Taunting (The Flint Files Book 1) Page 10

  “I didn’t have to. As soon as I saw what it was I yelled to her and she said she was fine. I thought it best to be sure the attacker wasn’t still around.” Joel related the story in a matter-of-fact manner. Neither detective challenged him on the inconsistency; that could wait for later. They left, with Joel shaking Detective Flint’s hand and waving at Detective Brown.

  “I see what you mean. He’ll shake hands with a white guy but a black man gets a wave.” Danny Flint had no use for racial hang-ups. They seriously interfered with the business of solving crimes and protecting the public.

  “Maybe the old woman is confused after all the upset and just doesn’t remember,” offered Brown.

  “The old woman is my age and two years younger than you, old man.” Danny Flint was pretty sure there was no confusion. “I don’t think she forgot shit. I think Joel Vanderveer staged the whole thing, probably to take suspicion off his aunt. And maybe he didn’t tell her what he was doing.”

  “Maybe he did tell her.” That was Melvin Brown. “This wouldn’t be the first mother-son serial killer duo. They could be in this together with Clemons. But, what’s Talbot’s motive? She’s already wealthy, so money’s not a credible motive. Did she hate the rest of the members of the tontine? Maybe. Maybe not. And, what’s the link to the photos?”

  Damion Wilson broke in. “There was a photo identical to the others at the scene of the break-in. If this was staged, one of the two of them put it there.”

  Back at the office they checked in with Goldberg and Silverstein. Corporal Thibedeaux had mapped all of the murders, both known and suspected, against historical New Orleans crime maps. The only pattern to emerge was that each murder and suspicious death had occurred in a veritable island of crimelessness. Goldberg had declared that not a single one could be ascribed to a history or environment of crime.

  Liaison Officer Wilson concurred. “Man, that district is almost pure white. Even the black folk that live there are really just dark-skinned white folk. Street crime is almost non-existent. Violent crime is the same, except it turns out it’s not.

  “All but a few of the Martyrs murders have taken place in the Third District. It turns out that the reputed dangerous areas of the city have had fewer murders this year than the supposedly safe Third District. I’ve been saving money to buy a starter home there, but I think I’ll stay in the ‘hood for a while.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Steve Clemons was one unhappy prisoner. “Look, I’m being mistreated because I’m a lawyer. Do something about it.” Clemons’s lawyer realized that it was probably true, and knew equally well he couldn’t do anything about it. In fact, bringing up the issue would only make things worse for his client. Clemons had never done any criminal work, well, at least none on the legal side of things anyway. He just didn’t know the score.

  “Look, Steve, be polite. Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. If you’re convicted” the defense attorney had little doubt that his client was on his way to jail “the only good part is that when you go to prison you will already have been disbarred. Then you won’t be a lawyer anymore.” Steve Clemons chose not to take solace from the news.

  Of course Clemons wasn’t using a lawyer from his own firm. He had made sure none of them was smart enough to uncover the scam, just smart enough to do rote work and be billed at more than they were worth. Myra Hartag, with all her flaws, just might be the best of his underlings. That thought hit him and he shuddered.

  The Vanuatu banker had been deposed and did his best firehose imitation, spewing forth information at a formidable rate. Gregory Many-Names did the same. No death penalty was a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Joel Vanderveer was quite helpful in sorting through the details of the tontine.

  The Vanuatu legislature had passed a law in record time establishing right of escheatment to abandoned bank accounts. Escheatment is a fancy term for “Ha-ha, we’re the government and if we can take it we will; you can go fuck yourself.” There was about nine billion dollars sitting there, and that would fund the country’s government for at least five decades.

  The nation’s ruling party could afford to piss off the U.S., but not Australia. Too much trade with Australia, too many Australian dollars on deposit in Vanuatu banks. The legislature quickly passed an amendment to the new law allowing certain latitude for the Minister of Public Finance and Economic Management regarding abandoned foreign deposits. Negotiations began quickly.

  Lawyers got busy with descendants of dead people, and families of living tontine members. Forty-seven separate lawsuits were filed against Steve Clemons, his law firm, the New Orleans bank that held the tontine’s money, nine stockbrokers who had handled equities transactions, three commodities futures exchanges that had handled the gold paper, the government of Vanuatu, and various assorted other beings. Including the Governor of Louisiana, who was privately quoted as saying “Unfuckingbelievable.” Eventually, a federal judge combined them into a single class action lawsuit and dismissed most of the defendants.

  Then he appointed a receiver for the tontine. A retired Louisiana Supreme Court Justice was available. Since he was an anomaly in Louisiana politics – neither he nor any immediate relative had been convicted of at least one felony – everybody agreed. He was a Democrat, too, stifling half the potential dissent. And a Blue Dog Democrat, stifling the other half. Inspired choice.

  Danny Flint was puzzled. He and Livingston met with Charlie Framm, Clemons’s lawyer. “He didn’t do the murders, he didn’t do anything violent. As for the embezzlement, money laundering and assorted alleged financial shenanigans, we can talk later when you and the Feds have the jurisdiction sorted out.”

  Flint asked if he could use a department consultant in an interview with Clemons. Nobody in the department had the necessary background in financial maneuverings to do it, and they didn’t want the Feds to get too involved. He proposed Mike Allison; Mike had other ideas.

  “I teach interviewing and interrogation, and I’m good at it. Danny, you don’t need any help in that department. I know enough about the kinds of financial things in the indictment to ask decent questions, but those are all going to be Federal issues.” Allison was stumped.

  Danny was ready with a reasonable answer. “It’s your ability to spot patterns and make connections that I want. Mike, I’m beginning to wonder if Clemons actually is our serial killer. He is extremely organized – managed to embezzle ten billion dollars over decades with nobody noticing. So, why are his muddy shoes with a victim’s blood in his office? Why are the church photos there, too? Why was it so easy to find souvenirs from the victims?

  “There is something really strange going on here. And you may be the strangest person I know.”

  Mike laughed. “OK. Give me a day to get up to speed on the files.” Danny got approval to use Allison, and posed the option to Clemons’s attorney.

  Framm knew that Clemons was undoubtedly guilty of the financial crimes and the evidence was there to prove it. He also wasn’t convinced one way or the other about Clemons’s involvement with the murders, but his client vehemently denied any connection. Right now the big question remained his accomplice, and the D.A. was more than willing to bargain away the death penalty in exchange for the accomplice’s identity.

  “Detective, my client can’t give you what he doesn’t have. Right now, if he had committed the murders, he assures me he would be overjoyed to tell you who the accomplice is. If your consultant can help clear that up, bring him on.” Framm’s self-assurance disturbed Danny as well as ADA Livingston. Framm had a reputation as a straight shooter, and if his client could save his own neck with the accomplice’s identity he would probably be beating him over the head to make him cough up the information.

  Danny went over the business of the photos yet again with Clemons. A small stock of them had been found hidden in a closet in Clemons’s private office bathroom. He denied all knowledge, but that wasn’t particularly convincing.

  Clemons’s pro
testations took on more credibility that afternoon. Barnaby Crawford missed his weekly bridge game. His body was found in the small dining room of his apartment, a simple stab wound upward into his heart, like so many others. There was a difference in this one, though. The photo on his body included an X marked in his blood. It matched precisely a photo from the church’s website, and displayed the smiling face of Stewart Swain.

  Lieutenant Grzgorczyk asked for and got round-the-clock police protection for the church complex, including the sanctuary, fellowship hall, gymnasium and rectory. “Father, we have a duty to protect all citizens of New Orleans whether they like it or not.” Grzgorczyk wasn’t going to budge. Louisiana State Police provided additional manpower. The expected friction between state and local police forces never surfaced, perhaps because the newly-appointed Troop B Executive Officer was Melvin Brown’s sister, Lieutenant Sharla Brown.

  Father Swain refused police protection. Danny Flint told him to take the fucking protection and shut up before he was put in protective custody and could practice some prison ministry. The Revered Swain took the fucking protection and shut up.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deidre Shockley went straight from Alex’s bedroom to work. She had showered, dressed and was out the door without waking the younger man. A twenty-eight year old woman dating a nineteen year old man was only slightly scandalous, and in New Orleans was hardly even a footnote.

  The previous evening Detective Danny Flint and nurse Cheryl Longfellow had joined her, Alex, Ethan and Carly for dinner. There was a little bit of talk about other stuff, but the Martyrs murders had been Topic One. And Two. And Three.

  Danny related how there were literally billions of dollars involved. Most of it was in an offshore bank, some of it was in the form of high-quality diamonds, some of it was in the relatively slim holdings of the tontine, and so forth. The horde of lawsuits had been rationalized by a federal judge, but the lawyers were all eager to get their hands on as much of the money as they could. Which was a shame, because it was all supposed to belong to the tontine members. At least those who were still alive.

  At ten thirty Fred Finckel of Ramblais and Finckel agreed to see Deidre. She was quite talented, but so were the rest of the firm’s associates. She had actually started a new business area, but so had two other associates. She was very pretty, but that wasn’t supposed to matter. And, she was fucking one of her clients – Alex DeLauder – but so were half of the other associates and most of the partners. To be clear, they were fucking their own clients. There was no mob of attorneys lining up to have sex with Alex.

  “You have ten minutes, Deidre, I’m due at the Mayor’s for an early lunch. Its’s political fund-raising season. Come to think of it, it’s always political fund-raising season.” Finckel was fond of the young woman, but Ramblais and Finckel hadn’t become a venerable (and, to be honest, a bit stuffy) law firm by letting feelings interfere with business.

  “Ultimately tontines are really a combination of a trust and a contract. They have to be subject to both the letter and the spirit of trust law and contract law. And, the Martyrs Academy PTA tontine has been perverted and twisted out of all resemblance to its original purpose.

  “The vultures have filed a class action lawsuit in federal court. Ostensibly the lawsuit seeks to protect the interests of the tontine members and their estates. We both know that a huge chunk of whatever money is ever recovered is going to wind up enriching esteemed members of the bar.

  “This is complicated by the sovereign nation of Vanuatu claiming the bulk of the assets, nearly a billion dollars in diamonds tied up as evidence, money having been diverted to the benefit of that slimebucket who killed Mrs. Fishbein, money stuck in Clemons’s account, maybe a hundred million still in the tontine’s account, with a bunch of conflicting claims.

  “We do corporate law and the pro bono part is pretty slender. That’s not a judgment, it’s a simple fact. Can we do some public interest law here and submit an amicus brief asking the federal judge to freeze the lawsuit and all assets anywhere in the world in the interest of justice?

  “We can ask that the bar association submit names for the judge’s consideration to be appointed as Special Master with the task of ensuring that the tontine’s original intent be carried out in the interests of the members and their estates. That might even include dissolving the tontine and distributing its assets, both current available assets and those eventually recovered. In fact, dissolving the tontine is really the key piece in all this.”

  Deidre hadn’t given a speech that long since moot court in law school. Finckel picked up his phone.

  “Pierre, if you have half an hour please hear out Miss Shockley. You’re the contracts guy, and if we do this you’ll need help from T&E. There’s no money for the firm involved, but I can see a great boon to the public interest accompanied by immensely favorable publicity we couldn’t possibly buy.” Fred Finckel thanked Deidre for her suggestion and said that Pierre LaPlante would handle it going forward. He left for the Mayor’s office. After all, it was the political fund-raising season.

  Twenty-four hours later an amicus brief was delivered to the federal judge, signed by Finckel, Ramblais and LaPlante. The senior associates and several first year partners worked all night on the submission. Deidre got coffee. Such is the life of a junior associate.

  Four minutes after the judge’s law clerk accepted it, the state bar association called and asked if it could have copies of all amicus briefs filed in the class action case. Fred Finckel was an excellent politician who would never run for public office. Campaigning for oneself was so unseemly.

  The judge issued a temporary order freezing all tontine assets and any classified by the New Orleans DA’s office or the Federal Department of Justice as fruits of the various crimes. He allowed the class action lawsuit to proceed. He also called on the state bar association to offer recommendations for a Special Master. The judge’s college sweetheart, now a senior partner in a well-known nationwide firm, called for learned attorneys to submit amicus briefs identifying novel issues and recommending a way forward for each.

  Meredith Valentine, the erstwhile sweetheart, herself submitted an amicus brief. It supported the premise that the firm of Fitch and Clemons had been an integral part of the tontine throughout its history and that fraud on the lawyers’ part would serve as grounds for dissolving the tontine.

  Herb Lockhart’s name topped the list of suggestions for Special Master. The judge, a Republican appointee, grilled Lockhart, a Democratic Party activist, for two hours before announcing his appointment. The next day seven Louisiana lawyers returned their newly-bought luxury cars to dealerships and two cancelled plans for round-the-world cruises. It appeared that the stated objective of the lawsuit could be accomplished, perhaps without making a few hundred lawyers obscenely rich.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Deputy Commander Marcia Blackford was beyond pissed off. The graveyard murder brought the total to ten in just a couple months. NOPD District Three had the best crime stats in the city and she was justifiably proud. Little property crime, almost no street crime, violent crime was virtually unknown, at least until somebody started offing the old Episcopalians. Now the statistics made the previously-safe district look like a war zone.

  Marcia was the daughter of a cop and the older sister of another. She had been happy to give Damion Wilson’s career a boost by allowing him to move temporarily to High Profile Crimes. The problem was that she was now short two of her best patrol officers, Wilson and Thibedeaux. And she had come to rely on Wilson’s keen analytical ability. With him gone, most of the pattern identification and analysis had fallen to her.

  The HPC squad had already determined that all of the known murders had occurred during two time periods: between noon and two p.m., then again from five p.m. to nine thirty p.m. Blackford compared her own schedule to the murder timeframes and concluded that the accomplice could hold down a job. She called her youngest sister who was a studen
t at Tulane and learned that a college student would generally have the same times free most days.

  She called Lieutenant Grzgorczyk. “Daryl, Marcia. Whoever the Martyrs murders accomplice is almost certainly has a job or is a college student. Other things are possible, just far less likely. Eddie Franklin has been retired almost forever, and Mrs. Talbot hasn’t worked since her marriage almost fifteen years ago. Barnaby Crawford is dead. Maybe Breckenridge’s murder is a coincidence, because we don’t know about the other four cruise disappearances.”

  Grzgorczyk had been over all of this before with Goldberg and Silverstein. “Yeah, we’ve got that. What does this tell us, Marcia, that we haven’t already figured out?”

  “Daryl, it has to be somebody you’ve already considered and rejected. A member of Clemons’s firm, somebody with access but no motive, anybody who’s involved himself in the investigation…” That was as far as Blackwell got.

  “Joel Vanderveer. But he was only fifteen when Breckenridge was killed. And, he was poisoned at the church supper. That’s two things to explain away. You know that one thing is fairly easy to get around, but two is an almost insurmountable barrier.” Grzgorczyk was busy thinking and hoped Blackford had something he didn’t have.