Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (16 page)

Tourino pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Tengku. He looked at it, smiled, and handed it to his companion. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.'

‘Yeah, well, just remember that what you bought is Queens, no place else.
Capisci?
'

‘Pardon?'

‘He wants to make sure you understand,' Angelo explained. ‘You bought Queens, that's it.'

‘Yes, of course. Thank you. I have found this exchange to be quite pleasant.'

Vinnie's two cars drove off. Tengku went in another direction. The well-dressed Malaysian smiled, then laughed heartily. He looked up through the car's moon roof, clasped his hands, and said, ‘It will be done. In your name it will be done.'

T
he next day, DEA agent Bill Whitlock and his handpicked team met in his Pentagon City office. He'd just gotten off the phone with Antoine Arnaud of the Canadian Border Services Agency. Arnaud had been assigned to augment Whitlock's work on the Canadian side of the border and had become a valuable source of information.

‘What's new on Arnaud's end?' Whitlock was asked after he'd hung up.

He adjusted his half-glasses and squinted at the notes he'd made during his phone conversation with Arnaud. ‘Sometimes I can't read my own writing,' he said. ‘OK, here's what he said, only I'm not sure what to make of it. Smythe, our subject of interest, used to work at the huge Canadian power plant Power-Can. While he was there he supervised a team of engineers including a French-Canadian named Paul Saison. Saison lives in Toronto with a woman named Angelique. With me so far?'

There were nods around the conference table.

‘Angelique has a sister in Montreal named Celine, who happens to be engaged to Antoine.'

‘Arnaud's engaged?'

‘Right. According to Antoine, Saison is a bit of a buffoon, a drunk who hangs on to his job at Power-Can because of the quota system – you know, having to employ so many French-Canadians. Anyway, according to Saison's lady friend, she came back from visiting her sister and got into a scrum with Saison, which evidently isn't a rare occurrence. During their argument Saison starts boasting that he's about to become rich, mentioned a quarter of a million dollars he'll soon be getting.'

‘Getting it from where?'

Whitlock shrugged. ‘Antoine says his fiancée's sister didn't have any information about that. But here's what's intriguing. The sister
did
say that Saison mentioned Smythe as the one who came up with “the plan”, whatever it is.'

‘“The plan”,' a few at the table murmured.

‘That's all I've got,' Whitlock said, ‘except that Saison left a scrap of paper on the table when he went to bed on which somebody had written “Friday, August twenty-two, nine forty-five pm”.'

‘Did this Angelique ask Saison about it?'

‘Evidently not, at least from what she told her sister. According to her, Saison left the house early the next morning and took the paper with him. I should add that Saison's girlfriend didn't call her sister to report anything. She called to make fun of Saison and his boast that he'd soon be rich.'

‘Maybe it means nothing,' someone offered. ‘If Saison is what Arnaud says he is, a drunk and a liar, why put any credence in what he said?'

‘You're probably right,' Whitlock responded. ‘Antoine says that Saison is a big talker, always saying he's going to be rich. But the fact that he's been involved with Carlton Smythe tells me that we shouldn't ignore this.'

The phone rang and Whitlock picked up.

‘Bill, Luis Cortez here.'

‘
Buenas días
,' Whitlock said. ‘What've you got?'

‘I spent part of yesterday and last evening with Mr Smythe. He flew in and was met by the same lovely lady. They took a taxi to the Four Seasons Hotel and holed up there for the afternoon. At night they took another taxi to a restaurant,
Casa Coupage
, very popular, very expensive. While I waited outside for them to leave, Guillermo Guzman arrived and went inside.'

‘Guzman. Guzman,' Whitlock said. ‘Right. Isn't he the guy you suspect is laundering Argentinean drug money?'

‘One and the same. I didn't think much of it until Smythe and the lady left the restaurant. They were accompanied by Guzman. He drove them in his car to a tango nightclub. I went inside, sat at the bar, and observed. Smythe looked fatigued, didn't dance, but Guzman and the woman went at it. Guzman drove them back to the hotel, hugs all around, and that was it.'

‘So Smythe and Guzman spent an evening together,' Whitlock said loud enough for others at the table to hear. ‘Good work, Luis.'

‘Thanks. I checked with my airline contacts. Smythe is flying back to Canada tomorrow morning.'

Luis Cortez wasn't the only one reporting in that day.

Clarence Miller III arrived at the Smythe household a little before noon.

‘Please come in,' Cynthia said. ‘My mother and I made sandwiches and lemonade.'

‘That's very thoughtful of you,' Miller said as he followed her to the dining room where Mrs Wiggins sat regally at the head of the table.

‘Good morning,' she said.

‘Good morning, Mrs Wiggins. It's a lovely day.'

‘Much too humid,' she said. ‘You have something to report?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Would you like something to eat?' Cynthia asked nervously. ‘It's warm chicken salad. My father—'

‘Mr Miller isn't here to eat,' Mrs Wiggins said sharply, ‘or to hear what foods your father enjoyed. He's here to report any progress he's made in determining whether your husband has been unfaithful.'

Miller adjusted his position on the chair. He sensed that Cynthia did not want to hear that her husband, Carlton Smythe, had cheated on her, and he shared her discomfort. While the agency left him by his father provided a good living, a
very
good living in this age when marital cheating was not uncommon, he did not enjoy having to report bad news to a spouse.

‘My mother is right,' Cynthia said. ‘Have you learned anything new?'

Before he could answer, Cynthia quickly added, ‘You mentioned that Carlton has been renting an office away from the house. Have you learned any more about that?'

Miller took the opportunity to open his briefcase and take out a sheaf of paper. He consulted one piece before saying, ‘No, I do not have anything new about that situation, but I do suggest that I look further into the circumstances of it as part of my overall investigation. Before we go any further, however, I must inform you that in order to go beyond the point I've already reached, there will be additional fees.'

Cynthia looked to her mother, who smiled at Miller. ‘I am sure, Mr Miller, that your father told you that money was never an object with me when I retained his services. The amount of money involved is of little consequence. What matters is that my daughter – my
only
daughter – has peace of mind regarding her husband. You do realize that this family enjoys a certain prominence in this city?'

‘Of course,' Miller replied.

‘Should my daughter's husband prove to be unfaithful, the impact upon our reputation would be unfortunate. What I am saying, Mr Miller, is that not only must we know whether Cynthia's husband is a scoundrel, we must then take steps to minimize the fallout.'

‘You made that point very clearly, Mrs Wiggins, when I was first contacted.'

‘Good. I simply wish there to be no misunderstandings. As far as learning more about why Carlton saw fit to rent an office without our knowledge and approval, please feel free to pursue any avenues you consider appropriate. Your bills will be paid in a timely fashion.'

The paper that Miller had pulled from his briefcase contained notes he'd made while sitting outside Smythe's temporary office building. He added a note, ‘Proceed,' placed it back in the case, and extracted the photos taken of Smythe and Gina in Buenos Aires. Cynthia looked down at the first one, burst into tears, and fled the room.

‘Please excuse my daughter, Mr Miller. She isn't very strong when it comes to adversity.'

She picked up the photos one-by-one and examined them carefully. Miller filled a glass with lemonade and sipped as she completed her perusal.

‘A common-looking woman, wouldn't you say?' she said.

‘My man in Buenos Aires is checking into her background, Mrs Wiggins.'

‘I'm sure that it will be suitably sordid.'

She dropped the pictures on the table with an air of dismissal, as though they had soiled her hands.

‘Do you have anything else?' she asked.

‘Not at the moment, Mrs Wiggins. I am delving further into Paul Saison, the gentleman who used to work for Mr Smythe.'

‘What about money?' Mrs Wiggins said.

‘As I told you—'

‘I don't mean about how much your investigation will cost,' she said sharply, causing him to wince. ‘Surely conducting an immoral affair in a third-world country is costing my son-in-law a great deal?'

‘Well, Argentina isn't exactly a third-world country, Mrs Wiggins.'

‘Perhaps not, but you know how those people are. My question about money has not been answered.'

‘I'll need information from you and Mrs Smythe to help me look into Mr Smythe's finances.'

‘Whatever you need. I'll put you in touch with our accountants. He's obviously been squandering my family's money.'

Cynthia reappeared. She'd dried her eyes and had applied fresh make-up.

‘I apologize,' she said, ‘but to see my husband with another woman is … well, it's devastating.'

Mrs Wiggins patted her daughter's hand. ‘Of course it is, dear, but it is better to know than to suspect. I assure you that Carlton will pay for his indiscretion.'

Miller was glad to leave the Smythe house. When contacted by Mrs Wiggins to take the case, he'd reviewed his father's file that contained notes and pictures from when Walter Wiggins was the subject of the investigation. Now that he'd met the woman Mr Wiggins had cheated on, he understood why the wealthy venture capitalist had sought the softness of another woman.

But making such judgments was not what he was paid to do. Armed with carte blanche where future fees were concerned, he pulled out of the driveway and headed for the building in which Carlton Smythe had rented an office.

J
oe Schott had been living in Buenos Aires for ten years. Two factors had led him to move there from Chicago: his contentious divorce, and the charges brought against him by the Illinois attorney general for financial fraud and for using the US mail for criminal purposes. While living in Chicago he'd concocted a real estate scheme that lured people desperate to partake in the American dream of owning a home into sub-prime mortgages. After making a hefty down payment, they were told that they'd failed to qualify, and that their deposits were non-refundable.

The Better Business Bureau got on Schott's case. The attorney general did too after having received numerous complaints. Schott and his partner were indicted, but Schott's well-connected lawyer managed to get the charges dropped in return for a hefty donation to the judge's nephew who was running for the state Senate. Simultaneously, Schott's wife of two years, a former stripper, filed for divorce and sought alimony based upon Schott's prosperous years while running the scam. That's when he decided that the US of A wasn't a good place to ply his creative endeavors and headed south to Argentina where he had a friend who put him up, and got him involved in real estate.

Schott Premier Homes was moderately successful. It focused primarily on rentals in the city, and Schott supplemented his income through side deals that allowed him to launder money through real estate transactions. One of his occasional ‘partners' was Guillermo Guzman.

Shott had met Gina Ellanado when he'd rented her an apartment. The attraction between them was immediate and strong – the beautiful, sensuous Gina, the tall, handsome and smooth Joe Schott. She accepted his invitation to dinner and they commenced a torrid love affair that lasted two months until Joe took up with a lonely, wealthy widow fifteen years his senior. That's when Gina, who'd been introduced to Guillermo Guzman by Schott, started seeing the ‘private banker'. That affair lasted a few months longer than her fling with Schott had, but ended the same way when Guzman, who took pride in his reputation as a ‘ladies' man', found other Latin lovelies to wine, dine and bed.

For Gina these romantic relationships had been satisfying while they lasted, but the end of each left her with a burgeoning well of emptiness that seemed to deepen with each passing year. She was thirty-four, which her few female friends assured her was the prime of her life, yet their words didn't help mitigate her loneliness. She knew that she was attractive; male attention coupled with a realistic evaluation of her image in the mirror confirmed that. But beautiful women were a dime a dozen in Brazil, in any country for that matter. She'd begun to put on weight no matter how many miles she clocked on the treadmill in the small bedroom of her equally small apartment, which she'd managed to keep Smythe from visiting. Their tangled sheets were always in the hotel suite.

She often thought that if she had money, lots of money, it would ease the ache of ageing. But the fact was that she didn't have much money and never had.

Gina Ellanado was born in Bahia Blanca, a bustling port city on the Atlantic Ocean south-west of Buenos Aires. Her parents hadn't been poor, nor were they well-off. Her father had worked his entire adult life on the docks unloading the constant stream of cargo ships that came and went. It was a physically demanding job. He dropped dead one morning while part of a crew unloading grain.

Gina's mother was a conventionally pretty woman who worked on and off at shops to supplement her husband's pay, but never kept a job long enough to build up a family financial cushion.