Who Shot the Man in the Black Coat?

By Steven Stewart

Detectives Scott Blade and Coraline Steele work for two different police departments. Drawn together by murder, they rekindle an abandoned love affair while struggling to solve the mystery of who shot the man in the black coat.
Meanwhile, a CIA agent develops a new computer program under the company name Cyber-Safe. The program skims money from the drug trade without being caught. The company owners, Paul and Helena McCormick, have gotten away with it—until the Brazilian Police and KGB discover millions of dollars in a CIA slush fund hidden in offshore bank accounts.
Why did Helena call LAPD and ask for Blade? She needed to escape from the man in the black coat and find her husband, Paul. For Blade and Steele, a single murder now becomes an international crime drama, dealing with the covert activities of the U.S. State Department, cannabis trade, and CIA money laundering.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480899155

Steven Stewart

Steven Stewart is a U.S. Navy veteran. He is a member of the Screen Actors Guild and has appeared in many movies and TV shows. As a graduate of the Citizens on Patrol program at the Palm Springs Police Academy and a licensed pilot, Steven served as a member of the Palm Springs Police Aero Squadron, involving himself in police precedures. He is also a member of the Palm Springs Writers Guild.

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Copyright © 2020 Steven Stewart.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the

author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-9916-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9914-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9915-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020921795

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/08/2020

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1 One

Chapter 2 Two

Chapter 3 Three

Chapter 4 Four

Chapter 5 Five

Chapter 6 Six

Chapter 7 Seven

Chapter 8 Eight

Chapter 9 Nine

Chapter 10 Ten

Part Two

Chapter 11 Eleven

Chapter 12 Twelve

Chapter 13 Thirteen

Chapter 14 Fourteen

Chapter 15 Fifteen

Chapter 16 Sixteen

Chapter 17 Seventeen

Chapter 18 Eighteen

Chapter 19 Nineteen

Chapter 20 Twenty

Chapter 21 Twenty-one

Chapter 22 Twenty-two

Chapter 23 Twenty-three

Part Three

Chapter 24 Twenty-four

Chapter 25 Twenty-five

Chapter 26 Twenty-six

Chapter 27 Twenty-seven

Chapter 28 Twenty-eight

Chapter 29 Twenty-nine

Chapter 30 Thirty

Chapter 31 Thirty-one

Chapter 32 Thirty-two

Chapter 33 Thirty-three

Chapter 34 Thirty-four

Chapter 35 Thirty-five

Part Four

Chapter 36 Thirty-six

Chapter 37 Thirty-seven

Chapter 38 Thirty-eight

Chapter 39 Thirty-nine

Chapter 40 Forty

Chapter 41 Forty-one

Chapter 42 Forty-two

Chapter 43 Forty-three

Chapter 44 Forty-four

Chapter 45 Forty-five

Chapter 46 Forty-six

Chapter 47 Forty-seven

Chapter 48 Forty-eight

Part Five

Chapter 49 Forty-nine

Chapter 50 Fifty

Chapter 51 Fifty-one

Chapter 52 Fifty-two

Epilogue

The pen is the tongue of the mind.

—Horace

DEDICATION

To my lovely wife, Dr. Patricia Stewart and her colleague Dr. Ina Zive for their intellectual analysis and editorial assistance.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To:

My lifetime partner and loving wife, Dr. Patricia Stewart who provided every-day stimulus for me to persist and complete this task.

My son and daughter-in-law, Cameron and Eilen Stewart who provided much needed spiritual and artistic support.

My beautiful grandchildren, Coraline and Conrad Stewart, who provided inspiration and hope for the future.

My daughter and son-in-law, Kimberly and Nelson Betancourt and family, who always encouraged me to chase my dream.

PROLOGUE

Third Tuesday of the Month, Detective Blade

IT WAS RAINING SLIGHTLY, AND everyone knows it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles. After last week, things were different. It was 11:00 p.m. My doctor had released me from the hospital that afternoon. I was standing by my sliding glass door, which led out to the balcony. Facing west, toward Hollywood, low clouds and light rain obscured the view of the lights of Los Angeles. It was warm inside the house, and God knows I could have used some space and fresh air to lighten my mood. Pulling hard on the glass door handle with my right hand, it slid open with a swish. The cold, wet Santa Monica onflow hit me in the face, and man, it felt good. I grabbed a lung full of air and stepped out onto the deck. Touching the outside door handle, I steadied myself for the moment against the breeze, waiting for the rain to wash away the pain from the gunshot wound in my left armpit.

My girlfriend, Detective Steele, Beverly Hills Police Department (BHPD), had driven me home from the hospital that afternoon and was staying overnight to help with my recovery. She was doing a great job. She had helped the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) bomb squad remove the package attached to my house phone. The bomb was live. Captain Lewis posted two patrolmen at my house to make sure the bad guys didn’t return. Eyes closed, standing there on my deck with the cold, wet night air on my face, I was thankful for being alive; death had missed me twice. Being a reader of Shakespeare, a passage from Julius Caesar suddenly invaded my thoughts, Seeing that death, a necessary end will come when it will come. My thoughts began to drift back to that Monday morning when the watch commander transferred her call to my desk phone.

That was fifteen days ago, on the first Monday of this month. I was sitting at my desk, working a file—finishing out my early retirement plans, with only eleven months to go. The little phone light blinked as I folded up that file and slipped it into the bottom drawer of my desk, my Later File drawer. I could have been at the coffee pot, in the restroom, or talking to my partner. No such luck; that damn call light just kept blinking. In the ebb and flow of time and events that could pull you into an event horizon from which there might be no way out, my horizon was that damn phone—and I crossed it when I answered the phone. That’s my job; I’m a cop.

That call was almost a lifetime ago, and now my life’s a mess. I would give anything not to have heard her voice on the phone that morning. Her voice was low and sultry. Some people might call it a whiskey voice, like the ones you would listen to on the old Allen Ladd radio drama, Johnny Dollar, Private Detective. Her speech was tense, on edge, and slightly desperate.

It was nine o’clock in the morning on the first Monday of the month. Working day watch out of Venice Division on West Pico Blvd., I grabbed the receiver, pushed the button, and said, Detective Blade. How can I help you? Her words shocked me, and my eyes riveted on the phone as if it was lying to me.

I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you repeat that, please? I said.

I shot him, she said anxiously.

Shot who? I asked with concern.

The man in the black coat! the woman replied.

PART

ONE

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CHAPTER

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ONE

I SIGNED OUT AN OLD Ford Crown Vic at the motor pool and headed for the gate. Barely slowing down, I shot over the sidewalk onto East Pico. Have to watch that. I don’t want to hit anybody, I thought. With the Christmas tree lit on top, my foot hit the gas, and the Crown Vic shot forward. My destination: Beverly Hills. The female caller had given me the information needed to run a background check on her before leaving my desk. Her name was Helena Odean McCormick. She was thirty-nine and married to a Mr. Paul McCormick, forty-four, owner of a computer company that made high-end security-type software, Cyber-safe Inc. located in the valley. I admonished her not to move or touch anything, to sit there and wait for me. Mrs. McCormick said she would wait. Given Monday morning’s traffic, I was thirty minutes away.

Turning onto North Roxbury Drive, two BHPD cars with the lights on top flashing red, blue, and white came into view. I pulled the Vic up to the lead car, left my lights on, jumped out, and headed for the front door. Immediately, a patrol officer grabbed my right arm, jammed me into the doorframe, and said, Where in the hell do you think you’re going?

I’m Detective Blade, LAPD, I barked. He again pushed me against the doorframe.

This is Beverly Hills, dickhead, not LA, he said with more anger than I had used. Not a chance, he barked. It’s a crime scene. Stay out.

The lady of the house called the station and asked me to drop by, I responded as I jerked my jacket sleeve from his hand.

The uniform glanced at my shield and pointed to the lead lieutenant, who was standing just inside the living room doorway.

Check with her, he said and moved off to the street.

She was a real looker, this lead lieutenant. Luscious blonde hair that fell seductively over one eye. Another Beverly Hills pretty face with a badge. Those green eyes turned on me with the intensity of a big cat checking out dinner. And what can I do for you, Detective Blade? Long time no see! she said. The way she rolled that word detective off that soft pink tongue brought back shades of déjà vu. It had been a while since we’d dated.

The two of us finished the academy together, and then I worked in Central Division at Parker Center. Coraline Steele worked in the Beverly Hills Police Department. As she was a smart woman and good at her job, she moved up quickly, making sergeant in minimum time. The next step was easy—lieutenant. We stayed in touch and had a few dates together, but our work kept getting in the way. I was in love with her, but Cas was in love with her work and not me. An opening came up in the Beverly Hills Homicide Division, and the rest is history. The policemen at BHPD said that they were looking for a pretty, savvy face to work undercover.

Good afternoon, Lieutenant Steele, or can I still call you by your initials, C.A.S? I said with my best smile.

Lieutenant Steele will do on the job. How’s it hanging, Scott? she said in a low voice backed up with a smile.

She had not changed a bit over the last eighteen years. She still had that stiletto tongue that cut straight through the moment. That quality was what made her a damn good copper. Why are you here, and how did you know about it? Steele asked. She just stood there with her long legs pressed outward, tightening the fabric of her already tight jeans, waiting for my answer, notepad and pen ready to write. I didn’t want to give up any of my information before I could get something from her.

Oh, I was just passing by and saw you. Thought I’d drop in and say hi, I said and smiled back as those green eyes zeroed in on me quickly.

Come on, Scott! Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter! What are you doing here?

Well, since she put it that way, I answered her question. The lady of the house called the station, asked for me, and here we are, I said as I stood with my hands in my pockets.

Okay. Follow me and don’t touch anything. Wait up, Scott. Putting her hand in front of me to hold me back, she ordered, Officer, bring me a pair of those dust booties for the detective. The booties arrived. I slipped them over my LA shoes to keep LA dirt out of Beverly Hills dirt.

Happy? I asked.

She turned and entered the room containing the body. I followed. The living room was very spacious and neat, except for the body lying on the floor.

First things first, Lieutenant Steele. How did you hear about it?

Neighbors reported hearing a gunshot around nine this morning. A unit was in the area, and here we are. Your turn, she said.

Damn. Steele had put me in check, and she knew it. I had nothing but the phone call from a woman asking me for help. I responded by trying to change the subject. What about her husband? I asked. Where was he, and was their computer company connected to this homicide? I did not reveal to Steele that I had run a quick background check on Mr. and Mrs. McCormick. I waited to see if I could get a reaction to my questions.

Lieutenant Steel looked at me inquisitively. She said she wasn’t able to contact Mr. McCormick, and his whereabouts were unknown at the moment. The coroner, sticking his head around the far doorframe, interrupted our conversation and reported that the dead man’s cause of death was not a bullet. There was no bullet hole, but he was killed by a blow to the right front temporal lobe, possibly from a hammer or gun butt.

Steele looked at him and said, Thanks, Doc. Are you finished yet? When can you move the body to the morgue?

The coroner answered each question in reverse, "Now and yes. I have taken his finger and palm prints electronically, and I’ll run them when I get back to my office. When I get the results, I’ll forward his identity information to your email. Also, I tagged and bagged everything in his pockets, including the folding, combat, six-inch bladed knife."

Thanks, Doc.

Then she looked at me and said, You still here, Scott? Those green eyes told me, in unspoken words, that my time was up and it was time to leave.

See you around, Lieutenant, I said.

I hope so, Scott. For old times’ sake. Like to buy you a round, maybe at Sam’s Place, Cas said.

I took note of her comment and thought, Yes!

Coraline Steele. She was a lovely person who held my heart in her hands. But she didn’t know it. Cas was born into an old established family of wealth in Santa Barbara, California. Growing up along the coast above Ventura, she became an excellent surfer and one of the prettiest girls along the beaches of Southern California. She had even surfed Hawaii’s North Shore, Oahu, Peahi, and Hookipo Beach Park, Maui. I didn’t know her then. I met her after she graduated from University of California, Santa Barbara. She graduated with a major in political science and a minor in criminal law. We met at the police academy, where she was top of her class. She was the only cadet who had her own Porsche Turbo-Carrera. She was my first real love. Well, almost. I still miss my Scottish terrier, Duke.

CHAPTER

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TWO

I HELD THOSE THOUGHTS OF Cas as I turned and left the house and headed for my car. Nothing to do there. I needed to hit the computer and do more research. As I drove back in the heavy afternoon traffic, I picked up the microphone and informed dispatch that I was en route back to the station. It was a slow crawl. I had time to think about the events of the morning. Lady calls my desk and tells me she shot someone. I show up, BHPD on the scene, a dead man on the floor from a blow to the head—not shot! The lead detective demanded I leave the scene. Mrs. McCormick hadn’t followed my instructions. What in the hell’s going on? What is the motive for all this damn mess?

As I drove back south to West Pico Boulevard, a car cut me off. Watch where you’re going, you dumb ass, I said aloud in the car with the windows up. Goddamn LA drivers! I continued on Pico to the Venice station. I was thinking about Mrs. McCormick. Why did she ask for me, and why didn’t she stay at the scene? I needed to check with the watch commander to see if the woman had asked for me by name. That could change things. In what way? I don’t know yet.

I pulled into the garage, parked the Vic, and pocketed the keys for later. I shouted to the attendant, I’ll be back. He smiled. I think this case could use The Terminator. Damn, I love old movies.

Back at my desk, I called down to speak with the watch commander. He had taken Mrs. McCormick’s call, and I asked if Mrs. McCormick had requested me personally. The commander checked the logbook and said, Yes, Mrs. McCormick did ask for you. I thanked her and hung up the receiver. What’s the connection?

I flipped the switch on the desk computer, and the screen came to life. I plugged in my police code number for a records search, put in McCormick’s name, and started a complete background check. Names, numbers, license plates, addresses, and so on. I wanted everything on the woman who had asked for me by name. What I needed was the motive. What cost that man his life? What man and why was he there? There you are, Mr. McCormick; I have your file, but where are you? I checked the missing person’s data, and you aren’t there. It was late. I was tired and needed sleep. I’ll pick this up again tomorrow, I thought. I signed out with the watch commander and headed home for another frozen green-box dinner with a single malt back.

After a full night’s sleep, I arrived at the office the next morning, Tuesday, at nine o’clock. That little blinking light on my phone came to life. I reached for it without thinking and said, Detective Blade. The low, sultry voice of Mrs. McCormick got my attention fast. Where are you? I asked.

Safe, she replied.

That was not my question.

She used a tone that was more poignant than useful. I’m out of town and safe. I wanted to talk to you about what happened at my house.

Okay, how about starting from the beginning? What happened right after you called the station and asked for me? What did you do next, and why did you leave your house? You do know that BHPD will put out an APB on you if Lieutenant Steele can’t find you, I said.

First off, Lieutenant Blade, when I called you yesterday, I stated that I shot the man in the black coat. Well, that wasn’t true. I am changing that statement to I shot at him, and I do know that my shot missed him and hit the wall, she said slowly and low, as if she had an early cold one in her hand.

Mrs. McCormick, you are not answering my questions. Why did you leave your house? Do you still have the gun? If so, where is it? If not, what did you do with it? I asked politely. She didn’t answer, so I continued. You do know that BHPD will put out that APB on you for questioning about the dead man on your floor. You will be a wanted woman. So please turn yourself into me here at the station, call your lawyer, and have him or her waiting here for you. I’ll meet you at the door. Hello! Are you still with me? There was silence on the line. Then I heard her breathe in slowly, so I knew she was still listening.

While waiting for Mrs. McCormick to answer, I stared at the computer and read more information about both Mr. and Mrs. McCormick. The company, Cyber-Safe, was listed with Dunn & Brad Street and had an estimated net worth around $4 million. It looked like several recent spikes in revenue had occurred in the last three years. That’s a lot of jack in thirty-six months. The original product was an accounting program. Who buys accounting programs for four million in three years? Mrs. McCormick was still breathing over the phone.

If you want to talk, I’m here. Talk when you need to tell me about your location, I said, to let Mrs. McCormick know I was still expecting a conversation.

Continuing to search for the type of customers that buy expensive programs not readily available on the open market, I turned to my other computer, selecting Amazon to search for accounting programs. I scrolled the available programs, but no Cyber-Safe appeared. Odd. Who buys expensive custom software that no company offers for sale? The government, hi-tech companies, foreign companies, foreign governments? What type of foreigners buys hi-tech accounting programs that are not readily available to the public?

At that moment, Helena interrupted my thoughts when she came back on the line and said, Detective Blade, the man was alive when I ran out of my house. I didn’t kill him. I used my cell phone to call you from my car. Will you meet with me somewhere that’s off track and safe? Then I’ll explain what this is all about.

Welcome back, I said. Where do you want to meet, and if we meet, I want you to come in with me; it’s for your protection. I’ll take you to BHPD and turn you over to Detective Steele. That way, you’ll be safe.

Okay, but first, I must tell you some of the facts before we meet, she replied. I pulled out my yellow pad, pen, and recorder and waited. Just before she spoke, I pushed the record button. Damn glad I did.

"Four years ago, my husband, Paul, invented and developed a very sophisticated and encrypted enterprise resource planning (ERP) software that he presented to the US government for consideration. The US government purchasing department met with Paul and wanted a demonstration copy for evaluation. While that was in the works, the State Department presented the software to the CIA, who initiated a restricted patent application for Paul’s program design, classifying it secret under the Homeland Security Act.

"The interview with the State Department lasted two days. At that meeting, Paul gained permission to sell the program outside the country with a governmental tracking code. That way, the government could keep track of who owned the program. Three years ago, the Procurement Office awarded us a purchase contract of one hundred thousand dollars, with an annual service fee of fifty thousand dollars. He wouldn’t say any more about that meeting. Paul quickly sold the program to several international cannabis-producing companies, each of which paid one hundred thousand dollars for each program, plus a yearly contract management fee of fifty thousand. That’s all legitimate corporate income for Cyber-Safe. That ERP program can track and manage all sales, production, inventory, accounts payable, accounts receivable, payroll, and all other aspects of a fully integrated manufacturing operation. You name it, and this program can do it.

"At the direction of the State Department, my husband put an encrypted viral code inside each program sold to the cannabis companies. When activated, Cyber-Safe gained control of the numbers past the decimal point and thus could hide the pennies inside the financial system, using offsetting debits and credits. The encrypted program effectively skims pennies across the financial system in seemly random patterns, undetectable by reviewing auditors. You might think it’s stealing, but we’re doing it under contract with the State Department. The government then sends these funds, via phony purchase orders, to a variety of holding accounts under management by the encrypted program. Also, the books balance for all the companies because the ERP system is end to end," Mrs. McCormick said.

I was a straightforward detective, looking for a motive for murder, and those pennies could add up to a lot of jack and one hell of an incentive.

Is the skimmed money traceable or not? I asked.

Silence. Then she slowly said, It’s supposed to be untraceable. Mrs. McCormick stopped, took a breath, and continued. The skimmed funds are used to purchase Bitcoins, which are transferred to an offshore account, somewhere in Brazil. Paul would sell the Bitcoins and move some of the money to the Colombian Mining Company in Bogota, which would forward payments back to Cyber-Safe. The Colombian Mining Company then would transfer the remaining funds to a designated account in the Governmental Procurement Department in Virginia. She stopped and needed to rest.

I said, You’re losing me with all the techno-babble. My original question remains, Where can we meet? From what you have just explained, this is grand theft on a grand scale, and someone now knows about it. Who knows? Are they from the companies or an outsider who has figured it all out? Did you know the murdered man on your floor? Mrs. McCormick, you must meet with me ASAP and answer some questions. Just because you didn’t shoot him doesn’t mean you didn’t kill him.

Okay, Scott, there is a nice restaurant on Balboa Boulevard in Encino known as Lombardi’s Market. Meet me there at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow, she said and hung up. Her abruptness startled me. I reached over and stopped the recorder, placed the phone into the cradle, then pulled an immense breath in and let it out slowly. Wow, a license to steal! I thought. She never said where Mr. McCormick is!

Moreover, she called me Scott. The time was 3:00 p.m., Tuesday, the second day since I took the original call. I noted this call and time into the logbook on my desk, pulled the tape from the recorder, and put it into the lockbox kept in my Later File drawer. No mention of the tape would show up in the logbook.

I finished the day compiling all known information on Mr. and Mrs. McCormick, signed out, and walked to my car. Exiting the garage, I turned east on Pico Blvd., took the eastbound Santa Monica freeway on-ramp, and headed for the Hollywood Hills. On the way, I thought, I‘ll have dinner on my balcony and think this thing through.

I arrived at the office late Wednesday afternoon. I obtained permission from Captain Lewis to meet with Mrs. McCormick and bring her in for questioning under the BH APB. It was 3:05 p.m.; two hours and fifty-five minutes to get over to the valley to Lombardy’s for the meet. I pulled my gun from the drawer, checked it, grabbed the keys to the Vic, and headed down to the garage.

The traffic sucked that time of day in West LA. My thoughts went back to the conversation we had yesterday, and I was looking for something that I might have missed when my cell phone rang. I checked the number, and it belonged to Detective Steele. Hesitating, I answered it. Good afternoon, Detective. What can I do for you? I smiled into the receiver.

Do you know where Mrs. McCormick is at this moment? And if you do, tell me now, Steele demanded.

Not knowing where she was at that very moment, I said, "I don’t