Three weeks before the Scarborough 8 disaster.
Jack checked the “Account Holder” line. It read: “NR050527.” It was a numbered account.
No surprise.
Jack photographed the bank record with his iPhone, sealed the paper in a plastic bag, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He closed the box and pushed the call button for the bank employee. She came quickly, returned the box to its sleeve in the other room, and then let him out. Jack thanked her and headed straight for the exit, eager to get away cleanly and quickly with the bank record. Theo followed him out the door and down the sidewalk.
“Well?” asked Theo.
They were still walking as Jack showed him the photo of the bank record on his phone. Theo studied it.
“Fifty thousand dollars?” he said, so surprised that he stopped walking. “Somebody blew up an oil rig for a measly fifty thousand dollars?”
They were a half block away from the bank, just beyond the odor of the manicure salon. “The amount of this deposit isn’t important,” said Jack. “For all we know, there are five hundred accounts like this all over the Caribbean.”
“That would be . . .” Theo gave up on the math, too many zeroes to carry. “A shitload of money.”
“The key is to find out who the account holder is. All we have is a number.”
“I guess that’s what Josefina meant when she said the first piece is free. We get the deposit record.”
“But we don’t get the name of the account holder.”
Theo glanced toward the bank. “Why don’t we go back and ask?”
Jack scoffed. “Offshore banks don’t just give out that information because you ask.”
“Maybe this one does.”
“Trust me. They don’t.”
“You don’t know till you try.”
“It’s a stupid idea. Forget it.”
Theo nodded, but it was an acknowledgment of their disagreement, not acquiescence. “I’m gonna take a shot.”
“You don’t understand, Theo. Bank secrecy is the law in this country. You’re asking them to commit a crime.”
“I’m not putting a gun to their head.”
“No, but if they get the impression that you’re making a veiled threat or even hinting at a bribe, that would be real trouble.”
“I’ll ask nicely.”
Jack laid his hand over his coat pocket, referencing the bank record. “The smart move is to take this and get it checked for fingerprints. I don’t see any upside to going back inside the bank and asking questions that we shouldn’t be asking.”
“Then you wait here.”
Theo started down the sidewalk. Jack went after him. “Theo, don’t go back in that bank.”
Theo didn’t answer.
“Theo, don’t.”
Theo yanked open the door and stopped. “Dude, it’s totally okay. Just admit it. You brought me on this trip for the same reason you married Andie Henning: there needs to be at least one set of balls in the equation.”
“What?”
“Now, let me do my job.” The door closed and Theo disappeared inside.
“Damn it,” Jack said under his breath. He waited outside for a minute, but the waft of chemicals from the busy salon next door was making him dizzy. Or maybe it was the thought of Theo inside the bank, winging it. Jack didn’t want any part of a half-baked plan, but he didn’t want Theo in charge, either.
One set of balls?
He sucked it up, went inside, and found Theo speaking to the manager in the office behind the glass wall.
“Good timing,” said Theo. “Jack, this is Mr. Leonard Jeffries.”
Jack shook his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Jeffries. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience at all,” said Jeffries.
“We’ll be going now, right, Theo?”
Jeffries looked confused. “So you don’t want the account holder information?”
Jack returned the confused expression. “Excuse me?”
“As I was explaining to your partner—”
“Partner?” said Jack, recalling Theo’s running honeymoon joke. “No, we’re not married.”
“Law partner,” said Theo. “I told the man we’re law partners.”
“Ah, right.” Impersonating an attorney now. Great.
“As I was saying,” said Jeffries. “As the lawyer for Bianca Lopez, you have access to all account information.”
More confusion. “How did you know I was her lawyer?”
“Well, how else would you have been granted access to the safe-deposit box? It’s all the same account. That information was input through our Internet banking system.”
“By whom?”
“Perhaps it was your client. I can’t say for sure. Anyone who knows the user ID and enters all three passwords in the correct sequence can update the account information.”
Jack was trying to play it cool, but he was trying to catch up, too. “This may sound like a dumb question, but are you saying that Bianca Lopez is the account holder?”
Jeffries hesitated. “Mr. Swyteck, I deal frequently with attorneys. You seem considerably less informed about the pertinent details than most. No offense, but may I see your bar membership card, please?”
Jack dug it from his wallet. Jeffries went to his computer and compared Jack’s Florida Bar number to the data on file. He seemed satisfied, at least in the sense that he had done enough to cover his ass. But he was more guarded in his remarks.
“Thank you,” said Jeffries as he returned the card to Jack. “To answer your question, Ms. Lopez is the named beneficiary under the account.”
Jack felt a chill, inferring the answer to his next question, but asking it anyway. “So the account holder would be?”
“Her late husband,” said Jeffries. “Rafael Lopez, of course.”
“Yes,” said Jack, still not quite believing. “Of course.”
Chapter 52
Jack’s first phone call was to his client, who listened without saying a word, seemingly numb, as Jack laid out his findings. Finally, she spoke in a voice that shook.
“I don’t understand any of this, Jack. Honestly, I don’t.”
Jack had put a few more questions to Jeffries before leaving the bank, but the added pressure of interrogation only made the banker more uncomfortable. Before long, Jeffries had completely shut down and asked them to leave. Jack and Theo cabbed it back to the marina and called Bianca from the yacht. Captain Rick had retired to sleep in the stateroom upon docking, and there was still no sign of him, so it was just the two of them on the sky-deck seating salon behind the helm station. Jack’s iPhone lay flat on the polished teak table. Even with 360-degree windows and unobstructed views of blue skies and the marina, cell reception was less than ideal in the islands, and Bianca’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“This makes no sense,” she said. “How could Rafael go to the Bahamas to open a bank account if he couldn’t leave Cuba and come to me in Key West?”
“That’s the key,” said Jack. “The last thing Jeffries told me before asking us to leave the bank was that access to an account can be changed online, once the account is open. But to open an account in the first place, the customer has to appear in person at the bank.”
“Then he should be able to tell you that it wasn’t Rafael who opened the account. Did you show him a photo?”
“I did,” said Jack. “I pulled one off the Web from the news coverage of your case. That’s when Jeffries asked us to leave.”
“So he knows the bank screwed up,” said Bianca.
“That’s possible,” said Jack. “Somebody pretended to be Rafael and opened a bank account in his name. And now the bank is retreating into its cocoon, refusing to say another word.”
“Why would someone pretend to be Rafael?”
“I can only guess,” said Jack, “but it may be a good one. Whoever blew up the rig needed someone to blame. Rafael was a derrick monkey, very likely to di
e in the explosion. What better person to blame than someone who wouldn’t live to deny it?”
There was no response. “Bianca, are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said, but the crack in her voice belied it. “What do we do next, Jack?”
“One option is to go to the FBI.”
“They haven’t been very helpful,” she said.
“No, they haven’t,” said Jack. “And we need to be very careful. The push to shut down your case is driven by the National Security Division. Offshore banking and national security go hand in hand.”
He could hear Bianca’s sigh over the speaker. “This is all . . . I don’t know what. I can’t deal with this anymore.”
“I know. We’ll talk more when I get back.”
“Okay. I trust you. Whatever you say, I’ll do.”
It was nice to earn that level of trust, but Jack had heard the same words from clients who ended up in the electric chair or on the lethal-injection table. He said good-bye to Bianca and hung up. Theo went to the refrigerator and brought them a couple of sodas.
“There is one other possibility,” Theo said as he popped open the can. “It could be that Rafael was one of the dudes involved in the sabotage and turned himself into a crispy critter in the process.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”
“Do you think Bianca is?”
“Let her process what I told her. No need to rock her world any more than it’s been rocked.”
“Is the next move really to call the FBI?”
“I need to think this through. Right now Bianca’s case is on hold until the criminal investigation is over, but at least we’re still in court. The quickest way to get it tossed out for good is to put the idea in Barton-Hammill’s head that Rafael was one of the saboteurs who blew up the rig.”
“Fuck the FBI,” said Theo. “We need to find out who opened that account and who deposited fifty grand, cash money. If you call the FBI, it all gets sucked into a black hole called national security. That’ll be the end of Bianca’s case, and we’ll never know the truth.”
Jack opened his soda. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what would you do?”
“Let me go pay another visit to Mr. Jeffries.”
“No,” said Jack.
“Come on, dude. I know how to handle a pussy like Jeffries.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Do you want to know the truth or don’t you?”
“I do,” said Jack. “But right now, I’m feeling kind of tired, so I’m going below to take a nap. And while I have absolutely no control over your actions while I’m sleeping, I repeat: Whatever you do, Theo, do not go see Mr. Jeffries. Understood?”
Theo did a quick check beneath the table and said, “Damn, Swyteck, you may grow a set after all.”
“Hilarious.”
“Yes, boss. Understood.”
Chapter 53
Leonard Jeffries locked up the New Providence Bank and Trust Company at noon, the usual Saturday closing time. The bus dropped him two blocks from home. As the gravel road crunched beneath his plodding footfalls, only one thought was on his mind: secrets.
It was Jeffries’ job to keep them. His clients relied on his discretion. Like all branch managers, Jeffries had attended the training lectures put on by the high-priced banking lawyers. The cardinal rule of banking—“know your customer”—had been drummed into his head. He thought he had done everything required to “know” Rafael Lopez. But that photograph that Swyteck had shown him looked nothing like the “Rafael Lopez” who had visited his branch, presented a Cuban passport, and opened the account.
This is going to be trouble.
A leafy tropical canopy blocked out the midday sun, but even in the shade he was sweating. Jeffries shooed the neighborhood chickens out of his front yard, cursing the birds for the fresh droppings on his porch. The door was locked. The housekeeper came every Saturday morning, and for once she’d remembered to lock up before leaving. Jeffries checked under the mat to collect the key he’d left for her, but it was missing. She’d done it again, gone home with the key in her pocket.
Stupid woman. He would have to change the lock. A neighbor had been robbed blind by a cleaning lady who had cut a duplicate key for her ex-con boyfriend.
Jeffries went inside. The living room was unusually dark for the afternoon. Two weeks earlier, he’d shuttered most of his windows in preparation for Hurricane Miguel. Thankfully, the storm had changed course and spared the Bahamas, only to whack Cuba and then swallow the Scarborough 8. Like any conscientious soul who had wasted a weekend nailing up plywood for a false alarm, Jeffries was leaving it up until the next storm came along, just to make it worth the effort.
Like a sauna in here.
Jeffries closed the door, but before his hand could reach the light switch, he was pummeled from behind. The force of the blow knocked the air from his lungs, and the weight of his attacker sent him hard to the floor.
“Don’t move!”
Jeffries could barely breathe, let alone move. He was facedown on the carpet, at the mercy of someone much larger than he riding his kidneys. The huge hand that gripped the back of his neck felt powerful enough to crush his vertebrae at will. In a split second, the man hiding behind the door had stunned him into submission and taken complete control. The knife at Jeffries’ throat sealed the deal.
“Don’t make me use this,” the man said.
Jeffries struggled to speak. “No need, mon. No need.”
“You talk too much.”
His mind raced. Talk too much now, or talk too much at the bank? As the manager for an offshore haven, he lived in fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and pissing off clients. Or, worse, pissing off criminals.
“What did you tell Swyteck?”
His heart sank. That worst fear had been realized. This one was very pissed.
“Not a thing. I told him nothing.”
The blade pressed harder against his neck.
“I know that’s not true. I was watching. Swyteck went inside for twenty minutes and talked to one of your girls. He came out for two minutes, went back inside, and talked to you.”
Jeffries didn’t answer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice cried out, begging him to resist. He ignored it, recognizing that his attacker had the upper hand in every way, from brute strength to the essential facts.
“I’ll ask you again,” the man said. “What did you tell him?”
“I—I thought Mr. Swyteck already knew. He is the lawyer for the widow. His name is on the access list.”
“I put his name on the list, you dumbshit! He needed access to the box.”
“Yes, then all is good. He opened the safe-deposit box.”
“Did he take the bank record?”
“I don’t know what he took, mon. I have no idea what was in the box. That’s not my business. But as I say, all is good. He got into the box. No problem. No need for the knife, mon.”
The grip tightened around the back of Jeffries’ neck, the tip of the blade moved to his right earlobe, and the man spoke in a slow, deep voice. “I will cut you from ear to ear if you don’t tell me exactly what you said to Swyteck.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, his voice shaking. “Let me think. I told him he had access to the account because he was the lawyer for the widow.”
The tip of the blade probed deeper into his lobe, drawing a trickle of blood.
“What else?”
“That his client—that Bianca Lopez is the named beneficiary of the account.”
The knife worked even deeper, as if to confirm that the banker had said too much. Panic was setting in, and it was telling Jeffries that it was just a matter of whether the man would cut him open here, on the living room floor, or take him to a place where the body might never be found. Jeffries groaned, more out of fear than pain, as the hot trickle of blood ran all the way to the corner of his mouth.
“What else did you tell him?” the man demanded.
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“I don’t remember. Really.”
The blade twisted, and Jeffries grimaced in pain as the tip sliced through his earlobe and bore into the base of his jawbone.
“Tell me everything,” the man said.
“The account holder,” he said through clenched teeth. The pain was becoming unbearable.
“You told him the name of the account holder?”
“I thought he—Swyteck was on the access list.” Jeffries could feel the rise in anger coursing right through the man’s hold on his neck, and he braced himself for another twist of the knife.
“Did you tell him who made the cash deposit?”
“No. I didn’t. I swear.”
“That’s good. See, I’m going to be paid a lot of money for that information.”
“Excellent, I can help you with that,” he said, desperate to find any reason to be kept alive.
“You probably could,” the man said. “Problem is, I can’t trust you anymore.”
“You can trust me, mon!”
“If you give up that name, I lose a lot of money.”
“You won’t lose it,” he said, his voice racing. “It was a cash deposit. We don’t accept cash deposits at my branch. That deposit was made at the main banking center in Nassau.”
“So you don’t know who put the money in that account?”
“No. Truly, I don’t. You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”
“You won’t tell?”
“No, mon. No chance. How would I tell if I can’t tell?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
The blade entered below the jaw, and Jeffries heard himself scream as six inches of cold steel slashed across his throat in one even motion, unleashing a crimson river.
Chapter 54
Jack smelled burgers. Grilled burgers.
He actually had dozed off for a couple of hours after Theo left, and it was closer to dinnertime than lunch. Jack followed his nose through the salon, all the way to the back of the yacht. On the aft swim platform, at water level, he found Rick the grill master at work on the electric barbecue.
Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel) Page 26