Black Point

by Sam Cade

  Broyle hopped out of the chair. “What banks do you use?”

  “Why?”

  Facing Bill, Clyde smacked the left side of his face. Bill bent down, holding his head, “Ahhhh, gawwwd. Wells Fargo and BBVA. Business and personal accounts at both.”

  “Pull them up. I’m going to download all your banking data.”

  Clyde pushed Bill into the chair.

  It took forty minutes for Broyle to download all banking info onto a separate large-volume flash drive. He retrieved bank data back to one year prior to the bus trial.

  “Is that it? Every account? Last chance to be sure. If you’re screwing with us, we’ll be back,” said Broyle, intensity in his tone. “And it will be ugly.”

  “Yes, that’s all of it. I swear.”

  They left Bill trussed tight as a mummy, lying on the floor.

  At the back door, both men shed the coveralls, folded them as tight as they could, and stuffed them in the backpack along with the masks and gloves.

  They reached their car parked two blocks away in just under a minute.

  LIZ ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE at 8:00 a.m. on the dot, made coffee, and started checking emails. At the same moment, the Ford Focus carrying Clyde and Broyle was traveling at 75 miles-per-hour just passing Waveland, Mississippi on I-10 West, one hour out from New Orleans.

  Eight hours later they reached Ft. Worth.

  81

  Kissimmee, Florida

  Wednesday, July 24, 2019

  “GUY’S A BIGTIME PEDOPHILE. Good riddance to that friggin’ pervert,” said Duncan Weatherall, Kissimmee’s chief detective, who wore a face full of disgust over a dated summer-weight sport coat. Jake stood next to him looking into the reopened grave and a PVC pipe with a garden hose threaded into it, fascinated by the ingenuity of the killers.

  The day was heading towards ninety-four degrees by 1:30. Jake wore shades, no jacket, and was sweating through his shirt.

  “Jake, after thirty years in this business I thought I’d seen it all. Last evening a sizeable file of almost four thousand images of naked children, many involved in sex acts with an adult, hit my email. We believe whoever sent that was probably the killer. At least two hundred had Kimbrell himself in them.”

  Jake was digesting this unexpected information when his phone went off. Wild Bill. He thought about letting it go to voicemail. Changed his mind. Bill would blow up his phone every five minutes.

  “Hey, Bill. Can’t talk, I’m at a crime scene. I’ll call you back in an hour or so.”

  “Fuck that, Jake! They’re back, the killers. They jumped me when I arrived at the office this morning.”

  “Hold on one second.” Jake put the phone against his chest. “Detectives, can you give me a few minutes for this call.” Jake turned his back and moseyed off twenty feet from the grave.

  “Okay. Tell me exactly how it went down.” Jake’s brow furrowed. Another surprise.

  Bill spoke fast, still running on fear stoked adrenaline, relaying every detail. “They wanted the school bus case file.”

  “Did they ask for money?”

  “No, but they will. They got all my bank records. They wanna see what I’ve got, that’s what I think. Then they’re coming to bleed me dry...or either kill me. Pike’s crew is dusting the office now. Poking around the alley and the streets. They don’t have a clue. Jake, hot-damn, I might leave town. I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Might not be a bad idea. I’ll get back to you.”

  Jake slowly walked around the swimming pool. Thinking. Kissimmee and Black Point. Connected? Jake couldn’t see it, but still, two surprises coming his way within minutes. Jake had been sure Kimbrell was a third lawyer killed for lack of payment. He was a big money guy. Or...coincidence? Just about his sexual perversion? He spoke to the F.B.I. field office in Las Vegas thirty minutes before coming to Kimbrell’s place. Told them to ransack Kimbrell’s law office computers looking for digital evidence of an extortion attempt.

  He made a second call after talking to the detectives. He told them to talk to anyone that might know about Kimbrell’s sexual proclivities for children. He would get his hands on the pedo files and send a copy to Vegas.

  Maybe Bill was right, planning another run on his money. He paid once and paid fast. Going back at him might be the smart play. Could be easy money. They killers had to think that.

  The bus file? There it is again.

  82

  10:05 A.M. WEDNESDAY. ZEUS SAT IN HIS OFFICE, CONCERNED, EDGY, door shut. What the fuck! He’d spoken to the cops about the incident this morning with Bill. He wasn’t there and didn’t know what happened, he told them. But he might have a clue, he thought to himself.

  Lucky did the Rolls. Zeus asked him to, just to screw with Bill. Why would he be back on this? Had to be Lucky. Bill’s description of the smaller of the two men fit Lucky’s profile. Bill said he was ‘average size.’ Voice sounded American. Pike pushed Bill to define average. Six feet, maybe one-ninety. But he was in coveralls. Could have been lighter. The bus trial? Dead giveaway.

  Lucky’s gaming me, thought Zeus.

  Zeus grabbed his two laptops, zipped in his Subaru down Colony St. to Coffee Loft, a hip coffee spot repurposed out of the shell of a decades-old convenience store, squeezed a parking spot out of the small crowded lot, ordered an iced coffee, and powered up the laptop he used for the dirty work. It was easily differentiated from his personal computer by a sticker, the logo from the TV show Mr. Robot. Computer Repair With A Smile.

  He popped up DataCage. Left a message for Lucky.

  Need to know and no bullshit. Did you run through town after Orlando? Was that you in Bill Burnham’s office this morning?

  Zeus tried to simmer down, but the coffee drove him in the wrong direction. He didn’t need Lucky going off the rails. Green’s murder brought in $14.3 million. Clemmons’ death added $21.9 million. When the money came rolling in after the first murder went down, Zeus began buying crypto daily.

  If Lucky would stay calm, they could finish this up in a few months. Then turn into smoke in the breeze.

  Zeus expected Kimbrell’s demise to bring in a landslide of cash. Drowned in a box underground? Man! Zeus edited Lucky’s video into one minute forty-five seconds of life you’d never want to happen to you. The claustrophobia alone? Gave Zeus a shiver.

  Zeus wanted another day of national media on the Kissimmee ambush to soak into the collective souls of American lawyers. Then, pow. Thirty-five lawyers would be receiving a highly personal digital demand complete with video visuals of their ol’ buddy Jack Kimbrell taking an airless swim in a wooden box.

  And that included an email to Wild Bill Burnham.

  83

  Friday, July 26, 2019

  THE MAN IN FRONT OF ZEUS was late twenties with the frat boy uniform, button-down oxford over khakis with a Vineyard Vines bow tie. He said to a buddy, “You watch. Saban’ll have Tua out by halftime with Bama up thirty-five points. Gonna screw the kid out of the Heisman.”

  His buddy, a short, junior-sized frat boy, oxford button-down, khakis, bow tie, said, “Yep. It’s got me worried. Need that Heisman to go along with our national championship.”

  Zeus rolled his eyes. He despised football. Ninety-nine percent chance those were two newbie lawyers or baby bankers. He paid for an iced coffee and a muffin, took a seat in a corner and went online securely with his computer. There was Lucky’s response.

  NO. I was not in Wild Bill’s office. Summary please. What happened?

  Zeus left a description of the event. It concerned Zeus. Why now? Lucky was lying to him. Why screw with success?

  His mind suddenly hit on something interesting. If anyone was watching him, they would have noticed a wry smile cross his face. He began to type.

  Check DataCage DAILY. Have your office look alive for a call from Burnham’s law office. I’m about to hit them with something that might spur them on to hire Knight Force for some protection.

  Bring in the devil to swirl aroun
d Wild Bill’s kingdom.

  Almost a week had passed since Kimbrell’s murder and two days out from the two men accosting Burnham. One by one Zeus launched the invitations to attorneys. Time to pay. Lyrics from a 1970s Pink Floyd tune spun through his head.

  ...grab that cash with both hands and make a stash...

  Now, for William Burnham, a slightly different invitation. Zeus knew that Wild Bill sliced $2 million off his cut to that jackleg ambulance jockey, Dunigan. Then paid $11 million in taxes on the bus crash windfall. Next he pumped $12 million into buying a small collection of trailer parks in central Georgia that inflated the value of his mobile home portfolio up to $33 million.

  He punched the ‘send’ button on proton mail. The digital message raced around the world on the Tor system only to land softly in Wild Bill’s in-box, decrypted and poised to jump off the screen and strangle the breath out of him.

  Zeus raced out of the coffee shop. He hoped to be in the office when Bill spotted the email.

  THREE MINUTES TO REACH THE downtown parking deck. Zeus ran through the alley by the bank to Black Point Ave., slowed for two cars, then sprinted to the front door of the law office.

  “Will summer please leave,” Zeus wiped his brow as he walked into the cool office lobby, huffing. Aunt Liz had a concerned look on her face.

  “Something’s happened, Teddy.” Liz held a subdued conspiratorial smile on her face. “Hold it a moment.”

  “What?”

  “Bill just screamed down to lock all the doors. Hold all calls. Not sure what’s going on.”

  Joy melted through Zeus’s body. He looked at Liz, let her see the beginnings of a smile with a chin nod. Her eyebrows raised. What?

  “I have work to do Aunt Liz. I’ll be in my office.” Theo winked.

  Walking down the hall he could taste the delicious pain Bill was feeling at this moment. Everything had gone perfectly...but, now...Lucky trying to wrangle control...why the hell?

  ONLY MOMENTS AGO, Bill’s computer emitted a short pleasant symphonic tone when Zeus’s email hit. Bill’s stomach went into his throat when he spotted the sender.

  Panic@protonmail.

  The heading: You’ve Been Selected

  He took a breath, opened the message, slid on his readers, leaned in to read it.

  Congratulations!

  You’ve Been Selected as a Rare Platinum Donor

  You Have Thirty Days To Transfer the Deeds of ALL Your Trailer Parks Into The

  Charity of Your Choosing

  Thank You For Your Generosity

  And, Please

  Call A Press Conference, Take Some Credit

  That Way We’ll Know It’s Done

  And Then We’re Gone Forever

  Unless You’d Like to Star in Your Own Video

  We’re Full of Ideas

  84

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday Night, July 29, 2019

  “YOU’RE GONNA WANT to hear this,” said John Simmons.

  Jake was holding a MacBook on his couch adjusting the contrast in some black and white photos with Lightroom when the phone rang. “It’s Monday night, man. Okay, whatcha got, John?” John Simmons, a Bureau man only months to retirement, was on the FBI’s financial team tracking the overseas accounts.

  “Burnham’s money went to Panama. And you know the account holder’s name in Panama is William Burnham.”

  “Right.”

  “Within days the money left Panama and went to Hong Kong. Hong Kong got back to us fast. The Hong Kong account holder is one Braxton Green. American address is King Street, Charleston, South Carolina. Your first guy killed.”

  “You gotta be kidding.” Jake took a strong pull of Rolling Rock.

  “Nope. And it gets better. Over fourteen days every nickel minus one hundred dollars went into cryptocurrency, Bitcoin. The alleged Mr. Green was purchasing Bitcoin daily out of Hong Kong on six different crypto exchanges.”

  “So, we’re screwed, right?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Many in the general public think Bitcoin is anonymous. It’s not. Blockchain is a ledger system. Every transaction recorded.”

  “I don’t have a clue what that means. I just want to know one thing. Can we track it?”

  “Yes, but it will take a while. Coin can be spent in a thousand different ways, so don’t expect any quick results. I also have my hands on copies of the account documents used to open the Hong Kong accounts. The ID photos. You’ll love this.”

  “Oh, no. What?”

  Simmons laughed. “Exact same photo that was on Burnham’s ID in Panama, but this time with Braxton Green’s name.”

  Jake exhaled. “So, we don’t have much?”

  “Got a lot actually. It’ll just take some time to run it down. Here’s what concerns me. We have no idea how many accounts are out there from a bunch of different lawyers. It would be nice if some other lawyers stepped forward, let us know where they sent money.”

  “Yep.” Jake shook his head. “But listen to this crap, John, maybe it makes sense to you. Just got this info this morning from Burnham himself in Alabama. He’s received another financial demand. They included video of the Florida murder with it, so it’s them.”

  “Really?”

  “They’ve demanded Burnham donate his trailer parks to charity. Yes, I said donate to a charity.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Wait a minute. An Alabama shyster named Wild Bill Burnham owns trailer parks?” Simmons laughed into the phone.

  “Keep laughing, John. It’s $33 million worth. Not a penny of debt. Throws off four million a year in profit.”

  “What! Thirty-three? Man, that’s strong. I’m with you, doesn’t make sense...except for this. Somebody wants to seriously screw that guy financially. Who in the hell did he piss off?”

  85

  Black Point, Alabama

  Tuesday, July 30, 2019

  THEO FULLER CLIMBED THE STAIRS to the second floor all the while thinking how this might play out. He tapped the closed door to Bill’s office. “It’s Theo.”

  “Come in.”

  The first thing Theo saw was Bill’s right hand on the grip of a revolver sitting on the top of his desk. After the trailer park demand, he was off his game, looked anxious, eyes bloodshot like he hadn’t slept. A man on his last nerve.

  “Hey, don’t shoot, Bill. I might have something to help you.”

  Bill carried the gun at all times. He also had an extra pistol in his car as well as one in his bedroom. He pointed the pistol to a chair. “Sit.” Bill placed the gun on the desk and rubbed both hands over his face.

  “Can’t sleep, Theo. Can’t think straight. If you’ve got something to help let’s hear it.”

  Theo handed Bill a postcard he was holding. “Maybe you’ve looked at it. We’ve gotten a couple of these things in the mail over the last two months.”

  Bill placed some drug store readers on his face, leaned back, and read the card out loud.

  “Knight Force. Elite security. Global Protection.” Flipped the card over, saw the website address. “I’ll be damned.” Punched it into the computer. Bang. It was up. Bill studied the home page for a moment. “Impressive. Have you seen this, the site?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Come around here.”

  Theo came around the desk, looked at the website over Bill’s shoulder. “Yeah, that’s sharp graphics, pro quality.” The background was black with crisp lettering and photos. At first glance the site left the right tone. We’re serious badasses.

  Theo pointed. “Click right here.”

  Bill clicked the WHAT tab and read out loud. “Personal Security, Awareness Training, Anti-Piracy Training, Self-Protection Techniques, Phantom Surveillance.”

  “Nice.” Bill clicked the WHO tab. Theo read it. “Extreme Experience. Special Forces. Combat Experience. Former F.B.I. Former CIA.”

  Bill coughed out a laugh and settled on a grin. “Look at this shit.” Bill scrolled his cursor over some small prin
t.

  “We’ve Killed A Lot of People. And They All Needed It.” He roared a laugh.

  “I mean, damn. This is a helluva site.”

  But Theo already knew that. He built it.

  “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Theo. I’ve got a call to make.”

  Theo’s mouth twisted into a grin as he closed the door.

  86

  Tuesday, August 6, 2019

  Washington, D.C.

  “I NEED A LUNCH MEETING, there’s important stuff to discuss. How’s your schedule?” Said Jake.

  “Pretty flexible. Yours?” Belinda Brant was regarded as the sharpest young tech mind in the D.C. cyber division. Undergrad at Cal Tech. Masters’ in computer engineering at Stanford. She could make five times the money in the private sector. People wondered why she didn’t.

  “Tomorrow works,” said Jake. “I’ll run by your office at 11:45. Try to clear two hours if you can. I’ve reserved a booth at a great spot, McDonald’s. Big Macs are brain food.”

  “Jake.” Belinda laughed. “I’m pesco-vegetarian.”

  “Not a problem. I’m tolerant of all sexual lifestyles.”

  She smiled.

  11:56. NEXT DAY. Jake held the door at McDonald’s open for Belinda. As they sauntered in, he happened to notice her sensible heels accented the shape of her legs.

  Belinda was totally natural, tall with a slim build, small breasted, little make-up, early thirties, soft honey-blond hair to her shoulders, and she wore stylish smart girl glasses. Jake would take one cerebral natural girl over twenty-five of the fabricated cheerleader airheads that used to come his way.

  “What can I get you, Belinda?”

  “I’ve got it right here, a salad.” She tapped a crumpled brown lunch bag. Her ecological sensitivities caused her to use one bag for half a year. “No, wait. A cup for water.”