But what do I know? I’m just a bookkeeper.
Denise blew on her hands and shifted from one numbed foot to the other. Despite the warmth-preserving fibers in her gloves and socks, her hands and feet seemed about as warm as meat in a butcher’s refrigerator. When the rest of the mourners had departed, she approached a weary and equally cold Marta Cruz.
“Dr. Cruz, I’m so sorry for your loss, and, urn...” Warren stammered and hesitated. Would this cost her job?
“Thank you,” Cruz murmured.
“I’m Denise Warren from accounting. I’m sorry to trouble you at Dr. Lowell’s funeral, but I need to tell you something. I know this is a bad time, but—”
Jim Ecco stood and placed himself between the two shivering women. “This is a bad time. Why are you here, anyway? Did you know Dr. Lowell?”
Warren’s eyes turned down and she felt them well with tears. She had visions of losing yet another job. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t urgent and I don’t know who else to turn to. My boss won’t listen to me, but there’s a problem that will hurt NMech.”
“There’s going to be another problem if you don’t leave my wife alone.”
Marta placed her arm on Jim’s and looked at the distraught woman.
“I know that I’m nobody.” Warren drew in a breath and then pressed on, “I’m an ant.”
Marta started. She looked more carefully at the accountant. “What did you say?”
“I, uh, I said, no, it’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. You said, ‘I’m an ant...”’ Marta’s voice trailed off. “Bibijagua...”
Denise looked confused. “N-no. Bookkeeper. I, uh, I’ve only worked at NMech a little while. But I found a problem and it can’t wait.” She faltered. It was useless. Why would a scientist care about a bookkeeping problem?
Marta looked at the woman. She was pale with cold, fatigue, and fear. Marta took her arm. “Ms. Warren? Are you as cold as I am? Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? In fact, I could use something stronger. Maybe a lot stronger. Let’s find someplace warm, shall we, dear?”
Twenty-five hundred miles southeast, on a small island off the coast of the Mexican resort town of Puerto Vallarta, two guards herded prisoner 14162C from his cell at the Isla Maria Madre Federal Penitentiary. The prisoner coughed and reached for a cigarette. One guard told him to get his things together. He was being released.
Prisoner 14162C did not comprehend the news. He had years left on his sentence, assuming he’d survive that long. He’d managed to make a place for himself in the minimum security facility. But he’d aged, and was weaker than a 56-year-old who had not spent most of his adult years in prison. Still, Isla Maria Madre was warm and blessed with fresh air. In another environment, 14162C would have perished from infectious disease or unrestrained violence.
The guards marched him past the prison’s encampments, construction sites, and farming areas. They stopped at the prison commissary where he was allowed to purchase two loaves of bread for his journey. The guards could not or would not tell him where he was going, or why. They herded him into a jeep and travelled to a small airfield. Prisoner 14162C was to be flown to the Mexican mainland, and from there he would be taken into custody by someone else. The guards were expressionless. The prisoner was confused, but excited.
When the small prison plane landed at the Puerto Vallarta International Airport, three security agents met 14162C. The prison guards unlocked the man’s shackles. The security agents gave him a change of clothing and slapped a narrow strip of nanofabric on his neck. It looked like a priest’s collar. They warned him that if he tried to escape he would be subdued quite painfully. One of the agents touched his datasleeve and the prisoner winced and clutched his neck, where the nanofabric had been placed. “That is just a taste of what you’ll get if you even look cross-eyed. Understand?” The prisoner nodded and was herded to a small plane bearing an NMech logo.
Rafael Cruz was headed north, a perplexed but willing guest of Eva Rozen.
27
___________________________________________
GUESSING GAMES
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
MONDAY, MARCH 2, 2045
Marta Cruz watched Denise Warren stare at the place setting in front of her, glance at Jim, and then quickly look down again. Jim studiously ignored her. Dana gazed at her, fascinated. Denise had a round, open face, freckled, and framed by light brown hair cut in a pageboy bob. Her black slacks were an expensive blend of silk and wool, well-tailored and well-worn. A dark purple jacket with a Nehru collar was buttoned carefully over a black blouse. Marta looked at her eyes. Another day they might sparkle inquisitively, but now Marta saw only grief.
Marta felt protective of this woman she’d met only moments ago. She put her hand on Denise’s. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still cold. Right now I feel like I might never be warm again. Would you care for a glass of wine? And I hope you won’t make me eat alone.” She caught the waiter’s attention and asked for menus. She turned to Denise and asked, “Do you like red wine or white wine?”
The bookkeeper shrugged. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
Marta assumed hostess duties. She pointed to the wine list and ordered a bottle of Stag’s Leap Chardonnay and one of Cakebread Cellars Merlot. “Please bring us three,” she paused and looked at her son, “no, make that four glasses. And some apertivos for the table if you would, please.”
Wine, water, and plates of bread materialized and Marta asked, “Red or white?”
“Either one,” said Denise.
“Oh, my dear,” said Marta, “I’m not sure what you think of me, but mindreading is beyond my capabilities. That’s my husband’s province. In fact,” she turned to Jim, “which wine does Denise prefer?” To her puzzled guest, she explained, “He’s good at this, you see.”
Jim studied Denise. “Red.”
“Good guess, dad,” said Dana, “but I think you’re wrong.”
Jim gave his son a look that said, “Don’t start with me.”
“I don’t quite think I understand,” said Denise.
Dana turned to her. “It’s like Mom said. Some people think Dad’s a mind-reader but he just looks for the tiny gestures people make. He sees things that others don’t see. But he’s trying to figure out why you’re here and he can’t. That’s making him nervous and he guessed wrong about the wine.”
Jim said, “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have an ungrateful child.’”
“King Lear?” asked Denise.
“Excellent,” said Jim. “Somewhere in Act I, if I remember correctly. I don’t know Lear, but I think every parent has that quote down pat.” He grinned at Denise and her face relaxed. They had found a small common ground.
Marta turned back to Denise. “Ms. Warren, this is a game that my husband and my son play. They call it ‘reading’ people. Do you mind?”
Denise looked back and forth between Dana and Jim and shrugged. “I...don’t know what you mean, but okay.”
Marta watched as Dana considered their guest for several seconds. Her pride in him helped to balance her grief. Dana was beginning to develop the features of manhood. His face was chiseled, quite unlike Jim’s; he looked more like Rafael, her father. Dana had a hawkish nose and pronounced Adam’s apple. The hint of a beard that he was developing added shadow to his face. He was built with broad shoulders, like Rafael, and would grow to about six feet, unlike anyone in Jim’s family or in her own. He was a unique individual.
Dana looked Denise over and said, “You’re a solitary person, but not always by choice.” A slight tension appeared on Denise’s forehead. “Ah, gee, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have started there. Mom says to start with the things people like to hear.”
“How did you know that?” asked Denise, interested and, for the first time since they’d met, a bit more at ease.
“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he continued. “You are more orderly tha
n most people. You got laid off or fired before you came to NMech.” Dana paused and watched her reaction. “Twice?” She nodded. “Whistleblower?” She cocked her head and stared at Dana before nodding again.
“You thought about coming to the funeral all night and didn’t get much sleep. You made up your mind to come at the last minute. You have a cat—is it named Rex? Mom trusts you and she wants Dad to trust you, too. And he’s wrong, you prefer white wine.”
Denise stared, openmouthed. Jim smiled and Marta beamed at her son.
“How on earth did you know my cat’s name?” Denise asked. “Did you get that from your sleeve? I didn’t think that was in my cloud data.”
“No, that was a guess,” said Dana. Marta watched her son. It was his turn to beam. She knew that demonstrating his skills in front of his father filled Dana with satisfaction.
“You have a few cat hairs on your clothing. They’re very curly. Only a Rex cat has hair like that. I took a chance it’s a male and that you named him Rex.”
“Did my son get it right, Denise?” asked Marta.
“Yes, he did,” she said, nodding her head. She smiled at Jim, “You must be proud of him. But Dana, what about the rest? The last-minute decision? Job troubles? All that?”
“I’m sorry if I got too personal right away. But you’ve got cat hair on your forearm and on the bottom edge of your jacket, and on your slacks where they would meet your jacket if you were sitting down. So, your cat jumped on your lap as you were sitting and you were wearing the jacket at that moment. You seem like a careful person—I mean, you’re an accountant, right?—so you would have taken off the jacket before you sat down. Or you would have noticed the cat hair if you weren’t in a rush.”
“You’ve got a good eye,” Denise said quietly. “Now tell me the rest. This actually makes it easier for me to tell my story.”
“Okay. Your clothing is stylish, the edges of your sleeves are frayed. So times are a little tough and that points to job problems. You passed on buying new clothing, but made sure your hair was properly cut. You are conscientious, which is why you came to see Mom at Colleen’s funeral, so you didn’t lose your job because of anything you did wrong. Maybe it was something you did right that got you in trouble?”
It was clear to Marta from Denise’s smile that she enjoyed the boy’s attention. He will be quite a prize for a lucky woman some day. Or a lucky young lady very soon, the proud mother realized. She felt a momentary pang of—what? Not jealousy, but something akin to it. She felt protective. Dana would find someone to love him. She would have to trust that person to love him as deeply as she did. Could anyone care about him as much as a mother?
Her rumination was interrupted as the waiter came by with a platter of appetizers. Crunchy cod fritters, sweet plump cornmeal fingers, and crescent-shaped turnovers, some filled with lobster, some with beef. Steam floated up from the platter and carried a piquant aroma of pepper, oregano, and garlic. The four diners attacked their food. The only sound from the table was the clink of silverware and expressions of enjoyment.
When the waiter returned, Marta asked Denise, “Do you mind if I order for the table?” Denise nodded and Marta spoke for a few minutes in the rapid, guttural Spanish characteristic of Puerto Rico. The waiter smiled his approval and returned to the kitchen.
“This restaurant has the most authentic Borinquen food you’ll find in Boston. I’ve never been disappointed,” said Marta.
“Borinquen?” asked Denise.
“The Taíno word for Puerto Rican,” Marta explained.
“Taíno?”
“Ah. The indigenous people of Puerto Rico were the Taíno Indians.”
“Well, this will be something new for me. It’s hard to find any cuisine in Boston other than Italian. Or seafood—but it’ll probably be in marinara sauce,” said Denise. The family facing her chuckled.
A tureen of black bean soup appeared, following the appetizers. Marta smiled. “Some people say that the black bean soup is Cuban in origin, but I do not accept that. One hundred percent Puerto Rican puro.”
They finished their soup and awarded plaudits to Marta for her choices. Then the table grew quiet.
“Suppose you tell me what’s troubling you,” Marta said to Denise. “Relax, take your time.”
Denise Warren drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She lost her hesitant manner. “Okay, here goes. NMech’s bookkeeping for accounts receivable—the money that customers owe us—is easy to automate. Same transactions, over and over. Every month the same prescription or the same lease payment for an environmental project. That’s the key. The transactions are repetitive, and no one really has to look at them.”
Denise continued, a professional in her element. She had the table’s full attention. Waitstaff cleared plates, poured wine and water, and left, unnoticed.
“If the accounting system is up to snuff, then you can trust the results, as long as people use the system.” She looked around to make sure the family was following her explanation.
“Okay. One more technical bit, then it’ll be clear. There are millions of transactions. Accountants, auditors, regulators—they can’t check each one. So the auditors pick a sample and test. If there are any discrepancies in the sample, then there’s a problem.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“Well, I’m new at NMech. I wanted to learn more about my job, so I spent some time looking into the operations. And that’s when I found it.” The forlorn look returned to her face.
“And it is...?” Marta prompted.
“There’s, um, too much money. I know that sounds crazy. But revenue exceeds what we were owed. The amount of money that people pay us should equal the amount of money that they owe us, right? I mean, nobody pays extra. The difference was barely enough to notice. A few dollars. Even auditors disregard this small of a discrepancy. But I was curious.”
“What I found was that there were some customers paying us even though the accounts were closed.”
“I don’t get it. What’s the problem?” asked Marta.
“The accounts were closed for nonpayment. But those customer accounts were current.”
“Okay, so we owe them a refund. I still don’t see the problem.”
“Most problems were minor. When customers complained, we apologized and gave them a free month or two. They were happy and life went on. But here’s the scary part. I don’t know how to say this.”
“‘Start at the beginning, continue to the middle, and stop at the end,’” said Jim.
“Alice in Wonderland,” Denise smiled.
Jim started to speak again but Marta stopped him. “Tell us the rest, dear,” she said.
“Some customers didn’t complain. And the reason those customers didn’t complain—” Denise hesitated.
“Go ahead, Denise,” Marta prompted gently.
“—is...they’re dead. They died. Their meds were cut off and they died. And I think it was done deliberately.”
“You’re kidding,” said Marta.
“No.” Denise picked up her glass and sipped her wine. She looked around. The shadows outside had grown longer as the day ran out. People hurried by on the street. They were like streaks of color flashing across the restaurant’s window. Denise studied her wine glass as if there were an answer there to the riddle she’d found.
She shook her head slightly and refocused on her story. “I dug a bit and looked into the patient backgrounds to see if there was something they had in common. Maybe that would identify an error in the accounting system. And I found it.”
She picked up her glass again and drained it. “Not one of them had any family to speak of. No husbands, no wives, no kids or parents. I couldn’t even find any friends. Nobody to miss them. Dr. Cruz, Marta, I’d swear that these customers were selected because nobody would ask questions. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
“Holy crap,” said Marta, who never swore. “How long?” she asked in a clipped voice.
“T
he first case I found was a SNAP user named Emery Miller in Venice, California, about a year ago. Since then, I’ve found eleven other customers who had their nanoagents terminated for nonpayment. Each one was from a different division of NMech. None of the deaths looked suspicious, so there was no investigation. But we’re still getting paid. So the problem is not with the accounting programs, but with someone tinkering with the program, someone who’s smart, but not an accountant.”
They stopped eating while to absorb the news. Jim waved off a waiter who hurried to the table to ask if there were a problem. Marta picked up a wine bottle. “I think I need another glass. Anybody else?” There were nods around the table and Marta poured.
“That was about a year ago, you say?” asked Jim.
Denise nodded.
Marta and Jim looked at each other. Marta said one word, “Eva.” Jim nodded slowly and said, “That would have been about when Eva was getting the bid ready for Rockford. Do you think that there’s a connection?”
Movement stopped around the table. Denise looked puzzled, but realized that Marta and Jim, even Dana, knew something that she was about to learn.
The waiter served the main course family-style. Beef stew served in a heavy kettle, accompanied by a delicate chayote squash and fried plantain slices. They pondered Denise’s revelation while they ate. Dana only pushed his food around his plate.
Marta turned to Denise. “Can you make a list of the customers who were affected? We have to deal with this.”
Denise looked miserable. “No. I can’t. I was locked out of the system two days ago. I thought I’d been fired but I’m still on the payroll. Just all of my company access is gone.”
Little Deadly Things Page 25