Friends at Homeland Security by Carl Douglass Read Free Book Online Page A

Nixon’s secretary has always maintained about the missing Watergate tapes.”
    “We’ll get a search warrant this morning and be in their house and in the bank this afternoon. I have a small hunch that your federal friend is likely to get roped in sooner or later as well. By the way, anything more come of the visit from your Homeland Security friends?”
    “Not yet about the Homeland Security thugs. We’ll keep you posted. We’ll let you go and get at your investigation. Why don’t we meet for lunch up near Gramercy Park tomorrow noon and share successes?”
    “Ah, yes, that’s the old McGee—the eternal optimist.”
    She stands up and, by unspoken mutual consent, the meeting is over.

Chapter Six
    A t quarter after four in the afternoon, David Harger, the IT guy, comes to my office.
    “Hi, boss. I have a little something on the Marcuses. Seems that Howard keeps a separate stash of burner phones in an apartment he maintains in the Bronx. At first I thought it was just another pied-à-terre, but there’s no evidence of hanky-panky on the transcripts of the conversations, which are few, short, and to the point. There was a little break-in at that location, it seems, and some people got a look around—can’t say who.”
    I roll my eyes and laugh.
    “Let’s just say that the break-in did not get reported—and never will. There were several interesting things about father Howard’s secret apartment. First, there is no bed in the entire place. Second, there are no cooking facilities; and the bathroom is spotless as if it has rarely, if ever, been used.”
    “Any records—anything we can use?” I ask him.
    “Not exactly. There was something that might turn out to be worthwhile, though.”
    “And?” I push to get David to move along.
    “There was a receipt for a box of burner phones. Unfortunately, the receipt did not match any of the Marcuses.”
    “And probably was a phony signature anyway,” I say with some discouragement in my voice.
    “Hang on,” David said. “There’s more. The signature on the receipt was that of a woman named Rachel Donovan.”
    “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Is it fake?”
    “Sort of,” David said in his exasperatingly slow midtown accent.
    My face shows my annoyance. I do not have to say anything. “The fake part is that the handwriting of the signer is quite obviously that of a man. The true part is that such a person does exist. Evidently, our burner phone purchaser must have thought that it would only attract suspicion if the name and the address were fake. Even the store owner required photo ID—that’s a recent New York law just appearing on the books. Apparently, the man who was signing the woman’s name was able to swipe the card past the relatively uncomprehending shop owner’s eyes. We checked the name. It belongs to a woman who, in fact, does live at the address on the receipt. It was not until we dug a little deeper that we found that the woman’s name—which meant nothing to us at first—was that of a sister of one of Howard Marcus’s bank partners. She is the widow of a Gulf War vet who died in the conflict, which accounts for her having an unfamiliar name. We in IT are presuming that the obscurity was intentional. It happens that she dotes on her brother and, in fact, depends on him to enhance her otherwise fairly skimpy income.”
    “Names?” I ask.
    “Oh, yeah. Sister is Marilyn Woodworth—her married name—and the bank partner is Angus McTavish, a naturalized citizen from Scotland who moved to the US nearly twenty years ago.”
    “Anything juicy about this McTavish guy, David?”
    “It’s still a work in progress, but the man takes a lot of trips to Atlantic City, Las Vegas, and Monaco. So far he has a big bank account, but the sources of income to his accounts are not entirely clear. The sources of outgo are largely to casinos in those gambling cities. We’re just getting started on Howard Marcus. I’ll get back to you when we have