Complicity in Heels (4 page)

Cordoza pulled out a chair and took a seat. The ladies followed suit: Lacey sitting to his left and Nikki to his right. “Where’s Spence?” he asked. It was unclear from his tone whether or not he was being sarcastic. Lacey leaned over and whispered into his ear that Spence had stepped out for a moment to give the contracted help specific instructions as to how to release the bank officer without incident. Cordoza removed his cell phone from its case and hit speed dial. The phone rang several times before it was answered.

“Taylor.”

“Get in here,” Cordoza ordered. “Now.”

A minute later, Spence walked back into the room, followed by two burly men. They grabbed the bank executive in the chair and rolled her out of the suite. Spence took a seat next to Nikki. Lacey cast a dirty look in their direction; Nikki smirked back.

“Now that we’re all finally here,” Cordoza began, “let’s get down to business. Nikki, I assume Spence has brought you up to speed on our latest racket?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, unsure how deep an answer Cordoza was looking for. “Money laundering, I believe.”

“And the twist?”

“Developing some sort of computer program to exploit financial transactions processed through ACH, to get a leg up on the competition.”

Cordoza leaned back in his leather chair. “Your thoughts?”

“Well—”

“Spence,” he interrupted, “seems to think we can do it.”

Spence nodded.

“It can be done, in theory,” Nikki confirmed. “It’s just a matter of degrees of difficulty and the timeframe.”

“Mm-hmm.” Cordoza glanced to his left, noticing Lacey was preoccupied with her wristwatch. “So I take that to mean a ‘yes’ as well?”

“Spence mentioned earlier that there are some problems with the source code. I assume things aren’t moving along as smoothly as you’d like.”
Which is why you want my help
, she thought.

“How soon can you take a look at Spence’s work?” Cordoza pressed.

Nikki answered cautiously. “Look, I’m not even sure I want to get back on board. It was my understanding that this was just supposed to be a simple meet-and-greet, with me leaving shortly after.”

Cordoza’s brows pulled together at the center. “Leaving?”

Spence leaned toward the conference table to gain Cordoza’s attention. “I promised her we’d take her to see her brother after fifteen minutes.”

Lacey rolled her eyes then once again glanced at her high-end watch.

Spence turned to Lacey. “What?” he said. “You told me, ‘Whatever it takes.’ Well, Lacey, that’s what it took, a promise to see her brother.”

“How is Marston?” Cordoza cut in.

“It’s Martin,” Nikki corrected.

“I meant Martin.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need to go see him, among many other things I have to do.”

“Like?”

“Like check in at the parole office, meet my parole officer, submit to a random drug test, find a place to live, seek gainful employment.”

“Do we really even need her?” Lacey asked, sounding annoyed. “Obviously she has a lot of issues to deal with right now. There must be a handful of specialists we could hire who are just as good, if not better. Besides, hacking is a perishable skill set.”

Cordoza took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Loyalty means a lot to me, and Nikki’s proved hers. Besides, this is far too important for us to just let anybody in on it. We keep everything in house, for now. Understand?”

Lacey let out a sigh. “All right then.”

Spence cracked a smile at her frustration.

“Hold on,” Nikki said catching everyone off guard. “For the record, I’ve maintained my basic computing skills while educating myself on a wide variety of IT technologies and techniques written about in books and magazines readily available in the prison library. Spence can always bring me up to speed on the execution, but even if I were to come back—which I haven’t ruled out at this point—there’s the matter of these restrictions.” She went on to explain the more difficult conditions of her parole, such as random visits to a court-approved residence by a parole officer and wage garnishment for supervision and restitution fees.

Lacey leaned in toward Cordoza and whispered something. Nikki watched closely while the two collaborated. Cordoza nodded several times, reached for his money clip, and handed Lacey several hundred dollars. “Excuse us,” he said, standing up. “She has an appointment with her herbalist upstate, then off to her sister’s.” Cordoza helped Lacey out of her chair. She gave him a peck on the cheek then left the suite in a rush.

Cordoza sat back down. “Again, I apologize for the disruption.”

“No problem,” Spence replied. “I’m sure it’s urgent.”

Nikki remained silent.
Is it really?

“Back to your restriction concerns,” Cordoza began. “I can take care of your living arrangements and employment, pending court approval of course.”

Nikki looked puzzled.

Cordoza read her expression. “When I purchased this hotel, I hired a crooked asset-protection attorney to create a well-structured foreign trust that registers several dummy corporations as its parent organization. The extensive paper trail he created conceals the true ownership of this property. It cost me a fortune but was well worth it. To the world—or anyone who comes looking—this place is owned by Carson Lancaster the third of the Myriad Conglomerate. The only problem is—”

“Lancaster doesn’t exist,” Nikki concluded.
Clever.

“Oh, he exists, on paper. Anyone looking to prove otherwise will exhaust a considerable amount of time and resources. Therefore, the order preventing your association with known criminals would be null and void if you decided to join us once again. In addition, since you kept your mouth shut upstate, there’s no formal link between us, at least not that law enforcement is aware of. So I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t move back into your old suite and list this place as your legal residence.”

“And gainful employment?”

“Simple. I add you to the hotel staff payroll as a consultant.”

“Consultant?” Nikki repeated in an agitated tone.

“Computer software consultant,” he clarified. “Even though Carson Lancaster is signing the checks, it would be for a fairly modest amount so as not to arouse suspicion. Of course, the difference between your wages and what you’re accustomed to making would be made up for with under-the-table compensation.”

“I suppose,” Spence cut in, “random drug testing and frequent check-ins with the parole officer would be left up to Nikki?”

Cordoza smiled. “Unfortunately there are limits to the extent of my influence. Some things will just have to do be done, and there’s no way around it.”

Nikki nodded.

“I want you back on my team,” Cordoza said, staring directly at her. “I feel—”

The high-pitched ring of a cell phone cut him off. “That’d better be important, Spence,” Cordoza warned. “The only phone that should be ringing in here is mine, and that’s not the case, is it?”

Nodding, Spence quickly answered the call. “Boss, it’s Willard.”

“And?”

“He’s ready to take Nikki to see her brother.”

“Okay then.”

Nikki stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Gem.”
Yeah, a day late and a dollar short
, she thought.

Cordoza rendered a short, tight smile. “Take some time. Go see Marston and get back with me in a day or so. Let me know what you decide.”

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he Maristar 245 approached the dock slowly from its starboard side. Victor waited until the craft came to a complete stop before climbing in. He greeted the pilot then took a seat across from him. Victor noticed the man’s chronic skin condition and how he attempted to hide his facial redness underneath an Atlanta Braves ball cap. He shook his head in amusement.
You gotta be kidding me. Report in. Now? I’m supposed to be running the streets, not cooped up on some sailboat, riding waves.
He hated going to see Quinn; it was a time-consuming event: a thirty-minute drive to the coast, a ten-minute wait for the launch, and a fifteen-minute ferry to the yacht.

He glanced around. The eighteen-seat-capacity powerboat was empty except for the pilot and himself. At this moment, he could have been enjoying the carnal pleasures provided by a well-skilled professional; instead he was on a boat headed to see the underboss. It didn’t make any sense. He could have called in a payoff report from the diner an hour ago.
What’s going on here?
he wondered. He unfolded the newspaper he’d brought with him and perused the headlines.

“Excuse me,” interrupted the pilot. “I need you to put on a life jacket before we launch.”

Victor put down the paper and opened up his Canali suit jacket to reveal the shoulder rig holding his Beretta.

“All righty then,” the pilot said. “I guess that settles that.”

Victor resumed reading while the powerboat eased into the deep. An advertisement for an upcoming event caught his attention: a government auction for items seized by drug task forces, police departments, and sheriff’s departments within the tri-county area, next seventy-two hours only. General public welcome. Victor grinned. He loved attending government auctions. It gave him a chance to gather unofficial intelligence about his competition and speculate about the affects seizures might have on their operations. Although this information was of some use, the real gem was what these auctions revealed about local law enforcement. Once, Victor had attended an auction where he had purchased a set of used photocopiers for a mere six hundred dollars. With the help of a hacker, he’d accessed the hard drives using free forensic software readily available online. The result: more than fifty thousand documents detailing everything from grand jury witnesses to drug-raid targets set by priority.

These machines had become digital informants, packed with sensitive data that continued to pay rich dividends daily. Victor tore out the advertisement, folded it up, and placed it inside his jacket.

“Hold on,” the pilot warned, pushing the throttle forward.

Victor gripped the seat’s vinyl upholstery. The wind increased, shearing through his charcoal-black hair. The Maristar accelerated to thirty-one knots then leveled off. It took a moment for Victor to adjust. In the distance he saw the silhouette of the ship.

The Seclusion
was a 160-foot motor yacht designed by De Voogt Naval Architects in Holland. She had a crew of eight and could comfortably accommodate up to twelve guests in six cabins. Powered by two Detroit 16V92 diesel engines, the Feadship could maintain a top speed of fourteen knots over a sustained period of time. At present,
The Seclusion
was anchored 7.5 nautical miles off the coast. The ship to shore distance always varied, in an effort to buy time in the event of a maritime raid by authorities.

The Maristar sliced through the water on approach, and the pilot eased off the throttle. Once the boat was at a crawl, he skillfully maneuvered the powerboat next to
The Seclusion
’s aft deck. The pilot then cut the engine and announced their arrival. As Victor stood, his knees wobbled for a moment from the freshly generated wake. He then regained his balance, grabbed his newspaper, and climbed aboard the yacht.

The abundant platform space was littered with oversize lounge chairs and a colorful array of umbrellas. Several bikini-clad women took advantage of the hot weather to sunbathe. Victor walked past two of them, stopping next to a redhead in cobalt blue lying on her stomach. “Now that you’ve gained my attention, perhaps we can spend some time together,” he said, stooping. “Once Quinn is finished with you, of course.”

“Whatever,” she replied, not even bothering to glance over. “I don’t frequent with the hired help.”

Victor swatted the beauty on the rear end with his paper.

The redhead snapped her head to the side. “Jackass!”

“Feisty too. I like that…I like it a lot.” Victor stood back up and headed to the staircase that led to the main deck. The impressive flight of glass steps linked all three decks of
The Seclusion
together. He raced up the flight until he reached the main saloon.

The saloon area incorporated a semicircular bar, a large three-sided sofa facing a flat-screen television, and an eight-person dining table in the distance. The interior design boasted a rich variety of leather finishes and stained oak that blended well with the Jerusalem-gold stone tiles. Forward of the saloon was Quinn’s office.

Tony Chen, a tall Asian man with prominent Caucasian features, cut Victor off as he approached. “Have a seat,” he directed.

“Excuse me?”

“Sit,” Tony said, “down.”

Victor rolled his eyes.
What
the…?

“The boss doesn’t want to be disturbed at this time. He’ll notify me when he’s ready for you.”

Victor took a seat on the white sectional sofa. Quinn’s door was shut, a rarity. That, in addition to Tony Chen’s hostile reception, concerned him. “What’s going on, TC?”

Quinn’s personal bodyguard and confidant paused for a moment. His olive-green eyes glanced down to the right then shifted back toward Victor. “The underboss has a lot on his mind lately. Been stuck in the office all morning. Very few breaks, if any. Now here we are, midafternoon, and he hasn’t made a peep.”

“I see,” Victor lied, trying to make sense of the situation. “Who’s in there with him?”

Tony made a distorted facial expression then let out a sigh. “I don’t know, some outside accountant and the accountant’s assistant. Feinberg, Hofstra, and Associates, I think.” He brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of his black Mandarin jacket. “No, it’s Feinberg, Hoffman, and Associates. I stand corrected.”

“Feinberg, Hoffman, and Associates,” Victor repeated. “Never heard of ’em.”

Tony shrugged. “That makes two of us.”

“Don’t we usually go with Goldstein, Rosenbaum, and Wailey out of New York?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, holding up a finger. “Excuse me. Need to get situation reports from the security detail.”

Victor nodded. Tony grabbed his Motorola phone from his hip, activated the direct-connect feature commonly used in dispatch radio systems, and checked in with his team for an update.

“Sorry for the disruption,” he told Victor, after concluding his business. “You were saying?”

Victor rolled his eyes in frustration. “If the big boss in New York has directed us to use Goldstein, Rosenbaum, and Wailey, who the hell are Feinberg, Hoffman, and Associates?”

Tony gave the cartel lieutenant a quizzical smile. “Beats me.”

Quinn’s office door opened. A man with a short anchor beard and an ash-blond woman emerged. Both wore silver-gray suits with matching engraved name tags. The man paused to shake hands with Quinn. His assistant, however, continued to move forward while crunching numbers on her computer tablet. Victor stood, taking notice of her.
Not bad. Could use a little more makeup, lose the updo, and ditch the glasses.
He bit his lower lip then winked in her direction, hoping for a response. Nothing.

Quinn stuck his head out of his office. “Tony,” he called out. “We need to talk.”

Tony walked past the accountants and into Quinn’s office. The door shut immediately. Victor glanced toward the accountant and his assistant. Their inattentiveness yielded no additional clues as to what was going on. “Excuse me,” he said, breaking the silence. “Have you been with us long?”

The lead CPA looked up from the tablet he was working on. “Not particularly. New account.”

Victor approached the pair from across the room. “New account? I see. And what exactly is the nature of our business together, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind you asking at all. You can ask all day, every day, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. That’s confidential, between my firm and Mr. Quinn, who hired us.”

Victor reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two legit business cards. He gave one each to the couple. “I understand this can be a very intimidating environment for some. People tend to either be carefree or extremely guarded here. So if you change your—”

“I won’t.”

Victor chuckled at the accountant’s assertiveness. “Our contact,” he said leaning in close to the female assistant, “doesn’t necessarily have to be business related, you know.”

The assistant forced a halfhearted smile. The senior accountant glanced at the business card and looked up. “Mr. Patrone, you’re out of line.”

“Perhaps, but it wouldn’t be the first time.” Victor laughed at his own remark.

The senior accountant touched the small of his assistant’s back and guided her forward. “Come on, Priscilla. We’re out of here.” The two walked across the saloon toward the glass staircase then descended the steps.

“Priscilla,” Victor repeated, barely suppressing a grin.
With a name like that, probably hasn’t been laid in a year or two. Definitely needs some lovin’ feelin’.

The door to the office opened once again. “Patrone!” Quinn barked.

The sound of his name being called startled him. He walked toward the office and stepped inside. The off-white carpet with burgundy specks tied in nicely with the adobe-colored walls and the sunset-cherry furniture in the cabin.

Quinn sat behind a vast executive desk in a high-back leather chair large enough to accommodate his girth. He was a bald man with a slender goatee and a sterling-silver squared diamond stud protruding from his left ear. To his left sat Tony in a matching guest chair. A wispy trail of smoke spiraled up and throughout the room: incense burning from a nearby ceramic tray.

Victor stopped several paces short of Quinn’s desk. “Bosky accepted the ten grand and agreed to run interference for us. We’ve hit the ground running on collections. I put the word out to all street-level dealers to have their dough ready for pickup within forty-eight hours—seventy-two at the max—or suffer the repercussions.”

“Excellent,” Quinn replied. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Victor sat down in a chair next to the door, against the wall.

“As you know,” Quinn continued, “our boss, Francisco, is expecting the business proceeds from last quarter to be laundered to him in New York on time. Nothing new—we do it four times a year. What you don’t know…”

Victor leaned forward in his chair.

“…is that he also has called for an organization-wide audit. Reports from underbosses in Miami, Columbia, and Charlotte indicate that Francisco’s auditors swoop in fast, are very thorough, and don’t miss a thing. Manny, in Atlanta, woke up to a team of accountants at his Windsor Heights doorstep before he even had the chance to eat breakfast.”

Victor took a deep breath; the sandalwood emanating from the ceramic tray was burning his nostrils. “Damn.”

“Damn is right. Looks like the big boss is going up and down the eastern seaboard. We could be next for an impromptu audit.”

“And Feinberg, Hoffman, and Associates?”

Quinn smiled. “My personal assurance that all my affairs are in order. I don’t want any surprises, especially at the last minute.”

“Why this? Why now?” Victor shifted position in his chair, waiting for a response.

“Recession, economic uncertainty…call it what you want, but everybody’s feeling the pinch, from CEOs all the way down to bums on the street. Times are tough.”

“No disrespect here,” Tony said, cutting into the conversation, “but underbosses have it easy. All they have to worry about is the metropolitan area where they operate and the people under their charge. Francisco, on the other hand, has to account for the entire East Coast and answer to the South Americans. Big difference.”

Quinn stared at Tony. His prolonged eye contact prompted the bodyguard to speak.

“Like I said, No disrespect, boss”

“None taken.” The underboss leaned back in his chair and stroked the sides of his goatee. “Patrone…” Victor perked up. “…the situation with Francisco isn’t why I called you in.” Quinn exchanged a look of apprehension with Tony. “I need you to do me a favor.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Favor?”

Quinn stood up, turned around, and opened a glass-paneled door to an overhead storage cabinet behind his desk. The reflective surface of the paneling displayed a distorted image of his pinstriped suit and tie. Quinn removed several books from the shelf to reveal a digital keypad. He quickly entered a five-digit code then turned the handle of the safe to the right. Once the door opened, he removed fifteen thousand dollars: 150 hundred-dollar bills banded together into three five-thousand-dollar bundles.

Quinn returned to his desk. “That’s right,” he replied. “A favor.”

“Umm…sure,” Victor said, uncertain what to think. “What is it?”

“Emma’s birthday is next week. I need you to make a charitable donation in her name to…” He ruffled through the papers on his desk until he found a pink Post-it note. “…Paris Oaks Assisted Living Facility.”

Victor considered his words carefully before speaking. “Do you think that’s wise? I mean, with all this stuff going on?”

“I don’t see why not. This is from my own personal stash. It in no way factors into anything Francisco may or may not be doing.”

“Okay, so why not write a check?”

Quinn exchanged looks with Tony once again. The bodyguard sat motionless while rolling a coin across his knuckles. Quinn shifted his attention back to Victor. “Some people in this city wouldn’t cash a check from me to save their lives. Emma is one such person. The minute she sees my personal information in the top left-hand corner of that slip, she’ll do everything in her power to see to it that the money is returned. She wouldn’t want her coworkers at Paris Oaks, or anybody for that matter, aware of our connection.”