The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(32)

Phyllis was waiting. Once the pilots were strapped in and busy with their routines, Claudia gave her a kiss and held her hand. After takeoff, and once the jet leveled off at thirty-eight thousand feet, Phyllis popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and they toasted, as always, the Tappacola tribe.

They had met during their second year of law school at Stetson, and the similarities had been remarkable. Both were reeling from terrible first marriages. Both had chosen law school for the wrong reasons. Claudia had been wiped out and humiliated by her husband and his nasty lawyers and was plotting revenge. Phyllis’s divorce decree required her ex to cover the cost of her continued education. She chose med school to drag things out as long as possible, but bombed the MCAT. She turned to law school and clipped him for three more years of postgraduate study. She and Claudia began dating on the sly during their third year, then went their separate ways after graduation. They were women in a weak job market and grabbed what they could find. Claudia went to a small firm in a small town. Phyllis worked as a public defender in Mobile until she got tired of street criminals and found refuge in an office practice. Now that the Indians had made them rich, they traveled in style, lived in understated luxury, and were plotting their final getaway to a place yet to be determined.

When the champagne was gone, both fell asleep. For seventeen years, Claudia had worked diligently at her job because she was, after all, always up for reelection. Phyllis, too, put in long hours in her busy little firm. They never had enough sleep. Two and a half hours after leaving Florida, the jet touched down at Teterboro, New Jersey, home to more private aircraft than any other airport in the world. A black town car was waiting and whisked them away. Twenty minutes later they arrived at their building in Hoboken, a sleek new high-rise on the Hudson, directly across the river from the financial district. From their perch on the fourteenth floor, they had a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan. Lady Liberty was only a stone’s throw away. The apartment was spacious and sparsely decorated. It was an investment, not a home, just a place to keep until they chose to flip it. It was, of course, owned by an offshore shell entity, this one domiciled in the Canary Islands.

Phyllis took great delight in playing the international shell game, and was constantly moving money and companies around to find the hottest new tax haven. With time and experience, she had become an expert at hiding their money.

After dark, they put on jeans and took a car into the city, to SoHo, where they dined at a tiny French bistro. Later, in a dimly lit bar, they sipped more champagne and giggled at how far they’d traveled, not just in distance, but in life.

—

The Armenian’s name was Papazian and they’d never known whether it was his first or last name. Not that it mattered. Their dealings were shrouded in secrecy. Neither side asked questions because no one wanted answers. He rang their doorbell at ten Saturday morning and, after the required pleasantries, opened his briefcase. On a small breakfast table he spread his dark blue felt and arranged his goodies—diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. As always, Phyllis served him a double espresso, which he sipped as he described each gem. After four years of doing business, they knew Papazian dealt in only the finest stones. He had a shop in midtown, where they had first met him, but now he was quite happy to make a house call. He had no clue who they were or where they came from. His only concern was the transaction, and the cash. In less than thirty minutes, they selected a fistful of his best—“portable wealth” as Phyllis liked to say—and handed over the money. He slowly counted $230,000 in $100 bills, mumbling all the while in his native tongue. When everyone was happy, he gulped down the last of his espresso, his second, and left their apartment.

With the bulk of the dirty work out of the way, the girls got dressed and took a car into the city. They bought shoes at Barneys, had a long lunch at Le Bernardin, and eventually drifted to the diamond district, where they dropped in on one of their favorite dealers. With cash they bought a selection of new, uncirculated gold coins—Krugerrands from South Africa, Maple Leafs from Canada, and, to help the local economy, American Eagles. All cash, no paperwork, no records, no trail. The tiny shop had at least four surveillance cameras, and these had once been a concern. Someone somewhere might be watching, but those concerns had been set aside. In their business there were always risks. The trick was choosing which ones to accept.

Saturday night they watched a musical on Broadway, dined afterward at Orso but saw no celebrities, and went to bed after midnight, content with another successful day of laundering. Late Sunday morning, they packed their loot along with their handsome collection of new and horribly expensive shoes, and took a car back to Teterboro, where the jet was waiting for the return trip south.





12





Hugo was late for the meeting, and while they waited Geismar reviewed the new photos and the travel records as Lacy returned e-mails. “Any idea why these go back only seven years?” he asked.

“None. Myers doesn’t know but speculates that the mole arrived on the scene at about that time. Obviously, the mole is someone close to McDover, and perhaps that’s when he or she got involved.”

“Well, he or she is certainly spending some money. It’s hard to believe these photos could have been taken by someone sitting in a car on the street. It’s more likely that the photographer was inside one of the condos.”

“There are four of them in a unit directly across the street,” Lacy said. “Two are available for rent, at a thousand a week. We are assuming he or she rented one, set up the camera, and knew precisely when McDover and Dubose would arrive. That’s some pretty serious intel.”