“Never met the guy, but, yeah, he was a partner with FJ. Shady character, from what I heard. Ended up with a bullet between his eyes, floating in the bay.
“Just like Sam, except for the floating part.”
Brian squinted his eyes in thought, wondering, then discovering Derek’s meaning.
“If you’re trying to somehow tie Sam’s murder into Craig’s, forget about it. The only connection I could make, and this would be a real stretch, is Sam took Craig’s spot with FJ. That’s it. Craig was shady, like I said. FJ doesn’t talk about why he removes partners, but I heard in the business community that Washburn was involved in some illegal operations.”
“Such as?”
“Don’t know. Just heard he was running with some so called ‘business professionals’ who solve disputes with baseball bats and handguns. If I were a betting man, I’d say Craig Washburn was killed and his body dumped in the bay by some questionable associate he wronged.”
Derek moved on to the next question sitting in his brain.
“I hear you love to read? Have an idea about writing a book someday.”
Brian let out a cackle of a laugh. Short, loud.
“An old dream of mine. I suppose Jessica told you that?”
“She may have mentioned it.”
“And you’re thinking if she knows about my dreams that I must have shared them with her during some pillow talk?”
“A man doesn’t usually share dreams with strangers,” Derek shot back.
“When I was introduced to the FJ partners, FJ talked about my past, my present and three interesting facts about me. He does that with every new partner. Two of those interesting facts was I love to read and want to write a book someday. Not exactly ‘pillow talk,’ wouldn’t you agree, Derek?”
Derek simply nodded his head, added what Brian had said to his growing list of questions he needed to ask Jessica.
“One last thing. You said something outside that got me curious.”
“What did I say?”
“Well, it wasn’t really what you said, it was more how you said it. You said Jessica was an attractive woman but she wasn’t your type. What did you mean by that?”
“I’m gay, Derek. Knew I was gay since I was thirteen. Never tried to hide it or deny it. So, Jessica, as attractive a woman as she may be, is really far from being my type.”
Chapter 19
Nikkie was doing research in her room for less than thirty minutes. She had found what she was looking for much easier and much quicker than she could have even hoped for. In March of that year, a business owned by a Donald Reagan was sold to a company called “Advancement Solutions.” The listed owner, according to the State of Florida Public Records database, was Brian K Hilton. Reagan’s business exported medical devices to developing countries. The database listed 2015 annualized sales revenues for “Reagan Medical Devices, Inc” at $5.25 million.
Another Internet search provided a Sarasota address for Donald Reagan, along with a phone number.
“Whatever happened to privacy and unlisted numbers?” Nikkie thought as she dialed the listed number for Reagan.
He answered on the third ring and seemed more than happy to meet with her, after Nikkie explained the reasons behind her call.
She pulled into the driveway and was knocking at the door of Donald Reagan’s home by eleven in the morning.
“I really had no intentions of selling my business,” Donald had said. “Hilton had contacted me a few months before, I’d say…five or six months before. He tossed out an offer which sounded a bit low, but, still, not an insulting offer. I told him even if he doubled the offer, I wasn’t selling. He seemed fine. Sounded like a sharp businessman.”
“So, what changed your mind?” Nikkie asked while sipping a cold, tall glass of iced tea.
“I lived up outside Nashville at the time. Used to like living in a bigger, busier city. Anyway, I went in to my doctor’s office for a little issue I was having. He ran a bunch of tests then called me about a week later. Told me he needed to see me in his office. He told me I had a histiocyptic reticulosarcoma tumor. He said it’s usually fatal but, with proper treatment and plenty of rest, I had a fighting chance.
“He sent me to a specialist in Tampa, which worked out well since I owned an apartment near the Tampa ports. The specialist started me on chemotherapy and suggested my type of cancer may have been caused by stress. Said there was ‘plenty of evidentiary support’ to back up the whole stress angle. Those were the words he used. Ver-fucking-batim. I’ll never forget those words of his. Set me on my ass. Running my business was as stressful as hell and getting worse with all the governmental regulations they keep introducing and the constant changes in international business law. Turns out, my business was killing me. At least, that’s what I thought.
“I called Hilton a couple of days after I started chemotherapy. Sold him my business for five million dollars. Happy to be rid of it at that point. If stress caused my cancer, I wanted my company out of my life.
“I went through treatments for three goddamn months. Made me sick as a dog. Then, one day, I’m sitting in the specialist’s office. He walks in, all smiles. Tells me the latest PET scan showed zero trace of my tumor. Fully healed. A hundred percent gone. A fucking miracle.”
“Must have been a tremendous relief for you. Congratulations.”
Donald fixed Nikkie with long, intense stare. Though he looked healthy to her untrained eyes, she could see something deeper was affecting him. Something beyond the horrible cancer treatments. A deeper side effect than what any disease could have left as its scar.
“Hilton turned around and sold my business, the business I built from the ground up, the business I thought caused my cancer, three months and seven days after he bought it from me. Sold it for twelve and a half million.”
“You think you could have gotten more for your business? Like he knew something was about to happen which made the value more than double?”
“Me selling it for five and him selling it for twelve is on me. I didn’t know what the business was really worth. That’s on me. What gets me is that I don’t think I ever had cancer. I built in an ‘out-clause’ into the sale contract. I had ninety days after signing the sale agreement to back out. That specialist in Tampa told me I was cured exactly ninety-one days after I signed the agreement. One fucking day past my drop-dead date.
“I don’t like coincidences. Don’t believe in them. I called my doctor up in Nashville. Read him the riot act. He said some shit about how chemo can have an effect on the brain. Said I’d feel more like myself after a few more months. Basically, he blew me off and got me off the phone as quickly as he could. Said I was suffering from paranoia and that I should see another damn doctor about it. Probably had someone he could recommend, if I gave him the chance to. So, I drove over to that specialist’s office in Tampa. Son of a bitch told me the same damn thing. That chemo messes up the brain for a while. Said all the tests were conclusive and the treatments he prescribed were all fully approved and fully supported by the American Oncologists Society.”
Nikkie tried to read Donald’s face. She looked hard to see how certain he was in his beliefs. She tried, impossibly, to read on Donald’s face any indication of “cancer brain.” Looking to see if he was suffering from paranoia.
She could see nothing but anger and an abundance of pain.
“No offense,” Nikkie said, “and I get the timing of the out-clause and finding out you were cured, but, it’s a bit of a stretch to believe two doctors would lie about a cancer diagnosis, put you through unnecessary treatments, all the while risking their careers, their reputation and your life.”
“That’s what I thought at first. Thought maybe my brain was clouded up. Jammed up with that poison they pumped into my veins. So, I didn’t do a damn thing for…hell, six, seven weeks. By then I figured any chemo shit would be out of my system. My brain didn’t seem to be any better or worse than while I was on the poison, but someone g
oing crazy is usually the last person to recognize his weakened hold on sanity. I scheduled an appointment with a lymphatic system specialist in Miami. Didn’t tell him anything about my past medical history, just paid him a couple thousand dollars for him to test the living crap out of my lymphatic system and tell me how healthy it is. Guess what he came back with?”
“Healthy system?”
“Damn healthy. I asked about that tumor, that histiocytic reticulosarcoma tumor and whether or not those tumors leave scars or evidence they were once in the system. He told me histiocytic reticulosarcoma tumors always, and he stressed ‘always,’ leave irreparable damage. Every damn time. But in my body, the only thing he questioned me about was me being overweight and my blood pressure being on the high side.”
“Why didn’t you bring that doctor’s findings to someone?”
“Not everyone who knows the human body has a medical degree. In fact, some of the best healthcare specialists in the world never stepped a foot into a med school. Or a hospital for that matter. The Miami doc I saw was a Chinese holistic guy. Wasn’t anyway in the world any medical board in the US would give two shits about what he found in my body. Or rather, what he didn’t find.”
“Did you ever contact Mr. Hilton again?”
“Tried to. Even went to his home up on Snead Island. Son of a bitch called the cops on me. Got a nice restraining order for my time and troubles. If I could find a connection between Hilton and those damn quacks, I’d sue his ass for every last cent he owns.” Donald paused a beat. “Actually, I wouldn’t sue the bastard; I’d kill him.”
Nikkie paused, giving Donald the chance to calm down. Maybe to retract his threat against Hilton.
He just sat in a silent stare.
“The doctor in Nashville; what’s his name?”
“Doctor Timothy O’Connell. His partner in crime, the asshole specialist in Tampa is Mark Ruggerio. I’ll add both of them son of a bitches to my kill list if I find that connection.”
“So you never filed a complaint with the Florida State Board of Physicians? Or the board in Tennessee?” Nikkie already knew the answer.
“Nope,” Donald said. “That’s like filing a complaint with the government about a governmental employee. Nothing happens but a shit-ass investigation followed by a whitewash cover up. And with my Miami doc not recognized as being a real doctor, I would have been wasting my time filing a complaint.”
“But if there’s more than one complaint?”
Donald slid forward on his chair. Leaned in close to Nikkie.
“You find someone else the same shit happened to, and I’ll give you five million dirty dollars.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Neither do I. I haven’t touched a cent of that money Hilton gave me. It’s sitting in an offshore account. Sitting there, collecting about a half point of interest every year.” Donald paused a beat. “How about this; I’ll hire you to find out if Hilton and his band of quacks ran this scam on anyone else?”
“Let me see what my investigation turns up. I’ll let you know, but, really Mr. Reagan, I won’t take a cent from you, no matter what I find.”
Donald slid back in his chair.
“If you do find something, come right to me with it. No sense going the complaint route. I’ll handle things my way.”
“You really shouldn’t talk about killing someone.”
“You gonna tell on me if one of those fuckers turns up dead?”
“Probably not. But still…”
“You listen to me and you listen good: If you or I find out those three are connected, I will kill each and every one of them with my bare hands. If they all turn up dead, you’ll know I done the murders. Tell whoever you want. I’ll be long gone before anyone comes knocking on my door.”
Chapter 20
In fiscal year 2015, the seven partners of the FJ DeNuzzio Corporation, LLC, realized total revenues of $583.8 million dollars. Of that amount, forty-seven percent was profit. Meaning 2015 was the partnership’s strongest year. $235.2 million in profits, after all expenses and foreign exchange rates were factored in. The $235.2 million in profit was divided up nine ways; each of the seven partners getting their share and FJ taking two shares. Each of the seven partners received a bonus in March 2016 of over twenty-eight million dollars. FJ’s bonus climbed north of fifty-six million.
But, of course, FJ and all seven partners didn’t see all of their bonuses. Each had expenses which couldn’t ever see a line on any balance sheet. Payoffs to secondary suppliers were always a major expense. So, too, were payments made — usually in cash — to independent contractors. Bribes to governmental officials, both foreign and domestic, were another large draw from the partners’ bank accounts. Many of these bribes, payoffs and payments to independent contractors were scattered throughout the calendar. But one particular unrecorded expense was nearly always paid out in September of each year. Election time.
For FJ, the list of politicians holding out their hands was unusually small for the approaching month of September. Despite Clinton and Trump making a mockery out of the national Presidential election and both Senate and Congress races taking place in many states, FJ only expected to dish out ten to fifteen million in off the record contributions.
Chump Change.
There had been years when his payoffs and other unrecorded expenses exceeded his previous year’s income. But 2016, despite his wife’s efforts to purchase significantly more than she had in previous years, wouldn’t follow suit. As he sat behind his modest desk, in his small, quiet, downtown Tampa office, scrolling through a litany of spreadsheets, FJ estimated his fifty-six million dollar plus yearly income would survive the year. More than likely, his reported income statement when 2016 gives way to 2017 would be north of twenty million.
Not a bad year. Not bad at all.
But settling for any number, no matter how impressive, was a sign of weakness. Twenty million would be a fantastic number, but adding another one hundred-eighty five million, from a source FJ had already identified, would be even better. Wouldn’t make even a single change in how he lived his life or in the lifestyle he lived. Wouldn’t alter the course he wanted his business to take. Wouldn’t convince him to add more partners, make more contributions, donate to whatever damn charity his wife insisted the couple support, or get him thinking about cashing out, selling his business and to find out what retirement was all about.
That wasn’t for him. Not his style at all.
FJ’s greatest attribute—according to him—was that he never compared himself to anyone else. He had no competitors. Didn’t care if someone he knew, and knew was less skilled, reached the billionaire status. For FJ, staying off any list was significantly better than any benefits of being on any list.
“Let those of weak character strive to have their names listed among others of equally weak character,” FJ had said during a past year-end partner meeting. “The less people know about you, the more influence you can have. Familiarity is almost as expensive as maintaining a public image. Have neither. Strive to go unrecognized. To remain anonymous. Accomplishing those objectives will allow you greater power than even the wealthiest people in the world could imagine possessing.”
And for FJ DeNuzzio, anonymity also afforded him flexibility.
Congressman Wiggins had a press conference scheduled for the upcoming Monday to announce he was retiring from Congress and would be throwing his full support to Julia Steinberg. FJ wouldn’t be in attendance. He may decide to watch the press conference on TV, but had absolutely no interest in seeing Wiggins make his big announcement.
Steinberg would be there, of course. Sitting to the Congressman’s left, wearing the outfit FJ had suggested. She’d smile when she sat down, a few times while Wiggins spoke and then flash a broad smile when Wiggins told the press, “I cannot think of anyone more qualified, more prepared or more capable of serving my beloved district than District Attorney Julia Steinberg. Now, many of you are familiar with J
ulia and the excellent work her office has done during her tenure as the DA. But for those who don’t recognize her name, I’m going to tell you why. Julia Steinberg is no politician. She doesn’t run around, shaking hands, kissing babies. Yes, she currently holds an elected office, but just being elected to a political office doesn’t make her a politician. The second she took office, Julia Steinberg went right to work. Cleaning up the crime, locking criminals away and making this district safer for all who call this wonderful part of the world home.
“Now, I’m not one to say too many things about someone interested in taking over my job in Congress,” he would pause for the crowd’s laughter, “but the only reason I was able to finally persuade myself to retire was knowing Julia Steinberg was willing to serve our district in an even greater capacity.”
FJ had written the speech Wiggins was going to deliver. Wrote every word of it. Even choreographed when Steinberg should smile, clap her hands, laugh, pretend to jot down some notes. He even demanded Wiggins kiss her on the cheek when facing the cameras.
“If she initiates the kiss,” he said to Wiggins when the two sat in his office earlier that day, “then the appearance is you are doing her a favor. Your kissing her tells everyone you respect, admire and appreciate that she is making it easy for you to ride off into the sunset.”
The Monday announcement was fast approaching. So, too, was the need for District Attorney Julia Steinberg to understand her responsibilities.
Chapter 21
“You understand the importance of delivering a swift conviction I assume?”
FJ DeNuzzio hated politics. The false claims, the ridiculous lies, the pandering to groups of people for the sole purpose of persuading them to check off their name when they enter their assigned polling place. He had strategically decided to work closely with a select number of politicians, chosen for the positions they held and, more importantly, by how easily the politician could make the distinction between the few who mattered and the masses who only needed a smile, or a serious look of concern, some professionally chosen words or to be told the politician “had a plan” to solve whatever public issue was the most talked about on the faux news morning shows.
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 14