I stopped at the Brincliffe Hotel to collect some things on my way to the courthouse, then went on to the Grosvenor to make myself another reservation. It was a nuisance having to rent two rooms until Carrick had the legal papers delivered, but I was back to battling my old habits. I couldn’t have anyone knowing where I was staying. And it was a small price to pay to solve an immediate problem. It was good to know that Carrick’s tenants would be properly looked after. And hopefully the new treatment would help Mrs. Mason. I would have liked to see Carrick behind bars, though. It left a bad taste in my mouth, allowing scum like him to stay on the streets, but I couldn’t see a way around it. I had to settle for the lesser of two evils. As for the others, I had more decisions to make. With Carrick staying out of jail, it would seem harsh to get Davies locked up. He couldn’t just walk away from the attack on Mrs. Mason, though. Could he volunteer for something? Do some kind of community service? I could talk to Carrodus, before or after my shift. He seemed to have his finger on that kind of pulse. Then there was the Azerbaijani dude, Madatov. I had to do something about him. We can’t have ex–Soviet gangsters throwing Americans out of their homes so they can improve their view. I wanted to root out his contact in the NYPD, as well. And Walcott? I wasn’t sure. Money laundering wasn’t something I knew too much about. Which meant I needed to make one more call before heading to the courthouse.
Ro’s availability was limited that day, so I had to swallow my frustration and cut my shift a little short. I cleaned what was absolutely necessary, but that only left me enough time to search two extra rooms. I had to wait for people to leave each of them. A small group came out of the first one, bubbling with elation. More people were involved in the second. They were dressed smartly for the occasion, but their mood seemed somber and disappointed. Almost depressed. I wondered how I’d have felt if I’d been at Pardew’s trial. And I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to find out.
Ro was at her standing desk when I arrived. She had a sharply tailored black suit on with silver sneakers, and her heels were waiting by the door with her snakeskin briefcase. Her laptop was open, but I couldn’t help wonder how it could compete with the view. She seemed to be watching it out of one eye, like she couldn’t be completely disconnected from the pulse of the city. She seemed to feed off its energy.
“You really do pick ’em, Paul.” She half turned and shook her head at me. “If Carrick’s iffy, Walcott’s an absolute sleaze. He was, anyway, before he left the United States. He was a campaign consultant. And a lobbyist. Only with a difference. If his client had a rival who was too strong? If a politician was reluctant to vote the right way? Or wanted too big of a bribe? Walcott had ways of making that kind of problem go away. Shady ways. Actually, he was beyond shady. He was in total darkness. The FBI was watching him. He knew they were closing in. So he went to Armenia, when it looked like they had the upper hand in the Caucasus. Then he flipped to Azerbaijan when the balance of power changed. It’s one of the ex–Soviet republics.”
“I’ve heard of it.” In fact, I’d more than heard of the place. I’d been fully briefed on it, years ago, ready for an assignment. I didn’t go, though, due to a last-minute change of allocation. I heard that the guy who replaced me got on the wrong end of a bad conduct discharge. The rumor was he landed in the pocket of a local sleaze merchant. An American expat who was high up in the government, but I hadn’t heard a name before. “Were there any other Americans over there, doing what he did? Or just Walcott?”
“No others.” Ro paused to watch a fire truck barge its way through the traffic. “The place was an utter cesspool of corruption. So, naturally, Walcott fit right in. He had skills. He had no morals. Which was the perfect formula for worming his way in with the elite. All the way up to the president. There was a rumor that he had his own suite in the palace.”
“In return for doing what?”
“First, you’ve got to understand the economic situation over there. It’s all about oil and gas. The country’s awash with the stuff. When the USSR fell, those industries were privatized. Which is a fancy way of saying stolen. The inner circle amassed outrageous wealth. The president had a private zoo, believe it or not, and he stocked it with some of the rarest animals in the world. The defense secretary built a collection of flightworthy vintage MiG fighter planes, which he kept at his own personal airfield. The commerce and industry secretary liked cars, so he bought dozens of them on the taxpayers’ dime. And nothing cheap. We’re talking Ferraris. Lamborghinis. Aston Martins. Maseratis. All this time thousands were starving in the streets. And against that backdrop, Walcott did two things. He ran the spin machine, holding off a revolution by making people think things were getting better and that the elections were real. And he helped his buddies get the bulk of their wealth out of the country. Even they knew that times were too good—for themselves—to last. Then eventually the regime did fall, and the fat cats all had to flee.”
“To the United States?”
“No, actually. Walcott’s buddies all went to Moscow. I guess they stuck him with the blame for the worst of their excesses, and the Russians bought it. They made it clear that Walcott wasn’t welcome. He came back to New York on his own. And he’s having trouble getting on his feet, I hear. FBI agents are like elephants. They never forget. Apparently they’re still all over his finances. Rumor has it he was too greedy. He kept his cash in Baku for too long. He didn’t want to lose any. Even money shrinks in the wash, you know. Now he can’t bring it here without opening a giant can of federal worms. No one knows where the money he has is coming from, but reading between the lines, I bet he’s back to his old tricks.”
“Which lines are you reading between?”
“Well, he seems to be spending most of his time in property development. That makes sense—he has the foreign contacts, and they have the cash. And nearly every deal he touches falls apart.”
“Perhaps he’s lost his touch?”
“On the contrary. I think he wanted them to fail.”
“Why? To hurt people?”
“No. To help them. A failed deal is not the best way to launder large amounts of cash, but it’s quick and easy. Think about it. Here’s what you do. You start by forming an investment consortium, which is a bona fide legal entity. It’s new, but clean. All the partners deposit their shares. A project comes up. They make their proposal. And lose, on purpose. Then they dissolve the consortium and retrieve their cash. Now they can take it to the bank, because they received it from a legitimate organization and have the paper trail to prove it. I think Walcott arranges everything, then takes a cut at the end. In cash. It’s lucrative, and invisible.”
“It’s downright devious.”
“Not as devious as the Cayman double dip. If you want a twofer, you do this as well: Set up a consultancy in the Caymans. It’s capitalized at, say, twenty million. On paper that’s split fifty-fifty between you and a partner. Except actually all the cash is yours. Your consultancy advises on the development deal, which of course fails. Then you sue your partner, saying it was his fault. You win, because it’s the Caymans and you get what you pay for. You’re awarded ten million in damages. The company collapses, and the receiver pays you back your supposed original stake—the remaining ten million. So you get the whole twenty, less costs, now clean.”
“OK. I see the mechanics. But what about Walcott himself? Can you help me get a feel for the guy? I know he facilitates crooked deals. But are his hands dirty? Are Americans getting hurt by the things he does?”
“I’d say yes, and yes. Guys like him are unlikely to be choosy. It’s a dime to a dollar that if he’s laundering money for the Azerbaijanis, he’s also doing it for drug dealers, mob bosses, you name it. Plus, the Azerbaijanis who are here are bad, bad guys from what I hear. Hiding their money makes it harder for the police to arrest them. So you end up with more drugs on the street. More women being trafficked. And so on. People think money laundering is victimless, but it’s not. And even when Walcott and his buddies bankroll developments that do go ahead—what are they? Expensive. And mostly vacant. They’re stopping regular folks from buying homes in the city.”
“OK. So how do you take a guy like Walcott down? And what kind of time would he get?” I thought of Pardew’s case. “I’ve heard that white-collar crimes can be hard for juries to understand.”
“You’re right. They can be. So I’d do this. Associate Walcott with a bad guy whose money he cleaned. Show that the money came from a criminal enterprise. If anyone died during the commission of any of the crimes, it becomes an automatic felony homicide. And if you get an aggressive enough ADA—I know a couple if you need names and numbers—she could argue for accessory after the fact.”