The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder.

by Hal M. Harrison

  “But, how do you know if Tropical Treasures really paid the bogus bills? Maybe you’ve uncovered a glitch in the system, but, perhaps they’re really just paying for the media bills that have been incurred on their behalf — plus the agency commission, of course.” Rob was trying his best to find a reasonable explanation for what seemed to be an irrational string of events.

  “Like I told you last night, I checked it out.” Sherry was patiently explaining her investigation, so far. Rob thought that maybe she, too, wanted to find a reasonable explanation, one that she hadn’t thought of before, something that talking it through would reveal.

  “I can’t access the agency’s general ledger,” she continued. “That’s password protected, but I can check the accounts receivable by client.” Sherry’s fingers were practically a blur over the keyboard. The screen darkened for a moment then refreshed itself with a new set of words and figures.

  Sherry scanned the screen and then pointed.

  “Look at this.” She indicated a line near the bottom of the screen. “Tropical Treasures authorized a budget of about $400,000 for September. They were billed over $710,000 for that same month!”

  Rob whistled.

  “Damn. They were over-billed over a quarter of a million dollars in one month?” His voice was awestruck as he stated the obvious, but he needed to say the words to aid his comprehension.

  “Who would have access to the proper files and to the computer system to be able to pull this off?” he asked in a near whisper.

  “Well, that’s the strange part.” She took a breath; her eyes searched her thoughts for a moment. “We keep the approved invoices in a file — the Red File — it’s our billing backup that stays in the client master-file after they’re processed for payment. The last time the original invoices came up ‘missing’ I had to contact all the stations and get duplicate invoices.”

  “Yeah, we’ve done that drill a couple of times,” Rob said.

  “Well, the file was supposed to have been lost, but I know who had it.” She paused again, seemingly afraid to voice the implication.

  “Who?” Rob insisted.

  “Ashton Brocata.”

  Sherry turned in her chair to get a closer look at Rob.

  In that quiet moment, as her hands were held over the keyboard, and as neither spoke, they both heard a sound that sent chills up the back of their necks.

  A door closed.

  Now their eyes were frozen in an unblinking, pupil-widening mutual gaze. They barely breathed. They dared not move.

  Sherry looked at the fluorescent lights above and Rob’s eyes followed hers — then to the wall switches. If someone was here and saw the light on in the office, they might come investigate. If someone saw the light on — and then go off — they most certainly would come investigate. They had to leave the light on and hope no one would come check.

  They could hear two voices down the hall. Muffled and distant at first, but growing louder. Two men. They were getting closer.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sherry silently mouthed, “Bro-ca-ta.”

  Rob nodded. This was not good. The head of the agency might find his media buyer and some stranger, in his bookkeeping office, looking at the agency’s financial computer files.

  They both sat absolutely still. Sherry cocked her head, as if to get a better listen to the other voice. The two men were coming closer, and now Sherry and Rob could make out what they were saying. She shrugged her shoulders, unable to identify the second voice.

  “Yes, of course,” one voice was saying, “The check is already cut, and will be yours Wednesday morning.”

  “How about Tuesday night?” That was the other man.

  “Even better.”

  “So, will you give up the job at LSU and take it easy?” Sherry mouthed the name ‘Brocata’ again while this voice spoke. Rob mouthed, “L-S-U” with a questioning look.

  “No, hell, I want that retirement they owe me. Another five years and I get 100% pay with full benefits.”

  Strange. Rob thought the second voice sounded somewhat familiar, but couldn’t place its identity. He wanted desperately to get up out of his chair and look around the corner of the door, to put a face with the voice, but he didn’t dare.

  “Certainly you won’t need the money.”

  “No, but they owe it to me, for all the years I’ve put in.”

  Who was this man talking to Brocata? Why did his voice sound so recognizable? And what were they doing at the agency on Sunday, when no one was supposed to be here? Rob would remind Sherry of that fact. No one was supposed to be here.

  “Well, good luck doctor.” A doctor. LSU. What would a professor’s business be with Ashton Brocata?

  “I’ll see you again Tuesday evening for that final payment. Let’s say around eight, here of course. We wouldn’t want to be too high profile out in public, you know.”

  They listened as the two men said good-bye. The professor apparently took the elevator, but Brocata was obviously heading back to his office.

  Sherry waited a moment as they listened to him walk down the hall, then grabbed Rob by the arm and pulled him through the door, out of the office.

  Rob nearly yelled. What the hell was she doing? She was practically dragging him with her as she dashed down the hall, heading in the direction of Brocata’s office. They ducked into a small workspace just down the hall, and crouched in the darkened entrance to what looked to Rob to be the agency’s art department. As they huddled in the corner he bumped into an angled drafting table. A copy of Communications Arts and a blue mark-up pencil fell to the floor. He grimaced, even though the noise was slight.

  Ashton Brocata picked up his leather briefcase and cellphone off his desk, then looked at his watch. Damn, his tee time was now just over an hour away, and he still had a twenty-minute drive to the club.

  He picked up his keys, locked his office and trotted to the elevators.

  Ashton Brocata forgot about the light left on back in bookkeeping.

  In a moment, Rob and Sherry heard Brocata leave his office, walk through the art department — within ten feet of where they were huddled — and take the elevator down to the lobby. Apparently, he had not seen the light on in the bookkeeping office, or hadn’t been concerned about it, if he had.

  They waited a few more minutes before standing up in the dark and looking around the corner, down the hall. This time they wanted to be absolutely sure they were alone in the offices.

  Finally, Rob broke the tense silence.

  “‘And what? See if anybody’s here? Are you kidding?’” Rob mocked in a whispered falsetto voice.

  “Oh, shut up!” Sherry allowed herself a relieved giggle as she started walking back to the bookkeeping office.

  “‘This is an ad agency, not a radio station!’” He continued to taunt her. He was relieved, too. Almost to the point of giddiness.

  “O.K., O.K., Sherlock. Let’s get back to work.” She grinned and playfully bumped him with her rump.

  They sat back down in front of the computer, which now displayed a screen saver of flying dollar signs.

  “So what do you think that was all about?” he asked. “What do you guys pay LSU professors to do around here?”

  “Well, they’ll coordinate a research project for us every now and then, but I don’t think this meeting had anything to do with legitimate agency business, otherwise, why would they do it on Sunday afternoon?” Raised eyebrows framed her questioning eyes. “Do you think it has anything to do with the double-billing?”

  “Well, if the agency is getting extra profits, it’s got to be spent on something.” He was once again stating the obvious, but had a train of thought to follow. “There’s no reason for Brocata to go to all that trouble just to line his own pockets. It’s got to be money for some shady purpose. And it may fit with whatever this professor is being paid for. Brocata said that they wouldn’t want to be ‘too high profile in public,’ so, I think you’re right — this meeting didn’t
have anything to do with legitimate agency business. And, Brocata must be paying the professor a lot of money to be asking about retirement plans. Or, maybe you and your associates make a lot more than I thought,” Rob teased.

  Sherry didn’t catch the gibe. She had turned back to the computer and was entering in a flurry of key commands.

  “He said that the check had been cut, and that it would be the final payment — so that means that he’s got to be in the system a couple of times at least.” She was talking almost as fast as she was typing.

  “Unless he’s paying the professor from some other account,” Rob added.

  “Oh, yeah right. I hadn’t thought about that.” She slowed her typing for a moment and then continued. “Well, we’ll check anyway.”

  “I thought you couldn’t access the general ledger. Certainly you can’t access payroll records.”

  “Probably not. They’re all password protected.”

  “So how are you going to check?”

  “I’ll just give it a try,” she said, but her voice betrayed a creeping lack of confidence.

  “Oh, so this is like in the movies, where you just happen to guess the right password and get into the super-server that controls all the nuclear weapons in the world, right? I get it.” Rob was smiling, but he thought the effort was a waste of time.

  He was still trying to place that voice. A politician? No, he’s a professor. Had he heard the professor lecture at a seminar? Unlikely.

  He looked at the screen as Sherry began typing in various passwords.

  “What are you trying?”

  “I’m trying the names and initials of the girls that work in this office,” she answered, without a pause in her attempts. Each time, the computer would beep a negative response to her effort.

  “Try m-y-o-b,” he offered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mind Your Own Business,” he grinned. “It’s the password I use.”

  “Why not?” Her effort was met with another beep from the computer.

  “How about ‘Ashton’ or ‘Brocata’?” Rob was valiantly trying to assist in the increasingly futile effort.

  “Already thought of that.” After another attempt or two, she slapped the keyboard in disgust. This time it returned a longer and louder beep in response.

  Her shoulders slumped.

  “You’re right, it’s a waste of time. This is no movie,” she said.

  “No, but it would make a hell of a book.” His attempts at humor were still not working. Then a thought clicked. “Can you access the chart of accounts?”

  “The what?”

  “The list of budget categories that each payable is assigned to.” His voice quickened with the thought of a possible solution. “That’s so generic, it shouldn’t be password protected.”

  “Let’s see.” Her fingers were already at work.

  In about a minute, she had found the main menu for Accounts Payable. She clicked on Chart of Accounts.

  “O.K. There it is. Now what?” She looked at the screen for a clue as to what to do next.

  “Hang on.” Rob scanned the screen. It was a simple list of assigned budget categories without dollar amounts. ‘Telephone: long distance.’ ‘Dues, subscriptions.’ ‘Utilities:electric’ and so forth.

  “Look, down here.” He pointed to a large category with several sub-categories. “Wages are broken down by ‘Administrative,’ ‘Management,’ and the rest. Click on ‘Sub-contractor.’”

  Sherry clicked on the category. The screen flashed: “No Additional Options.”

  “Now what?” Her frustration was evident.

  “Hang on a minute. I’m looking. I’m thinking.”

  At the very bottom of the screen was a list of available menus.

  “Down here,” he pointed to the menu bar. “Click on ‘Payees.’ Maybe we can get a list of every vendor paid.”

  She clicked on the command. A drop-down menu offered additional options: ‘Sort by: Budget Category, Tax Category or Alphabetical.’

  “Try Budget Category,” he offered.

  She did, and in a moment the screen filled with lines of budget categories. The payees were listed below each classification.

  “Bingo!” she whispered.

  “Now, the question is: will you recognize a name?” Rob’s eyes were searching the list, as well.

  “I don’t know who the guy is. How will I know when I see him?” She was already scanning the list without knowing what she was looking for.

  “Well, look for someone you’ve never heard of, instead. You should know just about every vendor and employee the agency deals with. We’re looking for someone out of the ordinary,” he suggested.

  He was searching for the ‘Sub-contractor’ category. They scanned one screen after another. Sherry recognized the names as legitimate vendors: printers, billboard companies, photo labs, television and radio stations. KLOM was listed. It was one of the few familiar names Rob noticed.

  Until he got to the Sub-contractor category.

  Rob read the name aloud: “Dr. Henry Bellemont.”

  “Who?” Sherry didn’t recognize the name.

  “Dr. Henry Bellemont,” Rob repeated. “I thought his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. He was on the news last night. I read about him again in this morning’s newspapers.”

  “Who is he?” Sherry still was making no connection.

  “He’s an LSU professor of economics, who also serves on the State Gaming Board. His vote is going to decide which applicant gets the license to the New Orleans casino.” Rob’s voice grew more excited with each word.

  “What is Brocata paying him for?” She turned from the screen and was looking at Rob.

  “On the surface, it appears just to be a consultant’s fee,” Rob reasoned. “That’s what Brocata wants it to look like, but there’s no telling how much Bellemont’s paid — and for what.”

  “So, what’s the connection with the Tropical Treasures, if that’s where the money’s coming from?” Sherry leaned back in her swivel chair. They both were lost in thought for several moments.

  Then, Rob sat forward in his chair, staring at the computer screen while he spoke.

  “Unless the company that owns the Tropical Treasures also has an application in for the land-based casino in New Orleans,” Rob offered.

  Sherry had been formulating the same scenario. “And they’re using the padded billing to launder money to the agency —”

  “With the agency paying Bellemont a ‘consulting fee’ to insure a favorable vote on their application.” Rob turned to Sherry. Her look confirmed the plausibility of their speculation.

  “So, how do we confirm the suspicion?” Sherry asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rob admitted. “We don’t have much time. The committee takes a vote Tuesday morning to award the license. I’m sure the applications for the casino are public record and list the ownership of each company making a bid for the license, but if Bellemont’s on the take, there could be others.”

  “And if you start nosing around the committee records, you may end up like Clarence.” Sherry’s voice was soft and concerned.

  “Clarence said he had a file that he was going to send me. Maybe that file has some of the missing pieces we’re looking for.”

  Sherry turned back to the computer and began logging off the system.

  “I wonder if we know enough already — to be killed.” Her voice was just barely above a whisper.

  Sherry and Rob left the bookkeeping office as they had found it, barely speaking as they turned off the lights and entered the elevator. After leaving the building, Rob stood by her car as Sherry got in.

  “I’ll go back to Moss Point tomorrow and see if I can find anything in Clarence’s records.”

  “You’ll need to be careful.” Her warning was unnecessary. “Look, I want to go home for a while and sort out everything that’s happening,” Sherry said. She looked tired. “Let’s meet for dinner tonight. This ti
me, I’ll really treat.”

  She had offered to pay for dinner last night with her slot winnings, but he hadn’t allowed her. He had enjoyed the evening so much; he was happy to pay.

  “O.K. It’s a deal,” Rob agreed. He felt guilty for looking forward to another evening with Sherry.

  “Meet me at Parrain’s around seven,” she said.

  “Great. See you then.”

  She started the car and drove off. Rob stood on the sidewalk for a moment and looked around at the buildings of downtown Baton Rouge that surrounded him. He could hear a barge chugging down the Mississippi, which bordered the business district less than three blocks away. He felt farther away from Magnolia than just a three-hour drive.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After an hour or so of driving aimlessly around Baton Rouge, Rob realized that he had left his truck radio on “scan” the entire time and hadn’t noticed. It was just noise he wanted. He wasn’t paying attention to station formats, music rotations or commercial spot-loads. He was just driving: on and off the interstate, through the LSU campus, around neighborhoods — never really noticing where he was and without an ultimate destination. He was preoccupied with the task of sorting through what he knew so far: about the Tropical Treasures billing irregularities, about Dr. Henry Bellemont — and about Sherry LeVasseur.

  He couldn’t help but think about her every few minutes. Rob couldn’t decide why he was so attracted to her, but he knew that it scared him. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman since he married Abby just over ten years ago. And it made him miserable.

  Abby was a lovely woman, everything he wanted in a wife, and she had given up her family and career in New Orleans to move wherever Rob’s broadcast career had taken him. The transition to small town life in Magnolia had not been easy for Abby, at first. She was used to the urban atmosphere, the conveniences — and inconveniences — of New Orleans.