Finders Keepers, page 1
FINDERS KEEPERS
FLASH FINNEGAN SERIES
BOOK 1
WALTER SUTTON
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Next in the Series
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Walter Sutton
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
Edited by G. Miki Hayden
Cover art by Lordan June Pinote
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
“Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”
Edward Lorenz paper entitled “Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly’s Wings in Brazil Set Off a Tornado in Texas?”
Presented at the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) meeting in 1972.
CHAPTER 1
Flash looked down at the vibrating phone:
Upstairs, chief’s office, debrief, ready now.
Jesus, I need a vacation, he thought. Just to break free, hit the pause button, anything to have a breather from this nightmare.
His wife had a boyfriend, or so she’d told him the previous week. Someone special, she said. After seventeen years of marriage, she’d found someone special, at last. She’d told him in the middle of an argument about—God, he couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about.
Then, too, he’d just suffered through six months, six long months, twenty-four hours a day, of being buried in human slime. A dirty, long dive into the mindfuck world of drug trafficking and big, big money.
Well, that at least was done. Next stop to be indictments all around, and jail time for the bad guys, lots and lots of jail time. So, Flash had celebrated—a twenty-five-year-old scotch celebration, alone.
He took a deep breath and pushed himself out of the chair, his head feeling as though it were stuffed with steel wool. He really needed that vacation. He’d put in for three weeks, starting right after the debrief. That was it, hangover be damned; do the debrief, go on vacation. Finally, a chance to breathe, get some sleep, maybe even sort out the rest of his screwed-up life.
At the chief’s office, he knocked twice on the partially open door. Flash straightened his tie—Italian knit, scarlet, slim, very un-cop-like. He summoned a smile and pushed through into the room.
They were waiting for him, sitting at a small round meeting table off to one side of the monstrously large corner office. The light in his eyes, Flash winced. This morning in Seattle was intensely bright, rare in the land of perpetual gloom and rain. Flash worked harder at the smile, tried to ignore his headache, and sat down.
The chief’s hands were folded in front of him. Malcolm Forsyth, Jr. was in formal kit, dark-blue dress uniform with gold braid, ribbons, and medals on display. Always ready for a news conference, thought Flash. The chief was a glittering example of Authority, a very political, very public Chief of Police.
Like Flash, Lieutenant John Horan wore a dark Italian suit of the type that detectives in the fraud squad adopted to look like business people—well-to-do, professional-type business people.
“Jesus, Flash, what happened to you? You look like hell,” said John.
“Thanks, John! I was celebrating last night. I assume you were too. The goddamn case. What a monster!”
“Yes, indeed, a monster,” said John flatly.
Flash looked over at Chief Forsyth, back to John, and said, “And just so you both know, I’ve put in for some vacation. Gonna go sailing and spend a couple of weeks on a beach where you guys can’t find me.” He grinned. “So, how do you want to do this? Any news from Zurich? Did we arrest the bastards yet?”
“Mmm, the bastards,” said John, opening a red manila folder in front of him on the table. “We’ll get to that in a bit. But first, we have to ask you a couple of questions about what went down on your end, Flash. Just some details—a couple of loose ends.”
“Okay, fire away,” Flash said, eager to finish up the whole escapade.
“I’m wondering if you would go over what steps you took to move the money yesterday.”
“Sure, but you already know what I did.”
“Just go over it, if you would, please.”
Flash stared at the chief. The man could have been a statue, not moving a muscle.
“Flash!” John was gently tapping one finger on the tabletop, a twitch-like tap.
“Yeah—sure, John. Where do you want me to start?”
John looked down at his hand, stopped tapping, and said, “Start with how you put ten-million dollars in the Zurich account, your Zurich account, I mean.”
Flash let out a breath. “Right, so, I signed into the account, then sent the triggering text you provided to the address you also gave me, and ten minutes later, the Zurich account showed a balance of ten-million dollars. I signed out of the Zurich account, then exactly ten minutes later signed back in, and as we had hoped, the money was gone, sucked into their accounts. They received the money, the trap was sprung. Bingo, indictments secured. And at some point, the money went over to Interpol and the FBI, I presume.”
John looked up from the red folder and said, “So, Flash, if I’m hearing this correctly, you’re saying that the money did appear. You sent the texts per the plan, and as far as you know, the money was transferred to the bastards. Is that correct?” He was tapping the tabletop again.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.” Flash was nonplussed. Shouldn’t they be joyously backslapping one another by now?
“Well, Flash, how would you explain why the money didn’t reach the bastards’ bank accounts?”
“What?” He felt as if he had been struck on his already throbbing head.
“I said—well, you heard what I said. Answer the question.”
A shockwave traveled from Flash’s belly straight up through his chest, his neck, his jaw, his eyes, and straight down through his genitals, through his anus, to the soles of his feet. The red-hot vibration engulfed nearly every segment of his body. “Are you telling me that the money wasn’t transferred?”
“I’m telling you that the crooks didn’t get the money. Explain to us how that could have happened.”
His two colleagues were staring intently at Flash, gauging his reaction.
He swallowed hard to prevent himself from throwing up. He shook his head in disbelief and finally said, “Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Getting no reaction from his superiors, Flash took a deep breath and began speaking again, but this time more deliberately, slowing his cadence and raising his voice. “Hey, I accessed the Zurich account. I confirmed that ten million was in the fucking account. I cut and pasted the text with the hidden tracking codes, the ones you gave me to use, and then I pushed the fucking send button, and the text messages were sent. I logged out of the account.” Deep exhale and inhale.
“Ten minutes later, I logged back in, and the money was gone. Zero balance, just like we planned. That’s what I did, all according to plan—your plan.” Flushed, he watched the two, trying not to react to all the crazy signals his body was sending every which way.
The chief leaned forward, brown eyes unblinking, and said, “What did you do with the money, Flash?”
“With all due respect, Chief, I did exactly what you told me to do, using the codes you gave me. If the money is gone, it’s over to you, not me.”
“Well, Flash, that’s one interpretation,” said the chief. “What you’re conveniently glossing over, however, is that you were the only person in the whole universe who was authorized, electronically authorized, I mean, to access the Zurich account. Any transfer to or from that account could only happen with your authorization—your coded authorization.”
The chief’s face had turned red, and his voice rose with each phrase. “Every nickel in and every nickel out, under your control. You and you alone, Flash! And this morning we find ourselves without ten-million dollars and fighting a holding action with the bastards, who didn’t get the money. They are mad as hell, and so am I!”
Flash was dizzy, his body in full fight-or-flight, his senses amped up and screaming. Then he had the out-of-body, wildly surreal experience of seeing himself caught in a life-and-death ambush by John, his boss and friend of fifteen years, and the Seattle chief of police—these two animals were about to kill him. That’s what he felt like: They were about to kill him. Right now.
The chief, still red-faced, said, “Why don’t you just tell us what you did with the money, Flash, because we’re pretty sure you’ve sucked it into some hidey-hole on the back of God’s head, thinking you could somehow explain it away. Believe me, that game is over now. What. Did. You. Do. With. The. Money?”
“Someone is setting me up.” Flash forced out the words. “I know what I did, and I didn’t steal your money. I want a lawyer before we go any further!”
John said, “Wait, wait, wait, wait a minute! Just hold on here, a lawyer isn’t going to help anyone with this. We have a big problem and, somehow, we have to work it out. So, just to be clear, you’re saying, Flash, that you didn’t cop the money? Is that what you’re telling us?”
“Yes!”
“Well, exactly, so you understand where we stand, Flash, we think you did take the money.”
Flash looked at John, at the chief, back to John. No one blinked.
After a long silence, Flash said, “So here we sit, and you’re telling me I have a problem. But what I’m thinking is that you have a problem. I told you what I did, which was exactly what you instructed me to do. I don’t know what happened to that money, and I certainly am not going to take the fall for any of this. Whatever this is.”
John said, “You really, really need to listen now. We’ve been over every scrap of data, coding, reporting, and surveillance intel relating to that transfer, that so-called transfer, a dozen times. I have plenty of evidence to hold you, to jail you, for sure without bail, for stealing some or all of that money.
“And as a consequence, your career in the police department is ending this morning. The only question is how it ends—that’s all we’re talking about.”
“I want a lawyer now,” Flash said.
“Okay,” said John. “That will trigger one of the two options that are open to you at this point, Flash. So listen carefully—the rest of your life hangs in the balance. We’re going to hold you under suspicion of theft, fraud, extortion, aiding terrorists and terrorist activity, and aiding and abetting organized crime. That means you go from here to a jail cell, and then you can talk to your lawyer, who won’t have a chance in hell when it comes to bail or—”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this. You can’t be serious!”
“Believe me, we are,” said John. “This is not going to go your way, buddy, it really isn’t. I’ve got the paperwork right here. I’ve signed it. I give this to my clerk.”
Flash looked hard at John. “Or?”
“Or the other option is this.” John held up a letter printed on the official Seattle Police Department stationery. “Your resignation from the police department, effective immediately. You leave by the back door and go live your life as anything other than being a cop.”
Flash sat back in his chair. “So, John, why the back door?”
“Well, think about it, Flash. The bulletin reads, ‘Police sources report ten million lost in mysterious dealings with international drug gang.’ The perpetrator appears to be a high-ranking and trusted police inspector, etc. Questions arise as to why this officer was entrusted with ten-million dollars, and how the hell could you lose ten-million dollars, and, of course, who was in charge of the case, who are the bastards, followed by a special police review panel and on and on and on.”
John sighed. “But Flash, old buddy, if it were up to me, I would hang you by your balls from the Space Needle.”
“Enough!” the chief barked. “Which one will it be, Flash? Jail, or resign?”
Flash sighed and said, “I need a vacation.”
John slid the two-page resignation letter across the table toward Flash. As an afterthought, he took a ballpoint from his inside coat pocket, removed the top, and placed the pen next to the letter. He then pointed at the second page, where Flash was to sign, and sat back.
“Just so you understand, this letter waives your right to bring any action against the city or any individual or the police department,” John said. “It also incorporates a nondisclosure agreement. If you talk about this case or this meeting or this agreement with anybody, anybody—in the universe—we will come and get you, throw you in jail, and we invoke option one. Do you understand?”
Flash, his hand shaking, initialed and signed. Pushing the letter and the pen back across the table in front of the chief, he looked directly at the man—his medals, his eyes, his red face—and whispered, “Like I said, I need a vacation. I really need a vacation.”
Flash stood up a little unsteadily, pushed the chair away, turned, and left the office, letting the door slam behind him.
CHAPTER 2
Driving south on the freeway, Flash felt sick to his stomach—bile and reflux were rising. The Rolaids weren’t working, and the traffic—well, it was rush hour. Interstate 5 between Seattle and Tacoma had an advanced case of arterial sclerosis. They’d widened the interstate four times that he knew of, but every time they added a lane, more cars and trucks somehow materialized, once again constricting the flow. The drive was, in the main, a sequence of slow, creeping advances punctuated by long stops. Go a little, stop for two minutes. Jesus.
How could he not be acclimated to the trip by now? After all, he had made the pilgrimage two or three times a month to see his dad. But, today, the traffic wasn’t the real problem. What he had to tell, or not tell, his dad, that was the difficulty.
Lieutenant Colonel Tom—not Thomas, just Tom—Michael, formerly of the Army Criminal Investigation Division, lived alone in the same 1,200-square-foot house he and his wife Amelia had bought two years before Flash was born. The neighborhood had been built as part of a development in the late 1930s, on the then-fringes of downtown Tacoma. Many of the houses had similar lines, similar windows, and were on similar postage-stamp-sized lots, each fronted by uneven ribbons of cracked sidewalk.
Three-quarters of a century’s worth of added dormers, porches, decks, hot tubs, and garages transformed into workshops or carports gave an impression of architectural diversity. The Michael house had white clapboard siding, red trim, a black asphalt shingle roof, and sagging, worn steps leading up to a weathered front door, long-ago painted red. Amelia, Flash’s mother, had chosen the color.
Tom and Flash were sitting at the kitchen table. Tom was slightly stooped, with a full head of neatly trimmed and combed white hair, parted on the side. A ruddy, thickening nose and red cheeks played off the crimson in his Pendleton shirt. He was wearing khaki slacks, and black, highly shined shoes, as though his bottom half was still in the Army, but the top half had retired.
The two had taken, by habit more than agreement, assigned seating. Tom was facing a window that looked out on a plum tree which had dropped most of its fruit on a spare patch of ground one might call a lawn. Amelia, Flash’s mom, had bought and planted the plum tree while Tom was away on assignment, and ever since, every year, came an explosion of plums. The crows loved it. Too bad they didn’t clean up after themselves.
Flash sat opposite Tom at the other end of the square oak table. Amelia, too, had a seat in the tableau. Her chair was to Tom’s left, pulled back from the table a foot or so as if any minute she might walk into the kitchen. She had died of breast cancer six years before.
Amelia, a high school English teacher, named her son Finnegan, from Finnegans Wake, and Augustus, for the emperor who transformed Rome from a republic to an empire.
