[Marc Kadella 06.0] Delayed Justice Page 9

  “Especially ones like that one,” Tony said referring to the two-masted boat directly in front of them.

  “You mean the one with the four young girls in bikinis?” Vivian slyly asked.

  “Oh, gosh, I didn’t notice them,” Tony poorly lied.

  “Okay, time to stop watching the girls and tell me what you found out,” Vivian smiled as she held out her cup for Tony to refill.

  Tony poured the coffee then swiveled around to sit on the edge of the lounge chair facing her. He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, flipped it open and began.

  “Corbin Andrew Reed. Age 42, single, no kids, never married. CEO and founder of CAR Securities Management, LLC. It’s his initials that make up the acronym, CAR. Graduate of Penn State University with a BA in finance. Then he got an MBA from the Wharton School of Business.”

  Tony sipped his coffee and then placed the cup on the small, wrought iron table between them.

  “He worked on Wall Street for almost ten years for four of the larger firms. His employment history with them is a little murky. Not sure why he moved around so much. Don’t know if he moved on or got fired but we’re still digging.”

  “Yes, do that,” Vivian said. “There could be something worth knowing.”

  “Founded CAR Securities about four or five years ago after moving from New York to our fair city.” Tony continued.

  “Or, was run out of town,” Vivian dryly said.

  “Ah, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Tony said. “At this point, he may be perfectly legitimate.”

  “You’re right, sorry. Please go on.”

  “Mostly personal stuff. Lives well. Probably makes a good living. Nothing to raise any flags yet. Single guy making a lot of money.

  “Next up is the chief investment officer—I have information on all of the main principals of CAR Securities— is Jordan Kemp. Forty-seven years old, has a BA and MBA from Dartmouth. A BA in economics and an MBA in statistical analysis.

  “He worked for five years teaching various mathematics courses at his alma mater…”

  “Probably while working on a PhD,” Vivian said.

  “Likely,” Tony agreed. “Then he abruptly left academia for the greener pastures of Wall Street. Bear Stearns snatched him up. I don’t have anything on him during those years yet.”

  “I know some people I can contact to find this out,” Vivian said. “I’ll see what I can find out about Corbin Reed also.”

  “Ah, okay,” Tony replied. “The rest I have so far is personal stuff. Pretty mundane. Married, a couple of kids, one out of high school but not in college, one about to finish up at St. Thomas Academy.

  “Next is a guy named Walter Pascal. He heads up the bond department. Same kind of academic pedigree, you want the detail?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay. BA from University of Virginia, MBA from Penn. Went to work on Wall Street right out of graduate school. Worked for a couple different firms. The last one was Bear Stearns.”

  “Where he likely met Jordan Kemp,” Vivian said.

  “Probably,” Tony agreed. “Wait a minute,” he said then flipped back several pages in his notes. He found what he was looking for then said, “God, I’m an idiot. Corbin Reed, last employment on Wall Street,” he stopped and looked at Vivian.

  “Bear Stearns,” she said.

  “You got it. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. Anyway, moving on. Pascal is forty, divorced, three kids. The ex has not remarried and Walter lives pretty modestly for a guy who heads up a department of a successful investment firm. Has a townhouse in south Minneapolis with a tax value of two-hundred-fifty grand and a maxed out mortgage.”

  “Alimony and child support,” Vivian commented. “Where does she live?”

  “Chicago,” Tony answered.

  “See what you can find out about the divorce.”

  “Vivian, other than they all worked on Wall Street, there’s really nothing here to raise any red flags. Are you sure you want to keep digging?”

  “Yes. I had lunch yesterday with an old friend, a man who heads up a medium size financial group in Minneapolis. He knew all about CAR Securities and is very leery of them. He believes their returns are a little too good to be true. Something’s wrong here and I have a favorite nephew who has invested quite a bit of money with them. So, to answer your question, yes, we’ll keep digging.”

  “Okay. There is something my guy found that raised my eyebrows a bit. Pascal and another one of the principals, a guy named Victor Espinosa, took a one-day trip to Panama at the end of May.”

  “Why would they go to Panama for one day?” Vivian said, mostly rhetorically to herself.

  “The best guess would be for a meeting with someone,” Tony replied.

  “Who is Victor Espinosa?”

  “Mexican citizen. Age forty-five. Listed as executive vice-president of CAR. No history on Wall Street but he did work for an investment outfit in Chicago that collapsed in ’08. I could find no personal history other than school in California, UCLA and Stanford. I’ll keep working on him.”

  “So, he’s a Mexican citizen and he and Pascal went to Panama for a meeting. What do you think? In your gut.”

  “Money laundering,” Tony replied. “It’s an obvious connection.”

  “Do you think you should take a trip to Panama? Would it be worthwhile?”

  “Let my guy do some things on his computer first,” Tony said. “Maybe he can find out if there was someone in Panama at the time they might have been meeting.”

  “Yes, I’d rather. These drug cartel people are barbarians. I’d rather not have you down there poking around. Who is this hacker of yours and why can’t I get him to come to work for me?”

  “Trust me, Vivian. You don’t want to be anywhere near this guy’s world.”

  “You’re being very selfish, Anthony,” she said giving him a sly look.

  Ignoring her, Tony continued, “Last but not least, is Ethan Rask. He is listed as the chief compliance officer and my guy came up with nothing on him. And I mean nothing. As far as we can tell, he dropped out of the sky and landed at CAR Securities and has been there since the beginning.”

  “How is that possible?” Vivian asked.

  “It means Ethan Rask is not the man’s name. We can’t even find an address, phone number, car ownership or bank account for him.”

  “He’s a criminal,” Vivian said.

  “Yes, that would be the obvious conclusion. He has no securities licenses and as far as we can find out, no background in the financial world, at all.”

  “Now what?” Vivian asked.

  “Now I’ll try to get a photo of him and have my guy run facial recognition programs to see if he can find out who he is.”

  “Your guy has facial recognition programs?” Vivian asked with a touch of sarcasm and skepticism. “You mean he’s going to hack the FBI to use theirs.”

  “I don’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to,” Tony smiled.

  The next morning, while the two lovers were having a light breakfast, Tony asked Vivian, “Why did your nephew, what’s his name, invest with CAR Securities? Tell me how this came about?”

  Vivian told Tony what David had told her about meeting Corbin Reed through a friend and their subsequent conversations.

  “That’s exactly how a good con man would do it, Vivian,” Tony said when she finished. “He strings you along making you believe he’s not interested in your money until finally, you’re practically begging him to take your money. You’re right,” he continued, “there is something a little fishy going on here.”

  TWELVE

  Charlie Dudek was a professional killer who lived a quiet life in a suburb of Kansas City, Missouri. One of the things that made Charlie so effective was the fact that he was about as ordinary looking as any man could be. At five-feet-eleven-inches, one-hundred sixty-five pounds, with his normal physique, he was the epitome of the average American male. His light brown hair
was totally unnoticeable and if five people saw him and described him, there would be five different descriptions. And if his neighbors knew what he did, they would be shocked down to their toes.

  What did not show from his appearance was his background. Charlie had spent ten years in the Army, the last four with the super secret Delta Force. He had been trained by the very best instructors to kill in so many different ways he could not remember all of them. Plus, Charlie was also absolutely fearless. During the battle of Tora Bora in Afghanistan, when the U.S. was hunting Osama bin Laden following the 9/11 attacks, it was Charlie who went into the caves and only Charlie who ever came out.

  While serving in the army, he had been given several IQ, aptitude and psychological tests, including the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. The IQ tests came back consistently around 130 and his aptitude testing placed him in the upper two percent for analytical reasoning. The MMPI came back showing Charlie as a borderline sociopath meaning he could function quite normally in society but had very little empathy.

  The psychologist who interpreted his tests joked that Charlie would probably make a good lawyer. Unknown to Charlie, the psychologist was an employee of the CIA. A few days before Charlie was set to leave the army, two CIA recruiters paid him a visit. Unfortunately for the government, Charlie had made a friend, or at least as close to a friend as Charlie was capable of making, named Anthony Scarpino from Brooklyn, New York.

  Scarpino had written a letter to his favorite uncle, Louis Scarpino, and told Uncle Lou about a special talent he should meet. Anthony set up an interview with Uncle Lou for Charlie and when Charlie found out how much he could make as a freelance hitman, the CIA never saw him again.

  Charlie was also very expensive. You had to know someone with certain connections to even contact Charlie. And you did not hire Charlie to knock off your spouse or a rival drug dealer. He was a true professional.

  Over the years he had turned his profession into an art form. Charlie had learned disguises, makeup and little tricks to alter his appearance enough to fool any witness. When Charlie Dudek came to town, he was the rider on a pale horse and death would certainly come with him.

  Charlie loaded his nondescript, two-year-old Camry with his luggage and a few moments later was pulling out of his garage. He stopped in the driveway, opened his window and waved to his neighbor. She turned from her gardening and the two of them amiably chatted for a minute, Charlie explaining he was going on a business trip. The neighbor assured him they would, as usual, keep an eye on his house. Several neighborhood kids were playing, running back and forth between Charlie’s yard and the neighbor’s. He leaned his head out of his window and smiling and waving, yelled at the kids to watch out. They all stopped, waved goodbye and yelled “Bye, Charlie” back at him as he backed out of the driveway.

  He started down the mid-American suburban street and waved to a couple more neighbors. As he did, he made a quick inventory check in his head. Behind and under the back seat were the tools of his trade. He had three handguns, all with sound suppressors, several knives and two rifles including his favorite, a Remington 700 SPS Tactical with scope and suppressor. Charlie could hit a man in the forehead at five hundred yards with it and be gone before anyone knew where the shot came from. In fact, he had done just that several times.

  Charlie drove down the entrance to northbound I-35 and calculated his ETA. At a steady 60 mph he should be at his motel on the Bloomington Strip, a place he still remembered having stayed there before, around 3:00 P.M. With over a week to go before the job was to be done, he had plenty of time to prepare.

  While Charlie Dudek was on the road heading north to Minnesota, Dale Kubik and his union lawyer were waiting in the hall after his review board hearing. The fiasco of the arrest and omnibus hearing of Kenny Grant had brought an immediate suspension for Kubik pending the Review Board hearing. His lawyer, an ex-cop with a lot of experience defending cops, had put on a good argument on his behalf. Kubik’s fate with the St. Paul PD was now in the hands of the three Board members. They had several options open to them. They could suspend, fine, fire or none of the above and put him back on duty.

  “What do you think?” Kubik asked the question everyone asks their lawyer while waiting for a verdict.

  “I don’t know, Dale,” the man, Howard Klein, said even though he knew Kubik’s fate was likely sealed.

  “I’m gonna get the bitch,” Kubik quietly muttered.

  “What? I’m sorry, Dale, I didn’t get that,” Klein asked even though he had heard him quite clearly.

  “Oh, ah, nothing, Howie,” Kubik said a little too quickly.

  For the next ten minutes the lawyer sat patiently on a hard, wooden bench while Kubik paced. They were alone in the hall, the lawyer sitting with his legs casually crossed while Kubik paced and worried.

  Finally, the hearing room door was opened by a deputy and the two men went back inside. Barely five minutes later, a furious Dale Kubik crashed through the hallway door. Steaming, he jammed his thumb repeatedly into the down button of the elevator for three or four seconds then impatiently hurried off to the stairway.

  Even though Howie Klein had warned him this was likely to happen, Kubik had been in denial right up to the reading of their decision. Without even waiting for the senior police official to finish speaking, Kubik stood up and stomped toward the door.

  Dale Kubik’s career as a police officer was finished. And at least in his mind, he knew who was to blame.

  Paul Quinones sipped his morning coffee while standing in front of the ten feet by twenty feet, hurricane proof, bay window overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. He was at one of the homes owned by El Callado, this one on a beach of the Yucatan twenty miles from Cancún. He was dressed in nothing except silk, black boxers, the better to admire himself in the window’s reflection. At forty-four, his waist was still a size 32, his stomach flat and he made sure he spent several hours per week with his personal trainer.

  Quinones had told his jefe he needed a few days to relax and recharge. El Callado not only agreed but flew him to the Yucatan and let him use his house.

  The two young prostitutes who had serviced him well the previous evening were long gone and he had the house to himself. Having finished his coffee, Quinones went out to the patio, stripped out of his shorts and quickly dove into the pool. For the next twenty minutes, he swam leisurely laps, then did ten minutes as fast as he could. When he was done, the problem that had been nagging him in the back of his mind was, unfortunately, still there unresolved.

  After showering and dressing, he relaxed in front of the big window to read his newspapers; a half a dozen each day. When he started on the third one, the phone on the glass and chrome table to his right went off. Quinones checked the number and quite relieved, quickly answered it.

  Instead of going to El Callado with the problem in Minnesota, Quinones decided to resolve it himself. El Callado would have handled it in his usual crude manner. He would have sent a team of mindless thugs, four or five at least, who would have left a pile of bodies in their wake. The man’s ignorance of America was astonishing and Quinones would not trust the fool to handle this. No, no need for a massacre when a surgical strike was the best option.

  “How are you, my friend?” Quinones asked.

  “I am well, Paul,” the man answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a job for you. It needs to be handled quietly, with discretion. Are you available for the next two to three weeks?”

  “For you, of course,” the assassin replied.

  “Good, this is what I need you to do…”

  THIRTEEN

  Marc Kadella was at his desk trying to finish up a divorce decree to submit to the court. The case had been one of those exceptionally acrimonious ones that he hated to handle. It should not have been. There were no minor children and the lawyers had exchanged a complete list of assets very early on. The only thing to do was equitably divide the money. The case was heated and dragged o
ut longer than it should have because of Marc’s client, who was the wife, and the husband’s lawyer.

  The husband, Otis Carr, was a now retired judge from Ramsey County. His soon-to-be ex-wife, Claudia, was the proverbial woman scorned. Otis had carried on an affair with a married woman going back almost twenty years. The woman was the recently disbarred former Ramsey County attorney, Shayla Parker. Ironically, it was Marc or more precisely a client of his, who made the affair public at the end of a trial Marc had done. Judge Carr presided over the case and for personal reasons, Marc’s client sent proof of the affair to the St. Paul newspaper.

  Claudia Carr wanted to drain every drop of blood from her philandering husband. Marc did all he could to calm her down to get the divorce finished as painlessly as possible. Unfortunately, Otis Carr’s lawyer did all he could to keep things stirred up to bill more hours to it.

  “Well, thank God it’s over,” Marc quietly said to himself as he signed the decree.

  He swiveled around in his chair and opened the window behind his desk. Marc took a minute to look down on Charles Avenue, enjoy the fresh air and sunshine and watch the light, midday traffic go by.

  “Is that the Carr decree?” he heard Connie Mickelson ask.

  “Yeah,” Marc acknowledged as he swiveled back around to look at her.

  “How much did that snake Torkelson bill Otis?” she asked referring to Jared Torkelson, the husband’s lawyer.

  “Over twenty-five grand,” Marc replied. “This thing should have been done for less than a third of that.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Connie said. She sat down in one of Marc’s client chairs and continued, “Maybe Otis will file a complaint on him.”

  “I doubt it,” Marc shrugged. “They don’t like getting involved in fee disputes.”