“Hell, yes.”
“Got an offshore account somewhere that the feds can’t see?”
“Of course.”
“Get me the account numbers.”
Buford got up and went to his desk, a huge mahogany behemoth with ornate carvings and inlays and not much clutter.
I said to Rodney, “I’m getting you a bank routing number and the client’s account number. I want you to transfer twenty grand from Vitole’s account into the client’s account.”
“Can do. I can get it all if you want. Put it in your account?”
I must admit I was tempted. “No. Just the twenty grand.”
The feds might not know about Buford’s account in Grand Cayman, or wherever, but my bank was in town with my name on file.
Buford returned with a slip of paper.
“Here they are.”
I read the numbers to Rodney. I waited while his fingers did their tap dance on the laptop keyboard.
Then he said, “It’s done.”
“Great work, Rodney. I’ll try to get you a bonus. Maybe a new shirt.”
We hung up, and I said to Buford, “You got your twenty grand back, you got the name of the shakedown artist, and you know where he is. What else can I do for you?”
“I’m impressed. How did you get the twenty grand?”
“Rodney got it.”
“Won’t there be a trace to who got it and where it went?”
“Only if the guy complains. And Rodney doesn’t leave a clean trail in cyberspace. What’s the asshole going to tell the cops, anyway? ‘I blackmailed a guy, and he hacked my account and took the money back’?”
“Good point.”
Buford handed me an envelope.
“There’s ten grand in there.”
He sure knew how to get a guy’s attention.
“That puts you on retainer for a month, weekends off,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you to do right now, but something will come up. I want you standing by while I get to Mr. Vitole before he realizes we got to him.”
I put the envelope in my jacket pocket. Ten grand. Willa would be ecstatic.
“Have you considered turning Vitole in to the feds and letting them handle it?”
“I have not. I do my own housecleaning.”
“How about if I go talk to him? Explain what we have on him and that we’ll rat him out to his former employer if he doesn’t back down. I think him knowing that we know should be enough.”
“What if he doesn’t go for it?”
“Then do it your way.”
“Let Mr. Bentworth try, Daddy,” Missy said. She was standing in the doorway. She must have heard everything. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or you can send Sanford to do it.”
“Who’s Sanford?” I asked Buford.
“Sometimes he’s my lawyer.”
Sometimes? How can you be a part-time lawyer? What do you do the rest of the time? Repossess pacemakers?
“Well, ask him. Whatever you do might have legal consequences. I don’t want Rodney and me on anybody’s accessories list. Before or after the fact.”
“A pragmatist,” Buford said.
“Every time,” I said.
“I hate pragmatists,” he said. “Okay, make a call on him. Let me know how it turns out.”
Missy nodded her approval of our plan.
Chapter 6
I enjoyed a pleasant drive on a thoroughfare to the south, going across the river and under the Interstate. It was lunch time. I stopped at a fast food drive-through and got a burger and fries. With the hangover gone, the thought of all that grease and gristle didn’t bother me. I got back on the road and ate while I drove.
Mario Vitole’s house was a rambler in a suburban subdivision. Nothing fancy, but nice. A new Buick was parked in the carport, and the lawn was well-tended. A cute but tacky sign on the lawn announced to the world that the house was the dwelling of Mario and Stella Vitole.
I parked across the street and a few houses down. My car had tinted windows so, unless someone looked closely, they couldn’t tell that I was in there. I took my digital Nikon camera from the glove box, put the long range lens in, and waited.
This was routine for me, the same kind of surveillance I did on cheating spouses. Only this time, instead of catching an indiscretion, I wanted to chart the target’s movements to see where he went and what he did. I’d choose a way to confront him based on that.
At about two o’clock, a man came out of the house. He was about sixty-five, with a medium height and build, and curly black hair with streaks of white. Tan and good-looking for an old guy. I rolled down the window and snapped a picture of him. He walked up the sidewalk to the residence two houses away. I took pictures. He went in the front door. Odd. He didn’t knock, just went in.
I drove up a few yards to just across from the doorway of the house where he went in.
About an hour later the door opened. I started snapping. He came to the doorway, and a woman came along behind. She was wearing a robe. He kissed her, came out, and returned to his own house. I took more pictures. I wrote down the neighbor’s house number. Then I called Rodney.
“Rodney, find me the name of whoever lives at 512 Cherokee Avenue.”
Rodney tapped and clicked. After about a minute of that, he said, “William Sproles. Do you need more information?”
“Can you get his wife’s name?”
Tap, tap, click, click. “Marsha. Anything else?”
“Find out what you can about them.”
I called Vitole.
“Mr. Vitole, I need to speak with you privately.”
“About what? Who is this?”
“This is about one of the former clients in witness protection.”
“I retired. You must want somebody else.”
“This is about Anthony Curro, also known as Buford Overbee.”
The line got quiet for a moment. Then, “Who is this?”
“We need to speak alone,” I said. “I’m parked just up the street. Where’s a good place nearby to meet?”
“You want to come to the house?”
“Anybody else there?”
“No. I’m alone,” he said. “My wife won’t be home until about six.”
“Okay. Keep in mind, this is just a meeting. An exchange of information. I come in peace.” I smiled at the Captain Kirk reference. “I expect to be likewise received. If not, your next visitor won’t be so peaceful. Understood?”
“Understood.” So far my usual bluff was working.
He was waiting in the doorway when I pulled up. He had changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk toward him. He retreated into the house and waved me in.
He walked ahead of me down a hallway. He looked back to size me up. This was where my bluff really needed to work. Not only am I not tough, I don’t look tough.
The house was tastelessly decorated with pile carpeting, red flock wallpaper, and etched mirror tiles. New simulated antiques decorated the entranceway, and the furniture and wall hangings were new too, every schlock style imaginable, nothing matching, nothing coordinated. But much nicer than my place, you can be sure.
He led me into the living room and pointed to a chair. I sat and he plopped on a sofa across from me.
“You want a beer or something?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, what’s this about Overbee?”
“Someone’s been shaking him down.”
He paused. “Really?” His mock surprise was not well-delivered, given what I already knew. “How?”
“They’re threatening to out him with his clients and with the mob.”
“No shit. You understand, I was not his handler. I never met the guy.” He was getting jumpy.
“I know. But you know all the major players in the Marshals Service. Maybe you can get the word out.”
“What word?”
“We traced the blackmailer’s e-mail address to his OnlinePay account and hacked into the account.”