by Judy M. Kerr
“A multi-billion-dollar corporation and the security office isn’t much bigger than one of our offices.” Cam scratched his head. “Seems odd, only one office? Wouldn’t you think there’d be more security staff?”
MC shrugged. “Whatever. We should be able to clear this out in no time. I’ll start with Klein’s desk. You want to take the file cabinets?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll let Oldfield know we’ll need Klein to open this safe.”
“Okay.”
MC sent a quick text to the ASAC while Cam assembled a few boxes and got to work on the first cabinet.
She pulled desk drawers open and rifled through the junk: a mishmash of pens, half packs of gum, pain relievers, and rolls of antacid tablets. In the third drawer, she found an array of hanging files.
She skimmed each before dropping them into a box on top of the desk. The last file in the drawer was a manila folder. She opened it and found a torn sheet of plain, white, unlined paper with “Nick” and “Quentin” scrawled across the middle. She flipped the paper over. Nothing on the back. She turned the folder over, also blank. “Check this out.” She showed Cam the half page.
“Nick and Quentin? Could be something—or maybe nothing.”
“It’s odd. This lonely scrap of paper in an unmarked folder.” She found a block of yellow Post-It notes, pulled the top one off and stuck it to the file folder with a note to crosscheck the names against current and former employees. Then she grabbed her notebook from her coat and recorded the info in there as well.
They filled and labeled two boxes with files. The file cabinets were mostly empty. Only the safe was left, but Klein hadn’t shown up yet to unlock it.
Cam surveyed the room, hands on his hips. “Let’s haul these boxes out.”
They each took a box out of the building. A three-quarter-ton postal collection van was backed into the first parking slot, rear door open. They stashed their load inside.
MC wiped her hands on her cargo pants and scanned the growing jabbering crowd. “More than media posted up out here now.”
“Do you see Klein anywhere?” Cam asked.
MC craned her neck in every direction searching for the barrel-chested head of security. “Nope. Let’s check with Braun for our next assignment.”
Len Klein exited the rear of the building, not bothering to zip his black parka. He checked the five vehicles parked in the back lot. Three compact, white, relatively inexpensive SUVs served Stennard security. The other two vehicles were massive Cadillac Escalades. One was his to drive, and the other was used by Stennard executives, or, rarely, by other security staff when necessary. He found no one skulking in the shrubbery behind the row of parking spaces.
He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. “You and Stennard better hotfoot it to the office. Pack of fuckin’ law dogs have stormed the gates.”
Klein paced back and forth, bits of gravel skittering with every step. “I know it’s Saturday, Gavin, but law enforcement doesn’t care what day of the week it is. When they have a search warrant, they take care of business.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, then cautiously replaced it.
“Exactly my point. Some young FBI stud presented me with a book-length warrant stating they can remove every scrap of paper contained within the walls of this here building.” Klein switched the device to speakerphone since no one else was around to overhear.
Gavin’s tinny voice shot through the speaker. “How extensive is this search warrant? Shit! I told Mike we could have trouble.”
Klein pulled a rolled document from the inside pocket of his jacket. “The document is a fucking bible, Gavin. And as I said, it gives them free rein to take everything. There are fucking cops and Feds crawling in every corner of this place as we speak. The good news is the search is confined to this building. No personal residences or vehicles.”
“Good news? You call that good news, Klein? What the fuck did we hire you for? Do something. Shit! I told dumbass Mike we needed to be more careful. Arty’s dead, and now this. Have they questioned you about Arty?”
“They’ve interviewed me twice. First a coupla local cops. Then the Feds. I told them I have no idea what happened to him. I’m telling the truth. I don’t have a fucking clue. Although, the sniveling bastard was acting skittish on Monday night when I saw him leaving after the meeting with you and Mike.”
Klein neglected to confess he’d been listening at Mike’s office door during some of the meeting, and he’d heard some interesting tidbits, like Gavin saying he basically didn’t trust Arty.
Gavin was silent, then his voice slithered, cool as a snake through the phone. “You were in the building Monday evening? I thought Arty, Mike, and I were the only ones on site. What time did you leave?”
“I hightailed it outta here after Arty left. I assumed you and Mike were still here because your cars were parked out front.” Klein wondered about Gavin’s interest in him being on site the night of the meeting. “Is there a problem? When I heard a meeting was scheduled, I thought I’d stick around in case you guys needed something. I didn’t have any plans anyway.”
“No problem. I was curious.” Gavin sounded preoccupied. “I’ll call Mikey and we’ll be there soon. Hold down the fort or whatever.” Gavin disconnected.
Klein thought Gavin sounded almost worried that he was in the building Monday night. Odd. But Klein had bigger fish to fry right now. He scrolled through his contacts and tapped the one labeled, “Wooly.”
Klein kept the phone on speaker and waited for Nick to pick up. Nick Wooler, a/k/a Wooly, and Quentin Laird were due to pick up one of the SUVs later in the afternoon.
Nick Wooler was the leader of the duo. The guy was psycho and Klein used it to his advantage. He was a tough guy with a short fuse, which had come in handy a few times when partygoers got rowdy. He kept Nick in line because he paid both Nick and Quentin very well for their services. And Nick loved money.
Klein worried about Quentin, though. He hardly ever said anything. At first Klein thought the guy was slow or something, but he’d watched and learned Quentin was actually smart. Much smarter than Nick would ever be, and he didn’t have a hair-trigger temper like Nick. He thought Quentin’s blue eyes probably held secrets—and ugly secrets at that.
Nick had mentioned to Klein that Quentin had family issues, his father had abused him and his mom, and now his mom was on life support in some nursing home, and Quentin had to foot the bill. So, Quentin was willing to do what needed to be done to get his share of the take.
And tonight, Stennard was throwing a party of epic proportions. Unless today’s events caused Mike to rethink it, Klein was planning on business, or rather pleasure, as usual, which meant he needed Nick and Quentin to get some good cocaine, heroin, pot, and any happy pills they could round up, along with some hot women. However, Klein didn’t want Nick and Quentin showing up at the office while the place was crawling with law enforcement.
“Yo.”
“Wooly? Is that you?” Klein stood still to get the best reception.
“Who the fuck you think it is, the president of the United States?”
“I’m not in a joking mood this morning. We need to pick a new meeting place. You and Quentin stay the hell away from the Stennard building. You feel me? There are Feds all over this place like flies on cow shit.”
“What?” Wooly’s voice got louder. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“You don’t need to worry about what’s happening here. You stay focused on the goodies for tonight’s gig at Stennard’s house.”
“No sweat. I’ll round up Quentin and we’ll make our pickups. Text me later what time we should come pick up a set of wheels. Do you need us to hang around at the party?”
“Yeah. If I hear different, I’ll let you know. You keep your nose clean and wait for my text. Make sure you’re locked and loaded. Remember, for now, steer clear of this place. Get my drift?”
“I get it Einstein.”
Nick let loose a giant yawn. “I’m catching a few more Zs. Hit me up later.”
Klein hurried along the side of the building and checked the action out front. A postal van the size of a tank and a fleet of smaller white panel vans were backed into parking spaces. Blue-jacketed agents loaded boxes into the vehicles. So many boxes. Klein gripped his phone in one hand and had to force himself to ease up before he crushed the phone into bits.
“Len Klein?” A hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. “I’m Agent Braun.”
Klein whipped around. The man wore a navy jacket with “FBI” embroidered in yellow across the left chest area. “Yeah?” He scowled at the agent. “Whaddaya want? Need more boxes?”
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, Mister Klein.”
Another person stood a few feet behind Braun. He leaned over the agent’s shoulder. “Don’t I know you?”
Agent Braun stepped aside. “Inspector McCall would like you to open the safe in your office. If you don’t mind, please come with us.”
“McCall? Have we met? What’s the US Postal Service got to do with whatever’s going on here?” Klein shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stared at McCall, ignoring Braun.
She returned Klein’s stare. “Mister Klein, if you’d please come and open the safe, we’d appreciate it.”
Klein felt Agent Braun’s hand on his upper arm. He twisted away from the grip. “Get your hands off me.” He strode past Braun and McCall and entered the building through the rear door.
He stomped his feet on the mat inside the door and continued down the hallway toward the security office without checking to see if the two officers followed.
Inside the office, Klein stopped. He spun in a slow circle, taking in the open, empty drawers of his desk and file cabinets.
“What the actual fuck? I don’t know what you’re hoping to find, but you could’ve asked, and I’d given it to you. Did you have to destroy the place?” He glared at Braun and McCall.
Braun said, “The safe, please?”
Klein unzipped and shucked his coat, tossing it on top of his desk. He bent down in front of the safe and spun the dial left, right, then left again before yanking on the handle and pulling the door open.
He stood aside and swept his hand in a grand gesture. “It’s all yours.”
McCall hunched down, pulled files off the top shelf, and handed them back to Braun. Then she reached into the bottom shelf, which contained a holstered handgun, three extra magazines, and several boxes of ammunition.
She pulled nitrile gloves from an outside coat pocket and Braun provided a brown paper sack. MC checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded, then slid the handgun into the bag. “Is this your weapon, Mister Klein?”
“Yes, it is. And I have a permit. All legal. I do work security.” He frowned. “Why would you need to take my gun?”
“Because it’s on the premises,” McCall said. “Nothing else in here, Braun.” She addressed Klein. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mister Klein.”
McCall tugged the blue gloves off her hands and stuffed them into a different pocket. “We’re finished with this office.”
She nodded at Klein and followed Agent Braun out.
Klein sat in his chair, and in a fit of rage whipped his arm across his desk, sending pens, paperclips, and various bits and pieces flying across the room.
“Fuck!” He grabbed his jacket off the floor and jammed his hands into the pockets, searching until he located his cell phone.
He scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he wanted. Inspector MC McCall and a phone number. US Postal Inspection Service. She’d been here earlier, was it this week or last? He’d picked up her business card off the floor near Taylor’s desk in reception.
Klein recalled how he’d asked the inspector what she was doing at Stennard, and she’d given him some story about a mail theft investigation. What the hell? Did they think Stennard was stealing mail? He contemplated the situation and wished he’d heard more of the Monday night conference in Mike’s office.
MC and Cam were paired up with two FBI Special Agents, Gary Shaw and Anne Gardner, to pack boxes of files in the accounting offices.
Arty’s old office, a tiny broom-closet-sized room off the main accounting office, was packed up separately. The crossover between the homicide investigation and the search warrant for the fraud case was a fine line.
MC sealed up another box. She grabbed a two-wheeled dolly and loaded up a stack of boxes. “I’ll take these down to the trucks.”
Gardner crouched over a file cabinet drawer, a fistful of manila folders in her hand. “We’re about finished. I think Shaw’s on the final drawer of the last cabinet. Right?”
“Right you are,” Shaw said.
Cam straightened up and cracked his back. “I’m getting too old for this stuff.”
MC rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t even start.” She indicated another dolly. “C’mon Gramps, grab some boxes and let’s move ’em out.”
“Right behind you.”
MC hit the elevator button for first floor and waited for Cam to catch up. “No sign of the USB drive anywhere in Arty’s office. I even took out the desk drawers and checked the sides and underneath to see if he’d hidden it. I searched the underside of the desk, too. Nada.”
“Nothing in the outer office either. One desk hadn’t ever been used and zilch in the other two.”
“Where the hell can it be? Wasn’t in his car. Wasn’t at his house. And it’s not here.”
“I’m sure as the FBI interviews the employees, they’ll ask about it. But it would be nice if we could find it.”
The doors slid open and there wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Kinda quiet.” Cam steered the dolly around the reception desk.
They were mere steps from the front door when it flew inward, and two men strode in as if they owned the place.
MC and Cam pulled their two-wheelers aside to avoid being run down.
The first one was a couple inches shorter than Cam and around two hundred pounds, raven-haired with brown eyes. The other sported brown wavy hair, dark hazel eyes, and was maybe an inch shorter, but he was trimmer than the other man.
Both were dressed like they’d just left a country club.
“Who’s in charge here?” the darker-haired man bellowed.
MC said, “And you are?”
“Michael Stennard. This is my business. Who the hell are you?” He leaned forward, his face uncomfortably close to hers.
She took a step back and tilted her head up at him. “Inspector McCall. US Postal Inspection Service.” She jerked a thumb at Cam. “My partner, Inspector White. Mister Stennard, you’ll want to direct any questions you have to FBI Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Oldfield.”
Stennard let out a string of curses and lurched toward her knocking the top carton off the cart. MC thought he was going to hit her. If the other man hadn’t yanked him back by the arm, MC might have had the satisfaction of arresting the bastard.
MC retrieved the box off the floor and restacked it before wheeling around the two men.
Outside, as he held the door for her, Cam said under his breath, “There’s about to be some fireworks.”
“I’m so glad we got this detail. This asshole is going down. Hard. And we’ll be able to say we helped.” She wedged her load onto the back of the nearest van and Cam followed suit.
“We’ve got to be close to finished.” He checked his watch. “Almost noon. I’d be happy if we finished soon and I could get home to Jane and the kids. She was not pleased about my short weekend.” Puffs of air punctuated his words. “I swear it’s colder now than it was at seven this morning.”
MC headed back to the entrance. “C’mon, whiner, let’s schlep those other boxes out.” She glanced to her left and stopped.
Cam almost ran his cart into her heel. “Hey.”
“I thought I saw something.” She pointed to the corner of the building. “Out of the corner of my eye.”<
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He studied the area she indicated. “Nothing there now. Probably a bird or something.”
“I guess.” She followed him back inside the building.
Klein’s phone buzzed with a text from Nick to meet them behind the Stennard building. He charged out of his office, hastening to make sure no one saw him, and made a beeline for the rear entrance.
Nick and Quentin were standing right outside the back door.
“What are you assholes doing here? I told you to stay the fuck away from here today. What if someone sees you?” Klein’s breath was a foggy trail in the frosty air.
Nick hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “Relax, bro. We parked a couple blocks away and jumped the fence back here. No one seen us.”
Quentin stood silent, a University of Oregon Ducks ball cap clamped down on his head. He was wrapped in a puffy black down jacket that gave him the appearance of an evil Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
“What, you don’t have anything to say?” Klein jabbed a finger in Quentin’s face.
Nick sidled toward the side of the building. “Leave him alone. I wanna check out the action.”
“Jesus Christ! Have you lost your fucking mind?” Klein felt lightheaded.
“Chill. You’ll give yourself a heart attack or something.” Nick held a hand palm out toward him. “Be cool. I’ll take a quick peek. No one will see me.”
Klein had no choice but to follow Nick and Quentin around the side of the building and toward the front.
Nick was in the lead and stopped just shy of the front corner. He stuck his head around the edge and remained there for what seemed like minutes to Klein, but was probably only a few seconds.
“Why is the post office here?” Nick’s flat gray gaze fixed on Klein.
“How the fuck should I know why any of them are here? A postal inspector broad was here last week spouting off about mail theft. Gave Taylor her business card. Don’t know why she’d be here now, though. This can’t be about mail theft.” He kicked some loose rocks up against the side of the building. “Nothing’s making any sense.” He tugged at Nick’s coat sleeve. “Come on, let’s get the fuck outta here before someone sees you.”