Investing in Murder

Two

TwoChicago › Monday, December 1, 2008 › 07h57

The transfer took less than two minutes. Roughly one hundred and eight thousand virtual dollars per second, equaling billions of ones and zeros in encrypted code. He sat back, blew out a breath, pushed the serendipitous phone call to the back of his mind — the funds were secure, for now. There was nothing else he could do until his caller — an offshore investment client who, two months earlier, had contacted him about a possible investment scheme he was probing — departed Grand Cayman Island.

He sipped the lukewarm latte, wondering whether to remain at the office or return to the relative peace of the woods. Through the darkened windows cornering his office, high above an awakening city, he imagined the snow and the wind and the morning rush-hour traffic. He blew out a breath, set the latte down and divided the newspaper — business first, personal second.

He scanned the investment section until the sun came up, sipping the latte down to the last bubble. Then he read the latest news on Hurricane Paloma.

The reports had weakened as rapidly as Paloma itself had after passing over Cuba. It stalled out over the Atlantic on November 28. A brief report finalized the cost of the damage, both in the Cayman Islands and in Cuba, clearly demonstrating that the affluent stood a better chance of surviving a hurricane than those less well-off. Disaster relief efforts were underway, with limited funding.

He shook his head.

As an investment strategy, tracking storms was a relatively low-risk, high-return method of predicting financial losses and gains on the commodities market — Paloma had destroyed eighty percent of the sugarcane industry in Cuba. The Riley financial dynasty and its clients made millions from Paloma.

After scanning the weather forecast and reading Leo’s weekly horoscope, he set the paper aside and reached for the mail overflowing its tray. A Caribbean vacation brochure caught his attention; it was addressed to him directly. Whoever had sent it knew his middle name, a name he wasn’t especially fond of. Intrigued, he flipped through pages containing glossy photos of five-star hotels, diving destinations, seafood restaurants owned by world-renowned chefs. He laughed when he read an article highlighting offshore banking strategies to avoid taxes. But not jail, he thought.

He flipped the brochure over, instantly recognizing the colorful photo on the back cover.

His heart skipped a beat.

A photo of the Grand Hotel George Town covered the entire back page — the same hotel where his friend-s***h-lawyer had introduced him to a woman named Cynthia Nadia Delsol (a.k.a. Cincinnati), who in turn introduced him to her associates.

For the past six months, Cincinnati’s whereabouts had remained a mystery, casting a long shadow over Jayson and the Riley dynasty. He sighed and sailed the brochure into the trash

Before Cincinnati disappeared, he’d maintained a professional relationship with her, centered on a wicked investment strategy designed to help her acquire the wealth and status she’d needed to pursue an enigmatic mission in her native country, Venezuela. The missing-person file on Cincinnati contained three pages of his vague account of the events leading up to their final meeting and the forty-eight hours they’d spent together before disembarking her yacht in George Town the night of June 8. The local police were unable to solve the mystery of Cincinnati’s disappearance after she’d set sail the following morning. Jayson remained a key person of interest — the last one to see her alive — in what the police described as a suspicious disappearance.

His intercom buzzed and shook him back to reality. He punched the speaker button. “Yes, Lisa.”

A lively female voice responded. “JD said you’d returned. I thought you were staying out at the cabin this week?”

“Auh — ” he sounded, pausing to think of an excuse, wondering what his father was thinking about his early departure from the woods. “Something came up,” he said, glancing at the rifle, which was pointed right at him.

“Well, sorry to hear. I’m sure you’d much rather be traipsing through the bush,” Lisa said, like she was stalling. “Do you have time to see Mr. Baker? He’s in reception.”

Shit.

The contents of the latte bubbled up in his stomach and made his insides sour. He swallowed hard as he stared at the empty space in the open Day-Timer on his desk. He sighed. “I’ll be right there,” he said, wishing he’d headed back to the solitude of the cabin after all.

The reception area was year-end busy with insatiable investors and their upper-class clients, and all the suits looked the same. Jayson surveyed the room across sagging shoulders until he zoomed in on a partial of Henry Baker’s baby face: back against the wall, eyes down, seated under an original oil painting of a dead relative. He took a step in Henry’s direction, indifferent to the faux pas his attire created.

The crowd opened up like a zipper as he crossed the floor to greet Henry.

“Hello, Henry,” Jayson said coolly.

Henry jumped to his feet, holstered his BlackBerry. A strained expression creased his forehead under locks of honey-colored hair. He looked older than his thirty-eight years. Henry shook Jayson’s hand with a lawyerly grip.

Jayson analyzed Henry’s body language, while cognizant of his own. “I thought you were in New York?” he said.

Henry coughed into his elbow. “I just returned,” he said, tugging at the cuff of his trench coat.

Jayson smirked, gesturing to his friend’s face. “It must have been hot. Nice tan.”

Henry blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl.

Jayson released his grip on Henry’s sweaty hand and tipped his head toward his office. “Come in,” he said. “You’re lucky; I wasn’t supposed to be in today.”

Henry took a seat in a leather armchair in front of Jayson’s desk, made small talk about the early winter, shared his opinion on the state of the economy. Then, as if he’d only just noticed, he commented on Jayson’s attire, suggesting perhaps he should have chosen a sage-colored sweater with leather elbow pads, to go with the camouflage-color hunting pants, as if deer were fashion-conscious.

Jayson listened halfheartedly while securing the rifle in a specially designed fireproof wall safe concealed behind a dark oak wall panel. In it were two other weapons, a shotgun and a semi-automatic service revolver, both belonging to his late great-grandfather, a man he admired for his adventurous life and generous demeanor, who’d given millions to help those in need. Yet the man built a financial empire during one of the most challenging decades of the twentieth century. Jayson locked the safe, turned, and said, “So what’s up, Henry?”

Henry cleared his throat. “You’d better sit down, Jay.”

Jayson stepped around his desk and slowly lowered himself into his chair. He weaved his fingers together, studied Henry’s serious expression. “That sounds ominous.”

Henry lowered his head. Spoke to the floor. “It’s about Cincinnati.”

Jayson raised his eyebrows slightly. For a brief moment, he had trouble spitting out a short reply, one he knew had two possible outcomes: alive or dead. “They’ve found her?”

Henry glanced up, nodded. “Murdered, according to the police report.”

Jayson shuddered. Blood rushed to his face and burned his cheeks. s**t. He stood and paced across a stretch of black Italian marble, stared out across the vastness of Lake Michigan. He rubbed three days of whiskers shadowing his round, dimpled chin, thinking back to the last time he’d seen her, when they’d spent the weekend together on her yacht.

Henry swiveled in his chair. “The Queen’s Royals have taken over the investigation from the local police. They want you back in the Cayman Islands, asap.”

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Jayson’s neck. s**t. He tugged at his strangling collar.

“Are you sure she didn’t tell you anything, Jay?”

Jayson thought back to one particular weekend on the yacht, months before she’d disappeared, recalling Cincinnati’s conversation concerning her political agenda. He’d agreed to a scheme to invest her finances in multiple acquisitions, which she’d insisted they keep secret. It was all above-board, but she was concerned about her associates. She hadn’t elaborated, but hinted there was something not right. No names were mentioned.

He responded to Henry’s query with a simple, “No,” squeezing his eyes shut, massaging them with a thumb and forefinger. “I told you before — ” He paused, refocused his vision. For a moment he felt disorientated. He sat down. “The last time I saw her, we talked about investment opportunities, third world economics, politics . . . ” His words trailed off. He lowered his head, buried his face in his hands, spoke through his fingers. “We anchored the yacht at Dagger Inlet, went diving, explored the caves.”

“Dagger?”

Jayson jerked his head up. “What about it?”

“That’s where her body surfaced.”

Jayson felt his heart trying to escape his chest. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, Jay. The detective . . . Chrysler something, made it very clear, emphasizing Dagger Inlet in an objective statement during our phone conversation. In italics, if you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “It makes sense, though.”

Jimmy Chrysler. Puerto Rico. Jayson shot Henry a hard look. “What makes sense?”

“It connects all the dots. You mentioned Dagger Inlet to the local police during the initial interview six months ago. It’s pretty thin, but the fact is you spent the weekend at the very place where her body surfaced, and no one can verify they’d seen her return to George Town. Well, anyway, like I said, it’s pretty thin.”

Jayson huffed. “Wafer-thin, Henry. You know as well as I do we weren’t alone on her yacht. Even her Italian chef came to say goodbye when we disembarked together in George Town.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Italian? You never said he was Italian.”

Jayson combed his hair back with his fingers and spoke to the floor. “What difference does it make? All I’m saying is . . . plenty of crew saw us together when I left the pier that night.”

Henry reaffirmed what Jayson had been thinking. “Well,” he said, “that’s all fine and good, except the crew disappeared with her and the yacht. And until the Royals find one of them, you really don’t have an alibi.”

Jayson sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring down at his khaki-colored hiking boots. “So what happens if I refuse to go?”

Henry cleared his throat. “They’ll come and get you.”

Jayson raised his head. “That’s bullshit, Henry. Unless they’ve got probable cause, proof that I committed a crime, they can’t just walk in here and extradite me back to the Cayman Islands.” He stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, crooked his head.

“Exactly what I told them.”

Jayson levelled his line of sight onto Henry. “So . . . what’d they say?”

“Well . . . they didn’t give me any details, but they did say the evidence they had was incriminating.”

Jayson returned to the window where snow swirled around the building in bursts of white eddies. Dark clouds hung low over the surrounding city. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

When he turned away from the dreariness, Henry’s thumbs were dancing around on his BlackBerry. He waited, observing Henry’s obsession with modern technology and commerce: his expensive Giorgio Armani suit accented by a gold tie clip inlaid with diamonds matching the links on the cuffs of his white Polo shirt. The Rolex belonging to a set of business and casual. His polished Gucci shoes with substantial heels to heighten his appearance. Twenty-first-century materialism.

Henry finished texting and stood up, holstering his phone. He cleared his throat as if to speak, but didn’t.

Jayson noticed a slight redness in Henry’s dark eyes. He guessed it was jetlag; Henry didn’t drink.

Henry headed for the door. “Let me know when you’re prepared to go,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Jayson pulled his wool sweater off over his head and tossed it onto the chair. “I want you to go with me, Henry.”

Henry turned, smiling. He looked five years younger now. “I was planning on it. I’ll book us in at Dorothy’s.”