Pyramid Deception

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Yes,” Cindy said. “Mr. Washington seems to have the golden touch with money.”

  “Yeah? Not from what I could see,” Queen said. “I got a good long look at that account and the fund itself was shrinking over time. From what I could see, he kept putting her money into losing investments. On the surface it looked like he was a pretty poor investor, consistently betting on investments that cost him money.”

  Queen fell silent, looking into Hannibal’s lenses. Hannibal watched his face closely. “You said, ‘on the surface.’ What do you think was going on underneath.”

  Now it was Queen’s turn to lean forward and lower his voice. “I think he was purposely stealing her money out from under her. There was evidence that he was making deals that were plausible on the surface, but unwise if you looked closer. I think he was unloading her assets through dummy setups. Sort of like selling stuff to himself. Then he would buy it back from himself on the cheap, through another company. It’s real smooth, almost invisible, unless you happen to be a CPA who has seen this kind of thing before.”

  “All right!” Cindy said, sliding to the edge of her chair.

  “It wouldn’t be enough to open a murder investigation,” Hannibal said.

  “No, but if we take this to the police it should prompt them to investigate Monroe’s finances. He’s probably got my money too, and Jason’s.”

  Cindy’s sudden enthusiasm shook Hannibal as much as her comments did, but before he could gather the words for a response he was distracted by a chuckle that bubbled up out of Paul Queen like gas escaping the La Brea tar pits.

  “Ms. Santiago, really. There is nothing to take to the police.”

  “But you said…”

  “I said there was some evidence. My nose tells me that this guy’s finances aren’t on the up and up. But to prove it? To dig through the layers of shell companies and dummy corporations owned by other dummy corporations? Well, give me a half dozen good forensic accountants and get me full access to Monroe’s records and a year or so to go through them and I could give you something you could take to court.”

  Cindy gripped Hannibal’s sleeve. “You used to work at Treasury. Can’t you get them or the IRS to look into this guy’s business dealings?”

  “They’d need some kind of event as an excuse.” Hannibal had said it out loud before he put it together. “Paul, if this guy’s wife is dead, that’s a real good excuse to evaluate his entire estate, right? For estate tax purposes. Maybe a missing wife is just as good an excuse.”

  Cindy and Queen said, “No,” at the same time. Queen continued, “They won’t move on her until she’s declared dead. Unless they turn up her body that gives this guy seven years to reconfigure his finances or shift it all overseas, or just disappear to another country himself.”

  Cindy closed her eyes, shaking with frustration. “He’s too smart. How can we get at this guy?” It was a rhetorical question, but Queen answered.

  “Well, you could look for the one guy who might know all about his financial dealings, his old business partner.”

  “He had a partner?” Hannibal asked.

  Queen sat back, smug in that way people are when they think they have all the answers you need. “Yep. Manny Hernandez. Monroe is like Teflon, nothing sticks to him, but Hernandez was a little shady. They don’t run together no more but I’m betting Hernandez knows where all the bodies are buried.” Cindy’s shiver must have made Queen realize what he had said because he interrupted himself to say, “Sorry. Poor choice of words. But if Hernandez is sore about being cut out of whatever Monroe is doing he might be happy to talk about it.”

  “That’s a good lead,” Hannibal said. “Any idea where…?” The ring of his cell phone cut him off. With an exasperated sigh he pulled it out and flipped it open.

  “Where the hell are you?” Detective Orson Rissik growled. “Am I going to have to solve your case all by myself?”

  -8-

  Rissik had not called Hannibal to his office in the Fairfax County municipal complex, but rather asked to meet him in the county impound lot. Hannibal led Cindy down the rows of vehicles until they found Rissik, standing with his arms crossed, leaning back against Jason’s Prius. In his tan suit and straw colored crew cut he looked like any average businessman except for the dangerous blue eyes and perpetually bitter expression.

  “Good morning, Miss Santiago,” he said, and then looked at Hannibal. “So, I hear you gave Carlton a hard way to go.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I did, but…”

  “Good! He was being an idiot, making bad assumptions about a source I already told him is trustworthy. So Major Crimes took it over. It’s my case now.”

  “Well that’s good news. Did you check out the crime scene?”

  “Of course,” Rissik said. “I didn’t think there’d be anything to see in a shopping center on a weekday twelve hours after the reported crime. But it turns out these crime scene boys can do pretty amazing things these days. The right chemicals brought up blood stains in the cement right where you said they’d have to be. And an hour or so rummaging around in that little wooded area between the buildings turned up a spent thirty-eight caliber slug.”

  “No casing?” Cindy asked. Rissik gave her the “why are you here” look. Hannibal knew she was simply repeating what she had heard on too many television shows.

  “The .38 is more often a revolver round, babe. They don’t throw the empty case like an automatic does. You have to dump them out when they’re empty.”

  “None of that verifies a murder,” Rissik said, crossing his arms. “I was kind of hoping you could give me a little more.”

  “Well, if you discount your eye witness it’s all pretty circumstantial. I’ve got an accountant who will testify that Monroe snaked the cash out of Irene’s trust fund, so maybe a motive. And the ticket girl at the Alexandria train station can verify that the couple who got on the Amtrak headed north wasn’t Jason Moore and Irene Monroe. At least, it wasn’t Jason.”

  Rissik nodded. “It sure sounds like some sort of conspiracy, but you’re right, it sure ain’t proof.”

  “No, but I’ve got a feeling you’ve got more. What did you get off the car?”

  “What makes you think I got something off the car?” Rissik asked with a sarcastic smile.

  “Come on, Orson. You made us trek out here to the car. So what did you find?”

  “Nothing. The car’s wiped clean.” Then he looked up at Hannibal with a sly smile.

  “What?” Cindy’s distress was clear. “Nothing? No fingerprints? No hairs or fibers or whatever? Why are we out here then?”

  Hannibal held up a palm to calm her. “Will you relax? Orson, am I reading you right? No prints at all?”

  “That’s right, some moron wiped it all down. Door handles, steering wheel, everything. They’d have been a lot better off wearing gloves.”

  “So not only did somebody else drive Jason’s car, but that wasn’t their original plan.” Then to Cindy he said, “If Jason had driven to the train station, at least his prints would be on the door handles, the steering wheel, rear view mirror and so on.”

  “A smart snatch artist would wait until he got in the car, bum rush him then, and make him drive wherever they wanted him. It’s easy to control somebody when they have to watch the road and your hands are free.”

  Hannibal closed his eyes to picture the scene. “But he must have spotted them before he was in the car. I checked the area and can see exactly where they could take him with no risk of prying eyes.”

  Cindy walked around to look into the driver’s window, almost as if she could imagine her friend in the seat. “Oh, Jason, where have they taken you?”

  Orson stepped closer to Hannibal and lowered his voice a bit. “You know he’s dead, right? Even if this is all about the girl, they’d have no reason to keep this guy alive so he could identify them later.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think we need to broadcast that,” Hannibal said, his eyes on Cindy’s face
. “In fact I think our best bet is to let the killer keep thinking he’s got everybody fooled. We don’t want to spook him.”

  “Agreed. We’ll continue to pursue the missing person’s case, and you follow up on any leads you get. And for God’s sake keep me informed, because I’m on the line on this one with you. Will I be able to reach you at your office?”

  “Actually, I’ve got a room at the Hyatt Regency in Reston. I’m going to work out of there to be closer to Great Falls. In the morning I’m going to see if I can get Monroe to talk to me.”

  “He’s not dead.” It was Cindy, who had crept very close to them while they talked. “There’s no reason for Jason to be dead and there’s no evidence that Jason is dead.”

  “They were very close,” Hannibal told Rissik. “A lot more than just coworkers.”

  Rissik nodded. “Get the girl a decent dinner and get back on this in the morning, Jones. Got to protect the victims.” His eyes wandered past Cindy quickly. “All the victims.”

  Hannibal drove Cindy back to her townhome on a quiet street only a block from the Potomac. He followed her inside and almost collided with her when she came to an abrupt halt in the center of the living room and muttered low.

  “I thought I was out of this little cracker box.”

  Then she squared her shoulders and marched into the bedroom. Hannibal stayed behind, considering his woman’s disappointment at not being able to hold onto the million dollar home she felt she deserved. Hannibal thought the little two-bedroom brick row house on the edge of Old Town had character. Cindy’s subtle, if feminine decorating touches made the space hers. He admired the porcelain and crystal figurines that crowded shadow boxes, the mantle and nearly every other surface in the room. Lacy cloths covered tables at each end of her big chintz sofa. Victorian artwork graced the walls, filling the house with bright flowers, but were spaced to keep the rooms from looking cluttered. And there were the bowls of potpourri that added the scent of wildflowers. What was so awful about this cozy space? How much space does a single woman need?

  Sooner than expected, Cindy huffed into the living room pulling a rolling overnight bag. Hannibal took it from her, collapsed the handle, and hauled it down to the car.

  Traffic was light, yet by the time they made it to their hotel in Reston it was time for dinner. After getting settled in their room they moved to the hotel restaurant. If anyone recognized Hannibal from the tension at breakfast they made a point of not showing it. After searching in vain for something plain and simple on the menu, he settled on a chicken dish that featured a Portobello mushroom. Cindy seemed to enjoy the filet mignon that came with duck foie gras, asparagus and garlic whipped potatoes. Whipped, Hannibal guessed, because mashing was too good for them.

  Despite the elegant surroundings Cindy was quiet and at times Hannibal felt her slipping away again. She emptied an atypical third glass of merlot before the meal ended.

  When they returned to the room it was barely eight o’clock. The room was big, and very clean, but it smelled antiseptic, the way Hannibal always thought a sanitarium would smell. Cindy kicked off her shoes and began dropping articles of clothing as if she were alone.

  “I am so sorry I got you involved in this,” she mumbled, tossing her suit jacket into a chair.

  “There’s no reason to feel bad,” Hannibal said, pouring water into the little coffeepot. “I needed a case, and I happen to like this particular client anyway.”

  “No, no, no.” Cindy plunked down on the bed and began to unbutton her blouse. “I meant I’m sorry because of poor Jason. He’d be home watching TV right now if I hadn’t called you in. The money would be gone but my friend wouldn’t be missing.”

  Hannibal poured the heated water over a tea bag and moved slowly toward the bed. “How the hell did you come to that crazy conclusion?”

  “It’s not crazy,” she said, sounding defiant despite her head hanging in front of her. “They weren’t after Jason, you know. They were after this Irene bitch. If you hadn’t gone to meet her they’d have just gunned her down and taken her away and they wouldn’t have needed any cover-up. So they would have had no reason to ever go after poor Jason. Damn, I’m tired.” She flipped her blouse in the general direction of her jacket. It fell a few inches short. Hannibal sat beside her on the bed.

  “It’s not physical fatigue, babe. You’re emotionally exhausted, sort of like being in shock. The loss of your friend, the money, the murder, it’s just hitting you hard. Take this and drink a little tea and you’ll feel better.”

  “What’s this? Drugs?” Cindy held her hand out, accepted the blue tablet, tossed it into her mouth and chased it with a swallow of tea before Hannibal answered.

  “It’s just to help you sleep. Unisom, over-the-counter, very mild.”

  “I don’t feel like I need help falling asleep,” Cindy said, unzipping her skirt and shimmying it down and off her without standing. “I just kind of feel like I’m all over the place. I’m a little confused right now. Except about one thing. Stop saying Jason is dead when you don’t know.”

  “Cindy, honey, I don’t want to hurt you.” She leaned into him, her head landing against his chest. He wrapped an arm around her. “But the truth is, once this killer, whoever he is, decided to make Irene Monroe’s death look like an escape, Jason’s fate was sealed. Whether or not I was there, I’m convinced they were going to kill her, hide her, and set up a believable runaway scenario. For that picture to work, she had to run away with her boyfriend. They were not going to risk his showing up later to argue their theory.”

  “So, it would have worked anyway?”

  “It would have worked better, babe.” Hannibal lay back on the bed, pulling Cindy’s head onto his chest. She curled against him like a child. “Cindy, if I hadn’t been there to raise suspicion in a guy like Orson Rissik, they’d have never checked the car for prints. They’d have never looked for a bullet. They’d have never tested the sidewalk for blood.”

  “But they did,” Cindy said, slurring just a bit. “So now it’s better to have a hostage than be guilty of a second murder, right?”

  Hannibal sighed, feeling her head move up and down with his chest. “Well, maybe when we find the person responsible we’ll get more answers. That’s why I want to confront George Washington Monroe, to see if I can get him to let something valuable slip.”

  “And to get my money,” Cindy said. Hannibal chose not to reply and less than a minute later her breathing settled into a deeper, slower pattern. He waited a full five minutes before shifting her head to a pillow. Then he very slowly pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed and gently rolled her to it so he could cover her. Her face was still troubled, not the peaceful, innocent face he was used to waking up to from time to time.

  Hannibal had no idea how to help her. She was hurting and she was angry, but he didn’t fully understand why. He couldn’t believe it was all about the money. The loss of her friend hurt, but was in no way her fault. And the dead woman was a complete stranger. Yet she was genuinely upset about something. But without understanding why, he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t help her, but he couldn’t just sit still either, and there was one thing he could do. He bent and kissed Cindy’s cheek, barely touching her skin with his lips. Then he quietly eased the door open and slipped out.

  In the car he checked to make sure his cell phone was on, in case Cindy awoke and found him gone. He hated to leave her alone, and Alexandria was a thirty minute haul down the beltway, but he had to pursue the case.

  Hannibal had the platform to himself. He leaned back on his bench, arms crossed, waiting in silence. Still in his suit and shades he was almost lost in the darkness. A distant horn warned that a train was approaching. Its steel wheels sent vibrations ahead, down the rails and up through the wooden platform. Hannibal felt them but didn’t react, even when Lane Stone walked up beside him.

  “What on God’s green earth are you doing out here?”

  “Waiting for a train
,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Isn’t that what people do out here?”

  “Yeah, but they usually going someplace. You going someplace?”

  “Meeting somebody.”

  “But you’ve already seen two trains come and go.”

  “Not sure what train they’re on,” Hannibal said. “But I know if I’m in the right place at the right time I can get my hands on the truth.”

  -9-

  Much of Hannibal’s life came down to knocking on doors. Often they were the doors of affluent families in Northern Virginia who were victims of crimes. Sometimes they were the perpetrator of some swindle or crime that had made Hannibal’s client a victim. This time he wasn’t sure.

  This particular morning he had left his woman still in restless sleep in the hotel room just before sunrise. Hannibal wasn’t sure if George Washington Monroe would be willing to talk to him. If he refused to talk that would make Hannibal more suspicious. Monroe would know that. But if Monroe was willing to talk with him, Hannibal thought he might learn whether or not the man was capable of killing. Still, unannounced, he had driven to Monroe’s huge colonial home on a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by manicured lawns on a big enough lot to place all its neighbors at arms’ length. As he walked up the steps to the front door the word stately came to his mind. It took him a moment to find the reference in his mind. Clearly this place reminded him of Wayne Manor. He didn’t watch the Gotham television show, but he remembered the Batman TV show he had watched in reruns as a child.

  The doorbell sounded like an entire orchestra of bells. Hannibal waited only ten seconds before a man in a neat blue suit opened the door. Hannibal wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t a white guy with wavy blond hair and horn rimmed glasses.