Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  “And you couldn’t stop.”

  “Geez Louise, no way could I have stopped,” she said loudly.

  Mia laughed. “Well, I wish I had your kind of determination. Thank you for attempting this. You realize if you fail he’s going to come after you, and you will be completely destroyed?”

  Sandy understood that might happen. “If you attack the king, you’d better damn well kill the king.”

  “I wish you luck. Will you call me soon, and let me know if this did the trick. For that matter, feel free to call on me in any regard. I know a whole bunch of people here and abroad.”

  “You’re very generous.”

  “You wouldn’t be interested in getting together with the Italian son of a wealthy Polish count, would you? He’s your age. Sizzling hot. Got the cutest damn butt...I suppose not.”

  Sandy made a polite shake of her head. “Do you trust Bill? If he’s inside tipping off Bichadel right now, that offshore account will vaporize with the click of a mouse. And a big black car will be waiting for me when I leave here.”

  “No, he hasn’t earned it yet. But I’m working on trusting my instincts. I did pretty well trusting you today. Let me tell you, if the FBI or other federal agents had come here today instead of you with the same request, I’d have played dumb. Because I wouldn’t have known if they were capable, dedicated or incompetent. My instinct was quite favorable for you.”

  “Thanks, I’m still working on my instincts as well. I wonder what my instincts would tell me if I was alone with that hot Italian with the cute butt, and he came on to me.” She grinned at Mia. “Does he ever make it down here to Florida?”

  Mia smiled. “I’ll keep your card handy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sandy had the valuable code she needed written on a piece of notepaper. She had begged off from staying for lunch and exited past the gatehouse. She waved at the guard and stopped in the small parking area just beyond the gate. She realized she was still tightly clutching the notepaper in her hand. She carefully folded and pushed the notepaper to the bottom of her handbag.

  She phoned Shapiro. “Mel, emergency meeting. I’m near Palm Point. I can be in your office inside of an hour. I have what we need to hang Bichadel. Have the FBI meet us there, so they can trace his offshore account. Okay? No, it’s a slam-dunk...what? I’m telling you I have what we need...but you must trust me...well, you should work on trusting your instincts.”

  Next, she phoned Martin and asked him to meet her in Shapiro’s office in an hour. “Martin, I have the golden link in my hot little hands. Do you feel better now? “I know...I know. And it’ll be Shapiro and an FBI guy. I need you there with me...well, I hope you decide to come.”

  The guard hurried over from the gatehouse. “Is everything okay, Miss?”

  “Thank you, things couldn’t be better.” She waved to him with crossed fingers.

  She turned onto the winding access road leading to US #1. The road was empty. She stepped up the speed enjoying pressing the curves on the snaky road a bit too fast, enjoying the feel of her sports car easily hugging the smooth asphalt. The top was down. The weather was clear. The world was a wonderful place. She smiled and reached over and patted her handbag containing the notepaper.

  She was close to the main highway, could hear the traffic, but still needed to round a couple more curves. Suddenly, she slammed hard on the brake pedal, braking and skidding to a stop askew in the road. A long gray limousine was blocking the road. She shoved her car into reverse and turned in the seat to back up. A large black car, which she recognized, pulled up tightly behind her. Did Mia’s lawyer friend tip off Bichadel?

  The limo driver walked around and held the rear limo door open while looking at her expectantly. Not much choice. She hoped he didn’t notice her pushing her handbag under the seat as she got out. She walked to the open door of the limo and looked in. “Geez, is this a cliché or what? Am I going to be taken for a ride like in the movies?” She looked back at the black car. Two men were in the front seat not moving. “Can we talk out here? My claustrophobia is acting up.” The driver shoved his hand hard on the middle of her back and she stumbled in. The door closed behind her.

  Obviously, it was Jack Bichadel positioned there in the far corner with his long legs comfortably crossed, his thin face smiling like an investor watching his stocks go up. The perfect picture of bad news. Except he didn’t look strong and hulking; he was slender with a bald head. “We have to talk about what comes next, Miss.”

  “I think this is where you are super-polite and offer me a glass of champagne from that bar you have there, before your goons beat the shit out of me.”

  “I should have expected such bravado considering what we’ve observed so far. That’s good. I’ll get to the point. Why are you up here seeing Mia?”

  She thought fast. “She was interviewing me for a companion position, but my French wasn’t up to it.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  He wasn’t buying it. “Of course I would.” No point in pretending.

  “Well, Mia doesn’t know anything about my operation. So, you’re wasting your time here.” He looked at his watch. “And I’ve no time to waste. I know you’ve probably already passed the files to the feds. Where’s your purse?”

  A sudden wave of heat made her feel warm enough to sweat. She clasped her hands together in her lap hiding the slight tremble. No use fighting at this point. They would find it sooner or later. “I keep it under the driver’s seat so it doesn’t get snatched.” She tried to sound casual.

  He nodded to the driver. In a minute, the driver was back and handed the purse to him. He started fumbling around in the contents. She knew it would take him only a minute to find the notepaper and look at it. She held her breath.

  He took out her billfold and then her driver’s license. “Sandra Reid.” He glanced at the rest of the license information.

  Geez, she thought, he didn’t know her name until that moment.

  “Here’s the situation. You must stop all of your investigation into my affairs immediately. I don’t want you digging into any other real or imagined violations. If I get the slightest hint that you’re pursuing anything else, then I’ll destroy you. No, I don’t intend to kill you. I know there are two fates that women truly fear. One is getting the shit kicked out of them, as you put it. The other is unspeakable. If you persist, I will make a gift of you to my two associates sitting in the black car back there. They won’t kill you, at least not right away, because it would be to their advantage to keep you alive as long as possible. I don’t think you want to be sandwiched with them.”

  She considered the circumstances. His warning was clear enough, but something wasn’t right. He hadn’t known her name. That meant Priscilla hadn’t mentioned her. After her arrest, he probably had cut off all contact. He didn’t know she had linked him to the courtyard murder. Didn’t know he was holding the key to his downfall in his lap—the damaging access to his offshore account. And she certainly didn’t want to give him time to rummage around looking for it.

  She glanced down at the back of her right hand, drew in a deep breath and turned on the seat to face him. She put on her angriest look and wagged her finger right in his face. “You laugh at us people, but you aren’t going to stop us. You and your evil corporations are ruining our air, land and oceans. Soon you’ll destroy our entire environment. Ruining our planet with your poisonous pollution and your oil spills.”

  He was startled and slapped her finger away from his face. “Okay, okay, I got it. The EPA thing I can handle. Margaret stole some important papers and embarrassing emails, but I can explain it all away. She has no credibility now. Obviously, she was an hysterical woman who drove her own husband to kill her and then commit suicide. I’ll pay off some bureaucrats, tie it up in court for a couple of years and settle for a few million. But remember, I don’t want to hear about you ever again.”

  She looked at him fiercely. “You might be able to stop me,
you polluting bastard, but when you knock me down a thousand others will stand up and take my place to save the earth.” She reached out for her billfold and license.

  He let her take them out of his hand. “Now get out here, you tree-hugging wacko. Go chain yourself to a redwood.”

  She reached over and grabbed her handbag off his lap. “Give me back my purse you toxic contaminating jerk.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “This better be good,” FBI agent Louis Arno said. “I cancelled a meeting with my DC superiors to drive up here from Palm Beach.” He looked over at Mel Shapiro and then across the table at Sandy and Martin. The four of them were in the third floor conference room of the state attorney.

  “It’s good,” Sandy said.

  “You say it’s good. Actually you’re guessing aren’t you?” Shapiro said.

  “Of course, if I knew for certain, I wouldn’t need you guys. I’m joking, Mel.”

  “So, you have the access code to the offshore bank account of Jack Bichadel?”

  She nodded.

  “You have the number with you?” Arno asked. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From someone who’s mad as hell at him. If all works out, then it’ll be safe for me to name the person.”

  “No, you’ll name the person now. This is a federal investigation. You have to tell me.”

  “No, I don’t. I can’t lie to you, but I don’t have to talk to you.” She gave a pleading look to Shapiro. “Mel, I need some consideration for this from the state attorney’s office.”

  Arno’s face flushed red. Shapiro started to say something and Arno interrupted. “Okay, you can hold off on naming the person for now.” He stared at her. “But give me the damn number.”

  She bit down on her lip. Shapiro knew she wanted to come out of this all clear with Moran. The fact that she’d just stated her expectation might be enough. She took the slip of notepaper from her handbag and pushed it across the table toward Arno. He grabbed it up like winnings in a crap game and hurried to a quiet corner with his smartphone.

  All was quiet in the room except for Arno reading and repeating numbers into his phone. Martin spoke up, “If this goes through, someone also needs to inform the EPA Special Agents looking into the Bichadel Corporation violations.”

  Shapiro answered, “Yes, we’re in contact with them. They explained Bichadel’s scheme. He’d buy up smaller gas drillers but not register all of their sites. So there were no EPA regulators inspecting those sites for environmental violations. Plus he avoided taxes on the extra natural gas that was flowing through because of the fraudulent measuring. All the evidence is in the file Margaret Frome put together and Sandy obtained from Ted Cobalt.”

  Agent Arno finished on the phone and came back over to the table. “You’re correct, Martin, the mere existence of an offshore account will strengthen the EPA case of fraud and will quite possibly lead to other payoffs and money laundering in the scheme.”

  “How long will it take the FBI to access that bank account?” Shapiro wondered.

  “A matter of minutes if the account ID she gave me is valid. We have active warrants waiting to be implemented against all of those offshore banks.”

  “This is a very big deal, Sandy,” Shapiro said. “How did you get on to all this?”

  She leaned back into her chair and took a breath. “Everyone knew the three hundred Gs came out of Brad Ebert’s account and was wired offshore. Soon after, fifty Gs was deposited in Priscilla Fowler’s from offshore. The assumption was the fifty came out of the three hundred, but I knew it wasn’t the same money. Brad had told me of a three hundred thousand debt to an offshore gambling operation. So I knew all of his withdrawal went to settle the gambling debt.” She glanced over at Martin who quickly looked up at the ceiling.

  “Anyway, by the time of Brad’s death,” she continued, “I had already decided that Margaret Frome had no reason to phone Martin. But the killer needed to stage that call to show hostility between the spouses and throw suspicion on the husband. So some mystery woman made that call. The shot taken at me in my backyard seemed amateurish to me—real pros would have kept firing until I was so much red confetti. Then came the info from Ted Cobalt about the victim whistle blowing at the Bichadel Corporation, which meant something big and important was going on. This wasn’t some little spousal dispute. I wondered if the mystery woman who phoned might be connected with Bichadel Corp. I was stuck there for a while.” She noticed Arno giving her an impatient look.

  She hurried on, “When the money showed up in Priscilla Fowler’s bank, I checked her out and whatdayaknow I ended up in Palm Point at a lounge close to Bichadel Corp. So the corporation wanted the whistleblower dead, Jack Bichadel knows Priscilla, and Priscilla suddenly has a large bank deposit. The fifty big ones in her account had to be a payoff from him. She confessed all that to me two days ago from jail hoping for leniency. If I could prove it, it would definitely tie him to the murder. Then I got the idea of who might have the account number. Scorned wives often know where husbands bury bodies.”

  Arno’s phone rang causing everyone to jump. He stayed at the table listening and talking. Then he clicked his smartphone shut and stood, frowning. “There is no such account.” He gave her an angry look. “The number you gave me is no fucking good. What in hell do you think you’re doing? You think all your running around is some kind of game? Of all the unmitigated stupidity. Do you know the foul name I was just called on the phone?”

  Shapiro said, “Okay, Arno, settle down.” Although he was also shooting glances at Sandy, whose face was now reddening.

  Martin went over and sat next to her without speaking.

  “I don’t understand.” She placed both hands on top of her head. “Geez, maybe Bichadel closed the account and my source wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Well, isn’t that just peachy keen,” Arno said as nasty as he could make it.

  Arno and Shapiro were still glaring at her when Martin said, “Let me see that paper with the code on it.”

  Arno threw it at him as though it was worthless. Martin studied it for only an instant. “This is alphanumeric.”

  “No,” Arno said, “it’s all numbers.”

  “What is this first character?” Martin asked pointing.

  Arno jerked it back and looked. “It’s a seven. Don’t you see that little line across it? Don’t you know a European seven when you see it?”

  “That’s not a number,” Martin insisted. “It’s the letter F. Account numbers for Caribbean banks are always alphanumeric and that note wasn’t written by a European.”

  Arno gently took the note back. His hand had a slight shake to it. “Maybe.” He walked away and redialed. He spoke slowly into his phone. When finished, he came back and sat quietly at the table. They waited in silence minute after minute. It was so quiet they could hear the elevator running at the other end of the building.

  Finally, his phone rang.

  He listened then he started writing. He looked over at Shapiro. “Last week, fifty thousand was transferred from the Bank of Antigua to a bank account with this number....” He pointed to what he’d written.

  Shapiro shuffled quickly through the printout before him. He ran his finger down the sheet, then yelled, “Bingo! That’s the number of Priscilla Fowler’s account at Park Beach National Bank.” And he threw the paper and pencil into the air.

  Martin stood quickly and went over to Arno. “That’s an easy mistake to make,” he said, patting Arno on the shoulder.

  They filled the next few minutes with loud talking, a profuse shaking of hands and grins all around. Arno apologized to Sandy. He and Shapiro sat down talking.

  Martin noticed Sandy lightly touching the back of her right hand and moved over beside her. “You look about ready to cry. Aren’t you happy?”

  “I’m deliriously happy. Something on the back of my hand was bothering me. It’s all clear now.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Margaret can rest in peace. Bichadel and Priscilla wil
l be punished.”

  “No question about that. Premeditated murder in Florida? He’ll get life and she’ll get thirty years. You pulled it off, Sandy.”

  “I don’t feel like celebrating quite yet,” she said loud enough for Shapiro to hear. “Moran has my head on the chopping block over my obstructing justice antic.”

  Shapiro was all smiles. “Sandy, you’ve just handed the State Attorney a huge murder case with international implications. You’ve put Moran in the national spotlight. He’ll be too busy taking credit for everything you’ve done to pursue your little ethics violation.” He pushed himself back from the desk and put his hands behind his head. “I’ll prepare the warrants for the arrest of Jack Bichadel and Priscilla Fowler immediately.”

  “The FBI is already on their way to arrest Bichadel,” Arno said.

  Everyone was smiling except Sandy, who said, “Since Priscilla has agreed to cooperate with us, I told her you would ask the judge for a reduced sentence. She was a huge help.”

  Shapiro straightened back up in his chair. “Impossible! I can’t reduce the sentence of a person who has murdered two people.”

  “Now that’s what I wanted to talk with you about. She murdered only one.” Sandy got up, crossed to the window and turned back. “Gentlemen, I’m ashamed to say there is more.”

  Shapiro sank back in his chair expecting the worst. “Oh God, with Sandy Reid there’s always one more thing.”

  “I’ve withheld evidence in the Bradford Ebert murder case against Priscilla Fowler. I’m sorry. I’ve caused the police and the judicial system a great deal of time and expense in their misdirected attempt to go after her.”

  “Misdirected?” Shapiro said.

  Agent Arno was puzzled. “What in hell are we talking about?”

  “Not a murder case at all. And Priscilla had nothing to do with his death. I must confess that Brad Ebert discussed suicide with me and gave me a suicide note three days before his death. That’s when he told me about his large gambling debt. So I knew it was suicide and none of his money went to Priscilla. However, you came up with all that circumstantial evidence against her and arrested her.”