by Stephen Frey
“Hello, dear. How can I help you?”
Angela hesitated, holding back a sneeze. It was terribly musty down here. “That’s a lovely brooch,” she said when the sneeze had passed, pointing at the jewel-studded housecat pinned to the gray-haired lady’s blouse.
“Oh, thank you. My oldest daughter made it for me last Christmas. She’s quite talented. She actually sells a line of these pins through a couple of gift shops here in town.”
“I’m not surprised. She certainly is talented.”
The woman reached up and took the brooch in her fingers. Her head shook slightly as she looked down and admired it. “My cat that I’d had for fifteen years died around Thanksgiving, and she made this so I could remember him.”
“That’s so nice.”
“Yes.” The elderly woman admired the pin for a few more moments, then looked up, smiling broadly. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I need to make certain my company has paid its annual registration dues. The president of my company, Bob Dudley, sent me down here to make certain we had. We’ve gotten several letters to the effect that you have no record of us sending in our hundred-dollar fee.” Angela rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. “I’m just a secretary, so I get to come all the way down here to check it out.”
The elderly lady patted Angela’s hand. “Keep working hard, dear, and some day you’ll get ahead.”
“People in our accounting office swore to me that we paid the bill in January as soon as we received it, but someone in your office keeps sending us a letter demanding payment. I figured the best way to clear up the whole mess was to come down here and talk to a real person like you, not some computer-generated list of options over the telephone.”
The elderly woman nodded. “You did the right thing. This happens all the time. And the issue would never get settled over the phone or with letters going back and forth. What did you say the name of the firm was again?”
“Strategy Partners,” Angela responded.
The woman picked up her reading glasses and put them on. “You wait here. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
She returned a few minutes later with a thin manila folder.
“Any luck?” Angela asked.
The woman placed the folder down on the counter, opened it, and leafed through several pages, then smiled triumphantly. “Here we are,” she said, holding up a piece of paper. “Your company has definitely paid your annual dues. Here’s a photocopy of the check.”
“Could I get a copy of that so I can show the people in our accounting group? You know how they can be. Needing records and receipts and all.”
“Of course, dear,” the woman agreed, shuffling to a copier against a wall a few feet away. “It’s so inconsiderate of them,” she mumbled to herself as she positioned the paper on the glass surface, closed the copier’s cover, and pressed a button. “Making you come all the way down here like this when they could have just looked through their checking account records.”
“I suppose we have lots of different accounts.”
“Isn’t that always the way? Big corporations with so many different accounts the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. My Lord. Well, here you are,” she said, picking the paper up off the copier and handing it to Angela.
Angela took the paper from the elderly woman and scanned it quickly. Her eyes snapped to a stop at the beginning of her second sweep of the page. The check was written off of a Sage Capital account. The same company that had sold ESP Technologies to Proxmire. The same company whose representative to Proxmire’s board of directors was trying to derail Jake Lawrence’s takeover of Proxmire. Her eyes moved down. At the bottom left of the check was a notation: “Strat. Part. Bama dues.”
“There’s something else here you may want to clear up, dear.”
Angela looked up, her pulse racing. “What’s that?”
“Didn’t you say your president’s name was Dudley?”
“Yes. Bob Dudley.”
The woman shook her head. “He isn’t listed as the company’s president. In fact, he isn’t listed on here anywhere.”
“What do you want to know?” Ted Harmon asked impatiently. “Why did you ask me to come here tonight, Ms. Day?”
Harmon was short and thin, with a face only a mother could love. She’d been expecting a Sam Reese look-alike. A man who could sell ice cubes to Eskimos with a quick smile and a handshake. But then the sale of ESP’s software was almost certainly a very technical process, probably made most of the time to a chief technology officer who only cared how well the application worked, and not at all what the salesperson looked like.
“I have a few questions about your customers,” she began.
“Uh-huh.” Harmon glanced furtively around the crowded hotel lobby bar.
As if he were worried that somebody might be watching him, Angela realized, taking a sip of the hot tea she had ordered. She was standing at the bar, not sitting on a stool as Harmon was. She was concerned that if she sat in a comfortable seat she might actually doze off right in front of him. She’d slept all of three hours in the past two days, and it was catching up with her.
“Have you all—”
“The only reason I’m here is that Walter Fogel made it abundantly clear Ihad to be here,” Harmon interrupted rudely. “I know you’re representing a group that wants to buy Proxmire. Fogel didn’t come right out and say that, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.”
He was very nervous, Angela noticed. “What are you frightened of, Ted?” she asked, intentionally trying to put him on the defensive right away.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He took a quick sip of his Scotch and water. “Just ask me the questions and then let me get out of here. Come on.”
“All right. How long have you been with ESP Technologies?”
“Three years.”
“Then you were around when ESP was sold to Proxmire?”
“Yes.”
“In your current position?” Angela wanted to make certain Harmon was intimately familiar with what had been going on since the merger.
“Head of global sales. Yes. Since before Proxmire acquired us.”
She focused on his eyes, keenly interested in his reaction to her next question. “Has ESP ever had a client named Cubbies?”
Harmon thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely positive?”
“Yes, dammit.”
Why would Jake Lawrence lie about that? Perhaps he had just misspoken. But he had been specific about Cubbies being a chain of convenience stores, and they had talked about there being a Cubbies location near where she lived growing up. But then how could he have known so much about ESP? She took a deep breath. “Is Sumter Bank an ESP client?”
The little man glanced up over the rim of his glass, then his eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“Sumter Bank. It’s a commercial bank headquartered in Richmond, Virginia. Is Sumter now, or has it ever been, a client of ESP’s?”
He scoffed. “Did you see a Sumter reference on the client file folder my assistant gave you?” He had spoken in a raised voice, like a prosecutor who always knew the answer before he asked the question.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“What?” Harmon had just taken a large swallow of his drink and nearly choked on it. “I don’t believe you.”
The star witness had just rolled over. Angela could see it all over his face.
“That’s not supposed to—” Harmon interrupted himself, gazing steadily into Angela’s curious expression. “I mean there are so many clients. How would I—”
“The name Sumter was handwritten in the margin of one of the file’s pages.” It was Angela’s turn to interrupt. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something about that scrap of information she wasn’t making full use of. Something about that brief note in the margin she wasn’t connecting to something el
se stored deep in her memory. “Along with a scribbled notation about a cloak account. What’s a cloak account?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is Sumter an ESP client,” she asked again, drilling hard, “and, if it is, what application is your software used for at Sumter?”
The little man placed his glass down on the marble bar. “I told you, I don’t know anything about Sumter Bank or a cloak account.”
“Ted, I’d hate to have to tell Walter that you were being completely uncooperative during this meeting.”
“Go right ahead and tell him,” Harmon said, encouraging her with a sweeping gesture and a wry chuckle. “Won’t bother me at all, and I assure you,he won’t be able to help you, either.”
“I disagree. Walter has pledged to help me in any way he can. And these are such difficult economic times,” Angela said, shaking her head sadly. “Terrible times to be out in the cold without a job, especially with a wife and three children to support.” She knew the score. Harmon’s personnel records had been made available to her by ESP’s HR department. And her lack of sleep and Harmon’s uncooperative attitude were putting her patience in short supply. She’d had enough of his evasiveness. She wanted answers. “I won’t hesitate to tell Walter that you have chosen to stonewall me.” She reached into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and held it up so he could see it. “Understand?”
“Bitch,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” she snapped, stuffing the phone back in her purse.
Harmon ground his teeth together and picked up his glass. There were only a few ice cubes left in it. “You don’t know what you’re getting involved in, Ms. Day. You don’t understand how this could end up. For you and me. Leave it alone,” he pleaded.
“Leave what alone?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I’m warning you for your own good. Pack your bags and go home. Forget that you ever heard of ESP Technologies. Proxmire too.”
Angela felt her adrenaline beginning to pulse. She’d stumbled on to something big here, and she wasn’t going to let it go. “One way or the other, Ted, I will get to the bottom of this thing.”
Harmon stood up and smiled his unfriendliest smile. “The only thing you’ll get to the bottom of, Ms. Day, is the Atlantic Ocean. With a couple of cinder blocks chained to your ankles.” With no warning he pivoted, cocked his arm, and hurled his glass at the huge mirror behind the bar.
The mirror shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces, and Angela ducked instinctively to protect her eyes from the flying shards of glass. When she looked up, Harmon was gone. She grabbed her purse and took off after him, sprinting out of the bar and into the crowded hotel lobby, dodging startled guests as she tried to catch sight of the small man. She scanned the large room frantically as she waded into the mass of people, but couldn’t find him. Then she saw him hurrying through the revolving door at the far end of the lobby. She followed, running headlong into a huge man wearing a wool overcoat.
“Watch where you’re going, lady!” the man yelled.
“Sorry,” Angela muttered. She regained her balance, then darted past him toward the revolving door, aware that this would be her last chance to get anything out of Ted Harmon. He wouldn’t be coming into the office tomorrow morning. Or ever again, for that matter.
She burst out of the hotel into the cold winter evening. Rows of parked vehicles stretched out before her beneath dim overhead streetlights. She searched the large lot, her breath rising up in front of her, but saw nothing. Then she heard a commotion to her left—a raised voice and a groan—and she sprinted toward the sounds of the struggle. Past a young couple walking toward the hotel entrance, looking back over their shoulders in the direction of the noises.
Between two SUVs Angela came upon the source of the commotion. Harmon lay sprawled on his stomach on the asphalt, beneath John Tucker’s knee, which was firmly planted in the small of his back. “What are you doing?” she asked, amazed that Tucker had snagged Harmon.
“Just trying to be of help, ma’am,” Tucker replied calmly, tipping his hat and smiling in the glow of a streetlight that was directly overhead.
“Let me go,” Harmon gasped.
“Shut up.” Tucker dug his knee deeper into Harmon’s back.
“John, do you know who this is?” Angela asked.
After picking her up at Dulles Airport, Tucker had dropped her off in front of the hotel, located only ten minutes from the airport. As far as she knew, Tucker had never seen Harmon. She’d met Harmon in the bar.
“The guy you were meeting with.”
“How do you know?”
“I walked inside after dropping you off and saw you talking to him,” he explained, pointing down at the little man who had now stopped struggling. “Then I came back outside and hung out at the door. When I saw him come tearing out of the revolving door, I took a chance that it might make sense to stop him and find out why he was in such a rush.” Tucker paused. “So, did I do good?”
Angela peered around the corner of the SUV at the hotel. The bartender who had served her and a uniformed hotel employee were scanning the parking lot from just outside the revolving door. “Where’s the car, John?” she asked, making a snap decision.
“A few rows that way,” he answered, pointing over his shoulder with one hand, the other at the back of Harmon’s head, keeping his face pressed to the cold blacktop.
“Give me the keys.”
Tucker reached into his jacket, dug the keys out, and tossed them to her.
“Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
Then she was off, bent over at the waist, moving stealthily between the cars until she found the Integra Tucker had picked her up in at the airport. She unlocked the driver’s side door, slipped in behind the steering wheel, and started the engine, cringing at how loud it was as it roared to life.
Angela glanced at the hotel entrance again. The bartender and the other man were still there—maybe two hundred feet away—searching the parking lot. They had been joined by another uniformed hotel employee. Without turning on the headlights, she backed the car out of the spot, touching the brakes only long enough to shift from reverse into drive. Carefully, by the light of the overhead streetlights, she steered the car to the end of the row away from the hotel, then turned down the one where she knew Tucker was waiting. As she recognized the two SUVs parked side by side, she brought the Integra to a quick stop, popped the trunk, and jumped out.
“Come on, John!” She could hear sirens in the distance. If the police got Harmon, she’d never get a chance to find out what he knew. “Hurry!”
As Tucker lifted Harmon to his feet, the smaller man began shouting for help.
“Put him in here!” Angela ordered, racing to the back of the vehicle and lifting the trunk’s lid. Over the roof of the car she could see the bartender sprinting toward them, followed by the two uniformed employees.
Tucker grabbed Harmon by the back of his shirt collar and his belt, and lifted him up, attempting to stuff him into the trunk. But Harmon grabbed the side of the car at the last moment, holding on for dear life.
Angela raced around Tucker and pried furiously at Harmon’s fingers until finally he released his grip. With one last heave, Tucker shoved the small man into the well, and Angela slammed the trunk lid down on top of him. “Let’s go!” she shouted, jumping in behind the steering wheel. She hesitated only long enough for Tucker to halfway make it onto the passenger seat before revving the engine, then slamming the car into gear.
“Whoa! Jesus, at least let me get the door closed!” Tucker shouted, reaching out and grabbing the door handle.
The hotel people were only a few steps away. She could hear Harmon beating wildly on the inside of the trunk, frantically trying to escape.
As Tucker pulled his door shut, the Integra leapt forward and the oncoming pursuers scattered, diving between parked cars as the car’s tires screeched on the blacktop. In seconds the Integra had reached the end of th
e row. Angela steered around the last car and raced toward the parking lot exit. At the exit, she slowed slightly, saw flashing lights in the distance and headed right, then made a quick left past a strip mall onto a side street, before turning on the headlights. At the next stop sign she turned right again, drove a mile—with Harmon still beating crazily on the inside of the trunk lid—then turned into a darkened high school complex.
“Go behind the main building,” Tucker directed, pointing at a road that led around toward the back where they couldn’t be seen from the main road.
“No, I thought I’d stay out here where the cops can find me with a man in my trunk,” Angela said. “Jesus.”
“Hey, don’t worry,” Tucker said calmly. “We’ll be all right.” He glanced over at her as she guided the car around to the back of the large brick building. “Pretty good driving there, missy.”
“I can handle myself,” she said firmly, feeling her heart starting to settle down.
“Better turn the lights off,” Tucker suggested.
“Right.” She reached forward and extinguished the headlights, slowing to a crawl as they moved out of view of the main road.
“So what happened back there in the bar? Why was this guy running?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the trunk.
“Remember the notation you found in the margin of that page yesterday?” She was going to need Tucker’s help with all of this. That was clear. So she’d have to level with him. “The one about Sumter Bank.”
“Of course.”
“The guy in the trunk is head of global sales for ESP. When I started asking him about Sumter and the cloak account reference, he denied knowing anything about either one. When I threatened to tell his CEO that he wasn’t being helpful, he got defensive. Then he told me that if I was smart I’d get away from ESP, that I was stupid to be messing around in the whole thing. But he wouldn’t tell me what the ‘thing’ was. Then all of a sudden he throws his drink at this mirror behind the bar and runs.”