The Harry Starke Series: Books 1-3: The Harry Starke Series Boxset

by Blair Howard

  She stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, looked at me, took a deep breath that seemed to come all the way up from her feet, then she grinned.

  “You’re right, Harry. Sorry. I just had a run in with the chief. He’s not happy. The Feds are all over the department, them and the SEC. If this wasn’t a homicide, the case would already have been taken away from me. As it is, it’s still CPD jurisdiction. I was warned, however, to keep both our noses out of the New Vision affair.”

  I held the car door open for her to get in, and then got in myself.

  “Kate, that’s not going to be easy,” I said, as I pushed the starter. “Everyone at New Vision, and their clients, are suspects in Sattler’s death.”

  “Yeppy! That’s true, but I have to do as I’m told. It is what it is.”

  “You have to do as you’re told, but I don’t, which is why I’m no longer a cop.”

  “Oh how true, Sherlock, which is why I love working with you. Just try to keep your nose clean, okay. I have no pull with the Feds, and if you screw up too badly, I may not have any with Chief Johnston either. I did get the vibe that he was kinda pissed the Feds were all over him. Still....”

  “Gotcha,” I said, as I negotiated the turn off Cumming’s Highway onto Scenic. A few minutes later, we were on West Brow Road, high above the Lookout Valley. The view was stunning.

  “How about this?” I said. “We’ll do this one together, and then I’ll handle Steiner by myself.”

  “Sounds good to me, but be sure to keep me in the loop. I do not want to get blindsided. Turn left here. It should be just down the road, on the right.”

  It was, and as I expected, it was another of those expensive mansions, a rambling, single-story structure set back some fifty yards from the main road behind a six-foot high iron fence and an electronic gate. Kate hit the button on the electronic keypad and we waited, but not for long.

  “Yes. Who eeze it?” The voice was female, made tinny by the speaker inside the metal box.

  “Police. Lieutenant Gazzara. I need to see James Westwood.”

  “One moment, please?”

  The one moment turned into two, then three, and then the gate began to slowly open. We drove through the trees to the house, a dark, brooding structure perched on a natural stone ledge high above the Tennessee River Gorge. The house was dismal in its outlook. It reminded me of something from a 60s horror movie.

  James Westwood was waiting for us on the front porch. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, fit, muscular. Most men who lived to be his age should be so lucky. He had matured well, better than most. He was tall, lean, tanned, and had a smile that must have cost almost as much as the Porsche Carrera parked in the driveway. His blue eyes were set deep under a shock of pure white hair that made his tan look even darker than it was, as did the pale blue golf shirt and white pants. He was one of those men that carried himself with confidence and looked good no matter what he was wearing.

  He came down the steps to greet us, first Kate, and then he offered me his hand. His grip was strong and sure.

  “And you are?” He looked me in the eye as he shook my hand.

  “My name’s Harry Starke, Mr. Westwood. I’m a private investigator.”

  “A PI? That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  “Not so much. Mr. Starke was a sworn officer for many years. Now he works with me as a consultant. Will that be a problem, sir?”

  “Oh... no, not at all. Call me James, and please, come on in. Can I get you anything? A soda, tea, or would you prefer something stronger?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Kate said.

  I shook my head and followed the two of them through the door into the house.

  Geez, I thought the outside was gloomy. This is damned depressing.

  The foyer, if you could call it that, was a long, musty, narrow passageway that stretched from the front of the house all the way to the back. The walls were covered with dark, almost black wood paneling; even the ceiling was paneled. Heavy antique furniture was crammed in everywhere. The floor was inlaid with brownstone tiles. It was like walking into a cave. In the distance, I could see an open door and beyond that what must have been a vast bay window overlooking the valley.

  “Let’s go into the lounge, shall we?” Westwood said, pushing open a door and standing to one side to allow us to enter. “Please, sit down.”

  The room appeared to be an extension of the foyer – the paneling and decor were much the same – but it was much brighter, lit by three large windows that stretched the width of the room and provided a view of the driveway.

  We sat together around a circular dining table that was probably older than the house. Kate and I together on one side, Westwood sat on the other. He had his hands clasped together on top of the table, staring at us intently.

  “This must be about the fund, I presume?” His attitude was upbeat, but I had the impression he was forcing it.

  Hell, who wouldn’t have to force it after losing such a truck load of cash?

  “That, and the demise of Thomas Sattler,” Kate said, watching for a reaction. She got one.

  “T... Tom’s dead,” he spluttered. “How? What happened? When?”

  “Tuesday evening, late,” Kate said. “It looked like he shot himself.”

  “Looked? You said it looked like suicide. Does that mean... he didn’t?”

  Hah. He’s quick, this one. Good try, Kate, but now you have to tell him.

  “I don’t have the final results of the autopsy yet, but the gun was next to his hand and there was a single wound to the head.”

  Nicely played, Kate.

  “But you do think he might have been murdered?”

  Kate sighed and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Westwood. I think perhaps he was. Now, can we get on? I have a few questions, and if you don’t mind, Mr. Starke may have some, too. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course... but who...? Whew. Never mind.” He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “How can I help?”

  “When did you first learn that the $350 million was missing? I assume you do know that, right?”

  “Yes, of course. I found out from Tom. He called me on Tuesday evening. It must have been around eight o’clock. He’d talked to Marty – Marty Cassell, that is. He’s one of our partners. Tom was panicking. I pulled up the account and sure enough, the money had gone. I was... was... I don’t know what I was. I called Marty myself; waste of time that was. He was in a blue funk. I also called Jessica. She also knew the money was gone, but that was all. She said she’d call me back, but she hasn’t. I haven’t been out of this house since I heard. I tried to trace it, but... well; I’m not a computer expert.”

  “How many people had access to the account, Mr. Westwood?” I asked.

  There’s something about this guy that I’m not getting. I don’t like him.

  “Just the four of us. Tom, Marty, Jessica, and me.”

  “And exactly how were you able to access the account, all of you?”

  “It’s simple enough. We each have our own set of secret codes: user name, password, and several security questions. None of us knows the others’ set of codes. At least we shouldn’t.” There was something about the way he said that bothered me.

  “Shouldn’t?” I said. “Does that mean some of you do know them?”

  “Maybe. I knew Tom’s. I also know Jessica’s. That is, if she hasn’t changed them, and Tom knew mine. I wouldn’t be surprised if Marty knows them all, too, although I’ve never given him mine. It was one of those things. We all trust each other.”

  “So what you’re saying is that anyone of the four of you could have made that money transfer using one of the other partner’s access codes?”

  “Well... I suppose... but....”

  “Would it surprise you to know,” Kate said, “that the transfer was made from Mr. Sattler’s laptop computer, and that his own access codes were used to do it?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. So it
was Tom, then?”

  “We don’t know that,” Kate said. “Why would it not surprise you?”

  “Er... well, I’m not sure. Tom was... he was not really too concerned about security. Took it for granted, even at the office he’d leave his machine unattended. Who could have done it, then, if Tom didn’t?”

  “We don’t know that he didn’t. All we know is that that the wire transfer was made from his computer using his codes. Anyone with access to them could have done it, and then killed him to cover it up. When did you last see Tom Sattler, Mr. Westwood?”

  “Hmmm, it would have been Saturday evening. He asked me to drop by for a drink. I was in town so I did. I often did. Tom was a bit of a loner, but he was always pleased to see me. So, yes. About seven o’clock. We had a couple of drinks, chatted some, then I went home.”

  “How long were you there?” She said

  “Until a little after ten-thirty.”

  “What sort of mood was he in?”

  “Pensive, thoughtful, but that was not unlike him. He always was quiet, but he could be excitable, when the mood took him.”

  I nodded. That’s how I remembered Tom.

  “Did you have access to his computers?” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes. In fact I used the laptop to check my email while I was there.”

  “Who do you think it was, Mr. Westwood? Who stole the money?” I asked, looking him squarely in the eye.

  He blanched and looked away, hesitated, then looked back at me. There was the light of defiance in his look.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Starke. It wasn’t me. I can assure you of that, and if Tom was murdered.... Well, I suppose it could have been him, but I can’t, won’t believe it. I’m also certain it wasn’t one of my other two partners. You have a puzzle on your hands, I think.”

  “Surely,” I said, “something like this could not have been done on the spur of the moment. It would have taken a great deal of planning. From what I’ve been told, there are perhaps hundreds of offshore bank accounts involved. Just setting them up would have taken months.”

  “That’s what you’d think, but it’s not entirely true. There probably are a hundred or more accounts involved, but they wouldn’t have been difficult to set up. It’s all done by computer these days. Still, it would have involved some in-depth knowledge of the world banking system and, as you say, no little planning.”

  “Could you have done it, Mr. Westwood?”

  “I, I, I, could,” he stuttered, “but I didn’t.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If you were a betting man, which I know you are, who would you put your money on?”

  “Betting man? What the hell do you mean by that? I’ve never laid a bet in my life.”

  I grinned at him, a nasty, toothy grin, my best impression of a barracuda.

  “And what you do for a living, Mr. Westwood; what would you call that? I’d say it was gambling, the smart way, using other people’s money, or would I be wrong, Mr. Westwood?”

  “Yes, you would be wrong. I don’t gamble. What we do is scientific, a detailed and informed analysis of the markets and then a balanced and structured set of purchases made using that information. It’s virtually foolproof.”

  “If that’s true, sir, how come the fund was making a loss and was unable to meet its commitments to its investors?”

  “Uh... I... that is we...” he spluttered, “suffered a series of downturns in the market facilitating a reexamination of the fund’s direction. This, after much discussion between the partners, resulted in an agreement to partially liquidate the fund and reinvest the proceeds into higher yield equities.”

  “And those higher yield equities,” I said, “would also present a much higher risk. Is that not correct?”

  “Well... yes... but....”

  “They would, in fact be something of a gamble. Correct?”

  “Well, yes, but....”

  “There you go. You make my case. You are, in fact, a gambler, and you gamble with other people’s money. No, no, no,” I said as he was about to interrupt. “Let me finish my point. Here’s my question, and I bet I already have the answer. How much of your own money do you have invested in New Vision?”

  He closed his mouth, his lips tight together, bloodless, and he stared at me across the table.

  They say if looks could kill....

  “Precisely!” I said. Now, I decided, was the time to give him a push, put on a little pressure.

  “I understand the four partners take a fee for administering the fund,” I said, “and that fee is two percent of the value of the fund, and it comes right off the top, yes?”

  He nodded, slowly.

  “So, by my calculation, that comes to roughly $8.5 million split four ways. That would be $2.1 million per year each. No gamble there. Again, that means the only gamble is the investors’.”

  “But, but....”

  “Hear me out, please, sir. On top of the fee, you folks take another mil, for office expenses. Not bad, considering I have yet to see a bone fide office–”

  “It’s on Brainerd,” he interrupted. “We employ four secretaries, and we have to pay the rent–”

  “Oh that’s funny. Rent. What? Say $2,000 a month. That’s twenty-five K. Pay for the secretaries, another $200,000, and then the utilities. You four sharks are making at least another $150,000 a year each on top of more than a couple of mil. That’s not gambling, but it’s damned greedy, I would say.”

  “Whatever it is,” oh, he was upset, “it’s none of your damned business. What we do is absorb the risk for our investors. What we get paid for doing so is industry standard.”

  “Risk," I said. "There’s that word again. Isn’t it just another word for gambling? You know what I think, Mr. Westwood? I think you and your partners have had a nice long and lucrative ride on the coattails of New Vision’s investors, but the wheels were loose, and about to come off. Some of them, the investors, had not been paid their dividends for three or more months. Those that have, had been paid either out of the principal, or out of funds provided by new clients, and that, as we all know, is illegal. A Ponzi scheme is the technical term, I think. Isn’t that right?”

  I didn’t give him a chance to answer.

  “But that’s enough of that,” I said. “I’m sure the Feds will sort all that out, so let’s move on. Tell me about Marty Cassell.”

  He was breathing heavily, obviously offended, but then he seemed to gather himself together and calm down.

  “Marty has been my partner for more than ten years. I trust him completely.”

  “What do you know about his clients?”

  “His clients? What have they got to do with Tom, or the fund?”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you he was in bed with the mob, and that he was laundering money for them through the fund, and that they are looking for the return of their $12 million?”

  “Whaaat? What Mob? What the hell are you talking about?” His face had turned a dirty gray color.

  “Your friend Marty Cassell has a very influential client of Sicilian descent. Salvatore De Luca has been investing his company’s money with him for the past several years, and when I say company, I don’t mean his Italian restaurant. Marty told me that Sweet Sal has more than twelve million invested in New Vision. That means not only Marty, but the other surviving partners, too, owe Sal the money, all of it. Marty has just one week to come up with it, or else. You see, unlike you, Sweet Sal doesn’t gamble, not with other people’s money, and especially not with his own. If he can’t get his money from Marty, he will come after the rest of you for it.”

  James Westwood was looking decidedly sick.

  “Okay. Here’s my theory,” I said. “I think that when things at the fund started going downhill, you guys panicked, decided to liquidate some of the funds and reinvest them, as you said. I also think that one of you had a bright idea: why not just steal the $350 million and be done with it. Now that may or may not have been Sattler – and frankly, I don�
�t think it was – because as soon as the money disappeared he got on the phone to the rest of you vultures and he said something that got him killed, and James....” I looked him right in the eye. “I’m going to get whoever that was, you can bet on that; you can take it to the bank.”

  “You need to leave,” he whispered. “I need some time. Please, Lieutenant, leave now and take this... this person with you.”

  He got up from the table and left the room, leaving us sitting there. Kate looked at me, shrugged, and then she, too, rose to her feet. Together, we walked out of that dismal mausoleum and into the late morning mountain sunshine. It was so bright it hurt my eyes, but oh what a relief it was.

  “So what do you think?” I said, as we drove on down the mountain toward the city.

  “I have the distinct impression that you don’t like Mr. Westwood,” she said. “You pushed him a bit hard toward the end.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just stated the truth, and no, I don’t like him. My first impression was that he’s slick, superficial. Now I think he’s just plain dirty, a crook. I think all four of them are crooks, to one degree or another. I wouldn’t trust Westwood or Cassell with two cents of my money, but the investing public must have been okay with him. I wonder how they’ll feel when it gets out that their money has gone.”

  I looked sideways at her, but she just stared stoically out across the valley, seemingly lost in thought.

  “You know, Kate, there has to be some serious information knocking around somewhere. There has to be a list of all of those bank accounts, the access codes to them, and the final destination of the cash. If it’s not on Sattler’s computers, and Tim would have said something if it was, then where the hell is it? It must be either in the Cloud, or on thumb or flash drives, or disks. I have to believe that’s what whoever it was I shot last night was looking for.”

  “As best I can figure it,” Kate said. “There’s only one person who could tell us where the information is and that’s the person who made the transfer and then wiped the hard drives. If that was Sattler, we’re out of luck, and even if it was someone else....”