Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4)

by Grayson, M. D.

  “And who the hell is the Southern Star Relief Fund?” Toni asked.

  “Wow,” I said, quietly. “Gloria said that she and Leonard donated a million dollars per project, presumably including these since Leonard went to the trouble to include ’em. That’s six million from the McKenzies alone just for these six.”

  “Got themselves some nice signs,” Doc said.

  “No shit.”

  “There had to have been other donors too,” Kenny said.

  The wall clock ticked off several seconds while we considered the implications.

  “It fits,” Toni said, slowly. “If Leonard took the originals to Sophie when he got back, that could be why Ryan said she was preoccupied.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I imagine this would do it. And then, what’s her next step? She goes to somebody higher up to report it, right?”

  “Right. And say that somebody was the wrong somebody—meaning someone who was involved in the fraud,” Toni said.

  “Then maybe that somebody figured they needed to try and put a lid on it,” Richard said. “Do some damage control.”

  I nodded, looking at Richard, then at Toni. “And whoever that somebody was killed Sophie and Leonard both, to keep ’em quiet.”

  “That might explain the location of the missing original disc too,” Richard said.

  I nodded. “And whoever did it likely killed two more since then trying to throw us and the police off their trail.” I looked at Doc for a second, then said, “Guess that means they’re not going to be too happy if they find out about this new disc, are they?”

  He shook his head. “Good reason to keep all this quiet.”

  I nodded.

  “Agreed. But I do think now’s the time to call Ron,” Richard said. “He’s definitely going to want to hear this.”

  “Maybe,” Toni said, “maybe not. He seems like he’s looking for something pretty solid to put in front of his boss.”

  “He’s just anticipating the reaction he’s going to get. His boss is ready to wrap this up and pin it on Josh Bannister,” Richard said.

  “Exactly,” Toni said. “All the more reason for us to give him something airtight, right? I say before we go telling Ron about the possibility of fraudulent activity leading to murders, it might be a pretty good idea to verify our hunch regarding these photos.”

  I looked at her. “How do we do that?”

  She smiled. “Might be easier than we think. This sounds like a compliance issue to me if ever there was one. We can start by calling the compliance person. Asking a few more questions.”

  “Linda Ramos,” I said.

  I called the Foundation, and the receptionist put me straight through.

  “Linda Ramos.” Her answer was curt, businesslike.

  “Linda, good morning. This is Danny Logan.”

  There was a brief hesitation, and then she said, “Yes?” The way she said it—in kind of a drawn-out, tentative fashion—immediately got me curious. She sounded like she’d been dreading hearing from me.

  “I have a question or two for you, only take a second.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, who is the Southern Star Relief Fund?”

  The line was silent for several long seconds.

  “Linda,” I said, “did you hear? Who is the Southern Star Relief Fund?”

  After another couple seconds, she barely whispered into the phone, “I can’t answer that. In fact, I can’t be seen talking to you now. It’s not safe.”

  Everyone leaned forward. “What?”

  “Listen . . . I have to go,” she said. “It’s not safe for me.”

  “Wait!” I said. “If you can’t talk, can we meet instead?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I want to. But after work. Tonight. Someplace quiet and out of the way. I’ll try to get you something today.”

  We were scheduled to meet Gloria McKenzie at a quiet little restaurant in Bellevue for dinner to compare Leonard’s photos to the reports that Gloria had from the Foundation, so I gave Linda the same address, but for an hour later.

  “From what I can see, the Southern Star Relief Fund is a Cayman Island organization,” David O’Farrell explained over the phone just before 2:00 p.m. After our meeting broke up earlier that morning, I’d called and asked him to look into the Fund for us. “One of my partners specializes in offshore litigation. He says that the Caymans’ privacy laws make it just about impossible to get information on the company’s owners.”

  “Great,” I said. “Perfect. Would you say that it’s normal or suspicious for organizations to be based in the Cayman Islands?”

  “Well, first thing, what I’m told is that they’re probably not based there,” David said. “Just organized and formed there. And, as to your question, no—it’s probably not suspicious. Lots of U.S. companies nowadays are formed in the Caymans: some for privacy reasons, some for favorable tax treatment. Now, that said, if Southern Star was formed in the Caymans for the explicit reason of preserving the anonymity of its owners, then those anonymity features would make it a near-perfect vehicle for those same owners to conduct fraudulent activities. You have to get a Cayman Islands court order in order to compel the turnover of the owners’ names, and that’s not something that’s easy to accomplish—quite unusual, as a matter of fact. The Cayman government relies on these businesses for a significant part of its income, and they’re not in the habit of doing things that might be construed as jeopardizing their reputation for privacy.”

  “And with the business relationship between the Foundation and Southern Star . . .”

  “A normal arrangement with charitable organizations,” David said. “One company raises the money; the other does the work.”

  “And they’re separate companies?”

  “Usually. Sometimes completely separate—different ownership even. Sometimes an affiliate.”

  I thought about that. “You know, Oliver actually said that he couldn’t believe the Foundation was involved with anything because they get audited every year. They’re clean.”

  “Not surprising,” David said. “The Foundation’s audits would be clean because they’re not doing anything wrong—their operation is clean. A massive fraud could be happening right under the Foundation’s nose, in fact, yet the Foundation’s audits would come up clean every time. In your case, it would appear that it’s the company beneath them that’s dirty—the Southern Star Relief Fund, in this case.”

  “And the only way to find out who’s behind that?”

  “Is a court order in the Caymans, or to have a look at the organization papers,” he said. “Get ahold of those, and you’ve got the keys to the kingdom.”

  I took a deep breath and considered the implications of what David said. Then, I slowly shook my head. “This case is a bitch,” I said. “Every time we get close, every time we think we’re onto something, something else pops up and moves the target on us.”

  David smiled. “All hope is not lost. We’re still doing a lot of digging on the financials. Even if we don’t have legal documents showing us who owns Southern Star, maybe the financials will show us who’s benefiting from the ownership. Presumably, whoever's behind this will eventually want to spend some of their ill-gotten gains. We'll know more soon.”

  “Today?” I said, hopefully.

  “I’m expecting a number of calls today. I hope to be wrapped up late this afternoon.”

  “Good,” I said, “I’m sure you’ll keep us posted.”

  Doc and I were walking north from our office up to the West Marine store on Westlake Avenue after lunch.

  “Why’s she afraid?” Doc said. We were talking about Linda Ramos.

  “Don’t know,” I answered. “I got a couple of theories. What do you think?”

  “I think maybe it’s ’cause last time you talked to her, two people turned up dead right afterward.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, that could be it.”

  We walked a bit farther. “Maybe she’s just one of those dra
matic types,” he said.

  I smiled. “Linda Ramos seemed about as dramatic as a box of nails when we met her. She was all business. But this morning? Wow. I don’t know. I think she’s really scared, dude. She said, ‘it’s not safe.’ She even whispered it. You ask me, I’d say that means whoever she’s afraid of was nearby.”

  “Humph.”

  We walked into the store a couple minutes later and were greeted by a very tan, cheerful young man whose name tag read “Sergio—Sardinia, Italy.” Sergio seemed very happy to see us.

  “Gentlemen,” he said with a big smile. “Welcome to West Marine. Anything in particular I can point you to this morning?” Despite his foreign hometown, Sergio spoke English like a Southern California native.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I need to look at some rope.”

  “We have that. Lots of it. It’s this way.” He beckoned for us to follow him. “In fact, we have a whole department. What’s it to be used for?”

  “I was a crew member on a sailboat race this weekend,” I said.

  “The Snowbird, right?” I was impressed. Sergio obviously knew the local racing schedule.

  “Yeah. Up off Shilshole. Anyway, I saw this line made out of something I hadn’t seen before—it’s the line that lifts the sail to the top of the mast; I think it’s called the halyard?”

  “The halyard,” he said, nodding. “Exactly. There’s one for each sail.”

  “Yeah. On the boat I was on, I noticed it was made out of this real light, thin, gray rope that must have been hellacious strong to hold that big main sail up against that wind. I’m wondering if it might have been that Marlow Dyneema line?” I rubbed my fingers together as if I were rubbing the line.

  “So you were on a go-fast boat, then?”

  I looked at him with a curious look. “I’m not sure what that means. I think it was a fast boat, if that’s what you mean. It was a J/133,” I said, remembering what Gaston had told me.

  “Oh! J/133. Very fast. Definitely a go-fast boat. You must have been on Warwitch—Eric Gaston’s boat.”

  “That’s it,” I said, impressed again. “You know the local fleet.”

  He smiled. “It’s my job. I know most of the racing boats around here, and I think there’s only one J/133 up here now. Anyway, I know the Warwitch for sure. We helped Eric replace all his stock standing and running rigging last year. His new halyards are all Marlow Max 90. Best you can get.”

  “Max 90,” I said. “Is it made out of Dyneema? Do you have any in stock that we could look at?”

  “It’s right over here. Come on.” We followed him to a whole wall covered with spools of line in all sizes, styles, and colors. Sergio searched for the line. “I think it’s—yes, here it is,” he said, pointing to a spool of thin, gray, braided line. “Max 90. And to answer your question: yes, Max 90 is made with Dyneema D12.”

  He handed me the end of the spool, and I examined it for a second before I turned and handed it to Doc. He looked at it for a couple seconds, then he looked at me. “This the stuff?”

  I nodded. “Sure is. Dyneema D12. Looks exactly the same. Ron said it was used for pulleys and winches.”

  “That’s right,” Sergio said. “Pulleys, winches, anything that needs a strong, light line that doesn’t stretch. It’s actually stronger than steel. It’s perfect for sailing, especially racing. But not everyone uses it because it’s expensive. That means it usually ends up only on the high-tech racing boats like Warwitch. What we call the ‘go-fast’ boats.”

  I stared at the line for another second. It looked exactly like the line used to strangle Judie Lawton—the same line that was found in Josh Bannister’s apartment after he died. And Eric Gaston apparently had lots of it.

  Chapter 24

  TONI AND I WERE TO MEET Gloria McKenzie at the Chantanee Thai Restaurant on 108th Avenue in downtown Bellevue later that same evening at six o’clock sharp. Kenny was driving himself and was supposed to meet us there. The restaurant is located on the ground floor of the Key Center office tower, directly across from the Bellevue Transit Center, tucked between the tall Lincoln Square towers on 104th and the nearly as tall Bravern towers on 110th. Downtown Bellevue is busy during the daytime, but it gets pretty quiet after work hours. Once we cleared the 520 toll bridge, traffic was light, and we were right on time.

  We’d actually never been to the Chantanee before because we don’t get over to Bellevue for lunch or dinner all that often, but Gloria had vouched for the place. When we walked in, I could see why. Right away, as far as Thai restaurants go, the place is pretty swanky—definitely not your paper carton takeout joint. It was a little early yet for the dinner crowd, so the place was quiet inside, nearly empty. When we told the hostess we were meeting people, she said, “Mrs. McKenzie?” I said yes and she led us to a booth in the back, hidden from view from the front. Gloria was already there, and Kenny was with her.

  We said our hellos and ordered dinner. While we waited, I showed Gloria what we’d found. Kenny’d made prints, so I spread them out on the table. “You haven’t seen any of these pictures, is that right?” I asked.

  She shook her head as she looked at the photographs. “I have not.”

  Gloria nodded and continued to study the photographs for a couple of minutes. When she was finished, she leaned back in her seat. “Well, I can say right now that there are problems with these pictures.”

  She opened her attaché and pulled out a few flyers.

  “See these?” she asked. She looked through them and selected one, holding it up. “This is an annual report, issued by the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation for a particular project, in this case the Bati Clean Water Project #2.” She looked at the report for a second, then said, “According to this document, the funds that the Foundation contributed, some $4.2 million, were to be implemented by the Southern Star Relief Fund which was to—let me read it, ‘plan, construct, and administer a facility for a water well and water treatment system’ for the whole village.” She looked up. “Leonard and I donated one million dollars for this project eighteen months ago.”

  The report had a glossy cover, showing a photograph of a brightly painted water well with several smiling local women congregated around it, full water jugs at their sides. Gloria laid the report on the table alongside the photograph that Leonard had taken. Everyone looked happy. “This is the most recent report. It covers all of 2011,” she said. “Leonard’s photos were taken in June this year, months after this report was issued. The captions on the photos make it pretty clear that this project is completed and operational as of the end of last year.”

  Each of the other photos Leonard took also had a corresponding annual report. All confirmed the same condition, just as we’d suspected: rosy report, missing project.

  Gloria thought for a second, then she looked up at me. Her eyes flashed cold. “Who? Who, Mr. Logan? Who’s behind this?”

  I took a deep breath. “We’re not certain yet.”

  “I will say that we think someone at the Foundation is involved,” Toni said. “Someone who was or still is personally participating in the fraud. This is not just something happening at the Southern Star Relief Fund level.”

  “What makes you feel that way?” Gloria asked.

  I shrugged. “Because Sophie and Leonard were connected with the Foundation, not Southern Star. I’m betting Leonard wasn’t involved with Southern Star, but I’m near certain Sophie wasn’t.”

  Gloria shook her head. “He wasn’t.” She looked at me for a second, then she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I can’t believe it. With Sophie involved, we really felt comfortable donating to the Foundation, like we were doing something positive—something that we were really convinced would be put to good use. Leonard and I had no idea that they themselves—the Foundation—could also be getting duped.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think your feelings regarding Sophie were right on,” Toni said. “I think she very likely may have died because she was going to b
at for Leonard.”

  Gloria nodded slowly. “I understand.” She thought for a moment. “It certainly looks like Leonard’s photographs were a real threat to whoever’s behind this, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll bet they didn’t count on Leonard actually going to Africa to conduct his own little audit—to check up on things for himself.”

  She smiled. “Then they didn’t know my Leonard, did they?”

  We walked outside after we were finished, where we said our good-byes and watched her drive away.

  “What time is it now?” Toni asked.

  Kenny looked at his watch and said, “Two minutes before seven.”

  “If I’m any judge of character, I’ll bet Linda Ramos will be right on time,” I said.

  “Mr. Logan?”

  I turned and saw Linda Ramos walking up. She carried a file folder under her arm.

  “See?” I said to Kenny and Toni. I turned to Linda. “Linda. It’s good to see you.” I reached out and shook her hand. “Your timing is perfect.”

  She glanced around nervously before looking at each of us. “Thanks.” I looked at her carefully for a moment. No doubt about it, I was looking at the face of a very scared woman. Her eyes were wide-open, her mouth drawn. Despite the cool evening, small beads of perspiration were evident on her forehead.

  I reached out for her arm. “You okay? You ready—”

  I froze mid-sentence because at that moment I saw a man wearing a black ski mask step from behind a Cypress tree maybe twenty feet away from our group. Even in the dim light, I could see that he carried a full-sized Glock in his right hand. I could tell the caliber right away: big and mean.

  Toni was on my left, Kenny on my right. Linda was facing me, her back directly to the man. None of them had seen him yet. I swept my coat clear and started to reach for my .45, but as soon as I started the motion, the man saw me and yelled, “Don’t!” He pointed the Glock directly at me and quickly stepped closer. I thought about it for a split second, but with something like ten feet between us, and innocent people on either side of me, my odds of successfully drawing my weapon and bringing it to bear before he plugged me or, worse, one of the others, were rotten. I stopped moving.