Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  “UI?” Iris whispered to Toni.

  “User interface,” Toni whispered back.

  “You haven’t seen the best part yet. Watch this.” Kip moved the screen image so it looked as if the player were approaching a precipice. The player then went over the edge, free-falling through the air. The screen image tumbled and turned, shifting between sky and landscape as the ground grew closer.

  “Wow!” Mick exclaimed.

  “Now that’s new,” Today said appreciatively.

  “Just terrific,” Iris added.

  Toni put her hand against her forehead. “That can really make you motion sick.”

  The screen image moved still closer to the ground. There was impact.

  “Whoa!” Today shouted as he thrust both hands into the air. “Un-fucking-believable, man! How the hell did you do that?”

  “It’s high image resolution and speed,” Mick said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Show it again,” Toni said.

  Kip diffidently turned back to the keyboard. “Okay.”

  Summer looked at her watch. “Kip, don’t forget you promised to take Brianna to that birthday party in Laurel Canyon. You need to pick her up by two.”

  “I know.” Kip restarted the falling sequence. “I discovered a new way of caching that increases the graphics response on the currently available hardware. It was one of those things that was almost too obvious.”

  “My algorithm!”

  No one had seen Banzai come into the room. When he crossed the floor, everyone instinctively stepped out of the way, clearing a path to Kip.

  Kip turned from the computer and asked no one in particular, “How did he get in here?”

  “Who are you, man?” Today asked.

  “He’s a nut,” Kip said. “He’s been calling me and hanging around the house.” He glared at Banzai. “You’d better get out of here, before I call the cops.”

  Banzai pointed at the computer screen. “You stole my algorithm. I showed it to you so you’d give me a job here. And you stole it!”

  “Me—steal from you?” Kip looked at Banzai derisively. “Your stuff had some possibilities, that’s all. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Everyone looked from Kip to Banzai. Toni walked to a phone, dialed a number, and spoke quietly.

  “I know my work.” Banzai pointed at the monitor. “That’s my work!”

  “No, that’s my work. You and I happened to have a similar idea, that’s all.” Kip’s face was growing red. “Happens all the time.”

  Banzai grabbed handfuls of his hair, stumbled across the floor, and yelled, “Liar!”

  “Dude, calm down.” Today held his hands out.

  “You’re getting scary, man,” Kip said. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. “You’d better get out of here before there’s trouble.”

  “I idolized you.”

  A security guard arrived and grabbed Banzai, who pulled free. The guard again grabbed Banzai, twisting the young man’s arm behind him, and started dragging him toward the door.

  Banzai shouted, “Kip Cross is a has-been! Get out before he rips you off and takes credit for your work.” His cries echoed in the cavernous hangar until he was outside the building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Holding her trench coat over her head, Iris dashed from her driveway through the rain to her front door. Dripping wet, she unlocked the door, stepped inside, and eagerly bolted it behind her. She was finally safe. The rain, traffic, mud, snakes, and attitudes were outside and she was inside. Although she wasn’t too certain about the snake.

  She slipped off her soaked, well-worn pumps that she had selected that day because they were already beat-up and left them next to the door. Her stockings were soaked through and she left wet footprints on her hardwood floor when she walked into her bedroom. She stripped off her clothes and put on her terry cloth bathrobe. In the bathroom, she examined her rain-soaked suit and hung it on the shower rod where it hadn’t a prayer of drying in the damp air. She flipped on the heater built into the wall. The wires soon glowed red. She turned her back and stood close to the heat until her legs grew prickly, then she sat on the tile floor in front of it. She was just starting to feel delightfully hot when the phone rang. She had no intention of answering it but flew to grab it when she heard Garland’s voice on the answering machine.

  “Garland, I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve had such a terrible day.”

  “You poor little pumpkin, you,” he cooed. “Tell me all about it.”

  She did—not leaving out a single comma, raised eyebrow, or raindrop—and he listened without interrupting. After listening in turn to the events of his day, she broached the issue of Pandora, T. Duke Sawyer, and USA Assets. “Do you know Clinton Cormier?”

  “Old Clint. Sure. He works for one of the old-line investment banks in Manhattan.”

  “What about Darvis Brown?”

  “I don’t know him, but I know people who do. These guys are investors in USA Assets?”

  “According to Baines. He says the group has four investors: Darvis Brown, Clinton Cormier, Yale Huxley, and T. Duke Sawyer.”

  “All prominent businessmen,” Garland said. “Why would they want to keep their affiliation with a venture capital enterprise secret?”

  “I can’t imagine why either, unless they’re involved in something they don’t want to broadcast. I know for a fact Darvis Brown is an important member of the Trust Makers. Is Clinton Cormier a Trust Makers kind of guy?”

  “He doesn’t seem like he’d be involved in something like that, but who knows? I’ve been meaning to call Clint for the longest time to have lunch anyway. I’ll call him, see what I can find out for you. I’ll put some feelers out on the other guys, too.”

  “Thanks. What about Canterbury Investments? Ever hear of them?”

  “Nope, but I’ll ask around. Anything else I can do to be of service?”

  “Well, there is one small thing, but you’re not here.”

  “My goodness, pumpkin.”

  After Iris ended her call with Garland, she warmed up a can of low-calorie, low-salt soup in the microwave. It was so bland, she added salt to it. It was still bland, so she cut up a hot dog and added a dash of Tabasco. After simmering for a few minutes, it was palatable.

  She flopped in her easy chair in front of the television, deciding she would do nothing but channel surf, read the newspaper, and look at fashion magazines. Maybe she’d forget about the newspaper and just read the fashion magazines. Maybe she’d forget the magazines and just channel surf. She clicked through the channels, landing on one of several that broadcast in Spanish. It was a game show. The grand prize was $1,000 U.S., they made clear, and a new Honda Accord. The global village is here.

  Before long, it became apparent she was too restless to relax. Even the “Agony” column in Cosmopolitan couldn’t hold her interest. She went into her office and looked at the Canterbury Investments statement she’d stolen from Evan Finn’s briefcase.

  The statement was made out to a man named Otis Zajack, who lived in Meridian, Mississippi, and it detailed the account’s activity. Mr. Zajack held shares in several blue-chip stocks and had a smattering of smaller high-tech issues. Last month, he purchased 7.645 shares of a pharmaceutical company that Iris would not have recommended because the firm had recently been sued in a large product-liability case.

  The Canterbury Investments letterhead included a toll-free phone number. She picked up the telephone receiver, then put it back in its cradle, remembering that telephone statements for toll-free numbers list the calling party’s number. She didn’t want Evan to find out she was on to Canterbury Investments.

  She picked up the phone again and called directory assistance to get the area code for Meridian, Mississippi. She then called directory assistance servicing that area. Soon, she had Otis Zajack’s home number. A young-sounding woman answered.

  “Is Mr. Zajack in?”

  “Who’s calling?”

&
nbsp; “This is Miss ah…” Iris looked around for something to give her an idea. “Smith.” She shrugged. What the heck, it had been a long day. She wasn’t feeling creative. “Miss Smith with Canterbury Investments. I’m doing a client satisfaction survey. Is Otis Zajack in?”

  “Dad! Lady on the phone wants to talk to ya,” she shouted. “I’m his daughter,” she explained.

  “Do you know whether Mr. Zajack is happy with the service he’s been receiving from Canterbury?”

  “I believe so.” She drawled her words in a way that made Iris feel hyped-up and impatient. “I try to watch over how he spends his money, but you know how independent old folks can be. I’d never heard of Canterbury Investments and told Dad to be careful. This guy called Dad out of the blue. Next thing I know, Dad’s sending money to a total stranger. I told Dad I saw a show about con artists like that on TV, but you can’t get him to listen once he gets his mind set. That was a couple of years ago. Guess everything’s on the up-and-up. Gets these little dividend checks every so often. Here he is.” She turned away from the phone. “She wants to talk to you about that Canterbury Investments.”

  “Hello? Yes. Good firm, Canterbury.” His voice had the rough edge of old age. “That Evan Finn is an excellent stock picker. I’ve recommended him to several of my friends.”

  “Mr. Finn called you over the phone and asked you to send him money to invest, is that correct?”

  “That’s how she happened. He first called about three years ago.”

  “And you’re happy with your return on your investment?”

  “Ecstatic. Does my heart good to prove my daughter wrong. She and her husband think I don’t have any brains left, that I can’t think for myself anymore. But I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. My investments increased thirty-seven percent last year. Thirty-seven percent!”

  “Did you ask to see any references or check on Mr. Finn’s broker’s license before you sent him money?”

  “Of course I asked him. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know there’s lots of trash out there just waiting to rip off the old folks. He tells me he’s employed with this big firm out in Nashville, Huxley Investments, and he’s just doing this on the side to make a little extra money. He charges lower commissions than a big firm. He told me to feel free to check up on him, but don’t mention Canterbury Investments because it could get him in trouble. Moonlighting, you know. I thought to myself, this sounds like a nice ambitious young man.”

  “Did you call Huxley Investments?”

  “No, ma’am. Went on my gut instinct. I’m eighty-four years old. I wouldn’t have made it this far if I hadn’t trusted my instincts.”

  “Did you ever try to cash out any of your investments?”

  “Very recently I did. I got a little spooked by this bear market everyone’s starting to talk about and told Evan I think it’s time to clear out of town. He said no. There’s still lots of money to be made. He said he’s so certain, that he’ll pay me five hundred bucks to ride it out.”

  Iris thanked him for his time and hung up. Zajack fit the profile of a target for financial con artists. The elderly who are lured into bogus investment schemes are not frail and feebleminded but tend to be fiercely independent.

  Evan’s scam was now clear to her. Clients write checks to Canterbury Investments, thinking they’re sending money to a management firm that’s going to invest it for them. Evan simply cashes their checks but covers his tracks by preparing official-looking statements of activity. He even periodically pays out dividends. If a client insists on cashing out, which Evan would actively discourage, he pays the client with funds from other clients. It was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme.

  Sam Eastman was probably planning to blow the whistle on Evan after Evan got good and settled in her office. Even if Iris claimed to know nothing about the scam, her reputation would be tarnished, making it easy for Sam to remove her as branch manager. How did Sam find Evan and pay him $50,000? Louise had done some checking and found out the bonus was not paid by McKinney Alitzer. There was only one answer: T. Duke Sawyer. Question was, how did T. Duke find Evan?

  Iris looked at the clock. It was 9:10 P.M., past her bedtime if she was going to get enough sleep before her alarm went off at 4:45 A.M. She needed more proof of Evan’s scam. One statement from one client wasn’t enough. The statement could disappear and the client could be bought off.

  Canterbury Investments was located in a small business park in an industrial area of West L.A. The office was situated in what appeared to be one of the less desirable, probably cheaper spots in a back corner near the trash bins. Iris was planning on just checking out the address to see if it really existed, but she couldn’t resist peeking through the office’s single window. There was a crack in the drapes but it was dark inside. She tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  She was jiggling the doorknob for good measure when a security guard approached from behind, startling her. She had always been leery of rent-a-cops and felt none too safe in this remote, dark corner far from the street. She played it cool.

  “Hi! I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t believe how stupid I am. My husband’s going to kill me. He’s packing to take the red-eye to New York tonight and he sent me to get something from his office, but I forgot the keys. If he doesn’t have this folder for his meeting tomorrow, he’s going to blow the deal he’s been working on and I’m going to lose the new coat I wanted. Could you, please?” She pressed her hands together as if she was begging. She was.

  He was young and had the inflated upper body of an avid weightlifter. She wondered what twisted personality flaw had prevented him from getting into the police or sheriff’s department. “Well,” he hemmed and hawed. “I’m not supposed to do anything like that.”

  “I know, and the last thing I want is to get you in trouble.” She gestured toward herself with both hands and broadly smiled. “Do I look like a thief?”

  He chuckled. “Nah, I don’t suppose you do.” He pulled out a ring of keys attached to a retractable cable that was hooked on his belt, sorted through them, and fitted one into the lock. “There you go.”

  “Thanks so much. I won’t be a minute and I promise I’ll lock up when I leave.” She stepped into the office and slid her hand up and down the wall, searching for the light switch. She finally found it and closed the door behind her. There was a chain lock inside the door. She fastened it, giving herself a false sense of security, knowing the guard would be able to bust it open with one butt of his overdeveloped shoulder.

  She looked down and saw she was standing on mail strewn beneath a mail slot in the door. She quickly stepped off it, but the soles of her wet tennis shoes had left marks on some of the envelopes. She picked them up, dried them on her jeans, unable to completely remove the marks, and dropped them again.

  The office held a minimum of furniture. There was a steel-sided desk, a worn, wheeled desk chair, two four-drawer filing cabinets, and a photocopy machine. She opened the top drawer of the desk and found a checkbook. In it were stubs made out for rent, utilities, pest control, and other routine bills. At the end of each month, a bunch of checks were made out for client dividends. Occasionally there was one labeled “account closed.” In another drawer she found angry letters from clients. Many indicated they had instructed Evan to cash out their accounts but were still waiting for their money.

  On a corner of a desk was the thick manila folder full of blue statements that Iris had found in Evan’s briefcase. Since the office had no computer equipment, she suspected Evan hired a service to do the data entry and print the statements.

  She switched on the photocopy machine and waited impatiently while it took a long time to warm up. It was an inexpensive desktop model without an automatic feeder, so she had to photocopy the statements one at a time. The light inside the machine slowly moved up and back down each sheet. She took a sample of about twenty statements, not daring to take the time to copy them all.

  After she was finished, she put every
thing back where she had found it—at least where she thought she had found it. In her haste, she hadn’t been as careful as she should have been. She grabbed her photocopies, turned off the lights, and went out the door.

  She had almost locked the door behind her when she gasped, darted back inside, and shut off the photocopy machine. She was already in the Triumph when she spotted the guard. She cranked the ignition key, praying silently that the starter wouldn’t act up. It didn’t.

  “Baby, I have to go.”

  “Noo…,” Toni moaned. “Can’t you spend the night?”

  Evan got out of bed and started putting on his clothes. “I have to be at work at the crack of dawn. I’d hate to wake you up. Plus I have a couple of errands to run before I go home.”

  “This late at night?”

  “Busy, busy,” he shrugged.

  He left Toni’s apartment and drove to the Canterbury Investments office. Inside the office, he turned on the lights and reached down to gather his mail. As he was picking it up, he noticed a few envelopes had footprints on them. He didn’t think anything of it and continued gathering them. He tapped the edges of the envelopes together against the desk, pulled a rubber band from a desk drawer, and stretched it around the stack.

  He’d switched off the lights and was outside with his hand on the doorknob when he spotted a piece of mail that had slid against the wall. He went back inside and bent over to pick it up, resting his hand on top of the photocopy machine for balance. It was warm.

  He was locking the door when the security guard came by.

  “Say,” Evan said, “did you let anyone in here tonight?”

  “Yeah, your wife. Hope it was okay.”

  Evan’s expression didn’t change. “Tall, good-looking, in her thirties?”

  “Yeah. There’s no problem, is there?”

  “That’s her. Do you know when she left?”

  “Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes ago.”