by Lee Winter
“I think it had more to do with your cleavage than any civic-minded interest in helping us get to the truth.”
Lauren dropped a glance down to her tight tank top and shot her passenger a curious look. “What cleavage?”
Ayers snapped on her seatbelt. “He was extrapolating. Your undershirt,” she swirled her index finger in the direction of her chest, “leaves little to the imagination.”
Lauren pursed her lips. “For the last time, I was boiling in there. It’s not like he was being super creepy or anything.”
“Oh really? Then why did you tell him we were booked into Motel 395?” Ayers asked ever so sweetly.
“We were booked into Motel 395,” Lauren retorted. “Okay, fine. Like you said, I didn’t want a love-struck stalker. Now can you navigate us to that liquor store on the job sheet?”
Ayers looked as if she was debating whether to continue the conversation but finally shifted her attention to the paperwork. She picked up her cell phone and consulted a map. “Left, then second right. It’s not far.”
Before long they were in front of a grimy, shabby building that probably had its best years in the 70s.
“Speaking of vivid imaginations,” Lauren muttered. “Mine didn’t properly prepare me for how lowbrow this joint would be. Not the first choice for champagne buyers, surely? Especially ones using a government account.”
“Mmm,” Ayers murmured as she looked over the garish signage and cross-checked it with the job sheet. “This is the place, though. I must say it takes a certain skill to find the cheapest-looking alcohol establishment in the US in which to spend your embezzled funds.”
“Think it’s deliberate?” Lauren asked.
Ayers didn’t answer. She continued to stare at the ugly storefront as though hypnotized by its pink fluorescent letters.
The interior of Booze, Booze, Booze was as classy as its name suggested, and as Lauren glanced around the dusty stands at the prices, she wondered whether anything was over fifteen dollars. If so, she’d yet to find it.
Ayers had already swept up to the counter and engaged the old man behind it in conversation. Lauren listened as she roamed the aisles.
“It would have been picked up on the eleventh,” Ayers said. “A Saturday.”
“Get a lot of orders on Saturday nights,” he said. “Which feller placed the order?”
Lauren edged around a wine stand to see an elderly man in a Hawaiian shirt, with a nametag that said “Dan.” He was hunched, weary, and perched on a chipped, ancient stool. White hair exploded from his ears. His chin was a riot of gray stubble, and his head bore a tatty cap with an insignia of what appeared to be rifles. It was hard to tell from the grime.
“The order came with a bus,” Ayers said, side-stepping the man’s question. “As in the champagne bought here was loaded directly onto a chartered bus.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” he said with a wheezy laugh. “Who can forget a bus stuffed to the gills with young ladies in their fancy getups? Damn, that was a sight. Plus that order of pink fizz caused one hell of a ruckus later.”
He rose from his stool and creaked slowly toward one of the darker rear shelves. He mumbled to himself, preventing Ayers asking about the ruckus as she dropped into step behind him. His fingers wagged from shelf to shelf as he looked for something.
“If’n I recall, the order was faxed in two months ago for 96 bottles. That’s a pallet’s worth. And if you wanna be correct, technically speaking, it’s sparkling rosé that was ordered, not champagne. Blame the French for that persnickety distinction.
“Ah—here we are—Pink Lady Blushing Bubbles.” He tapped the shelf. “These are them.”
Lauren joined them and peered over Ayers’s shoulder. Two bottles were left. It was the ugliest wine label Lauren had ever seen in her life, and that included the cheap swill she and her best friend Becky had smuggled into their prom. She wrinkled her nose and studied the price tag.
“$8.95 a bottle? So it’s the good stuff?”
The man shot her a sharp look. “You know, girlie, not everyone can afford the blessed drops squeezed from the ass of grapes in the Pyrenees. I cater to all budgets.” He harrumphed and headed back to the counter.
Ayers, eyes glittering, lowered her lips against Lauren’s ear and softly quoted back her earlier words. “You’re the people person?”
Lauren glowered at her then caught up to the liquor store owner.
“Sorry,” she said. “You’re right. Would you mind if we looked at the invoice?”
“Hmm,” he said, as he huffed with exertion and perched back on his stool. “A smart man would tell you to go to hell. ’Specially after that uppity crack you just made. Then again a smart man probably wouldn’t have said a half of what I said to those stormtrooper bastards who were in here last Tuesday. But, the whole truth of it is, my daddy raised a man with a mouth way bigger than his brain.”
He cackled at his own joke, which devolved into a hacking cough. He thumped his chest and muttered, “’Scuse me.”
Lauren and Ayers exchanged a look.
“Stormtroopers?” Ayers asked carefully. “As in government agents? Or police?”
“Not police,” Dan said. “I know all the local boys at Carson City Sheriff’s Office. But it wasn’t like I was properly introduced to those jackbooters. There were two of them in sharp suits, no necks, and flashing shiny badges too fast ta see, and they asked about the paperwork for this here order, same as you. And then when I showed it to ’em, they tried to take it off me. Called it gov’ment business. I looked them straight in the necks and said that what they was trying was theft, plain and simple, and I’d make a big ol’ noise to the media and everyone else if they tried to leave here with my private business papers.”
He ducked below the counter, ferreted around, and then stood, a crumpled pair of stapled pages clutched between his gnarled fingers. The pages were dog-eared and had clearly been much handled. “Oh they tried to lean all over me, but what can they threaten an old man with no family with? I told them that, too. They didn’t like it much. In the end, they gave me my paperwork back and warned me not to talk about this order with anyone else.
“Now, see, I don’t take kindly to being ordered around when I’m just going about my lawful business,” he continued with an outraged glare. “This is ’Merica! I do not have to take bulldust from anyone, and I sure as hell won’t take it from my own gov’ment.”
“How do you know they were from the government?” Ayers asked.
“Who else? They had money for fancy black suits and were built like my first Buick. Those boys meant business. But I’m damned sure threatening law-abiding folks ain’t even close to constitutional, so I’ll take their warning as more of a helpful suggestion. And to that end—here ya go.”
Dan pushed the pages across the counter. One was an invoice with a red stamped Paid in Full, plus the details of the bottles bought and their price. It was dusty, like everything else in the shop.
Lauren turned over to the next page and gasped. Jackpot. A purchase order faxed through on official government letterhead. They could clearly see the Nevada state seal, and a series of typed numbers displaying the liquor store where the order had been placed, and—Lauren’s fingers trembled—the full account numbers from which the order would be paid. Lauren pulled out her phone to snap a photo of it.
“No need for that,” Dan stopped her. “I made plenty of copies after that visit. Stashed them all over. You keep that. And if you happen to be mentioning my establishment in your fancy paper, don’t forget to spell the name right. That’s Booze, Booze, Booze. Right? Three of ’em.”
Lauren grinned as she picked up the invoice. “Three. Got it. It’s a memorable name for a business, Dan.”
“That it is. And you can talk to me anytime. I’ll say my thoughts on the record, too. I have plenty of thoughts about unconstitutional fascists, that’s for sure. Yes indeed I do.”
“Thanks,” Lauren said and took one of the
fliers on the counter that had Dan’s phone number on it.
“We appreciate your help,” Ayers added.
The door jangled as they left.
* * *
Lauren shook her head when they got outside. “This is getting surreal. The madam had a visit from those thugs, too, by the sound of things.”
“Yes,” Ayers said. “But your Romeo at the bus company didn’t. Why not?”
“Could it have slipped Walt’s mind?”
Ayers shot her an incredulous glance.
“Yeah, okay,” Lauren said, feeling stupid. “But I’ll call him and ask anyway.”
Two minutes later she hung up. “Walt said no one has asked for the paperwork except us. He said he’d call back in a minute; he just wants to check something out.”
“He’s probably working out his next pick up line,” Ayers said. “Since bowling didn’t grab you.”
“I have only one sporty mistress, and her name is softball.”
“Do you still play?”
Lauren’s phone rang, preventing her from answering.
“We have to go back,” Lauren said when she ended the call. “Walt has something to show us.”
“I’ll bet he does.”
“Cute. But he sounded really spooked. Come on.”
Ten minutes later they were back at Carson City Coach Rental, crowded around a small black and white monitor as they watched security footage. White numbers at the top left of the screen dated it as Monday, May 13, 8:57am.
“I checked the video soon as you said people were snooping over that job,” Walt said. “See there? That’s Dave Fels, my driver, opening up the office just like he was s’posed to. Now watch there.”
He pointed as two tall males entered. There was no sound, but the shapes converged on the driver and all but stood on top of him. Their faces were grim, mouths moving fast. Fels looked petrified and suddenly left the front room.
“He’s going to the office,” Walt explained.
They watched as he returned and handed two sheets of paper over.
Walt hit pause and pointed. “Top left of the paper he’s holding, see that circle? Nevada state seal. That’s the purchase order I got on the LA job. Which means underneath it must be the invoice. No wonder I couldn’t find it.”
He hit Play. The men leaned in and said something in the driver’s ear.
Fels flinched, his face ashen. Then they shouldered their way through the doors and left. The driver stood, staring after them, unmoving for several long minutes. Walt stabbed the Stop button.
“And now we know why your man disappeared to Mexico,” Ayers said.
“I tried to call him as soon as I saw this,” Walt said, looking ashamed. “Number’s disconnected now. You think I should call the cops?”
“And say what? That two men spoke to your employee in an intimidating manner, and he has since left the country?”
“Yeah,” Walt said glumly. “I guess it doesn’t sound like anything they’d care about.”
“Do you mind if we get a copy of this footage?” Ayers asked.
He studied them cautiously. “What are you going to do with it?”
“It will probably be mentioned in our story,” Ayers said. “And on that note, we may ask you for a comment, too, when we have all our facts together. How would you feel about that?”
Walt hit eject and put the security CD in a blank case. He looked at it anxiously then glanced up. “Well, I think that I’d rather not have this in my possession. And I also think it’d be the right thing to help you expose whatever the hell’s going on here. So yes, call me when you need me. I’ll talk.”
He slid the disk over the counter and then dropped his business card on top of it.
“Thank you, Walt,” Ayers said without a trace of her earlier sarcasm.
“Welcome.” He gave her a solemn nod. “I’d best get some work done.” He turned away.
“Well,” Lauren said the moment they got outside, “he’s actually brave—not creepy. I think some of us judge people way too fast.”
“Or some of us give the benefit of doubt far too soon,” Ayers countered as she put her sunglasses on. “He could be brave and still a creep.”
Lauren unlocked her car. “You are seriously the worst cynic I’ve ever met.”
“Hang around the corridors of power for as long as I have, and it’ll challenge anyone’s belief in their fellow man,” Ayers said as she got in. “It’s quite the eye opener; I promise you.”
“Well that’s depressing,” Lauren noted and joined her in the car. “So why the hell do you want to go back to DC?”
An unfathomable look flitted across Ayers’s face. She shook her head and reached for her notebook.
“Now that the excitement’s over, we can get back to business. I’ll tally up our findings,” she said briskly. “The total financial damage to the Nevada taxpayers for that big night out was—Prostitutes, $96,900. Bus rental, $2240—”
“Don’t forget the eighty cents,” Lauren interrupted as she started the car.
“Heaven forbid.” Ayers made the adjustment. “And pink champagne—or sparkling rosé, I should say—96 bottles at $8.95 each, which totals $859.20…”
Lauren drove quietly back to their hotel and left Ayers to her calculations. There was a muffled sound of surprise.
“What?”
“I need a moment.” Ayers double checked her sums. After a moment she put her notes down.
“And now we know why the eighty cents was important,” she said. “The grand total is exactly $100,000. To the penny.”
“You’re kidding.”
“How many times do I have to tell you…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lauren said. “I know.”
“Obviously spending exactly $100,000 was what the embezzler intended; why else would he ask the coach company to increase its quote?”
“So much for this whole thing being just a joke,” Lauren mused. “So Bourke’s either delusional or lying if he thinks this whole thing is just for kicks.”
“Well our friendly neighborhood puffer fish is in politics, so it could be either,” Ayers mused. “Still, the good money’s always on lying.”
“But what’s it all for? To freak out the political minders to the point they have goons going all over town threatening people and covering this up? Well mission accomplished, if that’s the aim.”
“That wasn’t the aim,” Ayers said dismissively. “Because if this was all purely about politics, then the prostitutes and alcohol would have been sent to a political launch, not a business one.” She looked up sharply. “Come to think of it, why was this even done at a business launch? Given how meticulously planned everything else has been, the choice of event can’t possibly be a coincidence.”
She glanced at Lauren, a gleam in her eye. “You know, I’m thinking it’s time we got the full SmartPay tour. Seeing we’re here in its home state, after all. Be a shame not to learn all about the payroll tech supposedly revolutionizing our nation.”
* * *
SmartPay USA. In the gleaming flesh. Lauren looked up and up at the enormous blue and gold sign that dwarfed all else. They were out in the middle of nowhere, past an industrial estate that included a belching chemical plant and an adjacent pollution-detection equipment manufacturer that bore the sign Your Gas Sampled.
SmartPay USA’s headquarters were two years old, modern, and all glass and steel. A manicured lawn that would challenge the world’s best putting greens flanked a polished path up to a glass double door.
“Pretty flashy for a start-up,” Lauren murmured as she stepped onto the shiny path. “Why do I suddenly feel like Dorothy though?”
“Well let’s go meet the Wizard,” Ayers said; her gaze fell to small solar-powered lights that lined the pathway.
“Why’s this place so big?” Lauren asked as she glanced around. “What do they even make here?”
“Good question. And I think your answer is heading our way. Just follow the shiny s
uit and hair gel.”
A young man in an expensive blue suit with slicked back hair and a boyish face scampered over to them.
“Ah the reporters,” he announced. “Our CEO, David Teo, said you’d called his office and were coming by. He’s so pleased California’s media is showing such an interest in our cutting-edge technology. Welcome! I’m Reese Mathieson, SmartPay USA’s national marketing manager.”
“Afternoon.” Ayers nodded curtly. “Catherine Ayers, the Daily Sentinel.”
Lauren introduced herself and followed Reese into the foyer, taking in the cavernous layout.
“It’s a solar-powered, eco-friendly, five-star, green-rated building,” Reese said. He pointed up. “We harness all that boundless Nevada sunshine, and there are solar panels all over the roof.
“Now then, I’ll be able to show you around and answer any questions about our groundbreaking company.”
“Why’s it so groundbreaking?” Lauren asked. “Payroll is payroll, right?”
Reese shot her a look. “On the contrary. Ms. King, we believe we have a unique product that has worldwide appeal. Businesses everywhere will save themselves a great deal of time and money with our product.”
“So that’s what you make here? Computer disks for payroll departments?”
“Actually we mainly make dongles,” Reese said enthusiastically.
“What on earth is a dongle?” Lauren asked.
Reese practically vibrated with enthusiasm. “Come this way, and I’ll show you. It’s very exciting.”
The factory floor had hundreds of workers bent over a production line, snapping things into place on what looked to be a tiny, flat USB thumb drive with a slot on the end. Reese clearly had a funny idea about what “exciting” meant.
“Software disk production is through those doors; employee card creation is the next wing, but right here…” The marketing manager leaned over and plucked a device off the production line. “Dongles,” he said proudly, holding it up. “This is patented technology and represents millions of dollars of research time and development.”