Black Mark, page 19
We got out of the car and Tony knocked on the door. It opened right away. A guy peered out from behind the door.
“Come in, quick,” he said, waving us inside.
Tony and I went in and the guy closed the door behind us quickly.
“Did anyone see you coming?” he said.
“I doubt it, man,” Tony replied. “There’s not much traffic out here at this time of the morning.”
“Can’t be too careful. Come sit down, guys. I’ll make coffee, then we can get started.”
He ushered us over to an old chrome and Formica dining table at one end of the living room, then left for the kitchen. I raised my eyebrows at Tony. He shook his head and made calming hand gestures at me. I shrugged and didn’t say anything.
The rest of the living room was furnished in thrift shop fashion, shabby mismatched furniture on battered hardwood floors that hadn’t been refinished in more than a decade. Mediocre watercolors of rural scenes hung on the yellowing walls. Jesus, where did Tony find this guy?
The guy came back, holding three mugs of coffee. He was tall, maybe six feet two, but thin as a rail. He had long dark hair, streaked with gray and tied back in a ponytail, and a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard. With his tie-dyed tee, and denim cut-offs, he looked every inch the aging hippie. But there was something cold and sharp in his eyes, something very far from peace and love.
“Come with me,” he said. He handed us a coffee each and turned away from us.
“Wait, how about some introductions first?” I said.
He turned back and glared at me. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t want to know who you are. And I sure as hell am not going to tell you who I am.”
He turned away again and headed through a door into a darkened room. Tony frowned at me and followed.
I trailed along behind, standing at the back of the room. At first, I couldn’t make out much in the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I found it hard to believe what I was seeing.
The room had heavy sheets hung over the windows to prevent anyone from seeing inside. Long desks lined two sides of the room, each loaded with computer gear. I counted three laptops and two desktop computers. Each of the desktops was paired with giant twin monitors. There was a printer on each desk, too. Even a Luddite like me could tell this setup was for much more than video games or surfing porn.
“Right, let’s make this quick,” the guy said, as he sat in an office chair by one of the desktops. “Tony says you need information about a business. Give me names, dates, anything you’ve got.”
“Start with Malik Betts and his real estate agency Phoenix Realty. I need a list of all their transactions in the past five years. I’m looking for dates, property addresses and details, buyer and seller details, prices and so on. Can you get that?”
The guy made some notes. “Yeah, that’s easy. What else?”
“Start there and we’ll see.”
He went to work, hands dancing on the keyboard. After a couple of minutes, he frowned at something on the screen.
“That’s interesting,” he said.
“What?”
“Malik Betts doesn’t own Phoenix Realty.”
“Then who does?”
“Not who. What. It’s owned by another company, Pacific Holdings.” He typed some more. “Which is in turn owned by another company… Ah, here we go. Three layers down, there’s our friend Mr. Betts.”
“So what are we talking about here?” I said. “Shell companies or something?”
“Exactly. Someone doesn’t want to be identified as the owner of Phoenix Realty.”
“Why? Tax evasion?”
“No, when I come across this sort of thing there’s usually some fraudulent trading going on. Price fixing, no-bid contracts, that kind of thing.”
“So that means Betts was involved in some other businesses too?”
“Most likely.” He hammered away at the keyboard again. “Yes. At least two more, and again there are a couple of shell companies between him and the store front.”
He worked for a minute or two more, then pushed his chair back from the desk. “Guys, this is a complicated web. Whoever set it up knew what they were doing. I haven’t seen a setup this convoluted for a long time. It’s going to take a while to untangle.”
“No problem,” I said. “Take all the time you need. But I want to know every company linked to Betts and ideally get transaction histories for all of them. Oh, and can you pull real estate closing records too? The official county recorder ones.”
“No problem. Give me a couple of days. I’ll dump the transactions, and I’ll run some pattern analysis for you, see if I can flag anything interesting or unusual.” He looked at Tony. “I’ll put what I find in the usual place and ping you when I’m done. You can show yourselves out.”
He went back to the keyboard, not even looking to see whether we left.
I was still shaking my head when we drove away.
“What?” Tony said.
“Interesting dude.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Tony replied. “He’s not even supposed to be online.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s on parole for some pretty serious cybercrime. Hacked a National Security Agency black site and posted reams of classified information on an open whistleblower website. He served two years and he’s on parole for five more. One of the parole conditions is that he has to stay off the internet. So, officially he lives in a studio in John’s Landing, with no wifi. But he spends most of his time out here. I helped set him up in this place and in return he does me some favors when I need information. That’s why he’s so hush-hush.”
“You keep interesting company, my friend.”
Tony smiled. “What do you make of the shell company stuff?”
“Betts was doing a lot more than just selling condos. But what, I don’t know. I guess we’ll see when we get the details. Your guy said he’ll get us the details in a couple of days. Is he likely to be on time?”
“He works fast. I’ll be surprised if we don’t get the data tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“We’re deposing Sinclair on Monday. I’d love to have a connection to Betts to throw at him, see how he reacts.” I sat back. “See if the fucker squirms.”
THIRTY-THREE
IT’S JUST BUSINESS
“This should be fun.”
I stared up at the forty-two stories of the US Bancorp Tower. Known to locals as Big Pink, because of its pink granite and tinted glass façade, it was one of Portland’s tallest buildings. Charles Sinclair’s company, CDS Development, occupied the top three floors.
Tony’s cyber expert had, as promised, come through with volumes of data about Betts’s business dealings. So much so, that it had taken me almost a week to work through it all. But the effort was worth it. The data showed strong connections to Sinclair and now we had a chance to see where that led.
We took the elevator to the fortieth floor, where a receptionist met us and led us to a conference room with stunning views of downtown, the Willamette River and the Cascade Mountains off in the distance. The court reporter was already in the room, setting up his equipment at one end of the oval-shaped conference table. He did a double take when he saw me.
“Mick, I wasn’t expecting to see you here today. I thought you were…” His voice trailed off.
“Hello, Scott. You’re right, I was disbarred. Three years ago, in fact. But I’m helping Casey out on this case. She’s the star of the show today.”
“Oh, okay. Well, it’s good to see you, dude. Hi, Casey, good to see you too.” He turned away awkwardly and went back to working on his equipment.
I wasn’t surprised to run into Scott Dukes here. He used to be my go-to court reporter for depositions. Most defense lawyers used his services at one time or another. He was fast, accurate and affordable.
Sinclair hadn’t arrived yet, but he’d staked out his territory by placing a monogrammed black leather folio and gold pen on the table, in front of a chair looking away from the view. We set up facing his seat, poured ourselves coffee from the silver service, and waited.
Sinclair arrived fifteen minutes after the scheduled 10 am start time, accompanied by a man he introduced as Gerald Whitehead, his lawyer. I hadn’t come across Whitehead before, and judging by Casey’s puzzled look, neither had she. Sinclair himself wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie. He nodded to us as he sat down.
“Let’s begin, shall we? The sooner this farce is over, the better.”
Casey didn’t rise to the bait. She began the deposition in an expressionless voice, providing the case details for Scott to take down, reminding Sinclair that his testimony was under penalty of perjury, and asking some basic questions to establish his identity and ownership of CDS Development.
Since I wasn’t a lawyer anymore, Casey was the only one who could ask Sinclair questions, but I’d prepared a list for her in advance. Casey kicked off at the top.
“Let’s start with your relationship with the deceased, Malik Betts,” she said. “How long had you been in business with him?”
“I wouldn’t say I was in business with him,” Sinclair replied.
Casey made a show of running her finger down one of the documents in front of her and frowning.
“You sold him five condominiums in the North Forty development in January 2016, for a total of $1.35 million, didn’t you?”
“It’s quite possible,” Sinclair replied. “I can’t recall exactly.”
“And you sold him a further ten condominiums in the same development in July of that year, didn’t you?”
“Again, I don’t exactly recall.”
“Mr. Sinclair, over the subsequent four years, you sold over fifty condominiums to Malik Betts, usually in lots of five or ten, from four other condo complexes built by CDS Development here in Portland. The total value of these transactions was in excess of $12 million. Is that not correct?”
Sinclair frowned. “You seem to know a great deal about my business. Where did you get this information?”
Casey kept her face deadpan. “Please answer the question, sir.”
“Look, Miss Raife,” Sinclair said, a sharp edge to his voice, “I build and sell a lot of properties. I don’t remember every individual transaction.”
“And Mr. Betts usually sold the condos shortly after purchasing them from you, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I’d say you should ask him, but…” Sinclair spread his hands.
“Yes, quite. But you were no doubt aware that the condos you sold to him were often on the market again shortly thereafter, sometimes while you still had other new units for sale?”
“Yes, I was aware of that.”
Casey slid a sheet of paper across the desk to Sinclair. “Good. This is a list of condominium sales in your three most recent developments, sorted by price. As you can see, Malik Betts usually sold those condominiums for less than other real estate agents. Sometimes by as much as ten percent. Why was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“It wasn’t because he wanted to sell the condominiums quickly?”
“I’m sure he had his reasons. I don’t know what they were.”
“And yet, despite making such small profits on those sales, Malik Betts drove a Bentley and a Porsche and he kept an expensive hospitality suite at Portland Trail Blazer games. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Maybe he had other business interests. Maybe he was better at them than he was at selling condos.”
“I suppose that could be the explanation. But isn’t it true that no one else bought more condos from you, or sold more condos in your developments, in the last four years?” Casey looked at Sinclair innocently. “And before you answer, I remind you that you’re under oath.”
He scowled at her. “So he bought a lot of condos. So what?”
“Okay, let’s move along,” Casey said. “Are you familiar with a company called Starlight Supply?”
Sinclair pretended to think for a moment. “I believe so. They sell construction supplies, don’t they?”
“They certainly sell supplies to CDS construction,” Casey replied. “Over fifty million dollars worth in various materials in the past two years, in fact.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, but this is. Do you know who owns Starlight Supply?”
“I do not.”
“Neither did we, at first. You see, Starlight Supply is owned by a shell company, which is in turn owned by another shell company. But when you peel back the layers, the principal owner was Malik Betts.”
“Interesting,” Sinclair said. “Maybe that’s how he could afford the fancy cars.”
“Are you sure you didn’t know that Malik Betts owned Starlight? And again, I remind you that you are under oath.”
“Objection,” Gerald Whitehead said. “Asked and answered.”
Casey looked at Sinclair, but he gave no indication of wanting to change his answer.
“All right,” she said. “I would assume that, as a businessman, you had a close relationship with your biggest customer. After all, you would want him to keep buying properties from you. Did you interact with Malik Betts outside of a business setting?”
Sinclair folded his arms. “No, I didn’t.”
I scribbled something on my notebook and slid it in front of Casey. She read it, then looked up at Sinclair again.
“Isn’t it true that Mr. Betts leased the hospitality suite next to yours at the Moda Center?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And you had a confrontation with Mr. Betts at a Portland Trail Blazers game earlier this year, didn’t you?”
“Quite possibly. He occasionally got rowdy at Blazer games. I’d have to go over there and tell him to quiet down.”
“But on this occasion, you said that you’d ‘warned him before about attracting attention’. Attracting attention to what?”
“I don’t recall using those words.”
“Be that as it may, despite your earlier evasion, I think we’ve established that you have known and done business with Malik Betts for several years now, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“And how would you characterize your relationship with him?”
“I’m not sure I’d even call it a relationship. Yes, I sold him some condos. But outside of that, we saw little of each other.” Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “I’d say he wasn’t to my taste.”
“Interesting,” Casey said. She took her time over making some notes, then looked up at Sinclair expectantly.
Sure enough, he took the bait. “Miss Raife, you’re clearly implying that I had a hand in Malik Betts’s demise. But as you yourself pointed out, I sold him a lot of condominiums and made a large amount of money doing so. Why on earth would I want him dead?”
“I’m not implying anything, but thank you for the clarification.” Casey turned a page in her notes. “Okay, let’s move on to your relationship with the accused in this case, Elliott Russell. When did you and he first cross paths?”
“Hard to say, exactly. Does it matter?” Sinclair turned to his lawyer. “How much longer do I have to put up with this?”
Whitehead didn’t look up from his notes. “Not much longer, I expect. Answer their questions and we’ll be done soon.”
“Let me ask the question a different way,” Casey said. “Mr. Russell and the Northeast Neighborhood Coalition have been spearheading the campaign against large condominium projects in those neighborhoods.”
“If you could call it a campaign. More of a bunch of rabble-rousers.”
“But those ‘rabble-rousers’, as you call them, have successfully shut down three of your proposed developments in the past five years. Correct?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Sinclair replied. “We have many project proposals that never get off the ground.”
“You’re awfully calm about it, considering what it cost you.”
“What do you mean?”
Casey picked up some glossy folders and waved them at Sinclair. “Well, according to these annual reports, the developments you have built in the past five years have earned your company anywhere between three and ten million dollars in profit each. Is that correct?”
“Yes. So?”
“Based on those numbers, each project the NNC shut down cost you a minimum of three million dollars in profits. That’s a lot of money, don’t you think?”
Sinclair pointed at the folders. “As those annual reports show, CDS Construction makes a lot of money from the developments we do build. I don’t lose any sleep over the ones we don’t.”
“In addition to costing you around ten million dollars in lost profits, the NNC succeeded in getting the City Council to vote on an ordinance to limit the number of new multi-unit developments in a given neighborhood. A proposal that would have effectively prevented you from building any new developments within Portland city limits, correct?”
“They got it on the agenda for a council meeting. But anyone with a leftie lawyer and too much time on their hands can get Portland City Council to vote on some socialist ordinance. Doesn’t mean it will pass, or survive a legal challenge if it does.”
“Was that the ordinance that was on the agenda at the City Council meeting on Tuesday June 18 of this year?”
Sinclair shrugged. “Was it? I don’t know.”
“But you were at that meeting, sir,” Casey said. She pointed her pen at him. “In fact, you and Mr. Russell became engaged in a heated confrontation at that meeting.”
“We may have disagreed. I wouldn’t call it a heated confrontation.”
“At that meeting, didn’t you tell Mr. Russell he ‘had interfered where he wasn’t wanted for the last time,’ or words to that effect?”
“I doubt I used those words, but I expect I made reference to the fact that he was under suspicion of murdering Malik Betts.” Sinclair leaned back and gestured across the table at us. “A suspicion that, judging by your presence here today, will soon be confirmed.”
“And you’re aware that Mr. Russell was shot later that evening?”
