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  From Dawn to Deceit

  A Suspenseful Conspiracy of Deception, Love, and Murder

  Terry Joseph

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, as are those fictionalized events and incidents that involve real persons. Any character that bears resemblance to a person, living or dead, an acquaintance of the author, past or present, is purely coincidental and in no way intended to be an actual account involving that person.

  Copyright © 2008, 2010 by Terry Joseph

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009914088

  Cover Artist: Liziel Orcajo Ocampo

  ISBN:

  Hardcover

  978-1-4415-7907-2

  Softcover

  978-1-4415-7906-5

  Ebook

  978-1-4415-7952-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  Xlibris Corporation

  1-888-795-4274

  www.Xlibris.com

  [email protected]

  70843

  Contents

  Suite 4409

  The Arrest

  Who Are You?

  Breakfast in Love

  The Accounting

  Toast, Anyone?

  Baby Cunningham

  The Arraignment

  Say Good-bye

  Legal Introductions

  Where Is My Money?

  The Trial and Sentencing Part I

  The Trial and Sentencing Part II

  Au Revoir

  A New Beginning?

  To the two people who continuously encourage creative exploration and reinforce conviction, touching both my heart and soul:

  my beautiful niece Nicole and my best friend Lorne.

  Suite 4409

  Present Day: May 2004

  “Officer! You know that I am entitled to telephone my attorney. What rubbish is transpiring here?” The scrawny red-haired corrections officer with a wooden toothpick dangling from the side of his mouth continued to disregard the pleas of the recently imprisoned, meticulously dressed, and well-spoken businessman. “It is essential that I speak to counsel!”

  The corrections officer turned to the sports section, ignoring the handsome dark-skinned individual urgently diverting his attention. “Are you keen on maintaining a paycheck? Officer! I won’t tolerate your disrespect for me. Are you aware of who I am? Do you know what I can have done to you?” The officer smirked at Jasper and sipped his coffee.

  “You insolent . . . menial . . . blue-collar drudge!” Jasper shouted.

  Fed up with Jasper’s rhetoric, the officer approached Jasper’s jail cell. “Look, Mr. GQ, your money may carry weight downtown on Wall Street, but here in criminal booking, you are just prisoner no. 809.”

  Jasper punched the wall, bruising his fist, and angrily shouted, “I will not remain in here another hour!” Stripping Jasper’s freedom compromised his power . . . his worth.

  Jasper Anson Cunningham was managing lead partner of Cunningham, Gates & Waddell, LLP, a half-a-billion-dollar New York City financial services firm. He sat alone in a five-by-eight-foot jail cell at the downtown Manhattan holding pen awaiting arraignment in criminal court. His mind raced with disturbing thoughts regarding the turbulent illicit activity that transpired in his partnership firm and his unscrupulous love affairs over the months, weeks, and days leading to his arrest. In spite of Jasper’s meticulous planning, he had not once considered the possibility of being accused of a crime far less arrested. Most of Jasper’s colleagues viewed him as a brilliant, charming, and wealthy executive; but everyone knew his arrogance and greed would misguide him. He presumed his influence and power were sufficiently cunning to avert discovery. Apparently, Jasper was amiss.

  “This filthy place,” Jasper whispered to himself as he rubbed his right temple firmly. “What have they done?” he questioned but with halfhearted disbelief. Jasper stared the officer in the eyes and assumed a different tactic. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Officer Maloney.”

  Jasper slowly read his badge mockingly, “Officer LIAM Maloney. You know I will be released very shortly. And you know it’s my right to make a phone call. I will ensure that YOU, OFFICER LIAM MALONEY, are the only name mentioned when I hold the city accountable for violation of my rights. Regardless of what those FBI agents said, you know their covert asses will be protected. Not yours.” Officer Maloney momentarily pondered Jasper’s remarks, knowing his comments were accurate.

  Jasper calmly continued, “Now, in spite of what the FBI might have told you, open this cell and get me to a phone. You have nothing to lose. I’m only going to call my attorney. You can stand there and watch me dial . . . listen to the conversation for that matter. But I need to make this call now! Your forty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year job is worthless to ME. Is it for you, Officer LIAM Maloney?”

  Swayed by the well-manicured businessman who convincingly stood before him, Officer Maloney looked up and down the hallway and saw no one else around. He quickly opened the cell door, and Jasper stepped out and followed him down the corridor.

  Jasper patted him on the shoulder and contently remarked, “Good man! Good man!”

  As they approached the end of the hall, Jasper saw the phone in his view. However, the call he needed to make could not be heard by anyone.

  “I’ll walk the rest of the way from here, Officer.” Jasper proceeded alone to the phone.

  “Hello, I need to speak with Antonio.” Jasper did not call his attorney but instead his Colombian underworld cohort, Antonio Ignacio. Jasper believed Antonio was obligated to assist him given the money-laundering, racketeering, and embezzling transactions that Jasper and his business partners had facilitated for the Ignacio family over the past few years. However, as Jasper began his conversation with Antonio, the arresting officer, FBI Agent Lawson, stormed into the holding area and dashed toward Jasper on the phone.

  “What’s going on here?” Agent Lawson shouted.

  Simultaneously, Jasper quickly spoke to the party on the phone, “We have to reconcile this, Antonio. There’s been a grave misunderstanding. The FBI has—”

  Midway through Jasper’s sentence, FBI Agent Lawson ripped the telephone receiver out of Jasper’s hands, grabbed Officer Maloney’s nightstick, and clobbered Jasper across the back of his head, and he fell to the ground.

  “Drag this prisoner back to his cell immediately before YOU are taking his place,” Agent Lawson said to Officer Maloney.

  Jasper was unconscious for about an hour. When he awakened, at that very moment, he was concerned for his freedom and, more importantly, his life. In his thirty-six years, he had never been legally detained although his business activities in recent months caused increased concern over possible federal securities regulatory investigations and even greater concern of being associated with his clients’ felonious criminal activity. Furthermore, increased indiscretion in his personal life clouded his otherwise calculated decision making.

  Jasper touched his bloodstained head and rubbed his bruised knuckles as he sat on the urine-stained hard mattress. Unbefitting to his environment, Jasper was dressed in a $3,600 custom-made navy blue pin-striped suit, the jacket taken away along with his $25,000 Cartier watch, eighteen-carat gold cuff links, and wallet. His mustard-colored shirt made from pure Egyptian cotton bore his scripted initials JAC on the cuffs. To briefly diffuse the stench of the bed, Jasper sniffed his shirtsleeve and slightly smiled as the scent offered a memory of Tracey, and he reflected on the prior evening.

  The Night before Jasper’s Arrest

  A round of applause resounded in the Crystal Jazz Room on the sixty-second floor of the Vanderbilt building. There were over two hundred affluent millionaires enjoying jazz tunes, cocktails, and gourmet dishes.

  “That was Billie Holiday’s classic ‘It’s Very Clear’ played by New York City’s own Charles Soon and the Soon Quintet,” announced the master of ceremony. There was another round of applause. “We will take a fifteen-minute break.”

  “What have I done in this life to deserve you?” asked Jasper as he stared into Tracey’s eyes. Tracey smiled and sipped more wine.

  Jasper and Tracey sat in a candlelit semicircle booth in the corner of the elegant clubroom. The lights were dim, and a small number of intimate tables allowed for privacy. Tracey nibbled on sautéed crab cakes in light béarnaise while Jasper enjoyed lobster meat topped with caviar on brochette in an aioli sauce. Tracey drank a glass of Pinot Grigio while Jasper finished his second extra dry vodka martini with olives. To the left of Tracey was the ice bucket containing one-third of the remaining wine.

  “You are a beautiful, sexy, intel
ligent woman. You bring clarity into my complex world. You give a man all that he needs to look forward to . . . another liberating evening of solace.”

  “Jasper, kiss me.” Jasper reached over to Tracey, partially parted his mouth, and kissed Tracey’s soft warm lips. He was so gentle yet firm, she thought. This was the oxymoron to Tracey: Jasper is a man whose daily activities included a fast-paced, harsh, aggressive, and oftentimes, brutal business world with cutthroat dealing and swindling. Yet his kiss revealed a man who was passionate and caring. They continued to kiss for a while until Tracey recalled her exciting news. She became giddy and bubbly, almost childlike, quite contrary to her demeanor in the workplace.

  “I closed a $15 billion equity restructuring deal today for one of my dormant clients. This deal was a sleeper for months. Not only did I revive it, but I generated unanticipated record revenues for the investment bank.”

  “My lady.” Jasper raised his glass, and Tracey followed suit. They smiled at each other and toasted.

  “To the smartest female investment banker on the Street.”

  “Female?” Tracey asked somewhat insulted by his sexist remark.

  “Apologies, apologies,” he conceited. “Investment banker, period. I couldn’t help but say female because none of the investment bankers I have ever dealt with had such a pretty smile.” Jasper touched her chin and kissed her cheek.

  “Which company had the stock deal?” asked Jasper.

  “Jasper, now you know I can’t say until the news is made public.”

  “Sorry. I forgot I’m with a woman who knows about high-profile stock market transactions before most anyone on the Street,” he slyly remarked.

  The band reassembled on stage to play another set. An older female singer approached the microphone as the band played an upbeat jazz tempo.

  She sang, “On a clear day, rise and look around you. And you’ll see who you are. On a clear day, how it will astound you that the joy of your being outshines every star.”

  “I love those lyrics. It’s what life is all about. You can live in a fog, yet [Tracey sang along] on a clear day you can see forever, and ever . . . evermore. I’ve been through so many dark years muddled with pain. Now things are clearer for me.” Tracey looked at Jasper’s eyes and professed, “I love you.”

  This greatly pleased Jasper. Although he could have been with most any woman of his choice, Tracey was a rarity, he thought. She was emotionally connected to him, kindhearted, and sexually desirable unlike the scheming, manipulative women he encountered over the years. He kissed her again but, this time, embraced her face lovingly.

  Tracey felt his passion and remarked, “Who would have thought the day you were closing the Blackstone & Carter merger deal at my offices that it would lead to this?”

  “Oh, I did,” Jasper smugly replied. They burst out laughing, clearly giddy from their cocktails. Jasper caught his breath from his laughter.

  “No, seriously, I did,” said Jasper.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “When I walked into that conference room, we locked eyes. Our inner souls exuded the connection. I remember the day well. Your long brown hair was swept up, and your beautiful neck and eyes were saying, ‘Come take me, my love.’” Jasper touched her hair and kissed her neck, and they both laughed.

  Jasper continued, “You held a burgundy Montblanc pen in your left hand with your long lovely fingers.” He took her left hand, placed the tip of her finger in his mouth, and licked it up and down. They laughed again.

  “Your shapely, firm round breasts nearly made me holler.” They both laughed incessantly as Tracey knew that he would attempt to kiss her breasts. He playfully bent his head to kiss her cleavage.

  “Don’t you dare in public,” Tracey said firmly but with the edge of a challenge. Jasper stopped. Then quickly pecked her cleavage. They laughed.

  “And then . . . when you opened your mouth to speak . . . I thought, ‘Goodness, thank you, Father. She is a financial genius.’” He kissed her mouth lovingly.

  “Now you know that story is not the truth,” said Tracey. She loved Jasper’s intelligent, precise way of being a man . . . so brilliant, yet so simple.

  “Sure it is. I wanted you, and you wanted me just the same, if not more.”

  “Of course you know that is insane. When I saw that wedding band on your finger, all temporary green buttons turned red immediately. And considering that wedding band is still on your finger, we should talk.”

  Jasper’s joy is slightly deflated. “Tracey, come on now. You know we’ve worked out a plan and timeline. It’s only a matter of weeks. Relax, sweetie. Let’s not allow such distracting issues to weigh upon such a beautiful evening.”

  The waiter came over and poured the remaining wine into Tracey’s glass and asked, “Sir, do you and the lady care to have dessert?”

  Jasper looked at Tracey. “I will have dessert, but not anything on the menu.” Jasper smiled at Tracey and kissed her hand. “We’ll have the check please.”

  They left the jazz room, exited the building, and entered Jasper’s private black stretch limousine that waited outside.

  “Henry, the usual,” Jasper said to his driver.

  “Yes, sir,” Henry replied.

  As they drove through the glaring city lights of Manhattan, Jasper looked at Tracey, knowing how much she loved him. He gave her as much as he could, he thought, that is for a mistress.

  As they rode the elevator to the forty-fourth floor of the five-star Regency Palace Hotel, Tracey slipped her right hand into Jasper’s pants to touch him; she yearned for Jasper to make passionate love to her every day they were apart. They looked each other squarely in the eyes. Tracey was a tall woman standing at five feet ten inches and, coupled with her four-inch heels, reached Jasper’s mouth at six feet two inches with ease. Jasper gently placed his lips on hers and slowly swirled his tongue around her warm mouth. He touched her hand from outside his pants and pressed her fingers against him. They ached for each other, but to Tracey, their relationship was significantly more than sexual encounters. She loved him deeply. They held hands as they walked off the elevator to suite 4409. Jasper placed the card key in the door but, before opening, turned to his side to look at Tracey’s hazelnut eyes lovingly.

  “Your beauty is simply unimaginable. I love you more than life,” Jasper whispered. He tenderly kissed her smooth left cheek as they entered the suite.

  Jasper met Tracey every other Thursday for over two years at the Regency Palace Hotel for a romantic evening, oftentimes preceded by an extravagant dinner at a discreet restaurant. During the summer months, they spent their bimonthly meetings cruising the Hudson River on his personal yacht and relishing the calm of the New York City water and skyline. Tonight, however, they dined and danced at the Crystal Jazz Room, less discreet than they ordinarily would choose, but their affairs became more and more risqué over recent weeks. Thereafter, they would conclude with a nightcap in suite 4409 at the Regency Palace. Although he was financially able, Jasper’s suite was reserved for his pleasure as a gift from a prominent hedge fund client who owned a significant equity stake in the hotel. Jasper’s business associates were far-reaching and extended many favors.

  The hotel’s ambiance was elegant and traditional, characteristic of Jasper’s and Tracey’s personalities. The floors were rich dark walnut with plush Parisian rugs appropriately placed throughout the four-room suite. The cognac-colored drapes were well-tailored and aristocratic with sloping valances and a velvet touch. They were drawn setting off a breathtaking view overlooking Manhattan and the East River. The king-sized mahogany bed with eight-foot-high bedposts displayed a regal eighteenth-century wood-carved design covered with a burgundy-and-gold satin spread that was inviting.

  Tracey sat with her legs crossed on the elegant amber french provincial chair in the parlor area of the room. She wore a cobalt blue skirt suit without stockings since her slim bronze legs were smooth and eloquent. Black patent leather Versace pumps dangled on her feet. Her skirt rose above her knees, and her tailored low-cut suit jacket was closely fitted with no blouse underneath. She wore a single strand of diamonds around her slim long neck, one of the many gems that Jasper gifted her over the years.