To Kill A Conman

The Conman

STUART BAKER WORKED HARD for other people’s money. He knew every scheme and scam going and ceaselessly toiled to develop new ones. There was no low to which he would not stoop, no crime that he would not consider committing, and no victim for whom he might show a little pity. He was both the most opportunistic and the most cunning of fraudsters, both the best and the worst of liars, and the living exception to the rule that crime does not pay. It paid Stuart well. Far too well for him to contemplate ever giving it up to do an honest day’s work. Stuart Baker’s activities had enabled him to make a lot of dough. His moral compass was that of a low life, but it enabled him to live a damn fine high life.

Chapter 1

Day 1 (Monday, 14 August), afternoon

STUART BAKER GLANCED at his Seiko watch, an old present from his ex. Five o’clock. Almost time to close the grubby antique shop he used as a front for laundering his ill-gotten cash gains. Though he had few real customers because the varied inventory was such poor quality, his fabricated accounts showed the antique shop brought in a handsome sum every year. After he’d offset that with fictitious salaries for his imaginary staff, the shop barely broke even, he’d cleaned his dirty money, and pocketed the cash tax-free.

Stuart pinched his trousers at the knees to keep the crease, leaned back in his carved wooden chair, and rested his polished black shoes on the glass-topped counter. He opened his vinyl accounts book. Handwritten figures in pencil listed several fake purchases and sales for the day. No fancy accounting software for him with its digital records in the cloud that couldn’t be erased or rewritten whenever convenient.

His phone rang. He grabbed it without checking the number and jammed it against his ear. “Yes?”

“Hey, Stu, it’s Gabe. I’m finished work for the day. How’re you doing?”

Gabe the babe. The bank teller he’d hooked up with a few days ago. She was Gabrielle, but she preferred Gabe to Gabby as a shorter name. She was a bit of all right, but he hated how she called him Stu. He’d never liked the abbreviation.

He brushed a spot of lint off the arm of his suit jacket. “I’m good, babe. About to close up the shop. I’ve got places to go, things to do.”

“But we’re still on for dinner, aren’t we?” Her tone turned from wheedling to sultry. “I want to see you, Stu.”

“I can’t wait to see you, too, babe. Give me an hour. I’ll call you back, all right?”

Stuart disconnected without waiting for an answer, then drummed his fingers on the counter. What did Gabe want from him? A few shags? Anything more? He hadn’t figured her out yet.

The way she’d bluntly asked him out when she was serving him in the bank had seemed a little… ungenuine. He had a natural talent for detecting bullshit. It seldom let him down, and his instinct had been nagging at him ever since he’d met her.

He dragged his feet off the counter and stood, shrugging. He checked his tie and pencil-thin black moustache in an ornate but garish faux-gold mirror that would never find a buyer, and nodded. Looking sharp, as always.

Mismatched lamps of all ages were scattered around the shop. Stuart switched them off one by one, stopping occasionally to wipe surfaces and check for dust. Damned cleaners never did a proper job. He’d withhold their pay again.

Stuart exited the shop and locked the door. His premises were part of a row of dated buildings that had somehow survived the earthquakes of years before, though cracks now covered the cladding.

He sauntered down the main street in Sintown, past a busy pawnbroker’s and the busier brothel next door. Beyond that, a middle-aged beggar sat propped against a shop window, a faded baseball cap pulled low to conceal her face. A fast-food box in front of her contained greasy banknotes and a smattering of coins.

Stuart paused, took a dollar coin from his pocket and bent to place it in the beggar’s box. It clinked, and even as she nodded thanks, eyes staring at the ground, he discreetly palmed her only twenty-dollar note before walking on.

He turned into a side street where weeds grew from holes in the asphalt footpath. After a minute he reached a set of lock-up garages. As always, Stuart glanced both ways along the street and ensured no one was in sight before he pressed the garage door opener in his pocket. The door rolled up with a rumble of corrugated steel.

His car, a bright red Lamborghini, gleamed, even in the dim light. He stroked the bonnet as he ambled to the door, warmth rising inside him. This was his pride and joy, a symbol of his status, the fruits of his frauds.

Stuart drove out, the garage door closing automatically behind him, and turned into the side street. The lion-hearted vehicle purred like a kitten, responding to his slightest touch with ferocious power. He dreamed about women like that, but a car was better. You never had to wait for a car to get ready in the morning.

First stop, a supermarket to get chocolates. The nearest ones, in the CBD, had been closed since the quakes had made the buildings unsafe and the entire area had been red-zoned. He drove in the other direction, to Crumbledon, cutting through the traffic without a care for the angry toots of other drivers, and pulled into the car park a few minutes later. He wouldn’t be long, but there was always an opportunity to make money, so he grabbed a small briefcase from the back of the car before going inside.

The briefcase contained a sophisticated card reader like those merchants used to take payments. Stuart’s model was a custom variation that copied and stored the card details, then used them for fraudulent transactions.

Now to find a victim. There, by the cat food, stood a man wearing a navy-blue raincoat. Odd. It was chilly outside, but not raining. The colour-clashing maroon fedora on his head made him stand out. What a strange guy. Likely a weirdo who lived by himself—apart from his cat.

All that aside, Stuart focused on the wallet-sized bulge in one coat pocket. He wandered over, shopping basket in one hand and briefcase in the other, and bumped into his victim with the briefcase. A faint beep sounded as the card reader detected a bank card in the victim’s wallet and read the details. Stuart coughed to cover the sound.

The man turned instantly, eyes flashing, hand dropping to his pocket to ensure the wallet was still there. He touched it and visibly relaxed.

“Excuse me. My fault.” Stuart moved on. Inside his briefcase, his modified card reader would charge small amounts to his victim’s card until it got blocked or emptied the account. The stolen payments would ping around the world in different currencies, including Bitcoin, before the total was paid into Stuart’s antique shop account. Untraceable, and easily explained as an antique purchase from a foreign buyer.

After repeating his trick with another two unwary shoppers, Stuart paid for his chocolates and left the store.

He drove to Leanwood, thinking about Gabe and how she had come on to him as if she were a filly in heat. It was odd. She’d worked in the bank for years, never any more pleasant to him than to other customers, until a couple of weeks ago, when she set out to snag him like a siren reeling in a sailor. But Stuart wasn’t complaining. If she was up to something, he’d work it out. In the meantime, he’d shag her as much as possible.

It wasn’t Gabe he was going to see now, though. His ex, Sarah, lived in Leanwood with their five-year-old twin sons. He’d missed their birthday the previous week, and she’d phoned angrily nearly every day since. It was time to put things right. The chocolates would help. They always did.

He parked outside the worn weatherboard property. A picket fence with peeling paint bordered a small lawn in front of the house. Stuart strode up the cracked driveway. Before he reached the door, Sarah stormed out, sleeves of her holey cardigan rolled up, her tangled black hair flying, her boots stamping on the driveway so hard they might worsen the cracks. The two boys tumbled from the house after her, half-eaten sandwiches in hand and jam on their faces. They ran towards him.

“Where the bloody hell have you been? Couldn’t you spare a couple of hours to see your kids on their birthday?”

Stuart shook his head, smiling against her fury. “Work. Always busy. Trying to keep the shop afloat. It doesn’t make much money, you know.”

Sarah folded her arms and jutted out her chin. “That again. It’s just an excuse for you to pay no child support.”

“You know I don’t earn enough from the shop for that. One day profits will pick up, and I’ll be able to give you something.”

Sarah snorted in reply.

The twins tugged at Stuart’s pressed trousers. Even now, he couldn’t tell them apart. Did they have sticky hands? They’d better not. They let go and dashed off down the driveway.

“Keep off the road, boys.” Sarah raced past Stuart in pursuit.

One brat called out before Stuart could turn around. “Cool car, Dad. Is it yours?”

Damn. All the way here, he’d been thinking about Gabrielle, Gabe the babe, pondering her intentions, planning dinner and a lusty shag that evening. Like an idiot, he’d forgotten to park around the corner.

He turned and faced Sarah’s fiery glare. She stood on the footpath, red-faced, boys cuddled under one arm.

“That’s your car? The Lambo?” She jabbed a finger towards it, spittle flying from her mouth as she snapped the words out.

“Yeah, I won it.”

“Ahah. Just like you won that Mercedes a couple of years ago?”

Stuart stroked one end of his moustache. “I’m a lucky guy. Look, sorry I couldn’t come over last week, but I’ve got something for the boys now.”

“You have?” Some of the fire faded from Sarah’s voice.

Stuart strode over. He stuck a hand into a pocket and withdrew the twenty-dollar note he’d lifted from the beggar’s cash box. “Take them to the movies.” He pressed the note into Sarah’s hand.

“That’s not enough. You know it’s not.”

Stuart shrugged. “That’s the best I can do right now. And these chocolates.” He took them from his jacket and passed them over to her.

Sarah stared at them as if they were rat poison.

His phone rang, and he dug into a pocket for it. Gabe again.

“Yes, babe?”

“You said you’d call me, Stu, and I’m getting lonely. Let’s go to that new Italian place tonight. The one near my apartment.”

“Angelo’s. I know it. Sounds good, babe. I’m on my way to pick you up.” He disconnected.

Sarah’s eyes were daggers. With a motion, she shooed the boys away. They raced inside, munching their sandwiches as they ran.

Stuart stiffened. “What? You’re going to complain about me starting a new relationship now?”

Sarah shook her head, her long hair whirling. “No. You were always one for other women, even when we were together. But you’re going to a fancy restaurant for dinner with her? The boys and I can’t afford to eat more than baked beans and toast most nights.”

He shrugged. “She’s paying.”

“Oh yeah. Lucky guy, you are. Piss off.” She marched past, barging into Stuart’s arm on the way.

Stuart grinned. This was his kind of night. He strode to his car, chuckling, then stopped short. The passenger-side window bore a brat-sized jammy handprint.

Frowning, he withdrew a monogrammed silk handkerchief from his suit breast pocket and wiped the window clean. The handkerchief was ruined now. He posted it into Sarah’s letterbox before driving away.

Chapter 2

Day 1 (Monday, 14 August), afternoon

AT THE SUPERMARKET checkout, I scratched my head under my maroon fedora and tried my bank card again. The damned machine beeped at me once more. Insufficient funds.

The checkout operator glanced at the name on my card. “Do you have another bank card… Danny?” She tilted her head, chewing gum. It stretched between her teeth when she yawned.

“No. I don’t understand this. I have the money in my account.” I know I did. At least, I know when it’s zero. I’d saved about three thousand, enough for a cheap car after paying my rent.

“Whatever. You have cash?”

I only had fifty bucks and handed it over. “Cancel everything except the coffee and the cat food.”

She did so and gave me twenty dollars and shrapnel in change. I jammed it into my raincoat pocket. She stared at me with large, glazed eyes, moving the gum from side to side in her mouth. “You bring your own bag, or do you wanna buy one?”

“I’ll carry them.” I didn’t need a bag for two items, even if I had to walk home. It wasn’t far.

A light drizzle started. I didn’t care about getting wet. I wanted to know how my money had disappeared.

The rain became steadily heavier. By the time I reached my apartment, it was coming off my raincoat in sheets. My shoes and my trouser legs below the knee were soaked, and my vision was blurry from the wind gusting water into my face.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, leaving miniature puddles behind me, found my keys, opened the door and went inside. The main room was my office; the rest was my living accommodation. I liked to work from home, and sleep at work, so this arrangement suited me.

Torquemada, my cat, bounded from the top of the bookcase onto my desk, then onto the floor to greet me when I hung up my coat and hat. I stroked him and topped up his food before plopping onto the sofa.

My money. Where was it?

I phoned the bank. Their hold music had clearly been designed as a form of mental torture, but I endured it until someone finally took my call, demanded I prove my identity, and listened to my problem. A guy with a nasally voice said he’d check it out for me. I waited, the hold music on again.

He came back after a couple of minutes. “I see the issue. There have been some purchases on your card from a lingerie company in the Cayman Islands. Were you buying for someone else, or yourself?”

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t make those transactions.”

“They were made half an hour ago from Quake City.”

Heat spread through my neck into my face. I ground my teeth. “Those aren’t my purchases.”

“I’ll see if I can reverse the transactions, if you’re sure you didn’t make them yourself.”

“Of course, I’m sure. I’d know if I bought lingerie online half an hour ago, wouldn’t I?”

The bank helpline assistant sighed. “Don’t be rude. I don’t have to reverse the charges, you know.”

“Please do it. I’m the victim of fraud.”

“What was that? The line’s going bad.” The unmistakable sound of a finger tap echoed through the phone.

“Just fix it, will you? How long will it take for you to get my money back?”

“If we decide it’s fraud, and if we reverse the charges, it’ll take six weeks.”

“You’re in on it, aren’t you? Taking a little slice of any bank fraud to inflate your oversized profits. I’ll burst your bubble if you don’t help me out.”

“Sorry, your support call time is up. I’m hanging up now.”

The call disconnected. I threw the phone onto the sofa. It bounced onto the floor, startling Torquemada. Typical Quake City bank. They wouldn’t do anything.

I’d have to track down the missing money myself. In my line of work, that was easy enough if money had been physically taken—any private investigator in town could do that. But these modern-day digital thefts were a different matter. The thief was as likely to be on the other side of the world as on the other side of the street.

My fuming thoughts were cut short by the creak of a stair. I tiptoed to the side of the door, watching through the frosted glass bearing the words ‘Quake City Investigations’. A familiar shape, the silhouette of an Eastern European weightlifter, stopped outside the door and rapped on it.

Nadia Hart, my landlady. Trouble was never far away, and she had turned up at the worst possible time.