by Jove Belle
She gathered her notes, along with a short stack of reports, and moved to the door separating her office from Uncle Samar’s. With a polite knock, she opened the door and stepped through. Luckily, Uncle Samar was alone. He glanced up from his computer and smiled.
“Laila, what do you have for me?” He skipped the small talk, and Laila appreciated that. It was lost on her, anyway.
“Just a few questions.” She pulled one of his guest chairs around to his side of the desk. It was heavy and left drag marks on the carpet. Uncle Samar watched her with a bemused smile on his face. She shrugged sheepishly and dropped into the chair next to him. “Can you tell me about ‘Home Assistance’? How does that account work, exactly?”
She thumbed through the reports to find the correct page and then brought it to the top of the pile. In small print, highlighted in yellow and circled with red ink, about halfway down the page, she found the entry she was looking for. She tapped it with her index finger.
“Let me see that.” Uncle Samar slipped on his reading glasses and held the report at arm’s length. “Hmmm…that’s interesting. I’m not familiar with this.”
As president of US operations, it was Uncle Samar’s job to be familiar with everything. His answer troubled her.
“How many times did you come across this?” He asked, wearing a tight frown as he studied the data.
“As you know, I went back five years. In that time, I only came across it a few times.” Six, to be precise. She found the other entries in her stack of paperwork and showed them to her uncle. “You’re sure this isn’t an Archer program?”
He gave her a look, the one he reserved for the times when she said something he thought to be especially asinine. “Positive. This doesn’t meet the criteria we have in place for charitable works.”
“And it couldn’t be anything else?”
“No. Without having a forensic accountant verify the origin of funds—a process I will initiate as soon as we’re done here—I’m at a loss.” His frown deepened.
“What about this: ‘Housekeeping’?” She brought the next report to his attention. “There are hundreds of small transaction in every department that I checked. The funds are transferred into account labeled ‘Housekeeping,’ without any indication of why.”
“And you’re assuming it’s not for housekeeping services?”
“I thought of that, but if that’s the case, then what about this?” She pointed to a line item on the ledger labeled “janitorial and maintenance.” “Each of these entries has a corresponding invoice, as it should, whereas the ‘housekeeping’ entries show the money leaving the department, but doesn’t have any paperwork to balance the expenditure.”
“Hmmm…” Uncle Samar took the report and set it with the other one. “You say this ‘housekeeping’ shows up across departments?”
Laila nodded. “The ones I checked, anyway.”
“Laila, I don’t need to tell you how serious this is. If at all possible, I’d like to dig deeper without involving our in-house accounting team. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” She didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t want to face questions about it without having the answers either. “I have a guy…”
She half expected him to decline. Surely he had a forensic accountant available to him. Surprisingly, he considered her words for a moment and then said, “Contact him, would you?”
“Will do.” She considered how to describe Ivar. He was unparalleled at what he did, but he was also unorthodox. His methods tended not to be a good match with a corporate office environment. “He prefers to work from his home office.”
She left out the part where his home office was in his mom’s basement and that he generally worked in his underwear. She’d learned that the hard way.
“He’ll need electronic and physical copies of the accounts. He goes between paper and computer.”
Uncle Samar’s forehead creased. “That could be a problem. Information like that is restricted.”
Laila nodded, thinking. “I understand, but really, Uncle Samar, you don’t want this guy in your office. He can do what you need better and faster than anyone else, but he will disrupt everyone around him.”
Not that he meant to be disruptive. Ivar genuinely didn’t understand people. They confounded him, even more than they did Laila. They were simply too unpredictable. Ivar dealt in yes or no, true or false, black or white. He didn’t do shades of anything, and he didn’t do subtlety. If he had a thought or a question, he said it. Forget about social niceties.
Uncle Samar nodded decisively. “I’ll prepare the files myself.”
If he was willing to do that rather than delegating to his assistant, he was very serious that no one else learn about their removal from site. So how did he plan to get the documents past security?
“Do you bypass security on your way out?”
“No. They check my briefcase just like everyone else’s.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Not really. I’ll ship it to my home address.”
“Security doesn’t check parcels?” That was a giant loophole in procedure.
“No. I’ll address that tomorrow.” Samar sent his admin an instant message, requesting she set up a meeting with the head of security for the next morning. “It looks like I have more issues than I realized.”
Side by side, the discrepancies in the numbers over multiple accounts, the inconsistent shipping manifests—a point she had yet to raise with Uncle Samar—and the gap in security protocol, the problems looked larger than life. In reality, they were all so small individually that they only became apparent under extreme scrutiny. Still, he was right. He needed to address it.
She had three more talking points, and only one was good. She shuffled the pages and brought the relevant reports to the fore.
“Okay, what about this? See these shipping manifests? This is just a handful of the transactions. There are regular deliveries to various places around the country with a zero total due. None of them show up as an expense in a corresponding category.”
“Let me see that.” Again, he took the papers from her.
It had taken Laila a minute to see the pattern. On the surface, they were innocuous pieces of documentation. What made them stand out, or rather, what made their legitimate counterparts stand out, was the additional checks and balances. For instance, when the executive admins sponsored a girls’ volleyball team by donating equipment, there was a shipping manifest, similar to the ones Uncle Samar was evaluating now, along with a ledger entry on the department expenses.
“It’s almost always food items or household goods, such as blankets, clothing, and toiletries. Except these two,” she pointed to the standout manifests, “for computers and tablets. The shipments go to a handful of charitable organizations, mostly homeless shelters, including one here in town called Open Doors.”
“I’m familiar with that organization, but it’s not on our list of approved charities.”
“So, this probably isn’t a legit donation?”
Uncle Samar studied the forms, shaking his head slowly. “It certainly looks legitimate, but none of these are approved transactions.”
“How can you be sure?” Not that Laila doubted her uncle. Certainly, he should know about any large-scale donation program.
Uncle Samar removed his reading glasses and looked at her levelly. “Laila, I know I raised you girls on stories of the great things Archer does.”
She nodded.
“And those stories were certainly true, but the acts weren’t purely philanthropic. Yes, we sponsor many humanitarian efforts, but we do that with an expectation of a return on the investment. That means we publicize everything. If this were an approved Archer initiative,” he raised the papers slightly and then set them down on the desk, “then there would be sound bites and articles and as much spin as we could milk from it.”
That made perfect sense, but Laila was pretty sure she didn’t like it. It felt contrary to w
hat she’d believed her whole life. It wasn’t that she was angry at being deceived; such an emotional reaction really wasn’t in her wheelhouse. It was more a sense of disappointment, similar to how she’d feel if she suddenly realized that she’d been calling blue green. It was unsettling to be wrong with such a fundamental belief.
She didn’t even try to explain all that to Uncle Samar. “I’ll swing by Open Doors when we finish. See if I can learn anything.”
“Good. What else do you have for me?”
Two more things. Neither particularly bad, but one certainly had greater potential to be explosive. She opted for the easiest subject first.
“Sia mentioned how concerned you are about her decision not to sign a pre-nup.”
“Yes…” He gave her a dubious look.
“I’m with you on this one. Desmond seems like a great guy, but still.” She handed him a manila envelope labeled “Bells.” “At least I was until I saw this.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Bells?”
“You know, wedding bells? I didn’t want to be obvious, just in case Sia happened to see it.”
“Mmm.” Uncle Samar flipped open the top and slipped the contents out.
“Sia doesn’t know about this, but I asked Max to do a full workup on Desmond. There’s information in this file that Desmond himself probably doesn’t remember. The part I thought you might want to see is on page three.”
She waited while her uncle flipped to the appropriate place.
“Do you see, down at the bottom there, his net worth? His family is loaded. He chooses to live on his salary rather than dipping into his trust. He’s a self-starter.”
“That does speak well of him, doesn’t it?” Uncle Samar reviewed a bit more and then returned the report to the envelope. “Thank you for this.”
Based on his expression, Laila couldn’t tell if it helped him or not. She shrugged. “It wasn’t just for you.”
He nodded. “You have something else for me.” He gestured toward her last file.
“Yes.” Laila moved the chair back to its normal position and remained standing. She wanted to be able to see Uncle Samar properly for this part. More than that, she wanted him to be able to see her. “You know one of the first things I did when starting this investigation was request reports similar to that one,” she pointed to “Bells,” “on all of the senior officers, including you.”
His facial features tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“It would have been irresponsible not to.” She paused a beat. “I just…I wasn’t trying to find out. I want you to know that.”
She set the last envelope on his desk.
He pinned it down with his fingertips. “Who else has seen this?”
“Nobody. Well, Max, because she compiled it. But I haven’t shown anyone else.”
He relaxed incrementally.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you.”
Laila scuffed her boot against the carpet. She didn’t know what to say, but knew she needed to say something.
“You know Sia wouldn’t care, right?”
“No, I don’t suppose she would. But your aunt and I made the decision years ago to keep this private.”
“She knew?”
“Of course.”
“Wow.” That…Laila hadn’t expected that. Before her aunt died, they’d shared a traditional, conservative Indian marriage. Or so Laila thought. If she’d known about Samar’s relationship with the man in the photos—or any man, really—then they weren’t as conservative or as traditional as she’d thought. That her uncle had been closeted for so long, that he still believed he needed to remain that way, seemed like such a waste.
“If there’s nothing else?” Her uncle’s voice was brusque.
Laila shook her head, surprised. She’d never been dismissed in quite this manner before. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything from Open Doors.” And then she turned and left.
CHAPTER 8
The line for the evening meal stretched around the perimeter of the room and out the entrance. There always seemed to be more people than food, no matter how aggressive they were with their fundraising efforts.
“Hey, Trinity. Good to see you back.” A woman with a wide smile and an even wider rucksack strapped to her back squeezed Trinity’s hand.
The first time one of the clients at Open Doors touched her, it had freaked her out. Of course, she’d been twelve at the time and Ornella had dragged her there to get her off the computer and out into the world. Everything freaked her out back then. Everything but code and equations.
Today, though, it made her smile. She stepped around the table to pull the woman into a warm hug. “How are you, Jane? Staying warm and dry?”
Even though it was summertime, warm and dry was always a concern for someone living on the streets.
“Oh, you know how it is. I get by. How’s your mom? We sure do miss her.”
Trinity moved back to her spot in the distribution lineup and grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and another of juice. She held them up to let Jane choose as she answered. “She’s good. I’ll tell her you asked after her.” Trinity used her practiced, emotionless tone. It would be far too easy to cry, and the people here had far bigger problems than hers. They didn’t need to see the privileged volunteer fall apart at the drinks station.
Jane took the chocolate milk and said, “You do that. She’s a good woman.”
Not for the first time, Trinity considered disclosing Ornella’s true status. It wasn’t something she spoke of casually, and certainly not with someone only tangentially involved her life. Besides, she still felt a little raw from moving her to a dedicated care facility. Despite reassurances from friends, family, and the professionals she’d consulted, Trinity felt like the worst daughter ever. She’d promised Ornella she’d care for her, and now she wasn’t.
Trinity smiled and nodded and thanked her.
“You take care, hon.” With that, Jane took her tray and moved to the dining area.
Trinity spent the next hour or so handing out beverages and purposefully not thinking about Ornella. When meal service ended, she gathered up the remaining cartons and carried them to the walk-in cooler in the main kitchen area. They didn’t always have individual drinks. Sometimes it was milk by the gallons. Sometimes it was concentrated frozen juice that had to be mixed with water. Sometimes it was cases of sports drinks and sodas donated by the local distributor. She hated giving out the soda. It was nothing but corn sugar and death in a bottle. Nevertheless, it was always a big hit with the clients.
After cleaning up, Trinity made her way back to the dining room. She liked to spend a little time sitting with people as they ate. Sharing a meal with a person made him more human, and she liked the idea of breaking down the barriers between economic groups. That was something Ornella had taught her. For her mom, it was a fundamental lesson, right up there with remembering to brush her teeth at bedtime.
As she made her way around the room, pausing to chat briefly with people as she went, she noticed a woman standing near the entrance. Her back was to Trinity, displaying long, silky black hair that was pulled up in a ponytail. It curled gently at the ends. Between the salon sleekness of her style and the designer labels on her clothes, she clearly wasn’t looking for a free meal.
Then, as if bidden by Trinity’s thoughts, the woman turned, her profile illuminated by the warm light coming in through the streaked glass of the street-side windows. She wore dark sunglasses that, if Trinity had to guess, cost more than the other people in the room spent on food in a year. Combined.
There was something familiar about her, but at this distance, Trinity couldn’t say what. As she moved closer, the woman removed her sunglasses and turned to face Trinity.
Laila Hollister—the investigator hired by Archer who Trinity had researched earlier that week.
Smiling her best, Trinity crossed the distance between them, hand outstretched in greeting. “Hi, you look a little
lost. Can I help?”
“Hello.” Laila shook her hand and paused as though she’d forgotten what else she wanted to say. She stared at Trinity, her expression both dazed and intense at the same time. It was the same look some guys got right before they propositioned her. Open Doors was hardly the place for an illicit hookup, and Laila, hot as she was, needed to be on a do-not-touch list for Trinity.
“Are you interested in volunteering here?” Trinity prompted. That couldn’t possibly be the reason. The coincidence was simply too improbable, and Trinity played the odds.
“What?” Laila continued to pump Trinity’s hand up and down. “Volunteer… No!”
Trinity glanced down a their still joined hands.
“Oh, sorry.” Laila gave her one more firm shake before she relinquished her hold on Trinity. She dipped her fingers into a pocket and pulled out a business card. “I’m Laila Hollister, and I have a few questions about some deliveries that were made to this location.”
The headshot on her website didn’t do Laila justice. In the photo, she looked almost ordinary. The woman before her was anything but. She had striking dark eyes and a penetrating stare. The intensity in Laila’s face made Trinity want to play.
Trinity took the card without looking at it. “I’m Trinity. I don’t know if I can be of help, but I’m happy to sit and chat with you for a few minutes. Can you tell me what this is about?”
As she guided Laila toward a semi-empty table near the back of the dining room, another volunteer drew her attention away for a moment. With a taut smile, the volunteer said, “I’ve got to run. My mom gets pissed if she has to watch my kids too long. Are you okay for me to go?”
Trinity vaguely remembered a story about court-ordered volunteer work, several small children, and an unsympathetic family. She returned the smile and said, “That’s okay. I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
The other volunteer slipped away as Trinity returned her attention to Laila. There were several open seats as the dinner crowd tended to rush through the meal and hustle to get an open bed for the night. Open Doors had a limited number of beds and didn’t hold them. They were first come, first served, and the queue was a few blocks over at a different facility.