The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

  Gail looked at the gunmetal sky and shrugged. “I’ve learned never to say never, but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “You shouldn’t cage a wild animal that runs free,” Gail answered. “I would always be his cage. I love him too much to do that to him. I don’t fully understand him and what motivates him, but I’ll always love him. I don’t think that’s a contradiction. Love doesn’t die, but it can move to the background, especially when it’s best for both lovers.”

  Gail stood and held out her hand. “Don’t be a stranger, Carmen. We’re kind of related, you know.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Two days later, Carmen did something else she had put off. She went to Colonial National Bank in The Shops at the convention center to open the safe deposit box there. She’d received in the mail a letter addressed to Carmen Salazar Murphy. She somehow knew it was from Richey. She opened the letter to find a note from him, an authorization card to access a safe deposit box, and two keys. The note included identification numbers copied from one Alistair Murphy’s driver’s license and Visa card. Getting correspondence from a dead person was eerie. In light of what had happened, the message was especially unsettling: The money is yours, Carmen, to do with as you like should anything happen to me.

  Well, something certainly happened to Richey. Carmen had waited, assuming the police would eventually figure it out. She'd never read anything about it in the newspaper. She considered that it might be a trap they were waiting to spring on anyone who showed up to claim the money.

  It wasn’t hard to find out about Murphy. Reading back issues of the Star, Carmen discovered a small story indicating that he’d died of a heart attack in the Hyatt while attending a convention. She went online to his hometown newspaper in Nebraska and printed out his obituary, so she’d know the names of his survivors –– if asked.

  She’d signed the authorization card and sent it back to the bank. Being an accomplished graphic artist, it wasn’t hard for Carmen to forge a driver’s license in the name of Carmen S. Murphy. Even though it had been several weeks since her photograph appeared in the newspaper, she affected a disguise for the driver’s license photo. She cut her hair short and dyed it blond. She wore a black pantsuit, bulky dark gray overcoat, matching gray/black cadet hat, and tinted glasses.

  So disguised, Carmen walked brazenly into Colonial National. She told a receptionist that she wanted access to her safe deposit box and was directed to the desk of Gretchen Raintree. A gaily decorated Christmas tree sat beside Raintree’s desk. Carmen presented her new fake driver’s license and held her breath while Ms. Raintree compared it to her signature on the authorization card. She gave Carmen a cursory look and smiled. No one looked exactly like his or her driver’s license photo, anyway.

  It seemed certification enough that she was a Murphy with a driver’s license, the signatures matched, and she had a key. There were no comments or condolences because Ms. Raintree apparently didn’t remember Murphy or know that he was dead. Had she known and mentioned it, it would have been an alarm signal to Carmen, who would then have found an excuse to leave the bank.

  Murphy died of natural causes. Because his death wasn’t suspicious, maybe the police didn’t investigate, or didn’t investigate thoroughly, what with everything else going on. No one among all the experts had made the connection between his death, missing I.D., and the ransom money. Obviously, Richey had had Murphy’s I.D., and Carmen could only speculate where and how he got those cards. The Star reporter speculated that Marshon had stayed at the Hyatt during the time the police were searching for him regarding the death of Michael Williams. Murphy’s wife apparently didn’t notice that her dead husband’s driver’s license and credit card were missing; or, if she did, she didn’t bring it to anyone’s attention. Perhaps they were never used, other than for identification. Carmen had no idea what had happened to Murphy’s driver’s license and Visa card. It was one of many mysteries surrounding the whole case.

  Carmen carried the safe deposit box to one of the cubicles hardly bigger than a phone booth. Although she suspected what was in the box, she could only stare dumbly at the money. She had to see it to believe it. Then, she put the box back into its place in the vault wall. She wasn’t about to walk out with the money and encounter police captain Kemp in the hallway.

  She left the bank and went up to the food court on the second floor, where she ordered a cappuccino. She sat and pondered a question: Who did the money really belong to?

  James Kennedy, of course, assuming it was part of his personal fortune. If the bank lent it to him, it might be insured by the federal government. Was it possible a rich man like Kennedy even had insurance against kidnapping and extortion?

  Could a case be made that the money actually belonged to Richey and Marshon? James Kennedy had willingly paid money to save his wife’s life. That contract was kept. It fact, Richey and Marshon might also have saved the life of James Kennedy. If the banker had delivered the ransom directly to Ace, Ace could have killed him. Richey and Marshon certainly had helped rid society of Ace and Country, who undoubtedly would have committed future crimes at a great cost to their victims and society. They would have stolen, raped, and killed again until they were finally caught and jailed, after which taxpayers would have paid their room and board for decades. Richey and Marshon had done society a great favor, and they were owed a debt.

  Carmen was one of Richey’s heirs, the keeper of his remains. She had a claim to the money. Richey wanted her to have it. The cops didn’t have to kill Richey, no matter how they justified their action. The money could be considered just compensation for his unjust and unnecessary death.

  However, Carmen didn’t go back to the bank, and get the money. Instead, the next day, with her hair still dyed blond and cut short, she met James Kennedy and their lawyer, David Early, in the lawyer’s office, and told them the story about the safe deposit box.

  “Why did you go to the bank, if you knew the money was there?” the lawyer asked. “And why did you wear a disguise. The police will want to know.”

  “You weren’t listening carefully,” Carmen replied, thinking that was a lawyer’s main job. “I said I suspected the money was there, as the note implied, but for all I knew, there could have been a map or key in the safe deposit box. I wasn’t one hundred percent certain.”

  “It may look suspicious to the police,” Early said, stubbornly.

  “Actually, I thought about keeping the money,” she answered, honestly.

  “I can’t very well tell them that.”

  “Why not? Thinking about it isn’t a crime.”

  Kennedy smiled. “What made you decide not to keep the money, Carmen?”

  Carmen shuddered. “It wasn’t worth the lives it took, or the lives it ruined. Not even close. It also would have ruined my life and that of my daughter. We would have always been looking over our shoulders. Besides, in the end, I decided it wasn’t my money to keep. It belongs to you, or your bank, or whomever.”

  Kennedy looked at her kindly, and with understanding. “You’re right, Carmen. It was about much more than the money. It was about the people caught up in this evil … event. Cathy is currently is a rehab facility, more for the mental scars than the physical damage.”

  “I’ll go see her, if you think it would help?”

  Early couldn’t let go of lawyerly concerns. “You say it appears about half the ransom is there?” the lawyer asked.

  “Yes, and when the cops asked if I carried out the other half, they can check the video.”

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows skeptically. “And they will wonder why you disguised your appearance.”

  “Because the media follows me constantly, and I’m entitled to privacy.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “Do you know where the rest of the money is?”

  “Not a clue, although I assume Marshon Johnson has it. And, no, I don’t know where he is. No one doe
s.”

  Early looked less than satisfied. “Okay, I’ll spin it so you don’t get charged.”

  Kennedy stood and offered his hand. “Thanks again for saving my wife’s life, Carmen. You know, the bank has offered a $50,000 reward for return of the money. I can get you half of the reward, since you recovered half the ransom. I read that you’re an artist. That you are thinking about traveling and painting?”

  Carmen laughed. “My mother doesn’t mind telling the media everything they don’t need to know. Those were plans Richey and I had, but I’ve put them on hold. I have a soon-to-be teenage daughter who probably needs the stability of a permanent home. If I can make a suggestion, though, you might consider creating a college scholarship fund with the reward money. You choose the school. The scholarship would fund the study of acting and theater by deserving and talented students. That would be a great honor to Richey Stanton. He and Marshon Johnson are the ones who really saved your wife’s life that day, Mr. Kennedy. Without their efforts, your wife and I would never have made it to the garage and I wouldn’t have found my gun.”

  Kennedy nodded without speaking, and choked back tears.

  Carmen started to leave the room, but stopped. “If it’s any consolation, right before I blew Ace Semanski’s brains out, his face was full of fear — the same look of terror he caused others to feel, including me and Cathy. Goodbye, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Early.”

  Although Carmen had abandoned the idea of hitting the road full-time, she planned to use Richey’s monetary bequest to fund a vacation to Paris for her and Marisa next summer. They’d see the sights, include the Louvre, but at some point Carmen would set up her easel on a street, or in one of the parks, and paint. She thought it would make a lasting impression on Marisa, and perhaps imbue her with the idea that artistic endeavor was real, valuable, rewarding, and possible.

  That weekend, Carmen resumed her work on the unfinished canvas she had decided to name The Circles of Life. She made that decision while in the trunk of a car. Carmen planned to finish the painting soon. One of the last circles would be a blending of Richey and Marshon’s faces, altered slightly and presented as a portrait of Everyman. Things black and white, but mostly gray.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Phillip Dahlgren’s private Learjet descended in preparation for landing. It flew east along the south shore of Tortola, British Virgin Island, on a brilliant autumn day a week before Christmas, although it was forever summer in the Lesser Antilles. The passengers included Marcus Jones, an English couple named Robert and Emily Willson, and a young lawyer, Andrew Smyth, who worked for Phillip Dahlgren.

  Marcus/Marshon looked out the window at Road Bay and Road Town, the capital city of the British Virgin Islands, and grinned widely. He’d almost made it home. Many sailing vessels were at anchor in the horseshoe-shaped bay. Two large cruise ships also were berthed at the long city dock. Marcus thought the bay looked as if it had once been the island’s volcanic mouth. When the volcano ceased erupting thousands of years ago, it looked as if the island had tilted to the south, at which time seawater then partly filled the opening, extinguishing the flames down below. Buildings and houses were tiered around the bay, as the land rose sharply to the island crest. The terrain resembled a series of humps separated by deep ravines.

  The jet banked sharply left in preparation to land on Beef Island, located east of Tortola. The Queen Elizabeth Bridge connected the two islands. Off to the right, Marcus could see Virgin Gorda in the distance. It also was one of the larger islands among the sixty that comprised BVI, although even Tortola, the largest, was only twelve-by-three miles. On the north side of Beef Island, more yachts and sailboats were anchored in Trellis Bay. Sailing, diving and white sandy beaches drew most visitors to BVI. The other attractions included a nearly constant temperature of eight-four degrees Fahrenheit, plus little crime, which was rampant in other parts of the Caribbean.

  Marcus exchanged phone numbers with the Willsons, who were headed to the Long Bay Beach Club on Tortola. Marshon had been there years ago for the wedding of SamL and ShaNa. Robert said they lived in London, where he worked for a brokerage house. Marcus explained that he was in the import-export business and had a home on Scrub Island. They mutually agreed to get together sometime over the next two weeks, if possible.

  Marcus arranged to take a Dolphin Water Taxi to Scrub Island. The taxi resembled a cartoon of a boat, with a big smile painted across the bow. There was room for two up front, although Marcus was the only passenger. The “captain” stood and steered in an enclosed cabin about the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth. During the trip, Marcus felt himself once again to be on the world, as he had first felt that sensation when leaving Miami on Dahlgren’s yacht.

  It took about twenty minutes to get to the Scrub Island Marina, located on the west end of an island that was under two miles long and barely a half-mile wide at its widest point. It was known mainly for the upscale resort near the marina and the secluded white sandy beaches on the north shore. Tourists came to sail, dive in the clear greenish-blue waters, or simply lie on the beach. There was an ambitious building project to erect condominiums and villas for those who wanted a permanent vacation home on the island.

  Using the new smartphone provided by lawyer Dahlgren, Marcus had called the house from Nassau. As a result, the gardener Isaac was waiting for him at the marina. In addition to Isaac, Marcus employed Tallu, a full-time housekeeper. He planned to add a cook and probably a security guard/jack-of-all-trades who would be his eyes and ears on the island and in the area.

  Isaac drove the four-wheel drive Jeep west of the marina and followed the road across what Marcus referred to as the island chokepoint, a narrow strip of land nearly at sea level that connected the island’s two major humps. Most of the development was on the west end near the marina. To the east, there were fewer than a dozen houses, although nearly that many were under construction. Marcus would soon be one of the old-timers.

  He and Isaac chatted about nothing in particular while Marcus became attuned to the unique sounds of the island, especially the exotic bird calls. The trade winds blew across the island, generally from northeast to southwest, bringing with them a salty smell. Soon, Isaac turned left and drove up a steep, winding blacktopped road toward the house — his house; the one into which he poured a $1.5 million dollar down payment. Marcus’s first item of business in the islands would be to pay off the mortgage, so he could never lose his home.

  Marcus grinned widely and once again shook his head in disbelief. The two-story house with stucco exterior walls and distinctive red roof tiles sat at the end of a circular drive near the edge of a cliff. The two wings of the U-shaped, 17-room house ran parallel to the east-west line of the cliff. On the veranda nearest the cliff, he could experience both spectacular sunrises and sunsets. If the house had been located somewhere on the coast of California, perhaps near Malibu, its selling price would have been a multiple of the $3 million that Marcus/Marshon paid.

  Marcus followed Isaac up the front walk where the housekeeper waited just outside the massive wood, front door.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Jones,” she said.

  “Thank you, Tallu. It’s good to be here.” It was only the sixth time he’d visited since buying the estate.

  While Isaac took his clothes bag and laptop case up to his bedroom, Marcus walked out onto the expansive veranda and took in the view, including the cantilevered pool, the ocean, islands in the distance, and the stairway that wound down the equivalent of three stories to a secluded cove and beach below. It was the stuff of fairy tales for a boy who had grown to manhood in a city ghetto.

  However, Marcus/Marshon recalled a story Richey once told him about a Roman emperor returning from a great conquest. The emperor had a soothsayer walk beside him during a triumphant parade and whisper a cautionary note in his ear: All glory is fleeting. He wanted to remember that. Kidnapping was a federal crime if the victim was transported across state lines, as Cathy Kennedy had been in the Kansas C
ity metropolitan area. She had been kidnapped in Missouri, held in a hotel in Kansas, and then transported back into Missouri. The FBI would always be on the lookout for Marshon Johnson, insisting that he was a co-conspirator — and that he had half the ransom money. That version was half-true.

  Marcus had taken to heart the lesson of the drug dealer who’d built and owned this beautiful house before him. He must have loved it, but some crisis, probably with the law, or perhaps a financial problem, had forced him to leave abruptly and sell his house for half of what he’d paid for it. To prevent a similar fate, Marcus was mentally developing a contingent plan, which was his forte. He had experience.

  Time would reveal Lawyer Dahlgren’s true character and the nature of his business. Maybe it would turn out to be the perfect partnership, but Marcus had a feeling that Dahlgren’s clients included those involved in drugs, arms and sex trafficking. Marcus didn’t want to have anything to do with those businesses. Whether they could reach an accommodation remained to be seen.

  Marshon still wanted to fleece rich gamblers, but he also now wanted a passion to indulge. He wanted to do something with the remainder of his life that had meaning. That’s what he’d learned in the hell fires of Kansas City. It also was Richey’s legacy. Marcus had yet to figure out the mission, and the means.

  When he announced that intent, would Dahlgren be understanding and accommodating, or would he rather blackmail Marshon/Marcus, by threatening to reveal his identity and location to American law enforcement agencies? To Dahlgren, he might forever be viewed as an instrument, a ramrod. Marcus had to be ready for the latter possibility with a plan of action. Since that plan could never include abandoning his new home and going underground, as had the drug dealer, then it must include every possible option necessary to neutralize Dahlgren. He needed to begin compiling a dossier and learn everything he could about his lawyer, including Dahlgren’s personality characteristics, flaws and quirks. His friends and enemies. His vulnerabilities. Hopefully, Marcus could outmaneuver Dahlgren, and neutralize him so they could coexist peacefully.