by Tim Tigner
Kostas blushed. “I don’t pay them. I mean, I do pay them, but not personally. I have an attorney who handles all my banking.”
“Your children don’t handle that for you?” Emmy asked, her thoughts obviously following the same track as his.
“No. I don’t have any children. No family at all, as a matter of fact.”
No family at all, Troy repeated to himself.
“Could you get us your attorney’s name and number?” Emmy asked.
“Yes, of course. I’m sure I have his card somewhere.”
Troy turned toward Emmy and they exchanged perplexed looks as Kostas got up and went in search of the business card.
“How often do you see your attorney, Mr. Kanasis?” Troy asked loudly, so Kostas could hear him from the other room.
“Oh, I never see him.”
“What I mean is, how often do you speak?”
“Not very often. In fact, I don’t remember ever speaking to him.”
“Ever,” Emmy repeated. “How is that?”
Kostas walked back into the room with a rumpled old business card. “I don’t remember a lot of things. I’ve developed a problem with my memory.”
Chapter 39
Arlen
LUTHER LAID his satellite phone down on his oak desk and let out a long sigh. Between Orca’s visit and the Farkas fiasco, these last few days had been unnerving. Life was supposed to be easy when you made the kind of money he did, wasn’t it?
The problem, he knew, was that the money just passed through his hands, teasing him. He never got to hold it, fondle it, revel in it. The bulk of his earnings went to Orca. The rest went to pay his mortgages, his social fees and expenses, and his professional and domestic help. At the end of the day, even with annual earnings well into eight figures, he was still living off credit cards.
A light two-toned bell intruded on his thoughts and Kimber’s face appeared on his videophone. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she had good news. “You’ve got a visitor, Luther,” she said, holding an embossed business card up to the camera. “Arlen Blythe, CEO of Savas Pharmaceuticals is here to see you.” By stating his name that way, Kimber was signaling that she had confirmed Blythe’s identity with his fingerprints. “He said to tell you that Bogart sent him.”
Bogart, that was good news, Luther thought. “Please make Mr. Blythe comfortable and then send him up in five minutes.”
Bogart had been Luther’s best paying client. Whereas Luther charged a million dollars to erase a single witness’s memory, he doubled his fee for each additional erasure on the same case, keeping the cost in line with the incremental risk. If the prosecution’s star witness suddenly could not swear to what he had seen anymore, that was tragic, but not necessarily unusual. It was a different kettle of fish altogether if the prosecution’s two star witnesses both “developed amnesia.” Then the judge might smell something rotten and decide to take a closer look. Closer looks were exactly what Luther most wanted to avoid.
Rather than refuse multiple erasures outright, however, he had put a risk-reward matrix in place. Bogart had paid Luther a three million dollar fee for a double erasure. Given that Arlen Blythe was the CEO of a pharmaceutical corporation, Luther could imagine myriad scenarios for which he might require a double. Perhaps a couple of clinical investigators had observed regrettable adverse effects, or his security division had identified a couple of whistleblowers about to toot. Hell, it could even be a triple, Luther mused. Three wipes were worth seven million dollars. Four was worth fifteen. Dare he even hope? Luther shook his head. No. He dared not. Although a big job would not break the letter of the inviolable rules he had established in the beginning to keep from getting caught, it would certainly crack their spirit.
Still, to get Orca off his back …
Luther Googled Savas Pharmaceuticals. Scanning the summary posted on an investment website, he saw that Savas was a one-drug firm—but what a drug it was. Vitorol, their oral insulin, was the world’s number-one best selling pharmaceutical, bringing in a staggering twelve-billion dollars last year. Twelve Billion. All from pills that probably cost a penny apiece to manufacture. That was the kind of return he had hoped to be earning when he plunked half his tort earnings into Aridon Biotech six years ago. He had hoped to cash in on the Alzheimer’s pie the way Savas was cashing in on the diabetic. He had rolled the dice and taken his chances, and lost. Big time. Never again.
The elevator doors chimed, and Arlen Blythe walked into his office. With his radiant aquiline features and thick crop of gray-tinged hair, the CEO looked like his title: the head hired gun for one of the world’s most profitable firms. At forty-six, he was young enough to represent the next-generation image that Savas sought to portray, yet experienced enough to impress the industry analysts and roundtable hosts with his acumen and gravitas.
Luther knew instantly that it would be a mistake to try to pass himself off as the hired help to this guy. Arlen no doubt knew his Shakespeare. According to the rumors Luther now recalled, the founder of Savas had spent eighteen months working with all three of the world’s top executive search firms to identify the perfect man to assume the reigns of his company. The man whose identification and recruitment had commanded millions in fees was standing before him now. And he needed Luther’s help.
As Luther walked from behind his desk to greet his potential new client, he could not help fantasizing about the fee they might be agreeing to the next time they shook hands—if only Arlen had the right kind of case. “Good afternoon, I’m Luther Kanasis. Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, motioning toward his suite of black calfskin armchairs.
Arlen nodded and complied, but did not offer an opener. Not even his name. Apparently, he wanted Luther to make the first move. His clients tended to do that for some reason, as though they thought it a clever way to test his oratorical skills. Little did they know that despite the nature of his business, oratory had nothing to do with Luther’s ongoing success. “It truly is a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Blythe. I’ve been an admirer of yours for years. Your work at Savas has been little short of miraculous. Twelve billion last year. Now that is impressive.”
When Blythe failed to reply or even nod, Luther added, “So, we have a mutual friend in Bogart …”
“Yes,” Arlen said. “I was most impressed by the resolution of his case.”
Luther nodded.
“We had a long talk about it over a couple of splendid Padron cigars. I don’t usually smoke, but given Bogart’s affinity I joined him and actually enjoyed it immensely. Even ordered myself a couple of boxes of the same limited edition just to have around when the occasion warrants.” Arlen kept his gaze riveted on Luther the whole time he spoke, giving Luther the impression that the words were just filler, packing peanuts around some greater purpose.
“He doesn’t have the faintest idea how you helped him,” Arlen continued. “His assumption is that you simply used bribes.”
Luther kept his best poker face securely pasted throughout this speculation. His clients always wanted to know how he did it, but of course he never told them. He never even hinted.
“That’s one of many areas where Bogart and I differ,” Arlen added.
Luther waited for more but nothing came. Finally he said, “I don’t follow.”
Arlen’s lips smiled, but his eyes continued with their dissecting stare. “You see, Luther, I have deduced your secret. I know exactly how you’ve been winning. You’ve been erasing memories—chemically.”
Chapter 40
Cutout
EMMY LOOKED OVER at Troy as they waited for the elevator, trying to gauge his state of mind. She was not pleased with the results of their meeting with Kostas Kanasis, but judging by Troy’s expression, his jury was still out.
Not hers.
All that work, all that exposure, all that danger … Discovering and deciphering the tattoos, hijacking the UPS truck, scamming Gunter, watching a cop’s head explode before their eyes, imperson
ating Interpol officers, for what? For the name of Kostas’s accountant, an attorney in Miami. What good was that to them? “I can’t believe that after all this, all we have is the name of a lousy attorney.”
Troy held up his index finger without turning toward her, indicating that he was deep in thought. When the elevator arrived on eighteen, he took two steps forward to enter but did not turn around. He just stood there, staring intently toward the back wall.
Emmy was about to hit the lobby button, when she thought better of it. She pressed seventeen instead. They descended one floor, the doors opened and closed, and then she hit sixteen, all with Troy barely blinking. And so it went: fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve. On eleven, Troy suddenly turned to her. “It’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant.” He wore a smile a mile wide.
“What is?”
“The system.”
“What system? What are you talking about?” Emmy asked, frustrated and anxious.
“Kostas Kanasis.”
“Kostas Kanasis is just a sweet old man, a victim whose memory has been wiped—just like us.”
“No, he’s not like us. You were on the right track earlier, but you need to take it one step further. He’s a cutout.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, pushing the button for ten.
“Think about it, Emmy. Think about the chain of clues.”
“The chain of clues?”
“Yes. Go all the way back to the tattoos. Why did we choose to make that bank account the one thing we told our future amnesic selves about?”
“I don’t know. All we’ve gotten from it, besides a few attempts on our lives, is the name Alexander Tate, Attorney at Law, Miami. That hardly blows my skirt up considering our predicament and what we went through to get it.”
“I’ll tell you why we chose it,” Troy said. “We chose it because that was all we had. Before our memories were stolen from us, we were following a money trail. You had it right.”
“It sounded good at the time, but not anymore. What makes you so cocksure?”
“Cocksure?”
Emmy blushed, remembering the kiss. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
“Don’t be. Here’s your answer. It’s the only sensible explanation that covers everything. As soon as you assume the money trail scenario to be true, then everything else falls into place.”
Emmy did not feel everything falling into place, but seeing the conviction in Troy’s cobalt eyes, she sensed inspiration coming. She pushed the buttons for floors nine through one to buy some quiet elevator time and said, “Do tell.”
Troy began to pace, speaking to himself as much as to her. “For some reason—and I don’t know what that was yet—we were following a money trail.”
“A trail that we now know leads to a sweet old man whose mind has also been wiped,” Emmy interjected.
“That’s where we’re wrong,” Troy said triumphantly.
“It doesn’t lead to Kostas?” Emmy asked, incredulity muffling her voice.
Troy shook his head. “It leads through Kostas.”
“Through Kostas,” Emmy repeated, not understanding yet. “Go on.”
“Okay. But let me back up. I’m going to postulate that back when we were following the money trail before our amnesia, our investigation kicked up enough dirt to alert those concerned and make them nervous. At some point—I’m guessing when we showed up here on Grand Cayman—we crossed a line and they decided to make their problem go away.”
“By erasing our minds and having us incarcerated for murder,” Emmy finished the thought.
“Exactly.”
“And Kostas is a cutout on this trail?”
“Right again.”
“I’m not sure I know what that means.”
Troy nodded his understanding. “Kostas is blindly holding the real criminal’s money, perhaps laundering it as well. The money trail looks like it leads to him. And as far as the banks and tax authorities are concerned, it does. But this evening we learned that it really passes through him—without his knowledge.”
Despite Troy’s explanation, Emmy was not there yet. “You’re going to have to explain that.”
“Of course. And again, I’m speculating with assumptions that make everything else fall into place. Here goes. Mister X, the guy or guys or organization we’re really after, is doing something illegal that makes him a lot of money—money that he has to launder. I don’t know what that business is, but I think your earlier assumption that it involves erasing memories is a good one.”
Troy paused for Emmy to nod that she was following, and then continued. “Like any smart crook, he’s obviously very cautious, perhaps even paranoid about being identified and caught. And of course he’s also well aware of rule one in the detective handbook. He knows that anyone coming after him is going to try to follow the money trail. So what does he do?”
“He sets up a blind middleman, a cutout,” Emmy answered, seeing the light. “How do you think it works?”
“I think Mister X found a sweet old man with no family living on an island and offered him a deal. I think he offered to set Kostas up in a luxury condo and pay all his bills, in exchange for running his money through the account Kostas has maintained for the last twenty years. He gets Kostas to assign him full power of attorney over the account to him. Then he wipes Kostas’s mind so he has no recollection of the arrangement. That’s why all Kostas knows now is what Mister X’s attorney told him afterwards: that all his bills are taken care of and he doesn’t have to worry about money. And that’s all Kostas cares to know. Why question it? He lives a good life.”
“And Mister X is safe,” Emmy added.
“Right.”
“Because Kostas is a cutout.”
“Right again. Except that we now know about Counselor Alexander Tate in Miami.”
“And Tate will know who Mister X is,” Emmy said, finishing the chain. “He has to know to manage the arrangement.”
Troy shook his head. “Not necessarily. All he needs to know to run normal operations is Kostas’s financial information.”
“If that’s true, then we’ve got nothing. But you look like the cat who swallowed the canary.”
“Things aren’t always normal. There have to be contingencies …”
The elevator opened onto the lobby before Emmy could get Troy to elaborate.
They walked quickly past the concierge’s desk so that he would not get another look at their faces. Emmy suspected that it would not matter if he did. She doubted that they would ever return to the Tropical Towers—or Grand Cayman for that matter. Time to head for Miami.
Assuming they could find a way off the island before they got caught.
Back out in the balmy Caribbean air, they were making a silent beeline for the Camry when a bearded man in a Kangol cap stepped out from behind a garden bush onto the sidewalk before them. Emmy felt a shudder of shock as he locked on her with his copper-colored eyes.
“Emmy! Troy! Thank goodness I found you. I’ve been so worried.”
Chapter 41
Something Big
DESPITE ARLEN BLYTHE’S specific language, Luther reacted to the CEO’s allegation as he always did when a client claimed to know his secret. He maintained his poker face, assumed that the allegation was just a fishing expedition, and ignored it. “How can I help you, Arlen?”
“We’ll get to that,” Arlen said with a slow, confident nod. “We’re not there yet.”
Luther sat quietly and waited. He knew every trick in the interview game and was not about to fall for something as amateur as filling the awkward silence. Sixty seconds later he was feeling pretty good about his ability to project a relaxed, confident air when Arlen opened his mouth and took Luther’s breath away.
“Jeff Landis came to me first.”
Luther did his best not to react to the mention of his deceased former colleague.
“Looking for money that is,” Arlen continued. “I was tempted to have Savas
take the same minority ownership position in Aridon Biotech that you eventually did. A cure for Alzheimer’s would be a blockbuster of Vitorol’s magnitude, so even with the odds of a thousand to one against their taking the compound all the way to market, the financials were right. But I turned it down because I was committed to the strategy of maintaining Savas’s laser focus.
“You know, ours really is an incredibly powerful strategy, for one so simple. When you’ve only got one product, there’s no ambiguity or confusion about where everyone in the entire organization is to pour their best efforts. The efficiencies gained by cutting out all the superfluous crap and distractions and honing in on doing one thing better than anyone else in the world are staggering. Still, there are those on my board who worry about the risk of having all our eggs in one basket. But I digress …
“I’ll be honest with you, Luther. When Aridon’s facility exploded, taking out Landis and his entire research and development team, my first thought was: Thank goodness I walked away. Of course, by then word had already leaked within the biotech community that his compound had fizzled, that it destroyed neurons along with the plaque.
“Tell me, how much did you have invested, Luther?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Arlen.”
Arlen nodded his approval of the challenge. “Twenty million dollars. That gave you what, twenty percent?”
“And a seat on the board.”
“Yes, the only outside seat,” Arlen said, casually crossing his legs.
He knew. Luther could feel it. Arlen actually knew. Everything... Impossible. “Are you going somewhere with this? I do pretty well with my law practice, but four years later I can still feel that bite, so I would appreciate it if we could stop picking at the scab.”
“Your law practice … yes. I see the office—” Arlen said, holding out his hands palms up and looking around. “And like most leading members of the California business community, I know the name. But my researchers haven’t discovered any substantial legal activity coming out of your law practice since you lost that Optiplase tort at trial—also four years back. Talk about a bad year.”