Sick Money: A Whodunnit Sure to Raise Your Blood Pressure (Gold & Courage Series Book 4) Read online

  SICK MONEY

  A GOLD AND COURAGE NOVEL

  Karen S. Gordon

  Copyright © 2021 by Karen S. Gordon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Sick Money is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-7336064-9-3 (Ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-954296-00-8 (Print)

  ISBN: 978-1-954296-01-5 (Audio)

  For my grandfather, a farm boy who put himself through the University of Michigan Medical School in 1922.

  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

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  About the Author

  Also by Karen S. Gordon

  1

  Tuesday, Morning, Miami, Florida

  Vance Courage stuffed a pair of new flip-flops in the pouch of his suitcase, zipped it, then checked the time.

  Why did Sherry Rogers ask to meet on such short notice? It wasn’t a request, rather a demand, and it had to be urgent for her to catch a last-minute flight from Indianapolis to Miami. At least it wouldn’t screw up his travel plans. She’d set the meeting at the Admirals Club at Miami International Airport, giving him enough time to catch his two-hour fight to Belize City.

  He stood curbside waiting for the Uber to arrive, staring at the tiny car icon on his phone, two minutes away.

  “How you doing?” the driver asked, hopping out and popping the trunk.

  He wasn’t much in the mood to talk, distracted, obsessing why Rogers had flown in on an emergency basis.

  “What airline and terminal?” the driver asked.

  “American, North Terminal D.”

  The driver nodded in the rearview mirror.

  It had been less than a month since he’d authorized the wire transfer of five million dollars from his offshore account into HIPP Corp’s, a medical records company seeking investors. He’d been looking for ways to legitimize some of his cash hidden in an account in Grand Cayman, and he’d hoped a company teetering on the edge of bankruptcy would ask less questions.

  He’d asked his buddy Jake Fleming, a retired investment banker, to look at the prospectus, and when Jake didn’t see any red flags, Vance convinced his partner, Lauren Gold, to go in halves with him. When an investor comes in at the last minute to save a company from ruin, he’s known in the financial world as a white knight.

  Vance Courage, white knight. It had a certain appeal.

  Weekend traffic was light and he arrived at Miami International in just under thirty minutes.

  He rode the escalator to the Admirals Club, paid $59 at the door to get in, and looked for Rogers. He spotted her sitting in a plush leather chair in a corner with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the runway. He parked his bag next to the chair opposite her, pulled it closer, then sat.

  “It’s good to meet you in person, finally, and thanks for doing this on short notice.”

  Like she’d given him options. “How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful. Listen, I hate springing this on you, but we have a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “Two of our doctor clients have lost patients over the last two weeks.”

  “People change doctors. What’s that got to do with us or the company?”

  “By lost, I mean died.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Our software tracks pharmaceuticals, and since these are drug-related deaths—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Both of the doctors whose patients died recently switched over to our platform. They are oncologists whose patients were on chemo.”

  “I still don’t understand what that has to do with us.”

  “There’re rumors that one of the families hired a plaintiff’s attorney.”

  “Ah.”

  “I remembered your background and I looked at your file again. As a lawyer and an ex-detective, I need you to come to Indianapolis and meet with the doctor. I know I’m ruining your vacation, but if we have an exposure, I need to know. So do you.”

  She held up one finger, unlocked her phone using facial recognition, then tapped the screen. His buzzed on the low, round tabletop separating them. She shifted her eyes toward it. He opened the link to an American Airlines ticket to Indy leaving in an hour and a half.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “It’s First Class,” she said.

  He’d packed for the beach, not for a business trip to the Midwest. “You’re sure about the facts?”

  “Of course.”

  What choice did he have? Rogers was good, she’d ambushed him precisely at the right place, at the perfect hour. When she’d asked him about his upcoming trip a couple of days ago, he’d shared his itinerary. Now he wished he hadn’t. Lauren was not going to take this well.

  “All right,” he said, “but I have to make a couple of calls. I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  2

  Tuesday, Midmorning

  Ambergris Caye

  35 Miles East of Belize City

  Lauren Gold stepped onto the second-floor balcony of the waterfront resort and shaded her eyes. The Caribbean Sea twinkled clearer and more turquoise than an Olympic swimming pool, and the salt air smelled sweet, like grilled lobster.

  The small Belize island of Ambergris Caye had almost no vehicles. People got around on carts and bicycles, and she’d reserved a golf cart for when Vance arrived, and prepaid a local guide with an old panga boat to take him on a private fishing
trip.

  She’d shopped at the local grocery, discovering the shelves were sparse, meat cost a fortune, dairy had passed the sell-by date, and if she’d been back home, the fruits and vegetables on display would have been tossed in the dumpster. Oddly, there was no seafood for sale.

  She’d pored over the website for the Great Blue Hole on the flight from Miami to Belize City, a giant marine sinkhole about forty miles off Ambergris, located near a small atoll. She’d signed up for a day trip and paid five times retail for snorkels and fins at the local dive shop. Both she and Vance deserved a vacation, and they’d agreed on the island. Online it looked perfect, and after she arrived, she was positive he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  The first few notes of Pink Floyd’s “Money” played on her phone, and when she answered, Vance’s face came up on video chat. She positioned the screen with the long dock and private tiki bar in the background. He was going faint when he saw the white sand and crystal water in the backdrop.

  “Are you at the airport?” She glanced at her reflection in the sliding glass door, smoothing her hair.

  “I am. The place looks fantastic,” he said.

  “It would be a better picture with you in it.”

  “Aw.”

  “The French woman on the first floor sunbathes topless.”

  “I’m a leg man. That’s why I’m such a sucker for you.”

  She grinned at the screen. He’d stayed to take care of some family business for his mother in Miami and was a day behind her. “You’re going to love this place.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not gonna make it.”

  What? She turned the phone around and enlarged his face. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Sherry Rogers wants me to go to Indianapolis.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why?”

  “There might be a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Something legal.”

  “And you agreed to go?”

  He nodded.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “In about an hour.”

  She was speechless.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She sighed into the phone loud enough for him to hear it. They’d invested in that medical records startup company that was on the verge of bankruptcy a month ago. That was after she’d planned their trip to Belize. “What kind of a legal problem?”

  “A couple of patients died and Rogers thinks one of the families hired a lawyer.”

  “What’s that got to do with HIPP Corp?” HIPP Corp—the Health Information Privacy Program Corporation—sold medical records software.

  “She’s worried we might be sued and wants me to check it out. I’m sure it’s precautionary. The oncologist I’m going to see is a new client.”

  “Why would the family hire a lawyer?”

  “The patients died in the office.”

  “As in more than one?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t have any details yet.”

  She inhaled through her nostrils and held it for a moment. “I’m going home. I’m not staying here by myself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His expression on video chat proved it. Tiny teepees formed over each eyebrow. He looked like a handsome basset hound. “You sure? You can stay.”

  “I know. And I’m sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you from the road.”

  He was about to end the call.

  “Wait,” she said. “Did you say they’re cancer patients?”

  “Rogers said the doctors are oncologists, so I assume so.”

  This was close to home for him. His sister, Kathy, was a cancer survivor who’d been diagnosed soon after they’d first met, and he’d gone to great lengths to help her, arranging travel to Switzerland for treatment she couldn’t get here.

  “There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for it,” he said.

  “I’ll see you at home in a couple of days.”

  He kissed the screen. It didn’t have the desired effect, and instead of romance, she got a magnified view of his nostrils and nose hairs.

  She flopped into the wicker chair on the balcony overlooking the white sand with two couples sprawled on lounge chairs beneath private, thatched palapas. A middle-aged man with Jay Leno hair rubbed sunblock on his wife’s back while the younger couple read books behind their Ray-Bans. Why couldn’t she have a normal life?

  She checked flights on her smartphone and changed her return to Miami, paying almost double what she’d spent for the original round trip. She’d booked the resort on a non-refundable, weeklong package. Kiss that money goodbye. After she confirmed her seat on the first flight out—non-stop Belize City to Miami, leaving in the morning—she rented a bicycle and toured the island alone.

  That evening she dined at an overpriced waterfront tourist trap.

  More happy couples.

  More reminders Vance wasn’t coming. Couldn’t someone else from the company meet with the doctor in Indiana?

  The hostess seated a man at the table next to her. He looked like a businessman, midfortyish, mildly handsome, probably a real estate prospector who built million-dollar oceanfront crap boxes. On her bike ride, she’d seen the monstrosities shoehorned along the shoreline, blocking the breathtaking natural beauty of the south side of the island. She’d learned to spot shoddy construction in Miami: It always included stucco siding and a flat roof, like the ones going up here.

  A red Ferrari crawled by the restaurant, rattling her water glass and the rainbow-colored bottles of booze displayed over the mirrored bar. Who’d import a luxury sports car to an island with a top speed limit of thirty miles per hour? The man sitting near her smiled and shook his head, amused. She flagged down the waiter, asked for the check, left a generous tip and walked back to the resort.

  She, Vance, and their partner in crime, Jake Fleming, had salvaged illicit cartel drug money from the bottom of Biscayne Bay, cash that had been stashed decades ago in the hull of an offshore powerboat resting on the seabed. Money different entities believed belonged to them.

  More specifically, the US Justice Department thought it belonged to the Treasury.

  Relatives of the defunct cartel kingpins believed it was theirs.

  Now that the money was in an offshore bank account in Grand Cayman, she’d begun to feel like they’d earned it. She and Vance had been able to invest in HIPP Corp because the company needed cash. When she and Vance first met with Sherry Rogers, Lauren didn’t like her. Maybe it was the duck lips and Botox, or the low-cut blouses and heavy perfume. Maybe it was the idea of handing over five million dollars with no guarantee of how it would be managed.

  Vance reminded her that as money launderers they’d be better served acting as silent partners. She’d agreed to keep her mouth shut, let him shoot the arrow, and hope for the best. Legitimizing some cash, even if they lost a little principal, would be a good outcome. Heck, her half of seven percent interest on five million dollars was more than she’d ever made producing videos.

  Their partner in the money salvage, Jake Fleming, was a retired investment banker with an eye for business deals. They’d asked him to look at the prospectus, and while he thought it looked a little thin on detail, he hadn’t seen any red flags.

  More importantly, Sherry promised them confidentiality, reassuring them she’d shield them from public disclosures. They’d receive quarterly interest payments, and once the company turned a profit, they’d receive dividends. Their ultimate plan was to deposit income into a US bank, pay taxes, then sell their shares back. The goal wasn’t to live high on the hog; rather, it was to legalize some dirty money.

  Didn’t going to Indianapolis to snoop around put the plan in jeopardy? He should have asked her before he’d agreed to go, but by now, he was already there.

  3

  Tuesday, Afternoon, Indianapolis, I
ndiana

  The airport was plastered with Indy 500 motifs, mostly black-and-white checkerboard patterns and green and yellow flags. Travelers milled around life-sized cardboard cutouts of race-car drivers Vance had never heard of, some taking selfies, others posing for group photos.

  On the way to baggage, he and Rogers passed the Indy 500 Grill, the brightly lit 500 number flanked by a pair of enormous golden wings. The open-wheel race car on display outside the restaurant looked nothing like any Honda he’d ever seen.

  Banners. Flags. Souvenirs. Sweepstakes. The town sure was enthusiastic about the upcoming race, and the marketeers were out in full force. They headed for the airport rental car counter where Rogers planned to use her status so he could choose any car on the lot, and she’d insisted on putting the charges on her credit card. He selected the Cadillac XTS.

  He dropped Rogers at the long-term lot where she’d parked her car, then headed to the airport hotel she’d suggested and checked in. After he’d settled in, freshened up, and changed into more appropriate attire, he drove to the address Rogers had given him, a concrete-and-glass structure on Michigan Avenue, part of the University of Indiana medical system. The building’s dull color and unimaginative architecture reminded him more of a prison than a place for learning. He drove up three levels in the concrete garage and parked in a visitor’s spot.