One of the first things I do when I get into the office on Monday mornings is check my e-mail. It’s not something I usually do over the weekend. I try to keep a little time for myself. This weekend, with all that had happened, was no exception.
As usual, there were dozens of them. Most were just junk. I was almost done deleting them, and about to click the garbage can to send a message from someone I didn’t recognize to eternity, when something stopped me. Only rarely do I open e-mails from senders I don’t know. Tim has hammered home the dangers so often it’s gotten beyond irritating, but there was something about one sender’s address that caught my attention. CM2621@nycpit.com. CM? Charlie Maxwell? I hesitated, then took the plunge and opened it. It was from her. Dated and time-stamped 6:17 p.m. on 1/31/2015. It must have been sent just before she was killed.
The message was three words, no more. Check it out. Check what out? Then I saw the attachment. I opened it. It was a single photograph, a picture of a dog. Her dog. Why would she send that to me? I only saw the animal once. I couldn’t even remember the mutt’s name. Buster, was it?
I shrugged, but forwarded the e-mail to Tim with a message to look at it and then see me. Then I had Jacque call everyone into the conference room.
“Okay, folks. It’s crunch time. I have three dead bodies, Falk, Olivia Hansen, and Charlie Maxwell; four if you count Tabitha Willard. I’m a person of interest in the Hansen killing, and probably in Charlie Maxwell’s too, and I don’t like it. It could get out of hand. It’s time to do something or get off the pot. I need something to work with, and I need it now. So what have we got?”
They all looked at me, horrified.
I’d been keeping everyone up to speed with the investigation, so they already knew about Falk and Olivia. They had all seen me dragged out of the office for questioning, but they didn’t know about Charlie.
“Charlie Maxwell is dead?” Bob looked at me expectantly.
I told them what I knew, which at that point wasn’t much, other than it was murder made to look like suicide, and that she was a he. That got their attention, but I needed to move on.
“You have what I have, people, but it all directly affects what we are doing. At least I think it does. So…” I looked around the room. “Ronnie. Let’s start with you. What have you found out about Harper’s Foundation?”
“Quite a bit. It’s murky, and we can prove very little, but by conjecture—”
“Conjecture isn’t going to get it, Ronnie. I need facts. Hard facts.”
“I wish I had ’em, but I don’t. Harper and his team are good, very good, and they’ve woven a seriously muddy web of offshore companies, shell corporations, and bank accounts. Some of them are buried four and five layers deep. I’ve seen some devious schemes in my career, but this one is designed to hide assets, mystify, and confuse on a grand scale. Harry, conjecture is all we have, and maybe all we’ll ever have unless we can dig into their actual, official finances, and I don’t see that happening. Ever.”
“Well damn,” I said. “What do you have?”
Ronnie looked across the table at Mike, then at me, cleared his throat, and said, “It’s a nightmare, Harry. It’s a spider’s web of shell, shelf and offshore companies. There are accounts in Dubai, the Caymans, Bermuda, the Bahamas, and probably elsewhere too.”
He flipped the screen on his iPad, looked up at me, and said, “Dubai seems to be the hub of the foundation’s activity. It’s well known for its emphasis on business and trade for a number of reasons. One is its close geographical proximity to Iran and other Middle Eastern regimes that are under close scrutiny by the Office of Foreign Asset Control, the OFAC. The fact that Dubai has no taxes and that there’s total freedom to move funds in and out of the country is another. A third is their attitude toward secrecy in banking. Dubai has a long-held tradition of ‘ask no questions.’ Their approach to commercial and financial regulations, and especially toward foreign financial crimes, has attracted big money from around the world, much of it in cash or gold.”
“How does that affect the foundation?” I asked.
“I’m coming to that. Dubai’s financial posture provides cover for a non-profit like Harper’s to operate under the radar. With all of the international banks, money exchange houses, and trading companies to monitor, the OFAC, which is tasked with imposing sanctions on rogue countries, entities, and individuals, simply doesn’t have the resources to monitor the foundation and the complex structure that we think is funding his efforts in the US financial system.”
“Geez, Ronnie. We never have these conversations without you giving me a headache. Go on.”
He grinned. “That’s what you pay me for, boss. Anyway, let’s take a quick look at the foundation itself.
“The initial funding came from a sweet real estate investment Old Man Harper, Little Billy’s granddad, made in Dubai a few years before he died. He borrowed $735,000 against one of his life insurance policies—which cannot be traced by the way—and thus he was able to buy and sell real property all across the Emirates. When the markets exploded, he made a killing with his access to insider information. As his investments grew, he recognized the need to shield the money and block all transparency, so he used the money from his investments to start the William G. Harper Foundation.”
He grinned widely at me and Mike, then continued.
“As it turned out, the Harper Foundation also came in handy as a place to receive political donations from countries, entities, and individuals that wanted to leverage his influence—bribe him, in other words. Over the years, that initial $735,000 loan has grown into a sum of money capable of exerting considerable influence.” He paused and took a deep breath.
“Now for the interesting part. When Harper the younger, Little Billy, took over the running of the Harper Foundation, he too realized its potential. His biggest challenge, however, was to devise a scheme to get the funds back into America. With it being registered in Dubai, and with him being a senior elected official, he couldn’t structure the funds through the banking system due to the heightened regulations and oversight created by the Dodd-Frank legislation. So the Harper Foundation created a limited partnership to manage the investments.”
“And that would be Jesper Hogstrum of Geneva, right?” I said.
He nodded. “Hogstrum is, as you know, a lawyer. He was made the general partner, the Harper Foundation itself being the limited partnership with 99.9% ownership. With more than $800 million in capital, the Harper Foundation is able to make plenty of legitimate investments in hedge funds, private equities, commodities, blue chip stocks, and so on. There are also ample funds to invest in other, albeit illegal, projects that would also benefit him. Interest, dividends, return of capital from the limited partnership to the foundation to make more legitimate charitable contributions; all provided additional cover for his shady activities. Still with me?”
“No,” I said, “but go on.”
“There’s not much more but, as I said, it’s almost all conjecture. So, we come now to Nickajack Investments and the other shell companies. There are a great many more than the three we’re interested in. Investments into those companies could take the form of loans or equity. Since they’re registered offshore, it’s impossible to track money flow or ownership. Harper can use those shell companies and others like them to make contributions, take out loans, and compensate himself and others, none of it traceable. He has, in fact, created the proverbial cash cow.”
“Done?” I looked at him.
He nodded. I had a headache.
“Mike. Anything to add?”
He shook his head. I could tell by the mystified look on his face that he’d had almost as much trouble following the narrative as I had.
“That was way too much information to digest all at once. Can you put it down on paper for me, Ronnie? Something I can study.”
“Already have. You’ll find an e-mail in your inbox with a file attached. You can open it on your iPad.”
“Thanks. I’ll spend some time on it when we’re finished here. By the way, Tim, speaking of e-mails, I forwarded one to you from Charlie Maxwell. It has an attachment, a photo. She told me to check it out, but I could make no sense of it. See if you can figure it out and let me know if you find anything.”
Tim made a couple of notes and then said, “I’ll take a look at it as soon as we’re done here.”
“Okay, so what have you been able to find out about the pendant?”
“Not much. There are thousands of pictures on the web of jewelry with similar designs, and lots of references to snakes and serpents, most of it relating to the Hindu religion, but that’s about it. Nothing specific.”
I said, “Well, I’ve been able to find out quite a lot about it. You’re right. It does have its origins in Hinduism, but what we have here is something quite different.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I related what I now knew about the pendant and how I thought it might fit into the investigation, leaving out my encounters with Olivia Hansen and Senator Michaels, of course. Fortunately, they didn’t question me how I’d found out as much as I had, thank God. How the hell I would have managed to explain that, I had no idea.
Well, now at least we knew something. How it all tied in to the big picture was something else again. It was time for some direct action.
“Bob. I need to find out who’s been following me, and maybe Charlie Maxwell, too. Someone’s been tailing me in a silver Honda CRV, late model. He could be black, but he could also be white; Charlie just wasn’t sure. If he was black, it could be Duvon James; I believe he’s been following me in Tree’s BMW. If so, why the Honda? Charlie Maxwell spotted him, the same person—at least she thought it was the same person—three times. On two of those occasions, it could well have been Duvon because of where she spotted him, outside the Green Tree Mall.
“The third time, she saw someone outside the Read House. That was on the afternoon I first met her. He was on foot then, but the CRV could have been parked in the multi-story just down the street. We have to find him. I’ve spotted the Honda three times, the last time on Sunday morning outside the Read House. I tried to catch him, but he was too quick. By the time I got turned around, he was gone.
“So, Bob, I want you to find him. I also want you to organize some surveillance. I need tails put on Tree, Duvon and… I think Harper.”
“That’s a bit risky, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but after what we’ve learned here today, I think it’s worth it. Whoever you hire to do the job, make sure they’re discreet. If Harper finds out, there’ll be all hell to pay.”
I ended the meeting and went back to my office. I needed a drink. I looked at my watch. It was just after noon. Early, but what the hell. I took the bottle of scotch from my cabinet, poured myself a stiff one, took a sip, and relished the fire as it slid down my throat. Next I called Mike into the office and asked him to run to the Deli and get me a sandwich, and then I fired up my iPad and opened Ronnie’s file. He was right. It was a big one.
The sandwich arrived less than ten minutes later, and I settled myself down in one of the leather armchairs and ate as I read. It was almost five o’clock when I finally came up for air. What I’d learned was incredible. Harper’s empire stretched around the world: a dozen banks, more than sixty shell corporations, real estate, hedge funds, and so on, a vast network of shadowy enterprises with no substance that I could use. All good stuff, but without the actual financial information to go along with it, it wasn’t a whole lot of help. Hell, I couldn’t even tie Harper directly to any of it. I could suspect, but… Ronnie was right. It was all conjecture.
I hit the button and sent the file to the wireless printer. A sketch with the text outlined the structure of the Harper Foundation and its activities.
Interesting. All of that information must be kept somewhere, probably on Harper’s computer. If not his, well… I guess it could be anywhere. Must look into that.
---
I was still at the office browsing Ronnie’s file when Kate called. She didn’t waste any time with small talk.
“You were right. There was no laptop. We also have the preliminary results from the autopsy. She had drugs in her system. Nothing dramatic: Rohypnol, Ruffies. Where were you on Saturday night, Harry?”
“Oh come on, Kate. You don’t think for one minute that I drugged Charlie and then slit her wrist, do you?”
“No, but Guest does. Where were you? Do you have an alibi?”
“I was out. Investigating the pendant.”
“By yourself?”
“No.”
“Come on, Harry. Who were you with? It’s important.”
“Kate, I can’t tell you. It would break a confidence.”
“Oh my God. You were out with a woman. You’re totally addicted.” And with that, she hung up.
I tried to call her back, but she wouldn’t answer. Dammit.