Black Point

by Sam Cade

  Bill smiled, anticipating the crash and burn coming. Tinder.

  “And, somehow, photos of Jack’s dick were sent to a transsexual from Jack’s own cell phone. He thought it was a woman. And, somehow, every time Jack was in the Plaza Hotel with the transsexual all their perverted antics were caught on film. And, now, this transsexual wants two million dollars to keep the film and photos out of public view.”

  Bill laughed. “How do you fit in, genius?”

  “I was the guy that got all digital images of photos and video removed from this individual’s phone, her three computers, and two separate cloud sites and disappeared them for posterity. But I won’t take all the credit. Two Italian gentlemen Jack knows reasoned with this individual for thirty minutes before I did my thing. And, there was no charge on my part.”

  “He damn well owes you. So, what can Halloran do for me?”

  “He suggests donating your mobile home assets into a charitable trust he would establish here in Alabama that would provide college scholarships in the disciplines of STEM. Science. Technology. Engineering. Mathematics. These are the hot careers. And, listen closely here. This is the part you’ll like. At the end of three years, the trust can be disbanded, and funds redistributed to the founding donor or donors. It all revolves around precision fine print in establishing the trusts and whether certain tax benefits are claimed by you. But... the disbanding would still be at the discretion of the trustees.”

  Bill ran his hand across his mouth, thinking. “That sounds good, Theo. But where could I get trustees that would vote it back? I’d need somebody I can totally trust.”

  The knock on the door was timed perfectly. Liz walked in.

  “Bill. You’re looking at the trustees. Me and Aunt Liz,” said Theo. “So, don’t worry about a thing.”

  104

  Cambridge, Maryland

  Wednesday, September 11, 2019

  JAKE WAS ESCORTED INTO A CONFERENCE ROOM at Cambridge’s Public Safety Complex where he met police chief, Ron Delmonico, and a detective, Jay Beasley. Both men were in their fifties and had the seasoned look of experience in a town so picturesque that you wouldn’t expect any crime.

  It was 7:45 a.m.

  According to Beasley, he and the chief were called in to the station Sunday night after Libby Grambling and her lawyer filed a missing person report.

  “I can tell you, Agent Montoya, the story is age old. Older married man banging a younger woman. But Libby Grambling’s story was odd.”

  For thirty minutes they discussed what Libby had to say. Then they mentioned the fire at the refuge and a ranger named Mike Jeffers who spoke to somebody in a white van parked near the bonfire site on the day of the murder.

  That news jolted Jake. “Ron, I need you to do something for me right now. See if you can get Mike Jeffers on the phone. I need to speak to him in person. This morning.”

  JEFFERS WAS EATING A COLD POP TART OUT OF THE BOX when Jake arrived at his office at the refuge. The smell of coffee filled the room. Jeffers minimized the ESPN website he was looking at when Jake walked in.

  The ranger stood. “Mike Jeffers, Agent Montoya. How are ya?”

  “Please, just Jake. Doing well, thank you.”

  Seeing a big fit guy, Mike thought he’d ask. “This might be crazy, but you’re not the same Jake Montoya...”

  “Yep, I am. Seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “Well, I’m worried about the Skins, my friend. I’d put money down right now that coach Gruden’s out by mid-season.”

  “Mike, I hadn’t caught a Redskins game in four years, so I don’t have much to offer on it. Hope they can turn things around.”

  Jeffers looked at him askance after that response.

  “Mike, I believe you’re holding some critical information. But, first, let me share this. We know the victim was Draper Sims, a hot shot attorney from Atlanta. Last week he was in D.C. for a trial. Here’s why we know it’s him. There was a video made of the murder, and brother, it’s gruesome. We think he’s the fourth in a string of related lawyer homicides taking place around the country.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen something about that.”

  “So, I need to know exactly what you saw and spoke about with the guy in the van. Exactly, now.”

  “Okay, lemme think a second.” Mike glanced out the window for a moment with a blank look, then back to Jake.

  Jeffers was delivering a detailed story when Jake’s cell rang. Tolleson, his analyst. Jake held a finger up to Jeffers. Answered. “Can’t talk right now, Ross. Call you back in an hour.” Ended the call. “Sorry. What made you back up to the van?”

  “Well, I wondered if that old truck broke down on him. So, I back up. I roll my window down. He rolls his down. I ask him if he needs anything. He said he didn’t. Then he said he was over from...let me think...okay, yeah, Germantown, and had a couple days off, a three-day weekend. Planned to fish and bike. But, by his voice, I could tell he was bummed. We talked about the rain and cold socking in that evening.”

  “How many people were with him?”

  “Only saw him. But it was a cargo-style van, no windows on the back sides. Maybe some guys were back there. I don’t know.”

  “Did you see any fishing rods or bicycles?”

  “Nope. Figured everything was in the van.”

  “Here’s the biggie, Mike. What’d this guy look like?”

  “Only saw him from the shoulders up. He wore an Orioles ball cap and sunglasses. He also had a black beard, nothing well-developed. Scraggly, maybe two weeks without shaving.”

  “What about any hair coming out from the hat? Long hair or short.”

  “I didn’t see any hair coming out from the hat. No ponytail shooting down or anything. No hair over the ears. So, I guess a regular old haircut.”

  “What’s your thought on age?”

  “Tough one. Guessing...hmmm...mid-thirties to forty. He had the voice of someone that age.”

  “Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

  Jeffers clucked his cheek. “Very hard to say, Jake.”

  Jake told the ranger a sketch artist would be out later today. “Mike write down everything you remember. Verbatim if you can.”

  “I’ll do it. Think that’s the killer?”

  “Have you ever seen a twenty-year-old cargo van that didn’t arouse suspicion? Now, where’s a good breakfast spot in Cambridge? I’m starving.”

  JAKE ORDERED A CRAB OMELET, home fries, and a Diet Coke at Black Water in downtown Cambridge. He walked back out front and bought a Washington Post and a Wall Street Journal from the paper boxes. He didn’t want liberal angst to upset his appetite, so he started in on the Journal first.

  He ate fast, left a generous tip, grabbed his newspapers and went out to sit on a bench on this pleasant morning. He speed-dialed Tolleson.

  “Make my day, Ross.”

  “Jake, I hate it, man. We’ve got nothing matching on running the accommodations in Charleston, Florida, and the Telluride area. Well, I say nothing. We had multiple hits with the Smiths, Johnsons, Williams, Brown, and Jones matched with the first names James, John, Robert, Michael, David, Charles...you get it, we had a triple match on one name, David Jones, and double matches on three other names. None from the same state and address. So that’s nine people. I had field guys pay them all a visit at home. Average American families. All of them are employed. Six were on vacation. Three were on work trips. So, there we are on that.”

  Jake had an ankle crossed over a knee and one arm extended over the top of the bench. He let out a sigh. “I was hoping, Ross. Damn. Thanks for the effort, I know it was a hassle. But you know what I need you to do now, right?”

  “Please don’t say lodging on the eastern shore.”

  “Sure, okay. This time let’s try accommodations on the eastern shore.”

  105

  Black Point, Alabama

  Thursday, September 19, 2019

  ZEUS’S EYES FOCUSED ON THE DETAILED FINA
NCIAL ALGORITHMIC sheet on his computer screen. It was a complex mélange of monetary amounts, foreign banks, bank account numbers, and cryptocurrency exchange accounts.

  Three days ago, late on a Monday afternoon, Zeus fired all his demands out to forty-three lawyers. Some were repeats to people who haven’t met their obligation. Zeus hoped that four dead colleagues let these lawyers know one thing. We ain’t kiddin’ around, folks.

  It was 11:23 a.m. at Coffee Loft and a soft rain was falling outside under a gray morning sky. Zeus was oblivious to Mark Benton sitting on a couch seven feet away.

  Mark, thirty-four and a sailor since he was six, wore shorts, a turquoise tee shirt advertising Sailmaker’s Supply in nearby Gautier, Mississippi, and red Crocs. An accounting and statistics textbook and two spiral notebooks rested next to him on the couch. He’d been out of Quantico eight years.

  Zeus had twenty-two foreign bank accounts opened digitally and minimized on his screen. The algorithm sheet helped him maintain the integrity of the scheme he’d concocted.

  He was systematically shifting money from one bank to another bank. And then another. Then into Bitcoin. Then from Bitcoin to Monero. Zeus was driving wide-open in a Ferrari and the cops were chasing him on a skateboard.

  Zeus’s adrenaline roared through his veins as he thought about things. He’d crafted the perfect plan. He wanted to scream and dance. Lucky would receive a missive later about the amounts. After Draper Sims, Lucky’s take would hit the target $80 million, if not more.

  But what if it was more than $100 million? Zeus thought about that. And smiled.

  Washington, D.C.

  JAKE AND BELINDA WENT DUTCH FOR LUNCH at Au Bon Pain near the FBI headquarters.

  “The smell of the bread alone draws me into this place at least twice a week,” said Belinda. “Never get tired of it.” She ordered a salad with green goddess avocado dressing on the side. “Any keystrokes coming in on the email site?”

  “Nothing.” Jake leaned forward, took a sip of hot soup. “Man, this is good. Here’s what I’m thinking. Theo Fuller has a third computer somewhere. Maybe five computers, ten, I don’t know.”

  “You said you believe the two laptops left his office every day, right?”

  “I think so. They were gone the day I slipped in the ninja cables. He was at the coffee shop. They had to be with him. The secretary told me he does computer work there every day.”

  “Has surveillance seen him on the laptop with the Mr. Robot sticker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She wiped her lips with a napkin. “You’ve been had. Fuller is smart. I think he caught something different on the cables, just don’t know what. Why do I think that? Because you don’t have one single keystroke coming in from either computer. She took a sip of water, thinking. “I’m sure he destroyed those computers.”

  “Gotta be a way to get in his system.”

  “That guy’s way too smart to touch a phishing email.”

  “I wonder if we could put any cameras in the wall of the coffee joint?” Jake raised his eyebrows as he said it and looked Belinda dead in the eyes.

  “Interesting.” She rocked her head left to right. “That’s an idea. Get some photos of the place and information on where Fuller sits. Email ‘em and I’ll discuss this with our surveillance folks.”

  “Sounds good. Give me a day or so.”

  “Here’s what I don’t get, Jake. Why all the focus on this one tech guy working for his stepdad?”

  “Number one. They blew the stepdad’s car apart...after he’d already paid. Number two. There’s a clear boner from Theo Fuller against trial lawyers. Number three. There’s no love lost between Fuller and his stepfather. Number four. Fuller could probably have twenty high-compensation job offers in two weeks if he wanted. He’s working for fourteen bucks an hour.”

  “Fourteen bucks?”

  “Yep, crazy. Number five. We have nothing coming in from anywhere else. These lawyers are skittish. Look what happened to Clemmons after he opened his mouth.”

  “Something will break.” Belinda threw her legs around about to stand but remained seated. “Let me tell you something critical about Fuller and his computer. When I say critical, I mean 1000 percent critical. If there’s a takedown, you have to grab him when he’s signed on. Have to. A guy with his talent will have encryption that no team of humans on the planet could break through. That laptop must be open, and you must witness him typing something, anything, beforehand. Then BANG! Nab it. DO NOT LET THAT TOP CLOSE.”

  Jake’s face crunched in frustration. “Awwww, man.”

  106

  FEELING FULL AFTER LUNCH, Jake leaned back in his office chair, placed his feet on his desk, scrolled his contacts, found Marcia Allen, texted

  Can you talk?

  I sure can.

  Jake dialed her. “Good afternoon, Marcia.” Talking with his eyes closed, relaxed.

  “Hey, you in town?”

  “Nope, D.C. I’m assuming Fuller’s not in the shop.”

  “That’s right. I’m getting paid by the federal government to shop for running shoes on Zappos. Yesterday, I watched three episodes of Ray Donovan.”

  “Enjoy it while you can. Listen, I need something right now. I need precision photos of the coffee shop relating to where Fuller sits. These are going to our surveillance guys. We want to explore the possibility of getting cameras implanted to scan our man’s computer screen.”

  “I like it. I’ve only seen him in two seats. I’ll fire some shots to you in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks. Talk later.”

  He kept his eyes closed for a short power nap and was just about to doze when his phone rang. Black Point area code. Didn’t recognize the number.

  “Montoya.”

  “Sir, this is Stan Wills in Black Point. Andy Grissom passed your number. Think I have your man.”

  Jake felt a lightning bolt at that. He stood up, started walking around his office, wide awake. “Fill me in.”

  “We’re in an old painter’s van converted for surveillance. Three video cameras are hidden in our ladder racks filming the office straight on as well as both east and west on Black Point Avenue. Three men walked into the office twenty minutes ago. I’ve got solid facials of all three coming down the sidewalk. Two guys have the look of a security team. But one man fits your profile. I’ve pulled some stills out of the video and blew them up for you. But don’t worry, they’re crisp. Right now I’m just waiting for them to leave the office. I’m sitting directly across the street. I think these next shots will be even better than what we’ve got so far.”

  “Outstanding, Stan, great work. Any way you could email those to me right now?”

  “Text your email. I’ll blast them out. And I’ll have the others to you fifteen minutes after they walk out of Burnham’s office.”

  Jake didn’t wait for the email. Marcia Allen’s text hit while he was talking to Wills. Seven clear iPhone shots of the coffee shop. He walked down a floor to Belinda’s office. Door was open.

  “Hey, it was quick. I’ve got pics of the coffee joint,” said Jake. They looked at them together.

  “Interesting. Quite an eclectic décor. Is that a fish carved out of driftwood on the wall? I know we can work with that. Forward them to me. I’ll get back to you. But, hey, we’ll need a judge down there to approve.”

  Back at his desk, Jake tapped up his email. There they were. The photos from Wills in Black Point. And they were much sharper than he expected. He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. Who the hell are you, Lucas Knight?

  Jake closed his eyes, wondering.

  Three minutes later he flew out of his chair, pulled up his contacts on the phone and walked over to glance out the window as he tapped call..

  “Ben Staggers, old buddy. I’m buying you lunch tomorrow because I have a critical favor to ask.”

  107

  New York City

  Friday, September 20, 2019

  TOMMY XEROX�
�S BRAIN SHUDDERED as he read the fourth victim’s name, Draper Sims. He sat where he did at least four mornings a week enjoying the familiar briny scent of the East River while soaking in the spectacular views of the Brooklyn Bridge and lower Manhattan. It was the Pier 1 area of Brooklyn Bridge Park.

  It was a pleasant sixty-four degrees with a wisp of a breeze spilling off the river and Wesley Gunterson, Tommy’s real name, was digging through headlines in his usual morning fare. The Guardian from the United Kingdom, the Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and the Washington Post. Thirty years in the CIA left him feeling unarmed if he wasn’t current with events around the world. The early fall day couldn’t be going much finer.

  Then he read the article. A large iPad Pro was in his hands pulled up to the National section of The New York Times. Wesley was looking back at some archived articles.

  Dateline Cambridge, Maryland. September 10th.

  GRUESOME MURDER

  Lawyer Burned Alive

  The article concluded with a brief recap of the names in the three prior murders and the heinous circumstances of the killings. A FBI spokesman speculated all the murders were connected.

  Wesley poured a cup of hot black coffee into the cup off his thermos. He took two sips, stared absentmindedly at the skyscrapers in the distance.

  He’d seen those names together before.

  And, he thought he knew where.

  PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION TOOK FORTY MINUTES TO DELIVER Gunterson to his document lab in Ozone Park, Queens. He powered up his work computer, logged on with a twenty-character username and thirty-two-character password, and unlocked his encrypted files. The specific file was easy to find because it was the single largest piece of work he’d performed, over one hundred exquisitely perfect bogus IDs. He popped up his iPad and looked at the dead men’s names again. Green. Clemmons. Kimbrell. Sims.

  Every one of them was on his list.

  He went into a small break room and pulled a Diet Coke and strawberry jelly out of a refrigerator. White bread and a jar of peanut butter were on the counter. He made a PB & J sandwich, busted open a snack size bag of Cheetos, and sat down. He thought about the career he gave this country. He thought about the fear he’d felt in the field around the world. He thought about men who were his friends, deadly CIA assassins. All working for the good of America. He wanted to supplement his retirement because the United States didn’t leave him a wealthy man, especially after paying the enormous medical bills for his wife.