Fenway looked back at the photograph. The flag of the Netherlands was waving clearly.
“And La Mitad has been under sanction for what? Two years?”
“Closer to five.”
Fenway sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. “This is huge, Piper. An American oil company breaking sanctions with two different countries. It must be worth it.”
“I calculated that, too,” Piper said.
“You did?”
“Yes. The Jules Verne is a supertanker—the manifests say it can hold more than two million barrels.”
Fenway gaped. “Million?”
“Right. Of course, they’re not going to get gas-station prices from the rebels in East Timor, but wow, the market advantages of going direct to the buyer—they’re bypassing all the middlemen, plus I bet they’re not going through the same rigor in the refining process. It’s not like it has to pass government tests before it winds up in Humvees in East Timor.”
“Rigor in the refining process? How do you know that?”
“My dad’s a chemical engineer at Ferris Energy.”
“Oh.” Fenway paused. “What do you think they’re getting?”
“I haven’t done a lot of research—not much is available—but based on the articles I’ve read on the rebels and their funding, it’s gotta be at least a hundred million dollars per tanker.”
“They have that kind of funding?”
Piper nodded. “A lot of different groups are providing money and resources.”
“But—that’s over a billion dollars a year!”
“Yep. And most of it is pure profit.” Piper shuffled her papers. “War made someone at Ferris Energy a lot of money.”
Fenway shook her head. “Look, this is a nice theory, Piper. A crazy theory, but a nice one. But we can’t make a case based on a couple of news articles, a picture of a tanker we found on the internet, and some wild conjecture.” She screwed up her face. “Plus, there’s no way to use that much money without drawing interest from the Feds. A billion dollars can’t appear on the books out of nowhere.”
“No,” Piper said. “They’ve got to be laundering it.”
Fenway scoffed. “Right. And no one can launder a billion dollars.”
“No,” Piper said, “but what if I told you a hundred people could launder ten million each?”
“You found a hundred people who are laundering ten million dollars each?”
“Well, not people, exactly. Businesses.”
“Businesses?”
“I’m looking at a bunch of local businesses,” said Piper. “I’m comparing their financial records to the amount of people on the payroll, the amount of business it looks like they’re transacting, and a few of them merit a closer look.”
“Any interesting ones pop so far?”
Piper pulled a stack of about ten pages out of a folder. The financial statements from September.
Kapp Landscape Architects.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Fenway said.
“Nope,” Piper said. “There were some hidden accounts, and there was a second management payroll account too. If you can believe it, the company created invoices for landscape consulting services—averaging about twenty consulting invoices a week, some as low as five hundred dollars, and some as high as eight thousand dollars. All with names not in the official directories, and all with no addresses or addresses that don’t exist. Piper pulled out a spreadsheet. “Like this one. 378 Estancia Canyon Boulevard.”
“The Coffee Bean near my apartment is on Estancia Canyon.”
“Right. The address for that is 350. It’s on the corner. The next block starts with 400.”
“So that address doesn’t exist.”
“And none of these other ones do, either. Someone got lazy or creative. There’s one in here for Abby Herrick.”
“Isn’t that the name of a pop star?”
“Yep. And one for Romeo Montague.”
Fenway sighed. “The classics never get old.”
“There’s enough in here to put Jeremy Kapp away for a long time. But that’s not the most interesting thing.”
“I would imagine the bullet in Jeremy Kapp’s forehead is the most interesting thing.”
“Not even close,” Piper said. “On the twenty-fifth of every other month, there’s a large payment that goes from Kapp Landscape Architects to a company called Global Advantage Executive Consulting.”
“That sounds like a shell company if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Right. Three guesses as to where the company is located, and the first two don’t count.”
“The Caymans,” Fenway guessed.
“Yep, those pesky Cayman Islands again,” Piper confirmed. “Now, I’ve got to do a ton more research, but I bet I can uncover at least a few more organizations doing the same thing. I know what to look for now.”
“Who’s behind Global Advantage?”
“I don’t know yet,” Piper said. “But there’s one other strange thing.”
“Which is?”
“Global Advantage paid Kapp on Tuesday night. Ninety-five hundred dollars.”
Fenway thought for a moment. “Maybe an overpayment?”
“Maybe.” Piper pressed her lips together.
“What?”
“I don’t think it’s an overpayment. First of all, it’s a neat and tidy sum. Second of all, this is the first time Global Advantage has paid Kapp, not vice versa.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe he was getting paid to do some sort of special job. Maybe it’s why he was at the beachside hotel. Or maybe it’s what got him killed.”
Fenway drummed her fingers on the table. “Do you think he maybe saw something that got him killed?”
Piper shrugged. “I certainly think Carl Cassidy saw something he shouldn’t have. And I think Lewis Fairweather did too.”
“But we can’t prove it.”
“No.”
Fenway screwed up her face. “My father—how much did he know?”
“About the oil from La Mitad? Or about the sale to East Timor?”
“Both.”
Piper shook her head. “That depends on what I find when I follow the money,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
Fenway exhaled loudly. “Even if he didn’t know anything about it,” she said, “this happened on his watch. He’s the CEO. He’s liable—not just from a civil perspective, but criminally. He could spend the next ten years in jail.”
“But doesn’t this help get—oh, sorry, I can’t remember the name of your, uh...”
“Charlotte,” Fenway said.
“Right,” Piper said. “Doesn’t this help get her off the hook?”
“Maybe,” Fenway said. “Especially if she can establish she never left the house on Thursday night. My father is her alibi. And, I suppose, she’s his.” She crossed her arms. “Still, if someone who’s laundering money from rebels from East Timor winds up getting killed—we probably should look at more than the supposed mistress.” Fenway picked up the phone. “I’m going to get Dez down here. I guess you better tell her everything you told me.”
Chapter Twelve
IT TOOK A COUPLE OF hours on the phone explaining it and going over the financial evidence, but Fenway was able to convince Gretchen Donnelly to call Piper for the update. Fenway also had to shoo Piper out, because she kept asking questions about the attack.
It was past three now, and Fenway stared at the phone. She didn’t want to call Millicent Tate—it would be a long call.
But the radio message she had heard earlier had the potential to open up all kinds of trouble for Fenway. Ivanovich’s accusation that she had brought race into the campaign got under her skin, and she needed Millicent to give her a sanity check so she didn’t explode with anger and frustration.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Fenway?” Millicent’s voice said. “Did I see the number in my phone right? This is you? Actual
ly calling me?”
“Yeah,” Fenway said. “I’ve been in the hospital.”
“I know. I saw it on the news. It would have been nice to get a call. I’ve had to make a lot of excuses to cancel your campaign events.”
“The police were trying to keep my location secure,” Fenway fibbed. “I couldn’t call until I was released.”
Millicent exhaled loudly, and perhaps somewhat passive-aggressively. “You’re okay now?”
“Yes. My scans came back normal this morning.”
“All right. I can still get you into a couple of events today.”
And I’m so relieved you’re okay, Fenway thought.
“You’re in the office?”
“I am,” Fenway said. “And my cell phone is out of commission right now.”
“Did it break in the explosion?”
“No,” Fenway said. “I don’t know if you heard, but someone is trying to kill me. I took the SIM card out and turned my phone off.”
“You think someone is tracking you through your phone? That’s crazy!”
“I don’t know,” Fenway said, “but I sure as hell am not going to bet my life on it.”
“We can get you another phone. A burner, as the cop shows say. We’ll run it over to your apartment.”
“I won’t be there.”
“You’re not staying at your place? It’s going to look like you’re scared of this guy who’s after you.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll have to look like that,” Fenway said. “The guy’s spray-painted my car, so he knows where I live, and he blew up the car I was borrowing, so I know he wants me dead. And he doesn’t care about collateral damage, obviously.”
Why didn’t he blow up my Honda instead of spray-painting it? Fenway tried to shake the thought out of her head, but it stuck there. If the guy—or whoever it was—wanted her dead, blowing up the Accord made sense. Spray-painting it didn’t. He obviously knew where she lived, knew the car she drove, and saw the minivan she got into.
Millicent paused—possibly a longer pause than Fenway had ever experienced in a conversation with her—and then spoke carefully. “A few hours ago, Ivanovich held a press conference.”
“I listened to part of it on the radio.”
“What part?”
“The race card part,” Fenway said. “I’m pretty pissed off about it.”
“I can believe it. Ordinarily, I’d say it was an immensely stupid move. It’s offensive to a huge number of people.”
“But?”
Millicent clicked her tongue for a moment. “It’s a dog whistle. And I’m frankly not sure it won’t work. We’re talking strategy and possible responses to it right now.”
“Can we ignore it?”
Millicent paused. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not reporters are going to ask you about it. And regardless, we’re going to have to have a response—I think it’s pretty likely.”
Fenway sighed. She had felt the same way as Millicent; she wanted to take the high road and stay out of the fray, but Ivanovich was taking the low road and running her over.
“So,” Millicent continued, “how likely do you think it is that he took a picture of your car when it had the, uh, racial slur on it?”
“I was out there for fifteen minutes, at least. Anyone could have driven by and seen it. And it sounds like someone is following me—someone who doesn’t want me around. Maybe it’s Ivanovich. Maybe it’s Barry Klein. Maybe it’s someone else. But if someone is following me, they’re probably taking pictures, and giving them to Ivanovich. There’s probably a picture of me with the spray-painted car, waiting for Rory.” Her voice broke on the teen’s name.
Millicent was quiet for a moment. “I liked that kid,” she said. “Whoever did this...” But she trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“I’m going to have a police detail for the foreseeable future,” Fenway said.
“That’s less than ideal. It’ll make the last few days of the campaign rough. You won’t be able to do as much, will you?”
“I don’t think it’s negotiable with the department. And besides, I think this is a real threat.”
“But you could come to a campaign event now, right?”
“The police detail isn’t ready,” Fenway said. “They’ll be here soon—at least I think so—but I can’t leave the office right now without them.”
“Well, you can’t disappear,” Millicent mused. “Ivanovich has the last word right now. You can’t let the voters think he’s right.”
“What should I do?”
“Let me think for a minute.” Millicent sighed, and after a moment, she spoke. “You’ve been in the hospital, which is coming out in the press. Give me a couple hours—it’s not ideal, but keep laying low. You were the victim of an attempted murder. Let me see how this is playing.”
“How?”
“A poll, I think,” Millicent said. “We need to know where we stand. Maybe we can talk to some reporters to take the temperature of the electorate. But we’re going to stick around here until we come up with a decent strategy.” Millicent laughed. “You know, I thought the George Nidever dinner was going to a boring evening. Now with all of this going on, Sunday’s dinner should be fun.”
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, when the early November twilight was shooting purple and pink across the sky, Fenway walked out with three officers she didn’t know. She rode in the passenger seat of one of the two cruisers to her apartment, driven by the tallest of the three, a lanky black man whose nametag said Young.
“We’re heading to your apartment to get the things you need for the next few days,” Officer Young said.
“I don’t know what I’m going to pack,” Fenway said, mostly to herself, but to have something to say to Officer Young on the drive. “My campaign manager says I pretty much have to go to the George Nidever dinner. You heard of it before?”
“Yeah,” Officer Young said. His voice was boyish, and his manner was easygoing, although his posture was alert. “That’s the dinner the Sunday night before all the local elections, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s been going on for years, hasn’t it? George Nidever—he was one of those guys who traded with the Chumash, right?”
“Well, traded with is a generous phrase. Stole from might be more accurate.”
“It’s a county tradition, anyway. Goes back a long time.”
“Stealing from the Chumash?”
“No—the Nidever Dinner. They host it at the university, right?”
“Right. Since I’ve been off the campaign trail the last day or two, I’m going to need to make a pretty big appearance there.”
Officer Young shook his head. “I don’t think so. My orders are pretty strict. You need to lay low until the police figure out who’s after you.”
“I’ve already been laying about as low as I can, Officer Young. I can’t miss this dinner.”
“It’s dangerous, Fenway,” he said.
She looked sideways at him; she hadn’t said he could use the more familiar first name with her. “Other politicians get threatened all the time.”
“But not all politicians go through what you went through yesterday.”
The slight ringing in her right ear and the rip in the shoulder of her dress served to remind her that it hadn’t been a normal couple of days. She rolled down the window and looked out, the wind blowing in her face, making her curls swirl in the chilly night air. She didn’t want to think about Rory.
Officer Young looked over at Fenway and pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I appreciate it,” Fenway said, a little brusquely, turning back toward the officer. “I guess we’ll figure this out.”
“Sure,” he said. “I get it.” He cleared his throat. “So, the two officers are going to enter your apartment first. Make sure it’s clear.”
Fenway closed h
er eyes and remembered six months previously—getting attacked before she had even entered her apartment. Having to fight for her life.
“Right,” Fenway said. “I’m glad you’re going to do that.”
They turned off Estancia Canyon at the Coffee Bean, drove another block, and turned into the driveway of the apartment complex. A florist van was parked in her parking spot.
“What’s the florist doing here?” she mused, with a sense of déjà vu.
She glanced up at her apartment, on the second story, through the darkness. “Look.” Fenway pointed to the second floor. “The hallway lights are out in front of my apartment.” She strained to peer through the shadows.
Fenway thought she saw movement in the second-floor hallway.
“Shit!” she barked.
Officer Young jumped in his seat. “What is it?”
“I think someone is in front of my door.”
“What?” Officer Young braked to a stop.
Fenway heard the sound of breaking glass. “Did you hear that?”
Officer Young nodded.
“That sounded like it came from my apartment!”
Officer Young opened the door of the cruiser. “Stay here, Fenway!” he shouted at her, and sprinted out of his car.
As she watched him run toward the stairs, she grabbed the radio and pushed the button on the transmitter. “Be advised, possible four-five-nine in progress at 6448 Kenneth Avenue, apartment two-one-four. Repeat, possible four-five-nine in progress. Officer on scene. Request backup.”
The other cruiser turned in behind Fenway and screeched to a stop. Two officers got out; one followed Officer Young up the stairs; the other went to the other side of the building and around the corner.
Fenway looked up. The hallway in front of her apartment was dark, and while she thought she could see movement, it was hard to tell what was going on.
She looked in front of the cruiser at the florist van. Then it clicked.
The same florist van that had blocked her space when her Accord was vandalized.
Oh no, Fenway thought, I’m a sitting duck here. A police cruiser, in the middle of the brightly lit driveway. If someone wanted her dead, they’d simply have to shoot through the windshield—or the open window.
The Candidate Coroner Page 13