by Jeff Siebold
“We’re looking at trends. Huntington is one of several colleges on our radar that have both a high loan default rate, and a higher than average student dropout rate. We’re auditing the school policy and procedures, as well as the money.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, we have so many students here, it’s hard to keep track of all that.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here,” said Zeke.
“Well, what would you like to know?” asked Adams.
* * *
“Mr. Traynor, are we almost done here? I’m very busy, you know,” said Dr. Adams.
“Well, we can take a break, and get back together for the interview after I’ve done some preliminary research,” said Zeke. “I may have more questions at that point.”
“Well, good, because I’m late for an important meeting,” said Adams, looking at his watch. He stood.
They had covered the criteria for loan application, the process to provide students the loan information, the steps in the application process, the transfer of funding, and the eventual hand-off to the third party loan servicer.
“I’ll work through my audit process and get back with you in a few days,” said Zeke.
“Sure, yes, that’s fine,” said Adams, obviously thinking about something else.
“I have a list of the files we’d like to review…” said Zeke.
“Oh, well, yes, Cynthia can get those for you. And you can use this conference room.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Zeke.
“I’m sorry, I need to leave now,” said Dr. Adams as he rose abruptly, opened the door and walked through it.
* * *
Zeke found Cynthia at the reception desk and gave her the list. Apparently, Dr. Adams had given her approval to help Zeke, or else she wasn’t hung up on authorizations, because ten minutes later she showed up in the conference room with a stack of file folders marked “Huntington College.”
She plopped them down on the table, gently pushed them over toward Zeke, and said, “What else do you need?”
“Nothing,” he replied.
She looked at him with a long glance, almost staring at him, and then she said, “OK, well, let me know if I can do anything else for you.”
For the next two hours, Zeke reviewed the file folders and compared them with the data that The Agency had assembled. With few exceptions, they were identical. Then he stood and packed his notes in his small backpack. On the way out, he found Cynthia in the break room and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. OK to leave the folders on the conference table?”
“Sure. I don’t think it’s booked tomorrow,” she said. “How long will you be auditing here?”
“Oh, a few days,” said Zeke. “Probably most of this week.”
“Well, maybe we can get coffee or something,” she said.
* * *
“Hey, Mr. Traynor, good morning,” said the pleasant female voice. “Hi. Do you want some coffee or anything?”
Zeke looked up at the source of the question and saw that Cynthia had arrived in the school offices.
“Coffee would be great,” Zeke admitted. “Thanks.”
Cynthia, standing in the conference room doorway, hesitated. “I don’t come in until ten, most mornings,” she said. “But I thought you might want some help.” Then she walked toward the break area. She returned with a ceramic cup of steaming coffee.
“You take cream, right?” she said.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you need anything else?” she asked.
“No, this is good,” said Zeke with an easy smile. Cynthia started at his blue eyes a moment longer and then turned and walked to her desk, across the open office area. She sat and looked at Zeke again, and smiled a wide smile.
She’s confident, he thought.
Zeke returned to reading the file on the table in front of him. He was reading about a student named Judith Henderson who had applied as an undergraduate at Huntington the previous autumn. She’d been accepted in the school of arts and had signed up for a full course load. She’d attended classes for three weeks and then dropped all but one class.
Simultaneous with her acceptance at Huntington College, Judith had applied for the maximum amount in student loans through FAFSA, the Federal Student Aid application process. Through that process, Zeke read, she had been offered student loans in the amount of $45,000, which were intended to cover her tuition, room and board. She’d accepted the entire amount and it had been wired to the college’s bank.
The timing of her withdrawal from the college was suspicious, occurring in the narrow time frame where her “add/drop” timing intersected with the loan funding. Once she’d dropped the classes—her entire schedule save one class—she moved out of the dormitory and apparently disappeared from the school grounds.
In the meantime, Zeke read, the Student Aid money was credited back to her account by the school and was to be returned to the loan originator by the loan servicer. But this is where the system broke down. The money had sat in a refund account with several million other dollars for several months, and then it had disappeared, never making it back to the originator. The loan was an FISL, a Federal Insured Student Loan, and so the loan originator took no risk in making the loan. If it wasn’t paid back, the Federal Government would make good on the obligation.
There’s the pattern, thought Zeke. I need to talk with Judith Henderson. He read on.
Apparently, according to the documentation and the bank statements Zeke had reviewed, the Feds had sent several requests to the loan servicer, with copies to the school and to Judith Henderson, for the return of the monies. Technically, since Judith was still enrolled in one class at the college, her loan had been marked as a ‘low risk,’ and the collection efforts were deferred.
* * *
“Goodbye, Benito. Thanks,” said Freddy Hanson, and he hung up the phone.
“How did you get involved with the Diaz brothers, boss?” Roy Calhoun asked Hanson. Roy was sitting on a folding chair in Freddy’s office, chewing on a toothpick. Hanson was sitting at his desk.
“My dad used to have business with them in Vegas,” said Hanson. “With Diaz’s old man. That’s why we buy prostitutes from them. They bring them in from other countries and ship them to us. I think he sells all over the northeast.”
“And since you run the rackets in Boston…” started Roy.
“And surrounding area,” smiled Hanson.
“. . . you kept the connection. After your dad stepped down, I mean.”
“Sure. We’re diversified, you know?” said Hanson.
“Yeah,” said Roy. “Sports betting, money lending, prostitution, muscle for hire…”
“Just about whatever you need,” said Hanson.
The office was actually a small, shabby back room with brick walls in a building that housed a bar. The desk was metal and there was a filing cabinet next to it and a couple more chairs along the walls. There was a low upholstered loveseat facing the front of the desk along the wall near the door.
“So I have two jobs for you. I need you to be the muscle for hire,” Hanson continued. “You and Louie. And I need you to take care of a problem with a student.”
“Sure, boss, what’s the assignment?” Roy knew that Freddy Hanson would pay him well for the job. And, as ‘extra money’ is an obvious oxymoron, he could use the additional pay. Sort of like overtime, he thought.
“It’s from Worthington, the queer guy at Raleigh University,” said Hanson.
“Yeah, what’s he want?” asked Roy, slightly bothered by the source of the request.
Hanson said, “There’s an auditor up from D.C. who’s looking into the student loan defaults at Raleigh. Worthington’s nervous, thinks the guy may be finding something…We need to scare him off.”
“We’re involved with that stuff? Student loans?” asked Roy Calhoun.
“No, only as local muscle. They’ve got me on retainer in case they need help keeping people in line. Or w
ith something…like this,” said Hanson.
“Gotcha, boss,” said Roy. He looked across the room at Louie Brennan who was sitting on the small loveseat. The man was a giant, six and a half feet tall and over 250 pounds. Roy Calhoun had worked with Louie for several years. Louie Brennan didn’t say much, but his presence was a huge factor when intimidation was required.
“And there’s another problem. One of the students in the student loan thing is showing off, bought a new car and is bragging about the money he’s been making. Bad timing.”
“Uh-oh,” said Roy.
“Yeah,” said Hanson. “This isn’t the first time, either. They need him out of the picture before he gives it all away.”
Roy looked back at Hanson and said, “So, what do you want us to do, boss?”
* * *
“So I’ve got my guys on it,” Freddy Hanson said to Jobare Worthington. “They should have this situation cleaned up this week.
“Well, OK, but I’m telling you, they’re snooping around. They’re scaring everyone, and everyone’s nervous. I’m afraid they’ll upset the proverbial apple cart…”
Apple cart? thought Hanson, and he shook his head. He said, “Just hang on. We’ll handle it.”
* * *
“As I told the young lady who called to set up the appointment,” said Dr. Harrow, “I don’t know how I can help you.”
Dr. Henry Harrow was a large man. He stood over six feet tall and his girth was impressive. Dressed in a blue blazer with an Exeter University patch over the breast pocket, a dress shirt and tie, he resembled a schoolboy in uniform. Only much, much bigger.
“Yes, sir,” said Zeke, easily. “We’re looking at some disturbing trends we’ve found in last year’s student loan applications. The ADD of the Department of Education, Cy Stiles, has asked for our help with this. We’re auditors.”
“I see,” said Dr. Harrow, but clearly he didn’t.
Dr. Harrow was the Director of Finance at Exeter University, the third of the Cambridge-located Universities in which Sally had arranged an appointment for Zeke. His school also had an unusually high delinquency rate on their student loans, as well as an above average dropout rate.
“What firm are you with?” asked Dr. Harrow.
“It’s a D.C. audit firm, very specialized,” said Zeke. “I’m sure you haven’t heard of us. Greene and Company.” Then he added, “Do you have any opinions about these trends, Doctor?”
“Um, well, actually, no.”
“Let’s start with the files on these students,” said Zeke. He handed Dr. Harrow a list of student’s names and social security numbers.
“Wait here. I need to make a phone call to verify this,” said Dr. Harrow.
“Certainly,” said Zeke. Then he pulled out a business card. “Here’s ADD Cy Stiles’ direct line in Washington. He’s expecting your call.”
* * *
“Jobare, you’ve got to do something,” said Dr. Henry Harrow into his phone. “It feels as if they’re closing in on us. Getting too close, anyway.”
“Relax, Henry. It’s being taken care of,” said Jobare Worthington in his high pitched voice. “The people who need to know about this already do.”
“You weren’t in the interview with the auditor. The questions were, well, telling. They know something…”
“I believe it’s under control,” said Jobare.
“Is this legitimate? Does it actually come from the ED?”
“From what we understand, there is some discussion at that level. But our contacts assure me that it’s under control,” Jobare repeated.
“Under control?”
“Yes, appropriate, uh, actions are being put in place,” said Jobare, aware that they were talking on an unsecured phone line. “I’ve talked with our local muscle.”
“What do you recommend, then?” asked Dr. Harrow.
“Make yourself scarce,” said Jobare Worthington. “Take a couple of sick days.”
Dr. Harrow was silent, uncertain.
Jobare could feel the tension over the phone. “It will all work out, Henry. We’ve talked with our, eh, resources. They view this as a simple annoyance, you can be sure. Steps are being taken.”
Dr. Harrow said, “Alright, then, Jobare. I’ll leave it to you.”
* * *
It was an unseasonably brisk day; the wind was gusting off the Charles River and across the open campus in front of Dover University’s School of Engineering building. Zeke walked across the lawn and toward the domed building, zipping his jacket against the chilly breeze coming off the River. Kimmy walked with him.
“Thanks for coming to Cambridge,” Zeke said. “I think I’m pushing the right buttons, and it’s only a matter of time before we get a reaction.”
Kimmy nodded. “I’ll just hang around for a while and watch your back.”
Zeke held the heavy glass door open and Kimmy preceded him into the stately building.
“I’ll wait outside in the lobby area,” she said.
“OK, good,” said Zeke. “This shouldn’t take very long. Just a preliminary contact.”
They walked into the building and Kimmy turned and found a comfortable chair in an open sitting area. She took out her phone and started swiping.
Zeke stepped up to the information desk. “I’m here to see Dr. Halpern,” he said. “She’s expecting me.”
The girl at the information desk was a student, and Zeke waited as she looked up from her textbook, obviously bored. But then her glance settled on Zeke and she looked confused.
Zeke smiled at her and said, “Is Dr. Halpern in?”
The girl, brown haired, brown eyed and thin, looking like a young grade-school teacher, said, “Oh, sure. Sorry. First right down there.” She pointed down a hall. “Second door on the left.”
“Thanks,” said Zeke. He took a couple steps, then turned back. The girl was reading again. He turned and shook his head and continued to Dr. Halpern’s office.
At the door, Zeke knocked lightly.
“Yes?” said a rich, throaty female voice.
“Dr. Halpern, hello,” said Zeke as he opened the door. “I’m Zeke Traynor.”
“Yes, come in,” she said.
Zeke did, and walked into an academic’s office like many others, with a wooden desk, chair and cabinets against one wall, below the windows. The space was spare and every conceivable surface was covered with stacks of paper or books or notebooks.
He paused and closed the door quietly. “You’re Dr. Halpern?” Zeke asked, extending his hand across the desk.
“Please, call me Katherine, Mr. Traynor,” she said. “Good to meet you.”
“I’m Zeke, then,” he said.
“I must say, you’re younger than I expected, Zeke,” said Katherine Halpern. “Mostly, our government auditors look like retired people.”
Zeke smiled. “I’m here to look over some of the student records.”
“I see,” said Dr. Halpern. “You’re here from the Department in Washington? ADD Styles’ office?”
“I am,” said Zeke with a smile. “I’m actually reviewing some anomalies with the Federal Student Loan program.”
“Yes, well, this is an expensive institution, one of the highest tuitions in the country,” she said. “As a result, most of our students have student loans. It can be a confusing process, but most government programs morph in that direction. Confusing. Think ‘Health Care Marketplace…’”
Zeke smiled. “That’s why I’m here. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure, let’s see if we can help.”
* * *
“There are two of them, at our seven o’clock,” Zeke said to Kimmy as they walked down Vassar Street, from the Dover University building back toward the parking garage that housed their rental car. The street was fairly deserted in the late afternoon, with just a random student or two walking along while reading their smart phones.
“I’ve got them,” said Kimmy without looking. “Big guy and a lit
tle guy. Thin-little, I mean.”
“They followed us from the Dover University meeting,” said Zeke. “Too old to be students and probably too rough looking to be teachers.”
“Let’s find out what this is about,” said Kimmy.
“You ex-Mossad agents are always spoiling for a fight,” said Zeke with a grin.
Kimmy loosened her jacket for better access to her weapon, a Jerico 941. The semi-compact model she carried in her belt weighted about two pounds fully loaded. She was able to check it through on the flight from D.C., not a small task given the current state of TSA. But Clive’s FBI and TSA connections worked like magic.
Zeke nodded and pointed to something in the distance. Kimmy nodded, too, then gestured and said something innocuous. She took his arm in hers.
“No time like right now,” said Zeke, under his breath. “I’ve got Mr. Big,” he said.
They turned suddenly, as if they’d forgotten something. Chatting to each other, they walked briskly back the way they’d come, along Vassar Street. The men stopped for a moment, looked around for an escape route, and then decided to stand their ground. They turned and pretended to be talking with each other on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me,” said Kimmy with a smile as they drew near. “I think we’re lost.”
The thin man looked down at her and said, “What?”
“Well, maybe not lost,” said Zeke, “more like curious. We want to know why you’re following us.”
“What?” said the thin man, again.
His friend remained mute.
“Following us. Why?” said Zeke, and he stepped in closer to both men.
“No, we were going to get our car,” the big man started, taking a small step back, followed by Zeke stepping forward to crowd him. Unnerved, he pulled out a gun, a Glock 19, and pointed it at Zeke.
With little motion and seemingly no effort, Zeke wrapped the gun in his right hand, his fingers blocking the cocking mechanism of the Glock’s triple safety, the man’s index finger stuck in the trigger guard. Zeke ducked under his right arm and twisted, and the big man said, “Ow, hey, hey,” and then Zeke was holding the gun. The big man was cradling his right hand in his left.