“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Not really.” This was a loaded statement. It said nothing, but it hinted at much more.
“I take it you’ve had some interaction with Donnie Brady?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Anyway, what are we going to do now?”
I wanted to press her about the Donnie Brady issue, but I sensed that I would get nowhere with it at this time.
And there were, in fact, far more important matters that we needed to discuss.
Chapter 59
"We need to work together," I told her. "Both of us originally thought that this was a garden-variety embezzlement situation. But if Russian mobsters are involved, then it's much more.”
Russian mobsters. I would never have thought that I would have linked myself and Russian mobsters in any manner, even a tangential one.
“Much more,” I repeated, thinking.
Ellen took a deep breath, and a sip of water. "I don't know about this, Frank. Yes, I wanted to hold Sid accountable, too. But that was before I knew the dangers involved. I—I don't think anyone has ever seriously thought about killing me before. You know, maybe we should just let it go."
"Yes. Maybe we should just let it go. I had much the same thought. But that’s the thing: I don't think we can simply let it go now. That option has been closed off to us.”
“What makes you say that? Sure we can. We can ignore it, let someone else uncover it. Believe me, it isn't the most ingenious embezzlement plan that was ever concocted. Both of us essentially stumbled onto it by random. We probably won’t be the last.”
“And sooner or later either Sid or the Russians will figure that out—if they haven't already. They’ll see us as potential liabilities for them, which—let’s face it—we are.”
Ellen paused, considering this. “Yeah, you might be right.”
“So we don't have a choice. They already know what we know. I’m figuring they might wait awhile. But sooner or later, they’re going to want to see us disappear. Wouldn't you, if you were them?”
“Maybe we go to the police now, then. Isn't that the logical next step?”
“I’d thought about that, too. But I was waiting until I could put this all together. My thinking is: We’re almost ready to take this to the police. Not the local-yokel cops in Beechwood. I already tried that, and it didn't go too well for me. We need someone at the state or the federal level. But first we need to assemble a dossier of what we’ve found. We need to build a case. Because one thing is for sure: If we take that step, we want to make certain that our accusations stick. Otherwise, we’ll be completely at the mercy of some very angry and dangerous people.”
She considered this. “I suppose you’re right. How long do you think that would take? About a week, maybe?”
I nodded and ate my last bite of pad Thai noodles. “A week or two, yes, is all we need. Maybe less. I don’t want to stretch it out any longer than two weeks. I can’t, actually.” I told her about my personal improvement plan, Sid’s manipulation of the data on the open items list. “Once I’m fired, I lose access to all the files.”
“Two weeks, then.”
“Two weeks. Then we lower the hammer on Sid and the others.” I shifted in my chair and was made newly aware of my bruised ribs.“Especially his Russian friend, Mr. Sokolov.”
Chapter 60
We decided, almost by default, that Ellen’s condo would be our storage facility and the home base for our counter-operation. My place was an option, too, but it wasn't a good one. Donnie and Bethany had been to my apartment, so they already knew where I lived. They had also demonstrated that they felt comfortable making surprise visits there. And then there were Sokolov and Kuznetsov. My aching body reminded me that the Russians had been there, too. So Ellen’s condo it was to be.
I made copies of the relevant supplier files. Where necessary, I took screenshots from the purchasing databases, and then printed those out. Luckily, Thomas-Smithfield did not have a system in place for closely monitoring employee copier usage. Sid was already on to me, in a general sense, but I didn't want to tip my hand in regard to what I was specifically doing.
Ellen kept a file box in her spare bedroom for the documentation. I stopped by her condo in the evenings, several hours after returning home from work.
I was constantly paranoid about avoiding any possible surveillance. I drove to her condo via a long, circuitous route. I grew nervous whenever I saw a pair of headlights in my rearview mirror.
On the third night, she asked me how much longer I would need.
“I think we’re ahead of schedule. I don’t believe that two full weeks will be necessary. I’ll need no more than two or three more days, probably. That will be about a week in total. But I want to capture as much of this data as possible. We shouldn't rush things.”
She appeared to be troubled by this report. And I thought that I had just delivered good news.
“Why? You don’t seem reassured. Has something happened? I mean something new.”
She shrugged. "I'm not sure. Last night after you left, I saw a strange car in the parking lot. Maybe it's nothing. I don't know. This whole thing has got me jumping at shadows.”
I was immediately alarmed myself, recalling how Sokolov had assaulted me in the parking lot of my apartment complex, and how he had arrived in a dark-colored sedan.
"What kind of a car was it?" I reminded her of my encounter with the Russians.
"I don't know. I didn't get a good look at it.”
There was no way of knowing for sure. I was fairly certain that no one had tracked me here. But I also knew that if I underestimated our adversaries, I would put us in even more peril.
"I'll try to speed it up. The problem is that if I try to copy too many files in a single day, I'll attract attention. Sid will get wind of it, and he'll have me out of there on the same day.”
"Don't worry too much about it. Like I said, maybe it's nothing."
Chapter 61
It was later that same evening, while we were sitting on her sofa and going over the files, that I kissed her.
And before you ask: no, that hadn't been my intention when I sat down beside her.
On one level, of course, I still saw her as the Brown-Eyed Girl who had so captivated my imagination in less stressful times. Now that I knew her as Ellen Trevor, I found myself even more attracted to her. She was pretty, she was smart; and now that she had gotten over her initial fear, she was proving herself to be tough-minded and resolute.
But I also had my sense of priorities straight. We had an important job to do, and a limited amount of time in which to do it. This wasn't the time to test the waters with her romantically.
And yet, that was exactly what I did.
We were both examining the same file, sitting close together, when I leaned across the sofa and kissed her.
She responded in kind, but only for a moment. I could tell that I had crossed a line that she hadn't intended for me to cross.
“Don’t,” she said, pulling away.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don't have to apologize. It was a nice kiss. It’s just that—well, this is a bad time in my life for me to be getting into that.”
I inwardly groaned. Right after “let’s be friends,” and “I have a boyfriend,” “this is a bad time” has to top the list of those frustrating lines that women use to gently reject or deflect men.
“Let’s just say that I have a—complicated—history with men. Especially of late. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, like it was no big deal. I wasn't going to pry further. She would either tell me, or she wouldn’t.
“Anyway,” I said, getting up. “I’ll stop back tomorrow night, same time if I can make some more copies. Remember: We should not talk, or even acknowledge each other at the office.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll be careful, don't worry.
Then, changing tack somewhat, she said, “We’re going to bust Sid down to size.”
“The other ones, too.”
“Yeah, but especially Sid.”
Chapter 62
Turnabout is fair play, as they say.
The next day, I furtively copied one file and deposited it in my attache case. I was planning to go to Ellen’s again that night. I had sent her a text message at lunch time, telling her I’d be by around seven.
But I didn't make it to Ellen’s until much, much later.
I had decided that I was going to borrow my adversaries’ tactics, and use those same tactics against them. Donnie and Bethany, Sid, the Russians—they had all taken their turns spying on me, tracking my movements. Spying had brought them considerable advantages in this little war among us.
I had eavesdropped, of course. But those moments in which I had snatched little bits of information had been nothing more than the fortuitous and opportunistic bumblings of an amateur.
Perhaps I could use the stratagem of more systematic and deliberate spying to my advantage. They were watching me; I needed to watch them.
The problem was, I had no idea how to go about it, or what I was even looking for. I couldn't very well start tracking my coworkers or manager everywhere they went.
And as for the Russians—well, I had no intention of going near the Russians again.
As it happened, then, it was beyond my means to be systematic. Once again, I happened upon a piece of relevant information almost at random. But this time I would be more aggressive in pursuing it.
I had noticed throughout the day that Bethany was behaving “abnormally”—even by Bethany’s usually abnormal standards.
I had noticed her grumbling at Donnie a few times, not completely shunning him, but actively avoiding him. It was as if she had something else on her mind.
With all the factions involved in the conspiracy—including the Russians—it was possible that at least one person on the opposing side would get cold feet, or try to double-cross the others.
Bethany might be their weak link.
Shortly after lunch, I noticed her standing off by herself, near the vending machine alcove that had been so pivotal in all of this. Her thumbs were going crazy on her cell phone, sending text messages.
Why would Bethany walk away from her desk to send a few text messages? I wondered. I had seen her type away on the device countless times at her desk.
This was a woman who had hooked herself up with Donnie Brady. She was involved in a conspiracy to embezzle money from her employer. If I had correctly interpreted Sid’s words that day in the meeting room, she had even contemplated turning a blind eye to murder…perhaps even participating in the crime in some way.
Bethany wouldn't be concerned, therefore, about some random Thomas-Smithfield manager observing her as she sent personal text messages on company time. She had always cared little about appearances, especially where work matters were concerned.
It was something else.
But what? What was Bethany Cox hiding?
At 5:00 p.m., Bethany began to look nervously about. She and Donnie were usually the first in our immediate group to leave. They often—but not always—walked out together.
At 5:04 p.m. Donnie tapped her desk and gestured toward the third-floor elevators.
“You go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got a few urgent items to catch up on.”
I knew she was lying. But Donnie merely said, “Suit yourself,” and stood up from his desk. For Donnie Brady, the five o’clock quitting time was sacrosanct.
Meanwhile, neither one of them took particular notice of me. I remained at my desk while Bethany feigned absorption in the screen of her desktop PC. She ignored me, probably thinking nothing of my continued presence in the office. I had never been a clock-watcher.
About ten minutes passed before she broke the ruse.
Bethany glanced around to make sure that no one was watching her. Perhaps she wanted to confirm that Donnie was out of the building, that he hadn't lingered on the third floor.
Bethany took her personal cell phone from her purse and began to type with both thumbs.
She abruptly stood and put on her coat.
I pretended not to notice her departure. And once again, this wasn't too hard to do. While my conflict with the conspirators was an open secret, it was, in many ways, merely a continuation of a relationship that had always been toxic: Donnie, Bethany, and I had never been on anything approaching friendly terms.
I looked up just for a second, long enough to watch her disappear into one of the elevators.
As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, I stood up.
Chapter 63
I had previously taken note of Bethany’s car—a silver Chevrolet Malibu— and the location in the company parking lot where she habitually parked. I hustled down the side stairwell. This was the same stairwell where someone—almost certainly Donnie—had plunged me into darkness that day.
My own car was a nondescript, tan Ford Fusion, nearly ten years old. It was a car that blended into the background in any setting, especially a corporate parking lot. And I was almost certain that Bethany had never taken the time to learn what kind of car I drove.
I came upon Bethany’s Malibu just as she was easing out of the area of the company parking lot known as the West Lot, and onto the central drive that led to the public road. She was texting as she navigated the turns and stops. She was oblivious to her tail.
I had a bit more trouble once we were out on the public streets. Beechwood was a rapidly developing sector of Greater Cincinnati, filled with office buildings, retail establishments, and crowded subdivisions. Traffic jams were common during the five o’clock rush hour. I nearly lost sight of Bethany’s car twice due to the sheer mass of traffic. Once I came within seconds of being caught by a stoplight while she drove on. (If I had been stopped by that light, I would have completely lost her.)
But in the end, a combination of luck and daring driving enabled me to maintain the shadow.
I was following Bethany down Walton Road, a four-lane, stop-and-go highway lined mostly with retail establishments and restaurants, when she gave a right turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western.
Very interesting.
Chapter 64
I sat in my car, in the parking lot of the Best Western. I had killed the engine and I could hear it ticking.
Bethany had just walked inside the main entrance of the hotel. Luckily, she hadn’t taken the time to look around her. She would have easily spotted me if she had bothered to perform a minimal check of her surroundings. I had parked my Fusion dangerously close to her Malibu. During the workweek, the hotels in Beechwood were typically crowded with business travelers. There simply weren't many parking spaces to choose from.
With Bethany inside the hotel and me in the parking lot now, I gripped the steering wheel and tried to decide how I was going to go about this.
From here on out, I knew, I would have to be more careful. Following her on the public roads, behind the wheel of my car, was one thing. Following her inside the hotel was another. Plus, I had no idea whom she might be meeting with (though I was, needless to say, extremely eager to find out).
The possibilities were endless, and at least a few of them might mean disaster—for me. With my luck, I thought, Bethany would be meeting both Sokolov and Kuznetsov for an after-work menage a trois; and the Russians would finally decide that the time had come to eliminate me, for once and for all.
I debated with myself: Would Bethany go to the checkout desk first? Or would she go directly to a hotel room that had already been prebooked, perhaps by whomever she was meeting? Would I be better to wait a while, to give her time to be done in the lobby? Or would that prevent me from finding her?
How should I know? I was flying blind here. I was making things up as I went along, improvising at every step. I had no other choice.
Go then, I thought. Go now. If she sees you, she sees you.
I exited my car and walked toward the main entrance of the
hotel, following in Bethany’s footsteps. There was no way I could feasibly disguise or hide myself. It was the main entrance, after all. If Bethany saw me, my cover would be blown. That would be the end of my spying.
A little bell above the main entrance door of the Best Western tinkled as I pushed through it.
Bethany was standing at the front counter, talking to the desk clerk. If she turned her head to the right, she would be looking directly at me.
To my right was a hallway filled with guest rooms. Without missing a beat, I took the only option available to me: I hung a right, and walked down the hallway several paces.
If Bethany went to one of the rooms on this side of the hotel, she would see me. There was no place to hide.
I strained my ears to listen. I heard her distractedly thank the desk clerk.
I waited. One, two, three.
I peaked around the edge of the wall. No Bethany.
On the other side of the front desk was another wing of guest rooms. But this Best Western probably had three floors. Bethany could be in any one of the rooms, on any one of the floors.
I couldn't check every room in the hotel. I couldn't go wandering at random. There was only one way to discover Bethany’s room number, though it might not work. Hotels, as a matter of policy, don't release the room number information of their guests.
I would have to bluff my way through this, and hope for the best.
I approached the front desk and a young woman in the uniform of the hotel chain stepped forward to the counter and smiled at me.
“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”
“Good evening,” I said, as naturally as I could muster. “My wife was just in here. Dark red hair, black skirt and sweater, denim jacket. I’m supposed to carry our luggage to the room. I hope she didn't get a room on the third floor.”
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