CHAPTER FIVE
The Portland FBI field office was never going to be a lakeside palace modelled on Versailles, Kate reflected, but it had its own gritty charm.
The worn brick facade, the low hum of the industrial ventilation system, the faint aroma of stale coffee and desperation – it was a far cry from the almost toxic grandeur of Whitfield’s compound, but it was home.
Or at least, it was the closest thing she had to one right now.
She found Marcus hunched over his computer, the screen glowing with a complex web of numbers, lines, and corporate logos that looked more like an abstract painting than a money trail. He didn't look up as she approached, his focus absolute.
"So," she said, dropping into the chair beside him, "what fresh hell have you unearthed?"
Marcus finally looked up, his eyes alight with a manic energy that was both contagious and slightly unsettling. "You are not going to believe this. Turns out Whitfield wasn’t just lining his pockets, he’s been running a full-blown criminal empire."
"An empire? Seriously?" Kate felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, the hunter scenting prey. "Walk me through it."
"It's all smoke and mirrors, Vee," Marcus began, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he called up a series of documents.
"Shell companies owned by ghost corporations, owned in turn by more shells and ghosts, a money trail leading through every country that ever raised an eyebrow at an airline check-in – Caymans, Gibraltar, Panama, Luxembourg, Isle of Man... the whole shebang. Tax evasion and money laundering on top of the central fraud.”
“The Ponzi scheme.”
“The very same. You get people to invest their hard-earned, on the promise of massive dividends, and you keep ‘em hooked by giving them a few modest pay-outs.”
“Which are funded, not by successes in investment or divine blessing…”
“Both, in Whitfield’s case. He’s feeding his victims some hokum about using AI to make trades, but underpinning that, his global network of churches is allegedly boosting that tech power with round-the-clock prayer.”
“But none of that money is really being invested, right?” Kate checked. “He’s just using the funds of the people he’s duped most recently to pay a few modest amounts to the people who’ve sent him their cash previously.”
“Exactly.”
“But I seem to remember reading somewhere that Ponzi schemes always fail.”
“They do, because they rely on a constant supply of new cash. If it slows down, or stops, or a large number of so-called investors decides they want their dollars back at the same time, then it collapses.”
“So why didn’t that happen?” Kate asked.
“It did. At least once. About three thousand investors lost their savings back in 2021. But Whitfield structured things so cleverly that he was able to convince the authorities that he’d been a victim along with his investors.”
“How the hell did he manage that?”
“His fund managers took the rap. They claimed that they’d made some profoundly bad trades, and gone Ponzi to hide their mistake.
They got three and a half years jail-time.
Not coincidentally, two of them now live in very big houses: one in Panama, one in the British Virgin Islands.
The third sails around the world in his pretty little Sunseeker 134. ”
“Paid off by Whitfield?”
“Just don’t put that in print or he’ll sue you like he did a Post journalist last year.”
“But surely that trick with the fund managers could only work once. And all the evidence suggests Whitfield was continuing to operate the same scam, right?”
“Yes and no. Whitfield found a way to ensure a steady stream of cash, and thus keep on duping investors.”
“Drugs?”
“Nah. Like the Ponzi scheme, it’s something kinda quaint. An old-fashioned number called the ‘long firm fraud’. Ever heard of it?”
Kate shook her head.
"The Sicilian Mob introduced it to the States at the end of the 19th century, and it’s called ‘long’ because it’s like wine, takes quite a while before it pays off.
It goes like this: over time, maybe a year or two, a business entity of some kind builds up a strong relationship with wholesale suppliers.
In the Pastor’s case, it was an educational foundation connected to his churches.
Buying high end, portable assets, like home electronics, sound systems, jewellery, electric bikes, phones. .. “
“Wait up. What’s an educational foundation attached to a bunch of churches need with all these electric bikes and jewellery and i-phones?”
“Incentives for staff and students, raffle prizes, rewards for missionary work… plenty of reasons. Anyway, 99% of wholesalers don’t care. Remember that laboratory network last year.”
He was referring to a case in which a Swiss gang had flooded two cities with pharma-grade crank, buying the chemicals and equipment from the same manufacturers used by the FBI’s scientists. The judge had thrown the case out of court.
“They just care about being paid,” Marcus continued. “And for a year or two, that’s what the long firm does. Religiously, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Ha.”
“Just like you’d expect from a business associated with a church, they make a point of placing regular orders, paying on time, accruing trust and credit and goodwill.
Pay attention to the word ‘credit’. Because once the wholesaler is assured that the firm will pay what it owes in 30, or 60 or 90 days, or whatever arrangement they’ve got in place… ”
“The firm places a huge order.”
“Maximum orders. Don’t forget by the way, that the one firm might have built up this relationship with a dozen wholesalers.
And once all the goods come in, they sell everything at knock-down prices.
Not too knock-down, but like 25-35% cheaper.
Whatever the store owner gets is pure profit, because he's never going to pay. Once the goods are gone, he vanishes as the bills mount up and the suppliers, typically, go bankrupt. It’s a really old-fashioned con, but it’s alive and kicking in the 21st century. "
"So, our Pastor was ripping people off on a global scale," Kate summarised.
"Exactly. Preaching to the masses while fleecing them blind." Marcus said.
Just then, a wiry figure with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, a bright polka-dotted bowtie and a tangled nest of salt-and-pepper hair materialized beside them. This was Finn O'Malley, a financial crimes analyst who had a reputation for being both brilliant and utterly eccentric.
“You’re right about the pedigree,” O’Malley said, as if he’d been part of the conversation all along. “There are references to the long-firm-fraud in Polybius. Roman historian of the second century b.c.”
"O'Malley," Marcus said with a grin. "Thanks for dropping by. Have you two met before?"
Kate said “Yes” at exactly the same time as O’Malley said “No”, which wasn’t a surprise. His eyes never even left the computer screen.
"Whitfield, eh? Nasty piece of work. But clever. What do you need from me?”
“Basically, what Marcus told me, but with figures, before oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow, when I’ve got to brief the team. Names, dates, amounts. Everything.”
"It shall be done," O'Malley said, disappearing as quickly as he'd appeared, leaving behind a faint scent of mothballs.
"The man is a walking wonder," Marcus chuckled. "A walking wonder with a serious aversion to sunlight."
Kate sighed. "Okay, this is getting bigger than I thought. This isn't just about some con-man with a dog-collar. This is about a major criminal enterprise with tentacles stretching across the globe. I need to give Winters a heads-up. Now."
"I'll come with," Marcus said, standing up. "Moral support. Plus, I'm curious to see the look on her face when you drop this bomb on her."
"Tempting, but I need to do this alone," Kate said, a serious edge to her voice. "You stay here, keep digging. I want to know everything about this guy, every connection, every transaction. Most importantly, everyone who might be raising a glass in celebration when the news breaks. Please.”
She could see the disappointment in Marcus's eyes, but he nodded in understanding. "Alright, be careful. And try not to get yourself eaten alive."
The elevator ride to Winters' office was a tense one.
Kate had been deliberately avoiding her boss since the end of the last case, and she knew she couldn't put it off any longer.
She needed Winters' resources, her authority, her unyielding focus.
But she also dreaded the conversation that needed to happen.
Winters' office was, as always, spartan and meticulously organized, smelling faintly of the French perfume she wore.
The only personal touches were a Charlotte Bobcats pennant, and a framed photograph of a handsome, but pensive-looking man in naval dress uniform.
Nobody knew if he was a husband, brother, father, lover…
Nobody, thus far, had ever dared to ask.
Winters looked up as Kate entered, her expression unreadable. "Kate," she said, her voice cool and formal. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Things had been like this since the conclusion of the last big case.
Then, as before, it had become clear that Elijah Cox was communicating with the killer from his jail cell; with the killer and, by means of encrypted notes left at the murder scenes, with Kate herself.
Only Kate hadn’t kicked that particular detail upstairs until the killer was behind bars. The news had not gone down well.
Kate took a deep breath. "I need to update you on the Whitfield case. It’s got elements in common with previous investigations.”
There was a brief, barely perceptible raising of the eyebrows before Winters said, "Go on.
" The boss could be compassionate and understanding; she was known to defend those working under her with the ferocity of a lioness protecting her young.
But if you got on the wrong side of Winters…
well, she lived up to that seasonal surname.