The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  “Did you just say thirty-three million, seven hundred thousand dollars?” says Harry.

  “That’s what I said. And the good thing about all of this,” says Bruce, “is that the money to pay the back taxes and penalties is already in the bank. There’s no need for the IRS to discount any of it. So don’t let them tell you they did. Everybody’s getting a windfall here. You, them. This is money the government didn’t know existed. Everybody but the taxpayer.”

  We sit there for a moment and catch our breath. “Bruce, I want to thank you for coming by.”

  “You guys don’t look happy,” he says.

  “We’re OK, I think it comes as a bit of a shock. I’ll have to talk to Betz, make sure he understands what he’s giving up. Check the statutes, make sure were not running afoul of anything. Assuming it’s OK, it’s gonna take a while to get used to the concept.”

  “What concept is that?” says Bruce.

  “Having money.” When it happens this suddenly it’s hard to get your head around it. Like winning the lottery.

  He starts to collect his stuff, puts the computer in his bag, and gathers his papers.

  “I’ll call you in a few days, as soon as we pull together a draft of the agreement. There’s a lot to think about.”

  Bruce gets up, shakes my hand.

  “Good to see you again.” Bruce looks at Harry, who is just sitting at the table, stunned.

  “Yeah. Good to see you.” It’s the first time I have ever seen him speechless. He blinks a couple of times before finally collecting himself enough to turn and look at Bruce, who is almost out the door.

  “Are you sure about this?” says Harry. “To me, I don’t know, but it sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”

  “It depends how hard you want to push them,” says Bruce. “I wouldn’t get too hard-core unless you want to fend off audits for the rest of your life. On the other hand, you will have the money to pay me if that happens.” He smiles at us. “All I can say is, that’s the ballpark you’re playing in.”

  “Somebody gimme some Cracker Jacks,” says Harry. Not even the slightest grin on his face. My partner, the ultimate contrarian, pessimist even among the doomsayers, may have just won the lottery. He has yet to see a dime, but the thought alone shatters everything he knows about the world and human nature.

  Bruce laughs, heads out the door, and closes it behind him.

  “Cheer up,” I tell Harry. “That’s the bad news. The good news is we probably won’t live long enough to see any of it.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I’m hammering away on the computer in my office, working on the draft agreement for Betz, when Sally, our receptionist, raps on my door and opens it.

  “What is it?”

  “Package for you,” she says. “Courier service just delivered it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the FedEx letter pack.

  “I would have given it to Mr. Hinds, but he’s gone.”

  “Harry had to take care of something up near Mission Bay.” In point of fact, he is picking up Alex and Herman. He will deliver Ives to the Marine Station at Miramar and introduce him to Betz, then take Herman home, where he can get some sleep.

  “What’s in the package?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to open it?”

  “Please, if you don’t mind.” I’m in the middle of a thought on the agreement. I don’t want to lose the threads.

  She pulls the perforated tab on the letter pack and opens it. “Looks like some kind of a list. ‘Defense Contractors Gala.’ There’s a note. ‘Dear Mr. Madriani. Sorry to be so tardy on this, but I called your office and left a message and no one called back.’ ”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Let me see. A Mr. Rufus A. Becket.”

  I stop typing, turn in my chair, and say, “Let me see it.”

  She hands me the letter pack and the sheaf of papers with it. I drop the envelope on the desk. The note is neatly typed on stiff heavy stock stationery embossed at the top with the letters “RAB.” Behind the single page note is the guest list from the party at Becket’s house, the list I had asked for nearly a month ago when I first visited Becket at his house.

  I read the note. He apologizes for being so late. The fact is, I never expected him to give me the list. But as I read the note I discover the reason why he did. His assistant, whose name is George, returned from vacation earlier in the week. George, it seems, remembers the events the night Alex passed out at the party.

  I scan Becket’s note. “At the bottom of the list you will see several names penned in ink. Among them are three individuals who were not originally invited to the event. However, because some of the other guests knew them, we included them and invited them to join us at the last minute. According to George it was one of these gentlemen and his two friends who took charge of the young man you were talking about when he fell ill. The man’s name who took charge was Joseph Ying.”

  I set the note aside and flip to the last page of the guest list. There, written in ink, longhand, are eight or ten names. One of them at the top, in a fine measured cursive script, is the name Joseph Ying with an address listed in Hong Kong.

  I turn back to the note. “If you require further assistance you may wish to talk to George personally. The number where he may be reached is . . .”

  I pick up the phone and dial the number. On the second ring it’s answered. “Hello, this is George Connor, how can I help you?”

  “Mr. Connor. You don’t know me but I’m acquainted with your employer, Mr. Becket. My name is Paul Madriani. I’m an attorney. . . .”

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “Mr. Becket informed me that you might be calling. It’s about the party that night.”

  “That’s correct. Mr. Becket sent me the guest list with a note. He says you had some involvement with a young man who got sick at the party who may have passed out.”

  “I did indeed,” he says. “That young man was in very bad shape. In fact, by the time they got him to the car I would say he was unconscious.”

  “Who is ‘they’?” I ask.

  “The three gentlemen who helped him. They were late to the party. In fact, at the time I thought perhaps that the four of them were together, the young man and the other three. But Mr. Becket advises me that this may not have been the case. Perhaps because of what you told him.”

  “Would you recognize the young man again if you saw him or if I were to produce a photograph?”

  “I believe so. But I doubt that that would be necessary.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I got his name from his driver’s license. When someone is that intoxicated at a private gathering you’d be remiss if you didn’t get his name. If for no other reason than liability,” says the man.

  “You wrote it down?”

  “It’s on the guest list,” he says. “The list you have is a copy of my working list, the one I used that night. All the add-ons were penned on my list. It was with my papers, so you see, when you approached Mr. Becket he didn’t have access to it because I was on vacation.”

  I flip to the back of the list again. Sure enough, there, buried among the other names in ink, is the name Alex Ives, address San Diego.

  “This is your handwriting, then?”

  “Correct. The gentleman in question was in no condition to write anything,” he says. “In fact, they had to practically carry him to his car. By the time they got him there he seemed completely unconscious. I remember because I advised them to take him to the hospital. I was quite concerned. As I recall, Mr. Ying drove the young man’s car when they left. The other two followed in another vehicle.”

  “You saw all of this?”

  “I did. I walked them to the car because I wanted to make sure the young man got home safely.”

  “Can you give me an approximate time as to when this happened?”

  “Let me think. Dinner had already been served—at least the main course, because I recall asking them if the
ir friend had had anything to eat. They said they weren’t sure. Ah, I remember. It would have been just a few minutes before nine. I remember because the sprinklers went on in one of the flowerbeds out in the front area. I got my shoes wet on the way back in. Those sprinklers are set to go on at nine.”

  “Can you describe the other men? The ones who helped Mr. Ives to his car? Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “I believe so. I would certainly recognize Mr. Ying. He did not appear to be Asian. But then who knows? If I had to guess, I would say he was Caucasian. He was older, about six feet in height, gray hair, very pale blue eyes, quite distinctive. I remember that about him. He was well dressed, though he was not wearing formal attire that evening, I know that. And the event was formal. Tuxedoes for men, evening gowns for women. They stood out because they weren’t formally dressed, the four of them, including your friend. Oh, and Mr. Ying appeared to have a slight disability.”

  “In what way?”

  “He carried a cane, a walking stick. It had a unique handle, almost black. It appeared to be tarnished silver.”

  “A bird’s head?”

  “How did you know?”

  It was the cane Ben told me about. The one carried by the man who hired her to lure Alex to the party. His name is Joseph Ying.

  “Listen, I wonder if you would mind signing a declaration for me, simply reciting the facts as you’ve told them to me here on the phone today. I have a court appearance tomorrow and a declaration from you as to these facts would be exceedingly helpful.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I’d be happy to.”

  “I can dictate it and have my secretary type it up. Then I’ll read it to you over the phone, make sure you have no problems with any of it. Once it’s finalized I can deliver it out there myself, say in about ninety minutes.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I assume you’re at work, at Mr. Becket’s house?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll call you back in just a few minutes with the declaration.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  We hang up.

  I slump in my chair. Wait ’til I tell Harry. We finally have a witness, one we can use, one who’s still breathing.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  When I call him back and read the draft of the declaration over the phone, Becket’s assistant, George, listens carefully. He makes a few minor corrections and then blesses the document.

  I hang up and have my secretary make the amendments. She prints out the necessary copies and puts them in a file folder. The second she delivers this to my office, I’m out from behind the desk. “I should be back by three,” I tell her. Then I grab the file and race out the door.

  I cross the bridge, then keep the pedal close to the floor with one eye on the rearview mirror for the Highway Patrol as I head up I-5. The last thing I need is a ticket or worse, a safety inspection of the old Jeep. A delay like that and Becket’s assistant will be gone before I can get there.

  The declaration from George Connor should at least put to rest for the moment any hasty talk of a plea by the state. It is something I can present to the court in the morning. The fact that Connor saw Alex unconscious and totally incapacitated at nine P.M. that evening, two hours before the accident, raises serious problems for the state’s case.

  It would take more than an hour, probably close to ninety minutes, to drive the distance from Becket’s house in Del Mar to the site of the accident east of town. To believe that Mr. Ying and his companions deposited Alex at his apartment, and that Ives recovered sufficiently to drive himself out to the accident site in the time allowed would be highly unlikely and close to impossible. That means that the only way Alex could have gotten there was if Ying or someone else drove him. And if that’s the case, what was the purpose?

  After I get Connor’s signature on the declaration I will talk to him about testifying. If he’s willing I will also have him meet with a graphic artist to work up a composite picture of the man named Ying.

  Thirty minutes later I pull up under the spreading branches of the giant live oak out in front of Becket’s house. I slam the door to my old Jeep, not bothering to lock it. The singed ragtop from the blast that killed Ben is still there. I haven’t had time to even think about getting it replaced.

  I cross the street under the oak and head up the long circular drive to the front of the house. The walk hasn’t gotten any shorter since the last time I was here. Finally I climb the white brick steps leading to the front door and ring the bell. A few seconds later the door opens. A tall man with dark hair and black horn-rimmed glasses is standing in front of me. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Connor.”

  “Ah, you must be Mr. Madriani.” He runs the fingers of his right hand through his forelock, brushing a few stray hairs from the rim of his spectacles. “I’m George Connor.”

  He offers his hand. We shake.

  “Nice to meet you. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “Not at all.” He welcomes me into the house and closes the heavy oak door behind me.

  “I assume you had no trouble finding the place, being as you’ve been here once before?”

  “No problem at all. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I have the declaration here.” I start to open the file. “I brought a copy for you and one for Mr. Becket. I thought that since the party was at his house he might want one for his files.”

  “Good of you to think of it. I’m sure he would.”

  I start to pull out the documents.

  “Why don’t we go into the study? Mr. Becket’s not here at the moment. I can read it and sign there if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  I follow him across the palatial oval entry. A checkerboard pattern of large black-and-white tiles covers the floor. There is the strong scent of lemon in the air, a smell as if someone has just polished the furniture. It’s difficult to say if anyone else is here, a huge house, but it appears to be empty.

  He leads me to the study, opens the door and we go inside. The walls of leather-bound volumes are as I remember, two stories high and looking like Dolittle’s study. He closes the door behind us.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat over there by the desk,” he says. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  The large partner’s desk is still there with just enough minuscule grooves and gouges in its heavily waxed surface to certify its antiquity. I see one new item in the room, and like a discordant note on a sheet of music it is out of place. A large metal rolling box, the size of a large suitcase, with what looks like a checkered finish, either aluminum or stainless steel, is standing next to the desk. There is some kind of a design etched into the metal, perhaps the logo of the manufacturer. The case wasn’t here the last time I visited Becket.

  The French doors off to the left side of the desk lead out to the acres of manicured lawn and gardens behind the house.

  The only thing on top of the desk is the antique brass desk lamp and the matching business cardholder from which Becket handed me one of his cards on my last visit.

  When I turn to look behind me, I notice that Connor has disappeared. One of the bookshelves on the far back wall is swung open. The leather book spines are real, but they conceal a false-fronted door. I’ve seen these in movies. I’m tempted to go and take a closer look, to see where he went. What money can buy. It’s a good thing I don’t have a study like this. I’d never get anything done, playing with the toys.

  I settle into one of the client chairs on this side of the desk and take out my pen when I notice a dark stain on my fingers along with a smudged dark streak on the palm of my right hand. It looks like the grime from motor oil after I’ve worked on my car. Whatever it is, it’s penetrated deep into the skin of my hand.

  When I look down I notice that I have tracked this onto
the outside cover of the file folder. “Damn!” I open the folder with my left hand. There are black fingerprints on two copies of the declaration. “What the hell?” I am wondering if my pen has leaked. I examine it. It’s fine.

  I cast about looking for some Kleenex, anything to wipe off my hands. There is nothing. If I can get to a restroom I can at least wash my hands. I stand, turn, and look behind me. The concealed door is still ajar and there is no sign of Connor.

  Where the hell did he go? “Hello!”

  There is no answer.

  As I turn back I end up dragging the file folder over the corner of the desk. It sweeps the brass cardholder and business cards onto the floor. The brass clatters as it hits the hard Spanish tile, business cards all over the place.

  This is not my day. All I want to do is get Connor’s signature and get the hell out of here, back to the office.

  I bend down, grab the cardholder, and go after the cards on the slick hard tile. This is like trying to grasp a razor blade from the smooth glass surface of a mirror. My fingernails aren’t sharp enough. I wrinkle a couple of the stiff cards as I grasp them, leaving a smudged black fingerprint on a third card. I start to stack them back into the holder. Not paying attention at first, finally my eyes focus on one of the cards in my hand. The name printed on it is not Rufus Becket. It’s upside down. I turn it over.

  As I stare at it the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as if suddenly freeze-dried. The name on the card is Joseph Ying.

  What in the hell? I stand there for several seconds trying to process it. A voice behind me shatters the silence.

  “I guess you’re wondering what Ying’s business cards are doing on Becket’s desk.”