Fortune hunters, p.30
Fortune Hunters, page 30
“My God,” Roche said. “I’ve read about such things over my career, but never imagined any of my clients would be victimized. I assure you I went over every major transaction and transfer with either Phillip or Sarah…”
McBain put the glass back down and held his palms out.
“Whoa, nobody’s accusing you of anything. I already told the cops the Bakers never had any problems with you. They’ve traced some of the cash to Lehmann’s accounts anyway. Nothing for you to worry about there. They’ll probably just want to verify things with you as their investment manager over the past five years.”
“That’s good to hear; thank you.”
McBain picked up his glass and swirled the Scotch around. “I’m sorry, could I get a couple cubes in here?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, after all, I wouldn’t have expected either of the Bakers to pick up on anything like that to begin with. Neither of them knew squat about money or investing. Hell, they probably didn’t even bother checking their statements or any of the investing information you sent them. They trusted you to handle all of that for them. Completely.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say—”
“So they wouldn’t even know the right questions to ask, let alone wonder who they were trading with. You see, that’s the glaring missing piece even I didn’t pick up on at first. Of course, that was probably the case with all of the others too.”
The financial advisor leaned back and crossed his legs. “Others? What others? You are confusing me.”
“Didn’t I mention? I got hold of a list of some of Lehmann’s patients, separate from his files, along with various diseases they suffered from—‘suffer’ being the key word. The police don’t know about it; don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry. What is that to me?” Roche asked as he sipped his drink, the glass held delicately with ten fingers.
“Turns out this was a list of old people, all deceased, and not unlike the Bakers, they died with a lot less money than they should have. Funny thing was, when I talked to all of them, your name came up as the family financial advisor. That was quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is, but I have many clients who are still alive, some of whom also knew Doctor Lehmann. Not all of them geriatric or wealthy, either.”
“Do you have love affairs with many of them? I have to give you a lot of credit. Some of those women were in their nineties.”
Richard Roche put his glass down, seemingly perplexed.
“What is this all about? I can assure you—”
“Mr. Roche, I’m just a two-bit shakedown artist. I’m nowhere near your league. You conned some of the richest people in the city out of tens of millions, and they didn’t even know they’d been taken.”
Roche pushed out his lower lip and leveled his gaze at the investigator. “I don’t know what you’re talking about or inferring,” the advisor said. “But I resent the implication that I was involved with Dr. Lehmann or anything illegal he was doing.”
McBain leaned forward and put his glass on the desk again.
“I’m talking about a very sophisticated strategy to transfer hundreds of millions of dollars from sick and dying people over a period of years so they would never miss it. People who wouldn’t know an option from a preferred stock but would trust their investment advisor with their financial arrangements. Are you saying you don’t know anything about that?”
As they stared at each other, the room was suddenly very quiet, deaf to any sounds in the hallway outside or the street below.
The advisor’s face took on an amused expression. “I don’t suppose you’re wearing a wire of some kind?” he asked with a curl of his lip.
“I’m basically shaking you down for cash,” McBain said. “Considering the nature of our transaction, I don’t think I want to record anything we say to each other. Maybe I should be asking you that question. But you can frisk me if you like.”
“Point taken,” Roche said.
“Besides, I’m not interested in putting anyone away; you know that about me. For me, it’s the con itself that’s so intriguing. I’m all about learning every trick in the book so I can be better at my job and make more money next time. And you’re a master.”
For a minute, as Roche sat silently measuring him, he thought it just might work. The man had that subtle smile on his face that was itself an act of acknowledging the achievements of hard work and cleverness that mark a skilled, self-assured craftsman. McBain had seen that smug look of superiority and satisfaction at one’s success countless times before.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. McBain.” His face remained impassive. “And I thought we had come to an agreement about your involvement in my business.”
“I’m a man of my word, Mr. Roche. When I walk out of here, it’s all over. But personally, if I were you, I’d go to the cops now. As you just said, it’s early in the investigation. The closer they get, the more they’re going to focus on you as the money man. And if a simpleton like me can figure that out, so can your partners who put a bullet in Lehmann. You’ve got a nice life. If you make it, you could be looking at accessory to murder charges, or you could help the authorities out and probably enjoy some of the millions I’m guessing you’ve hidden away at some point.”
The financial advisor smoothed his silk tie and inhaled. He reached into the center top drawer and tossed a white envelope across the desk to the investigator.
“Here’s your ‘advisory fee,’” Roche said. “Thanks for the advice. But I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about. I resent what you are implying, and if you continue this line of innuendo and false accusations after today, I assure you I will go the police and take legal action myself.”
McBain took the envelope and examined the checks inside. There was one made out to Christina Baker for three million dollars, along with a separate payment to McBain for five hundred thousand. He unfolded the single sheet of letterhead that held them. It was a handwritten note to Christina expressing regret at the passing of her parents and the unfortunate market circumstances. He read it over. Something didn’t sit right about it, so he read it again.
“Looks good, Mr. Roche.”
He stared at some of the words for a few seconds. Finally, he folded it over and put the letter and checks back inside.
“As promised,” McBain said as he pocketed the envelope, “the Baker case will be closed as far as you and I are concerned. Since that’s the case, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling me how long you and Sarah were having an affair.”
“McBain—”
“I know it was you, so you might as well admit it. I talked to some of the staff at Inn by the Sea. I just wondered where that fit in to the picture. Hey, you put in five years on this account. That’s quite an investment. All the bills you picked up for high-end resorts and hideaways. The time, money, and effort on Sarah. All while a guy like you could be scoring a hot, thirty-year-old trophy wife or socialite girlfriend.”
McBain held up his hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. I have a stack of copies of the letters she wrote to you, along with a couple of hotel employees who can put you together at places and times she described in her letters. I’m sure she kept it quiet, just as you asked. She may not have named you in the letters, but it’s been verified.”
Roche turned to the window for a minute, coughing twice into his hand. He cleared his throat.
“Does Christina know? Anyone else?”
“Just me.”
He swiveled back to face the investigator. Something in his eyes was different. McBain thought he detected the faint stirrings of a cornered animal.
“Yes, I did see Sarah for a couple of years,” Roche said. He smirked. “But I can assure you that that was entirely separate from my professional relationship. Sarah was a wonderful, vibrant woman, and she and Phillip…well, you understand.”
McBain laughed.
“Well I certainly understand that some in our business might consider that a breach of ethics. Not me, of course. Hell, you’re preaching to the choir. I was trying to nail the daughter. But someone less broad minded could think your professional relationship might extend to something more substantial with Doc Lehmann and some of his friends.”
Roche stood and buttoned his jacket.
“Our business is concluded here,” he said. “Good-bye, Mr. McBain.”
He didn’t offer his hand.
The investigator didn’t move.
“Sarah was poetic,” McBain said. “She was an elegant and romantic writer. She also had a keen sense of perception and eye for detail. The aroma of the logs in the fireplace in a cabin in the dead of an icy winter. The orange and soft pink of the sunset viewed from a sailboat off Newport. The brand of Scotch her Romeo preferred at special moments to celebrate occasions.”
The eyes narrowed, and the inscrutable smile flickered for a moment. The older man glanced at the bottle of Macallan on the credenza. He put his glass down on the desk and took his seat, clearing his throat again.
“You know, it’s amazing how little these people who clean our buildings make,” McBain said, picking a piece of lint off his pants. “They work long and late hours, taking out the trash, mopping floors, and dusting off shelves with no thanks and only a pittance for compensation. Most of them are so grateful for a little bonus and all too happy to take a night off. Good thing you keep your liquor supply locked up. You never know who might get into it.”
The mask fell.
McBain watched Roche’s eyes shift between the bottle of Scotch and the near-empty tumbler on the desk. The chair swiveled, and his glance swept the window as he looked outside. The investigator suspected he was searching the nearest buildings. When the chair swiveled back to the front, Roche’s expression had changed so much it was like seeing a different face.
The cool demeanor gone, McBain watched his eyes and saw his mind at work calculating options, wondering whether he was being told the truth or bluffed by another con artist.
“All right, McBain,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about fourteen people. And it’s about time.”
Anger was overriding the older man’s patrician calm now. McBain sat back and guessed his host was about to make his last move. Roche wouldn’t know what he had used, but he would know his time was limited. His own heart rate picked up in anticipation, so he inhaled and exhaled deliberately. As he had expected, Roche took a key from his suit pocket and opened the desk drawer that the investigator had found locked the night before.
When his hand reappeared, it held a small automatic pointed at McBain’s chest. He didn’t know much about guns. He knew enough to recognize that at this range, Roche couldn’t miss. Besides, he suspected the financial advisor had experience.
“Start talking,” Roche said. “What did you put in it?”
“I forget.”
Roche pulled the slide back and chambered a round, all pretense of sophistication gone from his voice and demeanor. “Don’t test me, you little shit. With your reputation, I could kill you right here in full view of anyone, and my attorney could make sure I never spend a day in jail.”
In his heart, McBain considered how true that was. Until this moment, he had never thought about that aspect of his work. Maybe it was even appropriate, based on some of the things he had done. But it didn’t matter much now. His eyes focused on the end of the barrel. Despite the size of the pistol, the black hole grew larger until it opened like a freshly dug grave. In all the times he had seen guns on TV or in the movies, that was something he had never realized until now, as he sat across from a man willing, able, and eager to pull the trigger. He fought against the numbing cold spreading through his stomach and chest into his limbs. Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled his eyes away from the muzzle and looked at Roche.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Pull the trigger. I may be a shit, but I’m the only one who knows what you just drank. Nobody else could get here fast enough. And there’s no way you’ll discover in time where the counteragent is hidden in this office. I can get to it in seconds. What’s it gonna be?”
To keep his eyes from the gun, he glanced at his watch, then back to Roche, who remained as silent as a judge.
“From what I remember about the dosage I put in the bottle, I’d say you’ve got fifteen minutes tops—maybe ten, judging by the color of your face. But I’m not real good with drugs. Better talk fast and make me believe every bit of what you say is true. And just remember, you don’t know how much I already do know.”
He didn’t dare look at the barrel. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the older man’s face and kept his breathing steady. McBain could see the confidence melt from his visage as if it were passing into the beads of sweat that were forming. He watched the fear begin to infect the man’s decision making.
“Take all the time you want, Roche. Just remember, the clock started ticking the minute you took the first sip.”
The advisor’s hand went to his throat for a moment, and he swallowed. McBain could tell he was thinking about it as he began to feel the first effects. Thinking about the different drugs they had used on the victims, guessing which one it might be, and whether it was lethal. Wondering if it was worth the gamble.
Roche put the gun on his desk, still within reach.
“All right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” McBain said. He leaned forward in his chair and put his own glass on the desk. “But since time is money, let’s focus on the highlights. What happened with the Bakers? Why did you and Lehmann kill them?”
“I didn’t kill them,” he replied. “And I’m not incriminating myself for crimes I didn’t commit.”
McBain could see from his posture Roche was going to play hardball. The man must have been an incredible gambler and trader. He had figured out he was being recorded somehow, and he didn’t feel sick enough yet. He was still confident, and more afraid of his partners than jail or McBain. The investigator was willing to bet that would change very soon.
“You’ve got one chance. Get protection from the cops and give them all up.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“Well, to live, for starters. The rest is up to how much you cooperate. Not my call.”
From the look on his face, McBain knew the financial advisor was calculating his options, not liking any of them. Thinking fast. Getting his story straight.
“Lehmann killed them,” he said. “Phillip had become suspicious about the losses. Lehmann and I talked about it, and he became nervous. He acted without permission. He poisoned them to keep them quiet and then covered it up using their medical records. He used something that immobilized them and then slipped them something to fake suicide. That’s all I know.”
“How did you rip them off? You set up the offshore accounts yourself, didn’t you?” McBain asked.
“Most of the losses were due to the market, I swear to you. The rest I was able to move by having the account trade with entities I set up, just as you said.”
“I want the account numbers. Now.”
“The Lehmann accounts are the only ones. Everything went through there, then on to the foreign banks and Brazil.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” McBain said and pointed at Roche. “I can set up a secret account in an offshore tax haven in my sleep. The accounts the cops found were only for Lehmann’s use, and you set him up for that. That was for his share of the profits to keep him onboard. I want to know where the real money is. The big money that you funneled from those other twelve victims.”
The advisor gritted his teeth and shook his head. “McBain, it wasn’t what you think. They were close to dying anyway. They were in terrible pain; you saw the diseases. What Lehmann did was a blessing. Besides, they had so much, they never missed it.”
“The accounts, locations, and numbers. Now.”
“I can’t,” Roche insisted. “Not until—”
“I want the names of the other people involved too,” McBain said. “Write them down on that legal pad.”
“I don’t know…all of them…later.”
“I’ll make it easy for you to save time. Log on to that computer and write down the passwords I need for any e-mail and bank accounts.”
Roche was tearing at his collar now, his breathing a tight wheezing sound. As fast as his trembling hands were able, he logged on to the laptop.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know. Please, there’s no time…hurry…I’m feeling sick.”
McBain glanced at his watch.
“We’re almost there. Why did they kill Lehmann? Didn’t you still need him?”
The advisor ran a sweat-covered hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and blinked.
“I…I mean they…after he tried to kill Christina Baker with his car, they decided…he was too much of a risk.”
“When Lehmann tried…Lehmann really did try to run her over?” What the hell…?
He sat back for a moment, his thoughts now shifting between Roche slumping lower in the chair and the separate parts of the case. The police had found Christina’s DNA on the doctor’s SUV in Maine. But they had all finally presumed another killer had driven it and then taken it back to Maine after the assault in an attempt to frame the doctor. Lehmann had killed the Bakers. McBain flashed back to the sight of Lehmann’s head on his desk that morning. He looked at the gun on the desk.
In the few seconds that his eyes were closed, he attained the clarity of the mathematician that had eluded him since the beginning of the case. The last piece clicked into place as he thought of his partner: three days and nine locations. They really must have loved Maine, she had said.
Suddenly it all came together, brutally clear.
