CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The small jet banked slightly and lined up on its final approach to Sarasota-Bradenton Airport. I looked down at the dark expanse of Sarasota Bay, clearly outlined by the lights of the mainland and the barrier islands. Headlights moved across the Anna Maria Bridge, its superstructure defined by red and green lights. People on their way home or out to eat. A placid scene that reminded me of why I loved my islands so much. It was hard to reconcile this sense of normalcy with the murders that had occurred a couple of months before. I wondered if I would be able to find the murderers, to bring some peace to the victims’ families and perhaps to the spirits of the dead themselves.
I’d driven the rental car away from that small house in Charlotte where grief was edging out the good memories of an aging couple who had lost their only child and their remaining hope of happiness. The plane was fueled and ready to go. Two hours later we were crossing the bay on final approach.
During the flight, I’d typed my notes into my laptop and e-mailed them to J.D. and Chaz Desmond. I called Jock and arranged to meet him for a late dinner at the Seafood Shack in Cortez. He was going to bring J.D. I pulled into the restaurant parking lot a few minutes after nine o’clock, walked down the outside deck to the bay side dining area. Jock and J.D. were already seated at a window table. I joined them.
“How was the trip?” Jock asked.
“Quick.”
“Did you find out anything?” asked J.D.
“Betty Garrison remembered an Asian man speaking to Katherine
Brewster on the boat the night of the murders.” I filled them in on the rest of the trip and what I’d found out. Which wasn’t much.
A waitress came and took our orders, and removed the menus. She looked tired. The beauty of the bay would have long ago been lost on her. I guess when one works in paradise every day, one becomes a bit jaded about the scenery that draws the tourists that makes the job possible in the first place. She returned immediately with our drinks, a beer for me, wine for J.D., and O’Doul’s for Jock.
“I’m interested in the bogus travel agency,” said J.D. “How did the gift certificate from the B and B on Anna Maria end up with Katherine? And why a fictitious travel agency?”
“Debbie called this afternoon,” said Jock. “She ran the credit card number on EZGo and came up with a blank. The card was issued to a company named EZGo and was guaranteed by a man named, get this, John Doe.”
J.D. laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apparently the credit card companies aren’t very discriminating. The card was used twice. Once for the gift certificate for the Anna Maria Inn and a second time for gas at a service station in Bradenton.”
“Did the name Brumbaugh come up in Deb’s search?” I asked.
“She didn’t mention it to me,” said Jock, “and she would have, I think. So I’d say no.”
“Anything from your agency on Soupy?” I asked.
“A lot, but I’ve still got to sort through all the data. He’s pretty big in the poppy business and apparently commands a sizable army. He’s well known to our intelligence groups as one of the Golden Triangle warlords.”
“Any Laotian government involvement?”
“He’s right in the middle of it. Most of the warlords have their own people in the various ministries. I don’t know how much control Soupy has over what the government does, but he certainly has influence.”
“Any indication that he operates outside Laos?” I asked.
“None. I asked our director to query the intelligence agencies. It all came back negative. Apparently Soupy is happy to stay right there in Laos.”
J.D. had been sitting quietly. “That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have sent some goons to take out Jim Desmond.”
I shook my head. “The ones who tried to kill me grew up in America. Their English was too good, too idiomatic, to have been learned somewhere else.”
“Maybe the ones who attacked you were born here, but their parents are part of Soupy’s organization,” said J.D.
I nodded. “That’s a possibility. I wish I’d been able to hold onto one of them.”
Jock said, “I also checked on the Otto Foundation. It’s legit. Sends kids to build schools in Southeast Asia. Its director Bud Stanley is another matter.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“His real name is Robert Charles Bracewell, Jr. Thirty years ago, when he was in his early twenties, he and his dad were involved in a heroin import business in Long Beach, California. The DEA busted them and both went to prison. Senior died there, but Junior, who was called Bud, did his ten years at Lompoc and went on to better things. He legally changed his name to Bud Stanley, went to college at Cal State Northridge, got a degree, and went into the charitable business. He’s kept his skirts clean.”
“Sounds like a guy who learned his lesson,” I said.
“Possibly,” said Jock. “But guess who was on the other end of the heroin pipeline?”
“Shit,” I said. “You’re going to tell me it was Soupy’s dad.”
“You get the gold star. None other than Soupy’s old man.”
“No evidence Stanley’s still involved?” J.D. asked.
“None,” said Jock. “His bank accounts show he’s living on his salary from the Otto Foundation.”
“Family?”
“Never married. No kids. Mom died while he was in college.”
“That’s very strange,” I said.
“There’s more.”
I looked at Jock. He was showing a half smile of anticipation. A surprise was coming.
“I’m waiting,” I said.
“Bud Stanley has a very nice history. There is no connection to Bracewell. The record of his years before college, the years he was really in prison, is full of jobs that lasted a year or two. All in little companies that no longer exist. He was a typical young man struggling to make a living and then went back to college in his thirties.”
“I don’t understand,” said J.D.
“Somebody manufactured a pretty airtight background for our Mr. Stanley. I even have his high school records, the ones that Cal State got when he applied. He was a mediocre student who did not seem to the advisors to be college material. They’re all bogus.”
“How airtight is it if you can find out all this stuff in one day?” asked J.D.
“Damned airtight. Nobody would find the connection to Bracewell unless the one looking happens to be an intelligence agency of the United States government.”
“So,” I said, “Bud had some help. Could he be part of the U.S. Marshal’s witness protection program?”
“We checked,” said Jock. “The Marshals have never heard of either Stanley or Bracewell.”
“Any ideas on how he manufactured such an extensive background?” I asked.
“It’s possible he did it himself, but more likely he had help. This was a professional job.”
“How did you tie Bracewell and Stanley together?” asked J.D.
“Anytime somebody’s doing business with our government in a foreign country, they’re fingerprinted. Unless there’s some reason, such as a security clearance, to compare the prints to others, it’s not done. The prints are just put in a file and can be used for identification if needed. I asked my agency to run Stanley’s prints. We got a hit on Bracewell and followed up.”
“Did Bracewell just drop out of sight after Stanley showed up?” asked J.D.
Jock grinned. “A death certificate was filed on Bracewell in Los Angeles County about the time that Stanley applied to Cal State. Showed a death from natural causes and burial in a local cemetery.”
I knew the look on Jock’s face. “What else?”
He laughed. “The only other place that Bracewell’s name has shown up in the past twenty years is on a bank account in Switzerland.”
“Still active?” J.D. asked.
“Yep.”
J.D. frowned. “I understand that there’s no way to crack Swiss bank secrecy.”
“That’s generally true,” said Jock. “But there are ways to do it.”
“Can we get a look at that account?” I asked.
“My agency has a mole in the bank that holds the account. But, the director doesn’t want to use him unless we have something that touches on national security. If we can tie the Desmond murder into a security issue, we can get the information.”
“Fat chance,” said J.D.