White Collar Blackmail
Peter Ralph
WHITE COLLAR BLACKMAIL
Peter Ralph
Table of Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Other Books by Peter Ralph
Copyright
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Book 1
Prologue
The discovery of Richard Frampton’s bound, blindfolded, and gagged body in a seedy Oakland hotel shocked the business community of San Francisco. Thought to be staid and conservative, Frampton had been a director of five public companies. Police were unable to determine whether he had been murdered or whether an S & M adventure had gone horribly wrong. Frampton had been found naked on his stomach, expertly bound in nearly one hundred feet of ropes. He had died of asphyxiation when one of the ropes had blocked his airways. Friends and business associates were shocked to find out about Frampton’s clandestine life and were of no help to the police. He had been well known in the S & M community, but no one knew who he had been with the night he died.
Valerie Gibson had been PA to the CEO of a Miami-based high-tech public company, Xenex Inc., which provided customized cloud solutions to major corporations. She was a loner addicted to heroin and yet somehow had managed to hide her habit from her bosses. It was only when police found her body with a syringe next to it that her secret was revealed. Infection around countless puncture marks and bruises on her upper arms, told her sorry story. Police had no idea whether she had been murdered or died from an accidental overdose.
Les Carroll was a thirty-eight-year-old Philadelphia bachelor who was the financial controller of a medium-sized public company producing components for the airline industry. Carroll loved the poker machines and the booze. On Saturday nights, he would take a cab to 30th Street Station and a train to Atlantic City. He was a regular at Star City Casino and one night, when he left his billfold at home they were more than happy to provide him with credit. He hadn’t intended it, but slowly the amount of credit increased until he owed so much he could no longer sleep. Strangely, the casino never sought or demanded payment from him, and he was lulled into a false sense of security. It was only when the Star City sold his debt that he realized the extent of his problems. The buyer immediately demanded payment in full, and when Carroll couldn’t pay, he was told not to worry, that he could pay the debt off by providing financial information about his employer. He was outraged, and at first refused, but the buyer’s employees were intimidating and very persuasive. Eventually, he caved in but was racked with guilt and the only solace he found was in a bottle.
One night, after a heavier than usual night’s drinking, Carroll was standing on the Atlantic City rail platform waiting for a train back to 30th Street. Suddenly, he appeared to stumble, lose his balance and fall in front of the train. The station was crowded, but CCTV picked up a small, old man wearing a low-sitting hat, and a black overcoat, collar pulled up around his neck, standing directly behind Carroll. In the pandemonium that followed, the man remained at the back of the crowd for a few minutes before hobbling off the station. Atlantic City Police interviewed other witnesses who had been near Carroll, but all attempts to locate the old man failed. Police were not overly concerned as it was obvious that Carroll had been very drunk and accidentally stumbled off the platform into the path of the train.
Nothing connected the three deaths and after preliminary investigations, police put them in their cold case files and they gradually drifted off the radar.
FBI investigator, Chas Grinich, had stumbled upon the death of company director, Richard Frampton, when he had been investigating share transactions in companies in which Frampton had been a director. Grinich was a twenty-year veteran, and as soon as he became aware of Frampton’s double life, he knew that he may have been subject to extortion. And that perhaps he was being blackmailed into releasing confidential, corporate information. Large, but not over-the-top long positions had been taken in the stocks of two companies that Frampton had been a director of immediately prior to the release of favorable, market sensitive information. The stocks had been immediately sold, and significant profits were realized. When Grinich checked the larger transactions, he found brokerage accounts in the names of homeless people that were closed after the stocks were sold. One account was in the name of someone who had been dead for more than a year. The bank accounts had been cleaned out, the funds disappearing into a merry go round of accounts controlled by lawyers and accountants. Grinich’s gut told him that he was on to something big and sophisticated.
While investigating stock transactions in Xenex Inc., Grinich became aware of Valerie Gibson’s death and her addiction to heroin. The stock dealings mirrored those that had occurred in the companies associated with Richard Frampton.
Grinich, motivated by his findings, searched the FBI’s database looking for corporations where senior executives had met their deaths in suspicious circumstances. Les Carroll’s name was one of those that appeared. Carroll had been an addicted gambler with large debts. Another easy mark. When Grinich checked the stock transactions in the company in which Carroll had been the financial controller, he saw the familiar pattern.
Grinich knew there had been stock manipulation and also suspected murder. If he was going to find those responsible, he would need help. He picked up his phone and called Aaron Lord, a good friend and the SEC’s hardnosed, star investigator.
Chapter 1
The cab ride from the Carnegie Center to Chatham Square in Lower Manhattan along FDR Drive took just twenty minutes. Todd Hansen directed the taxi driver to a small pawn shop on the outskirts of Chinatown and told him to wait. He strode to the back of the shop, pushed a large black curtain out of the way and took the stairs to the basement. Facing him was a door with a small panel in the middle. It was ab
out five feet from the floor. He was 5’ 9” so he put his face to the panel and knocked impatiently. It slid away and behind it was an opaque glass window. He heard a whirring sound and knew the electronics to open the door had been activated.
Two doormen who might have been defensive linemen in another lifetime nodded as Todd entered the room. One of them said, “You’re here an awful lot lately, Red. Maybe you should bring a bed.” Todd ignored him. The smell of stale smoke assaulted his nostrils and yells of exultation were punctuated by groans and cursing. Television monitors showing horse races, basketball games, baseball, and the fights hung from every wall. Large boards flashed the odds of sporting events all over the US, the UK, and Australia. Half a dozen tables and chairs were spread around the room on clean but well-worn dark brown carpet. There were maybe twenty-five to thirty patrons, mainly men lining up at windows at the rear of the room. Todd joined one of the lines and when he reached the window said, “Santa Anita, race three, ten thousand the win, number seven, on my tab.”
The teller looked up. “Yes, Mr. Hansen,” she said, handing him his ticket. “Good luck.”
The middle-aged, Armani-suited man who’d been behind Todd left the line without placing a bet and instead ordered two coffees from one of the waitresses. Most of the other patrons were imbibing drinks far stronger than coffee.
Todd took a seat at a vacant table, removed his iPad and was soon absorbed inputting details of other races. After about ten minutes he pushed the iPad to one side, glanced at his watch and then at the monitors. He heard the caller say, “Cozy Babe goes into gate five, and they’re ready to jump in the third.” He didn’t believe in omens, but a warm feeling coursed through him at the mention of his horse’s name. In less than sixty seconds, the race was over, and while there had been a lot of screaming and shouting, anyone looking at Todd would not have known whether he’d won or lost. The iPad was back in front of him, and he was inserting details of times, margins and anything else relevant for every horse in the race. Before the day was over, he would repeat the exercise for every horse in every race across the major North American meets. He felt the presence of someone standing next to him. When he looked up, a man holding two cups of coffee said, “Congratulations, young feller. It’s not every day you win sixty thousand. Do you mind if I join you?”
Before Todd could answer, the man had taken a seat. “Here,” he said, pushing a cup of coffee toward Todd. “I was behind you at the window and was sure you’d need this after the race. I backed Brazen Warrior and thought it was a certainty. I think it’s still running.” He laughed.
Todd wanted to tell him to get lost but instead found himself taking the coffee and saying, “Thanks. That’s bad luck.”
“You mean bad choice,” the man said extending his hand. “Jack Elliot’s the name and who might I be talking to?”
Elliot had a genial face, but Todd was an astute observer of human behavior and noticed that his eyes didn’t smile. They were dark blue, unblinking, and there was scar tissue over them. “Todd Hansen,” he replied. “Jack, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got a cab waiting for me. I have to get back to work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant,” Todd said, standing up. “Sorry, I have to fly.”
“Before you go,” Elliot said, “do you have a tip in the fourth? I’ve gotta get my money back. My wife will kill me.”
“I wish I could help, but I don’t even know the names of the horses in that race. After I’ve inputted the fields in all races, my system throws up the horses I should bet on. It only threw up one today.”
“Incredible. Is your system foolproof?”
Elliot seemed friendly enough, but something about him made Todd uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the way his heavyset body destroyed the cut of his suit. Todd already regretted saying as much as he had. “Sorry, I have to go,” he said, pulling his overcoat up around his neck and making a beeline for the door.
Elliot remained sitting at the table for a few more minutes. He hadn’t learned anything that he hadn’t already known about Todd Hansen, but that was hardly surprising. He already knew Todd’s life history from kindergarten right up until his current employment as an audit manager with Montgomery Hastings & Pierce, accountants and tax consultants to the rich and famous. He finished his coffee before ambling over to a door next to the tellers’ windows. The nearest teller pressed a button on the counter, and the door to a short corridor opened. There were two offices at the end of it, and Elliot entered the first and sat down opposite a weasel-faced little man.
“Ronny, how much credit are you giving the red haired kid?” he asked.
“I already told you. Fifty thousand. He’s never used a cent, and he’s taken nearly three hundred thousand out of here in the past six months. He’s got this system that’s nearly infallible. A win rate of close to fifty percent. I ain’t ever seen anything like it.” Ronny groaned.
“Christ, you’ve been around for a hundred years and haven’t fucking learned anything.” Elliot snarled. “It’s a flash in the pan, a hot streak, and it’s gonna come to a sad end soon. I’ve never seen a system work in the long term, and when it fails, I want to be there to pick up the pieces. I want you to praise him, massage his ego, and encourage him to make bigger bets. He bet ten grand today and won sixty – tell him it could’ve been six hundred if he’d had bigger balls and bet a hundred grand. Once he starts losing, I want you to extend his credit to half a million. Don’t worry, when the time is right, we’ll buy his marker off you.”
Chapter 2
The unobtrusive but luxurious offices of the privately owned ACME Investments Inc. were on the fiftieth floor of the Truman Building. There were no more than a hundred employees. Mainly accountants, lawyers and debt collectors employed to protect ACME’s assets and ensure that rentals, dividends, and other income were collected and promptly banked. ACME had assets and investments in the billions, but its capital was only one hundred dollars with its funds coming indirectly from loans made by a Bermuda-based company, Vulture Inc.
A private elevator, exclusively for directors, whisked them from the underground parking garage to a small lobby adjoining the boardroom. The floor to ceiling glass windows in the large room provided magnificent, unimpeded views of Central Park. The boardroom table had been carved from one enormous piece of Huon pine, and there were half a dozen leather chairs around it even though there could’ve been double that. The wall directly opposite the windows concealed a well-stocked bar. Like the offices, the boardroom was both luxurious and Spartan. There were no paintings or prints adorning the walls and there was not an artifact to be seen. Two distinct board meetings were held every month, the first formally considered and reviewed the operations of ACME. The second was of the board of Vulture Inc., the ultimate owner of Acme. The board meeting scheduled for today was of the latter variety and due to commence at 2 P.M. Minutes of these meetings were never taken, and each director was expected to take notes on matters that he or she was responsible for. Five blank pads and pens were on the boardroom table.
New York-based chairman, Dermott Becker, was the first to arrive. The urbane, tall, silver-haired, sixty-something Becker had been disbarred from practicing law for witness tampering while still in his early thirties. He had never looked back and had never sought readmission. Instead, he had amassed a small fortune. He took the chair at the head of the table.
A few minutes later, Becker was joined by the slightly younger Arthur Ridgeway, a former accountant who had signed off on a false prospectus that had cost investors millions of dollars. Becker had used all his brilliance to defend Ridgeway, but despite his efforts, the accountant had been imprisoned in Bonemount Penitentiary for five years. He’d lost all of his hair in jail and, being young and weedy, had suffered terribly at the hands of the other inmates. After his release, Ridgeway had shifted to Los Angeles and put the past behind him. He may have been small, but he was mentally tough and had somehow managed to block out the
memories of Bonemount. Looking after ACME’s interests in California, Arizona and Nevada had been his salvation and most likely saved his life. He shook Becker’s hand and took the chair to the right of him.
The third director to arrive was engineer, Harry O’Brien, who was only in his mid-forties. He had made the mistake of under-engineering a small steel bridge to save costs. A family of five had died when the bridge collapsed, and it was only Becker’s brilliance that had resulted in a hung jury and no jail time. Later, there had been rumors of witness and jury tampering that eventually resulted in Becker’s disbarment. O’Brien lived in Columbia and handled South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Florida. “How long is this going to take?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“Harry, if you don’t like making money you can always resign,” Becker said, stifling a yawn.
O’Brien was about to respond when the Prada-clad Lydia Coe made her entrance right on time. She was the only woman on the board and the only director not guilty of negligence or a misdemeanor. A forty-year-old former actuary, she’d been framed by one of her superiors to take the fall for a mistake that had cost her employer millions. She had been summarily dismissed and with that black mark on her record found employment impossible to attain – until she had met Arthur Ridgeway at a party in L.A. and explained her woes to him. She had been bitter, hate-filled and spiteful, but Ridgeway had provided the leg-up that she needed, and she had proved to be an invaluable asset. No one else on the board had her ability to assess risk quickly and accurately. She had shifted from New York to Dallas and oversaw ACME’s operations in Texas, Arkansas, Kansas and New Mexico.
It was 2:05 when Ridgeway said, “I don’t know why we put up with this shit. Borchard’s late for every meeting. It’s disrespectful, that’s what it is. Are you going to say anything to him, Dermott?”
