Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (10 page)

Unless the killing happens on US government property. Unless it involves a federal official. Unless it’s rooted in the violation of another federal law—such as hate crimes and civil rights, organized crime syndicates, or crimes that cross state lines, such as kidnapping and drug or sex trafficking.

While those might be obvious cause for a federal investigation, the FBI has also demonstrated a creative ability to become involved if the victim is from a prominent, politically connected family.

I wasn’t sure how Leon Paul Akume’s death merited all this interest, but his fraud case had been prosecuted by the feds, so that seemed the place to start. I left a message for FBI agent Jax, asking him to call me back regarding the homicide.

•  •  •

Leon’s defense lawyer hadn’t heard that his former client had been murdered and seemed genuinely shocked on the phone. “We hadn’t stayed in touch and frankly, I don’t watch the news anymore unless I’m on it. Too depressing.”

Benny Walsh was a criminal attorney who had developed an enviable legal reputation years earlier after convincing a jury that an obviously guilty client was the victim of a vast government conspiracy. Prosecutors found him tiresome, but the media appreciated him because he was always willing to appear on camera as a legal analyst whether he knew anything about a particular case or not.

“Well, Benny, my experience as a journalist tells me attorneys are a curious bunch, so I imagine you might have some questions about Leon Akume’s death.”

He agreed to meet with me on one condition: he wanted to first confirm his client was actually dead. “Not that I don’t trust you, but I don’t.”

A couple hours later we met for a late lunch in uptown Minneapolis at The Bulldog, known for bar food and beer—and it was far enough from our downtown offices that we were unlikely to be noticed by anyone who knew us. At a table in an empty corner, I filled him in on Leon’s homicide. The specifics about the missing teeth in the mail rattled him more than I expected because he had often demonstrated an unsettling ability to remain emotionally detached from his cases.

“It’s possible his murder had nothing to do with his criminal life,” I said. “But I feel a personal obligation to see where this leads.”

“Honestly, Riley, I’m not sure how much information I’ll be able to share. Attorney-client privilege can be tricky and doesn’t necessarily end after death.”

“How could talking to me hurt him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“But much of what you know is part of the public record.” I pulled out the meager court file and spread it between onion rings and burgers. “The cops were unusually quiet about this homicide until I showed up with the victim’s teeth. And now the feds are taking over the murder investigation. I’m trying to figure out why. I’m hoping you can give me the highlights.”

“I’m going to pass,” he said.

“You’re turning down a chance to appear on TV? I thought sound bites helped advertise your law firm.”

“Dead clients are bad for business.”

Leon Paul Akume’s mug shot was in the paperwork, and I pushed it toward him. “What would your client want you to do?”

Benny was not sentimental and ignored my maneuver, choosing instead to concentrate on a plate of tater tots. I noticed he’d gained weight, but didn’t mention that.

“I can certainly keep your name out of the news and use our chat on background only,” I assured him. “Otherwise I’ll have to report that ‘the victim’s attorney Benny Walsh declined to comment,’ and you’ll be connected with the murder anyway.”

“You’d do that to me after all I’ve done for you?”

I’d once retained Benny myself to resolve an unpleasant legal matter. “I paid for your services, plus you got loads of publicity.”

“You’re wasting your talent in news,” he said. “You really ought to go to law school. But you’d probably end up a prosecutor, and I’d hate to face you in court.”

“I just need to understand a few things, Benny, and I’d like to start with your client’s role in this identity fraud case. An obituary, of sorts. And I promise, nothing you tell me will be attributed to you.”

“His criminal history is too complicated for TV,” he said.

“Let my boss be the one to shut down the story. And between us, he probably will. But I’d still like to try.”

So we paged through the indictment, the witness list for the sentencing hearing, and other documents as he explained that his client had been part of an identity-theft team that combined high-tech and low-tech means to run a lucrative swindling empire.

“How lucrative?” I was taking notes.

“He was able to afford me,” Benny laughed. “Seriously, he was on the hook for a long prison term because of the sheer amount
of money stolen. Twenty million, at least. Of course, it’s split between a lot of players. And these people incur certain expenses that most of us don’t, like money laundering.”

Usually prosecutors dread chasing complex crimes. Juries get bored so verdicts can be unpredictable. Careers can be ruined. “How come you didn’t take this to trial and try to get him off?” I asked.

“Overwhelming evidence. Social security numbers, bank accounts, stolen credit cards. They found a dozen drivers’ licenses, all with his photo but different names. Victims who had been defrauded were anxious to testify. See, Leon started out small. Buying data from hoods who broke into cars and stole letters out of mailboxes, using it to get fake credit cards and hire runners to charge up a storm in gift cards and merchandise that could be resold online. If he had stuck with that operation, the law wouldn’t have paid any attention. There’s too much of the same con out there.”

I started to speak, but he held his hand up to stop me.

“Let me finish,” he said. “Akume got greedy and wanted to expand. He began setting up loans under false identities, aided by a banking insider. That’s where the real money came from. I would have liked to have argued that the evidence against him was planted, but his computer showed he was quite involved in closed Internet chat rooms with international crime rings.”

“How’d the feds get onto him?”

“The old-fashioned way. He’d insulated himself with cyberscreen names and other cute computer forensic tricks, but someone down the chain ratted him out. Even then he might not have been a big deal because the feds had always been too busy chasing guns and drugs to go after intricate financial crimes, but with the new US attorney coming to office, their priorities shifted. Akume was doing the wrong crime at the wrong time.”

I was still scribbling when Benny glanced at his watch. “Last question,” he said.

Benny had alluded to an informant playing a role in his client’s downfall. Already one source—Toby—had mentioned Leon himself being a snitch, but Toby really had no firsthand knowledge, just jailhouse gossip. I needed better confirmation, so I cut to the chase.

“Was Leon Paul Akume a government informant?”

My inquiry surprised him. His eyes narrowed as he responded with a question of his own. “What are you planning to do with my answer?”

“Depends on what it is, Benny. But I wouldn’t be asking unless I already had information suggesting he was.”

“And if I verify your theory?”

I leaned across the table, lowering my voice. “I’ll keep your name out of it and report something like ‘Channel 3 has learned . . . ’ ”

“Ask me another question instead.”

“Who did he squeal on?”

Benny shook his head. “We’re finished here.” He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

I threw enough cash on the table to cover our check and followed him—fast.

B
enny had clicked a key remote to unlock his Lexus, but I reached the vehicle just in time to duck in the backseat and slam the door behind me.

“Get out.” He gunned the engine, to show he was serious.

I buckled my seat belt to show I wasn’t leaving, even if it meant a road trip. “You met me here because you know something’s off. You want an explanation just as much as I do. Help me out, and I’ll keep you in the loop, but off the air.”

We both stayed quiet, evaluating each other through the rearview mirror.

“You can’t blame me for asking, Benny. That plea bargain was a sweetheart deal, even for you.”

“Yes, Leon Paul Akume turned informant.”

“Who?”

“You might be better off not knowing.”

“Come on,” I pressed. “I just want to know what the cops know. Otherwise I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Here’s my terms,” he said. “You can know it, but you can’t report it.”

A tough off-the-record deal. But he had the name, so he had the leverage.

I always like repeating source arrangements to avoid misunderstandings. “Just so we’re straight, I can report Akume was an
informant as long as I don’t attribute it to you. You’ll give me the name of who he rolled on, but I can’t use it unless I verify it another way.” That wasn’t as difficult as it sounded. As a journalist, once you know what you’re looking for, you know where to look.

“He gave up Jack Clemens.”

I knew the name. When a rich guy falls, it makes news.

O
ne secret phone call transformed Inmate 16780-59’s prison standing from chump to champ. Nobody dared call him Trip. He had regular access to a cell phone and the kind of respect only someone like Jack Clemens could buy.

The voice on the other end of the line had been surprised to hear from him in prison, but greeted him warmly and promised to work out a weekly payment plan with Scarface’s outside people.

Kilo tried to weasel in on his good fortune, but this time his cell mate relished shutting him down. “Your problems are your problems, remember?”

“You know I didn’t mean that, Jack. I was just joshing. Hey, you look like you’re losing weight. That’s hard to do on a high-carb prison diet.”

He was momentarily startled by Kilo’s compliment, and muttered something about getting “plenty of exercise folding towels.” He didn’t care that he had to work a menial job at the prison laundry for twenty cents an hour anymore. Knowing Scarface had his back gave him confidence walking the corridors. And that combination of protection and nerve kept other thugs at bay.

His first hint that something was wrong came during an off-the-books phone call to check in with his benefactor, who mentioned being irked by the price increase.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Don’t get me wrong, Jack,” the voice said. “I’m willing to pay to keep you safe, but I was just informed the cost is doubling. And apparently there’s no guarantee it won’t keep going up.”

The inmate felt double-crossed by his prison partners, but didn’t react because he was surrounded by them. “I had no idea. I’ll see what I can find out on this end. I want you to know, I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the voice said. “No amount of money is enough for what you’ve done for me.”

He didn’t worry, because he knew what the voice said was true. They both needed each other.

Approaching Scarface about the finances was problematic. He decided not to take the scam personally, but simply treat it as a business misunderstanding.

“About our deal?” He brought the subject up when they left the cafeteria together later that day. “My people need to budget, and I thought our price had already been fixed.”

Scarface stopped walking, placed his hand on his colleague’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Well, Jack, if you’re unhappy with my services, we don’t need to continue this arrangement.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He backed out from the big man’s grip. “I’m just wondering how you arrive at your rate?”

“My people handle the numbers.”

“Well, my bill keeps going up, and I’m wondering why?”

“My people never charge more than they think a client can pay. Apparently they think you can afford the best we have to offer.”

“That sounds more like blackmail than services rendered.” He tried to make it sound like a joke.

“It is what it is. You made some negotiating mistakes, Jack. If I took advantage of your inexperience with prison life, that just makes me a better businessman.”

“What do you mean, mistakes?”

Scarface headed over to a metal bleacher bolted to the floor and motioned for him to sit down. “Feel my scar, Jack Clemens.”

He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to touch my scar. I ordered you to touch it.”

So he reached out his hand tentatively and traced the twisted blemish from the big man’s eye, where it started, to his lips, where it ended. The texture was smoother than the surrounding skin, like a snake sleeping on warm concrete.

“That mark is to me what a purple heart is to a soldier,” Scarface said. “It proves that unlike you, I’ve mastered the rules of surviving time in the pen. I see you’re confused, so I’ll explain. Rule number one—
never
tell your real name.” Scarface counted down on his fingers as if tutoring a child. “Rule number two—
never
tell you have money. Rule number three—
never
tell how to reach your outside friends. You violated every rule, Jack.”

That’s when Inmate 16780-59 realized that while there was safety in numbers, there was also safety in anonymity. He was no longer a client, but a hostage. And in his quest to protect his body and his pride, he had put himself in greater jeopardy.

N
one of the TV stations had covered the mechanics of Jack Clemens’s downfall, just the highlights. Fraud. Divorce. Guilt. Prison.

The business section of the newspaper had followed the financial drama in considerable detail, so back at Channel 3, I pulled up the archived articles on my computer. No time—or need—to read them all just then. I was looking for one thing: a date. Jack Clemens had motive to kill Leon, but did he have opportunity?

Thirty seconds later, I determined my theory was flawed. Jack had the ultimate alibi. He was behind bars at the time of the murder. His incarceration began a week before Leon’s release from the same northern Minnesota prison camp. I wondered if their paths had crossed in the slammer.