Their conversation was violently interrupted by forceful pounding on the front door.
CHAPTER 26
“FBI!” BELLOWED A LOUD VOICE. “WE KNOW NATALIE St. Clair is in there. Come out immediately with your hands up! Your coconspirator Stacy Steingart is dead! Don’t try anything foolish!” Jake grabbed Kelly’s arm and pulled her down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Stopping in the guest room, he grabbed a pair of her jeans and threw them at her.
“Put these on,” he whispered. While she pulled on the pants, he slid open the door to the master bedroom balcony and stepped outside. The street below him was ten stories down. Jake looked up. A utility ladder attached to the building led to the rooftop pool. It was just to the side of the balcony. If they could just reach it …
“Ready,” she said, at his side. Her duffel bag was strapped over a shoulder across her chest.
Jake shook his head no, but Kelly was firm.
“We might need it,” she said. “Trust me.”
There wasn’t time to argue. Jake heard the pounding of a battering ram on the front door. The FBI were starting to break it down.
“This way,” he urged, pushing Kelly to the corner of the balcony and closing the door. “I’ll go first.”
He swung one leg over the balcony railing, reaching with his foot for the ladder. When he touched metal, he hooked his foot around the side rail and, holding on to the balcony edge with both hands, whipped his other leg to join the first, forming a bridge with his body between the balcony and the ladder. He did his best not to focus on the street below.
“Go across,” he ordered Kelly.
As lightly as a cat, she leaped up onto the balcony railing and, using the building wall as a support, sidestepped across Jake’s back until she reached the ladder. As soon as her hand touched the rail, she pulled herself onto it and scrambled up.
“Keep going,” grunted Jake. “Wait for me up there.” He couldn’t see, but he could hear her disappearing up the ladder. With extreme concentration, he looped his feet around each other, the ladder rung between them. He took a deep breath and then pushed off with his arms as hard as he could, tucking his head down to his chest. The momentum carried him toward the ladder while his feet held. He grabbed the first rung he could and hung there for a moment, upside down, his feet still looped around the rung and his hands holding on several rungs down. Quickly, he straightened himself around and shimmied up the ladder.
Kelly was waiting.
“Amazing,” she murmured as he grabbed her hand and led her around the pool. A door next to the elevator opened onto a staircase. Jake led her down eleven flights of stairs, into the basement. Slowly he opened the door into the parking structure. Through the slit he saw two FBI agents standing next to his car. Carefully, slowly, he closed the door again.
He ran up the stairs and peered out onto the main floor. Only one FBI agent was standing next to the big potted palm tree by the elevators.
Jake barely had time to think. Relying on the animal part of his brain, instinctively following what it told him to do, he pressed his keys into Kelly’s hand.
“When the guys by the car leave, drive it out of the lot. The gate opens automatically. Meet me at Second and California. Drive East on California.” Kelly nodded and dashed down the stairs.
Jake waited until he was sure she was in place. Then, steeling himself, he burst through the door into the main lobby. Sprinting across the tiles, he barreled toward the agent, reaching out to push over the palm tree as he passed. His strength and momentum toppled the tree, and the sound of its crash reverberated throughout the lobby. The agent was surprised, but as Jake sped out the front doors he heard the man call on his radio, “He’s here! I need backup in the lobby.”
Jake didn’t look back. He vaulted over a planter and ran as fast as he could, praying that the guys in the parking garage would respond to the backup call. He ducked into an alley and ran down between the Dumpsters, listening for footsteps behind him. As he zigzagged through the neighborhood, he tried not to think of what would happen if they caught Kelly. His career might be in shreds, but her whole life was on the line. So as he crept under an overgrown camellia tree on the southwest corner of Second and California, and heard the familiar rumble of his Mercedes coming up the street, he was both relieved and grateful.
When Kelly pulled the car to the side of the road, he jumped in, and they sped off toward the freeway.
* * *
The Grande Colonial in La Jolla had beautiful suites. Tiled bathrooms, luxurious beds—it was the destination of choice for Californian lovers who wanted to spend a weekend pretending they were at an old-world European mansion.
That was not the type of accommodation Jake and Kelly found themselves in. Watching them arrive, disheveled, at close to five in the morning, the hotel clerk had assigned them a crummy room down a long flight of stairs on a hill below the hotel. The carpets smelled of mildew; the bed lacked a headboard. Jake and Kelly didn’t care. They locked the door, pushed a bureau in front of it, and climbed under the covers, falling into two hours of exhausted sleep.
When Kelly woke, Jake was sitting up in the bed next to her, murmuring into his cell phone. He smiled at her and stroked her cheek. She smiled back. He said good-bye to the person on the phone and hung up.
“Joyce says Kevin and Libby are fine. They miss you, but they know you’re coming back and that you love them. Of course Holly is still with them.”
Kelly simply said, “Thank you.”
“She also says I’m in a lot of trouble,” he grinned. “Law Boy is having a shit-fit.”
Kelly was nonetheless concerned. “That can’t be good.”
“It’ll be okay,” said Jake in a nonchalant tone that didn’t fully reveal how he felt. “We’ll be okay. I’ve been thinking about what we’ve got to do. Gillis is a major sponsor of a residential group home for foster kids, but there’s no way he’s suddenly become an angel. Something must be up with that place.”
Kelly nodded.
There was a knock at the door.
“Room service,” said a man’s voice.
“I thought we both could stand to eat something.” Jake looked through the peephole before sliding aside the bureau and opening the door.
“No, that’s alright, I’ll take it,” he said to the bellhop, handing him a five-dollar bill and closing the door firmly behind him. He set the tray in the middle of the bed and removed the covers from the plates.
“Now eat,” he insisted.
Kelly obeyed. The food tasted wonderful. They ate in companionable silence.
When they were done, Jake squeezed her hand. “Let’s get down to business. I’ve got a friend who runs a charity that sets up foster children with mentors. She’s the real thing—ethical, principled. Works tirelessly for those kids. I thought we could call her and see whether she has some ideas on how to find the weak points in Gillis’s nonprofit records.”
Kelly nodded. Jake dialed the number and put the phone on speaker. When he got through, she heard a woman’s voice, warm and friendly.
“Jake, darling, how have you been?”
“Same as always. Trying to keep the justice system on its toes.”
“It’s a little early for that this morning, isn’t it?”
Jake chuckled. “Sorry to call so early, Deanne. I have a friend on the line who is researching the foster care system in the United States. She’s committed to exposing the truth to the media. I hope you don’t mind.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Kelly, who smiled and nodded.
“Hello, Deanne,” said Kelly. “I’d be grateful for any help you could give me. Basically, I’m looking at the reasons that the federal government, state government, and various Child Protective Services departments are on a mission to reduce the number of kids included in the foster care system, while the number of kids in trouble with the authorities and on probation is on the rise.”
“Right. Well, one problem is that even in the best residen
tial group homes, there’s a revolving door of staff. To the kids, everyone telling them what to do is a stranger. They know that everyone is paid to be there, and they trust no one. The idea was to place as many kids as possible in kinship care.
“But it’s a business on the back of kids. Those designated level 5 through level 14 bring in $5,000 to $14,000 per month. Taxpayer dollars. Once a kid is placed with a family member, the costs are reduced and there is more chance for permanence. But support services have been cut, and many kids fall back into the system, more damaged and hopeless than before. That’s why some resort to committing felonies.
“What my foundation does is match foster children with mentors, people who pledge to be a stable part of the child’s life for as long as that child is in the system. In an ideal world, these relationships lead to adoptions, and sometimes they do. But mainly we try to put one caring adult, a constant presence, in these children’s lives—a person who is not getting paid to spend time with them.
“Our screening program for mentors is rigorous: It requires background checks and interviews and a written application. We want to make sure people are doing this for the right reasons. In addition to regularly scheduled meetings, we sponsor group outings for the mentors and mentees—trips to baseball games, amusement parks, et cetera. The most important part is the bonding time. The mentors need to be consistent in their involvement—need to be like clockwork, because they’re often the only stable, predictable thing in the child’s life.”
Thinking about how a program like that might have helped her as a child, Kelly felt her eyes sting. She pushed the feeling back. “That’s all quite interesting, Deanne,” she said. “Let me ask you about funding. Does your state-funded system accept money from the private sector?”
“Well, that’s another of the problems with the system as it’s currently run. Because the state’s money goes to reward foster parents for taking on the most difficult cases, rather than toward preventing those children from ending up there in the first place, and because there is never enough money, there is room for people with a lot of money to throw it at the broken system. Some people use the platform and become spokespeople on behalf of the voiceless children who suffer most in our community. They receive a great deal of attention because the story is appealing to the media.”
“Have you heard of Todd Gillis?”
“Of course I’ve heard of Todd Gillis. He puts millions into the child welfare system.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Well, as I said, a lot of people get into the foster child business because they can get favorable press. The more kids they ‘help,’ and the more ‘difficult’ those kids are determined to be, the more kudos these donors get from the community. Especially politicians—saving kids pulls on the public’s heartstrings. It means political capital.”
“Are you saying you know Gillis personally?”
“No. But he has several PR companies pushing his kid-loving image. On the surface it’s all on the up-and-up. But in one of the group homes he supported, there was a scandal a few years back. A couple of the girls called the rape hotline, claiming they had been raped. They described a Gillis look-alike as the rapist.”
Kelly thanked Deanne for all the information and her time. Then she sat still, staring into the corner of the room, her mind racing, as Jake exchanged a few more pleasantries before saying good-bye.
After he hung up, Kelly turned to him, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. “I have an idea. Here’s the plan for today …”
CHAPTER 27
KELLY LICKED THE RIDGE OF FOAM FROM THE inside edge of the paper cup and touched her lips with a napkin. Through the window she could see the waves silently beating the rocks, puffing up spray. Fog still hung offshore like a ratty window sheer, making everything appear limp and gray. Kelly stuffed the napkin in the cup, gathered her three small shopping bags, and rose.
In a conservative, pale blue Escada suit, she was an utterly different Kelly, yet no more the real Kelly than Marilyn Monroe or Lydia Haines. She was all polish—exquisite and sleek, untouchable.
La Jolla’s business district was a tumble of quaint seaside streets boasting galleries and shops that catered to the very rich. Kelly walked a short block and a half and entered a branch of American Capital Investment Bank, leaving on her sunglasses so she could look around while her eyes adjusted to the softer light. Two tellers were on duty behind the bulletproof window. An accounts manager was behind his desk on the floor. Two elderly customers were at the windows, and a surfer in board shorts was in line.
Kelly walked over to the accounts manager and spoke in a low, firm voice.
“Could you call your manager, please, Mr….?”
“Fox,” said the man, pointing to the sign on his desk.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fox,” purred Kelly. “And the day manager is—”
“Lee. John Lee. I’ll just …” Fox trailed off and Kelly turned to see what he was looking at. A tall Asian man in a black suit and red tie had materialized behind her. His thick hair was short on the sides and brushy on top. His cheekbones carved two ridges out of his smooth skin.
“Can I help?”
Kelly looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Lee. I’m Mrs. Todd Gillis.”
The man’s jaw slackened while his eyes flicked back and forth between Kelly and the door of the bank.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the word spreading across the floor that the big boss’s wife was visiting the bank. If they asked, she had her credit cards and ID in her wallet, which still bore the Gillis name. But she knew they wouldn’t ask. Her acting and attitude were too good. The manager tried to regain his balance.
“What are you doing … uh … what can we do … Is Mr. Gillis here too?”
Kelly didn’t smile or give him any relief. She knew how to wield power over employees. Rule number one: Don’t put them at ease.
“May I show you around, Mrs. Gillis?” Lee offered when she didn’t answer his other questions.
“I need to use a private office for a few minutes,” stated Kelly, ignoring his hospitality.
Lee recovered quickly and started acting to help, falling all over himself, as she knew he would. “Of course. Is that all? You can use mine.” He swiped a plastic card through a reader and pushed a code into a wall lock. The door buzzed and he held it open for Kelly. “This way.”
A short hallway led to his office. It was lined with framed photographs of the bank’s management: Mr. Lee himself, regional managers, national VPs. In the center of the hall was a larger portrait of Gillis, handsome, tan, in a white French shirt and dark jacket and tie. Kelly looked in his eyes as she passed the painting, and they seemed to follow her. To the right of the portrait was a photo of Gillis shaking hands with the president of the United States. Below hung a photo of Gillis shaking hands with Congressman Dennis Cardoza. Kelly saw Lee glance at the photos, but he didn’t look back at her.
Lee’s office was absolutely free of clutter. Not a single sheet of paper was lying around, nor were any Post-it notes stuck to the computer. This was going to be harder than she thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Lee. I need to make a few phone calls and check my e-mail. Do I dial nine to get out?”
“That’s right. Let me get you into the computer system. This is the code the managers use. Put it in at the prompt.” He wrote down the successive numbers 12345. Kelly paused, amused at how many people traded off security for easy recall.
“Mr. Gillis wanted me to check into a few things. I’ll need to get into some of our accounts.” Kelly arranged her shopping bags on the desk as she spoke—the small blue Tiffany’s bag in front—and purposely did not look at Lee. Rule number two: Make extraordinary requests in the most mundane way possible.
Lee hesitated, caught in the limbo between deference to the boss’s wife and upholding the bank’s security rules. “Well, uh, I don’t have Mr. Gillis’s password—”
“I have that,” Kelly
snapped, “of course. But this code gets me into the system, right?”
Lee nodded.
Kelly purred, “If you could just allow me some privacy, then.” Turning to the computer, she slid her hand surreptitiously into her purse.
“Certainly, of course, Mrs. Gillis.” Lee nervously tapped the keys, and a series of screens flashed by on the monitor.
Kelly pressed a button on her cell phone, and it rang in her purse. Lee stepped away discreetly.
“Hello?” She didn’t turn away, didn’t signal to Lee to continue working, didn’t acknowledge him at all. Rule number three: When someone works for you, they don’t exist until you want them to. “Yes, darling. No, I’m here right now. A Mr. Lee”—she smiled enchant-ingly at Lee, who grimaced in return—“is helping me. I don’t know. Twenty minutes? The plane can wait, can’t it? Alright. Love you, too.” She folded the phone and dropped it back in her purse. “Are we ready now, Mr. Lee?”
“Just about.” Lee leaped back to the keyboard and clicked away. He left it with the cursor blinking in an empty rectangle labeled PASSWORD. He closed the door soundlessly.
Kelly took a deep breath and typed in 12345. The screen flashed, the hard drive hummed, and the system opened. She typed quickly, calling up the account information on Gillis’s charity sponsorships. The list was huge, but two caught her eye. One was the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, to which Gillis had donated several million dollars. She knew there would be something fishy about that money. The connection to Libby’s diabetes was a giveaway. Nothing about Gillis’s dealings with her or her children was ever straightforward.
The other sponsorship she noticed was Casa de los Niños, a group home Gillis donated to personally, through the Gillis Foundation, in addition to professionally, through a joint sponsorship with his own bank.
She searched for files having to do with Casa de los Niños and opened the first one. A long column of numbers scrolled down the screen. Kelly scanned it, looking for anything she could use. She knew she didn’t have much time. Looking around casually, even though she was in an office with a closed door, Kelly slid a flash drive out of her purse and popped it into the computer’s USB port. She downloaded everything from the Casa de los Niños accounts.
The Gray Zone Page 20