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

more—like whether he’s a high roller as well.”
    “Thanks,” I tell him.
    My pulse is beginning to quicken a little.
    The next day in the staff meeting, Ivory reports that Howard Marcus is as jumpy as the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof.
    “That brother is always lookin’ over his shoulder, makin’ sure I’m close by. Maybe he’s been to too many cop and spy movies, but he regularly looks up at the tops of buildings—likely to see if there are any snipers. He has been workin’ on his movie spycraft. If we walk outside, the man takes trips in the opposite way he’s really headed, makes sudden turns, moves into crowds, and suddenly enters crowded department stores, and the like. He’s not a talker—not a word of explanation about all of the anxiety.”
    The attentions of the staff are riveted on the security specialist’s face. We all shake our heads, including Ivory.
    “What have you got, Caitlin?” I ask her.
    “Progress. Not electrifying, but progress. About two months ago, the Marcuses entered a stage where their outgo far exceeded their income until they were staring bankruptcy in the face. Then a miracle happened, as the antievolutionists like to say when things don’t add up in the progression of things. The bank began a very rapid infusion of money to Howard and Anne’s personal account. The source is murky, and I mean very murky. In three weeks everything got to be hunky-dory, and it looks like they got to business as usual.”
    “How about young Decklin’s accounts in all of this?”
    “Funny thing. He does not seem to suffer or benefit from the all-American rags-to-riches story. In fact, he seems to have changed banks, gotten a new investment counselor, and put some distance between himself and his parents, at least financially. The neighbors report him coming to the house very frequently and that he appears to have a cordial social relationship with his parents right up to the time of his murder. Can’t quite figure that out.”
    David Harger speaks up, “Carter Hinckley and I have spent the last nearly twenty-four hours with the NYPD forensic accountants. That combined our CPA’s numbers expertise and my computer knowledge to augment the NYPD’s. As an aside, we get along very well. Anyway, we served a warrant on the bank, and on both partners, Marcus and McTavish. We have been inundated with material—printed and electronic, verbal and telephonic, and have barely gotten started working our way into the mountain. A good thing about working with MacLeese and Redworth is that everything seems to be emanating from the police in the course of their investigation of Decklin Marcus’s murder. I made myself small and obscure, and I don’t think they are wise to the fact that I am a minion of McGee’s.
    “Something did come up. Do any of you recognize the name of Michael Soriano?”
    “Give us a break,” Caitlin says. “The better question is who doesn’t know the name of Michael ‘Pretty Boy’ Soriano? He denies it in every criminal trial where he features prominently, but he is the boss-of-bosses of the Soriano family—murder, kidnapping, extortion, loan sharking, human trafficking, gambling, you name it.”
    “Yes, indeed; good detective memory, my friend Caitlin. I think you identified a couple of enterprises that may well be part of our murder mystery.”
    “It is premature,” Caitlin continues, “but about two months ago—does that time-frame light any lights?—he began to make some truly remarkable investments in Global Investment Bank holdings. His big investments tapered off about the time both—and I underline both —Marcus and McTavish’s fortunes once again began to rise.”
    “Great work, all of you,” I tell them. “My gut and the little my brain has been soaking up tells me that we are on the right track. I have a suggestion along that line. Do a thorough electronic, paper, phone log search to see if a certain infamous Byelorussian gentleman figures in.