For Blood or Money
4. Gone Fishing—With $ for Bait
THERE’S AN OLD ADAGE in detective work: follow the money. Riley’s question about where the money goes got me thinking, and it kept gnawing at me all night. In that odd way that the mind works, I found myself in a very hot dream with an unidentified model-quality date. But at every “important” point in the dream, my date would vanish and a sign would pop up that said “please deposit fifty cents more.” Most of the dream was occupied with trying to get fifty cents to deposit.
When I woke up, it was crystal clear to me that I had been looking for the wrong kind of clues on Simon’s computer. I resolved to start checking bank and financial records and find out where the money was going.
Riley had Friday off to meet with Lars on her thesis, so I had the day to myself in the office. I gave her time for her thesis work and didn’t require her to make it up. It was part of our agreement. Nonetheless, I knew that she would drive me to my appointments on Saturday even without asking.
I’d told Brenda that with the computer in my possession I would have access to all the personal information that was on it. That was only partly true. In order to get into bank records, I needed not only the computer’s password, but the bank password. That could have been a real problem unless the user had stored the password on the computer, like Simon did. It was a pretty common mistake people made with their computers. They entered a user name and password and the operating system popped up a window that asked if they’d like to remember the password. Well, who wouldn’t? Remembering passwords was a pain in the ass. Creating and remembering secure passwords was even harder.
Of course, when they selected the option to remember their password they got a little warning that anyone using this computer might be able to access the information they were saving. But who ever thought of anyone else using their personal computer in their home. Of course no one else had access to their computer—unless their spouse brought it to a computer forensics geek and told him to have a go at it. Getting into Simon’s bank accounts was as easy as looking up his Web history of places visited and revisiting them. Auto-sign-in and remembered passwords took care of the rest.
I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it wasn’t this. His bank account was a model of accounting perfection. It showed regular paychecks from the firm, normal utilities, and a mortgage payment. Groceries were bought. In general, it indicated a couple living within their generous but not extravagant means. There was a satisfactory balance in the account and the check Brenda wrote to me was already posted. I scanned the checks that had been paid and noted that most of them were signed by Brenda. Simon didn’t seem to do much with this family account.
The bank account led to credit cards and these, too, seemed in perfect order. But they showed a lot of different locations. Simon and Brenda traveled a lot. Dinner in New York, shopping, theater in DC. The next day, a hotel in Vegas. Did they ever stay home?
One account led to another and I discovered that there were often charges made in geographically different locations on the same day. A hotel in Orlando on the same night that one was paid in Acapulco. They traveled a lot, but not necessarily together. Finally, I came across the first of what I’d call Simon’s personal accounts. This account showed mainly cash deposits and cash withdrawals. Normally, if there aren’t checks you don’t know where the money goes, but with ATM records, you can tell the route it went to get there. It was obvious that Simon had some favorite spots to get money. That could only mean that he visited those places regularly. And that he used a lot of cash.
As I continued to investigate the accounts that the laptop was revealing to me, it was like finding little piles of virtual cash stuck in nooks and crannies all over the house. The diversity in business that Riley had spotted yesterday seemed to be reflected in the diversity of Simon’s accounts as well.
I found myself having pulled on a pair of surgical gloves that I wore when pulling apart a computer. But I wasn’t doing more than reading the private accounts of a one-time friend. It was like handling his dirty underwear. I didn’t really want to touch any of it.
It was still drizzling in Seattle, a gray, cold, wetness that felt like it had settled in for the season. It gets down into my bones and I decided there was no remedy but a bowl of Phó from a Vietnamese shop up at the Market. Maizie and I wound our way through the maze of tunnels and elevators that would get us from the Waterfront up to the Market and I ordered at the outdoor counter. At least they had an awning over the street so customers who sat on the outdoor stools were sheltered. Unfortunately, I couldn’t go inside with Maizie.
I sat there eating the hot soup and stirring bean sprouts and hot sauce into it, still caught up in the puzzle of Simon’s accounts. One of the cash machines that he frequented was located right here near Pike and First. I looked around, trying to picture him coming down from his penthouse office a few blocks away to get cash, lots of cash, near the Market. What kind of business was around here that he would want cash for? He certainly didn’t buy that many groceries.
The lights changed and, in the fashion peculiar to that intersection in Seattle, all traffic stopped and pedestrians crossed from every corner at once, some straight across the street and some diagonally between the corners. That was when I realized that one of those corners was still occupied by one of the older strip clubs in town. A block away was another.
Suddenly I wished I was still wearing those latex gloves. Was that where Simon’s money was going? I couldn’t imagine Simon going into a strip club—too many people might recognize him—but he’d always had an appetite for women. He had to be sating it somewhere.
They say that the only people who understand the national debt are billionaire entrepreneurs and mathematicians. Billionaires because sums of money in the billions and trillions are real to them. Mathematicians because a billion is as real a number as a hundred. I fell into the latter group. I could theoretically spend thousands of dollars a week, but I had no idea how Simon would do it. And his ATM withdrawals mysteriously stopped about ten months ago. Didn’t he use cash anymore?
I decided to start tracking down the major vices to see if there was one that might have gotten Simon hooked: women, gambling, and drugs.
Back at the office, I kept sifting through the files on Simon’s computer, but this time with a purpose. I plotted his cash transactions back for over two years. In addition to the ATM transactions near the market, there were two other locations that came up repeatedly early on, then suddenly stopped appearing in the records about ten months earlier. I looked up the addresses and found my first big clue. The two addresses were for Indian casinos within thirty miles of Seattle. This was something I knew a little bit about.
I’ve always liked games, even though I’ve never been a big gambler. Still, I knew both of the casinos that were on the list. Several months ago, I was called by the operations manager of the Sammamish Casino and Bingo Hall. His records had undergone a tribal audit and came up short over half a million dollars. He called me in to sift through his computer system for the leak. Finding the leak and getting a conviction on the embezzler saved Frank Deep Water Johnson his job. He always felt he owed me and was careful to be sure I earned complimentary meals and show tickets at the casino slightly faster than my play level merited. I called Frank to see if he could help me.
“Dag Hamar!” he exclaimed when he picked up the phone. “You must come out this weekend and I will get you a ticket to see Serendipity. In fact, bring your lovely assistant and I will get two tickets.”
“Frank, it sounds like a great idea,” I responded. “I wanted to come out this evening anyway to ask a couple of questions. I need a little deep information about a player.”
“Dag, you know that player information is confidential. I have to be careful,” he answered.
“I’m going to try not to put you on the spot,” I reassured him. “I’m on a missing person case and my records show that up until about ten months ago he was a regular out there. I was hoping you could tell me where he moved his action to.”
“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. If he is no longer a customer, then I’m not so picky about keeping information from you,” he laughed. “Are you suspecting foul play?”
“Not yet,” I answered. “I’m just looking for a place where a very rich man could drop a few thousand dollars and not be conspicuous. Maybe because he was playing with other very rich men like himself.”
“Dag,” he lowered his voice, “forgive me, but the game you want isn’t in your league. Technically, it doesn’t exist. This is Washington State, remember.”
“I understand, Frank,” I said. “Let’s just say that a businessman from the East is coming into town tonight and he wants to play where someone might be interested in a company he is selling.”
“I see,” Frank said. “What would this businessman’s name be?” I took a moment to do a mental inventory of identities that I could use and not get in trouble. Back at Gumshoe U under Lars, each of us were taught the fine art of creating a false identity that looked real enough to get us through a credit check. I seldom pulled a set of identity papers out of my safe except to keep them up to date, but I had some good ones.
“Sorry,” I said after a moment. “I was lost in thought for a moment. The businessman’s name is Jeremy Brett. He’s a business broker from New York representing a high tech startup in Minnesota looking for venture capital or outright sale. Funny, but he looks a lot like me.”
“Yes, well, I’ll be watching for Mr. Brett when he comes in this evening at, oh, about 9:00. I’ll have a couple of tickets available for him in your honor, but he should come alone,” Frank continued. “And he should bring money. There’s a thousand dollar minimum buy-in for the game he wants to play.”
“I’ll let him know,” I said. “I’ll… I mean, he’ll see you tonight.”
So, there was a high stakes poker game at the Sammamish Casino. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t legal. Poker tables were typically $25 or $100 limit. Frank was alluding to a no-limit game. Well, I figured Brenda could afford to front me a thousand dollars to find out information on Simon. I’d bill her for it.
I printed business cards that looked official enough and stopped by a local phone store to pick up a new cell phone and activate service in Jeremy Brett’s name. Maizie and I then caught a cab for home.
Friday night is Maizie’s sleep-over with Mrs. Prior, my landlady. I swear those two were made for each other and I was barely tolerated at times. We live in the top half of a duplex on lower Queen Anne. In her part, Mrs. Prior lives with an assortment of animals—birds, rabbits, and even a snake. She says that Maizie loves all the animals, but I think Maizie would love to eat all the animals. She absolutely drips saliva when I ask her if she wants to see Mrs. Prior.
Mrs. Prior was a pet psychic—excuse me—communicator. That portion of her day that was not taken up in caring for her own animals was spent caring for or communicating with others. She greeted us at the door and carried on a conversation with Maizie that completely excluded me. Finally, Mrs. Prior turned to me and said, “Maizie says she worries about you because you aren’t eating right. She says you need to have more fish in your diet and less red meat. And you should sleep more.” A large pink feather stuck through the back of Mrs. Prior’s tied up gray hair bobbed up and down with each sentence like a huge exclamation point. I told her that I would definitely have fish for dinner and not to worry. “Salmon,” Mrs. Prior called after me as I mounted the stairs to my unit.
I went into my apartment to get dressed. Since I was going to the Eastside and had promised Maizie I would eat fish, it seemed like a good idea to eat at the Front Street Fish House in Issaquah. I changed into a dark suit with a clean shirt and tie and pulled twelve crisp hundreds out of my emergency safe. I thought a moment and pulled out a couple more. I pulled Jeremy Brett’s wallet out of the safe and checked the contents to be sure they were current. New York driver’s license, credit cards, a couple of photos of people who looked like they could be related or just friends. Then I walked down stairs to the tuck-under garage where my yellow Mustang spends most of its time and headed east.
I walked into the casino and wandered casually through the slot area toward the cashier cage. Frank intercepted me before I was halfway across the casino. He called me by the name of Jeremy Brett. He had already prepared a player’s card and established a line of credit for me. I glanced over his shoulder at one of the security cameras in a bubble over the floor.
“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, Mr. Brett. I owe your friend a debt of gratitude. I trust you will not make me regret my hospitality.” We crossed the floor and bypassed the cashier’s cage. Behind it there was a door with a keypad lock on it which Frank keyed quickly. I’d always supposed that door led to the counting room, but instead it opened into a small and elegant poker room. There were only three tables and a bar. A few spectator chairs held attractive young women, relaxing and talking among themselves. The mistresses? I wondered.
Frank introduced me to the room at large and indicated that the other players would introduce themselves if they saw fit. I played dumb, but there were only a few faces that I didn’t recognize from the newspapers as executives of major Seattle area businesses. These were the type of people that you wouldn’t see in public together unless it was at a charity fundraiser or an SEC hearing. I was pretty sure that given a little time I’d be able to identify the rest. No one volunteered his name, but one man I recognized as the founder of one of the few dotcoms in Seattle that survived the ’01 bubble bursting motioned me to an empty chair at his table.
“Thousand dollar buy-in,” the dealer said as I sat down. I passed the credit chit Frank had given me to him and he handed out an incredibly small stack of chips. Values on them were $100 and $25. People didn’t bet smaller than that. I noticed a few silver coins and $5 chips scattered among the other players and assumed there had been some split pots during the game so far. There were a few comments about fresh meat at the table and chuckles, then we got down to playing table stakes, no limit Texas Hold’em.
I was on the button for the first hand, meaning I was the figurative dealer and got the last card. I also got the last bet of the first round. I thought I saw a look and a nod pass among the players. By the time it was my turn to bet, the bet was up to $900 and all six other players were in. I understood. They were going to see if they could put me out on the first hand. I looked at my cards and saw pocket 10s. Not my favorite hand, but not bad either. The question in my mind was whether they really wanted me gone from the table or if it was just a test of my guts.
“Well,” I said, “it looks like it might be a short night. All in.” I pushed my entire thousand dollars onto the table and there was a general nodding of heads as if I’d passed a major test—like whether I was worthy of playing in their league. I wasn’t, but I wouldn’t let them know it.
Five players were still in for the flop and it didn’t look like help for anybody. I was relieved not to see a face card turn up in the first three cards. So, in order for me to be beaten, someone had to have a bigger pair in the hole than what I had, or they’d need to pair up twice on board.
Fourth Street was a Jack. That hurt and one of the players came out aggressively with a bet that folded all but one of the other players. A pair of Jacks, I had to assume, but for the first time I saw another possibility. There was a mix of suits showing on the table so no flush would win this hand. With a 2, 7, 8, and Jack showing, the highest hand possible was three of a kind—unless the dealer turned a nine on the River. It was really too much to hope for and I prepared mentally to buy-in for another thousand. Then the dealer turned another 10. The two remaining players made their final bets and showed their hands—a pair of Jacks for one and two pair, 7s over 2s, for the other. The dealer paid the side bet and asked for my cards. Three 10s. The dealer pushed close to five thousand in chips toward me. With careful playing, it took me nearly two hours to lose them back to the others.
When I was near my break-even I excused myself from the table to go to the bar for a tonic. I was exhausted and aside from enjoying playing cards, I hadn’t really gotten anything out of the game. This was a table where no one talked business. They were just rich men playing Friday night poker.
I was surprised to be joined at the bar by one of the lovely women who had been waiting and observing the game. What a boring night they must be having. She introduced herself as Cinnamon and spoke admiringly of my poker skills. I laughed and we shared small talk. I hadn’t gotten anything from the poker players, so when I found out that Cinnamon often came to the game to watch I decided to probe her for information.
“I’m a little disappointed,” I said. “I was hoping to see an old friend here tonight. He set up the arrangement for me to join the game.”
“I know just about everyone who plays,” Cinnamon said. “Who were you looking for?”
“Simon Barnett,” I answered casually.
She turned her stool and mine to face the bar away from the game.
“Shhh.” She cautioned me. “We should go someplace else to talk. You game?”
“Won’t your boyfriend mind?” I asked. I hadn’t actually identified anyone she seemed to be attached to, but I couldn’t imagine why a young woman would be here if it wasn’t as a girlfriend.
“Oh, I’m just a hostess. Some of us come around in the evenings and get drinks for the guys and flirt. They give us good tips.” What an interesting concept. I had seen the young women get drinks for guys, but I wasn’t paying enough attention to them to notice that they were treating everyone pretty much equally. I went back to the table and cashed in my chips.
“I’ve got tickets for the 11:30 show tonight and this charming young woman has consented to join me,” I announced. “I hope I’ll see you all again on my next trip.”
“Friday nights,” one of the men answered. “Welcome anytime.”
“You behave, Cinnamon,” said another sternly.
“Yes, Papa,” she replied with a giggle. There was a general round of laughter. We slipped out the door as the game resumed.
“That was your father?” I asked, unable to believe it.
“No,” Cinnamon replied. “He was just acting like it. He’s really my boss.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to talk about Simon in there?”
“Him and all the others. Mr. S. has been mysteriously missing the past few days and it has all of them nervous. Do you know where he is?” Cinnamon asked.
“No. In fact I was hoping to find him here. I’d heard he wasn’t seeing anyone lately.”
“No one except Angel,” Cinnamon answered.
“Who is Angel?” I asked.
“She’s his special friend,” Cinnamon replied. “You know. They’re like a couple, except he’s married.”
“Hmmm. Sounds like I should meet this Angel. We might share some common interests.”
“Don’t you like me?” Cinnamon asked, pulling my arm around her waist and melding her lithe body into my side.
“Ummm, yes. Of course,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean…” I stammered, “I don’t mean anything like that.” Cinnamon laughed at my discomfiture.
“Of course you didn’t,” she smiled. “Do you live here in Seattle?”
“Part of the time,” I said, remembering my cover just in time. “I’m bi-coastal.”
“That’s okay,” she said sitting beside me in the theater. “I like both boys and girls, too.”
“No, no,” I hastened. “I mean I live on both coasts—part of the time in New York and part of the time here in Seattle.” Cinnamon laughed at me and I realized she’d been playing on words and I’d taken her literally. I was blushing.
“Aw. I bet that makes it hard to hold down a relationship, doesn’t it?” she said.
“Not so much,” I said. She kept throwing me curve balls, but I was beginning to warm to the game. I felt a sudden need to appear worldlier than my last few comments had seemed. “I have a wife in New York and a girlfriend in Seattle. They both maintain pretty well.”
“Are you rich?” she asked bluntly.
“Well enough. I live on other people.”
“Like expense accounts?”
“Yes, like that.”
“Are you on an expense account now?”
“Mmm hmm.” Damn. Her fingers had found a particularly nasty knot in my neck and I was enjoying this entirely too much.
“I like men on expense accounts,” she said leaning forward and brushing my ear with her lips. I was prevented from responding aloud by the start of the concert. For me it was like being transferred back to the music of my youth. They played mostly sixties and seventies hits. I’m sure that to Cinnamon it was campy rather than nostalgic. But she kept herself glued to my side, holding my hand and rocking to the music. When we filed out of the theater at 1:00 she asked if I was going to go back to play cards.
“No,” I responded. “I’m still jet-lagged and am ready to head home. I’d love to meet Angel, though, if you could arrange an introduction for me sometime soon.”
“Will your girlfriend get jealous if you have another date tomorrow night?” she asked turning to me with wide eyes. I’d had enough experience parrying Riley’s casual flirtation to be able to resist this, but damn! And this girl didn’t even work for me.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Well, we’ve got a kind of private party we go to on weekends. I’m pretty sure Angel will be there tomorrow night. I’d be happy to get you in, and if your girlfriend is nice, you can bring her, too. Pick me up at 8:00 and I’ll take you to the party. Maybe she and I will hit it off as well as you and I have. That could be fun!”
“Give me your number and I’ll call tomorrow as soon as I set it up with Deb,” I started. Damn, I should have used a different name for her.
“I’ll look forward to meeting her,” she said. “I’ll trade you my number for… oh, say ten percent.”
“Ten percent of what?” I asked.
“Of your winnings tonight,” she smiled. “Remember? We are here for tips.”
“Uh, you know I didn’t win that much,” I answered fishing in my pocket.
“Yeah, but you took me to a show. That counts,” she answered. I pushed two hundred dollar bills into her hand, figuring that it wouldn’t seem too much and wouldn’t be insulting either. “Mmmmm. You did better than I thought,” she said, then pulled my face to her and kissed me.
Damn! That girl can kiss.
All right. Deep breath. I extracted myself from Cinnamon after a long hug that resembled a dance. She let go of me in small stages as if she were pulling herself from a sticky taffy. Regain my composure. This was not what I came here for.
“I’ll call you tomorrow and pick you up at 8:00,” I said accepting the card with her phone number on it. I’m not sure where she pulled it from.
“It’s a date, Mr. Jeremy,” she cooed and waved a kiss my direction as the valet brought up my car. I didn’t look back as I drove away.
I didn’t know where the money was going, but I was pretty sure some of it had passed this way.
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
