Running Under Sail

by Charles Dougherty

  "I talked to him about it; there's a delay, but he's emailing what he has from the other lawyer along with the interrogatories. Should be here in a few minutes. His secretary was assembling it all. What brings that to mind right now?"

  "You think somebody's misdirecting Internal Affairs, and Louie Delgado's a crooked cop. He's taken up with your ex, and you can't understand why. She suddenly comes up with a bunch of old bank records that make it look like you've been on the take for years and she reopens the property settlement from your divorce."

  "You'd make a damn good detective."

  "Maybe. I don't know about that, but I can run a con game with the best of 'em. Did you talk to Larry about keeping them from freezing those accounts?"

  "Yes; he said the other lawyer had already tried, and there were some 'irregularities' in the banks' records that was delaying that."

  "Aha!" Connie said, a grin spreading over her face. "I'll just bet there are. The banks probably can't find any paper records."

  "I don't know. Why do you think that?"

  "It's a common problem, after all the mergers and acquisitions. Stuff gets lost, and nobody pays attention to it, because everything's electronic now. It came to light in that whole subprime mortgage debacle. Remember the news articles about the lawyers stopping foreclosures dead because the supposed mortgage holders couldn't come up with original documents?"

  "Vaguely," Paul said, frowning, "but — "

  "It came up for me personally a few years ago when I was trying to wire some money. The bank couldn't find the signature card from when I opened the account, and after my lawyer beat them up about it, they admitted that a whole warehouse of records had been 'lost' when they were acquired by another bank. I ended up taking the easy way out and just doing another signature card, but it was an eye-opener."

  "Okay, but what's this got to do with us?"

  "I need to move quickly; I'll explain it all later, but minutes count, now that the banks know somebody's asking questions. It'll be one thing if it's a phone call or two from a couple of lawyers in a civil case, but if Internal Affairs subpoenas the banks' records, things could get hinky in hurry.'

  "I'm not following, Connie. What are you — "

  "Trust me?"

  "You know I do, but what are you thinking?"

  "I'm going to protect the evidence."

  "What evidence?"

  "The money. If we don't do something in the next few minutes, it'll probably disappear. Now get me those account numbers; I need to call somebody and get things moving."

  "They're probably in my email by now," Paul said, frowning.

  "I'll explain it all later, and don't worry; we won't be involved in anything illegal, at least not that leaves any trail."

  Paul shook his head.

  "Can you take the helm?" Connie asked. "I'll go below, check your email, and make a call or two."

  Paul frowned again and nodded, sliding behind the helm as she went below.

  ****

  "Hey, Delgado?"

  "Yeah. That you, Pratt?"

  "Yeah. We gotta talk."

  "Connection sounds funny," Delgado said.

  "Yeah. It's the encrypted sat phones. They do that sometimes. Latency, the geeks call it."

  "Oh. Whatcha got?"

  "I talked to the man down south. You know who I mean?"

  "Yeah. What's up?"

  "He called about somethin' else, but while I had him, I asked if he knew anything about Russo."

  "And?"

  "Yeah, he knew Russo. Russo was in deep with the DEA and some terrorist task force before he retired."

  "I thought I told you that."

  "Yeah, you did. But you didn't tell me about his wife."

  "What about her?"

  "The name Connie Barrera mean anything to you?"

  "Not right off. You want me to check?"

  "Not necessary, but you shoulda done it already, when I asked about Russo."

  "So sue me, Pratt. What's goin' on?"

  "You remember Sam Alfano?"

  "Yeah; he got sent away for money laundering. Murder, too, if I'm remembering right."

  "Yeah. You are."

  "So what's Russo's wife got to do with him?"

  "She was in a deal with him up in Georgia, laundering money."

  "No shit! Russo's wife?"

  "Yeah. And she helped the Feds put him under."

  "She ratted him out? How'd she live to tell about it? She a cop of some kind?"

  "Alfano said not. He told the man's mouthpiece that she was connected to some west coast mob, or maybe one of the cartels in Mexico."

  "Holy shit! And she's married to Russo? You think he knows?"

  "I don't know, but that ain't all. She got away with about $10 million in loose diamonds that she snatched from Alfano; never seen again."

  "Jesus! What's the man down south — "

  "He wants no part of her, whoever she's connected to. She took down Ralph Giannetti a couple of years ago, besides Alfano."

  "I remember that one. Russo was in on that; they thought Greco was the man, and then some guy rolled over on Giannetti. Told 'em Greco just worked for Giannetti."

  "That's right. Guy named Mark Murano, Giannetti's right-hand man. She took Murano and one of his boys down, made 'em talk and gave 'em to the cops. He said some crazy shit before he died."

  "He died? I thought he got sent away."

  "Somebody got to him while he was inside," Pratt said.

  "Oh, yeah. I remember, now. He got shanked, didn't he?"

  "Yeah. That's the guy."

  "You said he was sayin' some kinda crazy shit?"

  "Yeah. He said she was playin' Russo. Said she runs the Caribbean for some Mexican outfit nobody knows about."

  "Sounds like bullshit to me, Pratt."

  "Maybe. Tell that to Alfano and Giannetti. Murano, too."

  "What's the man down south say?"

  "He's got no advice; just passin' along what he hears. He's expectin' us to fix it, whatever it takes."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Make sure I.A. takes down Russo, for a start. The sooner the better. I think I got a way to handle Russo and his wife both, but you need to make sure he looks like a dirty cop, okay? Then he's fair game."

  "Okay. I got it."

  ****

  "Have a good rest?" Paul asked, as Sadie emerged from the companionway rubbing her eyes.

  She grinned and shook her head. "Man, did I ever! What time is it?"

  Paul glanced at the GPS. "Two o'clock."

  "Whoa. You guys let me sleep through my watch. Sorry."

  "Well," Paul said, "you're a paying guest. You don't have to stand watches."

  "But I want to," she said.

  "You're welcome to take a turn any time, but we don't expect you to officially stand watches. This is a vacation for you; do whatever you feel like doing. Connie still on the phone?"

  "Yes. And the computer, I think. What's she up to?"

  "I'm not sure. I'm just the first mate and cook. She'll tell us when she's ready."

  Sadie gave him a doubting look, but she didn't say anything.

  "You want some coffee or anything?" Paul asked, after a minute.

  "Maybe in a little bit. Where are we?"

  "Almost there. Slow trip. We've had a foul current the whole way, but that's the southeast tip of Martinique." Paul pointed off the starboard bow, where a gray-green mass of land loomed through the salt-laden air.

  "Is that haze?" Sadie asked.

  "Yes. It's all the salt spray in the air from the waves breaking along the coast. You won't notice it so much once we're closer. We should be dropping the hook in a couple of hours, I think."

  "Good guess," Connie said, appearing at the top of the companionway ladder. "I just plotted our position."

  "Hi," Sadie said smiling at Connie.

  "Hi, yourself. You look fresh. Did you have a good rest?"

  "I did, thanks."

  "Did you get t
hose emails?" Paul asked.

  "Yes. I took care of everything. I'll fill you in later; there's no point in boring Sadie with our personal business." Connie gave Paul a guarded look and sat down next to their guest. "Should one of us give Phillip a call? Let him know we're almost there?"

  "They'll want us to eat dinner with them tonight," Paul said. "Are you up to socializing?"

  "Yes!" Sadie said. "I want to meet your friends."

  Paul gave Connie a tired smile. "How about you, skipper?"

  "Sure. We all need to talk about what to do about Pratt. Might as well save going over stuff twice. You want to call? Or should I?"

  "Go ahead; you've got a better handle on our ETA than I do," Paul said.

  Connie stood and stepped to the companionway. "Should I brew a pot of coffee while I'm below? It's likely to be a late evening."

  "Please," Paul said.

  "Yes. That would be nice," Sadie agreed.

  ****

  "That was a nice evening, even if we didn't get much done in the way of a plan," Paul whispered. "It's always fun to see Phillip and Sandrine."

  "Mm-hmm." Connie snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder. "Glad Sandrine could take tomorrow off and show Sadie Fort-de-France. I don't think I could take another shopping expedition with her right now."

  "Besides," Paul said, "it'll give us a little privacy."

  "What did you have in mind, cookie? We don't have to wait; I can be very quiet, you know."

  Paul chuckled. "I'm dying to know what you did with the bank account information."

  "Aww, what a letdown. You tired of your trophy wife already?"

  "You know better than that. It's just that I didn't think we needed to air my problem with my ex in public. Or the I. A. investigation, either. And I'm pretty bushed."

  "I know. Me, too. I just have to tease you when you give me such a good opening. I should hear back tomorrow about those bank accounts. All I've done so far is turn them over to this lawyer in Nassau that I used to help me get my equity out of that stupid diet clinic in Savannah after it all came apart a few years ago."

  "Why him?" Paul asked. "Larry's a good lawyer, and he's right there in Miami."

  "This guy has a lot of specialized knowledge when it comes to electronic banking, and a whole team of geeks who can find out stuff you and I don't even know to ask about," Connie said.

  "How does he get paid?"

  "That depends on what he finds. He'll scope things out and let us know. It may take him a day or two, okay?"

  "Sure. You want to be very quiet? Or wait until tomorrow morning?" he asked.

  She didn't reply, and he could tell from the twitches of her hand on his chest that she'd dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Pratt was sitting at a table on the forward sundeck, sipping coffee and admiring the waterfront in Portsmouth, Dominica. Freddy hadn't shown himself yet this morning, and Semmes was ashore clearing in with customs and immigration.

  The puzzle of how to retrieve Sadie, and what, if anything, she might have told Russo and his wife was still occupying Pratt's mind. He knew from experience that the girl would be unlikely to share her sad story with anybody. Most of his young female victims were too ashamed to admit what they'd been through, even the ones that were trash to begin with. Sadie wasn't like them; she was a spoiled, protected rich kid. He reasoned that she would be even less likely to talk about her time with him than the others were.

  On the other hand, the risk was huge, given that Russo was an ex-cop. Then again, if Louie's scheme to smear him with Internal Affairs worked out, he wouldn't be much of a threat. But what about his wife? Was she really fronting for some unknown Mexican cartel? And if she was, what did that mean?

  His musing was interrupted by the ringing of his encrypted satellite phone. He looked at the caller i.d. and pressed the green connect button.

  "Yeah, Louie. What's up?"

  "I ain't sure yet, but I thought you oughta know. Now don't go blowin' your stack at me; shit's still unfoldin', okay?"

  "What shit, Louie?"

  "Internal Affairs got warrants for those bank accounts yesterday — the ones I told you about? That were in Russo's name?"

  "Yeah? So? That's all good, ain't it?"

  "Three of the banks are here in Miami. They served them this morning. All three banks said there was no such account. We don't — "

  "What the fuck are you sayin', asshole? No such account? You said you gave his ex all the statements goin' back to before he retired."

  "Yeah, that's right. She gave I.A. copies of those when they asked her to look at the financial records from when she was married to him. Just like we planned. It was them copies that they used to get the warrants for the bank records, see."

  "So where the fuck's the money?" Pratt asked. "The fuckin' bank's gotta be able to trace it, right?"

  "Yeah, except they got no record that there was ever any such account," Louie said.

  "How could an account that was there for years just fuckin' disappear? There gotta be paper records. Did I.A. show 'em the statements?"

  "Yeah. They said anybody with a computer and a laser printer could make up the statements."

  "What about all that shit you have to sign when you open an account?"

  "Well, see, there wasn't none of that. I got somebody that can hack into the bank's computers, and just make up an account. Then you — "

  "Why'd you need real money then? This guy couldn't just make up the money?"

  "No. There's shit I don't understand about that, but basically, there has to be some money comin' in from somewhere to keep everything in balance, or some shit like that. He could fiddle the dates on the deposits, which is what he did, but there had to be money flowin' into the bank."

  "Then where the fuck's the money, Louie?"

  "Well, my guy says if somebody was to move it outta the account, like to another bank, and then wipe the account, then there wouldn't be nothin' to show it ever happened."

  "There's a bunch of crooked fuckin' bastards in this world," Pratt said. "So this whole account was like, imaginary?"

  "Not exactly. I mean, it was real enough while it was there. The damn banks' computers generated those statements that got sent to Russo's ex. I had to help her log on to the online banking pages and request the old ones, but the current ones came in the mail, just like clockwork."

  "So we been fuckin' robbed," Pratt said. "That what you're tellin' me?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "You guess so. How much money we talkin' about here?"

  "$150 grand, so far."

  "So far?"

  "They ain't served the out of town banks yet. I'll let you know."

  "Yeah, shithead. You do that. And let me know where you gonna get the $500 grand to make this good. I ain't like the fuckin' banks; I can't just erase that kinda bread. Somebody's gonna die if that money don't reappear pronto. You hear me?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Don't panic, Pratt."

  "Me? I ain't panicked. I'm immune, asshole. When it comes to panic, I'm a carrier, just like typhoid Mary. I give it to other people, like you and your computer guy, but it don't affect me. Call me back when you got somethin'."

  ****

  Paul was in the cockpit, watching Connie bringing their dinghy back from the town dock in Ste. Anne. She'd taken Sadie in to spend the day shopping with Sandrine and was coming back to enjoy the morning with him. She was still 100 meters away when their satellite phone rang.

  "Hi, Larry," Paul answered, recognizing his lawyer's number on the caller i.d. screen.

  "Good morning, Paul. Catch you at a bad time?"

  "No, it's okay. What's on your mind?"

  "I just got off the phone with Maddy's lawyer; they're pretty hot under the collar about this bank business. If you know anything about it, tell me; it's privileged. It won't go any farther, but I need to understand what's going on."

  "I don't have a clue. I told you, I don't know anything about the accounts. I unders
tand how they look, but I didn't open them, or even know they existed. What's going on?"

  "I wish I knew. It turns out that you're the target of some Internal Affairs investigation. Something about payoffs and corruption. Know anything about that?"

  "My old partner picked up a rumor and passed it to me. No more than what you just told me. How did you hear this?"

  "Well, your ex says she found out about the money when they showed up at her door with a search warrant and went through all your old financial records."

  "They?" Paul asked. "Oh, you must mean I.A."

  "Yes. They found all these statements, going back years, for the accounts in that list I sent you. Any explanation?"

  "Yeah. Smells like a setup to me."

  "But how? Where did the accounts come from? And why you? You've been retired for years, now."

  Connie tied off the dinghy and climbed into the cockpit. She looked at Paul and raised her eyebrows. He put a finger to his lips and held up his thumb and forefinger, a slight gap between them. She nodded and sat down next to him, cocking an ear toward the phone. He shifted it away from his ear so that she could hear both sides of the conversation.

  "I can't help you with the how, Larry, but I've got an idea on the why. There's somebody dirty in the department, somebody pretty high up, and they need fresh meat to distract the dogs in I.A. They throw 'em Paul Russo, retired Chief of Homicide. They'd argue I still had the connections in the department to make it work, and if they could hang it on me, whoever's dirty would skate. They could axe my pension and maybe lock me up for awhile, or not. Either way, they could keep a lid on it a lot easier than if it was somebody still working."

  "Okay. I've heard crazier things. I thought you needed to know about the investigation, because the more troubling thing is, get this: the money's gone."

  "Gone?" Paul asked, puzzled by the grin that appeared on Connie's face.

  "Internal Affairs served warrants on the banks to get all the information on the accounts, and the banks know nothing about it. Same story from all seven of them."

  "Somebody moved the money," Paul said. "But they'd be able to trace it."

  "No. The accounts just vanished into thin air. There's no trace. No evidence that they ever existed. No account applications, no signature cards, nothing."