Friends at Homeland Security (4 page)

“So, which is it to be? NYPD or your creds and reasons, or you just leave. Take your pick,” I say in a slightly more moderated tone.

Vera’s hand is poised over her phone.

There is an angry pause, complete with ozone in the air—the sort that one imagines in a Mexican stand-off.

Older Man thinks for a moment, then says, “We’re special agents of Homeland Security. I think you get my message. Back off.”

I realize it is repetitive, but I tell him again, “Creds.”

He grits his teeth and turns to his fellow agents and orders, “Back off for the moment.”

All three of them remove their noses from the proximity of my nose, take their hands away from their gun holsters, and back away three steps.

I nod to Ivory, and he backs away two steps.

With almost theatrical reluctance, Older Man reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a standard federal cred-pack and flips it open for a second.

“Keep it open until I can read it,” I demand.

Even more reluctantly, he does it until I am satisfied.

“Thank you for your courtesy, Special Agent,” I say sweet as saccharine, and sincerely keeping to my motto for such situations always to be sincere whether you mean it or not.

“Stuff it, smart…,” he starts to say, but evidently thinks better of completing the not necessarily complimentary word. “Like I said, back all the way off the Marcus case. Go peek in windows or bug some adulterer. Whatever. It will go down hard for you if you interfere again now that you have been officially warned.”

Knowing better, I press it anyway, “Why? Why is Homeland Security interested in the unfortunate and untimely demise of a pleasant young man?”

“Don’t play the buffoon, McGee. Just get the message. We won’t tolerate your interference again. Today’s meet is a friendly request. Tomorrow will go hard for you. Now step out of my way and get your thug to do the same thing. Oh, I do know a little about the law. The penalties for assaulting a federal officer are serious. Don’t even think about it.”

Much as I enjoy our little tête-à-tête, I do not think it wise to press my luck any further. I stand aside and nod to Ivory to do the same.

Chapter Five

T
he staff meeting starts at eight o’clock as usual, just after the four special agents of Homeland Security leave the building as unobtrusively as they came in.

The unspoken—and then the spoken—question on the lips of everyone in the office is, “What was all of that about?”

I have to confess that I have no idea, but have no intention of “backing-off” as I was ordered. I had had a crawful of orders when I worked for the FBI and then for the CIA. I am not a “take-orders” kind of a guy, and that is why I set up my own shop. Ivory White never took an order in his life, and I like him for that.

Caitlin asks the most salient question, “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“That’s the question of the day, Caitlin,” I say, “and I, for one, am absolutely intrigued. This case is looking like a doozy with national and international implications. I want to find the answers even if we don’t ever get paid. That okay with the rest of you guys?”

Everyone in the firm nods agreement, and Ivory snarls with venom, “I don’t like being kicked around in my own space by my own government, and not being able to kick back. You bet I want to know things, but in the end of this I want to kick somebody hard enough that he has to button his pants around his neck because that’ll be where his butt’s gonna be.”

There is general agreement on that score.

“All right, here are some assignments; so, we can keep focused. I’ll fill Director Norcroft in. Caitlin, please get hold of Mary Margaret MacLeese and Martin Redworth—your NYPD pals. I think we need to bring them onboard. Ivory, how about you dig hard into young Decklin’s activities? Consult the denizens of the dark and see what you can find that the boy wanted to hide. David, get your guys in IT to find every little thing about father Marcus, mother Anne, and the Global Investment Bank. See if you can turn up anything hinky. Be careful, but get into the
Solntsevskaya Bratva
phone and electronic messaging system. There has to be a solid connection to Decklin or his parents somewhere in there. Remember, they’re good—and they’re violent. Cover your tracks,” I tell them.

“Hey, boss, that’s like telling Werner Von Braun how to light a match,” David Harger says, and we adjourn the meeting with an appreciative laugh.

I do some paperwork while Caitlin makes the calls. The NYPD detectives are more than happy to join us and agree that it all has to be very hush-hush. Their careers will be in the toilet if they get crosswise with Homeland Security or they proceed against the ultra wealthy Marcus clan with insufficient evidence. Caitlin makes an appointment with Howard and Anne Marcus for lunch. She suggests Loop, a reasonable and inexpensive sushi place on East 21
^st
and Third Avenue, knowing that the sushi is good; and the rest of the food is no better than middling; and it is Filipino. She grits her teeth and tells Anne that we will pay. Anne agrees to the meet for lunch, but begs off going to Loop because Howard is allergic to fish—Caitlin could almost hear Anne’s nose crinkle up at the idea of going to a cheap place—and Anne makes a counteroffer that we meet at Gramercy Tavern on East 42
^nd
and 20
^th
between Park Avenue and Broadway and will accept no argument about them paying. That is a good thing, because the tavern is one of the most pricey in all of New York—a four-$$$$ rating costing like eighty bucks a plate.

Mrs. Marcus suggests that we meet at eleven thirty to avoid the lunchtime rush, and because we would have to make a reservation for noon. Reservations involve a month’s wait and no exceptions, even for Gramercy’s elite. Caitlin readily agrees, and Ed drives us there in the limo.

The place is beautiful, light, and airy. We are greeted with a heavenly spicy smell as soon as we walk in. The Marcuses had gotten there just before we do and already have seats centered around a wood-burning grill. The unspoken rule among the gentry is no business until dessert and coffee; so, we all enjoy great food and even better service. Caitlin whispers at one point that she could get used to going out to where the elite meet to eat. I nod my enthusiastic agreement. The cuisine is American Nouveau—a learning experience for Caitlin. She starts with barely warmed vegetables covered with olives, pine nuts, herbed ricotta, and anchovy garlic paste, and fills the leftover space in her stomach with grilled monkfish—which is a hearty solid white fish that tastes like lobster. The fish is covered with small lightly browned flowerets of cauliflower, raisins, and curry. I choose fish croquette and mixed green salad with smoked oyster sauce for my appetizer, and butternut squash lasagna topped with hen-of-the-woods mushrooms and kale on the side as my entree. We are all too full for dessert or even for one of their specialty gourmet coffees. The Marcuses—slim, patrician, and fit—have only appetizers: he has roasted beets with kohlrabi, sherry vinaigrette, and sunflower seeds, while she has baked Long Island clams. No dessert, of course. They do have large steaming cups of black civet coffee—the most expensive in the world—and a true gourmet treat, since one has to get over the knowledge that it is made with the excreta of coffee berry-fed Asian cats.

The host opens the business. “All right, McGee and Caitlin, what have you got?”

I leave out the meeting with the DCIA but otherwise tell Howard and Anne pretty much everything. I also avoid telling them about the scrutiny we are in the process of putting on their lives.

“This Russian mafia figure means several things, Howard and Anne,” I say by way of conclusion, “not the least of which is danger. I don’t know for sure that you are in danger, but I suggest that you review your home security system and hire security guards around the clock even at the bank. Eat at home—only fresh food that you buy yourself or eat at restaurants chosen at random and without making reservations. Avoid public transportation and crowds. Don’t allow anyone—even your secretaries or security people—to know what meetings you elect to attend. There’s a saying out west, ‘Trust everyone, but brand your cattle.’ That’s a good motto for you guys while our investigation is ongoing.

“One last thing: it is obvious that we are getting in over our heads what with Homeland Security taking a serious interest and ordering us to back off. So we have arranged to share the investigation with two detectives from the Manhattan Homicide Unit. The chief of D’s is okay with that; so, we are staying kosher. You will eventually meet Detectives MacLeese and Redworth. They are going to need full access to your financial and telephone records—okay with you?”

Howard had been expressionless until my last sentence, but then he flinches and turns pale. He quickly recovers his composure—an excellent trait for a serious negotiator.

“I cannot allow bank business to be compromised, McGee. This involves more than just me; and our customers, clients, and the board of directors will never permit it, even for the purpose of getting to the bottom of our son’s murder. I presume that the NYPD detectives are as discreet as you are, but there will have to be some careful negotiation on this subject,” he says with finality.

It seems telling to me that he does not look me in the eyes when he says it.

“Sure. Thanks for the cooperation. We will work around the privacy issues.”

“We have never had a personal security force take care of us, McGee,” Anne Marcus says. “Can you arrange that?”

“We have an excellent man in charge of personal security. His name is Ivory White, and he will arrange all of the details. He is persnickety about his responsibilities; so, please do what he asks you to do. It will all be in your best interest.”

On the way back to the office in the limo, Caitlin asks me, “Hey, McGee, did you see Howard’s reaction when you told him he would have to have his business, e-mail, and telephone, etcetera, carefully evaluated and monitored?”

“Sure did. I was not really sure but that he might faint.”

“Something to tuck into the back of our minds, I think,” she says. “Now what?”

I say let’s have a talk with Mary Margaret and Martin over at One Police Plaza. Our forensics accountancy is pretty good, but we need better. I think we are going to get further on this puzzle by following the money trail than any other way.

“Let me do that,” I say, “and you do whatever is necessary to nail down the whereabouts of our alleged murderer, Viachaslau Mazurkiewicz. He is going to link the money to the string puller; and together, they are going to make our case for us.”

“I’m all right with doing that, but I tell you this: something is rotten in Gramercy Park, or at least the Marcuses are more connected to the death of their son than they are telling,” Caitlin responds.

“My hunch agrees with yours; but we don’t have any evidence; and we can’t get anything useful by squeezing them. Let’s see where the forensics take us.”

Caitlin gets hold of Mary Margaret who was willing to see us on short notice. Ed gets us to the lower Manhattan location of One Police Plaza in record time. Her office is on the seventh floor; and Caitlin—ever the fitness FemaNazi—makes us walk up the stairs. Martin Redworth is already sitting in front of Mary Margaret’s desk when we get there.

“Come in and shovel the papers off a chair; so, you can take a seat,” Mary Margaret says with a winning smile. “What can I do for the world-famous private eyes today?”

I take the lead, “Mary Margaret, Martin, we have a fairly good early working idea of what might be going on in the murder case of Decklin Marcus. We are pretty sure that there is more to the Marcuses than meets the eye. We asked Decklin’s father, Howard, to let us see the bank records where he is involved, but he quickly turned coy. We need the big bad cops to order a full forensic accountancy. The answers are going to come from there. I am all but certain of that.”

“What about you, Caitlin?” Martin asks.

“I couldn’t agree more. We can’t know too much about the Marcuses.”

“What about that Russian mobster guy? How does he fit into the big picture?” queries Mary Margaret.

“Besides being the probable killer, we don’t know enough about him—or about the Marcuses, for that matter—to be able to answer your question. Our office is going to follow that thread with all we have,” I tell her. “And we would really appreciate it if the homicide unit would go after the Marcus parents. We have to be able to work with them—Howard Marcus brought the case to us, after all. That said, we won’t get in your way; it is your case, but I think a division of labor will get us where we want to be. I am sure we need to get at the bank numbers before they ‘accidentally’ get lost as Nixon’s secretary has always maintained about the missing Watergate tapes.”

“We’ll get a search warrant this morning and be in their house and in the bank this afternoon. I have a small hunch that your federal friend is likely to get roped in sooner or later as well. By the way, anything more come of the visit from your Homeland Security friends?”

“Not yet about the Homeland Security thugs. We’ll keep you posted. We’ll let you go and get at your investigation. Why don’t we meet for lunch up near Gramercy Park tomorrow noon and share successes?”

“Ah, yes, that’s the old McGee—the eternal optimist.”

She stands up and, by unspoken mutual consent, the meeting is over.

Chapter Six

A
t quarter after four in the afternoon, David Harger, the IT guy, comes to my office.

“Hi, boss. I have a little something on the Marcuses. Seems that Howard keeps a separate stash of burner phones in an apartment he maintains in the Bronx. At first I thought it was just another pied-à-terre, but there’s no evidence of hanky-panky on the transcripts of the conversations, which are few, short, and to the point. There was a little break-in at that location, it seems, and some people got a look around—can’t say who.”

I roll my eyes and laugh.

“Let’s just say that the break-in did not get reported—and never will. There were several interesting things about father Howard’s secret apartment. First, there is no bed in the entire place. Second, there are no cooking facilities; and the bathroom is spotless as if it has rarely, if ever, been used.”

“Any records—anything we can use?” I ask him.

“Not exactly. There was something that might turn out to be worthwhile, though.”

“And?” I push to get David to move along.

“There was a receipt for a box of burner phones. Unfortunately, the receipt did not match any of the Marcuses.”

“And probably was a phony signature anyway,” I say with some discouragement in my voice.

“Hang on,” David said. “There’s more. The signature on the receipt was that of a woman named Rachel Donovan.”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell. Is it fake?”

“Sort of,” David said in his exasperatingly slow midtown accent.

My face shows my annoyance. I do not have to say anything. “The fake part is that the handwriting of the signer is quite obviously that of a man. The true part is that such a person does exist. Evidently, our burner phone purchaser must have thought that it would only attract suspicion if the name and the address were fake. Even the store owner required photo ID—that’s a recent New York law just appearing on the books. Apparently, the man who was signing the woman’s name was able to swipe the card past the relatively uncomprehending shop owner’s eyes. We checked the name. It belongs to a woman who, in fact, does live at the address on the receipt. It was not until we dug a little deeper that we found that the woman’s name—which meant nothing to us at first—was that of a sister of one of Howard Marcus’s bank partners. She is the widow of a Gulf War vet who died in the conflict, which accounts for her having an unfamiliar name. We in IT are presuming that the obscurity was intentional. It happens that she dotes on her brother and, in fact, depends on him to enhance her otherwise fairly skimpy income.”

“Names?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. Sister is Marilyn Woodworth—her married name—and the bank partner is Angus McTavish, a naturalized citizen from Scotland who moved to the US nearly twenty years ago.”

“Anything juicy about this McTavish guy, David?”

“It’s still a work in progress, but the man takes a lot of trips to Atlantic City, Las Vegas, and Monaco. So far he has a big bank account, but the sources of income to his accounts are not entirely clear. The sources of outgo are largely to casinos in those gambling cities. We’re just getting started on Howard Marcus. I’ll get back to you when we have more—like whether he’s a high roller as well.”

“Thanks,” I tell him.

My pulse is beginning to quicken a little.

The next day in the staff meeting, Ivory reports that Howard Marcus is as jumpy as the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof.

“That brother is always lookin’ over his shoulder, makin’ sure I’m close by. Maybe he’s been to too many cop and spy movies, but he regularly looks up at the tops of buildings—likely to see if there are any snipers. He has been workin’ on his movie spycraft. If we walk outside, the man takes trips in the opposite way he’s really headed, makes sudden turns, moves into crowds, and suddenly enters crowded department stores, and the like. He’s not a talker—not a word of explanation about all of the anxiety.”

The attentions of the staff are riveted on the security specialist’s face. We all shake our heads, including Ivory.

“What have you got, Caitlin?” I ask her.

“Progress. Not electrifying, but progress. About two months ago, the Marcuses entered a stage where their outgo far exceeded their income until they were staring bankruptcy in the face. Then a miracle happened, as the antievolutionists like to say when things don’t add up in the progression of things. The bank began a very rapid infusion of money to Howard and Anne’s personal account. The source is murky, and I mean very murky. In three weeks everything got to be hunky-dory, and it looks like they got to business as usual.”

“How about young Decklin’s accounts in all of this?”

“Funny thing. He does not seem to suffer or benefit from the all-American rags-to-riches story. In fact, he seems to have changed banks, gotten a new investment counselor, and put some distance between himself and his parents, at least financially. The neighbors report him coming to the house very frequently and that he appears to have a cordial social relationship with his parents right up to the time of his murder. Can’t quite figure that out.”

David Harger speaks up, “Carter Hinckley and I have spent the last nearly twenty-four hours with the NYPD forensic accountants. That combined our CPA’s numbers expertise and my computer knowledge to augment the NYPD’s. As an aside, we get along very well. Anyway, we served a warrant on the bank, and on both partners, Marcus and McTavish. We have been inundated with material—printed and electronic, verbal and telephonic, and have barely gotten started working our way into the mountain. A good thing about working with MacLeese and Redworth is that everything seems to be emanating from the police in the course of their investigation of Decklin Marcus’s murder. I made myself small and obscure, and I don’t think they are wise to the fact that I am a minion of McGee’s.

“Something did come up. Do any of you recognize the name of Michael Soriano?”

“Give us a break,” Caitlin says. “The better question is who doesn’t know the name of Michael ‘Pretty Boy’ Soriano? He denies it in every criminal trial where he features prominently, but he is the boss-of-bosses of the Soriano family—murder, kidnapping, extortion, loan sharking, human trafficking, gambling, you name it.”

“Yes, indeed; good detective memory, my friend Caitlin. I think you identified a couple of enterprises that may well be part of our murder mystery.”

“It is premature,” Caitlin continues, “but about two months ago—does that time-frame light any lights?—he began to make some truly remarkable investments in Global Investment Bank holdings. His big investments tapered off about the time both—and I underline
both
—Marcus and McTavish’s fortunes once again began to rise.”

“Great work, all of you,” I tell them. “My gut and the little my brain has been soaking up tells me that we are on the right track. I have a suggestion along that line. Do a thorough electronic, paper, phone log search to see if a certain infamous Byelorussian gentleman figures in. For that matter, check the security check-in logs. Have MacLeese and Redworth get going on some in-depth interviews with bank staff—everyone from the janitors, mail-room guys, clerks, etc. all the way to the upper floors where the air is rarefied. Nobody needs to be altogether dainty about it, either. Somebody knows something we need to know. Let’s pry it out of him or her. Okay, if there’s nothing else, let’s get out there and rattle some cages.”