by Dick Yaeger
“I really need to get back to the office.”
He nodded. “I should go also. Have a report to write.”
I pulled a business card from my purse and wrote my home address on the back.
“Here’s my card, Mr. Man-of-Valor. Please keep me posted.”
“Sure.” He took his card from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to me.
I stood, ready to leave, watching him read my card. He turned it over, paused, and looked up at me, his head cocked.
I pushed my chair in. “I’ll be home tonight.”
I opened one eye and peeked from under the covers. O’Farrell was adjusting his tie in my dresser mirror. It’d been some while since Braklin did that.
I think he sensed I was awake. FBI training, I suppose.
“I scrubbed the corners of your shower pan,” he said. “There was some mold.”
Jesus! Did they also teach that? I reckoned a mold-free shower was better than a couple c-notes left on the dresser.
I sat up, holding the sheet over my chest. “Thanks. I was planning to do that later.”
He smiled at me, a lingering smile that made me feel at ease. Despite his mold-scrubbing weirdness, last night was memorable. The thought crossed my mind to ask if he felt the same. A satisfaction survey, however, might characterize our tryst as a purchased service. Doubtless the fungal eradication was an attempt to please me, but guys in the movies customarily made breakfast. If I’d had a pre-coital choice, which would I have preferred?
He slipped on his suit jacket. “I’ll see you later.”
“I hope so.” I was open to a repeat performance but didn’t want to be gushy. I hate gush.
“Me too.”
He paused with another persistent smile and then left.
I sat on the edge of the bed after the outer door closed, mulling over what I’d engineered. If he spent any time in the police office, he’d easily learn of my history with Braklin. Did I care? Probably not, but I didn’t want him to think of me as the department’s Rosie Round-Heels. Anyway, I’d never see him again after he returned to Sacramento. Still, driving a hundred twenty miles for a great romp in the sack wasn’t absurd.
“You look chipper this morning,” Bubba said when I walked into the office an hour later than usual. “Have a good night?”
“I did.” I tried to keep a straight face. Bubba would sense anything abnormal.
He pointed to the Starbucks cup on the reception desk, watching me. “You’ll need to warm that.”
I put it in the microwave, waited for the dings, and sat down.
“Learn anything at the schools?”
“One teacher at Altman thought the shooter’s voice sounded familiar but couldn’t place it. Maybe had a Hispanic accent, but he didn’t say much and then yelled when he did.”
“Not a lot of help.”
“Right, but there was another peculiar thing. Both cameras that could have captured shots of the shooters were not working. One unplugged, the other broken.”
“Explanations?”
“Hell, no one knew they were out of service. Never checked them.”
“Rule it out as coincidence?”
“I should, but it doesn’t feel right. The damaged one was vandalized.”
“Kids?”
“Probably. Didn’t want to get videoed spending a half hour in the cloak room during recess.” He shook his head and sighed. “How about you? Learn anything yesterday?”
“A little.” I filled him in on Braklin’s comments about the Altman shooting, the stupid phone call from Senator Evans, and the help we were getting from the FBI.
“So what’s your first impression of O’Farrell?”
“Uhhh . . . good.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah . . . good. Cooperative. Smart. ” I couldn’t look Bubba straight in the eye.
“Hmmm . . . I guess he’s ‘good’ then,” he said, adding sarcastic air quotes.
I grabbed the coffee and squinted at him from the corner of my eyes. He was grinning. Damn! He knew.
I went into my office.
Sorry for the delay was the subject of an email from Braklin. It had two attachments.
The first was Lenny’s rap sheet—bad-conduct discharge from the army, thirty days for drug possession, two misdemeanors for assault, six months for beating a prostitute with a bottle in a bar fight, and two years for pistol-whipping a guy almost to death. In any state other than California, he’d die in jail. He was a horrid, brutal guy with a bad temper. I wasn’t surprised. My instincts were still right on.
The second attachment was driver’s license copies of the two uninvolved women who fled the school shootings. Both in their twenties. Both San Jose residents. I studied their faces—vaguely familiar. I enlarged the pictures side-by-side and probed my memory. A chill ran across my shoulders.
“Bubba,” I yelled. “Come in here.”
For such a huge guy, it was amazing how fast and fluid he moved.
I pointed at my screen. “These two yahoos were at the shootings. Guess where else they were?”
“Where?”
“At a gun-control protest led by Leonard Guillory yesterday.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there. On my way to Henry’s. Guadalupe River Park. I stopped to jerk his chain. He fingered me and everyone looked. Jesus, Bub, they were right in front of me.”
“This is big, Hunt. It links Lenny to the shootings.”
“I knew it.” I slapped the desk. “I fucking knew it.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s think this through.” He sat down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
I pulled a pad of paper and a pen from my desk drawer and looked at the Wild Turkey. Shit. Only nine thirty.
“The first wicket is whether we tell the police.”
I wrote it down. “I wish I’d taken a picture.”
“Braklin will believe you.”
As my blood pressure dropped, more issues became clear. “Our duty’s to our client. We should concentrate on who killed Jenny.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you, Hunt, but there’s a bigger picture. The probability of another shooting is high.” He bit his lower lip. “We can’t dawdle.”
He was right. He always was.
“We know Lenny didn’t do the second shooting,” he went on. “Are we sure about the first?”
“He’s certainly capable.” I brought up Lenny’s sheet on the screen. “Look.”
Bubba leaned on my desk and read. “Okay. He’s a bad guy, but what’s his motive? What’s in it for him?”
“The fun. Power. Control. He gets his rocks off doing it. Maybe his mother spanked him too much when he was a kid.”
“No, I disagree again. It’s not a spontaneous act of rage. It’s too well done, too organized.”
“Guillory’s an asshole.” I really wanted him to be the first shooter. “O’Farrell said different guns were used, which suggests different trigger men.”
I went to the fridge and opened a bottle of Bubba’s Cranapple juice, debating whether to spike it with bourbon.
“The cops won’t focus on Horowitz’s need,” I argued. “They’ll scoop up the whole bunch, have a celebration, and go on to the next job.”
“All right, then.” He held his breath for a moment. “If we assume Lenny’s the first shooter and concentrate on him, it has to be fast. We can’t delay bringing in the cops.”
“It’s a short fuse, but possible.”
“How?”
“Get to know him. Encourage him to let his defenses down. Get in his pants.”
“I hope you don’t mean that literally.”
“Of course not, but if it’s the last resort, I’ll grit my teeth.” Would I? I’d never been in that position. Had I become obsessed with this case? If so, why?
He stared at me in a disapproving manner that made me feel small. “Is it Anastasia?”
“What?”
“Your little sister, Anastasia. You never talk about
her.”
I ignored him.
“Your instincts are usually right on, Hunt, but I wonder if her death is influencing your objectivity in this case?”
I didn’t need this. “Give me forty-eight hours. If I haven’t nailed Lenny to the cross by then, we’ll bring in the cops.”
“Okay, but you two didn’t hit it off when we met at Jacob’s barbeque.”
“Yeah, but I think that changed yesterday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In a moment of hubris, I endorsed his anti-gun agenda at that protest.”
A smile washed over Bubba’s face. “Time for Sara Ward to go deeper undercover?”
“Yup, and I know how.”
While Bubba listened in, I called Senator Evans’ number and gave my name to his secretary.
“Sara, this is a nice surprise,” he said seconds later.
“I’ve had a cancellation, Senator. I can do a couple hours a day if that helps.”
“That’s wonderful. It helps indeed.”
“I’m curious, however, Senator.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You never asked about my experience or qualifications. Do you always hire people on a whim?”
“Quite the contrary. My chief of staff checked you out thoroughly before I called earlier.”
Bubba frowned. I braced myself. Was he going to blow my cover?
“I know you’ve had a rough life,” he continued, “with even some minor altercations with the law. But you seemed to have righted your ship, and I’m the kind of man who believes hard workers who need a second chance and toe the line require support.”
Wow. Had I misjudged this guy?
“Thank you, then. When should I start?”
“Nine tomorrow morning okay? I’ll get approval from my wife—her name is Maria—but I’m sure she’ll agree. She occupies the suite next to mine at 2800 Bellman Road.”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Guess you’re gonna have to brush up on your bookkeeping,” Bubba said when I hung up.
“It’s just math. How hard can it be?”
I stood in my closet the next morning, unclear what to wear to my new job. I should look professional, but also wanted to hook Lenny if he swam close by, even if I suspected he’d be attracted to any bait with boobs and a heartbeat. I chuckled at my metaphoric image and selected an Ann Taylor pants suit—my light blue one—and a cream tie-neck top. With my hair in a bun and large horn-rimmed glasses—some magnification helped when I read a lot—Sara Ward, undercover bookkeeper, was ready to go to work.
2800 Bellman Road was a new twelve-floor office building. Senator Evans’ corner suite of offices was on the top floor overlooking the tenth-largest city in the United States and much of Silicon Valley. The frosted door adjacent to his said The Evans Agency in large bold letters. Below was Cal Trabajo Placements, and 9 am–1 pm., M-F. I guess they wanted to perfect their golf game in the afternoons.
“Sara Ward to see Mrs. Evans,” I said to the young Hispanic receptionist, handing her my business card. It read only Sara Ward, Bookkeeper, with a phone number.
“She’s expecting you, Miss Ward.” She got up from her chair, knocked twice on a nearby door, and pushed it open.
I’d forgotten how attractive Maria Evans was. She’d been a runner-up to Miss California and a popular fashion model before becoming eye candy for Blake Evans’ campaign. Her subtle Hispanic features and fluent Spanish were huge assets in a district with thirty percent Hispanic or Latino voters. Her makeup was perfect and her clothes belonged in Burberry’s window.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, holding out her hand. “Blake thinks our books may have been corrupted, and believes you’re just right to fix the problem. I’m such a dunce when it comes to arithmetic.”
“The senator said my work was for you, not him.”
“Yes. It’s the books for Cal Trabajo.”
“What does Cal Trabajo do?”
“We’re an employment agency for indigent people, often Spanish-speakers. Low-key positions like janitors, gardeners, cooks, construction. If they’re new to the US, we teach them a little English and help them navigate the system. We try to keep them off welfare and off the streets.”
“Illegals?”
“We don’t ask. If they want to work hard, it’s our mission to help each become productive and support their families.”
“I understand.” My first impression was that this was a good woman. I wasn’t a fan of illegal immigration, but it’s difficult to report or turn away a guy who follows the rules and tries to better himself.
“So what’s the suspected problem with your books?”
“I fired our bookkeeper.”
“Why?”
“She was stealing from me.”
“How’d you discover that?”
“We began getting deliveries of unnecessary office supplies—printers, computers, et cetera—and I asked her to investigate.”
“Did she?”
“She said she returned them. Later, I followed up with the store who confirmed it, but I couldn’t find any entries in our journals.”
“Sounds like you did the right thing.”
She showed me a cubicle and gave me a sheet of paper with the computer’s password and a list of file locations.
“An unrelated question,” I said, “if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“Leonard Guillory works for your husband, correct?”
“He does.” She frowned. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not really. An odd fellow. I wondered what he did for the senator.”
The frown deepened. “I’m not sure. Part gofer, part bodyguard, I think.” Our eyes met. “Quite frankly, I don’t like him.”
I smiled and nodded.
Sitting down at the desk, I reminded myself to stay focused. This job was a ruse to get closer to Lenny and engage him. Time spent poring over Cal Trabajo’s spreadsheets compromised that goal. I selected the expense file where many businesses bend the rules. It didn’t take long to find the alleged charges for needless office supplies and the absence of return credits, all from the same store. I’d seen this once before—a simple scam, but it required an accomplice. Stores always credit to the same source as the sale, so it had to be an inside job. The store employee logged in the return, but manipulated it to return the money as cash or to another credit card, probably for a cut of the booty.
As I scanned the records, I found other questionable expenses. I smirked at some, but others hinted at money laundering. Was my initial assessment of Maria wrong? I made a mental note to investigate tomorrow. The hands on my watch pointed straight up, signaling an end to my first glorious part-time workday.
Leaving, I said to Maria, “I believe losses from your ex-bookkeeper are legitimate write-offs for tax purposes. However, you should follow up with the store. Tell them they have a crook in their house and you’ll never use them again.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll do as you suggest.”
“There are some other transactions that need scrutiny. I’d like to spend some more time tomorrow.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Of course. What is the problem?”
“For one, I noticed excessive charges for clothes that seemed unusual for an employment agency.”
“Yes. Many clients are poor, and require help with their appearance before an interview.”
“From Prada, Burberry, and Versace?”
“Well . . . I—”
“Look. I’m just warning you that those are red flags for any auditor.”
In the rare times I browsed those grottos of extravagance, I failed to find anything likeable, but I was likely a little jealous that she frequented them. Nevertheless, I left her to deliberate her behavior, and stopped next door at Senator Evans’ office.
“Is Leonard around?” I asked the receptionist, not planning to talk with him. Our next encounter needed to appear acciden
tal.
“I think he went to lunch.”
“Do you know where?”
“I work for Senator Evans, not him,” she scoffed.
It appeared that Lenny’s fan club needed a membership drive.
In the parking lot, I grabbed a coat from my car. The November air was nippy, and the cloudless sky offered no hint that rain would ease California’s drought. I lit a smoke, leaned against my car, and closed my eyes to let the sun warm my face. I liked Maria, and hoped the issues in her books wouldn’t change the feeling.
“Bookkeepers don’t drive Jaguars,” someone said.
I opened my eyes, looking into the sun at a blurred image, shading my eyes with a hand. Lenny.
Was I taller than him?
“You believe bookkeeping is my only job?” I replied caustically. “Shit, it can barely pay my bar tab.” I enjoyed slipping into Sara Ward’s snotty, slutty avatar, often wondering if it was the real me.
“You look different than at yesterday’s rally . . . more sophisticated . . . prettier.”
Thank you, Ann Taylor. Who needs Burberry?
“Rally?” I snickered through my best condescending expression. “You call that cluster-fuck of brainless pigeons a rally?”
Was confrontational and aloofness the best attitude to use with this guy? The alternative was cutesy, and I was better with the former. Regardless, I’d soon find out.
He started to say something, but I cut him off. “For Christ’s sake, it’s the same bunch I saw you with a few days ago.” I paused for effect. “Pitiful.”
“Yeah, well, I bet you couldn’t do better.”
Snappy comeback . . . for a kindergartener. “Most assuredly, but why would I want to waste my time?”
“You sounded in favor of gun control yesterday.”
“I see the benefits, but have better things to do with my life.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back again.
He cleared his throat and didn’t leave. Good sign.
“You should come to our next campaign meeting.”
I didn’t respond. Aloofness was winning.
“It’s tomorrow during lunch. Noon in the senator’s campaign headquarters.”
“Don’t wait to start if I’m not there.”