THE TAINTED TRUST: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 2) (2 page)

“King killed him?”

“Nope. Servito’s wife did. She messed up his face with a tire-iron and then pushed him over a railing into a three hundred foot canyon.”

“Wow! Sounds like she really wanted him dead. How the hell did she and King get out of the country? I thought you had them locked up.”

“They shocked us by posting a million dollar bail, then they disappeared. Both have refused to disclose how they did it, but we’re amazed they were able to pull it off.”

“Where are they now? You got someone on them?”

“Nope. We had to drop the charges. The Toronto Police got a full confession out of Jerrold Allison, one of Servito’s slaves. He was involved in a nasty automobile accident in Toronto about two weeks ago. He told the police everything they wanted to know before he died in the hospital. His statement cleared our friends and implicated Servito in everything we thought we had on them.”

“That’s just fucking wonderful!” Hill bristled. “Everybody lives happily ever after and we get the shaft. Dammit, Alex! Servito stiffed us for hundreds of millions. Now tell me how the hell we’re going to get it back.”

“I can’t, but we have a pretty good idea where it is.”

“Where?”

“The Cayman Island branch of The Banco International Venezolano.”

“Why am I not surprised? Have any of your people talked to anyone there?”

“Exercise in futility. Short of torture there’s no way we can get tax haven bankers to tell us anything about client activities.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Several options. One is to put pressure on the Venezuelan government, and the other is to talk to King and Servito’s wife. We think they know where Servito hid our money.”

“You must be joking. They won’t give you the time of day. In fact, I’ll be shocked if they don’t sue our asses.”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they did, but the Minister of Finance is breathing fire. He’s ordered me to put a full-court press on this thing, and not to stop until we get every dime of that money back.”

CHAPTER 3

Toronto. April 24, 1980. Ten A.M.

Mike King lifted a silver canister from the shiny surface of the large oval mahogany table in front of him. “Coffee?” he asked.

“Please,” Karen Servito replied with muted disinterest, pushing her gold rimmed cup and saucer in Mike’s direction.

The heavy oak twin doors to the ornate boardroom burst open and Dan Turner, nattily dressed in his usual grey pin striped legal uniform, appeared. “Welcome back,” he bellowed with a warm smile, then hurried to kiss Karen’s cheek and shake Mike’s hand. He moved to the opposite side of the table, placed his black briefcase on the surface and took a seat. “Sorry I’m late. It’s the telephone. It’s become an appendage of my ear.”

He leaned backward and clasped both hands behind his head. “I’m so happy for both of you. I had pretty well written you off when you left the country. I had recurring nightmares of your horrible demise in Venezuela.”

“It nearly happened, Dan. If it hadn’t been for a hell of a lot of luck, we wouldn’t be here,” Karen confirmed, then took her first sip of coffee.

“How does it feel to be free?” Turner asked.

“Wonderful,” Mike replied with an enormous smile, “You start, Dan. My curiosity’s killing me.”

“I’ll give you the highlights, then I want your story. I can’t wait.”

Mike nodded.

“Two days after you and Karen left for Venezuela, I received a call from a man named Alex McDowell, the head of Security Intelligence Services for the Feds. He advised that they’ve dropped all of the charges against you. After I climbed back onto my chair, I asked him for an explanation. He told me Jerry Allison lived long enough to confess everything. He confirmed everything you were trying to tell me.”

“Incredible!” Mike exclaimed. “I was convinced he was dead when I left him in Servito’s limousine.”

“The police managed to pull him out and transport him to the hospital in one piece. His neck was broken and both of his legs were crushed. Miraculously he kept breathing long enough to give them a pretty good statement.”

“Did McDowell ever apologize?” Karen asked.

Turner nodded. “He asked me to convey a sincere apology to both of you, and to express his deep regret any inconvenience the Fed’s actions may have caused.”

Mike gritted his teeth and pounded his fist on the table, his deep blue eyes exuding outrage and contempt. “Inconvenience!” he shouted. “Those actions nearly cost us our goddamned lives, Dan!”

“When an elephant walks, he’s totally unaware of the insects he tramples.”

“Do the insects have remedies?” Karen asked.

Turner spread his hands and turned his palms skyward. “You could sue, but I would strongly advise against it. You’d be locked into a protracted and expensive pissing contest. The Feds would defend themselves vigorously. They would insist that they acted entirely within the law, that they had probable cause, and that Jim Servito was entirely responsible for the damages you sustained. At best, you’d get a settlement, but it would be a Pyrrhic victory.”

Mike turned to Karen and winked. Turner’s assessment of the situation had vindicated his decision. He waited for her nod, then turned again to face Turner. “We’ve already settled with the Feds.”

Turner glared at Mike. “You’ve done what! How?”

“I want it clearly understood that Karen and I continue to enjoy lawyer-client privilege,” Mike insisted. “If there’s any question about that…”

“Understood.”

“Phillip led us to his father’s money after I was released from the hospital in Caracas. Before he died, his father introduced him to Alfred Schnieder, a bank manager in Caracas, and instructed Schnieder to make Phillip his beneficiary. Phillip had Schnieder’s business card in his wallet.”

Turner leaned as far forward as he could, his deep set grey eyes fixed on Mike. “How much is it?” he asked.

“Somewhere north of three hundred million,” Mike replied.

“Incredible!” Turner declared, his eyes bulging. “Does anyone else know this?”

“Alfred Schnieder, Karen, me… and now you. We told Phillip that we’re returning it to the Feds. We don’t want the money to corrupt him.”

Turner squinted. “Surely you’re not planning to keep it.”

Mike nodded, his tightened lips displaying deep resolve. “An eye for an eye.”

“Absolute insanity!” Turner protested. “As your attorney, I’m compelled to advise you in the strongest possible language. You must abandon this madness and return the money to its rightful owners. You can’t imagine the trouble you’ll be in if the Feds ever discover what you’ve done. They’ll lock both of you up and throw away the key. No bail this time. You’re both flight risks.”

Mike shook his head and pointed a defiant finger at Turner. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men aren’t going to convince me to change my mind. What the Feds did was nothing short of atrocity. You can’t imagine the anguish they’ve caused Karen and me. The money stays where it is. No negotiation.”

Sensing Mike’s determination, Turner re-directed his protest to Karen. “Can you knock some sense into this man’s head?”

Even though Mike had displayed an uncharacteristic larcenous trait in making the decision to keep the money, Karen still had difficulty faulting his logic or his motive. She too had suffered greatly at the hands of the Feds. “Sorry, Dan,” she said, shaking her head. “I agree with Mike.”

Turner shrugged his shoulders and raised both hands in surrender. “At least I tried. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He smirked. “Off the record… I might be inclined to do the same thing if… That’s not legal advice, just a private thought.”

“I appreciate your candor, Dan,” Mike said. “Karen and I want to thank you for sticking with us.”

“My pleasure. You’re the most exciting clients I’ve ever had… You have any plans for the money?”

Mike shook his head. “Only to make sure the Feds never see it again,” he said.

Karen stood, walked around the table and kissed Turner on his forehead. “Mike and I are finally getting married.”

Turner chuckled, his face reddened. “Congratulations. Where and when?”

“We’ll send you a formal invitation as soon as we know.”

“Wherever it is, I’ll be there.”

Turner stood and accompanied his clients to the elevator. “Good luck to both of you,” he said. “I hope we never have to meet again under such unfavorable circumstances.”

Karen waited until the elevator door had closed, then wrapped her arms around Mike’s waist. Pressing her head against his chest she felt a sense of closure. At last she was completely free to be with the man she had never stopped loving. She lifted her head and kissed him hard. “I love you, Mike King. I love you from the bottom of my heart… Do you think we could ever make up for all the years we missed?” she asked, her lips barely grazing his.

Mike grinned. “We could have a hell of a lot of fun trying… When and where do you want to get hitched? Have you considered that?”

“You bet your cute butt I have! It’s all I’ve done for the last eighteen years.”

“Then let’s do it, soon.”

The two lovers proceeded toward the heavy glass doors leading to Bay Street, then Karen squeezed Mike’s hand to get his attention. “I’m really worried,” she said. “What the hell are we going to do with over three hundred million dollars of stolen money? What’s going to happen to us if we’re caught?”

Mike frowned. He was not sure what to do with Servito’s millions. His only certainty was that he would rather die than turn it over to the Feds. “We won’t get caught if it stays out of sight long enough. Schnieder will continue to manage it, we’ll forget we even have it and let time take care of the details.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I do, but I worry about his age. He’s getting a little long in the tooth. He’s sixty-four. He told me he was twenty-eight when he left Germany in nineteen forty-four.”

“What if he dies?”

“He’s covered that. He’s picked a successor. His name is Louis Visconti. Alfred told me he’s in his early thirties, brilliant, extremely capable, and very discrete. He lives in Connecticut, works in New York. With our permission, Alfred’s prepared to bring him up to speed on the trust.”

“Then five people will know about it.”

“It has to happen eventually, Babe. Even if Schnieder lives, someone will have to replace him when he retires.”

“Did he tell you anything more about Visconti?”

“Yup. He gave him a heavy duty testimonial and said he would trust him with his life.”

“I think we should meet him first, and I don’t think we should give Schnieder permission to tell him anything until we do.”

“Definitely. I’m going to call Visconti and set up a meeting.”

“Are you going to include me?”

Mike grinned and nodded. “Unless we both agree, without reservation, Visconti’s out. Okay?”

“Deal,” Karen replied, feeling only slightly more comfortable.

CHAPTER 4

Caracas. Friday, April 25, 1980.

A brilliant financier, Alfred Schnieder fled war torn Germany in early 1945, leaving behind all of his wealth, almost all of his teeth, and a dubious past. Arriving in Caracas, Venezuela without a cent to his name, he committed his remaining years to the banking business. He was acutely aware that by keeping his mouth shut and remaining religiously discrete with clients’ money, he could live like a king in South America. And he did.

A gentle knock on his office door caused him to turn his bald head and raise his graying eyebrows. “Hold for a minute. Someone’s at my door,” he said into his gold plated telephone receiver, then placed it on his desk and hurried to the door. He opened it to see a very excited Manuel Blanco, his diminutive administrative assistant, about to knock again.

“Mister Schnieder, two people from the United States Internal Revenue Service are in my office,” Blanco announced. “They have been very rude and have demanded to see you immediately. They have refused to tell me why they are here.”

“Stall them for a minute, then show them in,” Schnieder ordered, then returned to his desk to pick up the receiver. “Forgive the delay. I have visitors. I’ll call you later.”

Thirty seconds later, Blanco appeared at his door with the two I.R.S. agents. He politely ushered them in. “Mister Schnieder, these are the people from the Internal Revenue Service who want to see you.”

Schnieder stood and nodded to Blanco. “Thank you, Manuel. You may leave now,” he said, then turned to face his visitors with a confident smile displaying a glittering array of gold capped teeth.

One of the two I.R.S. agents, a short fat man with a white brush cut, removed his standard issue sunglasses, took several steps toward Schnieder’s desk and removed a badge from his sweat-stained beige summer suit. He held it out for Schnieder to see while he introduced himself. “It was kind of you to see us, Mister Schnieder. My name is Charles Anderson.” With a pompous sweep of his right arm, Anderson introduced his partner, a very attractive Mexican in her thirties, wearing dark sunglasses, a white blouse, beige cotton skirt and navy blue jacket. “This is Mary Sanchez. We’re with the Criminal Investigations Division of the I.R.S., in Washington, D.C. We have a few questions.”