White Collar Blackmail: White Collar Crime Financial Suspense Thriller (2 page)

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?”

“What’s a few minutes between friends?” Becker responded. “He’ll be here soon enough, and you’re not flying out until tomorrow morning, so it’s not as if he’s holding you up, is it?”

“I think you’re scared of hi−”

“Scared of who?” Brock Borchard asked as he took the chair at the opposite end of the table to Becker. He was thirty-five and the only director without academic qualifications. He had approached Becker about joining ACME after he found them sniffing around a business in Chicago that he too was interested in buying. It had been difficult and cost tens of thousands of dollars to get a handle on Borchard. Even now the unknowns far outweighed the knowns. Born Bratislav Bozovic on a small farm on the outskirts of Belgrade, his mother had died bearing him. Serbia was experiencing severe economic problems as a result of its history of wars and skirmishes. His father was a brute of a man with a violent temper who, despite severe food shortages, could always find a drink. Raised by his uncles and his father’s male friends, young Bratislav rarely saw or spoke to a woman while he was growing up. He later made up for it in a prolific way. Little was known about how he entered the U.S., but private investigators had discovered the foundation of his wealth was collecting debts and pimping in Chicago while still in his mid-teens. It had provided him with the seed capital to get into drugs, illegal gambling, loan sharking, and the construction of high-rise buildings. He was the only builder in Chicago without union problems. He employed three compatriots as bodyguards, union organizers and standover men, who along with him were known as the Serbian Mafia.

“Hello, Brock,” Becker said, eyeing the younger man. His jet black hair was pushed back in the style of the old-time Chicago gangsters, and his eyes were cold and expressionless. His lips were thin and cruel and a fine almost perfectly straight scar ran from the right side of his forehead to his jaw. “Arthur was just saying that he thought I was scared of the newly appointed police chief. I was about to disagree, but only a fool underestimates his enemies. I’m wary of him but so long as he stays away from our businesses he can do what he likes.”

“Is the bum on our payroll?” Borchard asked.

“Not yet. We still don’t know if he’s receptive,” Becker replied.

“Christ, everyone’s fuckin’ receptive,” Borchard replied. “Ya just gotta get the size of the bribe right. Don’t haggle or penny pinch. I can tell ya from firsthand experience that having the police chief in our back pocket is worth a shitload. We’ll get back what we pay him a hundredfold.”

“I thought this meeting was about new projects,” Harry O’Brien interrupted. “Can we get on with it?”

“Harry’s got a hot date.” Becker laughed. “Lydia, do you have anything new on the drawing board?”

Five years earlier, she had been a dorky actuary, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and clothes from the Victorian era. Laser-eye surgery and the skills of the best plastic surgeon in New York had enhanced her face, upper deck, and confidence. Add a designer wardrobe and visits from a personal trainer every other day and you had a hot, assertive woman in her prime. “Nothing new,” she said, “but I’m expecting to foreclose on those three new exploration wells in the next ten days.”

“How’d they perform?” Arthur Ridgeway asked.

“The first two are gushers, and they’re drilling the third now. Because of their success, they’re going to expect us to extend the finance package. They’re going to be in for a shock,” Lydia responded.

“You lent them just enough to ensure they’d fail,” Ridgeway said.

“Exactly, and I didn’t release the loan monies until after they’d drilled the first well and struck pay dirt,” Lydia said.

“Well done, Lydia,” Becker said. “Those wells will add nicely to our energy portfolio. Okay, Harry, you’re in such a hurry, you’re up next.”

“I’m making sure that our transport business wins a major tender for the delivery of milk in the south.” O’Brien grinned, pushing his chair back so that the table didn't confine his ample girth.

“And how are you doing that?” Becker followed up.

“The current contractor, Webb Transport, is having all sorts of difficulties.” O’Brien laughed and his jowls jiggled. “Their drivers are blowing up engines, backing into loading docks and smashing rear tail lights not to say anything of delivering late and leaving retailers stranded. They’ll be lucky to survive, let alone be competitive with the current tender.”

“What’s it costin’ and what are we gettin’ out of it?” Borchard asked.

“About two million to our friends at the Transport Employees Union to ensure their drivers wreck Webb’s tractors and trailers. The contract’s worth a hundred mil and will add ten mil to the bottom line,” O’Brien replied.

“Good stuff,” Borchard said. “Well done, Harry.”

Murmured congratulations went around the board table before Becker asked Arthur Ridgeway if he had anything new to report.

“Nothing new, but as you know our spare parts business, Trailer Parts, has been incurring losses because it’s under severe pricing pressure from Superior Spares. I’ve got one of our people into Superior’s head office. He’s an accountant. We’ll soon have their price lists, costs and know where they’re buying their parts. If I find our suppliers have been supplying them at better prices than us, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“How long’s our spy been on the job?” Becker asked.

“Two weeks. It’ll be a month or so before we have anything. I told him to be careful. He’s no good to us if he gets caught,” Ridgeway said.

“I like it,” Borchard said. “I’ve got nothin’ new, but I’ll have something juicy to report at our next meeting. I can report that that fuckin’ weirdo, Frampton, is no longer a problem.”

“Did you have to kill him?” Ridgeway asked.

“Fuck, Arty, you were at the last meetin’ when I was told to fix the problem. Once he found out that he had incurable cancer there was nothin’ to stop him blowin’ the whistle. Do ya think he was still worried about us tellin’ the world he was a fuckin’ sicko? He was about to come outta the closet and confess that he’d been leakin’ inside information. Jeez, he only had six months to live.”

“I don’t like it,” Ridgeway said. “We’re not murderers.”

“Really? Dermott, why don’t ya tell Arty about Valerie Gibson?” Borchard said.

“Unfortunately the drugs have got her. It’s only a matter of time before she’s outed and then we won’t have any hold on her,” Becker replied. “She’ll soon blab to the SEC that she leaked inside information about her employer.”

“Yeah, she’s a crackhead,” Borchard said, “and when she’s outed she’s gonna sing like a canary.”

“You-you’re gonna kill her too?” Ridgeway said, shaking his head.

“We’re gonna give her one final shot.” Borchard smirked. “She’ll die happy.”

“It has to be done, Arthur,” Lydia Coe said. “If she talks, the SEC will be all over those stock transactions.”

“Dermott, I know you’re busting to tell us about your latest convert,” O’Brien interjected. “He’ll more than replace Frampton and Gibson.”

“We’ve had our eye on a young accountant who’s an audit manager with Montgomery Hastings & Pierce. He gambles on the horses at one of the betting parlors on the edge of Chinatown. He’s been having an incredible run using some convoluted, self-designed betting system,” Becker said.

“He’ll end up losin’,” Borchard said, “they always do.”

“Yeah, you’re right, so we’ve made sure that his credit’s been extended to half a mil. When he starts losing we’ll own him,” Becker said.

“Half a mil’s not much,” Ridgeway said, “surely he’ll be able to get the money from somewhere. Is his family poor or something?”

“On the contrary, and that’s the beauty of it.” Becker smiled. “His father’s a surgeon; his mother’s a doctor, and he has a sister and brother who are both surgeons. He’s the black sheep, the failure of the family. He went to the best schools, the same ones his siblings went to and ended up as an accountant and major disappointment to his father. The betting system is his way of proving that he’s as smart as, and can make as much money as anyone else in the family. He’ll never ask them to cover a gambling debt. Can you imagine the shame?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all very interestin’,” Borchard said. “Whatta we get out of it?”

“I’m getting to it,” Becker responded. “Montgomery Hastings & Pierce is a very prestigious firm, and the big four have been trying to take them over for years without success. But what’s most appealing about them is that they audit forty public companies listed on the NYSE and NASDAQ.”

“What’s the big four?” Borchard interrupted.

“The four biggest accounting firms in the world,” Becker said. “Can you save your questions until I’m finished? This guy will have access to the sales and profits of those companies before they’re reported to the market. When he’s in our pocket, we’ll also have that information. It’ll be like reading tomorrow’s newspapers today.”

“Fantastic,” Ridgeway said.

“Brilliant,” Lydia Coe chimed in.

“I’ll ask ya again. Whatta we get out of it?” Borchard said.