Investing in Murder

Four-1

FourChicago › Monday, December 1, 2008 › 17h30

Jayson crawled through rush hour traffic in the cold and dark, one hand on the wheel, massaging his jaw with the other. After Henry’s unsettling visit, he’d spent the remainder of the day in his office, researching past events, establishing a timeline he was certain held the key to the mysteries surrounding Cincinnati: her death, the disappearance of her yacht and its crew, and the missing investment funds. He’d heard nothing back from his early-morning caller about the strange activity on the frozen accounts belonging to four of his offshore clients — clients who’d gone missing on Grand Cayman Island over a three-month period the previous year — all single, good-looking Caucasian males.

His mind was running in circles and his stomach felt like he’d eaten a brick for lunch, adding to the misery of winter driving. He slid to a stop at a busy intersection when a light flashed red. Thought about debt.

While he waited for the light to change, he called his ex-wife and left a message saying he was back in town — a dog they each loved kept them casually in touch with one another — then he flipped the phone closed on the last syllable and tossed it on the passenger seat, exhausting enough co2 to extinguish a small fire.

Despite the limited heat in the cab of the old Land Cruiser, the warmth beneath his sheepskin coat and wool sweater produced droplets of sweat under his arms. He tugged the strangle out of his turtleneck, rolled the window down enough to keep the windshield from fogging over. He took another deep breath as the light turned green. Thought about money.

Cincinnati’s investment portfolio at the Sentinel Investment Bank in George Town had more than doubled under his investment strategy: an outstanding achievement of risk and reward, but nowhere near enough to support the lifestyle she’d enjoyed. Not even close to supporting the political career she’d ardently pursued. He’d suspected large financial donations had poured in from Caribbean and South American countries, from opposition supporters and businesses, those who’d wanted their former Miss Universe to return and free los Venezolanos from what she’d considered a de facto government, to reestablish ties with the us. Her ambitious plan placed her in her rivals’ crosshairs, although most seemed not to take her seriously, referring to her at times as the Queen of America.

There were others who thought Cincinnati was simply a narcissistic middle-aged ex-model with no political potential. They befriended her for the same reason Jayson had: they were intrigued by her glamor and guts. That is, until she sailed off with millions of greenbacks from an investment fund — a fund created by the owner of the Grand Royal Casino on Grand Cayman Island to develop a casino resort in Cuba, in which Jayson had invested $10M.

The washer fluid in the Land Cruiser emptied as he exited the highway and rounded the last street corner. He cursed his luck, peering out through the streaked windshield, trying to navigate the dimly lit street by memory. He almost missed his driveway, skidding to a stop in front of his old wartime rental. When he glanced out through the passenger-side window, his heart ballooned.

He dropped the Cruiser into low and roared up the driveway to the side entrance.

His mind raced with his heart as he snatched up his phone and exited the vehicle. He ran around through a cloud of diesel exhaust and raced toward the damaged storm door thrashing in the wind. The wooden entrance door stood open into the landing, its lock smashed. He ignored his heightened senses warning him of impending danger. All he could think of was his dog, Jeep. He yelled through the open door, into the darkened entrance, “Jeep! Come on, boy . . . where are you, boy?”

No response. He reached in and flipped on the interior light, illuminating the landing. His heart pounded. He swallowed hard. Jeep would never let an intruder enter his domain. Blank panic engulfed him as the reality of the situation sank in. “Jeep . . . come on, Jeep . . . where are you, boy?”

When Jeep failed to answer, Jayson inched his way into the house and switched on the kitchen light, revealing a mess of papers and broken picture frames. His cell phone rang in his hand.

He flipped it open. His vocals stumbled on the syllables. “Hel . . . lo.”

“Jay?”

“Ricki! s**t. My house has been trashed . . . Jeep’s gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“I just got home . . . from the office. He’s not here.”

“I’m on my way,” Ricki yelled, as if responding to an officer down.

Jayson dropped his hand to his side and blindly closed his phone, knowing Ricki would be upset; Jeep was her dog too. The only love not lost after the divorce. She’s going to blame me if anything happens to him.

After reporting the break-in, Jayson took to the sidewalk in search of their beloved hound. It was dark. The wind was cruel. He walked a short distance down the sidewalk, crossed the quiet street, worked his way back. Thoughts and memories of Jeep filled his head.

Jeep had been Ricki’s idea: what do you give a man who has everything, for his thirtieth birthday? A black and tan coonhound with big floppy ears. Jayson had asked for a Jeep 4x4. But that was then. Now, after six years, all he wanted was to find his four-legged friend.

A blue-and-white cruiser approached and pulled up to the curb in front of his house. Seconds later, a silver bmw pulled in behind and Ricki jumped out, her parka unzipped, boots untied. Her hair blew wildly in the wind, blonde and iridescent under the glow of mercury street lamps. She charged up to the cruiser before the two officers exited.

As he crossed the street, Jayson could hear Ricki’s animated vocals describing Jeep to the two officers, who appeared to know her: she was one of them.

Both officers exited the cruiser with synchronized efficiency. One remained with Ricki at the curb while the other made his way up the driveway and entered the house.

Jayson met up with Ricki. She gave him a hard look. “How could you lose our dog!”

Jayson took a step back. A sense of guilt washed over him. He surrendered with cold hands. “I didn’t lose him, Ricki. Someone broke into my house and let him out.”

Ricki held her catechizing glare. “I thought you were out at the cabin; what happened?” Her eyes dropped and she scanned him like a suspect, boots to balls. She glanced up, frowned an interrogative expression through a breath of icy fog. “Did you wear that outfit to the office?”

Jayson disengaged his eyes from her gaze, shrugged her off. “I didn’t have time to change this morning, when I dropped Jeep off.” He had no idea why he felt he had to explain anything to her, other than to lessen the threat of her taking sole custody of Jeep. If . . . when they found find him.

Ricki pulled her parka together, fumbling with the zipper, uttering a reply as cold as the wind. “Yeah, right,” she said, taking a step toward the sidewalk, the mute officer by her side. She glanced over her shoulder and shouted, “Go deal with the break-in. We’ll look for Jeep.” She pulled a fur-lined hood up over her head and tramped down the sidewalk in the beam of the officer’s flashlight.

Jayson trotted to the house, stopping briefly to observe the damage to the wooden door and its locking mechanism, and the mess in the kitchen. Then he shuffled down the hallway, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He joined the investigating officer at the entrance to the back room.

The officer stood tall and blue-eyed handsome, bulked out by assault gear under a large blue parka, a wool toque stretched over his forehead, covering his ears. He gripped his pen and notepad with fingerless gloves. He acknowledged Jayson with level eye contact and tipped his head toward the interior of the poorly lit room. “It’s a mess,” he said.

Jayson stuck his head in the doorway.

“Shit.” He stepped into the room, scanning its sparse contents and the chaos.

His landlord had referred to the room as the second bedroom. Jayson used it as an office of sorts — for personal files and a place to scan documents for electronic storage. An old oak table shedding layers of varnish sat head-on against the back wall under a frosted window. Jayson stared at the vacant space underneath it.

“Shit.”

The officer commented, “It looks like someone was searching for something.”

Jayson stepped forward, crouched down under the table and unplugged a black power cord wound around the ornate table leg. The power cord no longer had a purpose. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “They’ve taken my computer,” he said. He stood up, eyed the officer. “It was . . . less than a month old.”

A square jaw framed the officer’s large mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Riley,” he said, “but this doesn’t appear to be a classic B and E.” He waved his pen around the room. “It looks to me like someone was searching for something.”

Jayson narrowed his eyes. “Please, enlighten me.”

The officer scratched his temple with the end of his pen. “Well,” he said, “unless this is how you keep your files, which I doubt, someone was looking for something. Perhaps account numbers or incriminating evidence. You’re an accountant. An investor and high-profile advisor. Perhaps one of your clients isn’t your typical law-abiding citizen.”

Jayson balled his hands inside the sleeves of his sheepskin coat. “If speculation is the extent of your investigative intuition, you might just as well get the hell out. No offense, officer, but I can probably solve this crime quicker myself.” He thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “And it’s none of your damn business what I do for a living. Tell Ricki to keep our personal life out of the doughnut shop.”

“Take it easy,” the officer appealed. “It just seems a bit suspicious, is all.” He stood in the doorway and glanced down the hall. “There’s plenty of things — ” He paused a beat. “There’s a few things around here to pawn if someone wanted some quick cash. Why would they go to all the trouble of breaking into a house only to steal a computer? A house with a dog, no less.”

The officer’s comment had merit. Jayson shook off a chill as he thought about the computer, wondering how long it would take someone to hack into it. Although no client information was on the computer, his program for generating investment algorithms, which he’d developed for his own use, would be quite valuable to anyone in high-risk investing. He asked the officer, “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints or something?”

“We don’t fingerprint on break and enter,” the officer explained. “Unless someone’s dead. We’ll file a report and generate a profile search, see if we can find any similar breaks. We’ll need your computer details, serial number, anything else you find missing. Maybe we’ll get lucky at one of the local shops. I suggest you file a report with your insurance company. Give us a call tomorrow with the details.” He handed Jayson a business card, then hauled his deadly bulk down the hallway and exited the house without any further investigation.

Jayson remained in the doorway, staring at the void where billions of encrypted ones and zeros were once stored on a cpu. He shook his head. The metal file cabinet with its drawers hanging open resembled an item in a failed and abandoned business, its contents scattered about on the cold hardwood floor. Books and magazines were pulled from their shelves, strewn about. He cursed as he headed back outside to help Ricki search for Jeep.

Both officers were back in their vehicle, preparing to race to a real emergency. Jayson stood by the side of his house for a moment and watched as the blue-and-white lit up the neighborhood with red and blue, then sped off down the street. Unless someone’s dead, we don’t fingerprint. He guessed that dogs did not qualify as a someone.

Sweat dripped under his arms as the reality of the day’s events began to sink in. He pictured Jeep wandering alone in the cold, knowing his hound-doggish senses would lead him home if he was alive. He stood trembling from the thought, undecided whether to join Ricki or set off in another direction.

Then a sound at the back of the house thumped his heart.

Jeep hobbled out through tattered gray shadows and a wash of yellow porch light. He made a beeline for Jayson —whining, tail wagging.