Time on the Wire (19 page)
Authors: Jay Giles
Casper was lounging on his sofa watching the Devil Rays make the Yankees look like supermen. The game was only in the fifth inning. The Yankees had a commanding twelve to one lead. The Rays had more errors (5) than hits (2) and were on their fourth pitcher, the starter having been chased in the second inning. Casper felt an obligation to support the local team, but if the Rays continued playing like this, he’d have to rethink his local loyalty.
His phone rang. He clicked the TV to mute, got up from the sofa, walked to the kitchen, picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Dennis,” the female voice said. “Sorry I couldn’t call you back ‘till now. What’s up?” It was Mandy Coleman, one of the Bureau’s Duty Officers. Twice divorced. Actively looking for hubby number three.
Casper, however, wasn’t considering her for wife number four. Mandy was the office gossip. Casper figured if anyone knew what was happening on the Beck and Lohse matters, it would be Mandy. He also figured the way to find out was to ask her out.
“You probably know,” he said easily. “I’m on medical leave—I had a little heart procedure—nothing terrible, everything’s fine, I’m recuperating. But I’m getting cabin fever, want to get out of the house. Didn’t know whether you’d want to get together for a drink?”
“We could do that,” she answered drawing out the words. “Are you sure you should be drinking with a heart condition?”
“The only restriction the doc gave me was not to operate any heavy machinery.”
“So you need a ride, too,” Mandy said with a chuckle. “Well, I can swing by your place, pick you up. Just give me directions.” Casper did. Mandy repeated them back, said, “That’s easy enough. See you in half an hour.”
They went to a place called the Outlook Inn. It was a hole-inthe-wall bar with pretensions. New owners had added a menu of pub food, put framed European advertising posters on the walls, brought in a crew of scantily clad waitresses.
Casper slid into one side of a red leather booth, Mandy the other. A waitress appeared out of the gloom, put coasters on the table in front of them. She was a blond with dark roots, trendy glasses, and a tattoo on her neck that said Eve in script lettering. “What are you having?” She asked in a voice that made her sound twelve.
“Bourbon and coke,” Mandy told her.
Casper wouldn’t have figured Mandy for a bourbon and coke drinker. But, then again, he was seeing a whole new side of her. New front, too. She had on a pink top cut low enough that he could about see her navel. To go with it she had a skirt so short it barely covered her rear end. “Bud Lite,” he said.
Mandy leaned forward, smiled, her voice intimate. “I’m glad you called, I’ve missed you at the office.”
Casper seized the opening. “Feels like I’ve been away forever. What’s been going on?”
He had to wait to find out. Their waitress returned, served the drinks off a small round tray, watched Mandy take a long pull on her bourbon and coke. “I’ll check back in a couple of minutes,” she offered.
Mandy put her drink down, her eyes wide and bright. “Little Miss Numbers may have cracked the Beck matter. Can you believe that?” She dished it out—the ransom payment, identification of Marike Silber, Robert Ruhl’s murder.
Casper listened, his beer untouched, stewing on what he’d learned. “What’s the scuttlebutt on the new guy, Shuloff?”
Mandy drained the last of her drink. The waitress put another in front of her, removed the empty. She sighed, made a face. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a hardnosed butt buster.”
That’s who O’Neill would send. “Any clue when he’ll arrive?”
“Word is he’s got to finish testifying at some trial that’s draggin’ on.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it may be a couple more days before he gets here.”
After that, the talk turned personal. Mandy trying to draw Casper out, see if she could heat up a relationship. Much to his surprise, Casper found he enjoyed the banter. Mandy wasn’t his type, but the time he spent with her made him long for someone who was.
Hanna was at the Bureau at 6:30 the next morning. She unlocked her office, went in search of something that would let her spread out the Ruhl printouts stacked on her desk. She found an aluminum folding table in the training area, lugged it to her office. Opened up, it gave her a twelve-foot working service. Judging by the amount of documents Sean had printed out, she’d need it.
Hanna pulled her desk chair over, sat, began by trying to get a sense of Ruhl’s banking and brokerage relationships. Carefully she went through each and every document searching out institutions and account numbers. Gradually, the single large stack became eighteen smaller stacks. As Hanna organized, she also diagramed her findings on a large white board. Quickly, the board began to fill with a complex diagram of multiple relationships, associated accounts.
It was noontime when Hanna finished the last document, made a final notation on the whiteboard, rolled her chair back over to her desk. While she’d gotten a lot accomplished, she hadn’t heard from Sean. Time to nag him. She picked up the phone, dialed Sean’s number, got no answer, decided to pay him a visit.
On her way to his cube on two, she stopped by the break room, got a cup of tea, carried it with her.
She found him, joy stick in hand, earphones on, engrossed in a video game. She tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped. Almost knocked the cup out of her hand.
“Jeez, Hanna, I was—”
“Sean, I need you to evaluate what’s on that computer, not play the games. As soon as possible, I need a full write up.”
“What a spoil sport you are, Hanna.”
Hanna turned to go. “On my desk by end of day, Sean.”
He groaned.
Hanna couldn’t help smiling as she walked back to her office, closed the door. She pulled her desk chair over to the aluminum table of financial information, reviewed what she’d whiteboarded. Like many financiers Hanna had tracked, Ruhl kept accounts in different financial centers: New York, Zurich, George Town, London, Hong Kong.
The stacks of paper—sorted by bank—on the table in front of her detailed Ruhl’s most recent transactions. Hanna began whiteboarding all deposits, withdrawals, and transfers by the banks involved. As she worked through the stacks, she began picking up Ruhl’s rhythms of moving and manipulating money.
Disparate transactions on the whiteboard began to form a pattern. She could feel Ruhl managing his money.
Usually, when Hanna was in the groove like this she could uncover even the most skillfully hidden transactions. But after four hours of diligent investigation, there was no epiphany of discovery. Hanna could find no indication Ruhl had received a $50-million influx of cash. Even for someone as financially adept as Ruhl, with an amount that big, Hanna should have seen something. Like a bullet, it would have made a little hole as it entered his accounts and a huge, gaping wound as it exited.
Hanna might have missed the entry point, but she surely wouldn’t have missed the exit trail. If someone had killed Ruhl for the money, she should have seen the transfers. Silber wouldn’t have taken the time to conceal them. With a dead body in the room, she’d have made transfers quickly and gotten out of there.
Hanna stood, walked over to her desk, tapped an extension number on the phone’s keypad.
“Mrrumph,” said the voice on the other end.
“Don’t answer your phone with your mouth full, Sean. I need you to check something for me.”
Sean swallowed audibly. “Sure.”
“I need to know the exact time Ruhl last used each of those computers.”
“Sure, Hanna. That was all going to be in my report—”
“Just tell me now, Sean. It’s important.”
“Okay, well, he hasn’t used the G5 for over six months. That’s kind of interesting because—”
“Later, Sean. The other times, please.”
“Let me look.” Hanna heard him hitting keys. “The Cray with the financials on it he accessed last three days ago at, let’s see, 2:14 p.m. The Cray he used for on-line surfing, he last used five days ago at 4:06 a.m. That must be wrong, that’s the middle of the night.”
Not for an older person who probably couldn’t sleep, Hanna thought. “Thanks, Sean.” She glanced at her watch, was surprised to find it was 5:20 p.m. “Don’t forget. Your report’s due.” She hung up, punched in another extension.
“Medical Examiner,” a voice answered.
“Charlie, it’s Hanna. I need a time of death—close as you can get it—on Robert Ruhl. He came in yesterday.”
“Let me check. I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, Charlie.” She hung up, sat waiting impatiently. When the phone rang, six minutes later, she grabbed it on the first ring.
“Chance.”
“Closest we can get, at this point, is day before yesterday between 2:00 and 4:00 p.m. Is that good enough for you?”
“Yes,” Hanna said, nodding to herself. She’d pictured Marike Silber, gun in one hand, crimping Ruhl’s oxygen line with the other, forcing him to move the $50-million to her account. But if Hanna couldn’t find the money coming in or going out, and if the murder and computer usage times didn’t synch up, it hadn’t happened that way.
Ruhl never had the money. The killing was just to get him out of the way.
Marike set her new Dell laptop on the desk, plugged in the power cord, connected the cable to the room’s internet hook-up. She turned on the computer. While she waited for it to load, she took a sheet of paper containing a URL and several long, complicated numerical sequences from her shoulder bag, placed it next to the laptop.
When the browser loaded, she entered the URL, was taken to the site for the Cayman Wealth And Trust Bank. The home page asked for her name and password. Marike consulted the sheet of paper, typed in the first numerical sequence in the name box, a second in the password box, pressed enter, was taken to a numbered account page.
She was startled at the balance.
Zero.
Marike carefully re-entered every number, the result the same. The numbered account that should have contained $50-million had zilch. She checked deposits, withdrawals to the account. Found none.
She nodded to herself. There’d been a double cross before hers, and she knew exactly who’d committed it.
He was the only person involved she hadn’t yet killed.
Leaving the office, Hanna used her cell to call Miles. “Hi,” she said when he came on, “I know we said we’d get together for dinner, but I could really use your help. What are you doing, right now?”
“I was headed out for a run. What’s going on?”
“This thing has just blown wide open. How about I pick you up at your place in half-an-hour?”
“Sure. I’ll be ready.”
Forty minutes later, Hanna picked him up. As she drove to Ruhl’s condo, she filled him in. “I’ve been going through the financial records of a man named Robert Ruhl, he looks to be the mastermind behind this thing. If I’m right about Ruhl being the mastermind, then the money should have been wired to him.” She glanced over at Miles. “This is what I’m good at, Miles. Figuring out the money trail.” Her gaze shifted back to the road. “But I can’t find any trace of it in Ruhl’s financials. The only way that makes any sense is if something happened to the money before it reached Ruhl. Do you follow me?”
“Not really,” Miles said.
“Okay. Albrecht’s statement in the newspaper said he authorized the payment, so we can assume it was sent. Ruhl never received it. What happened to it?”
Miles shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“What if Albrecht kept it? Or sent it to some other account?”
Miles leaned forward, his gaze studying Hanna. “Are you saying Albrecht was in on this?”
Hanna wasn’t about to sugarcoat her suspicions. “Yes.”
“That’s crazy,” Miles said dubiously. “Albrecht’s a Daimler AG director, so high in the organization he breathes rarified air. Kidnapping? Murder? I don’t think so.”
“I do. Albrecht was either in on the kidnapping or decided to keep the money for himself. If we can find some connection between Ruhl and Albrecht, then we’ll know for sure he was involved. I’m hoping that, with your understanding of Mercedes, you may see something at Ruhl’s condo that makes the connection.” Hanna glanced over to see how Miles was taking this. “Don’t focus on guilt or innocence. Focus on how, why. We need to connect the dots, make this thing make sense.”
Even as he was defending Albrecht, Miles’ belief began to crumble. The unreturned phone calls. The sudden payment of the ransom. In hindsight, Albrecht’s behavior was suspicious.
Hanna showed her badge to the guard at the gate, he waved them on. She drove to the condo’s visitor area, parked. On their way to the condo, they made a brief stop at the business office, let Gordon Smith know they were on premises. His nervous tic started going a mile a minute.
Hanna used a Swiss-army-knife-like tool to break the seal on the condo’s door.
“Wow,” Miles said as he stood in the living room, gave the condo a quick 360-degree view. “This guy must have been incredibly wealthy.”
“Somewhere between $300 and $500-million,” he heard Hanna say behind him, “that I’ve been able to identify so far. Look around, get oriented. I think what we’re looking for will most likely be in his office.”
Miles walked to a Monet, peered at it. “Is this real?”
“If you mean is it an original work, yes.”
Miles nodded, continued walking around, looking at things. He looked in all the rooms, returned to the living room, found Hanna waiting. “Think his mother wouldn’t let him collect stamps when he was a little kid, so he had to compensate as an adult.”
“Actually, he had emphysema, was on oxygen, didn’t leave the condo. I think these collections were his way of filling time.”
“And here I’m making jokes,” Miles said apologetically.
“You can’t offend him,” Hanna said leading the way to the office.
“Good point,” Miles agreed. “Did this guy have any family?”
“Other than his son, the dead guy on Lido, no.” They walked into the room Ruhl had used as his office. “That’s another connection issue,” Hanna said, “Did the father bring the son into this, did the son bring the father, did they dream this up together?”
“What do you think?”
Hanna shook her head. “I don’t know. It goes to motive. Why would a multi-millionaire be a part of kidnapping? I think the answer is here in this condo, this room.” Her gaze swept the items that littered the cork walls. “You know Mercedes, you know Sarasota. I know money and crime. If we collaborate and sort through this stuff, maybe we can find the motive. I’m certain it’s here.” She paused. “It has to be here.”
Miles had been looking at the cork walls, as well. “When I’m planning a trip, I put everything related to it up on the wall. Maybe he did the same thing.” Miles walked over to the wall, started on the left, worked to the right, began looking closely at each item.
Most of the pinned-up papers were about web auctions. Items. Dates. Prices. Numbers. Magazine articles from Architectural Digest, Antiques, Antiquity News, Smithsonian had been cut out, put up. Direct mail from art galleries in New York, Miami, London.
Almost hidden by a flyer from the SoHo Gallery for a retrospective on the works of Richard George, Miles found a small item cut from The Observer, Longboat Key’s local weekly. He took it off the wall to read it. “Look at this.”
Hanna took two steps, read over his shoulder: Jens Beck, Mercedes Executive, Commits To Play In Gulf Beach Charity Event.
Jens Beck, the world’s highest-ranking amateur tennis player in the 65-70 age category, has agreed to compete in the Gulf Beach Charity Tennis Tournament to be held in August.
Beck, who has won this year’s Boston Jimmy Fund and London Old Souls Tournaments, is the highest-ranking player announced to date. Tournament organizer, Sara O’Nally said, “Mr. Beck’s addition shows the Tournament is truly drawing world-class competitors. We now have seven high-ranking amateurs who have committed. I expect the news that Mr. Beck will compete will draw other ranking players.”
“Is there a date on that article?” Hanna asked.
Miles turned it over, looked. There wasn’t. “Paper’s kind of yellow, this might have been from a while ago.”
Hanna got out her cell phone, dialed the bureau, got her admin. “Amy, call the Longboat Observer, find out the date on an article titled: “Jens Beck, Mercedes Executive, Commits To Play In Gulf Beach Charity Event.” Call me back. Thanks.” She rang off, patted Miles on the back. “Atta boy. Keep looking.”
Miles studied the wall, quickly discovered another clipping. This one headed: German Rescues Kidnapped Mercedes Executive And Wife.
Barcelona, Spain. Authorities here confirm that Wilhelm and Else Brunner, held captive by Basque separatists, have been freed.
Their plight gained international attention on May 25th when the kidnappers released a video of a terrified Else Brunner pleading for their lives. The Brunners, who were abducted from their Barcelona hotel on May 20th, had not be heard from since the videotape.
The Brunners were badly beaten and malnourished when they were brought to the German Embassy, late last night, by Wernher Lohse, a Mercedes representative sent by the company to secure their release. Mr. Lohse was not available for comment, but an embassy official said the former military officer now working for Mercedes, single-handedly rescued the Brunners.
When he finished reading it, he handed it to Hanna. “This guy knew about Lohse, too.”
Before Hanna could read it, her phone rang. “Chance.”
“Hanna, it’s Amy. That article ran February 15th.”
“Thanks, Amy,” Hanna rang off, said to Miles, “That article on Beck ran over six months ago.” She studied the newspaper clipping on Lohse Miles had handed her. “This one’s old, too,” she said as she scanned the text. “Might be from about the same time.”
Miles, studying the items on the wall, nodded absentmindedly. A number-ten sized tri-fold brochure with text in German caught his eye. He took it off the wall, studied it. “What do you make of this?” He asked, handing it to Hanna.
“I’d be able to make more of it if I knew German,” she said, opening it. “Looks like some sort of medical facility in Stuttgart. Has to be related, somehow.”
“Look at this,” Miles said, pointing to a sheet of paper with fax markings on the top that had been hidden by a magazine photo spread on Biedermeier furniture. “That’s part of a Daimler organization chart. There’s Albrecht’s name.”
Hanna unpinned it from the wall, added it to the stack. “So we’ve determined Ruhl knew Beck was playing in the tournament, Lohse handled kidnappings, Albrecht was high up in the company.” She frowned, her face pensive. “I wonder whether Albrecht was a willing or unwilling accomplice?”
Miles’ gaze turned to Hanna. “Does it matter?”
She nodded. “To me, it does. It’s been my experience that people who embezzle money over a long period of time, create elaborate, hard-to-penetrate deceptions. People who steal on the spur of the moment might as well hang out a sign that says here I am.”
Miles looked unconvinced.
“Think about it. If Albrecht’s had six months to plan this, he’s had the time to create a new identity, find a good hiding place. His tracks will be well covered. But if he decided to pull a fast one at the last minute, he’s scrambling. When you scramble, you leave a trail.”
“I guess,” Miles said, his thoughts on the $100,000 Albrecht had sent him. A bonus for being shot? A kiss off for being a dupe? The money was in his retirement account. Was he going to have to give it back? “Hanna,” he said, “after Lohse’s death, Albrecht called me, asked me to take care Lohse’s things at the Gulf Beach, dispose of his firearms, make funeral arrangements. For helping Lohse earlier, for being shot, for taking care of this final stuff, he sent me a check for $100,000.”
“Okay.”
“If Albrecht’s guilty, is that money going to be a problem? Will it make people think I was in on this? That it was a payoff?”
Hanna made a face. “You were nearly killed. I think most people would consider that payment compensation from the company for being placed in harm’s way.”
“Albrecht, in that first phone conversation at the dealership, said there might be a bonus. But I never expected a check that big. I called him to thank him, but only got his machine. I tried him again, to get power of attorney for Lohse’s final arrangements. Never called me back about that, either.”
“So he’s not answering his phone?”
“No. The last couple of time I’ve tried, it kicked over to voicemail.” Miles looked at a calendar on Ruhl’s wall. August 31st, the end of the European holiday month, had been two days ago. “Maybe he was traveling. Yesterday, should have been his first day back in the office.”
“Let’s call, see if we get him.”
Miles dug out his cell, found Albrecht’s number, made the call. After several rings, Miles heard that same click, he’d heard before. “It’s being forwarded,” he said to Hanna. After two rings, a man—not Albrecht—answered, said something in German.
“Do you speak English?” Miles asked.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“I was trying to reach Mr. Albrecht. This is Miles Marin. I work for Mercedes in the U.S.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marin. Mr. Albrecht is not available at the moment.”
“Is he back from vacation?”
There was a hesitation. “Is there a message?”
“Yes. He asked me to make funeral arrangements for Wernher Lohse. I need him to send me power of attorney. When will he be available?”
Again, a hesitation. “I am not sure. I will have him return your call as soon as possible.”
“Is he back in the office? I need to talk with him now.”
“About arrangements for Wernher?”
“Yes. Is he in?”
Another hesitation. “No,” the concerned voice said, “we have not seen him.”