by Ridge King
He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time and shortly found his way into Vanessa Campos’s office. She was on the phone ordering supplies. She hung up.
“Ah, Severo! There you are.”
“Here I am,” he smiled, lifting the valise and placing it gently on her desk. “And here’s something to keep the girls busy for a while.”
Most of the employees at Cambio Xtra (as well as there numerous other fronts) had no idea the Oyebanjos were involved in schemes to defraud the U.S. of millions of dollars. Some of them could add 2+2, of course, but to them what the Oyebanjos were doing was simple Medicare fraud. Miami was the center of this kind of illegal activity, and everybody working for Cambio Xtra or MediClínica, in whatever capacity, knew someone or had a relative or friend who was engaged in the same activity. Just not on the grand scale pursued and perfected by the Oyebanjos.
But Vanessa was one of them. She’d been in Miami for about ten years and had been assigned to the Oyebanjo operation by Fernando Pozo himself.
“The money’s piling up again, Severo,” said Vanessa, shaking her head like having stacks of cash was the worst possible thing that could happen to someone.
“It’s OK, Vanessa. “I’ll come get a load as soon as the office closes and get it out of here. We have a guy taking $27 million to the Bahamas next week or two.”
“Well, get them to hurry. At this rate, we’ll have another $20 million in two months.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll get it out of here. We met these guys Howard and Derek took us to and they’re going to handle it.”
“OK.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“OK. We’ll process these checks over the next couple of days.”
As Severo went back to his car, he thought the system was working quite smoothly. One business generating massive amounts of fraudulent revenue had to have a place to process the checks received (or money wired into its account). If that business can go to another business owned by someone doing the same thing, the dirty money gets cleaned and you end up with piles of cash.
Run the scam for six months to a year, shut it down and open the same operation under a different name.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
The difference between some small time hustler bringing in $50,000 or $100,000 a year and the Oyebanjos’ operation was scale. They had 50 companies open at the same time they were shutting down another 50 companies. Keeping everything unsettled, moving, one step ahead of the inept Federal regulators and “enforcement officers.”
Severo got into his Ford Explorer and drove south through Miami Springs and into the small town of Virginia Gardens, nestled against the northern perimeter of the Miami Airport. He drew into the deserted parking lot of the Matamoros Funeral Home & Crematorium and parked near the back door. He got a little package from the glove compartment and put it in his back pocket.
He punched the doorbell and listened to birds chirping in the tall palm trees lining the parking lot.
The door opened.
“Hello, Severo.”
“Hello, Grisel.”
He took a step up and gave her a kiss on the cheek, following her into the empty building, past a formal chapel, two reception rooms that could be made into one by sliding a temporary panel aside in the event you had a very large funeral. The place had a closed-in, musty smell as if the windows hadn’t been opened in 20 years.
“Nobody here?”
“Real quiet. We have a client downstairs. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
He followed her into her office and took a chair opposite her desk.
Grisel Matamoros was a stately woman, about 63 or 65, Severo guessed, but she had expensive tastes for someone living in Virginia Gardens. She commonly bought expensive jewelry across the causeway up in the Bal Harbour Shops and went to the pricey Carpaccio for lunch once a week.
Severo had set up this operation himself. At a funeral for one of the Cambio Xtra workers about three years earlier, Grisel had complained that business was slow. Severo listened. A newer crematorium had opened up just five miles away, out west of the Palmetto Expressway, and undercut her rates. Grisel had pretty much had the market in West Dade to herself for 20 years until the other company moved in. (Other funeral homes without a crematorium sent the business to her. She burned the bodies and gave them back the ashes to return to loved ones for ultimate disposal.)
Once Severo felt her out enough to know she’d be a player, he told her to cut her rates to cremate bodies well below the competitor. That way, her business would soar.
“But how will I make money?”
It took him a while to bring her over, but basically, he said:
“I will pay you $250 for the personal details of every one of the bodies you process.”
They were in business from that point on.
After one year, the other crematorium closed down permanently.
Grisel opened a credenza behind her desk and pulled out a box brimming with paperwork.
“Here you are, Severo. Copies of everything.”
“Thank you, Grisel. What have we got here?”
He took the box of papers from her. It was heavy.
“This quarter was a little better than last quarter, Severo. We processed 653 bodies.”
“Very impressive, Grisel. Very impressive.”
Severo leafed through the documents.
He now had the last known address, the age and Social Security numbers of 653 dead Americans.
“Always good to see you, Grisel,” he said, using the calculator function on his cellphone. “Let’s see, that 653 times $250. That comes to—”
“$163,250,” Grisel finished for him before he could punch the numbers in.
“OK, $163,250. You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Yes, I have the funeral. It’s at 4, so try to come around noon if you can.”
“That’ll be great. I’ll bring you the cash tomorrow.”
As he got up, he pulled out the little package in his back pocket.
Grisel’s face lit up like a teenager’s.
“For me?”
She unwrapped the package.
“Deseo!”
She came around the desk and gave Severo a kiss on the cheek.
Back in the Explorer, Severo calculated that they’d process the IRS returns right after the first of the year. Some returns would be filled out requesting refunds in the $5,000 ballpark, others at the $10,000 level. The average refund would come in around $7,500. This times 653 would gross about $4,897,500. Less 15% of the returns kicked out by the IRS computers for one reason or another, they’d end up with around $4,150,000.
This was for each quarter, so from the Matamoros Funeral Home & Crematorium over the course of a year, they’d see about $16,500,000.
All of which would find its way—eventually—into Cuban government accounts in Havana.
What Grisel liked about their arrangement was the quarterly payments. Severo paid her in advance. She didn’t have to wait for him to file the returns the following January. Severo was just as happy: over the course of the year, the $650,000 he paid Grisel was that much less money he had to figure out how to get out of the country.
Grisel was one of three funeral home operations Severo dealt with in Miami. Aricela had two she was setting up in Naples.
Severo felt his stomach rumble. He hadn’t had time for lunch, but it didn’t matter. He and Aricela were going to La Casa Del Churrasco tonight, so he’d just wait till then to stuff himself.
Chapter 6
THE TRANSITION
Back in Washington a few days later, Phil Slanetti came out of his office and bumped into Eric Stathis in the hallway.
“Ready for the meeting?” Slanetti asked in a friendly tone.
“Oh, sure,” said Stathis.
“I don’t know how they expect us to get some actual work done with all these photo ops getting in the way,” said Slanetti.
“Th
e boss wants to show the people we’re all cooperating,” said Stathis.
“Well, I’m cooperating with both sides,” Slanetti nodded. It seemed redundant to forge ahead with the Transition with dual staffs representing each candidate, but since no one knew who the next President would be, Norwalk had insisted both teams go through the Transition process so that whoever was named President, his team would be able to hit the ground running on Day One.
Of course, Norwalk had every expectation that Slanetti would be successful enough with the Keystone File so that the winner would be St. Clair. Still….
“How’s the vote count stand up on the Hill?” Stathis asked.
“We’re still short three or four states,” said Slanetti.
“Guess you’re putting all your time into that.”
“Well, yeah, nothing else on my plate except the Transition.”
“And just a week before Christmas,” said Stathis.
“Nine days, actually,” said Slanetti, reminding himself to force himself to leave early to do a little Christmas shopping. He’d had his wife cover for him by buying gifts for everybody in the family, but he still had to get something for her. Something special. And that ought to be easy given all the money the Russians had given him as a “token” of their appreciation for helping to get St. Clair elected.
“Here we are,” said Stathis as they arrived at the Cabinet Room. Slanetti stood back as he deferred to the chief of staff, who had precedence over the aide for congressional liaison.
Stathis went into the Cabinet Room, thinking the whole time what a filthy worm Slanetti was. Stathis was still in a state of emotional shock after discovering the existence of the Keystone File. He’d been on the verge of confronting Norwalk about it—twice when he was alone with him in the Oval Office—but both times he had chickened out at the last minute.
Stathis felt slighted on several fronts. First, he was considered to be the President’s best friend. Second, he was his chief of staff, the most trusted position in the White House, and closest to the President. Third, he was offended that Norwalk hadn’t thought to confide in him on a professional level. More than his indignation over Norwalk’s attempt to fix the election, Stathis was hurt that he had been excluded from Norwalk’s inner circle as he planned the last big thing in his Administration. But Norwalk knew him well, and knew him well enough to know that he’d have objected strenuously, maybe even resigned if he’d been told about Keystone.
Which is exactly the same thought President Norwalk had as he caught Stathis’s eye as he entered the Cabinet Room after everyone else had arrived. He hadn’t told Stathis about Keystone even when Slanetti began building the files years before because Stathis was too honorable a man to allow it to happen on his watch.
Norwalk took in a little breath and he shifted his gaze from Stathis to Thurston and St. Clair and their people as they all rose as a sign of respect. The last thing he wanted to worry about at this stage in the game was Stathis’s bruised feelings. Politics was a nasty business and sometimes you had to get your hands dirty. Eric Stathis’s hands were lily white. But then that explained why Norwalk was President of the United States and Eric Stathis merely his chief of staff.
Norwalk took his seat and everybody sat down.
“Welcome to you both, Senator Thurston and Governor St. Clair,” he began.
Sam looked over his shoulder quickly and winked at Jack, who smiled as he stood crammed against the wall with the other staffers. They’d both put a lot of miles on Sam’s plane. Sam was anxious to get back to Miami in the next couple of days. He hadn’t liked to see the way Sofia seemed to be slipping away from him, each day seeming to be a little less of the beautiful person he married as the cancer galloped through her body, eating her alive. He shuddered to think of it.
He was also a little concerned when Jack had told him he’d invited Bedelia and Patricia Vaughan down to visit along with Congressman-elect Matt Hawkins and his wife Sue. He knew how important the Wyoming vote might be, but personally he didn’t care about Hawkins one way or the other. It was Bedelia he was thinking about. While Jack knew nothing about his past with Bedelia, Sofia knew something. How much Sam wasn’t sure. He was sure that Sofia did not like Bedelia Vaughan. At least she could wait for my body to get cold, Sam could imagine Sofia thinking. Still, it was impossible for Sam to ask Jack to disinvite Bedelia. Such a move would raise too many flags.
The thought of this forced Sam to think about both of the “Other Women” in his life, Bedelia and Ramona. They both had excellent attributes. In fact, he found himself thinking very honestly, they were both “better” for him than Sofia had been. Bedelia and Ramona were relentless, Bedelia in the social world, Ramona in the world of law and politics. Both would have been much better mates to help him in his political ambitions, ambitions Sofia had always if not spurned outright, tried to put a damper on.
Sofia had merely wanted to be with him. It didn’t matter to her whether they were in a doublewide trailer in Hialeah or the grandeur of Flagler Hall, the governor’s Mansion or the White House. She didn’t give a damn about all that, and perhaps was even a little embarrassed by all the wealth and lavishness that informed their lives.
Early on in their marriage, Sam had said to her, “I can’t help it if I’m rich. It’s something you’ll have to live with.”
And she’d managed very beautifully, Sam thought.
What am I thinking about? Sam thought suddenly. Sofia’s still very much alive.
To Senator Frederick Thurston sitting across the highly polished mahogany table from him, St. Clair looked like a man worried about his future. Thurston wondered if St. Clair even knew the Keystone File existed.
Thurston didn’t feel quite so cocky and self-assured at this meeting as he’d felt at the first one when he thought he was a shoe-in for the Presidency. And, there was still time, he told himself. The official count in his campaign gave him 28 states, two more than the 26 needed to win. But how many congressmen had secretly changed their votes without anyone knowing? And no one would know until the new Congress was called to order and those votes were cast. By which time, of course, anything he could do would be too little too late.
As the various Cabinet secretaries made their little speeches about the importance of a smooth Transition within their departments, Thurston thought of Peggy, what a reluctant political wife she’d been at the start and how he’d dragged her through so many grueling campaigns over the years—and all for this. An ultimate defeat, rejection.
He looked again at St. Clair, who was fidgeting with his fingernails and looking down at the cup of coffee in front of him carrying the Presidential seal. Peggy had been much like Sofia was, less than a willing partner to her politically inclined spouse. But Sofia had remained more aloof than Peggy, and now Sofia was dying. That was the word they were getting in Thurston’s campaign. The St. Clair campaign had revealed that she had cancer, but very few other details had been forthcoming. Jesse Epstein had told him just the day before the word out of Miami was she wouldn’t make it to New Year’s Day.
Thurston made a little shrug.
It won’t matter to her who’s President.
“I think it’s time to let the staff take over while the candidates and I go to meet the press,” Norwalk said.
That’s what this is all about anyway, Thurston thought to himself. Window dressing.
* * *
Across town at Horizon, as Norwalk led the candidates down the hall leading from the Cabinet Room to the Press Briefing Room, Patricia Vaughan pushed open the door to her bedroom carrying a tray laden with a full breakfast for Matt Hawkins, still slumbering in bed after a long night of lovemaking.
“Mmm,” Matt groaned as he pulled his head out from under a pillow. “I smell coffee. And bacon.”
“I cooked everything with my two little hands,” said Patricia.
“I love it when you let the servants off.”
“Well, everybody’s off but Simpkins. He never lea
ves.”
Matt thought of Simpkins patiently going about his business in the servants’ hall, aware but discreetly oblivious to the mad love affair that was going on above his head. For Patricia, he was like Alfred in the Batman movies: always wanting the best for her, always there for her.
Matt pulled himself up onto some pillows as Patricia placed the breakfast tray over his lap. She picked up a piece of bacon and fed it to him.
“How do you like your coffee?” she asked with a giggle.
“Hot and steaming, like my sex.”
“Cream.”
“And don’t forget the sugar. Lots of sugar.”
He pulled her close and kissed her.
“Last night was fun,” she said.
“We’re going to have a lot more nights like last night.”
“I can’t wait to go to Miami,” she said.
“Neither can I. I’ve never been there. Hell, I’ve never been anywhere.”
“Oh, you’ll love it, especially this time of year,” she said, snuggling close. “Have you talked to Jack? It’s only nine days before Christmas now.”
“Yeah. I got a text while you were down whipping up our little breakfast. He’s got the trip scheduled four days from now. Think you can be ready?”
“My bags have been packed. I’ll coordinate with Bedelia. I’ll go out with her.”
“Sounds good.”
“Did Jack ask about Sue?”
“No.”
“Won’t he think it odd if she doesn’t come along?”
“Her mother’s sick, remember?”
“Oh, of course she can’t come.”
Matt clearly recalled asking Jack at the Thanksgiving party not to mention the Miami trip to Sue—that he wanted to “surprise her” with it, when really he had no intention of even telling Sue about it so he could make the trip with Patricia, who had the cover of Bedelia traveling with her since her gay husband wouldn’t be there.
“I’ll tell Jack tomorrow. We’re supposed to have lunch.”