Hidden Scars

by Mark de Castrique

  I nodded that I understood the importance of the Venona Project to national security. “What did the FBI do to Weaver’s father that caused him to uproot his family?”

  “Gave him fifty thousand dollars. And he was told if he stayed in the area, questions would be raised about his son’s patriotism. That Paul was seen in compromising situations with a colored girl and with people who didn’t think like Americans. That the FBI couldn’t guarantee the safety of Weaver’s family, and that he’d already lost two children.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  “It is. But in less than a year, the Soviets would test an atomic bomb and the Venona Project identified individuals in our country who helped make that possible. That’s the context, Sam. I’m not defending what was done. I’m just asking you to understand the pressures of the time. Think present-day Islamic extremists and the fear their acts of terror engender. Now the NSA eavesdrops on everyone.”

  “I would hope we’re not using enhanced interrogation on our own veterans,” I snapped.

  “I agree,” Boyce said firmly.

  “Sorry. I know you do. Where do we go from here?”

  “That’s up to you. You can call a press conference if you think it serves a purpose. But I believe you overrate the public interest. We’ve already released documents in 2015 admitting we had the college and some of its professors and students under scrutiny. Maybe a press conference will give your client satisfaction, but it could cause her pain. After all, her father took the money and moved the family. I’m not sure how sympathetic the public will be to that.”

  “She deserves to know,” I argued.

  “Yes. She does. But how does it serve anyone else?”

  “It serves the Department of Justice whenever justice is done. Even if the only result is an apology.” I stood. “Thank you for your candor.”

  Boyce rose and looked me firmly in the eye. “And yours.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The solution to a murder often breaks down into a clear-cut case of good and evil. There’s an innocent victim whose life was violently ended by someone so vile that personal desires held more value than the life of another human being. The motive might not be money but rather jealousy, pride, or power—motives fueled by narcissism and perceived self-interest.

  I didn’t think of Paul Weaver’s death in those terms, although a prosecutor would call it murder. Paul died as a consequence of aggressive action by men who didn’t intend to kill him. His medical condition was triggered by their acts, making them responsible for his death.

  I’m certain the FBI agents saw themselves as protecting their country from an enemy as real as Nazi Germany. Special Agent Lindsay Boyce was right. It was a tragedy. But Paul Weaver was just as dead as if he’d faced a firing squad. The man who dreamed of being an architect, of building things in this world, who studied under Buckminster Fuller, was undone by that world. A world of spies and secrets. A world at war in a new way, a cold war where friend and foe were often indiscernible from each other.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me that Paul Weaver, World War II veteran, holocaust liberator, and crusader for equal justice had been killed by his own government, the government he fought to defend. His wound might not have been as visible as my amputated leg, but walking is secondary to breathing, and his military service had cost him his breath and thereby his life. No, Paul Weaver wasn’t a typical murder victim, and the solution to his case wasn’t easily presented to our client. After nearly seventy years, what was to be gained by opening the scars of old wounds from the past? God knows, we were creating enough new ones.

  But, Nakayla and I had an obligation to Violet Baker to tell her the truth. That didn’t mean I had to like it.

  I opened our office door, ready to share the story of my encounter with the FBI and to seek Nakayla’s counsel on how to best present our findings to Violet Baker.

  Violet was there, sitting on the sofa with papers spread on the coffee table in front of her. For a second, my mind shut down. Had she heard I’d been to the FBI? Was she here expecting a report?

  Nakayla rose from one of the leather chairs and turned to face me. Blue scrambled to his feet and hurried to greet me.

  “You okay, Sam?” Nakayla asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No ghost. I’m fine. I was just trying to walk and think at the same time. You know that’s hard for me.”

  Violet laughed politely. Nakayla gave a slight nod, her back to our client, and her expression telling me she knew something was wrong, but she wasn’t going to inquire.

  “You won’t believe what Violet uncovered,” Nakayla said.

  “I took the liberty of coming unannounced,” Violet said. “I wanted to show you in person.”

  “Did I miss the presentation?”

  “No,” Nakayla said. “Violet’s only been here a few minutes. Come, sit down.”

  I patted Blue on the head and settled in a chair, grateful not to have to talk about Paul Weaver.

  Violet waved a hand over the papers. “You can look at the numbers, but I’ve found a definite pattern to the occurrence of inflated figures between the two budgets.”

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “All of them are North Carolina vendors. Like the Phillips Building Supplies. Those categories from companies out-of-state, like some specialized camera rig that can’t be rented locally, are entered at the same amounts.”

  “So, you think the accountant is inflating these local companies because they’re giving him a kickback?”

  Violet Baker shook her head. “Not at all. At some point, the movie runs out of money thinking they’re on budget when they’re not. You’re looking at this backwards. The accountant’s not stealing from the movie. The movie is stealing from the state of North Carolina.”

  “Osteen,” I said. “Osteen and the accountant are in it together.”

  Nakayla nodded. “And we should have seen it. Why embezzle money when you can get twenty-five percent back on phantom receipts that never deplete the real budget?”

  “I reviewed the state guidelines,” Violet said. “The rebate is capped at five million dollars, which means any expenses over twenty million don’t qualify. But if the real budget is ten million and Osteen can create phony expenditures adding another ten million, then he’s looking at tapping an extra two and a half million based upon falsified checks and invoices.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “And there’s the stolen construction supplies. I was so taken by Osteen’s rant to the crew that I never considered he could have stolen them himself.”

  “Create a real overage here and there with the money going to a company you’re invested in,” Nakayla said. “And, as Woody Farmer told you, those cost overruns are charged to the actual investors’ rebates. Remember I said I’d investigated a vehicle theft of some of his company trucks? I bet the bastard stole them himself. Now he’s stealing from both the state and his investors.”

  Violet looked a little bewildered at our outburst. “I don’t know about all that, but somebody needs to be made aware of the theft.”

  “I don’t know if any theft of state funds has actually happened yet,” I said. “He might not submit his qualifying expenses until the movie’s finished. An un-submitted audit report isn’t a crime, regardless of how erroneous the figures are. They’re just numbers on a page.”

  “You’re right,” Violet said. “But at some point those numbers do get turned in and the accountant must have had some confidence that they’d be approved. We’re talking about two and a half million dollars potentially paid on inflated invoices and doctored bank statements.”

  “Any ideas?” I asked Violet. “What would you do if you were this accountant?”

  “Make sure no one else would cross-check these figures.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Here’s the par
agraph in the guidelines that caught my eye. She read aloud:

  “The general procedures outlined in these Guidelines are intended to be applied consistently to all projects. Significant deviations in procedure should occur only when, in the exercise of discretion and considering the particular and unusual circumstances, the Secretary concludes that the best interest of the State and the purpose of the Program will be advanced. Such deviations should be noted when they occur.”

  “Who’s ‘the Secretary’?” I asked.

  “The Secretary of Commerce. The rebates are really grants that he or she approves. The Secretary can deviate from the guidelines and the language says deviations should be noted, not must be noted.”

  “You’re saying the Secretary of Commerce is in on the conspiracy?”

  “No,” Violet said. “You asked me what would I do if I were the accountant. Well, I would make sure the Secretary of Commerce would have my audit approved without review. Make sure it was rubber-stamped.”

  “We’re moving into powerful political waters,” I said.

  “But it’s a conspiracy that’s responsible for two deaths,” Nakayla said. “The Secretary is just as culpable as anyone else in the scheme.”

  “Secretary Lanier Hudson,” Violet said. “I looked him up online. And I looked up Arnold Osteen. Did you know they both went to Chapel Hill the same years and were in the same fraternity?”

  I looked at Nakayla. “She’s making us look bad.”

  The octogenarian wasn’t finished. “You didn’t tell me the accountant’s name but I read it on one of the documents. Guess how he’s tied in?”

  I threw up my hands. “Don’t tell me he was in the same fraternity.”

  “No. He’s the Secretary’s brother-in-law.”

  “But how do we get to them?” Nakayla asked. “We have no admissible evidence and even what we have isn’t incriminating if it hasn’t been filed.”

  “You could wait till the report is submitted and approved,” Violet said. “There is a provision for public review of any grant-distribution.”

  I shook my head. “Two people are dead. I don’t want to wait for some paper trail. What if they get cold feet and don’t submit? What proof do we have then?”

  I stood and started pacing. “Nancy Pellegatti must have had more than just Harlan’s photographs of the construction materials to be so brazenly gunned down.”

  “Like what?” Nakayla asked.

  “Like she came across some doctored invoices. Saw the inflated figures and confronted Raymond Braxton. Maybe even Osteen. Remember, he’s the one who called Marty Kolsrud into a meeting at his house which left Nancy alone.”

  “So, if she did have documents, the killer must have taken them,” Nakayla said.

  I stopped pacing. “Or Newly missed them.” I looked at the copies Nakayla had printed from my phone photos. “Violet, can I see the invoices from Phillips Building Supplies, the original and the one made out for twice the amount?”

  Violet sorted through the papers. Nakayla eyed me skeptically.

  “Here they are,” Violet said. “Somebody did a good job doctoring them.”

  “That’s what I want to analyze,” I lied. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run to an appointment.”

  Nakayla’s skepticism turned to a scowl. I think she suspected what I was up to.

  “Thanks, Violet,” I said. “You’re the best detective in the room. Keep Nakayla on her toes.”

  I went to my office, slid the unfolded invoices into a manila envelope, and headed to see Woody Farmer.

  ***

  He came to the back door with a thick biography of Churchill in his hand. The history buff, I recalled. He wasn’t happy to see me again. I think he hoped our relationship was history.

  “Is your wife here?” I asked.

  “Yes. Mickey’s on the phone with our daughter in California.”

  “Good. I need you to let me into the guesthouse.”

  Farmer stepped back. “I don’t know if I should do that.”

  “Are the police still holding the scene?”

  “No. They released it yesterday afternoon, but someone from the movie is supposed to come and get her things.”

  “Right. And you know I’m helping the police. I think they might have missed something. You’re welcome to call Detective Newly if you like, but I’m trying to be discreet here. You know I’ve found out some things that I’m withholding from the police because they have no bearing on the case and could only embarrass someone.”

  Farmer understood I was leveraging his investor status to force his cooperation.

  “All right,” he said gruffly. “Let me get the key.”

  He opened the guesthouse door and walked inside. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something she might have brought from her office. You can go back to your book. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.” I stepped aside to clear the path to the door.

  Farmer looked unhappy but he left.

  I pulled the manila envelope from the small of my back where I’d tucked it under my shirt and waistband. I needed to get those doctored invoices into the investigation without revealing we’d broken into Braxton’s desk. If they were found with Pellegatti’s things, then the police would have cause to question their discrepancy. I knew I was planting evidence, but I only wanted the police to have cause to seek a warrant for a legitimate search of Braxton’s office.

  I needed to find a hiding place that the police could have overlooked and then call Newly to say I’d found them. But the living room was nicely but sparsely furnished. A multi-colored sofa sat against the long wall. A wooden coffee table was in front of it. A rug was rolled up and tucked against the base of the sofa. I assumed it probably had borne the brunt of the bloodstains.

  A writing desk was in the far corner at the end of the sofa. A bookshelf was built into the right half of the short wall that stretched from the desk to a flight of six stairs going up to the next level.

  I considered hiding the invoices between larger volumes on the shelf, but the placement wasn’t ideal. Would that be the kind of location she’d choose? It sounded like from Roland Cassidy’s ten o’clock conversation with Pellegatti, she was going to talk to me the next day. If she had documents, I’d argue she planned to show them to me. Hiding them in some old book seemed extreme. If she thought she was in such danger, why did she let someone in so late at night?”

  I went up the stairs to the bath and bedroom. Her makeup case was still on the vanity and a toothbrush stood bristles up in a cup. I turned into the bedroom. It was a good size with a double bed with a high wooden headboard, nightstands on either side, and a small Persian rug on the dark hardwood floor. A dresser with a brass lamp and decorative bowl stood against the wall opposite the foot of the bed.

  That was where I saw it. A stack of light green copy paper. Nancy Pellegatti had a shooting script in her bedroom. I could place the invoices within the body of the script and tell Newly I saw a thin line of white in the green. We could assume she stuck them there, either to hide them or simply to mark a place in the script.

  I stepped to the dresser and lifted the script, ready to thumb about two-thirds of the way through it before inserting my incriminating documents.

  The white pages amid the green were already there. Not just the invoices from Phillips Building Supplies but ones from the temp service and the caterer. Somehow, Nancy Pellegatti had done what Cassidy and I had done, broken into Braxton’s files. She had been there before us.

  I set the script down on the dresser. What was the best path to follow? Now I didn’t need to plant anything. But we needed to link the conspiracy beyond Braxton to Osteen and Secretary of Commerce Lanier Hudson. I’d been around enough Jag prosecutors as a Chief Warrant Officer to know that simply confronting Braxton wouldn’t cut it. He’d claim he didn’t know how the in
voices had been created and he hadn’t authorized any payment of the inflated amounts. We needed a confession at least at Osteen’s level if we stood any chance of wrapping everyone up.

  Osteen wouldn’t confess, not with two murder charges involved. We needed a sting operation and we needed someone who could get to Osteen. I looked at the script on the dresser. Pretend parts played by professionals. I knew the cast we needed. Now I needed an audience.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “I don’t like it.” Newly crossed his arms over his chest as a physical exclamation point to his assessment. He looked at his partner Tuck Efird.

  “If you think it’s such a great idea, why don’t you do it yourself?” Efird asked me.

  The three of us stood in the bedroom of the guesthouse where I’d called them to see the phony invoices hidden in the script.

  “Because I’m not an actor,” I said. “Because I didn’t have a close friendship with Nancy Pellegatti.”

  “But we’ll be putting him in a dangerous spot,” Newly objected. “He’ll need to be wired. And I want eyes on him. You know we don’t have the quality tech gear of the FBI.”

  “What if the FBI were part of the operation?”

  Efird looked incredulous. “Invite the Feds?”

  “Why not? We’re talking about a murder conspiracy that may rise to the highest levels of the executive branch of state government. No disrespect, but who has the better chance of bringing these guys down? The Asheville Police Department or the FBI?”

  “Why not the SBI?” Newly asked.

  “Do you trust the State Bureau of Investigation not to have potential leaks in such a politically charged case? One whiff of our plans and I guarantee you the evidence will disappear.”

  “But what’s the jurisdictional justification for the FBI’s involvement?” Newly asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe RICO charges.” I knew that the federal Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, simply known as RICO, dealt with ongoing criminal organizations. “Maybe RICO can be applied to a department of state government. I’d like to talk to the resident agent, Lindsay Boyce.”