Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1)

by Walter Danley

“Did you?”

  “Yeah…I did. It was Arnold, for Christ sake!” Keating paused as if deciding whether to continue with his tragic tale. “He took a bag full of capsules out of his freezer. There must have been hundreds. He told me to pick one, any one, like it was a magic trick or something. Believe me, I was very uneasy doing it, but Arnold, our corporate father, asked. The weird thing is what happened a little after we swallowed the caps. You know Arnold’s patio deck, with a tree growing up through the middle of it? Okay, the two of us were talking, about what I don’t remember, but I glanced out his French doors at that tree. I see two squirrels chasing each other up and down the trunk. One was snow white and the other was coal black.”

  “Robert, there aren’t any black or white squirrels, just gray.”

  “Yeah, I know!”

  “You mean it was a hallucination?” Wainwright said, looking for answers.

  “It must have been, but that’s the only thing I remember about the whole evening. From the time I swallowed the cap, until I woke up the next morning, is a blank. The next morning, I had the mother of all migraines. I woke up in Arnold’s guest room still wearing my shirt and briefs. My suit coat was over the back of an easy chair with my pants folded over.

  “He’d left a note saying to make myself to home—the last thing I wanted right then. Anyway, I went back to my house to clean up and change clothes. Since then, I did some research on the drug MDMA.” Keating took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and read from it. “Here, listen to this. The street names are Ecstasy, XTC, E, X, Beans, and a bunch more. It’s experimental with some shrinks, but illegal on the street. I wrote some of the medical description down.” Keating then read from his notes:

  IT IS A MAN-MADE DRUG KNOWN AS “X.” IT IS CLASSIFIED AS BOTH A STIMULANT AND HALLUCINOGENIC DRUG. IT AFFECTS MANY DIFFERENT PARTS OF THE BRAIN, ESPECIALLY AREAS THAT CONTROL PLEASURE, MOOD, EMOTIONAL CONTROL, AND INTERPRETATION OF SIGHTS, SOUNDS, AND SMELLS. THE CENTRAL NEUROCHEMICALS THAT ECSTASY IMPACTS ARE SEROTONIN AND DOPAMINE. IN OTHER WORDS, THE DRUG ALTERS LEVELS OF THESE NEUROCHEMICALS DRAMATICALLY, CAUSING THE BRAIN TO CHANGE RADICALLY HOW IT PROCESSES INFORMATION AND SENSATIONS.

  “And your hypothesis is this stuff has caused Arnold’s erratic behavior?”

  “Garth, Arnold has changed. That we know as fact. He gave this dope to me and maybe to others, as well. I have no idea what went on that night, what I might have said or done. Shit, what if he has pictures of me naked chasing squirrels around the deck?”

  “Put me down for an eight-by-ten glossy,” Wainwright quipped.

  “This is not funny, asshole. I’m scared totally shitless. I’ve read that users of this stuff do have hallucinations, and apparently, I did. They see or hear things that are not really there, just like my squirrel experience,” Keating confessed. “That happened after taking just one capsule of this shit, one time. Arnold’s behavior changes have been going on for months. God alone knows how much of that stuff he’s downing.”

  “Did he say he’s given this to anyone else?”

  “How the fuck would I know? The only thing I remember is the squirrel thing, but honest to God, it sure seemed real then. It still does.”

  Wainwright was thoughtful for a beat. We have the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar business using illegal drugs, maybe others on the board as well, a murdered partner, and the rampant embezzlement of millions of investor dollars. What could be worse? Oh, yeah, two of our partners are trying their best to take control for their own selfish, ego-driven reasons, and we’re a heartbeat away from the SEC bolting the company’s doors! “We’ve got so many people throwing darts at our corporate balloon I’m surprised it still holds any air. Don’t forget you and I are just two of the folks dependent on this balloon staying up, pal. If we go down, all of us will be ruined, and if I’m right about the Burke thing…some of us could be dead!”

  Thirteen

  “There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed.” ~ Buddha

  WEDNESDAY—JUNE | Dallas was following his usual pattern for clandestine meetings with CapVest partners. This time, the meeting was to be in Denver. Dallas called Borstad earlier this morning to arrange a meeting. He told him, “Someone that you are close to in Bellevue said to look for a tall, straight-postured Norwegian with reddish-blonde hair and heavily starched white dress shirt.” He persuaded Borstad to meet him in a place they would not be seen—a place where the things they said would not be heard. Borstad’s selection was the Sixteenth Street Mall, a tourist district of this mountain city. He would meet him in Coyote Ugly, a noisy bar and restaurant in the center of the tourist action.

  “Really, and who was it that misled you with that poor description? Who would that be?”

  “My principal, the one who sent me to see you, said since you’ve relocated to Denver, he just doesn’t get to see his adopted son as often. He said while there would never be confirmation of this meeting, he trusted that your knight would not checkmate his king. Does any of that give you something to hold on to, Mr. Borstad?”

  “Yes, it does. I’ll be happy to meet you at Coyote Ugly. Give me an hour to finish a few things. How will I know you?”

  “I’ve seen your picture in the All Cities marketing literature in Mr. Cha…my principal’s office, so I’ll recognize you when you come into the establishment.”

  Borstad was sure this Dallas was an emissary from Arnold Chaplain. Arnold was, after all, a strategic planner, but Borstad could not fathom why he’d resort to a cloak-and-dagger scenario for this meeting. Obviously, it was something Arnold didn’t want known at CapVest. Dallas said it related to his personal wealth. What the hell is that about? he wondered. With the All Cities Initial Public Offering around the corner, Borstad will be a multi-millionaire overnight; this has to have something to do with that, but what?

  His intercom buzzed as he was putting on a jacket over the ever-present vest he wore to assure his Phi Beta Kappa key, dangling from its gold chain, was properly on display. “Yes, Tracy?”

  “Mr. Meyer’s on line five for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He pressed the five button, switching phone lines. “Herb, I’m on my way out the door, may I call you back later this afternoon? …I will. Bye.”

  Dallas saw Borstad enter the restaurant. He watched as Borstad stood at the bar next to an empty stool, looking for someone he recognized. Dallas enjoyed watching people. He found they do things they otherwise would not if aware of being watched. The air was redolent of stale smoke and sour beer. After a few minutes of inspection, Dallas walked toward Borstad and spoke quietly to the side of his face.

  “Mr. Borstad, won’t you join me in the booth? We can talk there,” he said as he led the way to his table.

  When they were seated opposite each other, Borstad said, “You represent Arnold, huh? I’d like some proof of that before we do any talking. And by the by, I don’t speak with people with phony names. I want to know who you are.”

  Dallas looked directly into Borstad’s eyes and cleared his throat. “Here are the ground rules, Mr. Borstad. You do not have to like them, but you can either follow them exactly, or walk away. There will be no proof of anything I say…none. You will not speak of our conversation to anyone, and that includes my principal, not now, not later…not ever. If my employer wanted to work directly with you, he would not need my services, which, I assure you, come dear. Therefore, he does not intend there be any connection between him, you, and me. Is that clear?”

  “Plausible deniability,” Borstad muttered to himself staring at the tabletop in front of him.

  “As to who I am, you have no need to know. I’ve told you to call me Dallas. It’s as good a name as any, and that is all I will say about that.” He glowered into Borstad’s unblinking eyes. They reminded Dallas of the snake’s eyes in the zoo reptile house. “I trust you will give me the courtesy of listening. The information I bring from my principal is important a
nd valuable to you. Hear me out, and then you may do whatever you please. Neither I nor my boss will care one way or the other.”

  Borstad stared snake eyes back at the stranger. “I’m listening.”

  “You are planning to take your company public, to spin it off in January from the Capital Vested Corporation.”

  “That, sir, is neither new nor is it private information. I hope your trip here offers something other than what the world has already read in the newspaper?”

  “Tsk, tsk. My principal said you were both smart and patient. Which attribute did he get wrong? Now, to continue, you have been sending quarterly distributions from an ultra-private partnership to folks in Bellevue for some time—years, in fact. I’ve been asked to retrieve an accurate accounting of all funds distributed before I leave in the morning. Please include numbers and to whom you paid, from which properties, and in what amounts you took from each. I want numbers, names, and dates. Do you understand?”

  “And just why is that information important to your principal? He doesn’t want to have any record of those transactions. For that matter, neither do I.”

  “I’m getting to that part. I guess it was the patience part he got wrong! Your IPO of All Cities will generate something like sixty-five million dollars, isn’t that right?”

  “Go on. I don’t get your point, assuming there is one.”

  “I have been asked to procure your solemn commitment that you will repay the CapVest funds you have defrauded, every cent, plus interest, from your cash proceeds of the offering. Do you understand and will you so pledge?”

  An incredulous smile worked its way across Borstad’s mouth. “Have you been nipping at the booze in here before I showed up? You are out of your rabbit-assed mind. Even if you did come from Chaplain, there is no way in hell I’m having this discussion with you without verification from him.”

  “May I continue? With those crimes absolved, we can address the second part of his message.”

  Borstad rapidly blinked his snake eyes. Good God, is there no end to this fanciful fiend? “Go on, if you must.”

  “It is possible that, at some future date, the fraud might be revealed. That would be disastrous for you, your new publicly traded enterprise, and all those who have benefited from your felonious favors. So, preparations have been made to place damning evidence implicating someone else in the crime. Arno…aah, my principal has two goals: to repatriate the looted funds and, should the theft ever be discovered, to point your fraudulent finger at another. Think of it as a fail-safe, a back door.”

  “And who would your employer nominate for that privilege?”

  “That would be a person unable to neither challenge the charges nor defend himself. Someone lending credibility to the perpetuation of such fraud, as executed. Someone already dead, for example. Say, Thomas K. Burke.”

  The lunch crowd was beginning to thin. There were open seats with fewer ears that might overhear conversations emanating from the red Naugahyde booth in the back. “Let me see if I’ve got this fantasy straight: I send sixteen million plus back to the funds. Then somebody manipulates records to indicate Burke stole the money. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, you have the essence.”

  “That won’t work. Burke was a partner for a short time when it is conceivable for him to access property records. He would not have access to our records during the actual period. He was a competitor at that time. No, it is a poorly planned back door and is not even close to fail-safe. Something tells me your principal did not contribute to this plan.”

  “Oh, but he did, I assure you. What was your employee turnover rate last year?”

  “Again, I hate being redundant, but what’s your point?”

  “Would it be accurate to say it is in excess of ninety percent? And that it has been from the start? You see, people who left your employ went somewhere else to work, didn’t they? Many former All Cities alum found their way to Burke in Boston. Suffice to say, he had a similar turnover rate. Do you see how that might work now?”

  “Why would I entertain such lunacy?”

  “And that would bring us to the third and final part of the message. At a future date, to be determined by actions previously discussed, my principal will support your proposal that All Cities purchase all of Capital Vested Corporation. You will have achieved your goal, Borstad. You will be the biggest player in the country, maybe in the world.”

  Borstad didn’t respond. But his unblinking eyes brightened noticeably and a small smile crept onto his lips. He sat there, struck dizzy by the idea of owning both All Cities and CapVest. He was salivating over the billions in assets under his solitary, unconditional control. He stared at the wet ring left by his iced tea on the tabletop. Finally, he looked up at Dallas and said, “Could it work?”

  “You see why my principal required my services in this matter. You understand he has serious exposure, were his support discovered.”

  “Yes, yes, I see that, but how can I buy CapVest? We’ll do a stock exchange, right?”

  Dallas sighed, exasperated. “No, you don’t see it. Not paper. My employer would not support the proposal to trade the companies and cash flow for All Cities’ newly minted Chinese dollars—not going to happen—uh, huh, that dog won’t hunt, as they say in these mountain regions. On the other hand, he could assist in a leveraged loan so your offer is for all cash. That way, he supports your proposal to the board to buy the companies. You’ll have a ‘friends of the family’ loan terms, without dilution of your ownership, and you own the whole enterprise.

  “Oh, and before I forget, as the sole owner of CapVest, you’ll be able to rid yourself of the many who have become your enemies; Meyer might head that list, with supporting parts played by Wainwright, Shaw, and Keating. With Meyer and the troublesome trio gone, you can grow the company without interference or criticism.”

  Borstad continued to stare at the water ring on the tabletop, running a finger through the condensation. He turned the ideas over as Dallas patiently waited. Suddenly, Dallas thumped the tabletop with his hand and began to slide out of the booth. Borstad looked up from contemplation. “What? Are we finished?”

  “Oh, how I hate that particular phase.” Dallas continued his exit from the booth. “Let us say we’ve concluded all that can be accomplished at this sitting. I will expect those reports by eight in the morning. If I don’t have them as an indication of your commitment, I will be forced to report your rejection of the plan. And you know how he hates to be rejected. I will see you before eight.”

  Dallas was on time for his flight back to San Antonio. A carry-on was his only luggage, which he placed in the overhead bin. His bag contained a large manila envelope secured on top of his dirty clothes. Smiling, he thought, Game on!

  Fourteen

  “The smallest good deed is better than the grandest good intention.” ~ Dugruet

  FRIDAY—SEPTEMBER | Ariel Amiti had been in Chicago for fewer than ninety minutes—the time a taxi needs to go from O’Hare to the corner of 64th and Kimbark in Woodlawn. It was a hot, humid afternoon as he exited the terminal. Amiti was hit full-face with familiar Midwest air. After twenty hours of flying from his home in Israel, Amiti was glad to have solid pavement under his feet and be rid of the airplane full of screaming children.

  Dallas told him his representative would meet him at the First Presbyterian Church on the south side. He said his rep would recognize him and make the approach. All he had to do was be there on time. As his cab drove through the Woodlawn neighborhood, it was clear he was probably the only Israeli within the mostly African-American community. For that matter, he was the only white face. He’d already attracted attention from passersby, so, yes, the rep probably would recognize him, all right.

  This was not his first time in the Windy City. As a major in the Israeli Army, he’d been sent to Chicago to get a master’s degree from the Harris School of Public Policy at the University of Chicago. Not only was he familiar with the city’s weather, he knew t
he south side well.

  After graduating, Amiti returned to the Israeli Army for his mandatory three-year enlistment extension. Not long after his return, Mossad, the ultra-secret service branch of the country’s intelligence service, recruited him. In addition to intelligence collection, Mossad was considered responsible for covert operations suspected to include targeted killings and paramilitary activities beyond Israel's borders. His performance was never less than the very best, but Amiti’s political loyalties and patriotic principles were eventually trounced by corruption, ambition, and outsized greed.

  His Mossad comrades used terms that made the job of killing seem more acceptable, or maybe to isolate the action from their consciences-substituting terms like bag, waste, eliminate, dispatch, or erase as a way of dehumanizing the deed. Amiti had no such compulsions. He didn’t try to rationalize killing. He took comfort from the thought he was no different from other professionals. His goal was wealth. His skills to acquire it, death. To Amiti, killing was an acceptable trade-off for the prosperity he desired. A client received his services upon payment of the fee. Simple.

  Amiti was just above the physical size required by Mossad. He was strong, with incredible endurance and mental focus. He was well liked by his colleagues, and with his well-tuned sense of humor, he got along well with his superiors. By all accounts, his performance in Mossad was superior. That is, until he was caught in an illegal act. That got him dishonorably discharged five years ago at the age of twenty-seven.

  Amiti hated politics and politicians, which he blamed for his dishonorable discharge. He would point out the illogical legislation they pass into law. If it is kosher to kill for your country as a patriot, then it should be acceptable to provide that same service for entrepreneurial gain, commonly held morality and the law notwithstanding.

  His was a perfect record of accomplishment, this hired professional killer; often sought as his profession’s best, he provided wet work solutions to individuals with people problems and the money to solve them. Of course, to retain Amiti’s services, you must know someone who knows someone…but clients still managed to find him—enough that he had the option to choose his assignments.