I was just clawing my way out of the valley in the mattress, my heartbeat thudding between my ears, when my door burst open, letting in a stream of light around the silhouetted, bulky, rifle-wielding person in the doorway.
“FBI,” he shouted, as though I didn’t already know. The man in black had just earned himself a certificate of accomplishment in stating the obvious.
I squeaked a little, relaxed my grip in order to raise my hands in surrender, and tumbled back into the mattress.
They had to dig me out.
I joined Josh, who was also bleary-eyed and fully clothed, in the putrid hallway while our rooms were ransacked by the eager SWAT team. And once again, I was struck by the brilliance of Josh’s meticulous mind. Because if there’s one place in the Bay Area where a SWAT takedown in the middle of the night is par for the course, it’s the Tenderloin district with its pervasive and blatant crime.
We weren’t a blip on anybody’s radar—other than the FBI’s—which made the hideousness of the motel much more tolerable in my opinion. Josh nudged me with his elbow and winked down at me, a tiny grin curving his lips.
“No talking!” barked the fierce guy who was guarding us.
Sheesh—he sure was jumpy for being the one with the gun. I giggled.
Which set the guard off even more. He marched me down the hall toward the broken elevator and made me stand against the wall with my hands on my head. I almost stuck my tongue out at him, but I didn’t want to deal with the hassle of wounding his sensitive ego—not on so little sleep.
I quickly sobered. Because this situation had a lot in common with my honeymoon night—except for the quality of the hotel, of course. The banging on the door by FBI agents, being pulled from the warm safety of my room. I expected a full grilling would come next, just like last time. And I doubted I’d have many more answers than before.
oOo
They loaded us in the back of a cargo van and pushed us into a couple of the jump seats bolted to the floor. They made sure our seat belts were properly fastened, but at least they didn’t handcuff us.
Two SWAT guys rode guard with us in the back, turning the already tight space into a true squashing. My knees were jammed up against theirs, and I kept my hands innocently in my lap, palms up. The van was equipped with all kinds of electronic equipment—knobs and dials, wires, cables, screens, speakers—like a mobile command post or eavesdropping station.
All of this—men and equipment—had been called out for me. I knew the FBI didn’t have a sense of humor and that they always brought bazookas to grappling matches, but it still seemed like overkill. But I kept my mouth shut.
Because, technically, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, maybe two things, but neither one would be an issue unless Zimmermann or Butch and Ebersole pressed charges—breaking and entering and recording without permission, respectively.
I caught Josh’s eye, and he gave me a reassuring nod. I couldn’t ask, but I was pretty sure he’d ditched his recording device which held the audio files. He’d hidden it somewhere safe or maybe passed it off to his buddy at the impound lot. In fact, the more I thought about it, I was pretty sure I’d glimpsed him handing his friend something else when they’d done the key swap.
Which was good, because the chat we’d had with Ebersole wasn’t something I’d planned to hand over to the FBI. It was just something I wanted to keep in my back pocket, so to speak, in case it became helpful later.
I squinted harder at Josh, trying to read his mind. He grinned back as though he might actually be enjoying the furor we’d created. Before his disgrace and termination, he’d been assigned to the San Francisco office. I didn’t know how many agents there were in the city, but he probably knew most of them, including the guys on the SWAT team.
Silence was most assuredly the best course of action. No questions, not even if we were left alone together, because I had no idea how alone alone would really be, given all the electronic surveillance equipment jostling around in the back of the van with us.
When the van came to a stop and the rear doors were opened, sunlight streamed in, glinting brightly off the gleaming concrete and glass structure we were next to. My stomach growled. I didn’t know what time it was, but I needed coffee and something from the sweet breakfast pastry category—an apple fritter, particularly—before I could be expected to behave civilly under questioning. Josh and I were hustled inside the building to an elevator.
When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open on the upper floor, the place felt deserted—hushed and empty, the heating system just cycling on for the first time that day. We trooped down a quiet carpeted hall toward a conference room at the end.
The double doors were propped open, and I could hear the low murmur of men’s voices as well as see one end of a table surrounded by those cushy, wide-bottomed rolling office chairs that executives favor.
Our captors ushered us straight into the room then backed away and closed the doors behind them, their part of the mission accomplished. I knew this because I was now facing another bank of FBI agents. These guys were in suits, but their profession was unmistakable. Especially since I recognized one of them—Matt.
My mouth fell open as I stared at him. Shocked, probably, because he was so terribly out of context.
But he silenced me with a quick, stern shake of his head. No comment. He wanted me not to comment. On what? Why? He must have been on a plane from either Portland or Seattle right behind me.
But I agreed his warning was prudent and snapped my mouth closed.
None of the suits looked cheerful. In fact, they appeared to have gotten about as much sleep as I had the night before—or maybe less. There was a lot of eight a.m. shadow on those clean-cut faces, and their clothing was rumpled.
In the center of the conference table was a luscious spread of bagels and muffins with packets of cream cheese and butter, a couple of large coffee dispensers, and a platter of sliced fruit. Josh and I cast propriety aside and lunged. Not quite as good as the doughnuts I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t going to complain. Besides, I know better than to talk with my mouth full.
The FBI agents were clustered in a loose group, murmuring quietly among themselves, but no one took charge. I cast a questioning glance at Josh, but he shrugged at me. We sank into chairs and tackled the serious task of meeting our nutritional needs while the agents at the other end of the room figured out what they were doing.
A tall, gray haired woman entered the room through a single door on the opposite side. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. Her mere presence made the men snap to attention in a rather military fashion. It was as though a blast of cold air had whooshed through the room, drawing everyone upright and cutting off all chatter. Even Josh shot to his feet, shoving his wheeled chair back.
Whatever it was, it was contagious, and I leaped up too, scattering muffin crumbs off the napkin I’d spread on the table in lieu of a plate.
She was wearing loose linen pants topped by a gorgeously embroidered kimono-style tunic, and the fabric flapped around her lanky body as she strode past all the empty chairs, her bright emerald eyes fixed on me. She had a pearl choker clasped around her neck, and there was a massive diamond solitaire ring on her left ring finger—a couple points of glitter and femininity that were completely ineffective in softening the most stern demeanor I had ever encountered. Clarice had nothing on this woman. I might have shrunk a little, the way a mouse in a stubbled field freezes as the black shadow of a hawk sweeps overhead.
She came to a halt directly across the table. “I’m Judge Trane. I told these gentlemen I wouldn’t continue proceedings until I’d met with the principal party—namely you. Thank you for joining us.”
I managed to wipe my hands on my pants and shake her proffered hand. I’d been summoned? By a judge? And this required a SWAT team? I’d have come of my own accord if I’d been invited. But I hadn’t exactly been answering any of my phones lately. Clarice would have told me, though, if she’d
been contacted with a request for my presence. A bunch of thoughts, none of them terribly coherent, whirled around in my head.
But this was the judge Robbie had been so excited about. The Old Griffon, he’d called her, and I could see why she’d been on the receiving end of such a nickname.
And then I got the education of a lifetime. Judge Trane commandeered the seat at the head of the table and allowed the suits to present their case. I got to hear, in no uncertain terms, just what the FBI thought of me.
I didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to defend myself. I was suddenly and completely sapped of energy. In fact, I found myself nodding off a couple times when the bloviating became redundant. I wasn’t surprised by the agents’ reactions, but I also suspected that most of them really struggled with the concept of empathy. Not one of them had considered imagining what the hell I’d been in the past few months was like.
I excluded Matt from my assessment of the other agents. He knew, because he’d been there, with me, at Mayfield. But he wasn’t talking—instead, he was silently fuming. That scowl, the rigid muscles along his jaw and around his eyes—I’d seen that expression enough times to know exactly what it meant. But Matt was the odd man out because he was from a different regional office and had no real influence in this jurisdiction. I began to appreciate that he’d shown up.
I also thought the verbal barrage coming from the FBI’s legal team—that’s who several of the suits turned out to be—was over the top for a bankruptcy proceeding. A lot of hot air that was basically missing the point. When lawyers get mad, they also get long-winded.
Judge Trane was remarkably patient, but after a couple hours of convoluted logorrhea, she smacked her palm on the table, jolting me—maybe all of us, if it was possible for lawyers to sleeptalk—wide awake. “Since there is the possibility of some Fifth Amendment issues here, I’m going to speak to Ms. Ingram-Sheldon alone,” she announced. She stood and beckoned to me.
I lurched out of my chair and cast a quick glance at Josh. “Will you be okay?” I whispered.
He gave me a curt nod. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered back, and crossed his arms over his chest.
I straggled along behind Judge Trane as she strode regally through a warren of cubicle aisles and a glassed-in anteroom to her private chambers—a plush corner office complete with bookcases loaded with law journals, a massive wood-inlaid desk, light-blocking velvet drapes which were slightly parted to allow a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, and two sets of overstuffed leather armchairs facing each other across a low table.
“My slice of peace on earth.” Judge Trane spun to face me, her garments spreading with the motion. “Sit.” She extended a long arm, pointing to one of the leather chairs. “Theo, my judicial assistant, is bringing us burritos from a food truck around the corner. Best in the city. I hope you don’t mind.”
She arranged herself across from me, those dazzling green eyes never leaving my face. A tiny smile lowered her intimidation factor a microscopic notch. “Before we start, I want to make clear that you are permitted to have your own personal counsel present for this discussion. We can wait for her—or his—arrival.”
I shook my head, biting my lip against an involuntary sob. Dear Tarq. My counselor was having trouble getting out of bed these days, never mind traveling to another state to guard against whatever incriminating admissions might come flying out of my mouth. I should have called Loretta last night, checked on him. I didn’t want any other lawyer but him, so I’d deal with this meeting by myself.
“Okay, then.” Judge Trane’s voice gentled and shifted to a quieter tone. I don’t think her stern gaze missed much, which meant she’d spotted the sudden spurt of wateriness in my eyes at the thought of Tarq. She settled back into her chair, seemed to relax a little. “Just to summarize the FBI’s presentation this morning—I believe I can get it into once sentence—they think you might be screwing up what otherwise appears to be a straightforward bankruptcy case.”
I shook my head again, blinked hard to clear the tears. “Why would I do that?”
“Exactly.” Her gaze hardened. “Talk to me.”
I leaned forward. “Are you recording this?”
My question startled her—it was the tiniest flinch, but noticeable. She straightened in the chair, no longer trying to give the impression that we were going to have a genial chat over lunch. “I hate that you even have to ask. No.”
It was the best answer I could hope for. I had one shot at impressing this woman. Of getting her to give me a little leeway. This was a far trickier conversation than the one I’d had with Zimmermann the night before. The bankruptcy of Turbo-Tidy Clean was a tiny but very important piece of a much bigger picture, and the only tool left in my arsenal. And I couldn’t risk the political tug-of-war between FBI regional jurisdictions sabotaging my plan.
So I told Judge Trane almost everything.
CHAPTER 14
I explained how Skip had planned to get revenge on his clients-slash-enemies where it hurt—in their pocketbooks. Using the only measuring stick that really meant anything to them. They took brutality, turf wars, and poaching of people in stride. But steal their money and it was no-holds-barred warfare. And I had one more set of impenetrable walls to get through to reach the unreachable Numero, Felix Ochoa. Only money—the lure of easy money—would accomplish my goal.
Turbo-Tidy Clean, LLC was the cherry on the sundae, the golden ring on the carousel. Want to talk about easy money? Then let’s talk about what those car washes were really used for, and could be used for again.
Skip was sunk. He already had been—the FBI knew all about his illegal activities. But I still felt a sense of betrayal while I outlined his very clever money laundering device for the judge. I also had a feeling I was giving her a lot more detail than the FBI’s legal team had in their mounds of paperwork, and she was rapidly digesting the information.
She kept muttering, little sounds in the back of her throat. I couldn’t tell if they indicated disgust or appreciation for the ingenuity of Skip’s plan. I was at somewhat of a loss, because I could only explain the parts I knew about. There was much more that was dark to me.
The FBI wanted Turbo-Tidy’s assets, or the funds from the sales of those assets. I didn’t care—they had certainly earned what they seized. But first I wanted to use those assets one more time, as an enticement.
The FBI had demonstrated an incredible ability to be patient in the past—sometimes to their own detriment—to wait solely because they were greedy with regard to letting incriminating evidence pile up, to make sure their legal cases were beyond solid. I wanted to force the issue, to take risks in order to go out and grab that incriminating evidence. Same end, different means. Aggressive instead of passive. And I wasn’t fettered by the letter of the law the way the FBI was.
Judge Trane would have to decide which method would be more effective. As a bankruptcy judge, this legal wrangling which affected a huge federal criminal case was definitely far outside her normal purview, but it’s amazing how much clout a little paperwork carries. And the ability to hold up the case or let it proceed was directly under her thumb.
When I’d wrapped up my version of events, Judge Trane sent her assistant, the young man named Theo who knew how to order the world’s best burritos, to fetch Matt and Josh from the conference room. I suspected she was looking for confirmation of my story.
It didn’t help that I was disheveled and sleep-deprived and probably somewhat manic looking. It was hard to put my best foot forward, appearance-wise, when I’d been snatched from a sleazy motel after a day on the run. I tried to shove my chiding thoughts (which were eerily audible to my mind’s ear in my mother’s rebuking voice) about personal grooming, professional presentation, and social acceptability to the back of my mind.
But I got the reinforcements I needed, in spades. Matt seemed eager to finally have a chance to give his slant on the FBI’s perspective, away from the obvious snubbing by the other agents because h
e wasn’t on his own turf. But he was my case manager, and I was proud of him, even if we did mostly drive each other crazy. Matt knew the stakes we were facing better than anybody, and his vote of approval warmed my heart.
A heavy silence settled over our little group when Matt wrapped up his arguments. Judge Trane gazed at the sliver of the panoramic view available to her from between the drapes, her brow furrowed in private concentration.
“I have, indeed, heard from Freddy Blandings,” she finally said, jerking me back to attention, “with regard to this case. My main job as a bankruptcy judge is to make sure all creditors recoup as much as possible from the dregs of a failed company. Try to ease any suffering, repair the injustices. But it would be safe to say Turbo-Tidy Clean didn’t fail from negligent management. Quite the contrary.” She pitched her eyebrows at me in an acknowledging nod. “You want me to believe the creditors in this case are far less than honorable—so much so that several of them don’t appear on the books at all. This could certainly be one explanation for Blandings’ hyped vigilance in the matter, supporting your claim that he has a conflict of interest in the parties he’s representing, whether officially or unofficially.”
She seemed to be working through the details internally, voicing her summary as a way to parse the information in her own mind. I nodded at her, and she returned to frowning at the window.
After several minutes, she roused herself and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “It’s Friday,” she said, as though it was one fact we could all nail down and agree upon. “I like Fridays. Good for thinking. Which this case requires. I’ll let you know my decision as soon as I know it myself. Ms. Ingram-Sheldon—” her green eyes locked onto mine, “I want you personally available in case I have any other questions. Which means you need to stay in the city. But”—Matt became the next victim of her penetrating stare—“she’s not to be harassed. I expect you to make sure the agents from the San Francisco office understand that the new policy with regard to Ms. Ingram is strictly hands-off.” She swung back to me. “But you will also not be meeting with any of the Numeros who might possibly end up involved in this deal—either overtly or covertly, prearranged or not. I don’t actually have the authority to demand this of you, but for prudence’s sake, I’m requiring it. I want everything legal and aboveboard, no shadows of suspicion hanging over my rulings.”
Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 10