“Good job. Let me run the phone tap idea by General Counsel. Call me after talking with Sterling.”
“Will do.”
I called Karen who picked up right away.
“Guess who?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine; I’m busy on this assignment. I’ve earned a couple of days of rest at the house because of the traveling. Part of my rest plan is to do some heavy reading, so I bought the new edition of Playboy.”
“You’re a bad boy, but please don’t change.”
“How are your projects going?”
“I’m negotiating a deal with a basketball star to help me. I felt so tiny standing next to him. Although it’s quite exciting, there are so many details to resolve.”
“I hope your negotiations work out. I love you and will call when possible.”
“I love you too, and please be careful.”
“I will. Bye-bye.”
I drove my hot rod over to Ex-Pat Realty and was greeted by the usual enter after I knocked. Sterling was alone, no goons today, a good sign.
“You’re probably thinking,” began Sterling, “I brought you here to talk about the fight last night.”
“I was sure you would ask me about it.”
“Tyrone tried to sound offended but conceded that Rodrigo’s account was convincing, and the other James is well known for his intolerance. Don’t worry about it. Did he pay you?”
“No.”
Using a key in his pocket, Sterling opened a drawer and counted out five-thousand in hundreds. Then he partially closed the drawer.
“I have never asked you to ferry a plane back to Barranquilla. Other pilots can do the ferry runs. After the Nassau incident, I am exceedingly careful about who flies the drugs. I trust you, Ortiz, and another pilot. This trust goes beyond not stealing from me. All of you are creative when put into a tight spot. After you reported a weather delay in your conversation, I checked the actual weather. The news reported monstrous storms along your travel route. I don’t know how you got away and don’t care much – you delivered. How do you like working for me?”
Here it comes. “Fine, sir.”
“In private you may call me Marcus and knock off the sir stuff.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
“You graduated from Northeastern University in Oklahoma with an accounting degree, correct?”
“Correct.”
Marcus punched the intercom line and said simply, “Don’t disturb me.”
I had graduated from college, and taken quite a bit of accounting. My cover, including the accounting degree, was designed to invite my help on financial matters if the opportunity arose.
Marcus began, “What I’m about to say is not to be discussed with anyone. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“I run a viable real-estate company. At times, company demands on my time require more attention than the business that puts real meat on the table. I suspect, but cannot prove, our Colombian partner is billing us for more kilos than he delivers. His invoicing system is convoluted, and I don’t understand it well. Tyrone also suspects a problem. Is it true, for example, he always brings extra cocaine to the plane?”
“Always. His truck driver, Juan, says it’s because I’m so irrational about weight that he can’t predict how much to send.”
“On average, how many one-kilo bricks are returned to the truck on your trips?”
“Four to six.”
“Let’s say five at thirty-thousand dollars wholesale; that’s one-hundred-fifty-thousand he seems to be billing us for, which is never delivered each trip. This has also happened to Ortiz.”
We exchanged looks. It was his show. I had nothing to say.
“He took my questions as an assault on his integrity, which is true. Glance inside my cash and drug business drawers. They are a mess. I don’t know how much cash to move offshore. I can’t prove he’s cheating me. I need your help putting things in order with a special view toward establishing that Alvaro is defrauding us.”
My mind immediately snapped to attention, Alvaro is the name of the Colombian boss.
“Will you help me?”
“Of course.”
“James, how much time do you need to straighten this out?”
“If I don’t fly and work for six or seven days, I should be able to give you preliminary findings.”
“Will a thousand dollars a day be sufficient?”
“More than enough.”
“By tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., I will move a desk into the corner of my office, and I’ll give my secretary keys to my office as well as to the cash and records drawers. You will keep them afterward. She thinks she runs the office, but is not to have them. Here’s a thousand in advance. Take your girlfriend or sister out for the night. See you in the morning.”
“Thank you for such confidence in my work.”
“Get out of here.”
Data Mining
Jamie was at work. A secretary quickly handed off my call to Roy.
“Does Brer Rabbit like the briar patch?” I asked.
“That’s what the book says.”
“First, the minor news. The name of the Colombian boss is Alvaro. While not much, we are connecting dots now. Maybe the BNDD people can use the name in conjunction with the phone number. Second, Marcus and Tyrone think Alvaro is skimming about one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars off every trip with shaky billing and accounting practices. He sends them a bill for thirty-thousand dollars for each kilo transported to Florida plus expenses. It looks like Sterling may be averaging five bricks shy per load, with Alvaro blaming the pilots because we refuse to carry more weight than is safe. Better yet, Sterling’s records and cash drawer are a mess. According to him, the demands as a legitimate real estate broker are soaking up his time. At a thousand dollars a day, he wants me to clean up his drug records, estimate how much money, now in stacks of hundreds in his drawers, to move to offshore accounts, and prove Alvaro is cheating him. Is this a prosecutor’s dream or what?”
“Oh yes. More evidence is always better. No prosecutor likes trials unless he is running for office,” responded Roy.
“I need a miniature camera to photograph some of these documents when he’s out of his office. I told Marcus that I could give him a preliminary report in about a week if I don’t fly. He seemed content with the timetable. Can Jamie get a camera from the FBI field office or I could use some of this cash he’s giving me to buy one and voucher it?”
“Let me call the field office before we start using drug proceeds.”
“Hey, how big is the bonus? I’m making more down here.”
“Please don’t even joke. The temptation is always around the corner.”
“Jesus, Roy. Take it easy. You’re receiving all the cash with the FBI courier in a dated envelop marked ‘evidence’ with my signature written across the seal.”
“I’m sorry. I had to watch a friend and great undercover cop go to prison. He told himself he would take the money only once for some need; then once became twice. The lure of fast money is worse than a heroin addiction.”
“Don’t worry. My new hobby takes up most of my free time.”
“What’s that?”
“Gator watching.”
“We have mental institutions up here as well as jails. Goodbye, Jake.”
“Goodnight, Captain. Gotta check on the gators.”
Jamie promised to help if necessary. My college accounting courses were not enough, and her degree and experience were invaluable. Alvaro showed the five or six bricks as returned to inventory, but included an amount approximately equal to their value as expenses in various parts of the bill. The invoice layered and obfuscated the process to the point that the scam was difficult to detect.
Each night I returned with scraps of paper stuffed in my pants, plus what I could remember without taking the risk of writing it down. After two days, Jamie brought me a miniature camera, an enormous help. All of the information went into the da
ily log I kept in Jamie’s safe. Later, I added the film. Both of us had the combination, and she had an FBI carpenter place it behind a wall panel with concealed hinges. If one of us were killed, then the other could retrieve the evidence. Gradually, we brought some order to the chaos. He had about two million in cash, most in fifty-thousand dollar straps. The drawer opened with such difficulty because one million in hundreds weighs twenty-one pounds. Stacks of smaller bills, mostly fifties, were tossed in back.
Sterling seemed to come in early each day. It was rare for me to be first. When the light was on, I knocked out of courtesy.
“Enter.”
“Good morning, Marcus. I have mostly finished your task. Tell me when is a good time to talk.”
“Now.”
I explained, “You have about two million in cash and probably need less than one-quarter of it for domestic transactions. Put the rest into offshore accounts paying interest; moreover, having so much money here is a bad security risk. This is just an office, and your secretary or anybody else might have copied the keys.”
“I’ve been considering a bank in George Town on Grand Cayman. What do you think?”
“That’s fine. Use a code and numbered accounts so someone with your photo on a fake passport can’t access it,” I suggested. He agreed. I went on to explain a more orderly process for record keeping. Mostly, his head nodded up and down with an occasional “good” thrown in.
Finally, I came to what he really wanted to know. With help from Jamie on his accounting tricks, I walked Sterling through the systematic fraud Alvaro was using to conceal the disposition of the missing bricks. Raw counts of what went into the plane and was later unloaded would agree. Bricks returned to the factory from the airport truck were shown as returned to inventory. His billing process was so Byzantine, however, he added an amount roughly equal to the returned bricks into the bills as various expenses.
“So he is cheating me and Tyrone! How certain are you?”
“Totally certain.”
His face was red when he picked up the phone.
“Shall I leave?”
“No. Stay here in case there are questions.”
“Tyrone, it’s Marcus. That bastard in Barranquilla is ripping us off. Sixkiller did an audit of my records and explained what he’s doing. Yes, he’s sure. The guy has millions, and he just wants to fuck us for a few hundred grand to prove he can do it, for whatever sick reason. What do you recommend?
“No! Too subtle for this moron. I’m going to call and confront him, and tell him to send us the money he ripped off, to send a simplified bill in the future, and if he doesn’t like that, then I’m going to send a couple of No Names down to rip off his balls and bring them back for my dog.
“Tyrone, he’s a total psycho. All he understands is fear and intimidation. Okay. I’ll start soft before I work up to dog food. Thanks, Tyrone.”
The subsequent conversation with Alvaro in Spanish was lengthy, but the tone was more placid than I expected. Sterling looked nonplussed when he hung up.
“Alvaro called it a prank, which is bullshit, and denied nothing from your audit. He promised to return the money and fix the billing process. What do you think, James?”
“I don’t know the man. If I were to guess, he has a new plan.”
“I agree, but for now we can only wait. Take a few days before your next trip. I want to see if anything changes. On your next trip, I’ll order a No Name down with you for security. He will ride out to the airstrip and help count. Don’t worry, however, he will return on a commercial flight, not sitting next to you.”
We both smiled. Sterling was well aware of my distaste for his goons.
“By the way,” added Sterling, “your parole officer stopped by Opa Locka Airport the other day and received a glowing report. Thank you for all of your contributions.”
“You’re welcome. You’ll call me about the next trip?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 22
Textbook Investigation
Nassau, Bahamas, November 1969
No Names One and Three had come up dry in the Miami area regarding the Nassau rip-off earlier in the year. Sterling had given them permission to widen their investigation to Nassau. They had tortured and killed the pilot in Spain, and remained convinced he really didn’t know who bought the planeload of drugs. The only clues they had involved some Mexicans. Also involved was a middleman who dealt only in cash, but they did get a description. He had medium brown skin, about five-foot-nine-inches, a slight island accent, and wore Hawaiian shirts, a taboo in Nassau. One witness said he claimed to be from California.
The No Names worked the bars and night scene. Not surprisingly, they quickly became known and feared for their interrogation tactics. A nightclub bouncer readily recalled seeing such a person, as did a few waitresses and bartenders. Nobody could add any helpful information.
Number Three spoke up, “We’re fishing in the wrong pond. We should be breaking arms over at the airport. That’s where the plane landed. That’s where the pilot turned over the plane to this middleman. Somebody saw something. Something else too. We shouldn’t rule out that the middleman is actually the mastermind, or is at least wearing two hats.”
Number One needed more time to absorb this. “So, this middle man walks around in different clothes when he’s playing the middleman, and regular clothes, which ain’t much here, when he’s the mastermind.”
“Right,” said Number Three. “And suppose there isn’t any middleman. Or the real mastermind is out of the country pulling the strings.”
“Yeah,” said Number One. “We should start at the airport.”
Walking up to one of the line boys, Number Three asked, “How long have you worked here?”
“Almost two years,” as the nineteen-year-old looked at two men who were not here on vacation.
“Do you know much about the different makes and models of airplanes?” asked Number Three.
“Sure. I need to be certain what kind of fuel they take. Some pilots are in a hurry and don’t tell me.”
“Good. Did a Piper Comanche land here late in the summer?”
“I recall seeing a new one. I fueled it, and he pulled into that hangar over at the end.”
Although a little vague, his description matched the dead pilot.
“Who knows all about these hangars? Like who owns or leases them?”
“The fixed base operator, Mark Hughs. His office is in the two-story building off to the side of the longest runway.”
As they walked away, Number One said, “We introduce ourselves to Mr. Hughs, jack him up until he talks, and leave.”
“No,” replied Number Three. “This is a big airport. The guy must have connections with the police and pols. We gotta be careful. You still got your fake Interpol ID?”
“Yeah.”
“We use the ID to appear legit and get his help. Let me talk.”
“You always talk anyway.”
Each airport with scheduled airline service also has a general aviation fixed base operator, the FBO, who serves the needs of everybody from corporate jets to vintage aircraft. As the men approached the FBO counter, they flashed their credentials, provided their seldom-used real names, and said they needed to speak with Mr. Hughs right away. Hughs came out presently and asked how he could be helpful. He was a balding, white man with a distinct British accent.
Number Three explained that the Spanish government had requested a follow-up investigation into the disappearance of the Comanche last summer. He stated an eyewitness had seen the plane enter the hangar at the end of the row. The plane took off shortly and disappeared. The Spanish police later arrested the pilot with a large amount of stolen cash.
“Who owns that hangar, Mr. Hughs?” asked Number Three.
“I own the hangar, but I’ll check my records and ascertain to whom I leased it. Follow me.” They did as they were told. This Englishman made them uneasy for some reason.
“My accounts show a
lease for the month of August to one Rafael Gonzalez of Sonora, Mexico. May I assume that you are interested in this month?”
“Yes,” said Number Three, almost too quickly.
“He paid in cash. I have never seen the plane, nor do I have further information for you. If you like, you may walk down and look around, be my guest. Good day, gentlemen,” and he turned and headed back to his office.
A lone Hispanic male was cleaning the hangar. Numbers One and Three exchanged looks. After establishing he had worked there for a couple of years, the questions began politely enough. However, they could see fear in his eyes. Finally, Number One couldn’t restrain himself and locked up an elbow.
“We don’t have all day, asshole. After I break most of your joints, I’ll start removing body parts.” Number One was on top of his game. “Tell us everything about the plane? Who was here? Who paid the faggot pilot? Who took the drugs and where?”
“You’re hurting my arm so much I can’t think. Let me just stand and try to remember.”
Number Three nodded his assent.
“I was cleaning the next hangar over when the pilot pulled in. With my ear to the aluminum siding, I could hear some of what they said. In addition to the Cuban pilot, who was counting money, were three bad men with heavy Norteño accents. The Mexicans debated whether to kill him and take both the plane and the money. They decided against murdering the Cuban because the airport was busy, and they feared being caught. One Mexican, who was also a pilot, kept saying, ‘Too heavy.’ Two had tickets to Mexico City. The Mexican pilot was going to fly the plane somewhere close, where they would unload and destroy it. Four or five small airports are less than an hour away. He fueled the plane recently, so that’s why they couldn’t kill him and all get in. I could hear only parts of the conversation.”
White Death Page 16