Taking Stock
Page 16
“Herman’s working me to death,” Stan said.
“No wonder. That partner of yours is a pit bull. Showed Herman how real employees supposed to work.”
“Herman thinks I’m it.”
“What about Pit Bull? She taken a bite outta you yet?”
Stan forced a laugh.
“That way, huh. Tryin’ to impress her? Never works, yo. Woman’s gotta have respect, yo.”
Stan had worked more than ever lately. He’d changed since Sarah brought her big eyes, long straight hair and curves to the team. He’d done dumber things to impress a girl, but he usually knew going in. This change snuck up on him, but Sean saw it clearly. It could have been Herman that Stan was trying to impress. He’d latched on to Sarah’s enthusiasm from day one. Odd, he’d never complained about Stan’s meager output. He’d never pushed Stan to do anything and it had been too easy to fall into the rut of chatting with Sean every day. There were others, too, a circle of BFS underachievers he idled with all around the office. They’d find new distractions to moderate the drudgery, but Stan couldn’t get back the time he’d wasted for the last eight years. He needed to get upstairs and start making amends.
“Sean, Dude. I have a job. Sometimes I’ve gotta do it.”
“You done more lately than the last three years. Every time I come by you’re click, click, clickin’.”
“Big plan this year.”
Sean leaned in. “You told me you could make that shit up. No one cares you said. They care now? Miss Pit Bull watchin’? Or you watchin’ her?”
Stan stepped around Sean’s wire cart.
“Click, click, click,” he said as Stan made his way for the elevator.
Funny Sean remembered what he’d said about fudging audits. He’d done it more than once. Nobody cared. Herman wanted his plan attained and didn’t care how. They weren’t catching criminals, not like the police out in the world. Even if they caught someone, they were powerless to do anything without the cops or the SEC.
Stan slipped off the elevator wondering what sort of embezzler could be lurking around BFS. Most of the executives had worked for Marty’s father. He treated them like family and they were untouchable even to him. They wouldn’t steal and ruin a good thing, but how vigilantly did they watch their employees? That was Stan’s responsibility and he’d done a lousy job.
He paused outside Sarah’s doorway before walking in.
She instinctively covered her work, extending her forearm over a few sheets of notes and a manila folder. The label was too small for Stan to read. She held the arm out before her, stiff and unmoving, and smiled up in a pathetic attempt to look casual in spite of her awkward posture.
“What are you trying so hard to hide?” He walked closer leaning to one side and then the other.
She didn’t budge. She flipped the pile over, pages down, blank folder on top. “It’s personal.”
“Like you have a personal life. I know you think I’m an idiot, but come on. I am your partner and I’ve been busting my hump so you can go off chasing bad guys.”
“I appreciate that. When I have something I’ll let you know.”
“Let’s get real. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“Pretending to, anyway.”
“You think you can glide in here and uncover a conspiracy in two weeks? It doesn’t work like that.”
“And what makes you so sure you know what I’m after?”
“It’s obvious. You’re looking to hang someone and make a name for yourself. That cowboy crap might work in consulting, but this isn’t a six month project. You’re going to be working with these people two, three, four years down the road. If you last that long.”
She flushed, pressing her lips together to hide her reaction. The consulting thing hit a nerve.
“What do you want, Stan?”
“Not a solitary thing. I’m here to help.”
“Help who? Me?”
“You’re brand new to this. I know you think I’m lazy. Maybe you’re right, but you need my help.”
A powerful hiss, escaped her lips. “I’ll manage.”
Stan picked up the picture of all eight Burke’s and hopped up on her desk. His choice of seat drove her nuts. “This business is about people. You read them as well as I read Chinese.”
Stan motioned for the folder.
She didn’t move, but the snobbish air was gone. She nodded toward the door and Stan gladly went over and closed it. She relaxed in her chair, but didn’t turn the folder over. When Stan resumed his seat, he could have snatched it. He considered moving the stapler to tweak her instead.
“I think I’ve found something.”
Stan gestured with his hands wide.
“I’ve found a discrepancy in an order that no one can explain. The problem cost the customer three thousand dollars. Gregg Turner asked IT for help three times and got nowhere.”
“It’s probably just a record keeping thing. Don’t start throwing accusations around until you’re sure it’s not.”
“Herman thinks it’s more than a record keeping thing.”
Bitch!
She felt his anger and backtracked. “I asked his advice and he set up a meeting with Brad Foster.”
“Makes sense. Brad’s a scum and he’s got access to everything. When are you two going to rake him over the coals?”
Sarah thought a long moment and admitted, “I’m meeting him alone.”
“What’s the point of that?” he asked. Aware of the insult, he started to apologize, but she didn’t look offended.
“It’s preliminary.”
“You think it’s someone else, huh?”
Sarah clammed up. What did she think she was hiding? He didn’t need a degree in criminal justice to know she’d be searching IT for her perp. She’d probably been hiding the name from the moment he’d walked in.
“So you’re looking on the programming team for someone smart enough to fudge records. Someone with strong relationships around the office. That rules out a lot of people up there.”
Her tense expression would crack if he hit the right name. Brad was Stan’s choice. He was arrogant, territorial and he managed by fear. Strange, she wasn’t interested in him as a suspect.
She offered nothing.
“So if I’m right, you’re taking a hard look at Erica.”
Sarah held back a gasp.
She had a lot to learn. She was going after the one IT person who was above suspicion and she did such a lousy job hiding her reaction, she’d told him who it was.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “We’re talking about embezzlement here! Erica Fletcher’s no criminal.”
After a long pause, Sarah finally broke. “She’s right in the middle of it. She manages the system with the suspicious transactions and guess who everyone runs to when they have a problem?”
“Not a chance.”
“I don’t care what you think, Stan. I’m not asking for your help. Just keep quiet. If this gets back to her and she runs, it’s your head.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“You’ll change your tune when she’s in cuffs.”
“My money’s on Brad.”
“Brad’s got no part in this. His family owns this company.”
“Fine. Do what you want. When Erica’s found guilty, I’ll buy you dinner, you choose the restaurant. If it’s Brad, I choose the place and you pay.”
“I don’t date guys from the office.”
“So, I’ve heard.”
Sarah ignored the barb. “Gregg and I brought this problem to her. We told her how critical it was and she sat on it for two weeks. Tell me she’s not hiding something.”
“Ever think she might be busy?”
“Everything points to her.”
“You couldn’t have picked a less likely cheat.”
Sarah sat and stared. The conversation was over and now she was concocting some crazy scenario that he’d partnered with Erica to defraud the compa
ny. He’d had a lot of influence over the last eight years and a lot of responsibility he hadn’t lived up to. Sarah didn’t invite him to help and she wasn’t going to. He left, knowing the keys in his pocket would get him a look at that file after she’d gone.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Carlos rolled a sinewy string of drool off his tongue and let it drop in the center of the gray sharpening stone. The knife scratched tight circles, spreading the lubrication while he kept his eyes on the street from his fifth floor window. Soon, the drunk tottered into view in a suit worth more than all his worldly possessions combined. Carlos had followed him dozens of times on the trip to the bank and back. He always walked straight to the bank as instructed, but often stopped for a few nips in a little store a block and a half into the return trip. He looked sober plodding up the block, but unenthusiastic for someone about to receive over three months’ income. Carlos wouldn’t care if he were wasted today.
Carlos dialed the cell.
“Yeah,” a gruff voice answered.
“He’s on his way back.”
“Hold on.” Keys clicked on the other end of the line.
“We’ve got it. Take out the trash.”
Carlos pulled the blade across his jeans, wiping the saliva from one side of the blade then the other. He was about to click off when the voice shot back. “No fancy stuff. You’re not carving a turkey. Use the tools I gave you and make it look like he offed himself.”
He closed the phone and played his thumb over the razor sharp edge he’d honed for the last hour. He sheathed it regretfully and dumped a thousand dollars in twenties on the table.
The bum shuffled to the door five minutes later. He let him knock twice before letting him in.
“Everything all set?” he asked.
Tobey’s eyes landed on the money and he drifted toward the table, ignoring the question and leaving the door half open behind him.
Carlos closed it and grabbed him by the shoulder. “You been drinking?”
“No, Sir,” Tobey said, straightening up and facing Carlos for the first time. “Things went fine. Same as always.”
“Good. The transfer went through. You can have your money as soon as you get out of that suit.”
Tobey turned for the bedroom. He’d performed the routine dozens of times before. He closed the door and Carlos listened as he wriggled out of the jacket and tossed it on the bed.
Carlos screwed the silencer onto the end of the .45. He’d have enjoyed taking a swipe at beheading him with the katana he kept in his bag. The bum was so slow the sword would hit him before he could move, but the boss wanted this one permanently unsolved. Not that anyone cared about this loser, but the gruesome methods Carlos enjoyed tended to attract attention. “Raise a clamor,” the boss had said, “and go to the slammer.” The boss was freaky about forensics. Gloves were a must and ignoring instructions, no matter how trivial, would put you on someone else’s task list.
Carlos pulled on his gloves and waited by the door with the gun ready. When he heard the water running, he slipped in. The old guy was leaning in toward the mirror with his hands on either side of the sink, supporting his tired body after the ten block walk. He was a good four inches taller than Carlos and fifty pounds heavier.
He never saw Carlos in the reflection.
His heel on tile brought the old man around, shooting upright, startled that he was no longer alone. Before he could turn, Carlos drilled a hardened fist into his kidney and dropped him to his knees, smacking his forehead on the sink on the way down. The impact rang solid, snapped his head back and he hovered an instant before collapsing the rest of the way to the floor.
Carlos needed an explanation for the bruises. He could have stood him up and done it there, but who knew where the bullet would end up if it ricocheted off his skull.
He yanked him out from under the sink and rolled him headfirst into the tub. If he shot himself here, he might fall and hit his head as he’d done on the sink. Tobey didn’t resist and he didn’t react when his knees and elbows whacked the fiberglass. The sink had knocked the fight out of him. He looked up glassy eyed as Carlos leveled the .45 a few inches from his temple. There was no fear in his eyes as the hammer dropped. He hadn’t had time to understand what was coming. Maybe Carlos was doing him a favor. His head jolted with the entry, deforming and oozing its contents down toward the drain.
Now the work began.
He pocketed the silencer, pressed Tobey’s fingers onto the grip and barrel, leaving at least four good prints, some overlapping others, and let the arm slump naturally down by his side. He tucked the gun into the hand where it came to rest. He drew the shower curtain around the tub to keep the smell in. The toiletries he stuffed into a bag in the main room. He piled the crumpled suit in on top and whisked through the drawers with gloved hands to make sure the old guy hadn’t gotten smart and left something behind. Finding nothing, he deadbolted the door and collected the bag.
He’d already wiped the room clean and he hadn’t touched anything he wasn’t taking with him since. Now with the bag by the window, he threaded forty-pound fishing line between the panes, passing three feet of it outside before winding it around the lock and tying a loop inside. With the window carefully open and the line protruding out, he passed his bag out to the fire escape and hung a pot full of pansies on the loop.
Halfway out the window he noticed the thousand on the table. He hurried inside for it and climbed back out. He pulled the window shut then steadily pulled the line until the lock turned into place. Next, he wound the line around his gloved hand and jerked, snapping it somewhere between the panes, leaving no clue that someone had been inside with Tobey when he’d met his demise.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Carolyn Fletcher was a killer; not a deranged lunatic who killed for a thrill or an inner city thug who killed to take what she wanted from the meek. She’d killed only one man, her husband Dale, and then only to escape a life of physical and emotional abuse that was impossible to bear. Still, this one act defined who she was and who she could never be again. That moment forever changed her relationship with the one person that had mattered above all others, the one person she would give her life to protect.
Intermingled in a flash of hatred and fury, she’d seen a glimmer of a new life for her and her young daughter, Erica. She picked up her husband’s golf club and swung mightily. She earned her freedom, but it came with problems she didn’t anticipate. Single parenthood was harsh. As much as she tried, she couldn’t stop the children from taunting Erica that her mother was a murderer and that she’d grow into one, too. Ostracism made Erica strong, but it also pushed the tiny family apart. Carolyn had her own regrets to cope with as well. During her pregnancy in high school, Carolyn had felt the isolation Erica must have felt in grammar school. The pregnancy trapped her into a relationship that degenerated into a life of abuse. In darker moments, she unconsciously blamed Erica, just like Erica blamed her for the way the kids treated her at school.
Carolyn deserved the blame for both mistakes.
She whisked the vacuum around the living room carpet too fast to remove the deep down dirt, just as a clean house and a home cooked meal were insufficient to repair the gulf between mother and daughter. Busy as she was, Erica made few trips to the apartment, precious few that didn’t coincide with a holiday or another special occasion. Today’s last minute visit was disconcerting. She hoped it was just another protest about her impending marriage and becoming a step-sister to a ten year old, but she worried it was something more serious.
Ten minutes later the vacuum was tucked in a closet and the lasagna nearly baked when Carolyn answered the door. Erica walked in with a foreign air about her. She wore new jeans and a knit top, surprisingly casual for a Monday after work. She moved with an ease that had been missing since childhood. She stepped in, placed her hands lightly on Carolyn’s waist and rested her head against her shoulder a second before pulling back.
Carolyn ignored Erica’s
disapproving glance at her tank top and snug jeans. She dressed younger than her own daughter, who was so modest she swam with a T-shirt over her bathing suit. Erica seemed to be fighting the stigma of her mother’s teenage pregnancy, a fight Carolyn had long since given up. If a fifty-two year old woman could turn a few heads, she had every right.
Carolyn closed the door and invited Erica inside. “I was surprised by your call. Everything ok?”
“Great. I had a mini vacation. I needed some time away from work. You know, I forgot how nice it is to sleep in. I can’t remember the last time I had five days off in a row.”
“Fighting with your boss?” Erica had been raging against authoritative men since her father died. The school psychologist expected her to become a pleaser like her mother, but her will was far stronger than anyone suspected. She made a hard turn in the opposite direction and dedicated herself to self-sufficiency. She excelled academically, financially, and physically to the point of obsession. Carolyn worried that the tight lid she kept on her emotions and her never-ending struggle for control would leave her bitter and alone. So far, experience proved her right.
“How could I not fight with him? He’s a sadistic dictator, who also happens to be clueless and he has it in for me.”
“That’s my girl, go along to get along.”
“It’s not my fault he’s a tool.”
“What about all those college professors you had such a hard time with? Were they tools too?”
Erica steamed. The relaxed expression was replaced by a more typically tense look. Carolyn felt a bit guilty, but she had a responsibility to steer her daughter toward happiness. The battle with her father was long won. If she’d just live and let live, things would come much easier. Rather than apologize, Carolyn led Erica to the table, set out the salad and cut the lasagna.