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Frank
Itake the night off patrolling, instead focusing on paperwork at my desk at the station. At least that's what I want it to look like.
Looking over my shoulder I make sure no one can see my screen, then I slide a privacy screen I picked up at Best Buy over the screen, making it difficult to see what I'm looking at from any angle other than an absolutely direct one...which thanks to the way the desks are arranged is only mine.
Time to get to work.
I start searching the judges’ name, looking for hits with any of the contacts I have at various banks. Nothing.
Then I try a more random search. Still a blank.
Her public record is squeaky clean, not even so much as a single-moving violation in her entire life. Who's that perfect? Almost no one.
Digging some more I look through her marital records and find her husband. Pausing a second I lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head, elbows out.
Married life. Ironic that I'm targeting this woman through her husband now. It's just a reminder as to what marriage really means. You are no longer two separate people, you're one.
Which is exactly what I want with Flor, which is why I stay focused and get back to work.
Leaning in, I run through the same searches with her husband's name, coming up with a company in the Bahamas where he serves as a director on OpenCorporates.com.
It's a website that got popular with the Panama Papers and is an excellent source to see who really owns what in this world. 'Follow the money', as the saying goes, and that's exactly what I do...right to a bank account in Dubai...which I don't have access to.
Rubbing my hands together I nod. I don't have access or jurisdiction in the United Arab Emirates, but Dubai is known for extreme levels of opulence and wealth...and zero personal income taxes.
Now just to see if that money went through the U.S. controlled SWIFT global payment systems network, which I do have access to.
Jackpot.
Large seven-figure sums have been transferred to the judge's husband a few weeks on either side of various big court cases getting thrown out. Well, not transferred directly to him, but to his Bahamas International Business Company (IBC) and then quickly routed to Dubai.
And what is his IBC name? 'No Worries'. I nod. Makes sense if your wife is a judge and you're getting bribe money to throw cases out of court or not try them at all. You most definitely would have 'no worries', which is very worrying to someone like me who enforces the law and doesn't look for ways to circumvent it like these clowns.
'Follow the money' continues to flow through my mind.
"Officer Friday," a voice says sternly, and I look up not realizing just how focused I was. It's clearly not Chief Braxton's first time trying to get my attention just now.
"Yeah, Chief."
"Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you're being transferred."
"Transferred?"
The Chief nods, breaks eye contact slightly while looking remorseful, then looks back at me. That mini tell of his facial expression tells me it's not because of whatever he's about to tell me, but because of the unraveling thread I'm attempting to follow back to where this whole ball of yarn originates.
"Why?" I ask, still wanting to know what b.s. reason he has.
"State stuff. They need someone with exactly your skill set up in Pensacola."
"Pensacola, huh?" Leaning back in my chair I cross my arms over my chest and give the chief a knowing look. Miami is about as Southeast as you can go in Florida. Pensacola is about as Northwest as you can go. They're dumping me into the farthest, complete opposite corner of the state, and out of the blue to boot.
"Yeah. That's what they said."
"Who is they?"
"I told you, Friday. State."
"Who at State?"
