Beating the Babushka (22 page)

“You’re not that civil.”

Beau nodded and stretched. “That your convertible out front?”

“I take it you want a ride?”

“Bet your ass I do,” replied Beau. “Too tired to shower, way too tired to walk.”

“You didn’t recognize my car?”

“Looks different—you get it washed or something?”

“I got the dent in the door fixed,” said Cape. “The one on the driver’s side.”

“When did you have time to do that?”

“Dropped it off before I left for New York, just picked it up this morning.”

“That dent gave the car character.”

“I was sick of looking at it,” said Cape. “Plus, I had them install a new alarm while they were at it.”

“What was wrong with the old one?”

“Kept draining the battery.”

“Dead battery’s one way to keep it from getting stolen,” said Beau, “but not too practical. I always thought alarms on convertibles were kinda dumb—cut the roof and bye-bye radio.”

Cape shrugged. “This one’s connected to the ignition, so it’s just to keep them from driving off with the car. Vintage rides are popular again.”

“Vintage?” said Beau. “You mean old.”

“I’m working on my image,” said Cape. “Anyway, if the alarm goes off, it cuts off the engine and triggers a siren.”

“Siren?” asked Beau, his eyebrows shooting upward.

Cape smiled. “Thought you’d like that. The guy who sold it to me said everyone ignores car alarms.”

“True.”

“But everybody freezes when they hear a siren. Sounds just like a cop car.”

Beau shook his head, looking at Cape with a sad expression. “You, my friend, are an easy mark,” he said. “I do believe you’d buy yourself a box of tampons if they came with the right sales pitch.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees as he started to stand up.

Cape opened the top drawer of his desk and took out his wallet and keys. He slid his thumb over a red button at the top of the car key. “This will convince you,” he said. “Check it out.” He held the key for Beau to examine as he pushed the button.

The explosion blew out the windows and knocked Cape backward over his chair. Beau was thrown like a rag doll across the desk as the building shook with concussive force. Glass was everywhere, wind-chime noises coming from shards splintering on impact and ricocheting off the walls.

As his head hit the floor, Cape caught a glimpse of his car spinning in mid-air outside the second-story window, tires on fire. A deafening crash of metal from the street below. The wailing of car alarms.

Beau landed head first against Cape’s chest, his feet sticking straight up behind the desk. Cape had the wind knocked out him for a second time and thought the collision with Beau might have been worse than the initial explosion.

Twisting around, Beau managed to shift his legs and fall completely to the floor with a loud grunt. He got his legs under him, then extended a hand to Cape. Neither man said anything as they brushed glass off their shoulders, then walked stiffly to the windows and looked down.

Tourists across the street on Pier 39 were shouting and taking pictures. Cape’s car was upside down and on fire. It had landed on the SUV directly behind it and crushed the hood down to the engine. The SUV in front had jumped the curb and rolled almost twenty feet into the street. Both cars’ alarms were howling in sympathy for Cape’s demolished vehicle.

Beau put a hand under his chin and the other on his head then twisted, cracking his neck the way you might crack your knuckles. He turned to Cape, who was still staring at the bottom of his car.

“If you don’t catch these guys soon,” said Beau sternly, “then I’ll kill you myself. I’m tired of this shit.”

Cape blinked, still in shock. “Imagine how I feel.”

Beau reached out and brushed glass from Cape’s shoulders, then patted him on the back. “It’s stupid to have a convertible in San Francisco, anyway. The weather’s too unreliable.”

Cape nodded absently as the stench of burning rubber filled the air. He could hear sirens on their way. “Guess I’m not giving you a ride.”

Beau shook his head. “Changed my mind—I’m walking.”

Chapter Fifty

The Major enjoyed working with his hands, even when they weren’t covered in blood.

He lovingly ran his fingers over the remaining items from their shopping trip. They found the metal box and wires in the electrical section of a nearby hardware store, but they had to drive to a Home Depot in the suburbs for a big enough clamp. They got a good deal on the necessary tools—screwdriver, drill, metal screws. But the C-4 explosive—now that was expensive. Plastic explosives were a lot harder to find than in Russia, where the Soviet military had disbanded into a scattered mob of entrepreneurs.

Ursa looked on from a short distance, confident in the Major’s ability to handle the explosive. The bomb on the detective’s car had been a disappointment, but only because he wasn’t in it. The explosion had been impressive.

The Major looked over his shoulder. “Do not fret, Ursa. Even a cat only has nine lives.”

Ursa grunted. “What about the girl?”

The Major smiled. “If this doesn’t work, comrade, then she’s all yours.”

Chapter Fifty-one

“Why didn’t you drive?”

Linda was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She looked from the departing taxi toward Cape, a concerned look on her face. Her hair seemed suspicious.

“My car’s in the shop,” said Cape vaguely.

“What for?”

“Everything,” said Cape. “Let’s go inside.”

The Sloth was sitting placidly in front of his computers, face lit by the shifting colors on the plasma screens. His mouth twitched in a half smile as Cape took the chair next to him. A heavy hand moved subtly across the keyboard as words scrolled across the screen directly in front of Cape.

YOU LOOKED BETTER WHEN YOU WERE DEAD.

“Thanks—I felt better, too,” replied Cape. “I’m thinking about trying it full time, catch up on my rest.”

Linda pulled up a chair. “Do you know anything?”

“Was that a general or specific question?” asked Cape. “Not that it matters, because the answer is probably a resounding ‘No’ either way.”

Linda’s hair bounced in irritation. “About the case,” she said. “Since we’re looking for connections, it might be helpful if you filled us in before we got started.”

Cape shrugged. “I don’t think Tom was killed over drugs. The heroin was just a diversion.”

“From what?”

“His real business,” said Cape, “which had to do with money—maybe extortion. Maybe siphoning money from the movie’s production budget to pay off the Russians, who were leaning on him. Or maybe the Russians are just muscle for someone else.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” remarked Linda.

“Tell me about it,” said Cape. “That’s why I’m here—I need to know if Tom had done this before on other films, and if he was acting alone.”

Linda nodded. “This movie they’re making now is losing money.” Her tone made it clear she was stating a fact, not asking Cape to confirm a suspicion.

“How do you know that?” he asked. “I just reviewed the budgets with Grace this morning.”

THEY ALL LOSE MONEY.

The letters glowed like a signpost in front of Cape.

“All?”

Linda glanced at a sheaf of notes before speaking. “All the movies Empire Studios has produced over the past two years have lost money.”

“How is that possible?” asked Cape. “That astronaut film cleaned up at the box office.”

Linda held up a hand. “These films generated lots of money. At the box office, internationally, on video and DVD—millions.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The films generate cash, but they aren’t profitable,” replied Linda. “If you look at Empire’s books, which we have, you’ll see that every budget is in the red.”

“You saw their books?”

Linda blushed slightly and her hair avoided eye contact altogether. “Their computer network doesn’t have much of a firewall.” She shrugged. “The Sloth hacked it.”

The Sloth’s hand jumped and the screens filled with spreadsheets similar to the ones Cape had seen that morning. At the top of each one was a movie title—Cape had gone to see most of them when they were released. The upper rows of numbers were green, the ones in the center were yellow, and the bottom rows were all red. The first column was a series of categories that included Gross Receipts, Distribution Costs, Deferments, and Net Profit. Most of the columns were meaningless, but Cape certainly understood the progression from green to red.

“One or two movies I could understand,” he said, shaking his head. “But most of these were hits. How could they stay in business, let alone be attractive for sale?”

Linda’s hair bobbed forward with her in tow. “There are a couple of accounting techniques unique to the movie industry having to do with how people get paid.”

“Grace mentioned that,” said Cape, “whether you get paid from gross receipts or net profit. If you don’t get your cut from the gross, you may not see very much cash.”

Linda bounced in her chair. “Precisely, which means that if you’re Empire, then it’s to your advantage for the movie to actually lose money on paper, because then you don’t have to pay off the investors.”

“And that’s legal?”

“If it’s in a contract, then it’s legal,” replied Linda. “You see those yellow numbers?” She pointed at the rows of figures at the center of the screens.

“Yeah.”

“Those are the studio’s production costs for each film,” she said. “In every case the initial costs of the studio were covered.”

“So they didn’t lose money,” said Cape.

“Not initially,” replied Linda, “and not on the studio’s end. But they never closed the books. So, long after the movie left the theaters, they kept billing expenses against the film.”

“How?”

“Say someone at the studio takes a trip and talks about the movie during the flight,” replied Linda. “Why not bill it to the movie they just made? Did someone mention it over dinner? While we’re at it, shouldn’t we charge the cost of dinner against the movie’s budget?”

Cape leaned forward to scrutinize the screen. “So the studio covers its costs,” he said, thinking out loud.

“Right.”

“And the principals who get a percentage of the gross receipts,” he continued, looking over at Linda, “they get paid.”

“Right,” said Linda. “A lot of money.”

“People like Adam and Harry Berman,” said Cape, “the executive producers, and maybe the director.”

“Right.”

“But if you invested in one of these films,” Cape said, “then you got shafted.”

“Bingo.”

“Empire Studios can tell their investors that the films lost money, even though they were hits at the box office.” Cape shook his head, not sure whether to be impressed or disgusted.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading,” said Linda. “Studios use terms like “rolling break-even” and “deferments” to cover the necessary legal language, but if you don’t know your way around movie contracts, you could easily lose your shirt.”

“But we’re talking tens of millions of dollars,” said Cape. “What kind of investor would be that naïve?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” agreed Cape. “Who’s been funding all of Empire’s movies?”

“Way ahead of you,” said Linda.

The Sloth slid his hand awkwardly the full length of the keyboard and the screens changed again. A list of ten names appeared, each followed by a series of numbers, each listed under the same movie titles as before.

“These are the individuals—and companies—who invested in films produced over the past two years.” Linda and her hair had started to bounce in an asynchronous rhythm, so Cape knew this wasn’t just another group of figures.

“Anyone stand out?” he said.

“I was hoping you’d ask that.” Her hair practically reached out for a hug.

“These two,” said Linda. As she pointed, the Sloth made two names expand to fill the screen. “They invested in every film in progressively greater amounts.”

Cape read aloud. “Tactical Machinery Corporation of Hoboken, New Jersey, and GDS of Bonn, Switzerland,” he said. “What does GDS stand for?”

“General Defense Systems.”

“And they not only invested in all the movies, they increased their involvement with each successive film?”

“Yup.” Linda was practically vibrating with excitement.

“That leads to two questions,” said Cape. “Who runs the companies, and what business are they in?”

Linda looked at her notes again. “They’re both subsidiaries of larger companies based in Eastern Europe. It took me an entire day with Sloth’s help to trace the connections from these companies to all the firms they supposedly do business with around the world. But the two companies listed here, as far as I can tell, are just mailboxes—charters of incorporation, pieces of paper—that’s it.”

“You mean they’re shell companies?”

Linda nodded vigorously. “The Sloth couldn’t find any trace of these companies anywhere online except for their dealings with Empire Studios.”

Cape nodded. “What about overseas?”

“That’s a different story,” said Linda, “and it doesn’t have a happy ending. They’re involved in the manufacturing of machine parts, some transportation systems, but mostly—when you cut through all the miscellaneous crap—they’re in the weapons business.”

Cape turned to face her, wondering if his hair was bobbing up and down. “You’re positive?”

“Almost 80 percent of their transactions are to—and from—defense contractors around the world.”

Cape chewed at his lower lip as he asked the next question, but he already knew the answer. “Who owns the companies?”

“Lots of people,” said Linda, “if you look at all the subsidiaries around the world.” She paused. “But one name is associated with virtually all of them.”

“Yuri Sokoll,” said Cape quietly.

“You already knew.”

“I should have said Major Yuri Sokoll,” replied Cape. “The man who’s been trying to kill me on a daily basis.”

“There’s something else,” said Linda tentatively.

Cape looked from her to the Sloth. “It gets better?”

“In order to establish the shell company here in the States,” said Linda, “there had to be a U.S. resident listed as a principal owner.”

“The one in Hoboken?”

“Yes,” replied Linda. “Sokoll is listed as an executive, but someone else you know is the president.”

“Who?” asked Cape, suspecting the answer but not willing to commit.

“Harry Berman,” said Linda.

Cape blinked. “You mean Adam.”

Linda shook her head. “No, I checked. It’s Harry Berman—the older brother. The company was incorporated almost two years ago. Adam’s the Vice President—they’re in it together.”

Cape leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “Fuck me.”

“We haven’t been able to trace all the money,” added Linda, “but the investments from Sokoll have been legal, as far as we can tell. But these movies are shitty investments. And the business here in the States and the one in Switzerland can’t be connected to any illegal activity either—they’re both clean.”

“That’s the point,” Cape nearly spat. “They’re clean.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re laundering money,” he said, suddenly pissed at himself. “I should have guessed when Grace first told me about the budget.”

Linda looked questioningly at the Sloth.

WILL TAKE TIME TO TRACE, BUT SEEMS LIKELY.

“Don’t bother.” Cape squeezed the Sloth on the shoulder. “And thanks, old friend.” He stood and faced Linda. “It’s the only explanation—millions of dollars flowing through bogus companies into films that don’t turn a profit. The studio covers their costs, the two brothers get rich, and the Major probably gets a kickback.”

Linda nodded. “Makes sense.”

“More sense than heroin smuggling,” said Cape disgustedly. “It’s classic money laundering on a grand scale, in an industry that no federal agency would even look at twice.”

“Why not?”

“Productions are too transient to monitor easily,” replied Cape. “Grace said every movie is like a new business starting from scratch, with different investors—movie production is better than a shell company, because it’s a moving target that’s totally legit. I’m amazed more studios don’t run scams like this.”

“Maybe they do.”

“All I care about is Empire,” said Cape, adding, “and Grace.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“I need to find her first,” replied Cape. “She’s supposed to be shooting the final scene today—she’s downtown, near the Ferry Building.”

Linda noticed his expression. “You think she’s in danger?”

“She submitted her numbers to Tom right before he was killed,” said Cape, “and now she’s the only one looking at the total budget.”

Linda finished his thought. “And she’s started asking the studio questions.”

“Yeah,” replied Cape. “Just like Tom.”

“Wait,” said Linda. “There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” asked Cape, already heading for the door.

“If the scam is working, why would the Bermans want to sell the company?”

Cape shrugged. “My guess is the Major is a demanding business partner. You said the investments had increased with each new film, right?”

Linda nodded.

“Then I’ll bet the Major has increased his demands.”

“To what?” asked Linda.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” said Cape. “But somehow I’m going to find out.”