick fib, they just let it pass.
“I suggest you move it, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Argrow said. “This bank is known for its leaks.”
“Move it where?” Beech asked.
“If the money were mine, I’d move it to Panama immediately.”
This was a new issue, a train of thought they had not pursued because they had been obsessed with Trevor and his certain theft. But they weighed it carefully anyway, as if the matter had been discussed many times.
“Why would you move it?” Beech asked. “It’s safe, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” Argrow answered, quick with a response. He knew where he was going, they did not. “But you see how loose the confidentiality can be. I wouldn’t use banks in the Bahamas these days, especially this one.”
“And we don’t know if Trevor told anyone about it,” Spicer said, always anxious to nail the lawyer.
“If you want the money protected, move it,” Argrow said. “It takes less than a day and you won’t have to worry about it. And put the money to work. This account is just sitting there, drawing a few pennies in interest. Put it with a fund manager and let it earn fifteen or twenty percent. You’re not gonna be using it any time soon.”
That’s what you think, pal, they thought. But he made perfect sense.
“And I assume you can move it?” Yarber said.
“Of course I can. Do you doubt me now?”
All three shook their heads. No sir, they did not doubt him.
“I have some nice contacts in Panama. Think about it.” Argrow glanced at his watch as if he had lost interest in their account and had a hundred pressing matters elsewhere. A punch line was coming, and he didn’t want to push.
“We’ve thought about it,” Spicer said. “Let’s move it now.”
He looked at three sets of eyes, all looking back at him. “There’s a fee involved,” he said, like a seasoned money launderer.
“What kinda fee?” Spicer asked.
“Ten percent, for the transfer.”
“Who gets ten percent?”
“I do.”
“That’s rather steep,” said Beech.
“It’s a sliding scale. Anything under a million pays ten percent. Anything over a hundred million pays one percent. It’s pretty common in the business, and it’s exactly the reason I’m wearing an olive prison shirt and not a thousand-dollar suit.”
“That’s pretty sleazy,” said Spicer, the man who’d skimmed bingo profits from a charity.
“Let’s not preach, okay. We’re talking about a small cut from money that’s already tainted, both here and there. Take it or leave it.” His tone was aloof, an icy veteran who’d cut much larger deals.
It was only $19,000, and this from a stash they’d been certain was gone. After his 10 percent, they still had $170,000, roughly $60,000 each, and it would’ve been more if treacherous Trevor hadn’t raked so much off the top. And, besides, they were confident of greener pastures just around the corner. The loot in the Bahamas was pocket change.
“It’s a deal,” Spicer said as he looked at the other two for approval. They both nodded slowly. All three were thinking the same thing now. If the shakedown of Aaron Lake proceeded as they dreamed it would, then serious money was coming their way. They would need a place to hide it, and maybe someone to help them. They wanted to trust this new guy Argrow. Let’s give him the chance.
“Plus, you do my appeals,” Argrow said.
“Yes, we’ll do the appeals.”
Argrow smiled and said, “Not a bad deal. Lemme make some more calls.”
“There’s one thing you should know,” Beech said.
“Okay.”
“The lawyer’s name was Trevor Carson. He set up the account, directed the deposits, did everything really. And he was murdered night before last in Kingston, Jamaica.”
Argrow searched their faces for more. Yarber handed him a copy of the newspaper, which he read very deliberately. “Why was he missing?” he asked after a long silence.
“We don’t know,” Beech said. “He left town, and we got word through the FBI that he was missing. We just assumed that he’d stolen our money.”
Argrow handed the paper back to Yarber, and crossed his arms over his chest. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and managed to look suspicious. Let them sweat.
“How dirty is this money?” he asked, as if he might not want to get involved with it after all.
“It’s not drug money,” Spicer said quickly, on the defensive, as if all other money was clean.
“We really can’t say,” Beech replied.
“You’ve got a deal,” Yarber said. “Take it or leave it.”
Good move, old boy, Argrow said to himself. “The FBI is involved?” he asked.
“Only with the lawyer’s disappearance,” Beech said. “The feds know nothing about the offshore account.”
“Let me get this straight. You got a dead lawyer, the FBI, an offshore account hiding dirty money, right? What’ve you boys been up to?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Beech said.
“I think you’re right.”
“No one’s forcing you to get involved,” Yarber said.
So a decision had to be made. For Argrow, the red flags were up, the minefield was marked. If he went forward, then he did so armed with sufficient warnings that his three new friends could be dangerous. This, of course, meant nothing to Argrow. But to Beech, Spicer, and Yarber, the opening in their tight little partnership, however slight it might be, meant they were admitting another conspirator. They would never tell him about their scam, and certainly not about Aaron Lake, nor would he share in any more of their loot, unless he earned it with his wiring prowess. But he already knew more than he should. They had no choice.
Desperation played no small role in their decision. With Trevor, they’d had access to the outside, something they’d taken for granted. Now that he was gone, their world had shrunk considerably.
Though they had yet to admit it, firing him had been a mistake. With perfect hindsight, they should’ve warned him, and told him everything about Lake and the tampered mail. He’d been far from perfect, but they needed all the help they could get.
Perhaps they would’ve hired him back a day or two later, but they never had the chance. Trevor bolted, and now he was gone forever.
Argrow had access. He had a phone and friends; he had guts and he knew how to get things done. Perhaps they might need him, but they would take it slowly.
He scratched his head and frowned as if a headache was coming. “Don’t tell me anything else,” he said. “I don’t wanna know.”
He returned to the conference room and closed the door behind him, then perched on the edge of the table and once again seemed to be firing calls all over the Caribbean.
They heard him laugh twice, probably a joke with an old friend surprised to hear his voice. They heard him swear once, but had no idea at whom or
for what reason. His voice rose and fell, and try as they might to read court decisions and dust off old books and study Vegas odds, they couldn’t ignore the noise from the room.
Argrow put on quite a show, and after an hour of useless chatter he came out and said, “I think I can finish it tomorrow, but we need an affidavit signed by one of you stating that you are the sole owners of Boomer Realty.”
“Who sees the affidavit?” Beech asked.
“Only the bank in the Bahamas. They’re getting a copy of the story about Mr. Carson, and they want verification about the ownership of the account.”
The idea of actually signing any type of document in which they admitted they had anything to do with the dirty money terrified them. But the request made sense.
“Is there a fax machine around here?” Argrow asked.
“No, not for us,” Beech replied.
“I’m sure the warden has one,” Spicer said. “Just trot up there and tell him you need to send a document to your offshore bank.”
It was unnecessarily sarcastic. Argrow glared at him, then let it pass. “Okay, tell me how to get the affidavit from here to the Bahamas. How does the mail run?”
“The lawyer was our mail runner,” Yarber said. “Everything else is subject to inspection.”
“How close do they inspect the legal mail?”
“They glance at it,” Spicer said. “But they can’t open it.”
Argrow paced around a bit, deep in thought. Then, for the benefit of his audience he stepped between two racks of books, so that he could not be seen from outside the law library. He deftly unfolded his gadget, punched numbers, and stuck it to his ear. He said, “Yes, Wilson Argrow here. Is Jack in? Yes, tell him it’s important.” He waited.
“Who the hell’s Jack?” Spicer asked from across the room. Beech and Yarber listened but watched for passersby.
“My brother in Boca,” Argrow said. “He’s a real estate lawyer. He’s visiting me tomorrow.” Then, into the phone, he said, “Hey, Jack, it’s me. You comin tomorrow? Good, can you come in the morning? Good. Around ten. I’ll have some mail going out. Good. How’s Mom? Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The prospect of the resumption of mail intrigued the Brethren. Argrow had a brother who was a lawyer. And he had a phone, and brains, and guts.
He slid the gadget back into his pocket and walked from the racks. “I’ll give the affidavit to my brother in the morning. He’ll fax it to the bank. By noon the next day the money will be in Panama, safe and sound and earning fifteen percent. Piece of cake.”
“We’re assuming we can trust your brother?” Yarber said.
“With your life,” Argrow said, almost offended by the question. He was walking to the door. “I’ll see you guys later. I need some fresh air.”
THIRTY-FOUR
TREVOR’S MOTHER arrived from Scranton. She was with her sister, Trevor’s aunt Helen. They were both in their seventies and in reasonably good health. They got lost four times between the airport and Neptune Beach, then meandered through the streets for an hour before stumbling on Trevor’s house, a place his mother hadn’t seen in six years. She hadn’t seen Trevor in two years. Aunt Helen hadn’t seen him in at least ten, not that she particularly missed him.
His mother parked the rental car behind his little Beetle, and had a good cry before getting out.
What a dump, Aunt Helen said to herself.
The front door was unlocked. The place had been abandoned, but long before its owner fled the dishes had collected in the sink, the garbage had gone unattended, the vacuum hadn’t left the closet.
The odor drove Aunt Helen out first, and Trevor’s mother soon followed. They had no clue what to do. His body was still in Jamaica, in a crowded morgue, and according to the unfriendly young man she’d talked to at the State Department it would cost $600 to ship him home. The airlines would cooperate, but the paperwork was tied up in Kingston.
It took a half hour of bad driving to find his office. By then, word was out. Chap the paralegal was waiting at the reception desk, trying to look sad and busy at the same time. Wes the office manager was in a back room, just to listen and observe. The phone had rung constantly the day the news broke, but after a round of condolences from fellow lawyers and a client or two it went silent again.
On the front door was a cheap wreath, paid for by the CIA. “Ain’t that nice,” his mother said as they waddled up the sidewalk.
Another dump, thought Aunt Helen.
Chap greeted them and introduced himself as Trevor’s paralegal. He was in the process of trying to close the office, a most difficult task.
“Where’s the girl?” his mother asked, her eyes red from grieving.
“She left some time back. Trevor caught her stealing.”
“Oh dear.”
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.
“That would be nice, yes.” They sat on the dusty and uneven sofa, while Chap fetched three coffees from a pot that just happened to be fresh. He sat across from them in an unstable wicker chair. The mother was bewildered. The aunt was curious, her eyes darting around the office, looking for any sign of prosperity. They were not poor, but at their ages affluence would never be attained.
“I’m very sorry about Trevor,” Chap said.
“It’s just awful,” Mrs. Carson said, her lip quivering. Her cup shook and coffee splashed onto her dress. She didn’t notice it.
“Did he have a lot of clients?” Aunt Helen asked.
“Yes, he was very busy. A good lawyer. One of the best I’ve ever worked with.”
“And you’re a secretary?” Mrs. Carson asked.
“No, I’m a paralegal. I go to law school at night.”
“Are you handling his affairs?” Aunt Helen asked.
“Well, not really,” Chap said. “I was hoping that’s why the two of you were here.”
“Oh, we’re too old,” his mother said.
“How much money did he leave?” asked the aunt.
Chap stepped it up a notch. This old bitch was a bloodhound. “I have no idea. I didn’t handle his money.”
“Who did?”
“I guess his accountant.”
“Who’s his accountant?”
“I don’t know. Trevor was very private about most things.”
“He certainly was,” his mother said sadly. “Even as a boy.” She splashed her coffee again, this time on the sofa.
“You pay the bills around here, don’t you?” asked the aunt.
“No. Trevor took care of his money.”
“Well, listen, young man, they want six hundred dollars to fly him home from down in Jamaica.”
“Why was he down there?” his mother interrupted.
“It was a short vacation,” Chap said.
“And she doesn’t have six hundred dollars,” Helen finished.
“Yes I do.”
“Oh, there’s some cash here,” Chap said, and Aunt Helen looked satisfied.
“How much?” she asked.
“A little over nine hundred dollars. Trevor liked to keep plenty of petty cash.”
“Give it to me,” Aunt Helen demanded.
“Do you think we should?” asked his mother.
“You’d better take it,” Chap said gravely. “If not, it will just go into his estate and the IRS will get it all.”
“What else will go into his estate?” asked the aunt.
“All this,” Chap said, waving his arms at the office while he walked to the desk. He removed a wrinkled envelope stuffed with bills of all denominations, money they’d just transferred from the rental across the street. He gave it to Helen, who snatched it and counted the money.
“Nine twenty, and some change,” Chap said.
“Which bank did he use?” Helen asked.
“I have no idea. Like I said, he was very private about his money.” And in one respect, Chap was telling the truth. Trevor had wired the $900,000 from the Bahamas to Bermuda, and from there the t
rail had disappeared. The money was now hidden in a bank somewhere, in a numbered account accessible only by Trevor Carson. They knew he was headed for Grand Cayman, but the bankers there were famous for their secrecy. Two days of intense digging had revealed nothing. The man who shot him took his wallet and room key, and while the police were inspecting the crime scene the gunman searched the hotel room. There was about $8000 in cash hidden in a drawer, and nothing else of any significance. Not a clue as to where Trevor had parked his money.
It was the collective wisdom at Langley that Trevor, for some reason, suspected he was being followed closely. The bulk of the cash was missing, though he could have deposited it in a bank in Bermuda. His hotel room had been secured without a reservation—he simply walked in from the street and paid cash for one night.
A person on the run, chasing $900,000 from one island to the next, would have, somewhere on his body or in his effects, evidence of banking activities. Trevor had none.
While Aunt Helen riffled through what would surely be the only cash they’d net from the estate, Wes thought about the fortune lost somewhere in the Caribbean.
“What do we do now?” Trevor’s mother asked.
Chap shrugged and said, “I guess you need to bury him.”
“Can you help us?”
“That’s not really something I do. I—”
“Should we take him back to Scranton?” Helen asked.
“That’s up to you.”
“How much would that cost?” Helen asked.
“I have no idea. I’ve never had to do anything like this.”
“But all his friends are here,” his mother said, touching her eyes with a tissue.
“He left Scranton a long time ago,” Helen said, her eyes cutting in all directions, as if there was a long story behind Trevor’s leaving Scranton. No doubt, thought Chap.
“I’m sure his friends here will want a memorial service,” Mrs. Carson said.
“Actually, one is already planned,” Chap said.
“It is!” she said, thrilled.
“Yes, it’s tomorrow at four o’clock.”
“Where?”
“A place called Pete’s, just down the street a few blocks.”
“Pete’s?” Helen said.
“It’s, well, it’s sort of a restaurant.”
John Grisham Page 29