Complicity in Heels (10 page)

“Perhaps. Go on.”

“Think about it…who are these guys? Just a last-minute substitution for a group of no-shows. My colleagues and I have handled a tremendous amount of Francisco’s business over the years, and I’ve never heard of them. What we have here,” he concluded with a snicker, “is a bunch of junior-varsity players trying to get on the varsity team.”

Hunter’s associates laughed at his remark.

“If there is such a program,” Hunter continued, “why haven’t I heard of it? I’ve been doing this a long time now and have a vast underground network. I haven’t heard a peep about such a program.”

“Ms. Frank?” Giovanni prodded.

Nikki glared at Hunter. “You haven’t heard of it because we just recently developed it.”
Idiot.

“Mmm-hmm, courtesy of Rumpelstiltskin, I suppose.” Hunter’s colleagues laughed again.

Giovanni ignored the snide remark. “And you have a working prototype, Ms. Frank?”

“Yes sir,” she said confidently.

“Hmm. We’ll have to take all this into consideration before making a final decision.”

The delegates stared at one another, wondering how everything would play out.

“To recap before we dismiss here,” Giovanni continued, “I have two offers on the table. The first one, from Mr. Hunter, is three days’ turnover for nine percent of the total revenue, and the second one, from Ms. Frank, is two days’ turnover for fifteen percent. Is this correct?”

The delegates confirmed their offers.

“All right. I have each delegation’s contact information. I’ll be in touch once a decision has been reached.”

The video screen went blank. Hunter looked over at Nikki. “You’ll need an awful lot of pixie dust to move 2.5 mil in forty-eight hours,” he said, sneering. “Better let Tinker Bell know you’ll need backup.” The room burst into laughter, even from Spence. Nikki stood up and pulled out her phone. “Don’t you know? I have her on speed dial,” she replied, glancing down at the unrecognizable number from the missed call.

Hunter cracked a half smile at the witty remark. “Yes, of course you do.”

The delegates stood then filed out of the studio, chatting.

Willard pulled around the front of the executive-center in the Denali and picked up the crew. The ride back to the Compound was silent, except for the radio in the background. Adding to the tension was the fact that they didn’t know whether or not the contract would be awarded to them.

Nikki felt Cordoza’s piercing glare directed straight at her. Eventually Spence attempted to diffuse the situation by making small talk, but to no avail. Half a mile from the Compound, Cordoza finally spoke up. “I waved you off not once but twice, and you continued to push forward.”

“I’m sorry, Gem,” Nikki said, crossing her arms. “I thought the objective here was to win.”

“Win, yes, but only under conditions favorable to us. Two-day delivery? We can’t make that.”

“Francisco doesn’t know that.”

Cordoza pointed at Nikki. “You, yourself, said it would be a minimum of three weeks before Spence’s program is fully operational. What happens if we’re awarded a contract but can’t deliver?”

“We’ll figure it out.”
I
hope.

“I’ll tell you what happens,” Cordoza said. “Francisco’s people come looking for us. At best they just take their money and shop another deal around for someone who can deliver.”

Nikki raised her eyebrows. “And at worse?”

“The Lascano cartel makes examples out of all of us and puts the word out on the street about what not to do.”

“Then I guess if we’re chosen, we’d better deliver.”

“Damn you, Nikki,” Cordoza said, clenching his hands into fists. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me in the past, but you’re playing fast and loose, and I don’t like it.”

The Denali approached the Compound’s gated driveway. The groundskeeper recognized Willard and buzzed him in. As he waited for the sensors to activate, a red Porsche pulled up behind them. The automated gate retracted into its frame then came to a complete stop. The vehicles entered the Compound and headed toward the hotel. Willard pulled up in front of the portico, and everyone got out. Nikki’s phone vibrated again. She walked a few yards out of the way and answered it. “Hello.”

“Ms. Frank?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Daniel from Paris Oaks.”

Nikki watched as Cordoza headed toward the Porsche and greeted Lacey. “Oh, how’d you get this number?”

“I was rummaging through some old admissions documentation on your brother, and your information was listed. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I just called to inform you about the upcoming Special Olympics pretrials.”

Nikki tucked her hair behind her ear. “Oh, that’s right. During my visit you mentioned Marty and some of the other residents were training.”

“This year he’ll be participating in the individual skills competition for soccer.”

“That’s great.”
Wish I could go
, Nikki thought.

“I know that officially you can’t be there until you get matters resolved with the state, but if you were to be at a certain park, at a certain time, who’s to say you couldn’t witness your brother’s participation in the event?”

Nikki smiled at what Ms. Daniel was suggesting and played along. “As long as I remain in the distance of course.”

“Of course.”

The two ladies laughed softly, and then Ms. Daniel provided the information.

“Thank you, Ms. Daniel.”

“Please call me Emma.”

CHAPTER TEN

V
ictor awoke to find himself lying on the ground near the passenger side of his Mercedes. He had been dragged over there, he assumed, to hide his presence from oncoming traffic. His head throbbed. As he rolled onto his side, he noticed the front tires of his Roadster had been slashed. He cursed to himself then attempted to stand. The pain in his body intensified, and he collapsed. He tried again, struggling to remain upright. Bracing himself against the Mercedes, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed roadside assistance. It was an hour before they arrived. Another two had passed before the repairs were completed and he was back on the road. Victor called to inform Quinn of his delay. It was nightfall before he arrived onboard the yacht.

He hobbled up the glass flight of stairs toward Quinn’s office in the saloon, then tapped on the propped open door as a courtesy.

“Enter,” Quinn announced.

As Victor limped into the room, Quinn glanced in his direction. The contusions and abrasions on Victor’s face made him do a double take. “What the hell happened to you?”

“A run-in gone bad,” Victor replied.

“Southside Locos?”

“Nah, personal beef.”

Quinn stared, stunned. Several shoe prints on Victor’s ripped jacket and trousers held his attention.

“I underestimated the situation,” Victor admitted.
Gravely.

“Obviously. Now take a seat before you bleed all over my carpet.” Quinn motioned for him to step away from his desk.

Victor complied.

“So somebody’s significant other finally wised up and decided to whip your—” The phone on Quinn’s desk rang, interrupting him. “You chase too many skirts, Patrone.”

Victor smiled halfheartedly.
I am who I
am.

The phone rang again; Quinn answered it. He gave several short replies then picked up a pen and wrote something down. “Listen up,” he said, placing the phone back in its cradle. “That was Francisco. He’s decided on a group to launder our proceeds from last quarter once we’ve made all the collections.”

“The Hunter Financial Group,” Victor said.

“No, the Cordoza crew.”

“Who?”

“The Cordoza crew, operating out of…” Quinn glimpsed at his notes. “…the old luxury hotel, the Hanover.”

“You gotta be kidding me. New blood?”

Quinn nodded.

Victor leaned forward to massage his left shoulder and ease some of the pain. “We’re undergoing an organization-wide audit, and the big boss switches launderers at the last minute, and that’s okay with you?”

Quinn nodded again.

“Well, it’s not with me. I say we sideline the new crew and move forward with the regulars as usual.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow.

Victor sensed his apprehension. “Nobody has to know.”

“I’ll know,” Quinn said, stroking the hair on his chin. “Stay in your lane, Patrone. Don’t broadside the pecking order. And just in case you forgot, that’s Francisco,
moi
, then you. Understand?”

Victor frowned.

“That’s the way it is,” Quinn said, “and that’s the way it’ll always be.”

The two stared each other down. Victor didn’t move a muscle, despite the pain torturing his body. Finally, Quinn broke the silence. “And the charitable donation to Paris Oaks? How’d that go?”

From your hand to my pocket
, Victor thought.

“Well?”

Victor clenched his jaw tightly and tensed his face to prevent it from registering any emotion. “Under the circumstances,” he began. “I’d say it went about as well as could be expected.”

Quinn flashed a broad smile in response. Victor’s heart leaped.

“Excellent. I knew I could trust you to handle that for me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he waiting room was well lit with incandescent bulbs. Several supersized charts of the female reproductive system were displayed prominently on the walls.

Thirty minutes had passed since Nikki had arrived at the clinic. Agitated, she sank deeper into her chair and crossed her legs. This simple adjustment did little to add to her comfort.

She looked around. Just about every seat was taken. A variety of women of different ages and ethnicities were also waiting to be seen by a health-care professional. Some were slumped against the taupe walls, mouths open, fast asleep. Others socialized with one another, while a few were engrossed in their electronic devices.

A brochure rack near the reception desk caught Nikki’s attention. She stood up walked over toward it. The usual assortment of literature was displayed: domestic violence, breast self-examination, and HIV/STD awareness. Nikki grabbed one pamphlet of each and headed back to her seat.

“Nicole Frank,” a nurse called from the hallway.

Nikki turned around and identified herself.

The nurse smiled. “This way, please.”

Nikki followed her to an examination room in the back of the clinic on the left.

The nurse opened the door and motioned for her to enter the room. “Your physician will see you now.”

Nikki walked inside. A man in a white coat was seated on a stool with his back toward her. The door eased shut. The physician spun around: it was Harlan.

Nikki’s expression darkened. “Really, Harlan?” she said, looking around. “A cookie-doctor clinic?”

“Absolutely.”

Nikki rolled her eyes.

“Gangsters aren’t out following women to OB/GYN appointments. If they are, somebody at the local sex-crimes unit needs to be notified.” Harlan propped his feet up on the stool’s foot ring. “That aside, my primary responsibility is to help you maintain your cover. We’ve never had anyone in this deep before, especially with the golden opportunities you have laid before you.”

Their eyes met and held for a moment.

“Fair enough.”

Harlan stood and headed to the examination table. Nikki’s eyes followed. “Up you go,” he said, patting the upholstery.

She hesitated.

“Come on. Appearance is everything. If somebody stumbles in on us—”

“All right,” Nikki said with a sigh. She climbed up onto the table. “Don’t even think about mentioning stirrups.”

Harlan removed the stethoscope hanging from around his neck and placed the tips in his ears. “No, this should suffice.”

“It’d better.”

He placed the round head of the scope on Nikki’s chest. “Inhale.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“Exhale.”

Nikki breathed out.

The door crept open, and a second nurse appeared inside the metal frame. “Excuse me, Dr. Fisk,” she said.

Harlan turned around. “Yes.”

“I have the X-ray films you requested.”

Confused, Nikki stared at the slender Asian nurse who had just spoken. The dark-eyed woman appeared to be in her midtwenties. Her plush black hair, cropped in a messy bob, exquisitely framed her round face and high-bridged nose.

“Come on in and let’s get to work,” Harlan said, gesturing for the woman to enter.

The nurse shut the door and handed him a large film jacket. “Ready when you are, sir.”

Harlan opened it and removed several eight-by-ten glossy photographs. “Nicole…”

“Yes?”

Harlan paused for a moment to thumb through the pictures. “This is Special Agent Kameko Bolston, Electronic Crimes Task Force, Atlanta.”

Special Agent Bolston stepped forward to greet Nikki.

“Secret Service has assigned her to us as our special liaison.”

“I assume as a part of Director Kepler’s strategy,” Nikki added, “to retain operational oversight over this case.”

“Affirmative.” Harlan walked over toward the X-ray view box, placed the photos up in order, then turned on the device. “These were taken by our surveillance team at Fairmeadow Plaza shortly after your meeting.”

Nikki shifted her body to get a better look at the images. “Great prints. Thirty-five millimeter?”

“Yep. Standard Nikon with a telescopic lens,” Kameko replied.

“Mm-hmm, something no good chase team should ever be in the field without,” Nikki said.

Kameko grinned at the remark.

“Recognize anyone?” Harlan prompted.

Nikki studied the photos on the view box in front of her. “Not really. I met these guys for the first time at the auction.” She rubbed her chin as she pondered the images for a few moments. “The guy on the far left, the redhead—”

“What about him?” Harlan pressed.

“He questioned my ability to provide the service being offered to the host, made it very difficult to secure a clear win. He seemed to know an awful lot about financial transactions and moving cash illegally.”

Harlan glanced at Kameko, who responded with a nod.

“Hunter…I believe that was the name he used. Mr. Hunter,” Nikki added.

Kameko walked over toward the view box, removed the photo, and held it up in front of her. “Hunter McDermott, forty-one, naturalized citizen, originally from Ireland, graduate of University College Dublin. Number twelve on the Secret Service’s top-twenty most-wanted list.”

Nikki raised her eyebrows.

Kameko continued, “Very high business acumen, an expert at exploiting flexible governments and their officials, as well as establishing intricate networks of shell corporations.”

“Impressive,” Nikki said. “I can see why he distrusts me and the service I claim to be able to provide.”

“McDermott has moved millions of dollars through various European banks and foreign companies for the last several years, undetected. We weren’t even aware of his existence until a bank collapse in Monaco two years ago highlighted his connection to several well-funded private accounts that were seized by the microstate’s government and later linked to a senior US government official.”

Nikki swung her legs back and forth against the table slightly. “Wow.”

“So you see, Agent Frank, you’ve unearthed quite a shady snake here.”

“A snake,” Harlan cut in, “that the Secret Service wouldn’t mind getting their hands on.”

“Touché, touché,” Kameko fired back.

Harlan grinned.

“I gotta hand it to you, Fisk,” Kameko said, “at first I thought this was just another hollow assignment, but you might be onto something here.”

Nikki reached into her purse and removed a flash drive. “I hate to break up the spirit of interagency cooperation here, but—”

“But…” Harlan repeated.

Nikki handed the flash drive to Kameko. “I need some help.”

“With?” she asked.

“This money-laundering program Cordoza’s crew is working on, intended to exploit financial transactions processed through the Automated Clearing House.”

Kameko glanced at the flash drive. “I see.”

“I’m running out of time and sure could use some assistance here. Could you have your people analyze the source code? Somewhere we’ve reached a stumbling block and haven’t been able to create a working prototype.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Agent Bolston,” Nikki said, staring at her point-blank, “I need this to work. Everything depends on it.”

Kameko nodded. “Noted.”

“If you want to catch Hunter McDermott and others like him, this program is the way to go.”

The agent narrowed her eyes. “What do mean?”

“Yes,” Harlan said. “Please elaborate, Nicole.”

Nikki pursed her lips and glanced toward the ceiling for a moment. “Cordoza’s crew plans to use the existence of this program and its capabilities to squash the competition. When rival money launderers lose business on a consistent basis, they’ll be forced to either use his crew as a proxy for their business or co-opt Cordoza’s software as the standard method of conducting transactions.”

Kameko continued to nod. A second later, a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “A Trojan horse.”

“Exactly,” Nikki replied, “but one with a long-term shelf life. I’m thinking five, maybe ten years out.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Imagine being able to pinpoint the movement of dirty money globally because we created an artificial bottleneck and digitally tagged the cash from the start.”

Kameko smiled again. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

“To sum it up,” Harlan interrupted again, “we build it. We control it. We use it to our advantage.”

Nikki shifted her position on the exam table, tearing the paper beneath her. “The only question now is whether we can pull it off.”

Harlan turned to Kameko. “Unlimited government resources, a roomful of eggheads with academic pedigrees that would put most think tanks to shame. Shouldn’t be a problem, right, Agent Bolston?”

Kameko held up the flash drive. “I’m on it, folks.”

Wonderful,” Nikki said.

Kameko headed back over to the X-ray view box, removed the rest of the photos, and placed them back inside the film jacket.

“I’ll be in touch, Bolston,” Harlan said.

The Secret Service liaison mumbled something under her breath, tucked the film jacket under her arm, then left the room.

Nikki hopped off the table and stood. Nobody liked pelvic exams, even if they were staged. “I take it we’re finished here?” she asked.

“Hold on,” Harlan said.

Nikki leaned back against the table and waited to see what he wanted.

Harlan removed a white envelope from inside his lab coat and handed it to her. “Before I forget.”

“What’s this?”

“Just something crazy I thought you should see.”

Nikki opened the envelope; it was a bill for seventy-five dollars from a telecommunications company for a collect call placed at Paris Oaks Assisted Living Facility. “Seventy-five bucks?” she said, surprised. “Wow.” Nikki frowned. “I hope you don’t expect me to pay this.”

Harlan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Not at all. Just the cost of doing business in a wireless world, I guess.”

Nikki handed the envelope back. “Good.”

“Besides, I’ve already attempted to have the charges dismissed.”

“And?”

“Some midlevel bureaucrat at the FCC mentioned some crap about the ubiquity of cell phones, 1996 deregulation, and the low service demand for pay phones.”

Nikki snickered. She neglected to mention that the FCC, more often than not, was more complicit than regulatory. At Shaw, exorbitant phone fees were routinely charged to her and other inmates who were trying to stay in a touch with family and friends. It was a decades-old sham, run by privately owned companies, while the FCC looked the other way and lined its pockets with kickbacks doled out by telecom lobbyists.

Nikki forced a smile, pretending to take an interest in Harlan’s rant.

“I guess,” he continued, “in order to get anything done here, the director will have to speak straight to the FCC commissioner about this. Obviously this desk jockey doesn’t know who he’s dealing with here.”

Nikki let out a sigh.
Can we get down to
business?

“I know…the inefficiencies of bureaucracy, right?”

“Warden Penton,” Nikki said, changing the subject. “What’s the latest with the DOJ and the investigation?”

“They’re on top of it, however…”

Nikki raised her eyebrows.

He shook his head. “They’ve botched this thing from the start.”

“What? How?”

“You know these cowboys at Justice. They went in with guns a’ blazing, started dismissing staff, called it ‘swift administrative action,’ and now the pucker factor is so high over at Shaw that we can’t get anybody to say anything.”

Nikki crossed her arms over her chest. “Damn them!”

“It’s the equivalent of using a meat cleaver instead of a scalpel during a delicate surgery. Personally, if it were me, I would have quietly gathered witnesses and statements in the background before ever moving in on the staff.”

“So you’re telling me the personnel are in ‘cover their ass’ mode, and the inmates are looking to see which way the direction of the wind is shifting to minimize blowback.”

Harlan nodded. “Pretty much, which is why…I hate that it’s come to this…but…”

“Spit it out,” she urged.

Harlan looked away to avoid direct eye contact. “You might have to testify.”

“Fine,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”
I want this
guy.

Harlan let out a sigh of relief. “Just so we understand each other, that testimony is to be given as Nikki Frank, criminal, not Nicole Frank, special agent.”

Nikki jerked her head back, annoyed.
So much for the slam dunk. Inmate testimonies rarely result in high conviction rates.

“Are we clear?”

She didn’t respond.
I can’t believe this guy is gonna walk, and I’ll have a hand in helping him do
it.

Harlan pointed a finger at her. “Are we clear?”

Nikki shrugged. “Like diamonds.”

“Great. I know you want this guy, but this is another one of those times when you have to put aside personal desires and focus on the team effort.”

The two exchanged stares.

“I won’t compromise your cover to right this wrong,” Harland said, breaking eye contact first. “So this will have to be done in such a way as to guarantee that we have our cake and eat it too.”

Nikki unfolded her arms. “I swear, sometimes this job makes doing the right thing impossible.”

“That’s the duality of clandestine activity: crossing lives.”

“Here we go again, crossed-lives syndrome,” Nikki said, frustrated at Harlan’s lack of empathy.

“Undercover agents eventually reach a point during their investigations where their actual lives intersect with their assumed identities, for better or worse. This fluctuation between identities creates stressors that—”

“Can manifest physically, emotionally, and/or psychologically in an agent at any given time,” Nikki finished for him. “I read the interagency memo on mental health and undercover operations too, you know.”

“Then you know this is all part of the deal, why we insist on initial psychological screenings and annual assessments to follow—”