Complicity in Heels (9 page)

Nikki hit the unlock button on the flip key and opened the door. It made a slight creaking sound as she got behind the wheel. Her body sunk deep into the cushioned bucket seat. A second later, she activated the interactive touch-screen stereo then started up the sedan.

The two-liter turbocharged engine sparked to life. Nikki put on her seat belt then eased the power window down. “Seems to be operating fine,” she told Harlan. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

She backed the dented Regal out of the parking lot and headed down the winding road toward the interstate. Shifting into high gear manually, she accelerated up the ramp. The speedometer easily climbed to seventy miles an hour as she shot down the right-hand lane. The opening chords to Hall and Oates’s “Out of Touch” played on the radio, the beat synchronizing with the LED display on the center console.

Nikki grabbed her cell phone and placed a call.

A male voice answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Gem?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Nikki. I’m in.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

V
ictor stepped out of the shower and put on a fresh designer suit brought up to his room by the hotel concierge. Although Lacey had left late last night, the scent of her sweet perfume and a lasting memory of her sexual repertoire still lingered.

He reflected on the way she had skillfully extracted his guarded secret, which had forced him to consider the possible repercussions of his actions. Cartel lieutenants were on a demanding career track: lots of people pushing, shoving; everybody feeling pressure, looking for the other guy to screw up. Double-dealing was a quick way to guarantee that you got dropped into a watery grave just off the coast.

Quinn had once said that if anyone in his inner circle ever betrayed him, they’d end up as shark food in the Atlantic. “Fuck up,” he’d warned Victor on the day of his promotion, “and you’ll get tossed into the deep. Once a year we’ll sail by on the yacht, and somebody will say, ‘Hey, isn’t this the spot where we let ol’ Vic go?’ We’ll pause, pour out a little champagne, and cruise on by.
Comprende
?”

If anyone else besides Quinn had made the threat, Victor would’ve dismissed it as melodramatic. Quinn, however, always delivered on his word, which troubled him. Victor had seen it several times over the past decade, the most memorable incident being the execution of Cesar Silva, an up-and-coming smuggler turned government informant.

When Silva had been exposed as a snitch, Quinn had placed a tire filled with gasoline around him, lit a cigar, and calmly watched as his body went up in flames. The agonizing screams and smell of burned flesh had driven Victor away from the scene. Quinn merely laughed, his roaring expression of perverse pleasure echoing into the night. It was something Victor had never forgotten. His recurring nightmares were essentially the same: a rubber tire forced around his chest, Quinn setting it on fire, and then waking up moments before burning to death. To counteract these images, Victor often relied on pharmaceutical sleep aids and an active night life.

Victor recounted the remaining cash and made a mental note of what he’d already spent. Aware of the exact amount, he stuffed the bundles inside his jacket. Finally, he grabbed his Beretta off the nightstand then left the room.

He took the elevator down to the parking garage. For several minutes, he searched for his Mercedes before finding it nestled between a Prius and an Audi.

He unlocked the silver Roadster, got inside, and started it up. While the engine was running, he entered “Paris Oaks Assisted Living Facility” into the GPS navigation panel. A few seconds later, an automated female voice announced that his route had been calculated.

Victor shifted into gear and headed for the center. Following the navigation system’s directions, he cruised his way through the morning commuter traffic until he arrived at his destination forty minutes later. He parked his Mercedes in a visitor’s space, got out, and headed into the main office.

The lobby was full of residents waiting to try on soccer uniforms. Several staff members stood in the hallway behind the front-desk workstation, sorting through boxes of jerseys.

Victor approached the front desk and made a quick assessment of the receptionist behind it: redhead, midtwenties, five foot seven, no ring, no bra.

“Good morning. Welcome to Paris Oaks Assisted Living Facility,” she greeted him.

“Thank you, sweetie.”

She flashed a broad smile. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Oh, I could think of a number of ways,” Victor replied, “in which you could be most, mmm, accommodating.”

The receptionist’s smile quickly faded.

“But as for today…right now,” Victor said, “I’m here to make a charitable contribution.”

“Great,” she said, her expression flat. “Let me get you started with the paperwork.”

Victor nodded.
Great. Paperwork.

She opened the bottom drawer of her workstation, grabbed a form, and attached it to a clipboard. “These guys here could really use the funding. There’s an upcoming regional qualification tournament this week for the Special Olympics. The soccer uniforms haven’t been paid for. There’s also transportation and equipment costs and of course staff compensation.”

Victor zoned in and out of what she was saying.

“If we take regionals,” she reasoned, “that’s even more money: transportation to the state capital and back, food and lodging, additional clothing for the opening and closing ceremonies. The list goes on.”

Victor grunted out his impatience. “What sport did you say this was again?”

“Umm, soccer,” the receptionist replied, shaking her head for emphasis. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry…I was distracted by all this activity.”

She handed Victor the clipboard. “May I ask who referred us to you?”

He ignored the question, his attention focused on the other end of the hall, on the petite brunette wearing a coral-pink scrub top and tight jeans. She was kneeling in front of a middle-aged male resident, shaking her finger.

“Hello,” the receptionist called out again. “How’d you hear about us?”

Victor directed his attention back to her. “My boss.”

“Well, good for him. An employer with his pulse on the community is always a good thing to have.”

Victor gave her a sarcastic smile then glanced over the contribution form. A gut-wrenching scream from the other end of the hall startled him. He looked up. The resident standing in front of the kneeling staff member had burst into a tantrum.

Victor set the clipboard down and rushed toward the commotion. The man’s repetitive chant of the word
No
grew louder. “What’s going on here?” Victor asked.

“Marty’s refusing to try on his jersey,” replied the brunette, not bothering to look up.

“Oh.”

The staff worker handed Marty the shirt once again. He grabbed it, yelled “Neeka,” and hurled it across the hall.

“Nee who?” Victor repeated.

Marty screamed again.

“His sister, Nicole,” the brunette said. “Ever since he saw her on the premises the other day, he’s been acting out.”

Victor shrugged. “So let him see his sister.”

The employee stood and turned to face him. “It’s comp—”

“Emma,” Victor cut in. “I thought that was you.”

Surprised, she staggered back. “Victor.”

A mischievous grin flashed across his face. “It’s been way too long, Emma.”

“That’s Ms. Daniel to you,” she corrected him.

“Cute.”
Using your mother’s maiden name like
that.

“As much as I’d love to reminisce with you, I’m really busy, so let’s do this later, okay?” Emma motioned for one of her coworkers to escort Marty to the time-out room.

“No, no, no. It doesn’t work like that, honey,” Victor said.

“Excuse me?”

“Quinn sent me.”

Emma directed Marty toward her approaching colleague. “Let me tell you something, okay?” she said, directing her attention back to Victor. “Whatever you and my brother are into has nothing to do with me, so stop wasting my time.”

“You can hate on him all you want. That’s your business—I really don’t care—but if he sends me down here for your birthday, it’s gonna be me, you, and 1-800-FLOWERS.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Victor ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job here, Emma.”

She opened an empty side-room door and signaled for him to enter. “Does your job include constantly trying to sleep with me?” she asked, shutting the door for some privacy.

Victor laughed. “Getting you alone in a see-through negligee…nah, that’d be an added perk, one I’d see fit not to bill Quinn for.”

Emma fired a grimacing look at him. “You’re just an errand boy for my brother. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Fair enough, but there comes a time when a man steps out into his own.”

“Really?” she said, twisting her lips into a wry smile. “And when’s that?”

“Soon, real soon.” Victor removed one of the bundled stacks of hundreds from his jacket. “You don’t have to respect me, but you will honor this birthday gift, courtesy of your brother. Do you understand?”

Emma clenched her jaw. “How much this time?”

Victor showed her the money. “Five large.”

“Five large. That’s it?”

“Five large,” he repeated, running his thumb through the bundle of bills.

“That’s all? In this bleak economy?”

“It is what it is,” Victor said with a shrug.

Emma tensed her brow. “Your profits really should be on the rise.”

“Look, be grateful for what you’re getting. Working this shitty job, it’d take you three to four months to make this kind of cash.”

“Perhaps,” she said, folding her arms. “But at least I’d sleep well at night.”

“Now you see, that’s your problem, Emma: you overburden yourself with a saddle of morality and ethics. Life is so much fuller without restraint. Besides, sleep is overrated.”

“Says you.”

Victor shook his head. “We could’ve been so good together.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Emma scoffed.

He chuckled. “You’re right. I like my mares unencumbered. Besides, you’d never let me pull that saddle of morality and ethics off your back.”

A taut grin splashed across Emma’s face.

Victor offered her the money.

She refused it. “Take it to Bethany, up front.”

Victor left the room and headed back toward the receptionist. He grabbed the clipboard off the workstation counter, attached the bundle of cash, and handed it to her.

Bethany’s eyes grew wide. “Whoa!”

Victor smiled.

“You forgot to fill out the form,” she pointed out.

“Honey, I don’t do paperwork.”

Victor walked out of the facility, got into his Mercedes, and sped out of the parking lot. He headed down Grand Boulevard for two miles then turned onto a less-traveled road to avoid traffic. The desolate stretch allowed him to increase his speed and take full advantage of the Roadster’s 6.3-liter V8 engine. Ten minutes into his accelerated joyride, he noticed flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror.

“Shit!” he cursed to himself, and slowed down. The Ford Police Interceptor quickly closed the distance between the vehicles. Victor signaled, then pulled over on the side of the road and cut the ignition. The Interceptor followed. Victor quickly removed the Beretta from inside his jacket and shoved it under his seat. Several tense minutes passed as he waited. Finally, the officer stepped out of his cruiser and approached the Mercedes from the opposite side.

The patrolman tapped on the passenger-side window with his baton. Victor lowered the power windows. “Yes?”

“License and registration, please.”

Victor forced a smile.
You gotta be kidding
, he thought.
As much as we pay the precinct in bribe money, I ought to get a pass here.

A second officer stepped out of the Interceptor and made his way toward the driver’s side.

“Here,” Victor said, leaning across the passenger seat to hand the patrolman the requested items.

“What we got here, Hardy?” the second officer said.

“Not much, Sergeant.” The patrolman glanced at Victor’s driver’s license. “Says here, Patrone, Victor Patrone.”

“Okay. Mr. Patrone,” the sergeant began, “I’m gonna have to ask you to step outside of the vehicle, sir.”

Victor complied.
Quinn’s definitely gonna hear about
this.

“Turn around and place your hands on top of the roof.”

Officer Hardy walked over from the passenger side and joined them.

“My attorney will have me out of this before you boys can break for lunch, so you’re wasting your time,” Victor declared.

The two officers conversed with each other, ignoring his statement.

“Do you know who I am?”

The officers stopped speaking and turned to Victor. “Officer Hardy, the offender here wants to know if we know who he is.”

The patrolman handed his baton to the sergeant. “You don’t say.”

The sergeant smiled then struck Victor across the back of his calves. He screamed in pain, the exploitation of his tibial nerves forcing his legs to collapse. Victor fell to the ground.

“We know exactly who you are,” the sergeant replied.

Officer Hardy followed with a swift kick to his ribs. Victor gasped for air.

The sergeant knelt next to him. “You’re the motherfucker who’s blackmailing Lieutenant Bosky.”

Victor moaned as he struggled to crawl away.
That would be
me.

The sergeant grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. “The name’s Sergeant Twine, and we can play dirty too, pal.”

CHAPTER NINE

N
ikki and Spence worked throughout the night, reviewing the source code of his cutting-edge program. By 5:00 a.m. the next day, they were exhausted and called it quits. Based on Nikki’s analysis of the data, she had determined that the threat was indeed credible but at least two to three months away from completion.

Worn out, she returned to her room at the Compound, took a quick shower, and went to bed. Around two o’clock that afternoon, she was jostled awake by the incessant ringing of her cell phone. She snatched it off the nightstand and answered; it was the Compound receptionist placing Nikki’s requested wake-up call.

She swung her feet to the floor and stretched, then headed to the closet. Big Al, out of the kindness of his heart, had provided her with a complete wardrobe from his clothing and tailor shop in town. Nikki stared at the array of apparel for a while before settling on a white short-sleeve blouse, jeans, and a fitted taupe blazer.

After she had freshened up and gotten dressed, she headed downstairs to meet with the others. Spence and Cordoza were seated in the lounge just outside the main dining area. Spence wore a crisp, long-sleeve, pastel-violet shirt, rolled to the forearms, and a pair of black overdyed jeans. Despite his immaculate appearance, Nikki noticed his eyes looked tired.

Cordoza was dressed in a slate-blue sport coat with a multicolored shirt underneath. The kaleidoscope of soft pinks and blues complemented his slightly graying hair. He peered up from the morning paper and smiled at Nikki. His rich, dark-brown eyes met hers then dropped back down to an article he was reading. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Gem.” Nikki took a seat on the circular couch across from him, next to Spence.

Spence acknowledged her presence with a nod. Nikki nodded back.

“So did you two get a lot accomplished last night?” Cordoza asked, continuing to peruse through the remnants of the paper still left on the table.

Spence and Nikki stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Nikki spoke up. “Yes.”

“And your assessment?”

A waiter arrived and asked whether Nikki wanted something to eat. She quickly placed an order for two steak-and-pepper tacos, sautéed in extra virgin olive oil; a small salad; and a large iced tea. “With what Spence has got right now, your prototype could be fully operational in thirty to sixty days.”

“And with you two, together, working around the clock?” Cordoza asked.

“Two to three weeks, but…”

Cordoza put down the paper and glanced at Spence, who shrugged. “I’m hearing this for the first time, just like you, boss.”

Cordoza turned to Nikki for further explanation. “But what?”

“Something’s missing, Gem.”

“Like?”

“Like direction.” The waiter returned with Nikki’s drink and some creamy chicken taquitos with guacamole and salsa on the side. He placed the appetizers before her then disappeared back to the kitchen. “It just doesn’t feel right. Can’t place my finger on it.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right? You’re killing me with this babble.” Cordoza shifted his gaze. “Spence?”

“Clarify and quantify,” Spence suggested.

Nikki picked up a taquito, drowned it in the dip, and took a bite. “Oh, this is so good.”

The two men watched as she shoveled the rest of the appetizer into her mouth and reached for another one.

“Really, after several years of prison-cafeteria food…” Nikki paused to swallow. “The guacamole and salsa really explode in your mouth. It’s damn near orgasmic.”

Spence chuckled.

“I’ll pass your compliments along to my chef,” Cordoza said. “Now what about this doesn’t feel right?”

Nikki wiped her mouth and continued. “Well, approximately eighty-five percent of cyber attacks are geared toward applications. This program Spence has developed focuses on the ACH Network as a whole. And that network is too heavily fortified.”

“So what are you saying? This won’t work?”

Nikki took a sip of her tea. “No, not at all. I’m just saying that if we redirect our efforts into exploiting a prospective bank’s use of application software that works in conjunction with ACH, we would incur less resistance.”

Spence nodded. “I can see that. Only a small amount of corporate capital is ever set aside for application hardening.”

“I’m envisioning sort of a two-pronged attack with your program here: the originating bank and the receiving bank,” Nikki explained. “If we keep the focus on local financial institutions, our cyber attacks will have a much greater chance of success.”

Spence’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes…we hit two banks simultaneously, exploit the confusion, and manipulate currency amounts at will. Genius.”

“Okay,” Cordoza interrupted. “Before you two go all geek on me, how does this affect the original timeline you gave me?”

“It shouldn’t change that much, Gem,” Nikki said. “Three weeks, with us working around the clock.”
I
think.

Willard popped in the lounge and informed Cordoza of an incoming phone call for him on the main line. Cordoza instructed him to patch it through to the Compound’s intercom system and to remain on standby.

“Gem Cordoza speaking.”

“Cordoza, my man. Ozzie here.”

Spence whispered to Nikki that Ozzie was the “go-to” broker in the underground information world.

“Good to hear from you,” Cordoza said. “Why are you using this line?”

“I keep getting voice mail. Check your cell.”

Cordoza removed his phone from his hip and took a look. “My apologies. I cut it off so I could read the paper and speak with my team. What do you have for me?”

“A slot for you and your crew at a procurement auction to service a money-brokering contract out of New York.”

Cordoza smiled. “Impressive. When and where?”

“Lennox Boulevard, central business district, 2438 Fairmeadow Plaza, within the hour,” Ozzie said. “You’re Delegation Charlie, and your password is ‘bankroll.’”

Cordoza turned his cell phone back on and returned it back to his hip. “Taking afternoon traffic into account, I guess I’d better get moving.”

“Yeah. Don’t think this is something you wanna miss, man.”

“Appreciate you, Ozzie.”

“No problem. Just make sure you include the extra twenty-five percent we discussed earlier, along with my regular fee. It wasn’t easy getting you a seat at the table.”

“Understood.”

Ozzie hung up. Cordoza motioned for Willard to pull the vehicle around front.

“Let’s go,” Cordoza told Nikki and Spence.

Nikki pushed the cocktail plate back and grabbed the business section of the paper. She glanced at the main article, committing the third word in each of the first three paragraphs to memory.

She pulled out her phone as the trio moved down the hallway toward the lobby. She purposefully lagged behind so she could carry out the agent-identification procedure without being overheard.

Spence doubled back and approached her. “What’re you doing? Come on.”

Nikki covered the phone with her hand. “Talking to my hair stylist.”

Spence glared at her, annoyed. “Now?”

“Give me a second, and I’ll be right with you.”

As Spence rejoined Cordoza, Nikki removed her hand from the phone and spoke into it. “Hey, Janice. I won’t be able to make dinner this evening. I’m tied up with some business at Fairmeadow Plaza.”

Once she had covertly requested a surveillance team, she placed the phone on vibrate then stashed it back inside her jacket. Nikki quickened her pace and caught up with Cordoza and Spence. As the group exited the foyer, Willard pulled up in a white Yukon Denali.

“Take us to 2438 Fairmeadow Plaza,” Cordoza directed.

The crew jumped into the SUV, and Willard sped off down the road. He darted in and out of traffic with the skill of a NASCAR driver, shaving a few minutes here and there off their travel time. Upon arrival, Willard pulled up to the executive-center entrance and let the group out. They rushed inside. A hulky guard halted their advance. Cordoza identified the entourage as Delegation Charlie then provided the password upon request. The guard backed off and escorted them to the videoconferencing studio.

Inside the studio, two other delegations were gathered around a U-shaped wooden conference table facing a high-definition video screen. Cordoza led Spence and Nikki to the unoccupied side of the table on the far right. Once they were seated, the video screen came to life. An image of a frosty-haired man dressed in a double-breasted, gray, chalked-stripe suit with a red foulard tie appeared on-screen.

“Good afternoon, delegates,” the host greeted, his voice slightly distorted by the poor initial connection. “I’m Giovanni von Neer, proxy for Señor Francisco Vicente, and you’re here at this sourcing event to bid on a contract to launder 2.5 million dollars up to one of our banks in New York. Directly in front of each of you is a microphone and buzzer. I ask that you buzz in to be recognized and speak clearly into the mike when you have the floor. With that said, let’s get started.”

The members of each delegation sized one another up. Delegation Alpha consisted of three members in coordinated business suits, while Delegation Bravo, dressed less formally, was made up of a single individual.

“Delegation Alpha,” Giovanni called out clearly, the software connection issue having been resolved. “Who will be your spokesperson?”

The group conversed among themselves for a moment before nominating a wiry redheaded man referred to as Hunter.

“Delegation Bravo?”

“Docelli,” the lone man with a high forehead and square jaw stated.

“And finally, Delegation Charlie.”

Cordoza glanced at Nikki before speaking. “Ms. Frank will be our representative.”

“What?” Nikki whispered, shocked. “Gem, are you sure?”
I have zero experience with
auctions.

Cordoza gave her an approving nod. Nervousness immediately settled in the pit of her stomach, along with the realization of the importance of this event to the crew.
I have to win,
she thought.
This is way too important.

Giovanni gestured toward the nominees. “So we have Mr. Hunter, Mr. Docelli, and Ms. Frank,” he said. “Is that correct?”

The delegations confirmed their selections with him.

“Let the bidding open up at seven days’ turnover for five percent of the total amount being laundered.”

Hunter hit his buzzer first. “Six days for seven percent,” he proposed, with a slight Irish accent.

Giovanni repeated the bid for all to hear.

Nikki collaborated with Cordoza for a moment then pressed her button. “Five days for eight percent.”

“Five for seven and a half,” Docelli said, undercutting Nikki.

“Five days for seven and a half percent going once,” Giovanni announced. “Going twice.”

Hunter hit his buzzer once again. “Four days, ten percent.”

Nikki bit her lower lip.
Damn, this is
ruthless.

“Four for nine,” Docelli countered.

Giovanni repeated the most recent bid for all to hear.

Nikki leaned over and whispered into Cordoza’s ear. He nodded in agreement. She buzzed in. “Three-day turnover for twelve percent of the take.”

“Three days for twelve percent going once,” Giovanni stated. “Going twice.”

Docelli flashed Nikki a crooked smile. “Three for ten.”

She returned his expression with the exact same spirit it had been given.

Hunter interrupted their nonverbal exchange with a bid for one percent lower than what Docelli had offered.

“The bid now stands at three days’ turnover in exchange for nine percent of the total revenue.”

The room fell silent. Nikki’s phone vibrated, signifying an incoming call. She ignored it.

“Going once,” Giovanni announced.

Nikki looked at Cordoza for direction. He waved her off with a cutthroat hand motion.

“Going twice.”

“I’m out,” Docelli declared.

“Congratulations, Mr. Hunter. I believe we have a—”

“Wait!” Nikki scrambled to her feet. “Two days, fifteen percent.”

Cordoza looked shocked.

“Impossible,” Hunter protested. “To move that kind of money and make it appear legit, you need a minimum of three days: two days to funnel the cash from source A to source B and a final day just to deal with the Patriot Act, Banking Secrecy Act, and a host of other financial regulations. Anything less than three days is shoddy work at best and puts everyone at risk of discovery.”

“Ms. Frank, is this your final counter offer?” Giovanni asked.

Nikki’s phone vibrated again. “It is, sir,” she said, taking her seat again.

“All right then, Mr. Hunter has brought up a valid point. How do you address this concern?”

Nikki raised the corners of her mouth in a devilish smirk. “By taking the banking regulations off the table.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?”

“I’m a bit curious about that myself,” Hunter added.

Nikki pulled the microphone closer to her. “My colleagues and I have developed a program that—”

Cordoza jabbed her in the ribs.

“Ouch!” Nikki placed her hand over the mike and turned to face him. “What?”

“This isn’t the time or place to discuss this,” he warned her.

If not now, then when?
Nikki removed her hand from the mike and continued. “As I was saying, we’ve developed a program that allows us to circumvent the universal anti-laundering tenet of not making any transactions larger than ten thousand dollars at any one time.”

“You have my full attention, Ms. Frank,” Giovanni said. “Go on.”

“With banking regulations off the table, we can move larger amounts of cash over shorter periods of time, with minimal risk of exposure.” Her phone vibrated one final time. “Of course, in order for us to employ this technology on your behalf, Mr. von Neer, we’ll have to insist on fifteen percent.”

“Wait just a minute,” Hunter cut in. “Before we start chiseling side deals here, allow me to point out one thing to our host.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Hunter?” Giovanni asked.

“That this is nothing more than pure fantasy, conjecture, to gain your trust and your business.”