Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

“And you think Jones found an innovative way?”

“Remember when I said that the revenue coming into his company was high for a lobbying firm?”

“Yes.”

“He claimed the money, provided client lists, and has a real, legitimate business. There’s no crime in charging high consulting fees, and while we looked hard at quid pro quo-where there was an agreement between a lawmaker and Jones to pass or not pass legislation in exchange for money-we couldn’t find even a blemish related to Jones in the capital. So I put the idea aside, figuring Jones’s clients felt he was providing a service and they were willing to pay his steep fees.

“However,” Dean continued, obviously energized by his discovery, “when I saw Rio Diablo on the list, and Gleason asked specifically why we were interested in them, but not any of the other clients, I looked at my notes and saw the connection between the small operation Jones had before Gleason and the much larger operation he has now. I suspect Jones set up the consulting firm fifteen years ago specifically to launder money.”

Sonia considered the idea. “If that’s the case, it would be a huge conspiracy. A great number of people involved. Secrets are revealed proportionately to how many people know. I don’t see how Jones could have kept something of that magnitude under wraps.”

“That’s the thing, he doesn’t need a lot of people.

Only one in each business. And if the Indian tribe is one of those entities, there’s no way in hell I would have figured it out. They investigate themselves, and trust me when I tell you they are not going to bend over backward to help us prove one of their own is laundering money through one of their casinos. That gets out to the public and public trust plummets. So do their casino profits.”

“But Jones isn’t a gambler,” Sonia said. “I’ve been following him nearly as long as you have. He doesn’t gamble.”

“That’s why I think this worked. If he was a gambler, I would have seen the gambling ‘winnings’ in his reportable income. That would have been a huge red flag. He’s the one receiving the money from human trafficking. He likely keeps a large stash of money somewhere-probably in a safe-deposit box-and perhaps he pays his people some of their salary in cash. But his profits are going to far exceed his expenses. How can he ever use that money? He needs to deposit it in a bank eventually. While he can do a lot of business in straight cash, and that’s how many criminals get away with their crimes, Jones has many expenses and property holdings that cost him capital outlay at some point. Deposits of over ten thousand dollars are reported to the IRS, as well as repeat deposits that are just under the ten-thousand-dollar threshold, at the discretion of the bank. Legitimate deposits would be payroll, consulting fees, and the like, so the IRS and FBI would be informed of a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer from one person or business to another, but if it’s ‘legitimate’ on the face, it’s not going to receive additional scrutiny.”

“I don’t see the connection here to Rio Diablo.”

“Cash flow into traditional casinos is hard to track, but we have years of data and experience, and tough federal regulations to make it extremely hard to launder money through casinos. But those regulations don’t apply to Indian gaming. They police their own, and their Indian council doesn’t have the experience with money laundering and criminal enterprises to know what to look for.”

“So Jones sent his employees to pretend to gamble and then collect winnings?” Sonia was confused.

“No. This is why it’s so brilliant. I think he’s giving his clients cash-and they are paying him for lobbying and political consulting-even if they don’t need it. They probably keep a percentage off the top, and the rest goes back to Jones as income into his legitimate business.

“That’s why I think he brought Gleason on six years ago. I suspect his illegal revenue had grown to the point he feared his small client list would become a red flag to the IRS. So he brought Gleason on with the charge of growing the business. Gleason and the other two lobbyists work ninety percent of the clients, but it’s the few original clients who are still responsible for the bulk of the income. At least, that’s what I think.”

Dean turned into the FBI parking lot and showed his badge to the guard, who opened the electronic gate. “That’s why,” he concluded, “I need to analyze the older records before I can state with certainty that this is how he did it.”

“But you are pretty certain.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. And it works every way I look at it.”

As they got out of the car Sonia said, “I never thought white-collar crime was so exciting. But you definitely have my interest piqued.”

“You know human trafficking, Sonia. Together we can figure out exactly how they’re helping him. Because they must have known about Jones’s illegal activities from the start.” Dean’s gaze hardened. “I want to take every last one of them down.”

It took Charlie all day researching, until he had a headache and could hardly see, but he had finally figured out Jones’s code.

And it didn’t help at all.

The code was so simple-a numeric code-that had he access to a government computer, it would have been broken in minutes. However, the numeric code revealed another code, this one seemingly random. The words were clear, but Charlie didn’t know what they meant. And he feared their meaning would be clear to only one person: Jones.

There were columns of dates, which Charlie focused on, but this journal only went back six months, if Charlie had decoded it right. And Ashley Fox was kidnapped nearly a year ago.

He could hardly believe all of his work-the crimes he’d committed, the crimes he had to allow lest he reveal his identity-were for nothing. He needed the older journals, and he had no idea where Jones kept them.

Charlie was certain they weren’t at Jones’s house or in any of the outbuildings. Jones wouldn’t have left them in either his consulting or security office because Jones trusted no one. He’d had a fear of being blackmailed, so Jones had held everything close to the vest.

But even if Charlie found the older journal, he still wouldn’t know what the damn words meant! Odd words and phrases like lipid and fresh news and rose and coffee time . The words meant something-the transportation method, how many people were brought in, expenses, and income. Lacking access to a high-end computer-decoding program, it would take him much longer than decoding the numbers.

All this work and he was no closer to finding Ashley.

Her mother’s voice rang in his ear.

“All I want, Mr. Cammarata, is to know. I want her back home, but if she’s dead I want to know that, too. This not knowing what happened to her-the not knowing is killing me. I’m in limbo. One morning I’m sure she’s gone, the next morning I’m positive she’s still out there, crying for me. Help me find her, dead or alive. I have to know.”

Charlie didn’t yet have an answer for Ashley’s mother. It was killing him. How could he go back and tell her he didn’t know what happened to her daughter?

There was nowhere he could turn. Ten years ago he had burned every bridge and betrayed the one person he’d never wanted to hurt. But Charlie couldn’t let this one go. He had to find Ashley. But looking at this code-it made no sense. Jones had put together a fail-safe against law enforcement and his illegal business associates.

Damn you to hell, you bastard .

Charlie should have found a way to torture the information out of Jones. Now he was dead and the bizarre code dead with him.