Rayansh had grown up in squalor in Mumbai, and he recognized the way the man clutched the knife as professional. He reacted without thinking and flicked the cigarette in the man’s face, startling him when the ember exploded against his brow and momentarily blinded him. Rayansh pirouetted and sprinted toward the store, only seconds ahead of his assailants, their heavy boots clumping behind him.
A siren whooped from the main street. A black and white police car bore down on him, its engine revving. The hoodlums spun and threw themselves into the van, and the heavy vehicle screeched away and disappeared around the corner. The squad car pulled to a stop by Rayansh, and the doors of the squad car opened. A pair of uniformed police appeared, pistols drawn and leveled.
“You all right?” one of them called to Rayansh.
“Yes,” he said, gasping for breath. “They’re in a blue van. One of them has a knife.”
“Stay here,” the cop said. They got back into the car and it rocketed around the corner, leaving Rayansh shaken, his skin ashen from shock. He listened as the roar of the police car’s engine faded down the street, and then forced himself to calm down as he replayed what had just occurred.
The attacker’s words had been unmistakable. This hadn’t been an attempted robbery. Somehow Patrick must have found out about his discussion with Richard, or the report, and lost his mind – hired thugs to do away with Rayansh before he could spoil Patrick’s scam. That was the only answer. Or…maybe Richard had opened his mouth to the wrong person? Or worse, had decided that making hundreds of millions was more important than the safety of the operators and travelers?
Rayansh had been naïve – thinking anyone would do the right thing with that kind of money at stake. His wife was right. He was a fool.
If Patrick or whoever was desperate enough to arrange a kidnapping, he wasn’t safe, and neither was his family.
He slid his cell phone from his back pocket and dialed his wife’s phone. She answered on the second ring.
“What now?” she snapped.
He told her what had just happened. She was silent for ten seconds, and when she spoke, her voice was unexpectedly calm. “You see? Now you’ve done it. What are we supposed to do?”
“The police will be back any minute. Maybe they’ll catch them…”
“They won’t.” She paused. “It isn’t safe to go home, is it?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“It isn’t. Or to take Lani to school. We’ll have to find someplace to stay until we can work this out, Rayansh. If they can’t get you, they’ll come for us.”
“I’ll go home and get my car. I’ll pack a bag.”
Her voice was glacial when she responded. “Pack a big one, and bring all the gold and money. We may be gone a long time.”
Chapter 16
San Leandro, California
Leah drove by the strip mall twice, looking for the lender’s sign, but saw nothing. She finally parked a half block away and walked along the cracked sidewalk to the mall, past a sorry collection of sixty-year-old tract homes that spoke of hard times and modest means. This wasn’t the sort of neighborhood in which she thought she’d find a group that made multimillion-dollar real estate speculations, but she was going to reserve judgment until she saw what she was dealing with.
A group of homeboys watched her from the stoop of a house near the mall, and Leah regretted not parking in front. Two of them called out to her, but she ignored them and continued along the street at a faster pace. She didn’t think she’d have any problems in broad daylight with traffic moving past, but Adam had warned her about the area as she was walking out the door.
“It’s not that it’s bad, like Oakland or Richmond bad. Just…watch yourself,” he’d said, and she now understood why.
She slowed at the strip mall and eyed the signs. A dry cleaner. A specialty hardware store. A hot yoga and Pilates studio right beside a frozen yogurt shop. And her destination: Evergreen Financial Solutions, in a single storefront slot with a display featuring a generic executive handing a fat stack of cash to a relieved-looking Hispanic fellow.
Definitely not what she’d envisioned.
A man in his fifties, wearing a salmon golf shirt that did little to hide his ample belly, his wrists heavy with gold chains and a watch that would have been at home in a rap video, looked up from a desk in the back when she stepped through the door. Two younger men sat behind him at workstations, one typing, the other one talking on a headset. A girl in her late teens, in a tiny dress and a top that could have been lingerie, gave her a smile from a reception counter, where she was chewing gum while texting.
“Can I help you?” she asked Leah.
“I hope so. I’m doing an article on alternative lenders, and I saw your place as I was driving by the other day. Is there anyone who can answer a few questions?” Leah asked, returning the smile.
The girl seemed confused and toyed with her hair as she made a frowny face that must have looked adorable on Instagram. Leah waited as the girl processed what she’d said, and wondered what criteria had been used to hire her, other than the ability to wear overpoweringly cloying perfume and make duck lips for selfies.
“Oh, um, questions, huh?” the girl stammered. “I, um, we have a brochure.”
“I was hoping to talk to someone.”
The girl turned to the big man at the desk. “Sal? Can you talk to someone?”
“I can hear you,” Sal replied. He stood and waddled to Leah. “What’s this about?”
Leah tried her smile out again. “I’m writing an article on alternatives to banks.”
“Yeah?” Sal said, looking her up and down. “For who?”
“Valliant News. Up in Emeryville.”
If Sal was impressed, he deserved an Academy Award for stone face. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s an online publication. Syndicated,” Leah added, as though that meant anything.
“What do you want to know?”
“Just the usual stuff. How long you’ve been in business. If this is your main office. What kinds of lending you do.”
Sal looked as unenthusiastic as a cat about to get a bath. “How long’s this going to take?”
“Maybe…ten minutes, tops,” she assured him.
He shifted his bulk from foot to foot and finally threw up his hands. “Ten minutes. Come back to my desk.”
“I really appreciate it.”
Leah took a seat where he indicated, and he lowered himself heavily into his chair.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Leah said, withdrawing her handheld recorder. “Do you mind if I record this so I don’t have to take notes?”
He waved a hand. “Whatever.”
“Perfect. What’s your full name and title, Sal?”
“Salvatore Benuzzi. I’m the president.”
“And this is the corporate headquarters?” she asked, looking around. The two young men behind Sal avoided making eye contact.
Sal shrugged. “We like to keep overhead low.”
“Got it. And you make loans?”
“That’s what the sign says, right?”
“Mostly…real estate, correct? Anything else?”
“We do residential in the area. If you got a big boat or a nice car and get in a jam, hey, maybe we can help out, you know? But mainly we do home loans.”
“May I ask where the money comes from? You don’t have depositors, like a bank, right?”
“We have funding sources. Private money. Which is why we can move fast. We don’t need to do a bunch of bureaucracy. Stuff’s nuts with how you got to sign fifty forms these days.”
“I see. Being able to approve quickly is your advantage.”
“That’s right. Plus, we don’t get all hung up on who you are. Maybe you made some mistakes in the past.” Sal shrugged. “Who hasn’t? We don’t care, long as the value’s in the property.”
“So you can loan to people who might find it difficult to go the traditional route.”
&
nbsp; Sal laughed. “Ha! A little while ago I saw on the news where some guy got his dog a mortgage. So much for the traditional route. We deal with people who want to buy a place, fix it up, and sell it. Or folks who need some quick cash. Maybe for an operation. Or an investment. We don’t ask.”
“Then you’re flexible. That’s a plus. How big’s your average loan?”
“Usual’s quarter mil. Sometimes more. But usually between a quarter and a half buck.”
Leah asked him about terms, rates, and the rest, turning on all the charm she could muster. When she was done, she asked the question that had been burning in her throat since walking into the dump. “If someone had, I don’t know, a five- or six-million-dollar place, could you do something bigger? Like a few million?”
Sal’s piggy eyes narrowed. “Depends on the deal.”
“So you’d be comfortable with jumbo stuff, too?”
“That’s not what we target, I mean, look around. This isn’t Hillsborough or Piedmont. Our customers are working people. Salt of the earth types.”
She asked a few more questions and then wrapped it up. “How long have you been in business, Sal?”
“Six years. Made a lot of loans. It’s a good business.”
“You have a lot of defaults?”
Another hand wave. “Nah. People do their thing, get paid, they pay us. Makes the world go round, am I right?”
Leah felt like she needed to take a shower by the time she left, more puzzled now than before. Sal was a knuckle dragger who’d probably worked as a collection agent before becoming a funding bigwig. What was Richard doing dealing with someone like that? It made no sense. Surely he’d have been able to make two calls and have his choice of banks gladly lending him the money. And Sal had become noticeably cagey when she’d asked about large amounts – not the behavior of someone accustomed to handling mansions in Atherton, she was sure.
The youths were no longer on the stoop when she returned to her car, and she exhaled a sigh of relief when she was behind the wheel with her doors locked. Leah tried to imagine Richard driving one of his expensive cars and glad-handing Sal, and couldn’t.
Next on the agenda was Abacus, located in a high-rise in the San Francisco financial district – the polar opposite of Sal’s stomping grounds.
The drive wasn’t as bad as Leah had feared, and she parked and was at the building before the lunch rush hit the streets. Abacus was on the ninth floor, and she dutifully signed in downstairs before boarding the elevator for her trip into the unknown.
The Abacus office was one of fifteen offices on the ninth level. A small brass plaque with its name in one-inch-high letters gave the only indication of its presence. She pressed a buzzer mounted below the sign, and waited for thirty seconds before the door opened a few inches and a man in a suit peered out at her.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I noticed your sign and was wondering what your firm does?”
“Why?” the man asked, his tone unfriendly.
“The name. It’s unusual.”
He stared back at Leah without answering.
“Well?” she pressed.
“We’re a financial services consulting firm.”
“Oh, really? For companies or individuals?”
“For select clients, by private introduction only,” the man said, his tone making clear that the discussion was over.
“Oh. How would I get an introduction? My grandmother is looking for a financial advisor.”
“You would have to know the right people,” he said. “Thanks for your interest.”
The door closed in her face, leaving her standing in the hall, feeling stupid for having driven all the way to San Francisco for nothing. Abacus clearly wasn’t looking for new customers and had zero interest in sharing with a stranger what the company did. Financial services consulting could have meant anything, which she supposed was the whole point.
She rode the elevator downstairs and decided to have one more try. Leah approached the security desk and smiled. “Out of curiosity, what does Abacus, up on the ninth floor, do? I apparently got the wrong company.”
The heavyset woman adjusted her uniform top and shrugged. “Beats me. I just keep the riffraff out.”
Leah nodded as though that answered her question. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
After a final scan of the lobby, Leah exited onto the street, her morning of research having gone nowhere. Other than confirming that Sal had no business doling out two million dollars on an Atherton home, she was at a standstill. She hurried to the lot where she’d paid five dollars for the privilege of parking for what had been all of fifteen minutes, frustrated and anxious to beat her way out of the city before the streets clogged with workers headed to lunch.
Chapter 17
Washington, D.C.
The Rayburn Office Building meeting room where the congressional hearing on Homeland Security modernization was being held was only a quarter full; the oversight hearing was a historically tedious affair where most of the important matters were held in private sessions due to the classification level of the information. This hearing was a mundane review of the various security systems in place in airports around the country, and much of the back and forth pro forma point making traveled along partisan lines.
Congressman Winters was speaking to an expert who had finished giving testimony about the woeful state of the security procedures that were the country’s last line of defense against a repeat of 9-11.
“So it is your contention, sir, that the systems in place are inadequate to the job?” he asked.
The expert nodded. “That is correct. In the last trial across twenty airports, undercover operatives were able to smuggle weapons and explosives past checkpoints and onto planes seventy-eight percent of the time.”
Winters looked around at his colleagues, half of whom appeared to be struggling to stay awake, and one of whom might well have been drunk. “That’s unacceptable. We’ve spent billions, and that’s the best we can do? It’s a travesty!”
The expert waited for the congressman’s outburst to be over, knowing the outrage was more for the record and the viewing audience at home than the members of the committee. Winters appeared to get his emotions under control and continued his questions. “You said that airport gift shops located after the security checkpoints sell items that can be made into weapons?”
“That is correct. As I said in my prepared testimony, we were able to make everything from crossbows to grenades, even shotguns, from goods that were purchased on the gate side of security.”
“Crossbows and shotguns?” Winters repeated, his tone incredulous.
“Yes. Using the ribs from a collapsible umbrella and dental floss for the drawstring, a crossbow can be made in under ten minutes.”
“What does it shoot?” Winters asked.
“The shaft is part of the umbrella filed to a sharp point. It would easily penetrate flesh and bone.”
“And the shotgun?”
“That’s a bit more complicated. I can get you a diagram if you like. It involves nine-volt batteries, Red Bull cans, and a number of other readily available items.”
Winters looked around the chamber in wonder. “And the grenade?”
“Oh, not just grenades. Bombs, too. But to answer your question, a fragmentation device can be made in under ten minutes, as well, using a stainless steel coffee mug, a condom, a battery, and a can of body spray.”
“Unbelievable,” Winters grumbled. “Thank you. I have no more questions.”
The chairman of the committee excused the expert, and after a short break, the agenda turned to new scanning technology to replace the antiquated metal detectors and body scanners in use. Two hours of testimony from industry pundits later, the final expert was called.
“Welcome and thank you for being here, Mr. Reagan. State your full name for the record.”
“Patrick Reagan. President and CEO of Ravstar Technologies.”
“
Your company is developing a new scanner?” the chair asked.
“Yes, sir. Your office has had the specifications for almost two months.”
“Yes, yes. We’ve reviewed it, and it’s most impressive. But I have several questions that the materials don’t seem to address. Would you be able to answer them?”
“I can try my best. If necessary, I can get my technical team to forward you any information I don’t know off the top of my head.”
A long series of questions and answers followed, led by the chair, and then with each of the members of the committee. At the end of the period, Winters used part of his time to summarize the Ravstar solution and to recommend fast-tracking acquisition and deployment of the devices.
“We cannot allow the current situation to continue when technology exists that is a quantum leap forward in detection, speed, and safety. I’ve reviewed the technical specifications and the claims, and I would argue that as soon as relevant testing is completed, we need these in every major airport. It’s high time to retire the units we have – they’re well past their end-of-service dates, and it’s a disgrace that they’re still in use. The American people deserve better than that. All of us do.”
The chair frowned. “We should discuss a slow roll-in. But I don’t disagree that Mr. Reagan’s solution looks to be the best out of everything available.”
“How slow will be a function of how many lives we want to gamble with in the airports that aren’t served by the scanners,” Winters countered.
The debate went on for a few more minutes, and then Patrick was excused and the committee adjourned for the day. The room cleared, and the congressmen exited through the back chamber door, laughing among one another as they did. One of Winters’s colleagues patted him on the arm as they walked together.
“Sounds like I should load up on Ravstar’s stock, doesn’t it?” he joked.
“I’d call my broker before the analysts get hold of the testimony and disseminate it. Maybe they can do a buy on one of the foreign exchanges before the markets open here?”
A Girl Betrayed (A Leah Mason suspense thriller Book 2) Page 10