T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality (10 page)

“And the dry cleaner?”

“Same thing. Fellow I met with there is also a tenant. He owns three dry cleaning stores and two liquor stores. Stays busy and often spends the night with his ex-wife, who got the house but still loves him. He’s not home much, but he definitely did not need a refrigerator and microwave replaced due to a supposed power surge. Said his appliances work just fine.”

“Why’d he leave out the back door?”

“Back door?”

“The two of you chatted, you left, he disappeared out the rear of the store.”

“I don’t know. He said he had to collect deposits from the liquor stores. I guess he parks behind the building and he happened to leave the same time I did.”

It made sense and would be easy to verify. I had no reason, at least for the time being, not to believe him.

“I’m curious as to why you didn’t just hire a private investigator to do the legwork for you. You’re a pretty busy man, I’d imagine. Why bother wasting your time tracking down amateur thieves?”

“If it got out that someone embezzled from Samuel Chesterfield … well, it would be bad PR. We manage a lot of people’s money. How would it look if those people find out that we can’t even manage our own money?”

“You’re not invincible. Nobody is. Investors would understand.”

“I have written four books, all bestsellers,” he said. “The most
recent, due to hit the shelves next month, is about real estate investment. How to find the best deals, create tax advantages. How to implement a system of checks and balances so you don’t get ripped off by management companies.”

“Oh.” I swapped my beer for a glass of water and drank. That wouldn’t have looked very good. Chesterfield’s new financial advice bestseller on the shelves at the same time the media reports that he’d had fifty grand embezzled on an apartment building deal.

Cracker woke himself up with a particularly loud snore. Startled, he flipped to his belly and jumped clumsily to his feet. He surveyed his surroundings and then shook himself off. Acting like scaring yourself awake was no big deal, he ambled off in search of a treat from a customer. If he didn’t get one, Ox would probably give him a Milk-Bone from a jar stashed behind the bar.

“Tell me,” I said to Chesterfield, “why are you so sure that your managers, the Hertzes, don’t know anything about your missing boy?”

“Because they’re just petty thieves. They aren’t smart enough to pull something like this off. Plus, whatever Flowers found got him killed. I don’t really believe it was a random carjacking gone bad. The Hertzes couldn’t be involved with an internal problem at my company. Jared disappearing the day after Flowers was murdered is not a coincidence.”

“I agree,” I told him. “I understand you have a daughter, too? She still living in Fort Worth?”

“Yes, married and still in Fort Worth. I told her I’d received some threats and was putting a bodyguard on her just to be on the safe side. I hired two, actually, to shadow her until I tell them to quit.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “What’s the husband do?”

“He’s a cop, believe it or not. I guess you can’t control who your kids fall in love with.”

“Nope.”

“I just want you to find my son, Jersey,” he said, looking into my face. “Please help me find him.”

He handed me a retainer check in the amount of twenty thousand dollars and laid a one-dollar bill on the counter as a tip. Ox looked from my check to his dollar bill with a raised eyebrow. I shrugged my shoulders at the injustice and the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. He knew that it always evened out in the end between us.

“You’ll want to come to the penthouse, then?” Chesterfield asked.

“Yes.”

He drove the Lexus as I followed him to the Bellington Complex.

My second search
of the condo, the one with Chesterfield there, didn’t reveal anything more than I found the first time. The gym bag and USB flash drive were gone, though. They seemed to have disappeared along with Jared.

According to Chesterfield, the note had been left on the kitchen counter and nothing was missing. Jared hadn’t taken a suitcase or any of his personal belongings, and there were no signs of struggle. It looked as though Jared left either of his own volition, or at gunpoint. If he left preceding the barrel of a gun, it made sense that he probably knew his assailants since there was no forced entry.

Background checks on Eddie Flowers, Gary and Melinda Hertz, Jared, and his sister and her husband didn’t tell me much
more than I already knew. I also ran checks on Lolly and Samuel Chesterfield, and again, didn’t find anything useful.

It wasn’t too surprising that, according to tax records, Chesterfield owned real estate worth a combined thirty-six million dollars. His personal net worth was estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hundred and fifty million. There were several buildings purchased in the name of his company, including the Bellington Complex, and I hadn’t bothered to look up the estimated value of Chesterfield Financial.

The thought of having so much money boggled my brain. I couldn’t even imagine possessing that kind of wealth. How much of it were the kidnappers going to ask for, or was it something other than money that they wanted? For that matter, did the kidnappers exist? It was entirely possible that Jared staged his own disappearance.

Although the note instructed not to bring in any uniforms, it was time to do so and I explained why to Chesterfield. Ninety-five-plus percent of the time, ransom notes instructing not to bring in the authorities were an empty threat. Obviously, if the kidnappers murdered Jared, they’d lose their bargaining power. Chesterfield agreed.

I began by notifying Dirk, who had been promoted to lieutenant in charge of investigative services. The title sounded nice, but he was simply one of the Wilmington Police Department’s high-paid detectives. Within hours, the New Hanover County Sheriff’s Department and the State Bureau of Investigation were involved. This type of news traveled fast and it was just a matter of time before the Feds were notified. Everyone in law enforcement would want a piece of the action and a piece of the potential glory. A power struggle was already brewing between the local and the state boys, and when the Feds appeared, it could very well turn into a circus.

The ransom note I’d collected had already passed through several pairs of hands and been examined by two different crime labs. Chesterfield’s penthouse suite had been thoroughly swept for prints and hair and fiber samples. Unmatched hair and fiber samples would be held as evidence to match with the felons’, if they were ever caught. Residents of the building, delivery people, maintenance workers, and surrounding area neighbors were being questioned. A list of anyone who had anything to do with Jared, from his barber to his physician, was being compiled for scrutiny and questioning. It was the typical information-gathering effort that would fuel the upcoming plan of action.

My plan of action was to stay out of everyone’s way and pursue my own leads. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any at the moment.

It was a sun-drenched Wednesday afternoon and the Fahrenheit reading threatened to move uncomfortably high. I was on my way to pick up groceries and the chilled air pumping through my car’s vents felt delightfully good on my skin. Later, after I reloaded my and Spud’s refrigerators, I would spend the rest of the afternoon digging. But my plan for the evening entailed a bottle of creamy chardonnay and a bag of Chinese takeout. Bill was back from Vegas and would meet me at the marina, along with the copper thong he’d managed to appropriate. We’d go for a sunset cruise before anchoring in the secluded cove I’d discovered months earlier, and we’d spend the night on the gently rolling boat, doing our own rocking above deck.

I’d showered and
changed after jogging six, maybe seven miles. It was more than I usually ran, and the last mile had tested my willpower. Running was cleansing, though, and erased the clutter from my mind. Ox called on the spirits to meditate; I ran.

Attempts to keep news of the Chesterfield kidnapping from the media were futile, and once a whiff got out, the story spread like raging wildfires. It was the lead story on the three major networks. It hit the Associated Press wire, and was the front-page centerpiece for most dailies. Lolly had resurfaced after spending a few days at a health spa and handled all the media attention like a seasoned pro, with just the right mix of vulnerability and determination to help her husband. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the incessant cameras pointed in her direction. Either she was
maturing into the enviable position of Chesterfield’s new wife, or the years of modeling had paid off. Maybe both.

The emerging investigation, which to be politically correct was a coordinated effort between all the authorities, was getting nowhere fast. To be truthful, it resembled a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus troupe in training for a new season. Everyone knew what their individual job was and they could do it well. But as a group they were clumsy, bumped into each other, and hadn’t yet slipped into a comfortable rhythm or chain of command.

I poured milk into a bowl of Frosted Flakes and joined Spud at the kitchen table. He slurped a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo between bites of cold leftover Domino’s pizza. Cracker had positioned himself under the table and utilized Spud’s slippered feet as a pillow. Without bothering to lift his head, he sniffed the air, eternally hopeful for a fallen crumb.

“Anything new with the missing boy?” Spud said over the top of the sports section.

“No, but something should be happening soon.”

Although the kidnapping had just occurred yesterday morning, a lack of communication from the perpetrators had me puzzled. It certainly had to be wearing on Samuel Chesterfield. His condominium was outfitted with an incoming-call tracing device, as well as a recorder and two round-the-clock suits, not to mention twenty-four-hour perimeter security. The tracing and recording equipment was carried in a package about the size of a large suitcase and had been spread out in Chesterfield’s living room. The Feds discovered the earpieces I’d planted, as well as my phone tap on the main line. I claimed to know nothing about either one, even though I would have liked to get the equipment back. It was an oversight on my part to have not retrieved them sooner. Actually, it was plain
stupid of me. I prayed that retirement hadn’t already soothed my brain in to a state of lethargy.

“Well, I gotta run,” Spud said, standing up and drawing an annoyed look from Cracker, who’d lost his human pillow. “Bobby’s picking me up downstairs. We’re headed to the barber for a trim.”

It had rained overnight, heavily, reminding me of Spud’s car insurance plan. “Whose car are you taking?”

“His. Unless we take mine,” Spud said. After I shot him a questioning look, he added, “For crying out loud. That sinking the car thing was all just a joke.”

I didn’t have time to quiz him further because Soup paged me. While I returned the page, Spud traded his bedroom shoes for sandals, put on a NOT OVER THE HILL JUST ENJOYING THE TOP baseball cap, and ambled out with a redwood walking cane leading the way. Shaped like an upside-down female leg, its handle was a slender arched foot.

Soup answered on the first ring without his traditional greeting. “Jersey, you’ve got some serious shit here.”

I forgot about Spud and his quest to sink the Chrysler. “Go on.”

“The additional data tagged to each taxpayer field? It’s part of a virus. Code diverting exactly one thousand dollars of the initial SIPA deposits from Uncle Sam into another pocket. Probably an account established out of the country, Swiss maybe.”

“Wow.” The spoonful of cereal stopped midway to my mouth as my mind processed that tidbit of information. Since Americans choosing SIPAs could open their account only at the beginning of each quarter, the sum of three months’ worth of initial deposits could amount to a lot of money.

Talking fast, Soup agreed with my assessment. “Exactly. At first I thought it might have been done by a blue hat. You know, someone hired to bug and test a new system before its launch? But
this thing is for real. It has an outrageously elaborate packet sniffer—”

“Soup, please.” I’d never comprehend all the technical jargon if I waited for an explanation of how he did it. “Just give me the bottom line.”

“Overnight, the bad guys will skim a big chunk of change from new SIPAs coming into Chesterfield Financial,” Soup said. “My guess is they’ll skip town before the individual statements arrive by mail, so nobody will even realize that their balance is off, unless the SIPAs are Internet-enabled.”

“They’re not,” I told him. I’d done some research and quizzed Chesterfield on the entire process. “Not at first anyway. SIPA applications are processed as they come in, but the money isn’t transferred from Uncle Sam to the individual brokerage accounts until the first day of each quarter. Then, all verifications of transactions are by mail. The government bean counters decided that SIPAs can’t be accessed via the Internet until next year. That’s to ensure the program is operating smoothly before they add a new element.”

“Deposits are only made once a quarter?”

“To cut administrative costs,” I said. “Same with the paper statements.” That meant three months’ worth of new account applications, multiplied by a thousand dollars each, stolen in one night.

“This is bad freakin’ news, isn’t it?”

“Worse,” I said. “I’m on my way over to your place.”

I fed Cracker a breakfast of dry food and threw in a remnant of leftover pizza crust from Spud’s plate. He gobbled the crust first, as though it were a morsel of prime rib.

I wanted Ox to hear everything firsthand from Soup because I could use the insight, so I called and told him I’d be by to pick him up in ten minutes. Being his good-natured self, he didn’t ask
why and cheerfully agreed to go. After pouring my coffee into a travel mug, I pointed the Benz toward Ox’s house, leaving my uneaten cereal behind.

Ox
and I sat in Soup’s efficiency apartment, on opposite ends of a white leather sofa. The place was sparsely furnished, except for an overwhelmingly large flat-screen plasma television, an entertainment center loaded with stereo components that were probably worth more than Soup’s vehicle, and loads of computer equipment and electronics that were alien to me.