CHAPTER 45: Hell On Wheels

Sheriff Russo methodically checked items off in his head.

There was not enough evidence for a phone tap on the phone of Seamus Boyle’s military buddy, Skye Westwood, but the Lincoln County Sheriff in Montana had filed for a “trap and trace” to see what numbers Westwood had called. He was also working on securing a warrant to search the ranch and interviewed Westwood. He swore Boyle had stayed with him for two weeks around the date of the murder.

An airtight alibi? thought the Sheriff. Only if you believe sleazebags. And I don’t.

The Sheriff couldn’t mention Jackson and Grace’s illegal search of the garage Boyle had rented in Seattle, but he was glad of the information. Thanks to Nate’s detective work, Seattle PD was working on a search warrant for the garage.

The Brentwood Police Department in L.A. were trying to get a warrant to search Boyle’s townhouse and, since it was offered for rent, Sheriff Russo needed to push them. Brentwood PD had interviewed some of Robert “Bob” Patton’s friends and his girlfriend, Carol Murphy and she’d given them the rental car contract. Brentwood PD promised to email it over.

The DNA from the murder scene didn’t cross reference with anything in CODIS, the DNA databank. CODIS also required a direct link from the crime scene to suspects. Two black Suburbans with Mickey Mouse air fresheners? thought the Sheriff. He filled in the online form and hoped for the best.

Beyond the vehicles, Boyle had no assets under his name or any of the aliases they’d identified so far. Zero phone numbers. He’s using burners, thought the Sheriff.

Sheriff Russo worked late into the night going over public sources tied to the corporations and people within the Trinité galaxy. He was amazed. He’d never been involved in a case where the tentacles were so many, spreading in so many different directions. He used colored pins on a digital map to mark their assets—blue for real estate, yellow for vehicles, red for planes, green for watercraft. The real estate alone covered 15 states. The corporations had cars in ten. They had planes in Boca Raton, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia and, in Montreal. They had boats in four states and offices for Trinité-related corporations in six cities: Boca Raton, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia and San Francisco. They also had an office in Montreal, Canada. Trinité personally owned real estate and planes in Connecticut and Boca Raton.

Boyle will need cash and a plane, thought the Sheriff. He’ll never come back west and he won’t try to cross the Canadian border. That meant Boca Raton, Chicago, Connecticut, New York, Philly.

A large withdrawal from one of the Trinité-related bank accounts might indicate a cash payoff, a clue as to Boyle’s location but banks won’t release any transaction info or even the existence of an account without a subpoena or search warrant. Sheriff Russo didn’t have enough evidence to trigger an investigation by FinCEN, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Center. That step was crucial to get the banks to track accounts, flag and report Suspicious Transaction Reports, STRs, on transactions above $10,000 for the Rockefeller Charitable Trust, Jameson Corporation, Boyle or Frédéric Trinité-related accounts. Nonstarter, thought the Sheriff, sighing with exhaustion.

He heard his secretary arrive, heard her fill the coffee pot in the small kitchen. He opened the door to the main office.

“Morning, Becky,” he said. “No coffee for me. I’m gonna nap for a few hours. Wake me if need be. When Matthew arrives ask him to call Brentwood PD, push for searching the townhouse before someone rents it and wake me when the rental car agreement shows up. Thanks.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” she said. “Have a good rest.”

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Grace, at Chase Stanford’s sister Joan’s office, was buried in words when a call from Mike Tate of the Washington Resources Defense Council interrupted her.

“How’s your timber story coming along?” he asked.

“More complicated than I’d thought,” said Grace.

“Need any help?”

“Thanks, Mike. While I’ve got you, what’s your official position on hard numbers for sustainable timber harvesting in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked.

“We’re very supportive of sustainable harvest levels, Grace, but if you cut more trees, you’ll have fewer trees. The multi-billion-dollar timber industry has clear cut its way across America’s fragile ecosystems to the last and greatest ancient rainforest. We feel—”

“Sorry, Mike, I’m running late,” she said.

“I look forward to reading it,” said Mike. “In the meantime, I sent you an invite to an online conference. We just got funding to organize stakeholder meetings to develop a Marine Spatial Plan for the Blue Economy. I’d love to tell you all about it. It’ll save the orcas!”

“Thanks. Gotta go, Mike. Bye.”

“Grace…,” he said, but she’d hung up.

Mike Tate dialed the next reporter on his list, a new one at the San Francisco Chronicle, and thought, Grace Newman, you are no longer my favorite eco-reporter.

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Frédéric Trinité’s Bombardier Aéronautique Challenger 350 circled the New York City skyline.

In Jackson’s briefcase, under the seat in front of him, were documents and Powers of Attorney signed by the members of his family.

The aircraft landed and taxied to its hanger. A black limo was parked outside, its driver holding a sign: ARMSTRONG/NEWMAN.

“Jackson,” said Grace, “there’s no way I’m taking my backpack to Trinité’s estate. I’ll rent a box here.”

“Smart move,” he said. “I’ll call the Sheriff, update him.”

While the driver transferred their bags to the limo, Jackson stood on the tarmac and called Sheriff Russo. He told him about Trinité’s donation to the Yellow Ribbon Alliance and the deposit from Montreux Global in Geneva, sitting in an escrow account in Seattle.

“Escrow?” asked the Sheriff. “Something you want to tell me, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. “Earnest money. We’re selling.”

“You’re selling what, Jack?” he asked.

“The mill, our homes, everything. To Trinity. It’s decided.”

“Well,” said the Sheriff, “It’s none of my business, but I am sorry to hear that. It will just kill this town.”

“I know, but come on, Dave. Silvercreek is dying. A few more years and it’s going up in smoke.”

“Factored the Cascadia quake into that equation?” asked the Sheriff.

“We did,” said Jackson.

“Trinity-funded evac plan?”

“Pretty much. Bankruptcy, fire, quake, tsunami, apocalypse.” said Jackson. “We negotiated compensation for lay-offs. Frank and Tom have big plans so they’ll hunker down and work up specs, find a site, then circle back and pick up our key guys.”

“A good plan,” said the Sheriff. “And you, Jackson?”

“Keeping my options open.”

“Hmmm,” said the Sheriff. “Might L.A. be in your future?”

“With her?” asked Jackson, pausing for a heartbeat. “For her? Yes, but Lord, L.A.? I sure hope it doesn’t come to that!”

The Sheriff laughed.

“I’m at JFK now,” said Jackson. “With Grace. Trinité insisted. Signing papers at his Connecticut compound tomorrow.”

“Is that wise?” asked the Sheriff.

“Should be OK,” said Jackson. “The family knows plus you.”

“Watch your back, Jack.”

“No kidding, Dave,” said Jackson. “Keep the info on the sale and our plans quiet.”

“I will,” he said. “Again, I am really sorry about this, Jack, but I understand. Sometimes, there’s just no winnin’ for losin’. Ya gotta know when to fold.”

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Sheriff Russo studied Skye Westwood’s phone records, walked over to his Deputy’s desk. “Matthew,” he said, “can you sort this by area code, highlight the ones outside Montana, start with those east of the Mississippi?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” said Mathew. “That rental agreement just came in.” He pulled it up on his monitor. “Three-week contract,” said Matthew as the Sheriff leaned over, reading along. “Carol’s name, address, email is HellOnWheels@megmicro.ph. Philippines. A 310 area code…”

“Call it,” said the Sheriff. “Record it.” Matthew put the call on speaker. It rang three times and then a man’s voice answered. “I’m out having fun. Leave a message.”

“Seamus Boyle?” asked Matthew.

“Could be,” said the Sheriff. “Probably a burner, but ask for ownership, request a trap and trace. See what you can get on that email.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Deputy.

“Request the rental car company activate the tracker early.”

“Based on what grounds?” asked the Deputy.

“Try the truth,” said the Sheriff. “Worth a try.”

“Copy that.”

The Sheriff walked to the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee, added milk and a generous heap of sugar. He leaned against the counter and took a sip, thinking on all the barriers in his way, lines he could not cross.

Territorial, constitutional. Legislated, litigated, he thought. Odds are stacked to protect the innocent but also the guilty.

At her desk in the main office, Becky studied the Sheriff sipping his coffee. Gears turning, she thought.

Sheriff Russo rubbed his chin, took a sip of coffee. If there were exigent circumstances—a life immediately and proximal in danger, a kidnapping—he could secure a court order to turn on the GPS for the rental, but no one was in immediate danger. He couldn’t mention the armory in the garage either so Boyle was simply a person of interest wanted for questioning.

Dead end, thought the Sheriff. A Mickey Mouse air freshener, a Good Samaritan helping put out a fire, an illegal search of a rented garage, a murder case with DNA but no match. Inadmissible. Junk. No case. Amazing we ever convict anyone, he thought.

He thought about the email and phone number that Carol had written on the rental contract. With burner phones, messages archived in a digital filing cabinet in cyberspace until the owner burns it—wipes all the data, making it disappear forever.

The Sheriff selected a bright red apple from a basket on the counter. How long ’til Boyle burns that number? he thought, taking a big bite out of the apple. I need a hacker, he thought.

<><><><> 

Seamus Boyle called Warren Jonah and said, “I’m at the private terminal at JFK and there’s a limo driver holding a big sign that says ARMSTRONG/NEWMAN. No way am I going near that hanger, for Christ’s sake!”

“Your choice,” said Jonah. “You have $100,000 in cash and another $100,000 in your account for returning our files. We kept our deal and provided the plane which you are passing on.”

Boyle was silent for a moment and then he said, quietly, “You know, Jonah, just in case, I put everything on a tiny little flash drive. It’s all packed up, ready to ship to Newman unless they hear from me.”

“What the…,” said Jonah. Boyle heard him breathe heavily. “Fuck,” he said. “Seamus, what have you done?” Jonah was quiet for a solid minute. “The Cessna at the Greenwich estate, a Stationair 206 float plane with doubled up fuel tanks. Trinité’s there, but he’ll be gone tomorrow by noon. Just to be safe, go after two.”

“OK,” said Boyle. “Tomorrow. After two. I can do that.”

“Don’t use the front gate—there’s a blind spot on the wall by the northwest corner of the property. Use that. If anyone asks what you’re doing on the property, use Prescott—not Reading, not Patton, not Boyle. Jordan Prescott. Prescott will be cleared to take the plane. Enough games, Seamus. This is the last—”

“Not a game, Jonah. I’ll take that plane and you can arrange another 100 grand. Once I’m safe I’ll send you the code for retrieving the flash drive. If you screw up, that batch of shit ships out to Newman in two weeks. No, now it’s actually less than that because we’ve been at this way too long, asshole. Oh, and Jonah, that little red canvas case—you really should use passwords on your drives.” He hung up.

Seriously? I’m the asshole? thought Jonah, but then his anger turned to panic. Did he say passwords? On your drives? His stomach turned over.

Jonah’s computer was password-protected and with him almost all the time. When it wasn’t, it was in the office safe. He hadn’t bothered to put passwords on the flash drives and the backup drive because they were always in the safe. But the safe for the new office didn’t arrive until after Boyle broke in.

Bile rose in Jonah’s throat and he barely made it to the bathroom.

<><><><> 

In a hotel room just outside Greenwich, Connecticut, Seamus Boyle spent the evening dying his hair black and shaving off his scruffy beard. He left a goatee and dyed that black too. He layered clothing for a bulkier appearance, added a weak pair of eyeglasses. When finished, he looked in the mirror. He was pleased with the results.

Boyle kept thinking of his ace card, the envelope left with the Goth lady at the postal center near Central Park, the package waiting to be shipped to Grace Newman.

Hell on wheels, he thought and smiled. He’d take his time, slow and steady, playing his cards as they were dealt.

He spent a satisfying evening transferring funds from various accounts—Argentina, Cambodia, the Cayman Islands, all the way to Belize.

Boyle took a shower, fell into bed and a deep sleep. In his dreams, he swung in a hammock strung between two palm trees, a soft, beautiful brown woman in his arms. He drank rum from a bottle as thousands of hundred-dollar bills fell from the sky.

In a long white nightgown, her beautiful hair flowing around her, Ginnie’s ghost watched from the fronds of a palm tree high overhead.