Edge

“The Clarence Brown scam . . . I mean, Pamuk?”
    “He’s not the primary.”
    “But he has to be,” Ryan said, dismayed.
    “I thought so too,” I said. “But it’s not a Ponzi scheme. Pamuk’s business is legitimate.”
    “But the fake companies, the fake name . . . how can it be legitimate?”
    “His name was legally changed. And all the doing-business-as certificates have been duly filed.It’s true the investments were made through shell companies but it seems that’s not a crime. Pamuk’s outfit is financially solid. The books are solid. It all checks out.”
    Ryan asked, “What about the people who wanted their money back? Pamuk kept stalling.”
    “Some of them have been paid. The others will be in the next few days. We got information from Interpol Economic Crimes. They were in contact with forensic accountants and securities people in London, New York, Paris and the Grand Caymans. They put the company through an X ray.”
    Ryan laughed sourly. “I tried for weeks to get the international boys to talk to me. The French never even returned my calls. Neither did anybody in Georgetown. You carry more weight than us D.C. gumshoes, it looks like.”
    I remembered the cop’s sour characterization of his status in the department.
    Small potatoes . . .
    Joanne lifted her head, showing modest interest, but returned to the computer. I wondered what held her attention so raptly. She couldn’t go online so it had to be files stored on the hard drive.
    I continued, “Here’s what happened. Pamuk sends his investors’ money to the Middle East, through dozens of shell corporations registered in America, Europe and Asia.”
    “Right. To fund terror operations, you were thinking.”
    “No. It’s all real equity and debt investing. He did it that way because he honestly feels that Arab companies are solid ways to make money but he knows that Americans might be reluctant to investin them. Patriotism. And some of the stockholders over there wouldn’t be too crazy about knowing that their fellow investors have beer and pulled pork for dinner and go to church on Sunday. So he set up layers of shell companies. If you dig deep enough, you’ll find the details.”
    Ryan sighed.
    I continued, “If somebody wants their money out early, it takes longer than with a U.S. fund because of the layers of corporations and the laws overseas. It’s time-consuming but completely legal. Nobody’s been robbed. In fact, the return on investment beat the Standard and Poor’s Index by four percent this year.”
    “No crime, no reason to hire a lifter.”
    “Right.”
    “Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Dead end.”
    So there we were. One of the best lifters in the business was after Ryan Kessler. It wasn’t because of his two major active cases. And it wasn’t the administrative work he was doing.
    Game theory accounts for both unknowns and knowns in the equation. You don’t know how the dice will fall, what card will be the next you pick up or are dealt; you don’t know what strategy your opponent will select for the next move.
    Your trembling hand sometimes makes you move in error.
    But one thing you always know is who your opponent is, what goal he seeks.
    This game, though, was different. I didn’t know the opponent—only the playing piece, the knight or rook: Henry Loving.
    And I didn’t know the object of the game.
    Were we playing bridge, Arimaa, backgammon, Go? The Game of Life? Poker?
    Unknowns, complete unknowns.
    Ryan Kessler massaged his bad leg and stared at the painting above the fireplace, more fat horses with skinny legs. “Maybe it is one of the smaller cases. I didn’t think so but that could be it. The identity theft or the credit cards.”
    Then a voice behind us, Joanne’s, said firmly, “No, it’s none of those.”
    Ryan and I both turned to her.
    “I’ve got the answer,” she whispered, looking up from the computer and waving at it contemptuously. “It’s not Ryan that Loving’s after. . . . It’s my sister. He’s after my goddamn sister.”

Chapter 41
    RYAN WAS FROWNING. “Maree? It can’t be her. Her last name isn’t even Kessler.”
    Joanne looked my way. “Did anybody actually see the phrase, ‘Get Ryan Kessler’? In that email you were talking about?”
    I asked, “The go-ahead order? No. But it said ‘Kessler’ and gave your address.”
    Joanne countered, “Which is how you’d describe where Maree’s been living.”
    I considered this. “True.