“I see…”
Jack knew he would reel this one in. He could sense it. He needed patience and confidence, nothing more.
The scam was a simple pyramid scheme. Some gold and silver bullion actually was stored in a Credit Suisse vault-Jack had documents to prove it-but not nearly enough to cover all the “certificates of ownership” purchased by CSGI’s clients. Buyers who wanted to make the balloon payment and take delivery of the metal were encouraged instead to “increase their leverage” by putting the money into a down payment on a new certificate.
Some especially gullible marks had gradually invested $50,000 or more in worthless paper titles to nonexistent metal. They couldn’t have made the balloon payments now if they’d wanted to. Their life savings were gone.
Detective Ashe of Phoenix P.D. parked in the strip-mall lot, outside the dry-cleaning establishment next to CSGI. He spoke four words into the transmitter on his Telex headset: “Unit Six in position.”
A second car joined Ashe’s Pontiac. It contained a Detective 2 and two D-l’s from LAPD’s Homicide Special Section and the assistant special-agent-in-charge of the FBI field office in Westwood.
The L.A. cops carried 9mm Berettas, and the assistant SAC, Patterson, used a. 38 Smith. There had been some friendly discussion earlier about the relative merits of the two guns.
Nobody said anything now as the LAPD men checked their clips and Patterson inspected the Smith’s cylinder and speedloader.
“So what do you say, Pavel? Can I messenger over a contract for three troy ounces?”
“Well… I do not know. I must talk it over with my wife.”
Jack snorted. “Your wife?” Incredulity raised the pitch of his voice. “You need to get permission from your wife?”
“Not permission. We always discuss money things. She is very good with money.”
“Yeah, you make it, and she spends it. So your old lady’s got you on an allowance, huh?”
Pavel was wounded. “Is no allowance.”
“Well, call it whatever you want. Sounds pretty sad, though-a working man from the old country, letting his better half walk all over him.”
“She does not-it is not like that-”
“Right, right. Look, I guess I was wrong about you, Pavel. You’re not serious about investing. Maybe it’s your wife I should have been talking to all along. Sorry to waste your time.”
“Wait.” A pause. “How much is silver now?”
He was still thinking about that twenty-five-percent profit he’d missed out on. Beautiful.
“Six-twenty-seven,” Jack said. “Up from five dollars even.”
“And… gold?”
“Three hundred eighteen an ounce-and getting ready to take off.”
“Big increase?”
“We’re looking at a major run-up here, Pavel. Check the Times if you don’t believe me.”
“As much as twenty-five percent?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. This is one hot opportunity. Speaking of which, I’ve got other clients who need to know about this, so…”
“I’ll do it.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and found life good.
The final car to swing into the parking lot was driven by Peter Lovejoy, with Tamara Moore at his side.
“Weather Central in position,” Lovejoy reported.
Moore licked her lips. “When do we take him?”
“In one minute.” He checked his watch, then spoke into his transmitter. “All units. Downpour at nine-forty-eight. Sixty seconds from now.”
For the first time Tamara could remember, Peter seemed to have forgotten his allergies.
“Glad to hear you say that, Pavel. You’re making a real smart move. Okay, I’ll have our bonded courier at your place of business within the hour. The contract explains everything. If you have any questions, call me. Let me give you my number and confirm your address …”
Thirty seconds later. Dance was off the phone and chuckling. Four hundred and seventy-five dollars-a nice round five hundred, with the five-percent “transaction fee” tacked on-easy money. But even that was hardly anything. It was the next call to Mr. Pavel Zykmund, and the next, and the next, that would bring in the real rewards.
Welcome to America, Pavel, old pal. And hold on to your wallet.
9:48.
“Go,” Lovejoy said, throwing open his car door.
Then he and Moore were sprinting toward the entrance of CSGI, the three L.A. cops and Assistant SAC Patterson right behind.
Jack sauntered up to the desk of one of his salesmen, a bright young guy named Ted Stuckleberry, who did business as Ted Stone. “Guess what, Ted-o? There’s life in the old man yet.”
Ted liked to hear Jack’s stories. “Never doubted it, boss. Give me the gory details.”
“No big thing, really. I just closed some pussy-whipped Lower Slobenia garage mechanic for five Ben Franklins.”
“First sale of the day. You…” Ted’s voice trailed off as he looked past Jack, through the blinds. “Hey. What the fuck?"
Jack turned. Stared.
Half a dozen dark-suited figures were crossing the parking lot at a run.
They had guns.
His blood chilled.
“Jesus,” he hissed.
A hundred times since moving into this office, he had shaped and reshaped an escape scenario in his mind. That thinking galvanized him now.
He ducked away from the window and spun toward the far corner of the room.
6
The front door was unlocked. Lovejoy flung it wide and entered, his Smith sweeping the four salesmen at their desks and the messenger with a lurid magazine in his lap.
“Freeze, FBI!” Lovejoy shouted as his colleagues fanned out, covering the room. “Put your hands up!”
Moore was scanning the faces and frowning hard. “Where’s Dance? Where’s Dance?”
“Where’s your fucking boss?” Patterson yelled at the salesmen.
One of them showed an insolent smile. “Haven’t seen him.”
Lovejoy talked into his Telex headset. “Outside posts, stay alert. Jack isn’t home.”
As he completed the transmission, the two Dallas detectives charged in from the rear.
“Any way he could’ve gotten past you?” Lovejoy demanded.
“No chance,” the first cop said. “Nothing back there but a toilet and a closet, and we checked them both.”
“Peter.” Moore pointed at the far corner. A door under a red Exit sign. It had been shut hastily, but the latch had not caught. As they watched, the door drifted slowly ajar, revealing a staircase: metal treads and railings.
“Shit.” Lovejoy had studied blueprints of the strip-mall complex. The staircase led to a second-floor storage room. Dance must be up there already.
Dead end, though. The room was windowless. There were no exits. Still, he could make a stand. If he had a weapon, he could fire on the arrest team from the top of the stairs. Everyone was wearing vests, but the Kevlar offered no protection to the head and limbs.
An assault was no good, then. This was a job for somebody with a bullhorn.
Moore was thinking the same thing. “Think he’s gone barricade?”
“It, uh, it appears…” Lovejoy tried to control the breathless shaking of his voice. “It appears we’ll have to play it that way.” He turned to Patterson. “Better get SWAT in here. We’ll need a negotiator and containment. In the meantime, LAPD can evacuate the building. That is… if you think that’s the best option.”
Patterson nodded. “It’s our only option.” He hurried off to give the orders.
“This isn’t a disaster, Peter.” Moore patted his shoulder. “He’s ours. Either he gives himself up, or SWAT takes him out.”
“In all probability.” Lovejoy sighed. “But in this instance the probabilities may not apply.”