Cassidy frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Braxton reviews qualified expenses but they’re not filed with the Film Office and Secretary of Commerce until the project has wrapped and all qualifying invoices are in.”
“And Nancy would have known that?”
“Sure. But she was approving expenses that she negotiated and then sent on to Braxton. He should have had them.”
“And she had approval power?”
“Yes. My uncle and she would meet every few days to review where they stood. Nancy could shift money around in categories, but he approved overages. The budget was set at ten million.”
“Which is why he had to approve the re-order of construction materials that morning we first met you.”
“Exactly. Also Uncle Arnold was to be informed if some vendor went from in-state to out-of-state.”
“Because of the incentives?”
“Yes. He’d lose the rebate.”
I thought for a moment whether the theft and resell could benefit anyone but the supplier. If Nancy approved the invoices and Braxton reviewed them for incentive qualifications and paid them, why would Braxton not want to show Nancy Pellegatti the invoices? Could he have doctored them to get a kickback? The possibility reaffirmed why I was there with Cassidy. I needed to see the accounting records.
“Roland, I have something very serious to ask you.”
“What?”
“I understand Braxton locks the accounting office with a key no one else has other than your uncle’s master.”
“That’s not entirely true. My uncle was afraid he might lose his so he had me make a duplicate. He wasn’t supposed to, per the lease agreement, but my uncle does what he wants.”
“Where is this extra key?”
Cassidy grinned. “On my key ring.”
I left after we’d worked up a plan. Unfortunately, Cassidy insisted on writing a role for himself.
***
I have found when dealing with a bureaucracy the best approach is often to approach it at the highest level you can. So, after leaving Cassidy, I decided to go up the food chain in the land of the suits.
The FBI Resident Agency was in the Federal Courthouse on Patton Avenue and I had to clear through security before going to the second floor. The FBI office door was locked but a buzzer alerted someone inside that I sought admittance.
The door opened and a black man about my age said, “I’m Special Agent Vance Gilmore. How can we help you?”
I held up my P.I. identification for his inspection. “I’m Sam Blackman. I’d like to see Special Agent Lindsay Boyce.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackman. Is she expecting you?”
I gave my most winning smile. “Call me Sam, and not at all. But it’s about a case I’m working and I’m making a courtesy call because my investigation is about to cross into the Bureau. I didn’t want her blindsided.”
I’d worked with Boyce a few times in the past. Although the FBI didn’t like private detectives or local law enforcement getting involved in their cases, Boyce and I had never had a confrontation. I learned how to navigate bureaucratic turf when I’d worked for the largest bureaucracy in the country—the U.S. Army. And I’d learned Boyce’s uncle was a sheriff in one of the neighboring counties, which made her more open to working outside agency confines.
Gilmore returned in a few minutes with Boyce behind him. She looked as she always looked—pinstripe navy pantsuit, short brown hair that complemented her tanned face and the pale blue eyes that could equally sweep a room or bore into anyone who drew her interest.
She smiled, but those eyes locked on me with piercing intensity.
“Mr. Blackman.” She offered her hand. “Good to see you again. Agent Gilmore says you have some information for me.”
“It’s Sam, please. And, yes, information coupled with some questions.”
“Then let’s go to my office.”
I made a point of shaking Gilmore’s hand before following Boyce down a short hall. You can’t have too many friends in the FBI.
Her office was sparsely furnished with a desk stacked with folders, a laptop on a side credenza, and a single guest chair. The walls were devoid of diplomas, plaques, and commendations. The only picture was a large framed photograph hanging on the wall across from her desk—a yellow lab splashing in a rock-lined pool at the base of a mountain waterfall. Normally, I’d only glance at such a picture for a second and forget it. But, with Blue in my life, I was noticing dogs everywhere.
I stepped closer to admire it. “Is that your dog or do you just like the photograph?”
Her face lit up. “That’s my Jewel. She’s eight but still has the energy of a puppy.”
I noticed Boyce’s left hand was minus a wedding ring. “But you must work long hours. What do you do with her during the day?”
“If I can break away for lunch, I’ll run home for a quick walk. Otherwise, I use a walking service.”
“You mean you pay someone?”
She laughed. “Yes. It’s a growing business in town. There are days I’ve thought about a career change.” Her blue eyes studied me. “You have a dog?”
“Sort of. Right now he’s communal property between us and the law firm next door.” I told her about Beale’s murder and Blue and Nadine with her raccoon Ricky that nixed her as a coonhound heir.
Boyce motioned for me to sit in the guest chair. She stepped behind her desk, sat, and fished out a business card from a drawer. “Here’s the service I use. ‘Lease A Leash.’ They’re very reliable, and if Blue likes other dogs, they can arrange a playdate.”
“Like a social mixer?”
“Yes. But without the small talk.”
Her expression turned serious and I knew the small talk was over.
“What do you have to tell me, Sam?”
“I’m looking into a suspicious death from 1948.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Really? And you think the Bureau’s involved?”
“Not necessarily. But I’m exploring the context of the times and that involves the Bureau.”
Boyce said nothing but waited for an explanation.
“Nice suit,” I said.
Her eyes flickered with uncertainty. “What?”
“You’re wearing a nice suit. Agent Gilmore has a nice suit. That’s what I’ve learned from people close to the deceased in 1948. The investigation seemed to be crawling with nice suits. Now, nothing against the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department, but they are not known for wearing nice suits. I suspect in 1948 the detectives wore ill-fitting sport coats and lunch-stained ties. Extremely forgettable to the rest of the locals.”
Boyce shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sam, I’m not following where this is going.”
“Suits, to me, says FBI or some other government agency. And all the records of this man’s death, Paul Weaver, have disappeared—police reports, coroner inquest documents, county death certificate, even an M.E. copy that should have gone to Raleigh.”
“You think the Bureau’s responsible for expunging documents?”
“Well, the documents existed because the death was reported in the local papers. It happened and paperwork should be there.”
“How did Weaver die?”
“Fell while hiking was the information released. But I’ve found no definitive location and his sister says he was raised in these hills and could walk them blindfolded.”
“And your interest now?”
“We’ve been hired by the sister to find some closure to the case. A few days into the investigation, a man helping us was murdered. Harlan Beale. You might have heard about it. His body was discovered in the Black Mountain College Museum.”
Boyce nodded. “I did. You’re saying it’s linked to the Weaver death?”
“I’m saying I don’t like coincidences. Harlan Beale was also aiding the
production of the movie shooting on the old site of Black Mountain College. The night before last the producer was murdered. The body count is rising. If the FBI knew something back in 1948 that it should have made public, then we might not be talking about a potential embarrassment from the past but rather a culpability for deaths in the present. Neither possibility is particularly attractive, would you say?”
Boyce leaned forward and laced her fingers together atop her desk. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
I lifted my hands palm up. “Look, I don’t want to go through a bunch of petitions and requests like the Freedom of Information Act. You and I have had an honest exchange of information in the past and I have no axe to grind against the Bureau. I want you to find out if the FBI had an interest in the staff and students of Black Mountain College—say from 1946 till 1948 when Paul Weaver attended. Also, two other students, Eleanor Johnson and Leah Rosen. Were any of them informants for the FBI? Were any of them targets or persons of interest? All I’m looking for is an explanation that I can give Weaver’s eighty-year-old sister. And if there’s a link to these recent crimes, then justice needs to be done.”
Boyce pursed her lips and said nothing for a few minutes. Then she came to a decision. “How long do we have?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know how this ends, Sam. You get enough facts to suggest a theory and it winds up in the press. That jumps the interaction above my pay grade and effectively shuts down communication between you and me.”
“I understand. But something’s either there in the files or it’s not. I’m asking straightforward questions that should net straightforward answers.”
Boyce opened the desk drawer again and withdrew a notepad and pen. “Give me those names and dates again. And, Sam, if something comes up in the meantime, I’d appreciate a call.”
As soon as I was outside the agency door, I checked my phone. One text had come from Nakayla:
Shirley researched Phillips Building Supplies. Business owned by a holding company. Major shareholder—Arnold Osteen.
Chapter Twenty-two
Roland Cassidy pulled his Lexus sedan onto a side road about a mile from Lake Eden. At eight-thirty, the sun had long set and the cloudy sky meant the world was as dark as we could hope.
He remotely popped open the trunk from the driver’s seat. “I spread a couple blankets, so I hope the floor’s not too uncomfortable.”
I opened the passenger door. “We don’t have far to go.”
We walked to the rear of the car and I climbed into the trunk.
“I’ll try not to wreck.” Cassidy closed the lid and plunged me into total darkness.
Our plan was for Cassidy to tell the security guard he was returning to make some script changes that needed to be ready for the next morning. He would be in his office for an hour or so and would be using the copy machine to run-off color-coded rewrites. The trick would be parking so that the angle would mask my emergence from the trunk. Cassidy would lift out an empty cardboard box at the same time I would slide out of the trunk. The box, labeled copy paper, provided a reason for Cassidy to open the trunk.
These elaborate steps would be taken because Nathan Armitage’s security team was more efficient than the temps Osteen had passed off as Acme Security. I didn’t want to be logged in the guard’s records because my presence would raise questions.
The ride was bumpy but not unbearable. When Cassidy stopped, I heard a guard’s muffled voice say, “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m Roland Cassidy, the writer of this movie. Here’s my driver’s license and my name should be on your list.”
After about a minute of silence, the guard said, “Very good, sir. Can you tell me what brings you in after hours?”
“Script revisions. The director has last-minute ideas. So, here I am. I hope to be out in an hour or two. Do you mind if I park around the back? I brought special colored paper that I need for new copies and I’ll be closer to the machine.”
Cassidy was improvising to lessen the chance I’d be observed.
“Do you need help? I could radio my partner to carry something.”
Great, I thought. Cassidy’s scheme was about to backfire on us.
“Where’s your colleague?” Cassidy asked.
“He’s on his rounds by the equipment trucks.”
“That’s not necessary. It’s not that heavy. But thanks, anyway.”
The car moved forward and I breathed a sigh of relief. When we stopped again, Cassidy released the latch and the trunk lid rose. I stayed curled up with the empty box pushed toward the rear bumper.
Cassidy bent over me. “Looks clear. I’ll carry the box just in case.” He lifted it up on his shoulder like it weighted twenty or thirty pounds. “The building is between us and the guard.”
“And the other guard?”
“I saw the beam of his flashlight by the catering truck. When he makes his rounds here, he’ll just check the outside doors. If we’re not talking, then there is no reason he should be suspicious.”
I rolled out of the trunk and crouched behind the bumper. “Go first and double-check that no one is watching you. Leave the door unlocked and I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
Five minutes later, Cassidy flipped on the light in the accounting office. He crossed the room and closed the blinds on the windows.
“Since we’re on the second floor, the guard can’t look directly in,” Cassidy said.
“Yes, but we might cast a shadow so let’s be careful not to both be standing near the window at the same time.”
There were two desks in the office.
“Which one is Raymond Braxton’s?” I asked.
“The larger one nearer the window. The other is an assistant who serves more as a bookkeeper and organizes invoices and payments into the proper budget categories.”
“Is that person part of Braxton’s firm?”
“No. Braxton’s from Wilson in the eastern part of the state. Heather’s from the local firm that handles my uncle’s accounting.”
“Then she will have a loyalty to your uncle rather than what Braxton might instruct her to do.”
“I guess so,” Cassidy said. “You’re saying Braxton would make an effort to hide any embezzlement or invoice manipulation?”
“Of course he would. Unless Heather’s part of the scam.”
Cassidy shook his head. “They never met before. I know Uncle Arnold would have preferred to have people from his own accountants’ office, but the state requires outside overview.”
“And Braxton has the last word?”
“He signs off on everything reported to the Film Office in the Department of Commerce.”
I looked at Raymond Braxton’s desk. A computer monitor and keyboard sat on a left-side credenza with the CPU on the floor underneath. His main desk was clear. There was a center drawer and three additional drawers stacked down the right side. The clean desktop told me Braxton must keep all records locked away and his computer was probably password-protected. I was going to be guilty of more than entering an office that had been opened by a key.
“Let’s try the computer first.” I slipped into the desk chair and pressed the spacebar. A password window appeared. “Damn. I was afraid of that.” I’d argued Nakayla out of coming so that we didn’t run the risk of both of us being arrested, but now I wished she and her computer skills were here.
“Try O $ T 3 3 N,” Cassidy said.
I typed the six-character version of OSTEEN and the password was accepted.
“Braxton gave you his password?” I asked.
“I was with my uncle when he told Braxton to use it. Uncle Arnold was paranoid that Braxton would have a car wreck or a heart attack and then the budget and accounting data would be inaccessible. He’d have to hire some geek to break through the computer’s securit
y.”
The full desktop screen was devoid of any folders other than the standard trash and various operating system icons.
“Do you know how he might have structured his work?” I asked.
Cassidy leaned over my shoulder. “No. One thing you might try is opening Microsoft Word and Excel. Each has an ‘open recent file’ option. That could give us what we need or at least show us the file’s location in the root directory.”
“That’s good thinking, Roland.”
“Thanks. I was a computer science major.”
I pushed the chair back and stood. “Then why the hell am I flying this plane? Have a seat.”
Cassidy grinned and grabbed the mouse. He opened Excel, clicked on “File” and then “Open Recent.” A side window appeared with five choices. The top was “Current Budget Expenditures_Pellegatti” and the second was “Current Budget Expenditures_Raleigh.”
“Open the first one,” I said.
A spreadsheet appeared with several summary pages of categories of labor, materials, camera, lighting and grip, catering, and other services. Two columns were on the right of each page: a total-to-date and a total budget. Cassidy scrolled to the last summary page where the total-to-date was $2,567,980 spent on a $10,000,000 budget.
“Does that look right?” I asked Cassidy?
“Yes. We’re not a fourth of the way through the picture and there are upfront costs.”
“So, nothing seems out of the ordinary?”
Before answering, Cassidy tabbed through detailed breakouts of each category and its line items. He moved the cursor over one line—“on-location screenwriter.”
“That’s what they pay me, a thousand dollars a week.”
“If this budget was for Nancy Pellegatti’s review, who will see it now?”
“The new line producer. Word is that Marty wants Camille Brooks to take over. She’s already up to speed on the project and Marty works well with her.”
Hidden Scars Page 19