Call Girl Confidential (16 page)

I was picked up a couple of hours later and driven downtown to Corruption headquarters to prep for the encounter with Jonas as best I could. I got to the conference room just outside the lead ADA's office, where the prosecutors, investigators, and techies had gathered. The techies seemed more on point than before. They had the Chanel bag all ready for me. I could barely see the opening where the recording device was hidden.

The ADA went over my instructions again. And yet again. He wanted to make sure I knew what I was doing. Slightly insulted, I said, “Frankly, I think I am more prepared for this than you guys are.” If I did it their way, something very bad could happen to me. I had to take control of the situation.

“Jonas is going to expect me to act like Ashley. You know me as Rebecca, but he doesn't know my real name or even my real personality. I have to put on my little show and do what I get paid for. I get it.

“I'm going to tell him I have a lot of cash that I've stashed away in another place that will take a while to get back here, but I need his advice on what to do with it.

“I understand that the point is to establish a relationship with him without Anna knowing. I really do not think any of you realize how dangerous that part is for me. Anna knows how much
money I make. If I start throwing around different numbers and Jonas tells her about it, she is going to know something is up, so I have to literally pull off an Academy Award–winning performance here and make Jonas realize that he cannot tell Anna that we are seeing one another behind her back. And I have to do it all within a few feet of this Chanel bag at all times, all the while heading off all Jonas's attempts to have sex with me on his desk.

“So, if you don't mind, I would like to go now, and I would like a little silence on the ride up so I can mentally prepare.”

T
his would be the first of many trips in “the van.” The van had tinted windows and both sides of it could open so I could hop in and out quickly no matter which side of the street it was on. They would make sure in these situations that there was always a female officer with us. Maybe it was standard procedure. I climbed in the back and sat quietly as we moved out and began weaving in and out of traffic headed uptown. I would call Jonas soon to set our meeting time and get him excited. My heart was beginning to beat faster. What if Jonas discovered the recording device? What if he figured out what I was up to?

The stress was overwhelming, and I knew that one wrong move and I was in serious trouble. They may be able to cover me today, but not after that. Anna would find out, and I would be screwed. Jonas was involved with some seriously dangerous people, as was Anna. Time for my phone call . . .

“Jonas, my love,” I drawled. “Do you still have time for little old me?”

“Ashley, darling, get over here as soon as you can. I am waiting for you!” Jonas enthusiastically replied.
Excellent,
I thought.
He's in a good mood.
“I'll be there in a little bit. I can't wait to see you. I've missed you. And I am excited to finally see all your artwork.”

He laughed, and I could tell he was pleased. “You missed me? I love it. I bet we can do something about that when you get here, my sweet princess.”

I could almost feel him smiling on the other end of the phone. “Kiss kiss, darling,” I said with a smooch. “See you soon!”

T
he investigators wanted me to be very observant about the layout. “Take a mental photograph of where his desk is,” they told me, “where the lamps are; the TV; where his computer is.” They would need that information in advance to surreptitiously go in there and plant bugs quickly.

I rang the bell, and Jonas answered the door himself. He was so happy to see me. We'd always met in hotel rooms before. The very first thing he did was take my purse and set it down on his desk so he could pull me towards him. He started rubbing his hands over my body in exactly the places I told the techie he would.

“Mmmm . . . somebody's feeling frisky today,” I teased as I wiggled away, casually picked up my purse, and moved towards his computer, pretending to be interested in a painting of a sunset that was similar to one he had given me. I saw his signature in the bottom right corner.

“Jonas, you didn't do this one, did you?” I squealed. “It's magnificent! It's not just yellow and orange and red—it's a dozen subtle shadings of each. I remember you telling me white is never white: if you really look at it, it's all grays and blues and greens.”
I think he actually blushed. I placed my purse on the desk next to his computer. The TV was very loud, and I was worried that the transmitter mike wouldn't pick up what he said.
Judge Judy
was on, and the litigants were cursing at each other.

“Jonas, why do you watch these shows?”

“It's just background while I work,” he said, zapping it off with the remote. “I don't need it now that you're here.” He leered.

He came up behind me and gave me a wraparound hug.

“So what's up, bubby?” he said as he rubbed his groin on my backside.

I gently took him by the hand and sat him in his desk chair and then sat on his lap.

“Well, here's my situation,” I said. “I have cash hidden back home in another state. I don't know what to do with it. I know there are laws where you can't just bring bags of money into a bank and deposit it without getting a suspicious-activity report filed on you from Homeland Security, right?”

“You're brainy as well as beautiful! But I knew that . . .” he said, rubbing my inner thigh.

“Well, should I bring it back to New York? Anna has always said that she trusts you and you're the one to go to if I ever need anything. Anna doesn't know how much money I have, so I'm trusting you now.”

I slipped my fingers between the buttons of his shirt and gently rubbed circles on his chest.

“Can I trust you, baby?” I purred. “I don't want anyone knowing my business.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, his breathing starting to be a bit labored.

You could see where his loyalties lay: he would get a lot more pleasure out of me than from Anna. He jumped right in.

“Here are your options,” he said. “Your best option is real estate. You can buy it with cash. There's no Patriot Act rule requiring reporting cash over $12,000 when you buy property with it. You just have to pay different lawyers to sign off on LLCs.”

“LL whats?” I asked, all wide-eyed.

“Limited liability companies. You set up shell companies. No one can figure out who the other owners are. It's a good investment. That's if you don't need to get to your money right away. If you do, you can put it in the bank. I can help you with that.”

I nuzzled his neck and kept playing the stupid little girl to his financial genius.

“I don't understand how any of this works,” I said in my cutest Southern drawl. “Anna just seems so savvy about money.”

“That's because she has me, baby,” he crowed.

“Well, what do you do for her? Can you show me?” I asked, grazing my hand back and forth over his fly. He leaned back his head and smiled, closing his eyes and giving a little moan.

“Can you give me a peek at her accounts?” I said with a naughty smile just before I started nibbling the lobe of his ear, which was his weak spot.

“Mmmmmm . . . I'd rather peek at your accounts, doll,” he chuckled. But then he typed something on his keyboard, and up popped a spreadsheet.

On the screen in front of me was the name Anna Gristina, with a list of account numbers and the balance in each account. There were names of her LLCs with made-up names. I remember she'd once told me about these shell companies and that she thought it was funny to give them names that sounded like law
firms, like “Fido, Rover & Schmidt.” But then I saw a serious number. At the bottom was the total of Anna's portfolio. It was over $14 million.

Jonas explained the details of the different accounts, and I could see he was getting bored—and amorous.

“Let's get a room,” he said, and clicked
CLOSE
.

M
y handlers at the DA's office were pleased with me. But it was not enough for them. I would now have to actually go with Jonas and launder the money.

They had to request the cash. Law enforcement agencies have access to large amounts of cash seized from drug dealers and other criminals. It had to be approved by the big bosses. The cash had to be in nonsequential order. Some of it was in fifties and some in twenties. The bills were rubber-banded up, as if I had done it myself.

The following week, I brought about $100,000 of it in a Louis Vuitton book bag to Jonas's office. At least I could zip it closed.
Lord knows what would have happened if I had gotten mugged that day. Jonas peeked inside and then opened his top desk drawer. It was spread clear across with gold jewelry with real stones.

“You could always buy this,” he said with a sly smile. “It belongs to Jocelyn Wildenstein. Her ex-husband gave it to her, and she's trying to unload it.”

Jocelyn Wildenstein had had a very public divorce from wealthy art dealer Alec Wildenstein. She became famous for getting so much plastic surgery that she could no longer close her eyes all the way.
Vanity Fair
had called her “the Bride of Wildenstein.” She had wanted to look like a lioness, apparently because Alec had found that sexy. I looked at the collection of solid-gold dog collars and leopard brooches with emeralds for eyes and shook my head. “Nice try, Jonas.”

No, we were going to have to deal with the Russians. The ones who had immigrated to Brooklyn neighborhoods like Brighton Beach and Sea Gate and made millions in one generation by whatever means necessary. They had built ostentatious mansions filling entire city lots where small vinyl-sided split-levels once stood. We hopped in Jonas's Lexus and drove past these monuments to money all the way to Coney Island, where the bitter winter wind kept the streets empty. We parked on Surf Avenue outside the Coney Island Circus Sideshow, where a mural showed a beautiful tattooed and pierced woman named Insectavora eating a giant bug. (And people denigrate what
I
do for a living . . .)

Soon a Maybach drove up. Adrenaline shot through my body, but I quickly memorized the plate numbers. It had tinted windows, and the driver indicated that he wanted us to get in the backseat. My fear level was spiking. I looked at Jonas and he nodded, opening the door for me.

Inside, we found two older men in overcoats and fedoras. No introductions were made. Jonas told me to hand over the bag. I passed the Louis Vuitton over to one of the old men, and he opened it in a routine way and had no visible reaction to the sight of tens of thousands of dollars' worth of rolled-up bills. He pulled out a fifty and rubbed his thumb over Ulysses S. Grant's face. Then he held it up to the light, no doubt looking for Grant's second, hidden portrait or the vertical stripe that read
USA FIFTY
. He pulled out a twenty and subjected it to the same process, then took out a small gold magnifying glass on a watch fob to examine another fifty, which must have passed muster. He gave a curt nod to the other old man and said something in Russian.

That one took out a checkbook and asked in accented English, “What's the name?” He then signed about ten checks alternately to me and to “Cash.” They had already been filled out in varying amounts up to $10,000 but totaling $80,000. They took 20 percent, Jonas had warned, and of course he would take his cut. That was the deal. They handed the checks to him, and he handed them to me, and I saw that the imprint was for an antiques business in Manhattan. A brilliant ploy: I could have sold them my aunt Tilly's silver, for all Uncle Sam knew.

“I hope you don't mind if I count mine too,” I dared to say.

There was a pause, and then Jonas burst into laughter, and so did they. “I told you she was like us,” said Jonas.

I tried to engage them in chitchat about antiques, but it was obvious they knew nothing about them. The meeting was over. They didn't leer; they didn't judge. Oddly enough, there was a feeling of respect. Here was another person beating the government system.

“You can keep the bag!” I said over my shoulder as we exited. More guffaws. It had almost been friendly. But I shudder to think what would have happened if they had discovered my recorder.

Jonas and I got back into his car and headed back to Manhattan. As we pulled out I noticed another van make the turn right after us. The damn investigators, who should have known better. I was pissed. These guys needed to fall back. They were too close, and it was going to get me killed. My adrenaline level shot up again, and I hoped Jonas didn't notice.

J
onas said we couldn't launder all the money with his Russian friends. I would have to start banking money, and he had a friend who was head of a local bank branch who would do him the favor.

He told me to bring another bag over to his office, this time with $50,000 in it. Another detective gave me a bag of twenties for that amount in nonsequential order, rolled up in rubber bands.

“Where do you get all this?” I asked him.

“This batch? A guy running guns up from your neck of the woods,” he said.

“Quite a profitable business,” I said.

“Until you're caught,” he said.

I thought with wonder and amazement about the NYPD detectives making $48,000 a year who go undercover and risk their lives and are out there seizing buckets of cash from sleazebags like it's only so much paper—and they don't take a bit of it. What integrity they have! And now the money was being put to use, hopefully for the good.

They installed a transmitter in another purse, this time a
shoulder bag, since I would be walking with Jonas. And he knew I didn't repeat bags very often.