Jack climbed down a curved set of stairs to Rick’s mini-oasis. The afternoon sun glistened on the polished chrome railings. A perfect breeze carried the grilling smoke away from the yacht and out over the harbor’s deep-blue waters. On the deck above them, against a cloudless sky, a pair of jet skis begged for attention. For a moment, Jack imagined that he was alone with Andie, anchored near a remote Caribbean island, Jack handing her a chilled glass of champagne as she emerged from a swim in the crystal-clear waters, soon to lose her bikini.
Rick handed him a cold beer. “Where’s Theo?”
Back to reality. “He went into town. He should have been back by now.”
Rick flipped the burgers.
Jack drank his beer. “So when you do these yacht deliveries, you can use anything you want on the boat?”
“You can if you clean it up,” said Rick. “That’s your job, first mate.”
I had to ask.
“How did things go at the bank?” asked Rick.
“Went okay,” said Jack. He went to the rail, thinking. He didn’t know Rick well, so he didn’t want to share too many details. But Rick’s take on certain things could be useful.
“Has Bianca ever been to the Bahamas?”
“Not that I know of,” said Rick. “But I don’t check her passport when she comes to work.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but how well do you really know Bianca?”
“Well enough, I guess. Better than most of my waitresses. She’s been through a lot, so I guess you might say I’ve taken her under my wing. Why do you ask?”
Jack drank more of his beer. There was no indirect way to approach the subject with Rick, but he needed some peace of mind. He went for it.
“There’s fifty thousand dollars in a numbered bank account at the New Providence Bank and Trust Company. It was a cash deposit made in Nassau. I need to find out who made it.”
Rick stood over the burgers, spatula in hand, momentarily frozen. “You think it was Bianca?”
“No. But everyone from the FBI to Judge Carlyle is going to be asking some pointed questions in short order. I need to be able to rule out my client. The deposit was made less than three weeks before the Scarborough 8 exploded. September fifth.”
“What day of the week is that?”
“Monday. It was Labor Day actually.”
“Labor Day? Unless Bianca traveled by rocket ship on her lunch break, there’s no way she made the deposit. That’s one of my busiest days of the year. Every waitress I got works ten, twelve hours.”
“That’s what Bianca told me.”
“Well, there you go. Now you’ve heard it from her boss, too. You want cheese on your burger?”
“Sure.”
“Where would she get fifty thousand dollars, anyway?” asked Rick.
As a down payment for her husband’s blowing up the Scarborough 8. Jack couldn’t go there with Rick. His cell rang, giving him an out. It was Theo.
“What’s up?”
“Not much,” said Theo. “I’m over here at the highly impressive-sounding Royal Bahamian Police Force Headquarters.”
“You’re at the police station?”
“Yeah, it’s on the east side of Nassau, on East Street North. I’ve been sitting here for over two hours. They finally let me make a phone call. I could probably use a lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“Jeffries is dead. Cops seem to think I did it.”
“Dead?” Jack sprang into defense mode. “Have you talked to the cops?”
“Nope. I’m sure that’s why they kept me sitting here, thinking that I might.”
“Good. Do not say a word until I get there. Don’t talk to the cops, don’t talk to the janitor in the hallway, don’t talk to the guy standing next to you in the men’s room. Don’t talk to anyone. Do you hear me?”
“Yup.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Jack. He hung up and put his phone away.
“Something wrong?” asked Rick.
Jack took a breath, wondering what the hell had made him think it was a good idea to send Theo off to visit Jeffries alone. “Nothing I can’t handle,” said Jack. “I hope.”
Chapter 55
Bad case of déjà vu, ain’t it, Jack?”
Jack was alone with Theo in a tiny, windowless room beside the holding cell at the Royal Bahamas Police Force Headquarters in Nassau. The reference to how they’d met—Theo accused of a murder he didn’t commit—seemed apropos.
“Tell me what happened.”
Jack was seated on one side of a table no larger than a school desk, notepad in front of him. Theo sat opposite him with hands clasped behind his head, relaxed in a way that only someone who had spent four years on death row could be relaxed in these circumstances. Behind Theo, hanging on the wall, directly above his head, was a framed photograph of a dozen jubilant young men with their caps on backward and enough bling around their necks to pass for gangbangers from Theo’s old neighborhood. It was the police-force basketball team celebrating its fourth consecutive Caribbean Law Enforcement Championship.
“Bank was closed when I got there,” said Theo. “I spotted one of the assistants from the bank, the woman who helped you with the safe-deposit box. She was right next door in the salon, getting her nails done. I made up a little story of how I needed to see Jeffries, and she told me where he lived. Went to his house, knocked on the door, no one answered. I looked down and saw a little blood seeping out from under the door. I opened the door—”
“You opened the door?” said Jack, cringing.
“Yeah. I mean, what if the guy was hurt? Turns out he was dead on the floor. Throat slit wide open, blood all over. I called the cops. Here I am.”
Jack was taking notes, getting Theo’s every word but also jotting down his thoughts. Time of death was underlined, but another realization was foremost in his mind.
“We’re back to where we were when we thought Josefina was dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy who kidnapped me in Cuba. The guy who attacked Bianca and controls Josefina. It’s a safe bet that he’s also the guy who killed Mr. Jeffries—probably for telling us too much about the numbered account. I’ve suspected it all along, but now we know for sure: we’re up against someone who is willing to commit murder in order to get what he wants.”
There was a knock at the door. Jack got up and answered it. Standing in the hallway was the police sergeant from the RBPF Central Detective Unit’s Homicide Squad, the same detective who had checked Jack in at the station desk twenty minutes earlier. Beside him was a much bigger white guy whom Jack had never seen before.
“You got a visitor,” said the sergeant.
The white guy flashed a badge. “Special Agent Michael Brunelli, FBI.”
“FBI? In the Bahamas?”
“Obviously I’m out of my jurisdiction, so I can’t come in unless you invite me. But I work with your wife.”
Jack took that as a positive. He allowed Brunelli in, said good-bye to the detective, and closed the door. He didn’t think it sounded too paranoid to ask, “Did the FBI follow me here?”
“No. The Bahamians ran Theo Knight through the FBI and Interpol database. His name—like yours—is linked to the criminal investigation into the Scarborough 8. Right now, there’s not a higher priority at the Bureau. Got me here in under four hours, door to door.”
Jack did a mental double take. “You said you work with Andie. Are you telling me that my wife is investigating the Scarborough 8?”
“Actually, she’s my girlfriend.”
“That’s not really funny.”
“I thought it was,” said Theo.
“Anyway,” said Brunelli. “I didn’t come here to tell you what your wife is or isn’t doing. Just be glad she’s plugged in. If it weren’t for her, you’d have Agent Linton here now busting your chops on behalf of the National Security Division. Instead, you got me.”
“What does that mean, we ‘got
’ you?”
“It means that even though you and Agent Linton seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, hopefully you and I can help each other out.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’ve talked with the homicide detective. Theo Knight is the only suspect they have right now. So you are not going to walk out of this police station anytime soon. That is, unless you walk out in the custody of an FBI agent.”
“I’m listening,” said Jack. “What do you want from us?”
“Tell me everything. What you were doing here in the Bahamas. What you found at the bank. What Jeffries told you. All of it.”
Theo scoffed. “Tell him to forget it, Jack. The Bahamians are gonna figure out I’m not their guy. If I have to spend a couple nights in jail, it ain’t gonna kill me.”
“Couple nights?” said Brunelli. “Where do you think you are, pal—the land of the free and the home of the brave? You know what the murder rate is in the Caribbean? Thirty in one hundred thousand. That’s higher than any other region in the world. Not good for tourism. The local cops need to at least look like they’re tough on violent crime. They are not going to let you go until they have a better suspect in custody.”
Theo looked at Jack. “Is that true? Can they just keep me here?”
Jack didn’t answer, which Brunelli seized upon.
“Jack doesn’t know,” he said, “which points out another problem. A good Bahamian criminal defense lawyer isn’t cheap. And you’ll need one ASAP. Unless you do the smart thing and just walk out the front door with me.”
Jack considered it, then said, “Give us a minute.”
“I’ll be right outside,” said Brunelli.
Jack waited for the agent to step out, but Theo was talking before Jack could get out a word. “Don’t do it, Jack. We got burned already by Linton. Everything you told him, he used against you to crush Bianca’s case. Don’t get burned again. I don’t care if this Brunelli guy is your wife’s boyfriend.”
“Will you please stop calling him Andie’s boyfriend?”
“Sorry.”
“My advice is that we should work with Brunelli,” said Jack.
“Why?”
“Shit happens in the islands, Theo. As soon as the media gets hold of this, you’ll be portrayed as a former gangbanger from Miami who got off Florida’s death row on a mere technicality. There’s going to be pressure to hold you, which will turn into pressure to charge you, which becomes pressure to convict you. If we have a chance to get the Bahamian police to release you from custody, we need to take it.”
From the expression on Theo’s face, Jack could tell that Theo was searching his mind for some way to disagree. He was silent, unable to find one.
Jack went to the door and opened it. “All right, Brunelli. Get us out of here.”
Chapter 56
Jack and Theo walked out of the Royal Police headquarters at seven o’clock. Agent Brunelli went with them, step for step.
It had taken two hours to obtain the necessary approvals, which was lightning quick in the Bahamas on a Saturday evening. The team effort had been pretty effective, Jack and Agent Brunelli working their way up from the chief of the homicide squad to the assistant commissioner of crime management, and, finally, to the deputy commissioner and force internal inspector, who oversaw international policing and Interpol activities. There were conditions on the release. Theo could not leave the island, and the Royal Police kept his passport. And Brunelli was to remain with him at all times, which Theo had no intention of making easy.
“What’s your girlfriend up to tonight, Bruno?”
“It’s Brunelli.”
“And she’s not his girlfriend,” said Jack.
The car was a two-door compact, barely big enough for Jack alone, a total stretch for Jack and two men as big as Brunelli and Theo. Brunelli got behind the wheel, and as much as Jack would have preferred to ride shotgun, it was physically impossible for Theo to climb into the backseat. Jack yielded the passenger seat and squeezed in behind him.
“Where we headed, Brutus?” asked Theo.
“Brunelli.”
“To the bank,” said Jack.
Brunelli started the car and merged into traffic, clearly uncomfortable with the colonial holdover of left-sided driving. Jack expected some smart-ass remark from Theo about driving on the wrong side of the road, but it didn’t come. He plugged the bank address into his iPhone GPS.
“Turn right in three blocks. New Providence Bank and Trust Company is on the left.”
“Seriously?” said Theo. “We’re going to the bank? I thought you were yanking my chain.”
Jack had kept his part of the deal with Brunelli and told him about the bank account. Getting the royal police to sign off on Theo’s conditional release had been a snap compared to getting a manager to open the bank on a Saturday night. FBI involvement had actually complicated matters, and keeping law enforcement out of it was the only way to make it happen without spooking the bank into shutting its doors for good.
“I’m going to find out who made the deposit,” said Jack.
Brunelli parked across the street from the main banking center, which could not have looked more different from Jeffries’ storefront branch. The three-story colonial-style building had textured walls of pink stucco, white fluted columns, and enormous front doors that made for a grand entrance. Towering royal palm trees, beautifully lighted, flanked the marble walkway. Jack felt like one of the circus clowns piling out of a packed VW Beetle, but the unlikely threesome finally squeezed out of Brunelli’s tiny rental car. An elderly Bahamian gentleman was walking toward them on the sidewalk, about a half block away.
“That’s gotta be Mr. Benson,” said Jack. Benson was a barrister from Nassau, an expert on offshore banking whom Jack had found on the quick through his professional contacts in Miami. The best way to arrange an after-hours bank visit in Nassau was through a local lawyer who had a relationship with the bank.
“Does Benson know you have the FBI with you?” asked Theo.
“Of course not,” said Jack. “Nor does he know that I’m with Theo Knight, the only suspect in the murder of the bank’s branch manager. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll introduce you guys very briefly, first names only, no mention of the FBI, then you two can take a hike.”
“Got it,” said Brunelli.
Benson was a slow walker, showing his age, but finally he reached the group. He gave Jack his business card and shook hands.
“These are friends of mine,” said Jack. “Michael and Theo.”
“I didn’t catch your last name,” said Benson, offering his hand.
“Brunelli,” said the agent.
So much for no surnames.
Theo said nothing, adhering to Jack’s rule.
“And you are?” asked Benson.
“Me? Nobody,” said Theo. “I’m here with Valerie Bertinelli.”
“Brunelli.”
“Sorry. Valerie Brunelli.”
Benson shot a curious expression at Jack. “I think it’s best if Mr. Swyteck and I go inside alone.”
“That’s the plan,” said Jack. “Take a walk, men.”
Brunelli led Theo away, and Jack overheard him muttering beneath his breath as they started down the sidewalk. “I swear I’m gonna freakin’ smack you.”
Get in line, thought Jack.
Jack crossed the street with Benson, who led the way up the marble stairs to the front entrance. Jack peered through the diamond-shaped window in the door. The brass chandeliers were on, revealing more Italian marble, rich walnut paneling, and museum-quality artwork. It was no stretch for Jack to imagine someone walking in with fifty thousand dollars in cash. A security guard emerged from the shadows and came to the door. A woman was with him, and she clearly recognized Benson through the glass.
“That’s the bank manager,” Benson told Jack. “Samantha Walters.”
The guard opened the door, allowing Jack and his local counsel to enter. Benson and
the manager were obviously friends, and they exchanged pleasantries about their families as Jack followed them across the bank lobby to the manager’s office. Her desk was at one end of the spacious suite, but she led them to the oval conference table near the window. Walters graciously let Jack have the view of Nassau at night and, seated with her back to the window, she took the lead.
“I understand that you are interested in the identity of the customer who made the deposit into your client’s account on the fifth of September. Do I have that correct, Mr. Swyteck?”
“Yes,” said Jack. “I know this may sound unusual, but my client didn’t know this account existed until after her husband died.”
“That’s not unusual at all in our line of work,” said Walters. “But if I may ask: Why do you need to know who made the deposit?”
Jack had prepared for that very question.
“If the deposit was made by an American, I understand that we may have an FBAR issue.”
FBAR—Foreign Bank Account Report—is an information form that American citizens must file with the U.S. Department of the Treasury if they hold more than ten thousand dollars in a foreign bank account.
Walters cleared her throat, then spoke. “Mr. Benson should be able to provide your client with more specific legal guidance. But let me offer two general thoughts. First, it doesn’t matter who made the deposit. Your client is a U.S. citizen, and she is the beneficial owner of an account in excess of ten thousand dollars. Second—and I say this in strictest confidence—the filing of a Foreign Bank Account Report is an issue only if your client chooses to make it an issue. This bank does not hand over its clients to U.S. law-enforcement authorities for the mere failure to file an information report with the U.S. government.”
“I appreciate that,” said Jack. “Legalities aside, my client would sleep a lot better at night if she knew who made the deposit.”
“Very well,” said Walters. “We’ll do the best we can.”
“The best you can?” asked Jack. “You don’t have a record of who made the deposit?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Walters. With a jiggle of the mouse on the pad in front of her, the computer screen brightened, and a bank deposit slip came up on the LCD. She adjusted the monitor so Jack could have a clear view from the other side of the table. “As you can see, there is no signature line or other identifying marks on our deposit slips.”
Black Horizon Page 27