Clayton

By Scott Ray

A small city begins to receive enormous amounts of state and federal money. The money appears to come with no strings attached and little accountability. Greed overcomes the good judgment of the city clerk, and a plan is hatched to steal millions of dollars. Soon the unstoppable habit becomes too big, the scheme collapses, and the clerk is caught.
While an unfortunate occurrence, it isn’t the first time a per-son in a position of trust steals money. However, what is unusual is right before sentence is publicly announced, the clerk is found dead. The original fraud team is reengaged to review their origi-nal work to see if they have missed any subtle clues that could suggest why someone would want the clerk dead. They team up with other law enforcement personnel to unravel the mystery, which may be connected to international money laundering and political corruption, while trying to stay ahead of an investigative reporter with high-level sources.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796056167

Scott Ray

Scott Ray is a retired certified fraud examiner. He was born and raised in upstate New York. Mr. Ray has always enjoyed the mystery thriller genre of writing. He has combined this interest with the knowledge gleaned as a fraud examiner to produce Clayton, a story about the death of a city clerk about to be sen-tenced for the crime of fraud. The story soon becomes interwo-ven with implications of international money laundering and polit-ical corruption. This is his first book.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I T’S A COLD, blustery January evening shortly after Christmas. A car and an SUV slowly circle a housing development in one of the tonier sections of town. They appear to be watching a house still sporting outdoor Christmas decorations, perhaps trying to determine if someone is at home. After the third time around the block, both vehicles stop. A tall shadowy figure, a man judging from the size, exits the car and walks to the SUV, whose driver lowers the window and addresses the man. A little cold for your overcoat to be wide open, isn’t it? the person says.

With a sneer on his face, the man snarls back. Don’t concern yourself about me and keep your damn mind at the task at hand. You’re sure she’s home?

Yes comes the hesitating reply. I phoned after the last drive by, and she answered. With a twinge of anxiety, the driver adds, I’m not sure I can do this.

Do what? Talk to your friend? You claim the two of you have been friends like forever. What’s the goddamn problem?

I’m afraid of what you are going to do.

I’m doing nothing if your friend comes to her good senses. And it’s up to you to make sure she sees the error of her ways and smartens up in a hurry, the man replies in a threatening tone. She needs to know there are people you don’t fuck with, and I’m one of them, just like the people I work for, and you know them quite well.

All right, I will go talk to her. Then I’m leaving.

I don’t care what you do after you straighten her out, says the man. And don’t forget the damn signal.

The SUV turns into the driveway adjacent to the house. The driver parks, slings a bag over her right shoulder, walks slowly to the front door, and rings the doorbell. She listens to the chimes she’s heard many times before. Meanwhile, the car is turned into an alcove a short distance away. From this vantage point, the driver can clearly see the house yet is still hidden from general view of the street.

After a few moments, the door is answered by a woman. Why are you here? the woman inquires.

You know why comes the answer in a voice barely above a whisper. Our business associates have sent me here to read you the Riot Act and reorder your scattered thoughts. May I come in?

The woman inside hesitates, peering around the person in front of her as if looking for unannounced guests.

I came alone, the woman lies to her friend. Please, just for a few minutes.

Okay, says the woman, and she opens the door wider to allow her friend to enter. Viv, why are you doing this?

Because if I don’t, someone else will, and they aren’t your close friend, and they won’t be as nice about their conversation as I will. She enters and begins undoing her coat to take it off. Colder than a you-know-what out there.

Across the carpeted foyer and into the kitchen, they both take a seat. The visitor drops her shoulder bag onto the high-gloss glass tabletop. Come on, girl, why are you doing this to yourself and me?

What are you talking about?

You know damn well what I’m talking about. It’s no secret, at least according to our ‘friends,’ that you’re looking to cut a deal and turn state’s evidence.

Viv, I’m not—

Don’t lie to me, Taylor, and don’t play me for a fool, Viv interrupts. You know the people we associated with. They are very powerful, evil bastards, and the politician they are protecting is dirtier than we are. We, you and I, are small time. They are the big leagues, and they brag they have hurt people in the past who have double-crossed them, and I sure as hell believe it. You’ve seen that one particularly large man lose his temper. I don’t think he would think twice about killing someone just to prove a point. As her voice is raising, Viv hopes she is driving her concern home. I hope the fuck the deal you’re getting includes lifetime witness protection.

She reaches into her shoulder bag and removes a bottle. Go get us a couple of glasses, she says and begins removing the cork.

Viv, you know I haven’t had a drink in years so just a small sip.

Viv pours out enough liquor to fill each glass about three-quarters full. Look, Taylor, this may be the last time we get together. We both now know we got in way over our heads. And our own arrangement was whoever got busted would take the fall for the other. And you got busted.

Taylor replies, But it ain’t just us, Viv. Everyone walks, and I go to prison. And I don’t care if it’s a country club joint. It’s still prison. I’m not going down alone. We have a big story to tell when the time comes.

If you turn and take a deal, I may just have to disappear on my terms before someone tries to remove me on their terms, Viv says, taking a hearty sip from her glass.

All right, says Taylor, and she takes a smaller drink from her glass.

Not a bad taste, she thinks and takes another drink.

Back and forth they go, pouring out their soul to each other. Taylor is an extreme extrovert; it is her thrill-seeking desire that has led them to seek bigger risks. When Viv informed her of the riskiest deal she has ever seen with some real shady operators, Taylor immediately jumped on board. If caught, the ultimate ride will result in big criminal charges. Whatever, they both willingly accepted the risk.

As the midevening turns to late evening, Viv realizes she isn’t going to change her friend’s mind. Knowing she has a bit of a long ride ahead of her on what could be tricky winter driving conditions, Viv rises from her chair, dons her coat, bids her friend adieu, and heads for her SUV. She leaves the bottle behind. Looking around before entering her vehicle, Viv spots the hidden car with the man standing outside in front of the front bumper. After a simple wave, she ducks into her car, starts the engine, and drives off.

Good, I’m glad she failed, thinks the man. Now we will know for sure she will never talk again. He pats the side pocket of his coat; everything is right in place as he has planned. When this is over, I will convince the group that this other bitch is also worthless and will need to disappear but one thing at a time. He has been sent here by the patron himself to ensure this mess is cleaned up properly, with no clues being left behind.

He waits for the SUV to exit the driveway and then watches as it turns a corner, driving out of sight. The driver of his car starts the vehicle, slowly gliding down the street, and then slides into the empty driveway. He creeps up to the door, noticing it is slightly ajar; pushes it open a little wider; and slithers into the house, closing the door ever so quietly behind him.

Taylor is standing with her back to the front of the house, facing her last glass, which is oh so tasty. Starting to feel a good buzz, she whirls around when she hears someone say, Good evening, my dear. The man rises from a crouch, moving catlike quick across the floor. She barely has time to utter oh before a strong gloved hand is clamped tightly over her mouth.

CHAPTER 1

M ONROEVILLE CITY POLICE Department, Fraud Investigations Unit—Joe Calloway, a four-year veteran of the unit, was currently pulling desk duty. For a Wednesday afternoon in the early part of winter, with snow blowing outside, a shift in the office wasn’t too bad. The holidays were officially over, and everyone on his staff was back at work. They were just beginning to shake off the parties and other celebratory malaise of December and January. Everyone survived the dreaded Monday morning staff meeting, the first of the year, and Calloway was eager to kick things back into high gear. This kind of day provided the perfect opportunity to review his staff’s current case inventory, matching up concerns and problems discussed at the meeting to the actual work.

Around midafternoon while kibitzing with his boss, Captain Squires, he received an interdepartmental call. Fraud unit, Calloway speaking.

Hey, Joe, this is Rickard over in homicide.

Hey, Davey, always good to talk with you. Calloway and Rickard had been friends since they first met at the police academy ten years ago. How’s life treating you and the family?

Not too bad, busy. But as you know, the cold weather slows the murder rate down. The criminals are more concerned about staying warm than shooting each other. How you doing?

The same, my friend. Fraud and white-collar crime only increase when the economy is too hot and when there’s plenty of money sloshing around. Someone always wants more than their fair share, and they dream up wild schemes, trying to get it from the gullible. At least there are no murders, said Calloway as he remembered why he left the homicide unit.

Hey, the reason I called, Joe, is to run a name by you. Does the name Taylor Stone ring a bell?

Calloway thought for a minute and replied, You mean the former city clerk over in Clayton we busted two years ago? Stole like half the city’s treasury over ten to twelve years? She stole, what, maybe $15, $20 million? She was supposed to go away for like ten years, but the last I remember, her actual surrender date had been postponed a couple of times. What, she was arrested again? Who was she stealing from this time? Given her track record, why would anyone let her near their money?

Whoa, slow down, will ya? You’re getting way ahead of yourself and my answers. Your recollection is right. She is the former city clerk in Clayton. And no, she wasn’t arrested this time. She was brought into the city morgue a short time ago, on a slab.

The city morgue? Wow … wow, Calloway replied, letting the news filter through his mind while he was recalling the case. That is unbelievable. I don’t recall her as looking sickly back then, only in shock when we were interviewing her. I thought she may have had anxiety issues, especially after she got caught. She was very nervous during the initial questioning, but after talking to her boss, she seemed to calm down. Apparently, she had problems with her health that were actually serious. What happened to her? How did she die?

The coroner, replied Rickard, isn’t so sure what is going on. The initial report from the homicide detectives centered on an overdose of pills. The ME’s initial results, including an enlightening conversation with the victim’s husband, have raised concerns with this conclusion. At this time, the report of an overdose suicide just doesn’t ring true to her. She wants a thorough examination of the body.

Foul play? Murder? Calloway’s mind was whirling. That doesn’t make sense. I don’t recall any fraud suspect being murdered. Anyway, how does this involve me or my department?

Rickard continued, I would like to come over and review the Clayton case files with you, Joe. Is it possible something was missed during the original investigation? Was there a clue or any statement that should have raised a red flag? If the doc is right, why would someone want to murder a former city clerk from a small town, even if she stole the town blind? Murdering her at this time seems to me to be a step over the line, especially this many years later. Perhaps an offhanded comment of getting payback or revenge was overlooked at that time.

It’s possible something was overlooked or minimized during the initial examination, Calloway said. And while I’m not in homicide, I agree murder does seem extreme at this time. Sure, an enraged taxpayer who was double- or triple-billed for property taxes would be very irate. But to kill the culprit for a crime that happened over a ten- or twelve-year period? On the surface, it doesn’t add up to me either. When would you like to meet?

Let me go over to the morgue first, said Rickard. I will find out what the coroner has discovered, and then I will stop by your office, unless you want to accompany me to the freezer, Joe.

Calloway could detect in Rickard’s tone that he remembered his dislike of the morgue from when they worked together in the homicide unit. No thanks. I’ll pass. That’s one place I never developed an affection for, and I’m very happy that our fraud investigations don’t take us there. Just one question, Davey, how did the coroner’s office happen to call you about this?

"It wasn’t exactly the coroner’s office who called me, Joe. It was Kaitlyn Myers from the Monroeville Tribune."

Kaitlyn Myers—it was a name from Calloway’s recent past. Does she just hang around there to spend her idle time? That would be kinda strange, wouldn’t it?

Well, Joe, said Rickard, she is an investigative journalist who just happens to be good friends with one of the medical examiners. College roommates, I believe. I don’t have all the details about how she happened to find out about Stone, what piqued the ME’s curiosity, or why Myers called me. I should know more when I meet her there.

CHAPTER 2

K AITLYN MYERS , JOE thought. There’s a name I haven’t heard in five or six months. No, wait, it may have been actually two or three months ago, not really sure. Sometimes you try to block out things that weren’t the most pleasant of memo ries.

Kat, as he called her, and Joe had a history, a fiery hot relationship as they really clicked. Kat was beautiful but wasn’t stuck up or unduly into herself; her physical beauty didn’t control her every action or how she interacted with people. She was genuine and fun.

They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. In addition to the great sex, they simply enjoyed spending time together, developing a strong emotional connection as well. They could talk about anything, and they liked the same movies, music, foods, and parties and worked out together at the same gym. They soon began taking turns staying at each other’s apartments, finally settling in mostly at Joe’s place. If not love, it was definitely a great romance wrapped around lust; even the m word, marriage, had been discussed a time or two. It may have grown into the greatest love story of all time.

It was great until the problem, situation, or whatever the hell it was developed, and the relationship went into the deep freeze and turned as cold as Antarctica. They hadn’t spoken to each other for an extended period, probably six weeks, Joe decided. It was tough, and Joe wasn’t really sure what had happened, just that it happened fast.

They had met about two years before the Clayton case, when Kat was a rookie reporter at the Tribune. Although she had worked for three or four years at several small newspaper publications right out of college, the Tribune was her first shot at the big leagues and her first effort at investigative reporting. She was smart, aggressive, damn good looking, and always searching for a good story. Kat was one of only two female reporters on the paper’s crime beat, and she used her wits and charm to succeed in the male-dominated investigative turf. She had great instincts, having taken courses in psychology and a night school class in basic investigative procedures; and several times, Joe had bounced ideas off her. Kat also had the skills to write great stories, earning several accolades for her work. And like a lot of reporters, she was very interested when a story about a potential fraud involving a sleepy little city was unfolding.

Calloway was a few, maybe two or three—he had forgotten exactly how many—years older than Kat. Their first interaction came when Joe was still in the homicide unit. Joe had a winding way into law enforcement and to the fraud unit in particular. He started out in college by taking courses in accounting and finance and had thought of becoming a stockbroker. Then about halfway through his junior year, the recession hit. Not only were the accounting and finance recruiters not showing up on campus for events but people also were losing their jobs as the industry retrenchment was deep with no apparent end in sight.

After a night of drinking with a few of his buddies, some recent accounting and finance grads who were scuffling for jobs at McDonald’s and Starbucks, Joe had an epiphany. Or maybe it was a hallucination from a drunken fog. He decided he would become a police officer. He could take a few courses in criminal justice and then—no, not a police officer. He would apply for an FBI job. And with a little luck, he could investigate the mob or whoever were the big-time criminals. (It turned out that several people in big finance and accounting were also big-time criminals.)

A brief rap on the door startled Joe back into the moment. Hey, Calloway, you’ve been awfully quiet in there, said the voice in the hallway. Everything all right?

Yeah, just thinking about a phone call I got, he answered. Captain Squires, good man. Wonder what he’ll think if we need to reopen the Clayton case. That’s something to address at a later time when—if I have a solid reason to. Speculation only goes so far.

And speaking of information, he took a quick glance at the clock on his desk and read three forty-five, and he’s heard nothing from Rickard. It had been about an hour since they had finished their conversation. Is that good or bad? he wondered. Now where was I?

While nothing ever developed concerning the FBI, his current employer—the city of