Final Verdict

by William Bernhardt

  He heard a rustling in the hallway outside his office, the familiar swishing of a cardigan sweater.

  “Jimmy?”

  The swishing stopped. He knew his partner was there, though he didn’t know if Jimmy would answer. He wasn’t even sure why Jimmy still came into the office, since he adamantly refused to work on the Sweeney case.

  “Are you out there?”

  “Yes.”

  A less than enthusiastic response. “Can I get you to look at something? I could really use a second set of eyes.”

  “Does it involve the Sweeney case?” Jimmy wrapped himself around the open door. “Because if it does, forget it.”

  Garrett drew in his breath. “It...does.”

  “Ask Dinah. I’m not interested.”

  “But I value your input. We all do.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t have taken this case.”

  “Jimmy.” He started to argue, then stopped himself. There was no point. “You’ve always been my ace consultant. There’s no substitute for the insight you have. No one knows this city the way you do.”

  “Please stop. Just leave me alone.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about—”

  “You don’t? You really don’t?” A deep furrow crossed Jimmy’s forehead. “Then let me explain it to you. Conrad Sweeney is a racist. He’s homophobic. He blackmailed one of my favorite people in the world. He wants an America where everyone looks like him, rich and white and selfish. He spews hate about everything that is important to me.”

  “If we don’t help him, he’ll die in prison.”

  “I’m okay with that.” Jimmy strode into the office. “What the hell happened to you, Garrett? You’re a former prosecutor. You used to know the difference between right and wrong.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “Now you’re helping a man with no moral compass, which seriously suggests that you have no moral compass.”

  “Jimmy, you’re still a member of this firm—”

  “And that’s the next thing that needs to change around here.”

  Garrett bit down on his lower lip. Nothing would be served by them both becoming angry. “Jimmy, you and I have been here the longest. I would be...deeply saddened if you left.”

  “Me too. But I don’t have any faith in this place anymore. I came here to be on the right side of the law, not to aid racist felons. This whole mess is turning me upside-down. Hank says I’m becoming irritable. I mean, more so than usual. I haven’t slept in days.”

  “I hope you’ll reconsider,” Garrett said.

  A new voice emerged from the hall. “Me too.”

  They both turned. Dinah stood in the doorway. She had a tall stack of papers in her arms. Garrett knew she was trying to draft the motions and briefs that Jimmy refused to do. She wasn’t qualified to handle that kind of work yet, but he supposed there was no better way to learn than being plunged into the fire feet first. Maria would review everything before it was filed.

  “Please don’t leave, Jimmy,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the same around here.”

  Jimmy shuffled his feet. “Your brother will take care of you.”

  “He’ll teach me how to do the work. But you’re the one who makes it fun.”

  Jimmy’s chin lifted a bit. “I am?”

  “Come on, you can’t talk about cases all day long. You’re the one who brings in Gloomhaven—”

  “You are an excellent thief.”

  “—and Black Canary and comics and...and...cardigans.” She clasped her hands together. “We need you, Jimmy.”

  “I appreciate your kindness.” The coldness returned to Jimmy’s demeanor. “But this is where I draw the line. I will not defend Conrad Sweeney. And I don’t want to be associated with anyone who would.”

  He rapidly exited the office, not glancing at either of them.

  Garrett looked at Dinah and saw her eyes well up. “I think he means it,” she said, choking.

  “Yes,” Garrett replied. “I’m very much afraid that he does.”

  Chapter 16

  Alejandro Hernandez turned the key in the ignition and started the yacht. He had originally planned the day as a marlin-fishing expedition, but eventually settled on a simple pleasure cruise. He knew that with all the turmoil in his brain, he wouldn’t have the patience for fishing. And that was not the primary point of this excursion anyway.

  He needed to have a delicate conversation in a location where he could not be overheard. The feds could not know in advance that he would rent this yacht. They had no reason to bug it, and even if they did, the roar of the engine would make it unintelligible.

  And, he admitted to himself, there was another reason for the offshore meeting. Anyone who knew anything about organized crime, or for that matter, anyone who knew nothing about organized crime but had watched The Sopranos, knew that anytime the boss gathered people together on a boat, there was a strong chance someone was about to be rubbed out.

  Never hurt to let the minions fret. Usually improved productivity.

  Once he thought they were sufficiently far from shore, he slowed the engine and gathered his associates, Jose and Santiago.

  “Report,” he said, in his usual crisp manner. “Tell me about the money.”

  “That is...difficult,” Santiago replied. “Complex. We are still working to forge new connections. The heat is on and no one wants to do business with us.”

  Hernandez pounded his fists against the dash. His frustration was not just for show. “Forget Sweeney! Forget Andrus! Find someone else. They are not the only crooked businessmen in America. Far from it!” Bad enough to have so many problems maintaining the business. Worse that they had no effective means of masking their diminishing profits. He knew all too well that the once invincible Al Capone had eventually been laid low by charges of tax evasion.

  “Tell me about the placing.” “Placing” was cartel jargon for getting money into the legitimate financial system.

  “I have been to Miami. I think casinos are the best way to go.”

  “You live in the past. The federales are onto that.”

  “But the feds watch for big spenders. Large suspicious amounts of cash. The law requires casinos to report such things.”

  “But we must move large sums of cash. What do you recommend? Smurfing?” Meaning, breaking the total into smaller, less conspicuous amounts below any reporting threshold.

  “We are recruiting men as we speak.”

  “The more hands involved, the greater the chance someone will talk.”

  “We will make sure they understand the consequences of any betrayal.”

  “See that you do.” As Hernandez knew, fear worked wonders. But if the FBI threatened someone with imprisonment, or worse, threatened a family member with imprisonment, loyalty to the cartel might seem less of a priority. “You said ‘men.’ But you should target middle-aged women. They can be bought in Miami for ridiculously small sums. And they attract less attention. Today, it is suspicious to see a casino that is not filled with middle-aged women.”

  “Understood.”

  “We will still need more fronts. Even if you can’t find something with the scope of SweeTech. You can smurf this as well. There are many smaller businesses with legitimate reasons to take in cash. Laundromats. Check-cashing services. Travel agencies. Small groceries. Pawn shops.”

  “We are assembling a portfolio. But we are also pursuing other possibilities. Like...the stock market.”

  “Explain.”

  “Many different accounts under different names with different brokerages. Relatively small amounts of startup cash in each. Brokerage firms don’t talk to each other, so no one understands how much money is involved in the entire operation. We buy lots of stock, letting capital gains accumulate, only selling when we need cash.”

  For the first time, Hernandez’ eyes lit. “I like this. Clever. Innovative. But you must obscure the trail. If you sell, wire the cash to an offsh
ore account. Not the usual island paradises. Luxembourg. North Dakota.” This was what they called “layering,” moving the money around to disguise its origin. “Can we use the investment without selling?”

  Santiago nodded. “We take out a loan, using the account as collateral. Paper the transaction. If the FBI gets curious about the money, we explain that it’s a loan. And we have documents to prove it.” He winked. “Though sadly, the loan may never be repaid.” That was the final stage of any money-laundering operation. “Integrating”—commingling it with other spendable income.

  “Excellent. Jose, tell me what is happening with our former associate, Mr. Sweeney. Is he enjoying his time in jail?”

  “He is surviving. But now he is being represented by an attorney of your acquaintance. Daniel Pike.”

  The cry of the seagulls was not nearly so loud as the cry inside Fernandez’ head. “How can that be? I thought they hated one another.”

  “I believe that is true. But still, Pike has agreed to serve as his lawyer.”

  “So the heroic Pike turns out to be a prostitute selling himself to the highest bidder.”

  Jose shrugged. “He appears to be doing it because...he believes Sweeney is innocent.”

  “Conrad Sweeney is the least innocent man who ever walked the face of the earth.”

  Jose held up his hands. “I know. But there are many who suspect he is not guilty of murdering the art dealer.” He paused. “You can...see why this might be so.”

  Fernandez nodded. “And the woman. Has she been eliminated?”

  Jose and Santiago exchanged a concerned glance.

  “That is a problem,” Santiago said. “No one seems to know. But so long as she is off the radar, she poses no threat to us.”

  “Until she suddenly reappears. If you are not capable of handling this, I—”

  “It will be done.”

  Hernandez gripped the steering wheel of the yacht so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And take care of the lawyer. You said his attachments create a vulnerability.”

  Jose spoke. “He is a member of a team. A firm. He has friends. Family. A sister.”

  Hernandez revved the engine, executed a ninety-degree turn, and steered the yacht back toward shore. “Do it.”

  Chapter 17

  Dan approached the tenement with the utmost caution. He had not expected a rooming house in this neighborhood to be nice, but he hadn’t expected it to be this horrific either. Dilapidated, dirty, disintegrating. Missing bricks, graffiti on the side, a dangling fire escape clanging in the alley. No one would live here—in fact, no one would pass a minute here—if they had any other choices. But in this neighborhood, they probably didn’t. Most of the residents were transient, poor, living on the edge. Not the cutting edge. The slicing and dicing edge.

  Wasn’t Ray Carvel supposed to be an architect? And yet, he chose this meeting place? Why?

  He couldn’t put his finger on the danger, but he felt it, just the same. It had been hard to persuade Jamison to arrange this meeting, so he readily agreed to any conditions. But coming here was tempting fate. He knew he had a target on his back. He could disappear from a place like this and no one would ever know.

  He especially regretted bringing Maria. “Who set up this meeting? Count Dracula?”

  “Not exactly,” Dan replied. “But Jamison does have a fondness for coffins.” He walked down the sidewalk, then stopped before the front door. “I think it would be best if you waited in the car.”

  “In this neighborhood? Forget it.”

  “Ok, go for a drive. Get a pizza. Pick me up in an hour.”

  “Not happening.”

  “I’d feel better if—”

  “You might need someone to pull your butt out of the fire.”

  “I am perfectly capable of pulling my own...you know.”

  “You stumble into trouble like a blind man, then act surprised when something bad happens.”

  “I assure you I’m not stupid and I can take—”

  All at once, she leaned in and clasped his hand. “I was the one who found you outside your boat after three thugs almost killed you. I’m not letting that happen again.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Please don’t argue with me.”

  It wouldn’t do any good. “I should’ve researched the location before we came.”

  “But you didn’t. And you know why? Because you’re used to Jimmy handling that sort of thing.”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s true. Jimmy knows this city like the back of his hand. He would’ve warned us.”

  “Or dressed you in a suit of armor.”

  “Or sent some of his street friends to keep an eye on us.”

  “Or notified his husband to keep an eye out for you at the ER.”

  He gave her a look. “Now you’re getting morbid.”

  “Sorry.” She paused. “Maybe you should take me back to your boat later and...scold me.”

  His head twitched. “Okay, now I’m getting mixed messages.”

  She smiled. “Are you really?”

  “Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

  “Sure. Exactly what I was hoping for.”

  He knocked, but no one responded.

  Maria pursed her lips. “Apparently Lurch is off duty tonight.”

  “But we’re expected.” He turned the doorknob slightly.

  Unlocked.

  The door creaked when he pushed it open. That seemed appropriate. He stepped inside, Maria huddled close behind.

  “No receptionist?” she said.

  “You were expecting Della Street?”

  “More like Rod Serling.”

  “Our guy is in 2D. Let’s just go there.” He pointed toward a rickety staircase that looked like it dated back to prehistory and might give at any moment.

  Get a grip, he told himself. The tenants must walk these steps every day. You’ll survive.

  He started upward, one careful step after another. Maria followed close behind. They ascended slowly, the wood creaking beneath each footfall.

  At the top of the steps, he spotted the door marked 2D. “We’ve arrived.”

  He raised his fist to knock, but before he made contact, the door opened. “Get in,” a shadowy figure hissed.

  Dan hesitated a moment, wishing again that he’d left Maria behind, then stepped inside.

  The apartment was as bleak as could be. The only illumination was an unshaded light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The ratty bed looked like it might be infested. The easy chair was so worn Goodwill would turn it down.

  The man standing before him was short, thin, and bespectacled. Bald at the top, with Dagwood tufts on both sides. Shoulder stoop. Hole in his left sneaker.

  The small man gestured. “Come into my parlor.”

  Said the spider to the fly. Dan gestured toward the grungy chair. “Maria?”

  “No way in hell.”

  “Then I guess we’ll stand.” He glanced at his host. “Thank you for meeting with us. I’m sure you had other things you’d rather do than welcome strangers into your...home.”

  “Home?” The man made a snorting sound. “I don’t live here. I rented this dive to meet you. Rented for an hour, so maybe you should start talking.”

  “You’re Ray Carvel?”

  “That’s what people around here call me.”

  Oooh-kay. “I was told you knew the late Christopher Andrus.”

  “Sure, I knew Kit.” His hands twitched. “What about it?”

  “May I ask how you knew him?”

  “I did some brokering, of a sort. Not just artwork.”

  “Then what?”

  “Whatever I could lay my hands on.”

  “Were you a broker,” Maria asked, “or a fence?”

  He smiled thinly. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, lady?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, yes. And you don’t look like you’ve been brokering deals for the Dali Museum.”

  “Right a
bout that.” Carvel moved toward the window, avoiding eye contact. “I haven’t had the luxury of restricting myself to fancy deals. I took whatever came my way.”

  “But you knew Andrus,” Dan said. “Jamison told me you had dinner with him shortly before he died.”

  “We had a mutual business associate.”

  “Sweeney?”

  He shook his head. “The cartel.”

  Dan and Maria exchanged a look. “What did you do for the cartel? Jamison told me you were an architect.”

  “Once upon a time. Back in Seattle, where I used to live. Lost my license.”

  He decided not to ask. “I’m sorry.”

  “Which is what led me to this sorry state of affairs. Scraping the barrel to stay alive.”

  “So you got involved with the cartel. Doing...something.”

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet? They needed someone to launder their cash.”

  Dan nodded slowly. “Because Sweeney couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do it anymore.”

  “I couldn’t handle all the cash they brought in but I could do a lot. I got friends with nail salons and car washes and stuff. Cash businesses. The cartel boys were happy for a while. Till the old man turned on me.”

  “You mean Alejandro Hernandez?”

  “That’s the bastard. About a year ago, he found out I was an architect. Wanted me to design a hacienda for him, a huge sprawling mansion back in El Salvador. I’d have to leave the country. He didn’t even plan to pay me. Said I’d been paid handsomely enough already.”

  “So you...?”

  “Told him to go screw himself. Not exactly in those words.”

  “That required courage,” Maria said.

  Or extreme stupidity, Dan thought. “I’m guessing Hernandez is not accustomed to being told no.”

  “Pulled a gun and tried to plug me right there on the spot. I managed to knock it out of his hands and ran. His bodyguards chased after me, but I lost them.” He paused. “I’ve had a lot of practice disappearing.”

  “And that explains why you’re here. Hiding. Jamison said the feds are looking for you.”