I walked down 21st street to a sandwich shop for a cup of coffee. Today's choices were French Roast, Safari, Organic Guatemalan, Generic Decaf and house blend. For the life of me, I couldn't tell the difference between them. I was sure there was a large burlap bag in the back with a Maxwell House label on it, from which the storeowner filled containers and then placed exotic name tags on them. Yet I had to contemplate the choices lest someone realize that I was completely lacking in refined coffee taste. I chose the Organic Guatemalan and then asked for two sticky buns with extra nuts and frosting. So much for refined taste. I was willing to fake it for coffee, but when it comes to sticky buns, let people think what they will.
I got back to my office a few minutes after nine. My teaching assistant Patience McGrath was already there. She was sitting at her computer, intensely chasing bugs out of her software, too preoccupied to notice my arrival. Patience is petite, cute as she can be and as easy to understand as advanced calculus.
"Good morning, Patience." I sang, still enjoying my good mood. "You are looking very lovely this morning."
I am nothing, if not cavalier. Patience gave me a blank look and crossed her legs.
" Smitty and I had a fight last night. I'm expecting him to call. Try to keep the line open."
Far be it from me to tie up the phone with business calls when Patience's errant boyfriend might be calling to repent.
"And if he calls. Tell him, I'm not here."
I almost started to try and make sense out this exchange, but I learned long ago to let these things slide. I let her go back to her software and I settled down to catch up on my email taking comfort in the fact that whatever difficulties I might have in my life pale with what Smitty will have to go through once he see the error of his ways.
Around ten o'clock the telephone rang. Patience looked at me with the expectation that I had spent the past hour practicing my part. I hadn't. I picked up the phone with a most uninspired greeting.
"Hello."
I didn't work well under pressure and I was hoping that this was a student or the Dean or even the President of the United States - anybody but Smitty.
"This is Fred Barnard with the Intercontinental Detective Agency. Let me talk to Professor Wentworth."
"Fred. It's good to hear from you. How's the gumshoe business?"
Fred Barnard was a principal agent with Intercontinental. Like me he had started his career as an operative and then moved on to computer crime. While I was getting my Ph.D. he was in the thick of things with phone hackers. Over the years we had worked on many assignments together. He tiptoed over the line often enough to make his work really exciting and I was always interested when he called to offer me a consulting assignment.
"Sorry, Tad. It didn't sound like you. You always answer the telephone so forcefully, like you are going to jump through the receiver and grab the person."
I was going to explain about how Smitty might call and I was afraid to tie up the line. But I felt it might interfere with my tough guy image so I kept the background information to myself.
"Well, I guess those night classes at charm school paid off." I joked, trying to avoid answering directly.
If Barnard was the slightest bit amused he didn't let on. "Did you hear about the Oxenstein murder?" He asked, as though he were asking about the weather.
"Yeah. I did hear about it. It was all over the papers. Got his head blown off or something and they found some bags of money in his apartment." I wanted to ask if they had found any body parts, but I felt that it would be better if I worked that into the conversation a little later.
Patience had been looking at me with annoyance, but was now looking at me with great interest. When heads get blown off and bags of money are found, errant boyfriends can wait.
"That's right." Barnard continued. "Three and a half million in small bills were found in his apartment. They also found a key to a storage locker that contained several more bags. They haven't counted it yet, but the feds estimate another three or four million."
"The feds," I said. "Why are they getting involved in a local homicide?"
"With that much cash laying around, they think he was involved in money laundering."
"No shit!" I said. "That's six or seven million dollars in cash. I wonder which side of the laundry he was on."
Barnard now had my full attention. And, as far as I could tell, he had Patience's attention too.
"And that ain't even half of it." Barnard continued. "He had a portfolio of bonds and certificates of deposit worth nearly ten million dollars."
"No stocks?" I inquired instinctively. The market had been doing so well for the past decade that only a fool would have all their money in bonds and cash accounts. On the other hand, Oxenstein had nearly seventeen million dollars so he couldn't have been too much of a fool.
"The feds are trying to prove some sort of criminal activity or even outright money laundering so they can confiscate his money, but they are having a hard time. Everyone knows that Oxenstein had his hand in all kinds of illegal activities. But there isn't a shred of evidence to prove it. Oxenstein was a master at covering his tracks."
"That doesn't surprise me, but why is IDA getting involved. You don't normally work for the feds. You work for private citizens."
"That's true. But we are working for a private citizen."
"Who's that?" I wondered aloud.
There was a pause at the other end of the line as though Barnard was giving me time to prepare myself.
"Oxenstein's wife."
"Oxenstein's wife?" I repeated, unable to believe that there was a woman anywhere on this planet who would consider entering into a sacrament with Oxenstein.
"That's right." Barnard responded. "Oxenstein's wife. She gave us a deposit of ten grand with another fifty grand in escrow. She wants us to prove that the money was legitimately his and hence hers now that he is deceased."
"I see. So you are working against the feds on this one." I observed.
"WE are working against the feds," he corrected.
"What does this have to do with me?"
"You're the expert in money laundering."
"Hang on, Fred." I said stalling for time so I could catch up with the unfolding situation. "You mean to tell me that Oxenstein had seven million in cash and the feds want to confiscate it but they can't because they cannot connect it to illegal activities."
"Yeah."
"And then this woman shows up claiming to be his wife and hires you guys to protect the money so she can have it."
"You're almost right. She isn't claiming to be his wife. She is his wife. They were secretly married two years ago. We checked the records and its true."
When I read about the Oxenstein case in the newspapers, I had done so with only mild interest. The Ox Man was a well-known figure in the bad part of town and my only thought was - good riddance. Now there were bags of money, a wife, and suspicions of money laundering. I was getting much more interested.
"So what do you want me to do?" I asked Fred.
"We want you to check into the money laundering. But before you do that, we want you to help out the Metropolitan Police on a few small items."
"Such as?" I said with great suspicion.
"The detectives found a couple of computers and a local area network in Oxenstein's apartment. Apparently he used these computers to manage his business. We need to get at the data on those computers so we can see what he was into. Of course, the data is part of an investigation so the police are reluctant to share it with us. Since we are working for Oxenstein's wife, we to have a claim on the data, but the DCPD could drag their feet for months."
"That doesn't sound very promising." I offered.
"No, it doesn't," Fred agreed. "But the computers are password protected and the computer guys at DCPD don't seem to be able to break the password."
"Why don't they ask the feds?"
"You know how the DC government feels about the Federal government. This home rule thing has been going back and forth for a couple of decades now and the DCPD would rather ask the Mafia for help than to call in the feds. That's why I offered your services."
I paused for a second. "What do you mean you offered my services?"
"I told Joe Wilson at DCPD that you would help their computer guys crack the password and in return they won't drag their feet about releasing the data to us. In fact, Joe said that if we keep quite about it, we could get a copy of the data as soon as you crack the password. I'd appreciate it if you could get over there as quickly as you can."
As I took down Joe Wilson's number I thought about that great parking space that I would have to give up and all those things that I wouldn't get done today. On the other hand there was something about this Oxenstein case that promised to be much more interesting than going over my lecture notes in preparation for the upcoming semester, so I told Fred that I would take on the project. I hung up the telephone and slipped into a daydream about all the possibilities in this case.
As I was staring at the ceiling, Patience asked, "Do you think Smitty tried to call while you were on the phone?"
"Naw," I said. "He's probably still working on his repentance speech."
Patience gave me another blank look and crossed her legs again. I went back to my daydream. She went back to her software.
After a few moments I offered her a sticky bun. It seemed to make up for my lack of sensitivity and uncivilized behavior.
With harmony restored, I began thinking about how I would handle the case.