Shake the Trees (13 page)

CHAPTER 16

Sam’s elbows rested on Marc’s glass and polished nickel desk.  His face was buried in outstretched hands.  Wondering how he could have been so stupid.  Wondering if he’d just experienced the worst day of his life.  Even worse than San Diego.

Sam had moved into Marc’s office only six weeks earlier after Marc had begged him for help.  Marc had sat at this very desk and cried as he admitted to Sam that he was addicted to prescription pain medication and booze.  He was checking into a world-renowned rehab facility in Palm Beach; his mother was devastated.  The treatment plan would last for three months, and he would be unable to communicate with the outside world for the first eight weeks.

Sam had agreed to accept the responsibilities of Acting President and CEO, in addition to his duties as Director of Marketing and Sales.  He was not intimidated by the task.  Marc had been ignoring his post, which was now understandable, and Sam thought he could move the company forward in several important respects.  But his world had come crashing down around him on that bright and sunny Friday morning.  The Director of Finance and Investments had frantically attacked him as he entered the building.  One hundred and fifty million dollars was missing from the money market accounts. 

Initially Sam displayed a calm air of leadership, assuming that a computer glitch was the culprit, and that the crisis would be resolved before lunch.  But each of the three banks that had held the missing funds confirmed the worst.  The monies had been wired offshore.  The accounts were password encrypted and could only be accessed by the American Senior Security server.  The bank executives were firm and brusque - this was his problem not theirs.  A wave of nausea and fear settled into his gut. 

Finally he shook free of the fog of confusion long enough to see if Dr. Bob was in.  They had become close friends over the past few months.  He had shared everything about his life with him.  If anybody could figure out what happened to the money, Dr. Bob could.  But he wasn’t in, and he wasn’t responding to his BlackBerry. 

Sam’s twenty-year-old secretary suggested they call the police.  After all, she explained, when somebody broke into her apartment last year, her dad immediately called the police.  Why was this any different?  Sam nodded in agreement and had her make the call.

A detective from the Tampa Police Department eventually appeared in his office, and Sam gave him the scant details.  The detective said he would fax his report to the FDLE, and Sam should remain available.  Sam asked what the FDLE was.  The detective explained, but also said that the FBI might investigate the case since the funds had apparently been wired across state and international boundaries. 

Now there was nothing else for Sam to do but wait and worry.  And try and find Dr. Bob. But all he could think about was Sandi.  She had known this wasn’t going to work out.  She had said the whole thing didn’t feel right to her.  She was going to bring Dustin out in two weeks, and they were all going to Disney World together.  How would he explain this to Dustin?  ‘Sorry, but we can’t go to Disney World.  I have to go to jail instead.  Why?  Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.’  He had failed again.  All over again.

After the report was faxed to the FDLE, it immediately found its way to the desk of Commissioner Ron Alcorn, who called the Governor, who called Tillis.  Tillis had his difficulties with past Commissioners.  Most knew he had turned down the top spot at FDLE, and resented what they interpreted as arrogance.  And a generous dose of envy was thrown into the mix as well.  Most had attempted a showy display of their authority, and it had always ended badly for them.  Alcorn was different.  He understood the workings of a bureaucracy, and he realized that the Governor usually assigned the cases that posed the greatest risk to his career directly to Tillis.  That took him out of the loop, which was just where he wanted to be.

Governor Chuck Lord was known as “the People’s Governor”, and a few black leaders had even labeled him “Florida’s First Black Governor”.  But he wasn’t black.  Hell, he wasn’t even a Democrat.  He was a Republican.  And he was a genuinely nice guy, as well as a remarkably optimistic leader.  A leader with an approval rating of nearly eighty percent.  He had future President of the United States written all over him.  He even looked the part.  Tillis had backed him from the beginning.  From his run for the State Senate, for Education Commissioner, then Attorney General, and finally Governor. He had flown him all over the state.  From small town to small town.  From fish fry to fish fry. In the process, they had become the best of friends.

Tillis punched the speed dial button for Governor Lord, who answered on the first ring.  “Tillis, how have you been?”

“Just fine, Chuck.  Sorry I was out of pocket there for a while.”

It was said that Chuck Lord never failed to recognize a face or remember a name.  Which was true.  He could also read people, and especially his friends, by the look on their face or the tone of their voice.  “What’s the matter, Tillis?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on.”

“Well, I was in Orlando today.  Negotiated the last ten year extension on the lease.”

“Did something go wrong?”

“No. Not at all.  Everything went as planned.”

“So you improved your cash flow by a few million dollars today, and in ten years it’s all yours.  Improvements included.  What’s up?”

“It just made me think, you know, about how much time has passed.  I thought I had created a legacy, but that never happened.  When this lease expires, I’ll be over seventy.”

Tillis had enjoyed some wonderful female companionship over the years, but nothing had matured into a lifelong commitment.  He loved women.  He loved them well and he loved them often.  Like a kid in a candy store, he just couldn’t make up his mind.  Chuck Lord had found himself in a somewhat similar, but also very different situation.  He had briefly married as a young man, but had been a bachelor for almost twenty-five years.  He often said that he was married to the State of Florida, but many thought a beguiled America would soon steal his heart.

“Tillis, I understand.  I know that others who have observed your nearly forty-year long hornyfest might be less than sympathetic, but I understand.  Time sneaks up on us all, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Legacies are highly overrated, Tillis.  They can have terrible consequences for the generation they are meant to benefit.  I’m sure you’ll do a great deal of good for the people of Florida with that pile of money.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You ready to talk business?”

“Go.”  Tillis barked.

“Have you ever heard of a company called American Senior Security?”

“As a matter of fact I have.  I question whether their business plan is actuarially sound.”

“Well, even if it was before, it sure as hell isn’t now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“One-hundred and fifty million dollars went missing out of their money market accounts this morning.  Apparently wired overseas.”  Governor Lord answered in an even tone.

“What the hell were they doing with that much cash in money market accounts anyway?”

“Apparently they were in the process of resolving a dispute with the Department of Insurance and were liquidating several high risk assets.”

“How convenient.”

“Here’s the immediate problem, Tillis.  About a thousand elderly Floridians will be thrown out of their assisted living facilities within the next thirty days because this company can no longer meet its obligations.  These are people who are largely unable to speak for themselves.  This Governor speaks for those Floridians unable to speak for themselves.  As we speak, I am drafting legislation to require these facilities to give six months notice before they can kick my folks out of their homes.”

“Is that even constitutional?  It’s retroactive and it sounds like a taking without compensation.”  Tillis mumbled while deep in thought.

“I’m expecting you to fix this before the Supreme Court is able to answer that question.”  Lord responded sternly.

“Jesus, Chuck, I’ll try my best.”

“Fix it, Tillis.”

Tillis heard a click and pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with both annoyance and a little disbelief.  He turned to Alma who was hovering nearby pretending to dust an already pristine end table.  “I think my best friend just hung up on me.”

“That may have been your friend who you been talking to, but that’s not what hung up on you.  The Governor’s what hung up on you.  And he sounded pissed.”

Tillis studied Alma for a moment, and then hit the speed dial for Commissioner Alcorn.

“Have you talked to the Governor?” Alcorn answered.

“Just now.”

“He’s pissed.”  Alcorn sounded concerned.

“I know.  Tell Sally I want an appointment with the President or CEO or whatever the hell he calls himself of this American Senior Insecurity at seven sharp tomorrow morning.  Along with the rest of his top management.  And I don’t give a shit if it is a Saturday.  Have her pick me up at Peter O. Knight Airport at 6:30.  That’s the one over by Mac Dill Air Force Base.  Tell her to bring Starbucks.”

Sally Cummings was Tillis’ so-called “partner”.  Tillis was notoriously difficult to work with, but there was always a rookie who was willing to give it a try for the opportunity to learn from the best.  Sally was his latest victim.

“Tillis, Sally’s not your secretary.  She’s a Special Agent.”  Alcorn pleaded.

“She volunteered, Ron.”

“I’m not asking for much here, Tillis.  Just a little consideration for a fellow agent.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks.  Let me know if there’s anything you need.”  Alcorn offered.   

“I need background on this company and all of its major players.  Tonight.  I’ll check my e-mail every hour.  I need a computer forensics team over there right now.  I need Sally to get a list of all A.S.S. management top to bottom asap, and then I need you to flag the names to Homeland Security and all local law enforcement.  If one of their people tries to leave the country, I need to know.  If one of their people takes a piss in the park, I need to know.”  Tillis growled.  

“On it.”  Alcorn answered.

Tillis hit the end button on his cell.  He also needed a drink, a steak, and then another drink.  He pulled himself out of a large cordovan leather library chair.  “Alma, would you mind calling the club and telling them I’m on my way.” 

“Watch yourself, Tillis.  You’re gonna need a clear head tomorrow.”

Tillis grabbed Alma in a one-handed bear hug and kissed her on the forehead, but she broke away and put her hands on her hips.  “Don’t you go gettin’ all soft on me, Tillis.  Look at you all mushy cause you think you’re gettin’ old.  Shoot.  You ain’t even close to old.  You just stick to business and I’ll let you know when you’re old.”

Tillis chuckled.  “You got yourself a deal, Alma.  You got yourself a deal.”

CHAPTER 17

Dr. Bob’s head was pounding and he was sweating profusely.  His hands were bound together at the wrists and his feet at the ankles.  He was unable to raise his eyelids.  Something was holding them down.  His crotch was warm and wet, and his breathing was becoming increasingly rapid.  He was beginning to hyperventilate.

With great effort and concentration he began to slow the pace at which he drew each breath.  He now recognized the mental fog he was experiencing as drug related.  Been there done that.  Soon the high-speed road noise entered his consciousness.  But the sound was muffled.  He was covered with something.  Something that rustled when he moved.  Then he remembered the bar.

He’d been drinking at the Green Parrot again.  His cell phone had rung.  Unknown number.  When he answered he heard the Judge’s voice, but he sounded strange.  Distant.  Metallic.  “Meet me in the parking lot.”  And the connection was lost.

He’d knocked back the tequila rocks he was drinking and stood up.  The guy sitting next to him smiled.  He looked different from the rest.  Soft.  Polyester.  Not the usual construction worker in jeans and a t-shirt.  He’d walked out the door.  Unsteady legs.  A van pulled up and the side door opened.  Somebody got out.  Blurry.  A man came toward him.  Two figures, then one, then two again.  Then everything went blank. 

His mind wandered aimlessly and he worked hard to reel it back to the present.  He wondered how long it had been since the scene at the Green Parrot.  Suddenly the road noise lessened, and soon the vehicle began to bounce and rattle.  It had obviously left the highway and was on an unimproved road of some type.  And then it came to a stop.

After a moment a door up front opened and closed, and then he heard the latch of the door at his feet and the resisting squeal of a pair of rusty hinges.  The smooth feeling fabric that had been covering him was abruptly pulled away.  Suddenly he felt the burning pain of eyelashes, eyebrows and hair on the sides and back of his head being ripped out by the roots.  Dr. Bob knew his fate was at hand.

“Finally awake I see.  You had me worried for while.  Sorry about the tape.  That had to hurt.”

A full and low hanging moon provided the only light entering the open double doors at the back of the van.  But it was painfully bright to Dr. Bob’s dilated pupils, and provoked a searing burst of pain that streaked through his brain.

“How long?”  Dr. Bob croaked.

“It’s been a while.  Almost twenty hours by now.  My dumb ass brother overdosed your drink with GHB.”

“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate?”

“Jesus.  That big brain of yours never quits working does it?”  The man chuckled.  “Yeah.  The date-rape drug.  But don’t worry.  You haven’t been raped.”  The man laughed again.

Dr. Bob hadn’t thought of that, but was relieved nevertheless.  As his eyes began to slowly adjust, he saw an IV needle stuck in his forearm.  He looked up questioningly, though still squinting and hesitant to face the bright moonlight.  The man reached down and ripped the needle and tubing from his arm.

“Sterile saline solution.  I was worried you might get dehydrated and I also wanted to flush the drug out of your system as quickly as possible.  I told you.  I’ve been worried.”

Dr. Bob felt slightly reassured by the man’s familiar tone.  He looked up again, and recognized his sandy hair and blunt features.  But in his heart he knew that this man was really a stranger.  That he didn’t know him at all.

The man placed an open bottle of water in his hands; Dr. Bob’s wrists were still held tightly together with heavy grey duct tape.  “Take a drink.  Your throat sounds a little raw.”

Dr. Bob did as he was told.  The cool water felt good against his burning throat.  Soon the man replaced the water bottle with a king size Snickers candy bar from which he had already removed most of the wrapper.

“Eat as much of that as you can.  Even if you don’t feel like it.  Your blood sugar has probably bottomed out by now.”

Dr. Bob took a small bite and felt like he was going to vomit, but he knew the man was right and kept chewing.  The more he ate the better he felt.  Eventually he realized that he was ravenous.  When he finished the candy bar, the man placed the water bottle back in his hands.  Dr. Bob drank it all.  The man bent over and grabbed the end of the blue tarp that had covered Dr. Bob and shook it out.  Then he placed it on the ground at the back of the van.

“Don’t go anywhere.”  The man chuckled as he looked down at Dr. Bob’s ankles, which were wrapped together with several layers of duct tape.  Then he disappeared around the side of the van. 

For the first time, Dr. Bob noticed the cacophony of insect noises and the smell of the swamp that surrounded him.  He instinctively knew that he was far from civilization, and was terrified of being abandoned there.  His eyes furtively searched the interior of the van and came to rest on some trash in the corner.  The corner of his Blackberry peaked out from the rubbish.

Dr. Bob strained to reach for his cell phone with both hands, finally pulling it towards him with his fingertips.  He was able to hold it between the fingers of his still taped together hands and throw the device with an overhand motion.  It tumbled through the air and landed in the tall grass alongside the parked van. 

Almost before the BlackBerry had fully settled into the dense vegetation, the man returned.  He carried Dr. Bob’s laptop, a satellite modem, and several other seemingly unrelated objects.  The man set everything on the tarp.

“That’s my laptop,” Dr. Bob stated with some surprise.

“That’s right.  I stopped by your apartment and picked it up for you.  You can thank me later.”

“What do you want?”  Dr. Bob asked plaintively.

“I’m glad you asked.  This is how it’s going to work.  You will use your laptop and the sat modem to wire all the money you stole to my associate.  I assume all of the information you need is on one of the encrypted files on your computer.  Your life depends on that. The wiring instructions and routing information are on this slip of paper.”  The man pointed to his shirt pocket.

“It’s too late.  The money is gone.”  Dr. Bob replied too quickly.

“Are you left or right handed?”

“Right.”  Dr. Bob answered tentatively.

Before Dr. Bob could react, the man grabbed a pair of garden loppers off the tarp and placed the razor sharp blades around the base of the index finger of his left hand.  Dr. Bob felt pressure but no pain as he watched his finger roll off of his thigh and onto the blue tarp.  The pain came as blood spurted from his hand, and then the man snipped off the middle finger as well.

The man cocked his head to the side and studied Dr. Bob for a moment before he picked up a round cardboard container of Morton’s salt, flipped open the easy-pour spout, and applied a liberal amount to both wounds.  The pain was now white hot and Dr. Bob felt nauseous and vomited.

“Jesus Christ!”  Dr. Bob’s words were a scream, a moan, and a plea.

The man again studied Dr. Bob with a detached air.  “I need you to understand how serious I am.  Do you understand now?”

  Dr. Bob nodded his head vigorously up and down.  The man produced another bottle of drinking water and flushed the salt from the wounds.  Then he doubled over a large rubber band and placed it around Dr. Bob’s wrist.  Soon the blood flowing from Dr. Bob’s missing digits slowed to a dribble.

“Are you ready now?”  The man asked.

“It’s not that easy.  Wire transfers are electronic, but they’re not instantaneous.  They take time to be reflected on your account.”  Dr. Bob whined as his eyes darted from side to side.  

The man violently pushed Dr. Bob onto his back and yanked his pants and underwear down to his knees.  Dr. Bob began to struggle but became still as the blades of the lopper encircled the base of his penis.  While holding the gardening tool with one hand, the man picked up the container of salt with the other and dumped the rest of its contents onto Dr. Bob’s crotch.

“On three.  One. Two.”

“No!  Please God.  No.”  Dr. Bob’s high-pitched plea bordered on hysteria.

“God can’t help you now.  I know you are used to being the smartest kid in the class, but you are not dealing with unsophisticated people.  Do you want to keep your cock?”

Dr. Bob’s eyes were bulging as he nodded affirmatively.

“Then you will use the sat modem to log onto a server at an address I will provide.  My associate will be monitoring every keystroke remotely.  I assume the funds have been wired offshore into several different accounts?”

Dr. Bob nodded again. 

“You will verify the balance in each account and then transfer the funds as instructed.  If you are very lucky, I will receive a telephone call from my associate indicating that the total amount transferred is satisfactory.  I will then restore blood flow to your hand for a few minutes to preserve the tissue, and apply an antibiotic dressing.  I will place your fingers in a sterile bag with ice.  They were cleanly severed.  The lopper was very sharp.  I don’t think there will be a problem reattaching them.  After I leave, I will call 911 and give them directions to this location.  This doesn’t have to go badly for you.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Bob whimpered.

The man cut the tape away from Dr. Bob’s wrists and wrapped gauze dressing around the wounds.  He then produced a syringe and needle, and Dr. Bob’s eyes grew large once again.

“What is that for?”

“A very mild dose of morphine for the pain.  I don’t want your concentration disrupted by your injury.”  Dr. Bob closed his eyes as the soothing effect of the narcotic made its way to his brain.  He welcomed it almost as much as he had once craved it.

The man set the computer on Dr. Bob’s bare lap and connected the sat modem.  The fingers of Dr. Bob’s right hand began to fly over the keys.  In a few minutes he stopped and looked expectantly at the big sandy haired man.  A cell phone rang and Dr. Bob watched with hope as the man listened and nodded.  Finally the man flipped the cell phone closed and looked at Dr. Bob with eyes devoid of emotion.

“I’m relieved that you kept your end of the bargain.  Unfortunately, I can’t reciprocate.”

The man picked up the laptop and modem and carefully set the devices aside before grabbing Dr. Bob by his mane of greasy hair and yanking him from the van.  He dragged him to the water’s edge by his still bound feet, wound his hair around a meaty fist and brought him to his feet, took two steps backward, and viciously kicked him in the small of the back.  Dr. Bob’s head jerked violently and his body tumbled into the narrow arm of brackish water.

Several gators on the opposite bank slid silently under the mirror-like surface - their movement betrayed by several pair of floating yellow orbs reflecting the bright moonlight.  The big sandy haired man aimed a matte black 9mm Glock at one unlucky reptile, and squeezed off several rounds.  The big gator rolled and began to thrash about violently.

“A little extra blood in the water ought to make death interesting for you.”