Deadly Pursuit

5

Jack Dance’s arrival at his place of business was observed and recorded by four FBI technicians in a green van parked across the street. Video and still cameras captured his brief walk to the office door. The same cameras, their telephoto lenses focused on the front windows, caught glimpses of him through gaps in the Venetian blinds. Only once he sat at his desk, away from the windows, was he lost to sight.

“He’s in there,” the camera operator said. “If he follows his routine, he won’t come out till noon.”

The communications technician radioed a transmission on a VHF band. The signal was unscrambled, necessitating a coded message.

“Weather Central, this is Tracking Post A. Storm front has moved in.”

Peter Lovejoy’s voice crackled over the technician’s earplug: “Continue monitoring the system’s progress. We’re placing additional resources at your disposal.”

Jack’s first call of the day was to a Mr. Pavel Zykmund of Downey. Mr. Zykmund’s name had come from a mailing list, one of several Jack had purchased from publishers of religious magazines and investment newsletters with conservative leanings. He’d found that people with an apocalyptic outlook and a distrust of paper money were more likely to put their faith in precious metals as a hedge against society’s collapse.

A gruff male voice edged with a strong Eastern European accent answered on the fourth ring. “Service.” Electric tools whirred in the background.

“Pavel?”

“This is me.”

“Hey, Pavel, how you doing? This is Dave Michaels over at Consolidated.”

“Consolidated?”

“Consolidated Silver and Gold Investors. Listen, man, I’m sorry it’s been so long since I talked with you, but I’ve gotten kind of backlogged here. You know how it is.”

Dance had never spoken with Zykmund before. Faking a previous relationship was the first key part of the pitch.

In the alley behind the strip mall, a red Camaro eased to a stop near a trash bin. Two men in dark business suits emerged. They were Dallas P.D. homicide detectives, and they had been members of the Trail Ridge task force ever since a twenty-two-year-old legal secretary named Dorothy Beerbaum had turned up dead on the Trinity River greenbelt with a puncture wound in her neck.

Both cops were carrying Smith. 38 Chief’s Specials, drawn, cocked, and locked. They approached the back door of CSGI and waited, hugging the wall to minimize the risk of being seen from a rear window.

Zykmund wasn’t buying it, not right off.

“Excuse me?” he said with evident impatience. “I’m afraid I do not recall you or your company, Mr…?”

“Michaels. Dave Michaels, of Consolidated Silver and Gold. Come on, Pavel, has it been that long? Let me check my records… Holy smoke, you won’t believe this. It’s been six months since I called. No wonder you don’t remember me.”

“Mr. Michaels, I am busy man.”

Precisely what Jack was counting on. A busy man could never keep track of all his phone calls and business contacts.

“Call me Dave,” Jack said. “Look, I know it was a while ago, but you remember what we talked about last time? I was trying to get you into silver at five dollars an ounce. You weren’t able to do business with me at that time, which is a shame, because today silver’s at six dollars and twenty-seven cents. If you’d gone with me when I asked you to, Pavel, you could have made yourself a twenty-five percent profit.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Pavel murmured, and Jack smiled.

Late last night, the street directly outside the strip mall had been lined with orange cones and signs warning Tow Away Zone. No vehicles had parked at the curb, leaving plenty of open space for the blue Honda Civic that pulled up now.

At the wheel was a detective from the San Antonio Police Department, who had worked the case involving Jack Dance’s first known victim, a biochemistry graduate student at UTSA killed in her apartment fourteen months earlier.

Seated next to him was the sheriff of San Bernalillo County, New Mexico. Dance’s second victim had been found in an arroyo near the Rio Puerco.

Overhead, an FBI surveillance chopper swung into view, executing loops over the arrest site.

“I’ve got something for you now, Pavel, that’s even better than the deal you passed up. Not silver this time. Gold.”

“I know very little about such things…”

“Let me ask you a question. You’re a businessman, as I recall.”

“I run auto-body shop.”

“Right.” That explained the power tools still screaming on the other end of the line. “So you must follow financial developments pretty closely. Did you read the business section of the L.A. Times today? Interest rates are about to climb. That means inflation, my friend. And when inflation takes off, so does gold.”

“I do not think I can afford-”

“Sure you can. That’s the beauty of our system here at CSGI. We understand the needs of smaller investors like yourself. Which is why we permit you to purchase quantities of gold as modest as three troy ounces. At three-eighteen per ounce, that works out to only nine-fifty-four total.”

“Nine hundred fifty-four dollars? Is too much.”

“But all you have to pay is four-seventy-seven. You put down just half the price up front, with a fifty percent balloon payment required only when and if you choose to take physical possession of the metal. In other words, you can lock in the total price right now, no matter how high the market eventually goes. See what I’m saying, Pavel? You just can’t lose.”

A Saturn coupe parked behind the blue Honda. San Diego P.D. and the sheriff’s department of Clark County, Nevada, were represented inside.

“For half price… I get all the gold?”

“What you get is a half interest in your share, plus the guarantee of making an outright purchase at any time in the future. When you’re ready to take delivery, just pay another four-seventy-seven, and the gold will be delivered to your door by our bonded messenger.”

The bonded messenger, a slack-jawed kid draped over a folding chair and thumbing through a gore-movie magazine, glanced up briefly, registering some reference to himself, then resumed reading.

“And you keep gold for me until I want it?”

“Not us personally. The gold is stored in a Credit Suisse bank vault in Zurich, Switzerland, for maximum peace of mind. Even in an international crisis-and you know that’s always a possibility the way the world is going today-your investment will be safe and sound.”

“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.