“Thank you for your cooperation. Have a nice day.” Then he left, much to the consternation of the receptionist.
Before Ursula could ask, once again, what he was doing, DiMauro was already making another call.
“Sir Francis Drake Cardiology. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi. This is Gil DiMauro with Bremler Mutual. We should be arriving in about twenty minutes to do an audit.”
“What? But you weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“Change of plans. See you soon.”
At first, the office manager at Sir Francis Drake told them to come back tomorrow. DiMauro said, “We aren’t coming back tomorrow. We do this now or not at all.”
The office manager relented and showed them to the medical records room. Just as before, DiMauro started to leave as soon as he saw the orange shredder bin.
Ursula stepped in front of him, her arms crossed. “That’s it. We aren’t taking another step until you explain what it is you’re doing.”
DiMauro gave her a big smile. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“I get it. You think there’s something wrong with the shredder bins but why?”
In a faux British accent, DiMauro said, “Ah, my dear Watson. You see, but you do not observe.”
Ursula wasn’t normally one for cussing, but DiMauro frequently taxed her patience. “I swear to God, if you start that shit with me, I will kick you in the nuts.”
“Stick your hand in it.”
“What?”
DiMauro pointed to the bin. “Go stick your hand in it.”
Suspecting some sort of joke, she walked over to the bin and slowly put her hand into the slot. “Ow.” She withdrew her hand quickly. Then she put her hand in again, feeling all around the edge of the slot. The edge looked smooth from the outside, but she could feel it was rough and jagged.
“Now check out the lock,” DiMauro said.
Ursula peered closely at the padlock. The padlock and hasp looked perfectly normal but, upon closer inspection, she could see tiny cracks around the screws that held the hasp in place. They were barely noticeable, but they were there and they shouldn’t be.
Now she understood. “This isn’t a real shredder bin. This is just a regular trash bin that’s been modified.”
“Exactly. Somebody cut a slot in the top and added a lock and didn’t do a very good job of it.” DiMauro turned to the office manager. “When did you change document shredding services?”
The office manager said, “About three months ago.”
“Why did you change?”
“They charged us half what anyone else would.”
“Were you looking to find a new service?”
“Actually, no. They approached us.”
“That’s what I thought.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Old Lady looked at the picture on DiMauro’s phone. “It’s déjà vu all over again.” Yogi Berra really did say this.
“You’ve seen a scam like this before?” DiMauro asked.
“It’s an old trick in a new suit. I worked on the Organized Crime Task Force for a while, back in the eighties. Mobsters always have their fingers in the trash hauling business. One of them was a guy called Sylvio ‘Big Mouth’ Moretti.”
“‘Big Mouth’ Moretti?” DiMauro laughed. “You’re making that up.”
“Nope. It’s a true story. He had part ownership in a trash company, and some of his clients were those big stock brokerages that were making a killing back then. Before he took the trash to the dump, he’d sift through it, looking for any stock tips he could use. The guy made a fortune before I wised up to him.”
“What happened? Did you send him to jail?”
“Never got the chance. He hadn’t let his business partners in on what he was doing and they didn’t like being out in the cold. He ended up in the East River. Well, parts of him did, anyway.”
“Ew.”
“Back then, businesses were really sloppy with their paper. These days, everyone is worried about leaks. That’s why these document disposal companies exist. How sure are you about this?”
“Very. I called a dozen other providers. They’ve all switched to DataGuard Document Destruction Service in the last two or three months, and all are getting the service really cheap. Too cheap. This has to be the source of the stolen patient info.”
“How could all these people be so dumb as to switch to a brand new service nobody ever heard of just because they’re cheap?”
Ursula walked into the Old Lady’s office. “Actually, it’s not new, and it’s not unheard of. I did some checking. DataGuard has been around for thirty years, and they have a great reputation. It looks like Gil’s theory is wrong.”
DiMauro shook his head. “No way. This has to be it. Maybe the company got bought out recently by some crooks.”
“Nope. The company has the same owner and management it’s had since the day it was founded. Hate to burst your bubble, Gil.” This wasn’t true. Ursula resented DiMauro’s role as the Old Lady’s favorite, and she enjoyed bursting his bubble whenever she got the chance.
The Old lady looked expectantly at DiMauro. “Well?”
“I’m right.” DiMauro said. “I know I am.”
“A thirty-year-old company doesn’t suddenly turn crooked without reason.”
“Then I just need to find out the reason.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The day Jacob McCain retired, they would get a dog. That was the agreement he and his wife, Marjorie, had made twenty years ago. They had both wanted a dog, but agreed the company and the children and Marjorie’s frequent trips to the East Coast to visit with those horrible relatives that Jacob hated made it impractical, if not impossible. They agreed it was unfair to any beast to spend all day locked up in a house alone, waiting for someone to let it out for five minutes before being brought back into the house because they were both too tired to play with it. So they decided to wait until they could give it the attention it deserved. Jacob often dreamed of a big, lumbering Labrador, romping through the park during the day and sleeping at the foot of his bed at night. It was most often a black lab in his dreams, sometimes a golden retriever and, once in a while, a German shepherd. Jacob knew he wanted something big and active.
The day of his retirement, Marjorie came home with a Chinese crested. It was a tiny, yapping little monster, mostly hairless except for its feet and a powder puff on its head. It looked like a Chihuahua with a Mohawk and fuzzy slippers. It was an old lady’s dog. Adding insult to injury, Marjorie had named the little abomination Alphonse.
Jacob was crushed. At least, at first he was. Soon, however, they made an interesting discovery - the dog hated Marjorie. In fact, it seemed to hate everyone it came in contact with, issuing a growl that sounded like a Rottweiler on helium. No one was safe from its ire.
No one, that is, but Jacob McCain.
Jacob wasn’t certain why the dog liked him. Perhaps it was because he was the only human it ever encountered that didn’t immediately try to pick it up and talk baby talk to it. “Aww. Who’s a pwecious widdle puppy?” For whatever the reason, man and dog bonded over their shared disdain for a woman so thoughtless as to buy a grown man a Chinese crested.
Jacob called him Al.
He was taking Al on his afternoon walk through the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts. It was an ideal spot for Jacob and Al. It was a beautiful and peaceful spot with grass and a pond. There were always tourists and students lounging around on the grass. Sometimes one of them would see Al and approach. “Oh, he’s so cute. Can I pet him?”
Jacob would respond. “Careful, he’s vicious.”
Assuming he was kidding, the unsuspecting fool would stick out a hand, only to yank it back. Al would lunge, snapping and snarling like the Hound of the Baskervilles. Jacob loved the look on the fool’s face. It was always a highlight of his day.
This day, a different kind of fool approached the pair. He was neither a s
tudent nor tourist. He wore a fine-looking suit, but Jacob thought he spoiled it with an ugly tie. The young man came up alongside Jacob and Al. “Mr. McCain?”
I’m retired, Jacob though irritably. There was no reason this young man should be pestering him. He tried walking faster, but the interloper matched his gait.
“I’m sorry to bother you like this, but you won’t answer your phone and you haven’t returned my messages. I’m Gil DiMauro with Bremler Mutual.”
“I got your message. I don’t need any more insurance.”
“I’m not trying to sell you insurance. I need to talk to you about your company.”
“I don’t have a company.”
“I’m talking about DataGuard.”
“I don’t own that company any more.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I sold the company.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Jacob stopped and Al took the opportunity to start snapping at DiMauro’s ankles. “Don’t talk to me that way. Who do you think you are? I signed the paperwork transferring ownership of DataGuard three months ago.”
“You may have signed the paperwork, but did you submit the paperwork?”
“What?”
“Or did you leave that up to the buyer?”
When McCain didn’t answer, DiMauro continued. “I’ve researched this and found no indication that DataGuard ever changed hands. As far as the government, and therefore my company are concerned, you still own DataGuard.”
“No, that’s impossible.”
“I have reason to believe DataGuard is involved in something very shady. If the company is doing something illegal, then you could be in big trouble.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DiMauro had just sat down at his desk when …
“DiMauro!”
This time, he did jump out of his seat. “Dammit. You do that every time.”
“And yet you always act surprised,” the Old Lady said. “Come with me. We have a meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“His majesty wants a progress report.”
“Ugh.”
During the elevator ride to the thirtieth floor, DiMauro asked, “Why does the CEO even care about this case? It’s three hundred thousand dollars. Sure, that’s a lot to normal people, but this company loses more than that in fraud every quarter, and he never gave a damn before.”
The Old Lady held up a stack of papers she was carrying. “This is why. These are the production reports from the Claims Department. Last month, they paid out one hundred and fifty thousand over the average. In the month before, the payout was seventy-five thousand over the average. Assuming those amounts are for fraudulent claims and not simply a statistical variation …”
“Which they could be.”
“Yes, they could be, but if they aren’t then that means the fraudsters behind this are doubling up every month. That sounds pretty damned scary to our king. He may not know dick about insurance fraud, but he can sure multiply by two.”
They arrived at the thirtieth floor, and a receptionist let them to the CEO’s office. DiMauro had never been in there before. It was big. It took up one entire side of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glorious view of the bay. They stood in front of a huge, glass-topped desk with not even a hint of a smudge or thumbprint. It must have been a bitch to keep it looking that pristine. The office had a private bathroom and an espresso machine.
Yes, it was good to be the king, DiMauro thought.
They were looking at the high back of a massive leather chair. At first, they thought it was empty, but then it turned slowly, revealing the bald head and expensive Brooks Brothers suit of President and CEO, Carlton F. Bremler, III.
DiMauro half expected him to press his fingertips together and say, “Ve have vays of making you talk, Mr. Bond.” Instead, he said, “I hope you have some good news to report.”
When he didn’t say anything right away, the Old Lady jabbed DiMauro in the side with a bony elbow. “Oh, me? Uh, well, I … we think we’ve identified the data breach. It’s a document disposal company called DataGuard. After the owner liquidated nearly all the company’s assets, a woman named Rose Grafton offered him a hundred grand for, basically, the name.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Bremler asked. Before DiMauro could respond, “No, wait. I think I understand. It takes time for a new business to build up a client base. Buying an existing business with a reputation is a shortcut. People are far more likely to hire a company that has existed for years than a brand new, untested company. Only, wouldn’t people realize it was under new management?”
“Nope. The paperwork was never filed. As far as the U.S. government is concerned, Jacob McCain still owns DataGuard.”
“So this woman, Rose Grafton, is the real thief?”
Before DiMauro could answer, the Old Lady said, “Apparently so, but we haven’t been able to find out anything about her. As far as we can tell, she doesn’t exist. She set McCain up to be the fall guy.”
“Is it possible this Rose Grafton person really doesn’t exist? Perhaps McCain really is the mastermind behind this plot, and Rose Grafton is just his alibi?”
The Old Lady repressed and angry sigh. She hated it when people who didn’t know what they were talking about played detective. “That doesn’t make any sense. McCain sold all his equipment.”
“I see.” Mr. Bremler was annoyed that his theory was shot down so quickly, even though he had to acknowledge the Old Lady was probably right. “So what do we do now?”
“We hand it over to the FBI.” DiMauro said, eager to let someone else deal with the DataGuard case.
“And what will the FBI do?”
DiMauro stammered for bit. He didn’t really know what the FBI would do. “Well, I guess they’ll look for proof.”
“So we don’t have any actual proof that DataGuard is behind this?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t we get some proof before we call the FBI and risk getting hit with a lawsuit for false accusations.”
That excuse was bullshit, and the Old Lady knew it. There were laws protecting insurance companies from just that sort of thing. “With all due respect, I don’t think …”
Mr. Bremler cut her off. “How about an undercover operation?”
The Old Lady began making a harsh, hacking noise. Mr. Bremler thought she was having some sort of attack, but DiMauro recognized it for that it was; she was laughing. After she got ahold of herself, she said, “Oh, you’re serious?”
“Mr. DiMauro here can pose as a prospective client and take a look at DataGuard’s operation. That’s the best way to find the proof we need, don’t you think?”
The Old Lady’s face was normally the color and texture of faded leather. Now it took on a darker, redder hue. “Could you step outside for a moment, Gil?”
“Uh, sure.”
As soon as he was outside and the door closed, the Old Lady put her hands on the desk and leaned across the glass expanse until her face was almost touching the CEO’s. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What?” He was so startled he nearly fell back in his chair.
“I run the Fraud Unit, not you.”
Now the CEO was furious. He stood up. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You work for me.”
“I work for me. You just happen to be the one who benefits. Let me remind you of our agreement. When you hired me, I took the job with one condition: no interference from you or anyone. If that’s changed, I walk right now.”
Mr. Bremler didn’t know how to deal with someone who wasn’t afraid of him. His usual weapons, threats, and bombast were guns with no bullets as far as the Old Lady was concerned. “I’m still your boss.”
“You were losing millions every year to fraud before I arrived. The company was paying out more than it was making in premiums. I’m the one who put a stop to that and I did it with just three investigators and no budget. You th
ink you can do better, be my guest.” She started to leave.
“Wait.” He had to admit, everything she said was true. He had hired expensive consultants and bought million-dollar security software. Nothing had worked until the Old Lady came on the scene. If she left now, he had no idea how he would replace her. Without admitting to any wrongdoing, which he was expert at, he said, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve stepped on your toes. It’s just that word about this has leaked to some of the shareholders. They don’t have any details, but it’s still enough to make people nervous. It isn’t enough to simply stop the fraud and catch whoever is behind it. It is vitally important that Bremler Mutual be seen as the driving force behind any investigation. You do see that, don’t you?”
The Old lady didn’t answer, so he said, “Just do this for me. Afterwards, I will accept whatever recommendation you make.” Then he added that one word he tried never to use with his employees. “Please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Daly City was about twenty minutes south of San Francisco. Since they were using the expense account, DiMauro and Garrett decided to take a cab rather than a BART train. Garrett fiddled with his tie the entire drive. His usual manner of dress consisted of blue jeans and a black T-shirt, the standard uniform of a young man trying not to look corporate. Bremler Mutual had a casual dress code for all non-managers who didn’t regularly work with the public. Garrett Nash didn’t own even one necktie and liked it that way. He did own one suit that he hadn’t worn since his sister’s wedding. DiMauro was forced not only to loan Garrett one of his beloved Jerry Garcia ties, but to tie it for him since Garrett usually got by with borrowed clip-ons.
Daly City wasn’t a tourist destination like San Francisco, but it was pleasant enough. It was a bright, sunny day, unusual for a city that got even more fog than San Francisco. They arrived at DataGuard, and DiMauro told the driver to wait and to leave the meter running. What the hell. He wasn’t paying for it. DataGuard’s current base of operations was a massive converted warehouse. DiMauro looked around the grounds and began to have serious doubts about his theory. In a fenced in yard were visible several enormous trucks and dozens of those familiar orange bins. The hardest part of this sort of insurance fraud was obtaining the patient info necessary to create the bogus claims. After that, all a crook needed was a computer, printer, a simple billing program, and a lot of paper, and he could create thousands of phony claims. A source like this could be worth millions. Still this was a huge operation that would have required massive up-front capital. He reminded himself that, if the fraudsters held true to form, Bremler would get hit with another six thousand in claims, and so would several other insurance companies. That amount of money would be worth the investment.
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 8