Chapter 13: Phelps.

Phelps had left the trader only a few minutes after Jeremy and Vanessa. He had assured Laurie Merkel that he would follow up with alacrity on the information they had both just been given. He exhorted her to do the same. “It seems to me those two lovely people have stumbled into something big, maybe even huge, and with two people already dead, I believe they are both in mortal danger till the conspiracy, or whatever it is, is broken up. Give Jeremy any information he asks for, he can do things which we as officers of the law cannot, but please also keep me in the picture.”

As soon as he was in the privacy of his car and headed home, he picked up the radio transmitter, “Get me through to Agent Hargrove of the FBI.” Being already ten o clock, it took some time before he got him on the channel, “You had better get a look at Brad Layton’s body before it’s too late, I have information which leads me to believe he was murdered, and by the same person who killed Bill Fernstine.”

“Presumably you are not referring to our so called number one suspect, Baird,” said Hargrove. “Actually, I had my suspicions, and we had already warned the coroner to treat his death as suspect, we should have results early tomorrow. Who is your source?”

“Can’t say yet, but I am pretty convinced. He gave me a bunch of really interesting information on what Layton was in to, information which I think the real killer was trying to keep secret. I have got to go to New York tomorrow to see where it leads, I’ll keep in touch.” The timing was perfect. As Phelps completed his conversation he pulled into his own driveway in a new subdivision just west of O'Hare. He called his office and left messages for his assistant to set up some meetings in New York, called United Airlines to make a reservation on the first flight out in the morning, packed a few things in an overnight bag and collapsed on his bed in an effort to get a couple of hours sleep.

 

Charleston Phelps, better known as Chuck, was one of the new breed of cops. Educated at Illinois State University at Urbana he had completed his honors in criminology with a thesis on white collar crime. He had always wanted to be in law enforcement but he did not have the physique of a regular city cop. Rather short with red hair he was even a little paunchy. Not the stuff for the police academy, so he started his career with the FBI. After five years investigating race crimes, he decided his main interest was in big business fraud and transferred to the securities and exchange commission. Now as head of the Chicago office of that agency, he carried a fair amount of clout.

The success he had seen in his professional life was not mirrored in his private life, and was probably the reason for his two failed marriages. He had found himself incapable of balancing the pressures of his job with the demands of relationships, and each personal failure had left him more unwilling to offer any new commitment. As a result he lived alone, and had even lost touch with his only son, a situation he often regretted deeply. With his career as his only interest, he was almost fanatical about his success, and was striving for the next promotion that would take him either to New York or Washington. He could see that solving this case, whatever it was, would not harm his chances, but to get the most out of it he would have to ensure that he remained front and center and in the heat of the action. The fact that this action would probably be in New York was all the better.

When Phelps arrived at the New York office, at nine thirty the first meeting that his office had set up for him was just getting started, but already the excitement was mounting. “I have definitely picked up a pattern of trading in two of the five names you asked us to look at, and should have results on the others shortly.” The speaker was a young analyst barely in her twenties, but a whiz with statistical analysis. “I have set up a program to analyze the in house trades of all the houses on your list, we will get the full picture without a problem.”

“OK, so you found a pattern, what does it show?” Phelps got the question out just ahead of another officer. “I am not yet absolutely sure, but this is what I think. Imbedded in the normal trading activities I am finding a number of repetitive actions. In other words I see a block of say ten thousand shares of a stock being sold, repurchased and resold and repurchased again. If I factor in the other funds in the same group I am finding the exact opposite pattern in one or other of the funds. If I am right, this means that the managers of the funds are selling blocks of shares from one fund to another, and then buying them back later. Doesn‘t seem to make a lot of sense, but it doesn't seem illegal either”

“That is exactly what I expected” said Phelps, “and it is not illegal unless it is part of a conspiracy. That is our first problem, to prove that a crime is being or has been committed. If you believe there are at least two participants here in New York, and I believe we have at least one in Chicago, I think we have a conspiracy. It is the intent of the conspiracy which will determine if we have a crime. Let me tell you what we already know.” In ten minutes he summarized all the facts that had come to light in the Brad Layton saga, leaving out the insider trading that Bill Fernstine had been involved in, only because he felt it would diffuse the efforts to solve the big issue.

“As of now we don't know just how much of a problem we have, nor how many people are involved, but if it is as big as it is beginning to look, we have a market manipulation conspiracy to rival the great Gold scam of 1846.” Phelps was referring to Fisk who had tried to corner the gold market and very nearly succeeded. When that scheme finally folded it caused a major collapse in financial markets still known as black Friday. “Just keep digging till we know how deep it is, and we’ll meet again at four after I have spoken to a few of these names.

 

The Financial district of New York was very compact with most of the high profile firms maintaining offices within a ten block radius of Wall Street itself. In the recent past, this had changed somewhat, but even now, if you are anybody in the financial world, you have to be close to Wall Street. This made Phelps job of touring the offices on his list relatively easy, as they were all within walking distance.

Being an officer of the SEC he had little difficulty getting to talk with the fund managers and in each case he explained that information received had pointed to the possibility of a small group of players attempting to fix market prices. He pointed out that it was very early in their investigation, and there was no specific information, nor were there any specific suspects, but he would be grateful for any comments or help they may be able to give. He did hint that any information would remain confidential, and that help in tracking down the main perpetrators could be beneficial to the provider of that information.

As Phelps expected, the reaction at the first two meetings was surprise and stonewall. No, there was no possibility that the market was being or even could be manipulated, No, they had no information, and certainly neither they nor anyone they knew would or could be involved in such a scheme. Certainly, if they came across any fact that would be helpful to the SEC they would call Phelps immediately

The third meeting was different. Phelps knew as he walked into the outer office that he had been expected. That being the case, one of his earlier meetings must have tipped this group off. That was the first confirmation that something was going on, and it made him confident that this firm, Friedel Mutual Funds Inc. was involved. Now he had the leverage he was looking for.

The man behind the Friedel organization was Alistair Friedel, just thirty five years old. He had made his fortune in junk bonds, in the Millikin era, but as his efforts had created only a small hundred million dollar fortune, he had not attracted much attention. As he was ushered into a meeting room, Phelps could sense the tension in the man, and felt his hand was damp as he gripped it. If he could play this right, he would get what he wanted to know. “Mr. Friedel, we know that you have been attempting to manipulate market prices in favor of your funds. We also know that you are not the only one. If you help us we may be in a position to help you.”

 

The response was not quite what he expected, “Sorry Mr. Phelps, your information is obviously in error. We are a respectable firm, and have never been a part of, nor do we have any knowledge of such a scheme.” Although the words were spoken by Friedel, Phelps could not shake the conviction that they had not been composed by Friedel, and that his heart was not in them.

 

“Sorry I couldn’t help, please take my card.” Friedel handed Phelps a business card, and ushered him out.  Phelps was about to argue when he noticed a few hand written words on the back of the card. Realizing all was not as it seemed, he thanked Friedel and left. Outside the door he looked at the card, “At 5th and 59th in an hour” were the words scrawled quickly on the back of the card. It was nearly lunch time, and the location Friedel suggested was at the corner of Central Park, where Phelps had enjoyed many a fine hot dog from the street vendors, not to mention the resultant indigestion. No reason not to go along with the plan, even though it may take the full hour to get from Wall Street to 59th.

As it happened It took only of forty five minutes to pick up a cab and make the three miles or so up town. He knew he should have used the subway, but like most out of towner’s, he found the New York subway system confusing and intimidating, not like the El in Chicago. As a result it was twelve thirty, and he just had time to muscle through the hordes around the hot dog vendor to buy his lunch. He was still eating his hot dog when he saw Friedel, who motioned him to follow. They walked quickly into the park, and when they were away from the crowds Friedel said, “This is very dangerous for me, and you never can tell who is watching. Three men have already died. I wouldn't be doing this except I want out of what is going on. You get me a signed deal from the District Attorney promising no jail time, and I will give you what you need. I will meet you here tomorrow at the same time.” Friedel turned and walked hurriedly back to the corner and disappeared into the crowds.

Satisfied that he had, or was going to get, what he came for, Phelps slowly followed Friedel back to the street, and took a cab back to his office.

 

All the activity in the Keys the next morning delayed Phelps and it was a quarter to one when he alighted from his cab at the corner of central park. He looked around but could not locate Friedel. Searching deeper into the trees towards where he had had his conversation the day before, he noticed a small crowd, and then a police vehicle with siren blaring rushed past him towards the site. With grave misgivings Phelps ran over to the edge of the crowd to see the body of Friedel spread-eagled on the grass at the edge of the path. He flashed his badge at the officer who was about to restrain him from breaking through the throng, and felt for Friedel’s pulse. Nothing, Friedel was definitely dead, and Phelps had lost his informant and possibly his witness. All he had for sure was the certainty that a crime was being committed, that is in addition to the murder in front of him

Phelps turned to the officer nearest him, “This man is an important witness in a case I am working on. Get an ambulance, and get him to the nearest hospital as soon as you can.” The officer opened his mouth to object, but Phelps silenced him. “Say nothing,” he whispered, “this is very important.” The ambulance was there in a minute, and Phelps again motioned the medics to silence, and instructed them to act as normal for a severely ill patient, and get him to the hospital.

One would have thought it was an easy matter to get a dead man into a hospital, but Phelps was soon disillusioned of that. He eventually had to make a call to the head of the SEC who contacted the director of the FBI before the plan could be put into effect. At four p.m. Phelps addressed a noisy gathering of news reporters,  “Today I was to meet with a witness in an ongoing investigation of great importance. When I found him he was severely wounded, and unable for the time being to provide me with the information I was seeking. He is presently in St. Luke's Hospital in serious but stable condition. He had been stabbed with a sharp knife, which just missed vital organs. The witness’ family have been informed, and I am not prepared at this time to release the victims name, nor any details of our investigation.” As he walked away he hoped that the special duties officer who apparently lay asleep in a bed in St. Luke’s Hospital was prepared for what was inevitably going to happen.

 

In the meantime Friedel’s body was undergoing examination at the coroner’s office. There was little to report, other than this was a professional job, perpetrated, by an expert, one of the best in the business. The needle sharp weapon was designed to puncture the aorta without creating a large wound, and thereby cause the victim to bleed to death into his own lung cavity. Thus the victim would collapse without bleeding profusely, allowing the assassin to meld into the crowd before the victim’s plight attracted much attention. The only good news was that the victim would have felt only a severe blow to his back before he collapsed in a fog, and would have been dead in four to five minutes.

 

All was quiet on the intensive care ward in St Luke’s. At three a.m. a figure appeared on the floor. It moved stealthily along the corridor, to the door of the room where the form lay. The lighting was subdued, and the night nurse was occupied on the telephone and saw nothing. The man pushed open the door quietly, and poked a hand through the gap. The hand held a large silenced pistol. There would be no mistakes this time. Inside the room the crouching figure saw the door move, saw the arm come inside the room, and before the gun could fire, he threw his weight against the door. The intruder yelled in pain, and tried to run, but his arm was trapped by the door. Two other figures appeared out of hiding and in seconds had the man was subdued. The nurse now switched on the light. “My God, we got Scarface Bonita. This is serious heat.”

Phelps got the call at three thirty. “What the hell is going on, we are watching a two bit fraud customer and catch a major operative in the Columbian cartels. They obviously want your man dead.” The speaker was Fred Hanson, head of the New York office of the FBI and possibly the third most senior  man in the agency. “Bonita is their number two hit man. For them to take such a risk with such an important operator, someone very important must have an interest in what you are looking at. I want you and your team at my offices at nine.” He didn’t mention it, because he didn’t then know that the number one hit man had been found dead in Chicago only the day before, and there it was associated with another stockbroker case.

Phelps groaned. This was typical federal agency politics, turf wars. He would bet that the FDA would have heard about this in time to be at the nine o clock meeting as well.

 

There was not much more sleep that night. Phelps was frankly puzzled and disappointed as well. The trap had been set in the hope they would net a participant in the stock scam from whom they could pry some information. What they caught was a hit man who would have no knowledge of anything related to the conspiracy, and would give up even less. In addition, because he actually hadn’t yet committed any crime other than perhaps trespass, he would be on the streets again in a few days. As he dozed waiting for the alarm to ring he had a dream about lobsters gobbling up piles of money and turning into monsters. He awoke with a start. Was there perhaps a link between the insider trading business Jeremy had worked on in Florida, and the stock trading scam in New York? Could the Colombians be involved in both? If they were, what did they get out of it.

The alarm eventually rang as Phelps stepped out of the shower, so he let it ring. The strident beeps would waken the dead, he thought.  He had planned to try to get back to Chicago that evening, but that was looking a bit unlikely, so he left his stuff in the room and headed out. As he left the hotel to find a taxi, the snow swirled about him. This was more like February. He had first to go to his own agency office nearby before heading across town to the FBI. Being so early he had time to check up on his messages and email. There was one from Vanessa that he would look at later but he was drawn to the one from Hargrove, subject “Fernstine killer identified as Medellin cartel operative”. The report stated that the man found in the cottage in Michigan was identified as Fernstine’s killer by the fact that only his fingerprints were found in the Bronco that was beyond doubt the murder weapon. Those same fingerprints identified him as a known hit man for the cartel. So there was a link between the cartels, the major factor of the North American drug trade, the stock market price fixing scam, and the insider trading scam. So his dream, his hunch had been right. The Colombians were in this thing up to their eyeballs, but why?

 

The meeting had been going for a couple of hours and Phelps was getting agitated. He had not yet become accustomed to the political side of crime fighting, and wished he was free to get back to his work. He was sure that if Parkinson had been in Government and not the private sector his Law would have said, “The better one gets at doing one’s job the less time one gets given to do it.” For Hanson this was work, and the more of it he did, the more likely he would be considered for that deputy director slot in the Washington office. Hanson was speaking, “What everyone is saying is that the only crime that we are certain has been committed here is murder, at least three persons having been killed. We know that two of the murders were perpetrated by a known cartel hit man. That hit man is now also dead, shot presumably by the author of an email telling us where to find the body, a young lady whose current whereabouts is not exactly known. The third was committed by an unknown assailant, and when he apparently failed, the same or another of the cartels top operatives was sent in to finish the job.

“The second crime we suspect but cannot prove is happening, because our informants keep dying, is market manipulation. We believe we have evidence that trades are being done by persons unknown with the sole purpose of changing the price on the market. We have however detected patterns of trades indicative of the above in at least thirty firms. All of the firms we have spoken to so far do however deny that there is anything illegal in their actions.

“Thirdly, we have a director of a listed company who apparently informed at least two people of impending bad news. This was a crime but the perpetrator is dead and therefore cannot be prosecuted. If the persons he informed acted upon that information they too would be guilty of a crime, and we know one of them did, and he is now dead. We are not sure of the identity of the second person, so we cannot be certain he did act on the information. We do know he was pleased enough with it to give the individual he believed had provided it one million dollars in cash, and both the giver and the receiver - and for that matter the cash - are all at this time missing.”

Phelps thought there was a lot more that was speculation, but he said nothing because he had to admit, Hanson had summarized where they were at pretty succinctly.

Hanson continued, “Obviously the FBI are to take the lead on the murder investigations, and Phelps and his team at the SEC will continue to work the stock scam issues, but we must keep the FDA informed because there is very probably a drug connection, even though we don't know exactly why. I go along with Phelps that the money seems to be the key, but we have not yet actually found any link. Lets leave it there, but keep me informed”

“One last thing, these two young people from Chicago who blew this whole thing open, find them and bring them back here so we can get their full story. If you believe it necessary, and are certain that they are entirely innocent, we can use the witness protection program.” He added the last sentence to stop Phelps who was on the point of objecting.

 

When Phelps got out into the fresh air, he took two deep breaths. He was not good at meetings. Heading back to the office, he got his own group together for a brief update. “We are going to lose this one to either the FBI or the FDA if we don't get something soon.  We have got to find someone who knows something about this who is neither dead nor in imminent threat of dying. We also have to get a handle on the money angle. If drug money is going into the mix, how is it being done, and where is it going.” Lisa, the young analyst, chipped in, “I have something here which may just help. What I did was go back in time to follow the patterns to see if I could find out when it all started. I found two things of interest. The activity has been very high since 1998, while before that the number of players was much less. I tracked that back to the early nineties, and came down to just half a dozen groups that were active at that time. I have that list here, and this one asterisked, Franklin Capital is my guess at who was the first.

“Also I found a very interesting secondary pattern. If you look at which funds are working which stocks, something very interesting emerges. Each group works four or five stocks for a period of about six months, then they work another group. The interesting part is that the changes take place in all the groups at the same time, give or take a few days. Now that is evidence of coordination, a conspiracy! Someone is telling everybody else which stocks to work. Just out of interest the last change was just this week.”

“It may be just a coincidence, but I happened to attend a conference in the Bahamas last weekend, guest of the head of one of the Mutual groups. All the fund managers were there, amongst two thousand sales representatives.” The comment came from the head of the New York office.

“That could be an important link,” said Phelps, “if they are meeting secretly at these conferences, we may be able to correlate the activity in their funds with attendance at a conference. It will be good corroborating evidence. So we all know what we are looking for, I am off to visit the names on Lisa‘s List” 

 

Before setting off, Phelps decided to check his email, he had not yet absorbed Vanessa’s message that was there that morning. The message was a copy of one sent to Laurie Merkel: “Re Microline: If we can track down who sold large blocks of Microline stock in the week preceding the press conference, this will give us a list of names to match with Columbus.” Now he also found a reply from Laurie, “Only five sizable trades. Two are officers of Microline, one was Bill himself, one the Merkel Group Mutual fund, and the last a Belize corporation. No details on who these people are except they have been shareholders since Bill did a private placement financing for Microline while it was in the startup phase.”

 

An offshore corporation in a tax shelter country, that made things difficult, thought Phelps. Even the SEC had trouble getting details of who owned these corporations, particularly when they were stacked, that is one corporation being a wholly owned subsidiary of another in another tax shelter jurisdiction such as the Cayman Islands. Phelps wrote a quick note to Laurie, “Check back to see if the same corporation did any other deals with Bill?”  To Vanessa he wrote, “Stay put. It’s still very unhealthy out there.” He at least was not going to put Vanessa and Jeremy into any more danger than they were already!

He decided to visit Franklin Capital first, and as he left his office, he asked one of the assistants to call the CEO there to expect him. He was not surprised, therefore, to be met by Jeff Rosenberg, who he had met once before at a seminar on stock market dynamics. At that seminar, Jeff had explained how stock and commodity markets were the ultimate expression of free markets, and how the flexible pricing structure was supply and demand in action in its purest form.

After the usual pleasantries Phelps began, “Mr. Rosenberg, I have come to you as an expert on market dynamics. We are getting some information that some person or group of persons has been trying to rig the NASDAQ. We are finding some strange trading patterns in the large mutual fund groups, suggesting large movements of stock parcels between funds without a commercial purpose. Have you seen any evidence of this, and do you have any other comments.”

Jeff’s answer had been prepared many years ago, “Everyone will tell you it is virtually impossible to influence the prices on the stock market to any significant degree, it would require cooperation of almost everyone involved, and in a free economy that is a most unlikely scenario. Large in house trades are a normal part of business for us and all fund managers. We balance out our funds almost every day to maximize the return to our investors.”  As Jeff spoke, Phelps knew he was lying. There was a slight smirk on his face and a tone in his voice which mocked him and the rest of the establishment shouting, “you will never prove anything, it is all just too clever.”

Phelps tried to shake him, “Did you attend the Mutual Rewards Conference in the Bahamas two weeks ago?” Perhaps just a flicker of uncertainty, “With perhaps two thousand members of the financial fraternity. We are joint sponsors of the event with most of the major Mutual Fund managers. We look after our sales people. After all our agents are our real customers.”

“Two of those fund managers have since died in mysterious circumstances. Did you perhaps meet them at the conference?”

“If you are referring to Alistair Friedel, I had heard he had been attacked, but understood he was hanging on. Yes I knew him, we had breakfast together on the last Saturday, with several others, I might add. As for two persons having died, no I hadn’t heard, so I cannot really answer your question.”

Phelps knew he was getting nowhere. The answers were too glib, carefully prepared, giving away nothing. This Rosenberg was certainly a cool customer.

 

The morning after their escape to Naples, Jeremy and Vanessa walked arm in arm to breakfast. It was clear that their relationship had changed, they were still best friends, but today they were also lovers. The change had come suddenly. They had been sitting across from each other at a small table next to the pool in the garden of the hotel having a few beers as they each regaled the other of their exploits over the previous few days. They were not actually competing, but as each story became more daring and incredible, they both realized that they were extremely lucky to be sitting talking to each other here in this idyllic setting. There had been real danger for each of them, and both knew that the loss of the other would have meant a great deal.

Then it happened. Jeremy was drawing a map to show Vanessa where he had taken the fishing boat, He pulled his seat around to her side of the table and unintentionally brushed her thigh with the back of his hand as he sat. They had touched each other many times before but this was different. The thrill of the contact was electric, his thoughts raced, and he sank back in his chair with an almost audible sigh. He quickly glanced at Vanessa to see her reaction. Thank god, she was flushed and confused also. The same had happened to her.

He took her hand, and she immediately returned his pressure. He looked straight into her eyes, and she smiled. They both knew. This night was the beginning of the rest of their lives.

 

They did not immediately go up to their room, but sat for another hour or so in the moonlight reveling in the warmth of each other’s company. When it is not storming, Florida in February is paradise. Cool enough to be comfortable, the skies clear, the stars shining, and when one is in love, it is as near perfect as it can be. They talked of trivia and of memories but mainly they just talked hoping that this moment, this new memory would last forever.

Later, when they made love it was gentle and tender, as it is between couples who have been together for years, each trying to make it better for the other. And when it was over Vanessa cried softly. Fearing something was wrong, Jeremy kissed the tears from her eyes and held her tightly. “Why did we wait so long?” she asked. There was nothing wrong.

They were still smiling as they approached the dining area when Vanessa stopped suddenly. “I may be oversensitive in the light of my new status as a fallen woman, but that man is taking more than the usual interest in me.” She was referring to a swarthy individual who was trying to look inconspicuous behind a small bougainvillea bush, while he grappled with his cell phone and glanced furtively in their direction. “He has the same look as those men who were tailing you.”

As she spoke the man deliberately tried to hide behind the bush, attempting not to be seen by them. That action confirmed in both their minds that this man knew who they were, and was busy reporting their whereabouts to someone else. His appearance made them believe that this was not a good thing. “The honeymoons over,” Jeremy said, “we’d best get away from here fast. How did they find us?” He grabbed Vanessa by the arm, “You get the car and meet me near that fire exit at the end of our corridor. I’ll get the bags.” 

“Just bring the one, you know the one that I mean”. Vanessa ran off as she spoke, through the foyer and out the front door, while Jeremy was already halfway up the stairs. The hotel was one of those inns scattered all over the sunbelt. Just a two floor building in the shape of a U with the pool and dining facilities located in the middle. Their room was on the second floor close to the end of one of the arms where there was a fire exit leading out to the driveway which encircled the whole building. It took Vanessa barely half a minute to start the car and screech over the speed bumps to the fire exit but Jeremy was there waiting, testimony to the urgency of the situation. He opened the passenger door, and climbed into the passenger seat in the same movement as he tossed the bag containing the money onto the back seat.

Fast as they were, they were not fast enough. Vanessa was just ready to get moving again when the man came around the end of the building directly into their path. His hand moved to pull something from under his coat, probably a gun. “He is going to kill us,” yelled Jeremy, “Just hit him, now!” The word “now” was said with such urgency that Vanessa hesitated no longer. She just released the brake and thrust the accelerator to the floor. The rental Grande Am did not have the pickup of Jeremy’s BMW, but the speed with which it moved took the man by complete surprise. When the left fender hit him, he was in mid leap to the side in a desperate effort to avoid the collision, but his arm was still outstretched to fire the vicious looking uzi 9mm. The blow knocked him flying into the bushes alongside the driveway, while the gun arched over the windshield and landed in the rear seat of the convertible.

“Go,” said Jeremy as if Vanessa needed any urging and the car raced out of the hotel driveway onto the street. “At least we now have a gun,” he said leaning over to retrieve the uzi, “Do you know how to use one of these.”

Vanessa took the sharp turn at the end of the street and was now pointed directly at the onramp for I75 before she answered, “Well, the man back there was just going to shoot us with it, and if he knew what he was doing, it should be ready to fire, so I guess you just point it and pull the trigger.” Her matter of factness calmed both their nerves enough for them to notice the car screeching off the opposite off ramp and racing towards the hotel. They had got away from their pursuers for now, but the man who had noticed them was probably not dead from the blow from the car, and anyway, he had already got the word out. They had been found once, how long would it be before they were found again.

 

“We have got to get word to Phelps, and to do that we need privacy and a phone line, but this time we have got to be more careful. Lets find a quiet Mom and Pop Motel and go to ground for a while. Do you know where we are headed?” Jeremy asked the question more to provoke his own thought processes, but Vanessa responded, “I have just seen a signboard, we are heading north, towards Fort Myers.”

“OK, lets head for Sanibel Island. I visited there when I was a kid, and from what I remember it’s just the kind of place in which they would not be looking for us. Also, whoever is after us will think we have fled the area, they won’t be looking in their own back yard. It’s strange, but I think that man at the hotel recognized you, not me, so they must have picked up on the fact that you were with me when you left the hotel in Miami Beach. That means they know this car because they must have recognized it as well. We will have to get rid of it as soon as we can get something else.”

Vanessa cut into Jeremy’s musings, “We have also got to do something about clothes and toothbrushes and things. Luckily we left your laptop in the trunk last night, but everything else is still in the room at that Residence Inn.  I’m sure we’ll be able to get that sort of thing on the island.”

It would be only minutes before they reached Daniels Parkway which would lead them down towards Sanibel. They drove in companionable silence for most of the way, while Jeremy turned the uzi over and over as if by doing this he would somehow absorb some skill in handling a weapon, and it seemed to work as he began to feel much more at home with it in his grip. He did determine how he could release the magazine to see how many rounds were loaded, and he was pleased to see that it was nearly full with at least twenty of the stubby looking bullets. He had a feeling that they may need that many before this whole thing was over.

 

They had been checking carefully behind them every so often to see if they had been followed, and they were satisfied that all was clear, but just to be certain, as they swung off the highway at the Daniels Parkway they pulled into a Burger King right at the off ramp and watched for any suspicious vehicles to follow. There were none, so doubly satisfied they were alone, they used the drive thru to get their much belated breakfast and continued on their way. This caution was all very well, but both knew that the real danger was not that of being followed, but that of being recognized again. This man Columbus seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere.

They crossed the causeway onto Sanibel, and turned north on the only road there was, quaintly named Periwinkle Way. Vanessa said, “This looks just the sort of place, you can almost feel the peace come over you. There look at that hotel, doesn’t that meet all our requirements?” Just ahead was The Anchor Inn, a small motel consisting of separate self contained “A” frame units where one could park right in front of the room.

“Looks good,” agreed Jeremy, ”Pull in and see if the have a room. I’ll stay in the car and cover you.”  When Vanessa emerged from the office with the manager a few minutes later and followed him across the parking lot to a unit diagonally opposite, Jeremy followed in the car, and chose to park it out of sight along the side of the building. “Perfect,” he said, “gives us a clear look across to the road, and it is the last unit in the row. Pity that canal over there blocks our escape in that direction.” He pointed to a fifteen foot wide strip of water that paralleled the road against the rear boundary of the hotel property.

“If you do have any thoughts in that direction, just remember the manager warned me that there is a resident ten foot alligator in that canal. Apparently he is partial to the fish offal discarded by the hotel’s human residents when using the nearby cleaning table. He also told me about provisions. They have a few items in the small shop which will get us by for now, and there is a convenience store just down the road for us to buy a some food.” Vanessa spoke as they carried the money bag into the unit, and were pleased to notice a basic kitchen in the back. “Interestingly, the manager also told me that the owner of the motel also owns the gas station down the road, and has a few rental cars. Not luxury, so the guy said, but good and solid.”

As soon as they were settled into their room Jeremy retrieved the laptop from the trunk of the car and set about preparing an email for Phelps. He had decided it was too dangerous to call, it seemed that any action that identified their position was ill advised. An email could be traced, but it would take a lot longer.

 

To Agent Phelps, SEC

URGENT

cc Laurie Merkel, Merkel Capital.

From Jeremy Baird.

Re Columbus and other matters.

Whatever Columbus is into, he seems to have an incredible organization behind him. Seems to me it is likely drugs.  Also seems that in his case the key is legitimizing large chunks of cash, that is, money laundering. Seems we should try to determine what Bill Fernstine did with all the other cash money he must have received. Also it may be prudent to check if there is any cash money connection in NYC.

We are both OK except someone tried to kill us at the Residence Inn near Naples this morning, perhaps you can tell us what happened to the man we hit with our car.

Please respond ASAP.

 

Jeremy knew it might be hours before he received a reply, so turning back to his laptop, he revisited each of the mailboxes listed in Brad Layton’s Outlook Express accounts. As he did so he smiled at the gullibility of most people. They all believe that their email is secret and secure in their own computer, whereas in reality the files are held on a mainframe somewhere, perhaps thousands of miles away. True, when you download your messages, they are marked for deletion on the server, but until they are actually deleted, they are accessible to any hacker who wants to take the time to get at them. This is of course particularly true of those messages that have not yet been read, and if one were dead, one would not have tried to read one’s email.

The first box he visited was obviously the one used by Brad in his communications with his brokers, as it contained eight messages all from firms around the country confirming receipt of this order or that. Nothing here was interesting. However, the second box contained only one message, and that was from a New York brokerage house called Franklin Capital. The message, dated the day before Bill Fernstine was killed was brief. “Your request for help with the troublesome factor has been passed to the people who can help. Action will be forthcoming within days.” It was signed simply “Jeff”.

“Why”, thought Jeremy “would Franklin Capital use a different address to other Brokerages firms, and why would Brad be asking them for help. They are competitors.” He was staring at the message when he felt a warm presence behind him.

“Franklin Capital.” The voice was Vanessa’s and the warmth of her breath on his neck as she spoke enticed him to lean backwards just slightly till he felt the pressure of her firm body against his. “I have seen that name before. In Brad’s office, there was this message inviting Brad to meeting at a conference in the Bahamas, I’m sure that message came from Franklin Capital”.

As if in response he lifted his arm around her neck and pulled her tightly against him. “Enough of that” Vanessa whispered, “Plenty of time for fun later, this is work time”

Jeremy released her reluctantly, and did a quick search of his hard drive on the laptop for the words “Franklin Capital” and after a few minutes of watching that stupid little hourglass turn over and over, the result appeared. Two occurrences of “Franklin Capital”, both in emails that had been copied by Vanessa in Brad’s office.

As he accessed the two files, Jeremy marveled at the depths of this woman he now thought of as his lover. In the stress of her confinement in the inner office of Merkel Capital, she was still able to absorb, and later recall the origin and content of one of hundreds of files she had copied that day. When the file opened on his screen, there it was, exactly as Vanessa had described. “You are again invited to attend the semi annual meeting of the Growth Group at 3pm Thursday, January 15^th 2001. As usual the meeting will be in my suite at the Rewards Conference at the Hotel Atlantis, Nassau, The Bahamas.”

He decided then and there to do some snooping into Franklin Capital, and thanks to the World Wide Web, he could do a great deal without moving from his chair. First he went to the corporate website FranklinCapital.com, found that the company was a Delaware Corporation, and spent some time browsing through the portfolios of the various funds in the group. Nothing here would lead to anything, so he moved on to the Delaware state website, where he found the corporate registration information. Listed as chairman and CEO was Jeffery Ariel Rosenberg. Scribbling notes of any salient piece of information as he went, Jeremy moved on to the SEC website. The .gov websites were always a wealth of information. Here he found Jeff’s home address, his date of birth, and the fact that he was no longer married. He also found that just last year Jeff had been paid a salary of sixteen million dollars including stock options. It seems as if the private affairs of anybody who is not a politician is listed somewhere on a .gov.

He was now ready. He typed into his web browser Http//www.mail.FranklinCapital.com/mail/. It was a long shot, but nothing ventured nothing gained, and Jeremy knew that most designers weren’t that innovative. In just a few seconds up on his screen popped a little login box headed Web Mail. So here he was at the Franklin Capital main email server, and who knows what he could find if only he could get logged in. He smiled, “Good thing I am not Hargrove or Phelps, they would need a warrant and would have had to show probable cause to do what I am about to do. As a private citizen, I need nothing, except a little patience and a lot of luck.”

Jeremy pondered under his breath, “This guy is the boss so his ID will probably be rather formal, like JRosenberg, or JARosenberg, I like the second, I’ll try that first.” He typed it in. For a password he first tried Jeff’s birthday, then he tried it backwards. No Go. Then he tried Ariel, Jeff’s middle name, then leira, Ariel backwards. Bingo, there it was, a list of incoming messages. He was in.

This time out loud, he muttered, “It’s amazing, people always use personal things as their passwords, makes it so easy to break. Vanessa, come look at this, we have hit the mother load.” The two of them poured over the screen, there were hundreds of incoming messages. Either Jeff didn’t believe in deleting his messages, or more likely, the website designer in his wisdom had set up the system to retain messages for a time in case they needed to be recovered. Whichever, here was a full record of email conversations, not only inbound, but tabbing over to a second screen, outgoing as well. 

Slowly scrolling through the outbound messages to three days before, there was the message to Brad Layton that had first piqued his interest in Franklin. Further back, nearly six weeks earlier, was the meeting invitation message, and it was amongst a group of fifty identical messages.  With mounting excitement, Jeremy blocked out the who batch and forwarded them to Phelps under the cryptic heading, “Here are your conspirators in the Brad Layton mystery, now we must just define exactly about what they conspired!”

 

As he sent the message on it’s way, Vanessa stood up, “Enough of this sleuthing, we have real work to do, work that we have to do to stay alive.” Jeremy knew she was right, so he carefully copied the last six weeks of incoming and outgoing messages from the Franklin Server to his hard drive, and signed off.

“This is evidence of some wrong doing,” he said, “Perhaps we will eventually find out what.”

 

It was early afternoon before a reply to Jeremy’s various emails showed up on his mail server.

 

To Jeremy Baird.

From   Chuck Phelps

Re Columbus

Thanks for your two this morning. Please don’t tell me where or how you got the stuff you forwarded to me!

Although Columbus escaped the trap we sprung on him yesterday, we are pretty sure that he is an important figure in the US drug business, maybe even the kingpin. We are sure he is dangerous, so be careful.

Re the cash connection, I am waiting for Laurie Merkel to report from Chicago, but you hit the nail on the head here. It seems that our prime suspect in the stock scam in New York also has a retail organization picking up hundreds of thousands of cash dollars each week for investment in stocks. Looks legit on the surface, we will dig deeper.

Re: your brush with death in Naples, we have no reports of any incidents in that area. Seems that the perpetrators cleared up themselves with no report to the police which is not, I repeat NOT good news. It confirms this organization is very dangerous and clearly does not want any questions from the law. I presume you did not stop to report the incident either! I am sure you both realize how dangerous this situation has become, I hope you can keep out of sight till it is all over. Obviously every mainline hotel has got it’s resident drug dealer, and seemingly each and every one of those in the south east reports directly or indirectly to Columbus. We know from past experience when a figure like that wants somebody found, he can put more men in the field looking for that person than all the federal law enforcement agencies together could do. Right now it seems to me that he wants you found, and that means he wants you dead.

Keep up the good work, but I repeat, be careful. Phelps.

 

Jeremy quickly wrote an acknowledgment of the message, and as he sent it, a new message came in from Laurie Merkel. It took a long time to download, so he suspected it was a long one!

 

“To Agent Phelps, SEC

URGENT

cc Agent Hargrove FBI Chicago

    Jeremy Baird.

From Mrs. Merkel, Merkel Capital.

Re Columbus and other matters.

I am sorry it has taken so long to get back to you, but the investigation took longer than expected, mainly because we could hardly believe what we discovered, and it was necessary to check out several areas of doubt before we felt we could report to you.

The nub of the issue is that, we have found the money trail, and it leads to a company my husband set up nearly fifty years ago when he was a small town banker. It is a payroll preparation service, (I will call it PPS). Seems that Bill, and my husband before him, received many large cash payments over the years, all of which they channeled into the PPS. We were able to narrow down that he received at least two payments from a Belize corporation totaling one point five million dollars. We actually could not track the cash, but we did find two payments from PPS to Merkel that were used to buy stock (the earlier deal was for Microline stock) for the Belize corporation (for various reasons we think this is Columbus).

What’s really bad about this is that we also found that Bill has been receiving very large checks from PPS over a long period of time. The corporation that is still a subsidiary of Merkel has always dealt in large sums of cash. Seems we did not know or want to know the source of some of that cash. It now appears that the work Bill did, and the work my husband did before he died relating to PPS was highly questionable and that PPS may in fact be a Cosa Nostra front company, or at the very least was knowingly laundering cash for them. It seems Bill did a lot of favors for his clients in the past, and was doing favors for them right up to the present. I suppose this means that I was married to a pseudo gangster for nearly fifty years without knowing it. I suppose it also means that my daughter’s husband who we have just buried was also a pseudo gangster.

The salient details of the two Columbus transactions, and the other large transactions involving the PPS are in the attachment in excel format. I am sure agent Hargrove will be very interested in that, which is why I have copied this message to him.

To Jeremy and Vanessa. Be careful, I feel really bad that you two got sucked into this sorry mess, and I feel worse that at first we thought you were the bad guys. Now it turns out, we were the bad guys, or at least we were sleeping with them!

Laurie.

 

Jeremy did not bother to open the attachment, there was nothing he could do with the information, but he sat back and sighed. “So Bill was a bad guy all along, but Columbus was still a new contact. There must have been others before. Maybe that will give us the connection with New York.”

“Now that we have this new vehicle, we must ensure that no-one who cares sees us with the car. It is much easier for them to pick up a vehicle than two fairly indistinguishable people.” Jeremy spoke as he carefully parked the car on the far side of the lot, as if to enter another unit. They walked openly to the front door, waiting till they were sure they were obscured from the road, then ducked down and sneaked to the end of the building and around the back. Skirting all the way around the motel in the shadows, they approached their own unit from the rear.

Carefully, they surveyed the open area between their unit and the road. Nothing moved. Certain that the coast was clear, Jeremy walked up to the door and was in the process of opening it when a figure appeared out of the bushes and grabbed him in a neck lock. “OK Baird, no more funny stuff. I want the cash, and I want the girl. Then I plan to kill you both.” He laughed as he swung Jeremy around to face the driveway, and started to move him towards a van parked there. As he did so the little light that was available glinted on a large bladed knife held close to Jeremy’s throat. The man had obviously not seen Vanessa, and she remained crouched in the shadows, desperately feeling around for something to use as a weapon. Her hand closed over a small rock. It was less than she would have liked but nothing else could be found.

Picking her moment, she sprang forward and swung at the man with the rock clasped in her hand. The force of the blow was enough to stun the man momentarily, sufficiently for him to release his grip on Jeremy, who fell to his hands and knees and scampered towards the canal. The man turned on Vanessa brandishing the knife, and she backed away towards Jeremy.

With two against one, it should have been possible to do something but the swinging knife was a fearsome obstacle. Soon both Jeremy and Vanessa were backed up onto the canal with nowhere else to go. Having run out of safe options Vanessa decided upon a tactic, one she had used many times in the only marginally less dangerous arena of hockey. She feinted to her left, and as she saw the man begin to lean in that direction, his right, she dove under his left arm, twisting as she went. She fell flat on her back, drawing up her knees till they were tensed like a spring. Taken by surprise the man turned his back on the canal in his effort to keep facing Vanessa. As he turned, she let fly. The heels of her shoes ground into the softest area of the man’s groin, and the force lifted him several inches off the ground as he arched backwards into the canal.

The man thrashed violently as he sank several times into the dirty water of the surprisingly deep canal, and it took him several tries to get a foothold on the edge. He was still half crouched, up to his knees in soft black oozing mud, when a ripple in the water sped rapidly towards him. The alligator had a firm grip on the man’s thigh before he was aware of it’s presence, and before he could scream the great beast had begun to twist him under the water. As he spun beneath the surface, his arm appeared once, then his leg, then for just a brief moment his face. After that, nothing but the occasional gurgle of expelled air from his lungs.

The urgent need to escape overshadowed the horror of the scene, and Jeremy grabbed Vanessa by the hand, hoisting her to her feet, as they ran into their room. Safe for how long they did not know, they fell panting onto the couch, and held each other tightly. “So this place is compromised. At least we know our assailant did not have the opportunity to tell anyone else of his predicament, so we have perhaps a couple of hours before they miss him. We must use this time to disappear, and this time it must be for a long time. Phelps is right. No one can protect us from this. We are on our own, and we must be alone.”

“If we are going to have to disappear, completely disappear, and it seems to me the only way for us to do that is in a boat. There used to be a sailing school just south of Fort Myers. I learned to sail there while we vacationed here in my youth. There were always boats for sale in the marina there. Lets go see what we can find.” Jeremy spoke as he threw the last of the their clothes into the recently acquired bags, and carried them to the door, As there was no longer any point in caution, Jeremy brought the car round right up to the front of the chalet, and they loaded all their provisions and meager belongings into the trunk, that is except for the gun. That they placed carefully on the rear seat. 

Leaving a few dollars on the counter in the kitchen to pay their bill, Vanessa also scribbled a note to say that the car would be parked in the lot adjacent to the Marina. No need to have the Florida police looking for them as well! As a final preparation Jeremy picked up his laptop, “This we will ship to Phelps,” he said as they pulled the door shut.

They were just beginning to relax as the car moved across the first of the three low bridges that formed the causeway back to the mainland. Built in the sixties, this string of low islands and bridges was still the only access to Sanibel Island. They relaxed too soon it turned out, as they noticed a Ford Explorer parked dangerously close to the edge of the pavement a hundred yards ahead. As they approached, it began to edge its way onto their lane. “Either that guy is a moron or this is more trouble” said Vanessa who was driving. At that instant, a barrel appeared through a crack in the rear window of the explorer, and a shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted off the pavement and passed harmlessly by. “They are shooting at our tires.” Vanessa’s words were almost calm; one would have thought it was commonplace to have a total stranger open fire at them. Not quite as calm, Jeremy barreled over the seat back into the rear of the car, grabbed the uzi, and wound down the window. By the time he had sort of aimed and pulled the trigger, the two vehicles were almost abreast.

The gun seemed to come alive. Not one shot emerged from the short barrel, but a string of perhaps fifteen rounds. The first bullet went right through the driver’s side window, more or less where it had been intended to go, but after that the recoil of the weapon caused a spray of lead all the way along the side of the vehicle. The track curved upwards till a few shots cleared the roof of the Explorer, and headed out into the bay to plunged harmlessly into the sea several miles away. By the time Jeremy’s finger let go of the trigger, the final shot went right through the roof of their own car. All Jeremy could manage was a hushed, “The damn thing was on auto!”

As inexpert as the operator was, the effect of the salvo from the Uzi was devastating to the Explorer or at least to it’s occupants. The truck slewed to the right then straightened up just in time to plunge headlong into the ocean at the end of the island, also just in time for Vanessa to regain full control of their car and head onto the looming second bridge.

“They were waiting for us knowing we had no other way out, and I guess they didn’t shoot to kill only because they were not totally certain it was us. Oh. By the way, have you switched that thing off automatic, we cant afford to spray lead all over the place like that.” The weak joke Vanessa made did not entirely hide the relief in her voice nor the tinge of pride she felt in the man who had just extricated them both from a very serious predicament.

Pretending he had noticed neither innuendo, Jeremy replied seriously, “Ten four, and you are right, we can’t afford any more wasted shots. I think there are only four or five shots left. Also, by the way, that was pretty OK driving as well.” He too was entitled to be proud of his woman.

 

As they drove past the drawbridge and the toll booth, they both shielded their faces, just in case anyone had noticed the incident, but as there was no reaction from either building, they assumed that no one had. They drove on in silence, and as they cruised between the tall palm trees on McGregor Avenue, both mused that it might be a while before they returned to this beautiful city.