Taking Stock

by C J West

  Could a senior vice president be fool enough to steal from customers? Stan had never taken that threat seriously and right now it seemed to be his biggest failing. Sarah and Erica believed it was happening. They couldn’t both be so committed and dead wrong. It was Stan’s laziness that made it possible. He could feel his face reddening; his subconscious knew it was true and his face grew red hot with embarrassment. He needed to make it right and he needed to do it fast.

  “Any links to Brad other than his hysteria downstairs?” he asked.

  “I don’t have a link to anyone. Anything that resembles proof keeps disappearing, but I have a pretty good idea how it’s being done. Someone is adding transactions to the database at night. Sometime between market close and market open, hundreds, maybe thousands, of records are getting added. I stumbled on it because when you look at the records unsorted, they line up in the order they were added to the database. There were bunches with times around 3:30 p.m., but they were entered after transactions that were stamped with later times.”

  “So you know someone’s messing with the data!”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You said the transactions were entered together?”

  She agreed.

  “Do you know when? Can you point to one specific time?”

  “It happened on three or four days that I know of. I’d have to dig, but I could find the transactions again. I can’t say exactly when they were added, but I can give you the day and a ballpark time.”

  “Good. I’ll get a security report from upstairs. It’ll show who was on the systems when those transactions were entered.”

  “You ask for a security report and Brad will know in ten minutes.”

  “What then?”

  “This type of change has to be made from the computer room. If we knew who went in and out, we’d have a place to start. We won’t be able to convict anyone, but at least we’ll know who we’re after.”

  Stan fished in his desk and waved his master key at Erica. “Let’s go. Time’s a wasting.”

  “We can’t go in there now. The whole group will see us. We need solid proof before we let anyone know what we’re doing.”

  “Good point. I’ll meet you up there around six.”

  “Better make it seven-thirty. Developers work late, especially Brad.”

  Stan couldn’t believe he was agreeing to stay until seven-thirty, but he was spending time with Erica Fletcher. This job was looking up.

  Chapter Forty-six

  The folded piece of paper lay hidden underneath Erica’s keyboard as she waited for her teammates to head home. The hastily gathered list of dates would tie one of them to the suspicious transactions in the trading database. Friendly faces passed her door and she assured herself none of them could be the culprit. Down on twenty-one, Stan was anxious to get started. He’d called four times and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. He accepted her delays, but she worried he’d lose patience and appear outside her door with a dozen people still in the cubicles. Fortunately, Brad wouldn’t be one of them. She hadn’t seen him in an hour.

  The calls were an unwelcome surprise. She’d counted on Stan’s apathy. All she wanted from him was to open the doors and get out of the way while she investigated. His laziness was corporate legend, but something was different tonight. It could be a hurry to get home, but his phone voice sparked with excitement. He knew the background and he’d drawn his conclusion quickly; the same conclusion Erica was afraid to admit. Stan had been working on this before she’d arrived in his office. She hoped he’d been discreet. An accusation against Brad Foster would throw the office into turmoil. Stan was primed to go after Brad looking for kudos, but he might get something entirely different. Erica wanted to see Brad punished, but she knew the kind of scrutiny her argument would receive. She’d chosen Stan for his patience and now she hoped she could rein him in long enough to gather her evidence.

  Now that Stan knew, the consequences of the truth being out were unavoidable. Maybe she hadn’t believed it herself until she said it, but Stan’s excitement left little doubt. Brad’s world was headed for collapse. Getting caught stealing from the family firm would mean ostracism. The Finches might cover it up to avoid the scandal, they might not. Prosecution meant losing everything, his job, his freedom, his family. A man would do extraordinary things to escape that fate. Knowing she spent most of her waking hours within a dozen strides of his office gave Erica a chill.

  She sat alone pondering the days to come.

  The noise in the hall dulled and the office began to close in on her. Brad had snuck in here twice to take her files. He knew she was getting close to catching him and he was desperate to stop her. She didn’t wait for Stan to call again. She got up and headed for the printer. At the door she turned back and printed an old memo in case anyone saw her. She explored rows of empty cubicles and dark offices. Brad’s was vacant as was the computer room. She doubled back to her desk and dialed Stan.

  He was upstairs in less than two minutes. He slipped his key into the security room lock pausing only long enough for Erica to catch the door before descending on the keyboard. He clicked confidently to the first date Erica gave him and scanned the entries after six o’clock. Erica could barely keep up. He narrowed the list to people who entered the computer room. He spun around to face her, a single name on the list behind him. Entering at 9:50 p.m. was Erica Fletcher, IT. The door opened again from the inside at 10:56 p.m., presumably her exit. He checked the other dates and found the same result. According to the system only Erica entered the computer room on the nights in question.

  The search was a bust. She had no proof and she risked losing her only ally. Stan gazed through her. She hoped he was bright enough to know a guilty woman wouldn’t lead him to the evidence. None of the dates stuck out in her mind. She spent so much time in the office, likely as not she’d been in the building on those nights. Whoever framed her had chosen his victim well. With a nearly blank social calendar, she’d be hard pressed to find an alibi. The security guards and cabbies knew her well, but they wouldn’t remember specific times she’d left. The only person she saw often at night was Brad and he wouldn’t volunteer to help.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Stan said rousing her.

  “You know–”

  “It’s not me you need to convince,” Stan said raising his hands. “Any of these dates mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Bummer.” Stan hunted around the room for something. He opened a wooden closet door. Inside was a small screen, a VCR and a stack of ten VHS tapes. The screen views rotated through three shots: the computer room, the lobby on twenty-three, and the hallway outside. In eight years Erica had never noticed the cameras and no one ever mentioned them.

  Stan pulled the tapes and scanned the labels. The tiny numbers aligned in neat columns of blue and black ink. Erica recognized Brad’s handwriting when Stan displayed three tapes in a line for her.

  The dates looked random at first.

  After a minute the pattern was clear. The tapes were changed each day and the dates recorded. At the end of the week, the tapes were put aside and another set was used. The rotation showed a steady progression of dates from tape to tape, Monday to Friday. Stan held his finger on a day where the progression was interrupted. It was the first date on Erica’s list, a Wednesday a few weeks ago. This tape hadn’t been used with its mates the previous cycles. Someone had swapped it in. How Stan deduced this in ten seconds, she wouldn’t know.

  Erica watched Stan with newfound respect as he browsed for the next date on the list and found another break in the pattern. Someone was replacing tapes in the rotation on a fairly regular basis. They both knew why.

  “You don’t have a VCR in your office, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I know where we can find one.”

  Stan put everything back, logged out of the security PC and led Erica out into the hall.

  “Where are we
going?” she whispered.

  “To find those tapes.”

  It was darker now. For all his bravado, Stan didn’t turn on the lights. The security lighting was enough for them to follow the hall to Brad’s office. All Brad’s desk drawers were locked. Undeterred, Stan checked the wooden file cabinets arrayed around the room and found a half dozen VHS tapes neatly aligned at the bottom of one drawer. These tapes had been in and out of the rotation, too. Odd, but not proof.

  Stan scooped up the tapes and headed out.

  “Where now?’

  “HR. They have a VCR for training. Let’s see what’s on these.”

  Stan moved through the building like he owned it. His access could get him anywhere and he wasn’t shy about using it. Going to Stan was a better decision than she’d imagined.

  They wheeled the cart out of a cramped closet at the back of HR. Stan plugged in the TV and VCR and popped in a tape.

  It played black and white checkerboard static.

  It should have shown the last views from the security cameras. Stan tuned in the TV. Poor as the reception was, he recorded a bit of local news. It played back fine. The tapes had been erased, all six of them.

  “Could we restore these?”

  “Not a chance,” Erica said.

  “Too bad. Your boss is hiding something, but it’s going to be damn hard to prove. Will the server access records help?”

  “Probably not. He could use a generic administrative account. If he did, there’s no way to prove who logged in.”

  If Brad could fake her identity for the card reader, could he fake her network credentials, too? He’d done a good job framing her, but there had to be something more, something that linked to him. She had to prove she’d been somewhere else at least one of those nights. The blank security tapes were useless. She’d have to find another way.

  Stan tapped her shoulder. “He’s pointed this right at you. No one else could do it. We both know that, but if Sarah sees those records, there’ll be no changing her mind.”

  Stan scratched his chin and stared toward the city skyline. He absently unplugged the equipment, organized the cart and returned it to the closet.

  Erica watched helplessly.

  “Not exactly what I was hoping for,” he said. “But it could’ve been worse. We could have told Herman. At least now we’ve got some time.”

  The words were a huge relief.

  She had to prove she wasn’t the one in the computer room and she had to do it quietly. Once Brad knew she was trying to discredit him, he’d bring Herman and Sarah to Marty’s office, all three proclaiming her guilt in unison. She needed some way to prove she’d been at home one of those nights. She wished she’d slowed down more often. The last year was a blur. She wished she’d kept her eyes open.

  They agreed to strategize overnight and get back together in the morning. They split up at the elevator. Stan went home hours later than usual. Erica detoured up to twenty-two to return an armload of blank video tapes.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Flabbergasted at the sight before him, Brad stopped short and held back a gasp. He ducked into the corner cubicle so silently she didn’t notice. Years of skulking around these halls at night had taught him to move with stealth and tonight the habit paid dividends. He crouched low, leaned a single eye into the hall and watched her lower the security tapes into the drawer. If she was putting them back, she knew they’d been erased. He’d tell Marty the erasure was thorough security practice and he’d believe it, but she knew better. She’d finally figured it out. Time for her to go.

  She didn’t stop with the tapes. She went methodically drawer to drawer, skimming files and browsing through stacks of CDs. She knew what she was looking for. She pulled books off the shelf, fanned the pages and put them back exactly as they’d been. When she’d finished every unlocked drawer and shelf, she came to where he’d expected her to search first: his locked desk. She checked behind pictures, under his keyboard, and under the phone, carefully putting everything back where she found it. Finally she lifted the paperclip tray and found the spare key.

  She opened each drawer and searched more thoroughly here.

  He glared as she picked up a CD and inserted it into his computer; only a blank to her, but so much more valuable with her prints on it. She rifled dozens of personnel files, stopping on one in particular, probably her own. She tried all the CDs in the side drawer before giving up. She knew it was a program making the changes and she knew he was the one running it. If she’d read the security log, she knew he’d set her up and she’d be steamed.

  When she flicked off the light, he crawled under the desktop and sat motionless, holding his breath as she passed on the other side of the cubicles. Her sneakers barely made a sound on the carpet. She exhaled loudly, frustrated he’d hidden his work so well. She had no idea he was listening from the floor. Papers rustled in her office. Zippers jingled on her bag. She called a cab and rustled around her desk a bit longer. The lobby door opened and closed behind her a few minutes later.

  Cautiously, he slipped outside the cubicle, keeping his head low as he slinked around to her darkened office. He hit redial and told the dispatcher he was Gregg Turner, the boyfriend of the woman who’d just called. He’d take her home, so she wouldn’t need a cab. The man on the other end recognized her name and cancelled the cab for 155 Franklin.

  In his own office, the brown paper backing peeled off a landscape of Portland Head Light to reveal the CD she’d been looking for. Quickly into the computer, he copied the contents onto the CD Erica had handled without getting his own prints on it.

  As the computer transferred the files, Brad picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” a gruff voice answered.

  “I need your help.”

  “Why are you calling me this late? It doesn’t look good.”

  “She rifled my desk. She knows what she’s looking for.”

  “Did she find anything?” Herman asked.

  “No. But I got her prints. I’m making the CD now.”

  The line went quiet. “Good. Follow her out and take care of her. Tomorrow we go to Marty.”

  “I’m not taking care of anyone. That’s your job.”

  “You’ve got to earn your money somehow.”

  “I’ve earned my share a dozen times.”

  “The girl is your problem. I can take her side or yours. Doesn’t matter to me. You want my help with Marty, get rid of her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You’ve carried that forty-five long enough. Time you fired it.”

  Brad remembered his practice with the bucket. Erica wouldn’t let him get that close and she wouldn’t stay still while he lined her up. Herman had professionals for this. Brad had never imagined shooting anyone except Herman.

  “She’s as much your problem as mine. Send one of your goons.”

  “You’ve got twelve hours. Make her disappear or I’ll be in the office bright and early with another big white envelope.”

  “Do it and the forty-five will be pointed at you.”

  “She’ll be easier, trust me. Take her out and I’ll hold on to the envelope. Your call.”

  The line clicked dead.

  Brad stared at the receiver until the CD drive popped open. She was stranded out front. She might be the practice he needed to get ready for Herman. She might also be the fastest route to prison. He pulled the .45 from his briefcase, grabbed the CD and ran out the door.

  Erica was jittery being in the building after searching Brad’s office. She talked to the security guard for ten minutes, watching the street for the familiar brown and white Boston Cab she’d called. When she ran out of small talk, she waved goodnight and headed outside into the warm spring air. She told herself no one knew what she did upstairs and that the cabbie had to be parked outside.

  The cab wasn’t on Franklin or Pearl. It wasn’t like them to blow off an arranged fare. She stood on the dark sidewalk feeling like a target, a woman alone in th
e city at night, especially after what she’d found. Her driver probably got caught up with his last fare. He’d be along, but she’d feel safer getting away from the building. In three blocks she could mix in with the crowd around Faneuil Hall and jump one of the cabs that ferried tourists from place to place. She felt bad ditching her ride so she waited a bit longer.

  She scanned the dark, empty sidewalks and blackened buildings. Rowdy voices cheered a few blocks over. A car coasted down the next block, disappearing from sight. She gripped her cell phone and started walking. The financial district around her was a mass of shadows punctured here and there by dim street lights. Weary cleaning crews were finishing their second or third buildings and sleepy security guards were settling in for an uneventful night. There was no one to tell Erica why the evidence she’d found pointed to her rather than Brad; why doing the right thing now meant implicating herself. Was Brad smart enough to know she’d be the one to catch on? Did he think anyone would believe she was a thief? Her reputation should make that decision clear cut.

  Something heavy shifted on the concrete behind her. She flashed around, but the movement stopped. The look toward the dark corner was quick, almost frantic, but she’d seen something; an arm disappearing behind the column maybe. She turned toward the glass doors, now sixty yards away. Before she could take one step, something emerged from the darkness. A large figure, a man, moved through the shadows between her and the entrance. He circled a granite lined flowerbed. His face was in shadow, but his movements were familiar. He stopped between Erica and the doors, blocking her retreat to the security guard inside. He lurked silently in the gloom behind a column, waiting.

  Adrenaline coursed through her, ever limb ready to flee.

  She spun around, her feet tangling together as she abruptly broke into a walk toward the corner. Her pants allowed long quick strides and her sneakers made barely a sound on the sidewalk. At the corner, she scanned the street for help, casually, as if looking for traffic at this late hour. Nothing moved except the dark figure she glimpsed, leaving the column and approaching from behind. He stayed in the shadows against the building, avoided the lights at the corner and ducked behind a lonely car. She crossed toward the park and cut around a row of bushes that disguised the exit ramp from the garage buried below ground. If he followed her into the park, she’d race him three blocks to Faneuil Hall. She’d have a small head start and she ran every day.