“For what?”
But Carl just shook his head. “You know? I think it’s time for you to go home now. I don’t want you around when Frances gets here. Let’s concentrate on the fracking bill.”
Vic nodded and picked up his coat, glad to escape his boss’s maelstrom. For now.
• • •
Carl had a third drink, but the typical numbness that alcohol brought didn’t work. He stalked into his office, a chic arrangement of Euro desk, chairs, and abstract art on the walls that never failed to impress his shitty little clients from third world countries. That was the point, wasn’t it? Look like you had the world by the balls. No problems. Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a few hundred thousand.
His cell chirped. “Baldwin here . . .” He listened. “Good evening, Congressman Hyde. I was just talking about you with Vic. We’re ready to draft your legislation on fracking.”
He listened again. “Why not? I thought that was something you wanted to roll out as soon as possible.”
Carl stared at the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Really? You have a shot at replacing the attorney general? No shit. That’s terrific! What can we do to help?” He wet his lips with his tongue. “I see. Well, sure. We’ll wait to see what the subcommittee decides. When do you see that happening?” He paused. “Well, good luck, sir. I know you’ll be a fine addition to the cabinet.”
When the conversation was over Carl threw his cell on his desk and gulped the rest of the whiskey.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I didn’t want my mother to hire you,” Jeff Baldwin said to Georgia the next morning. They were seated across his desk at the foundation.
“And that’s because . . .” Georgia thought she knew what he was going to say and wished he’d get on with it. She’d done a background check on him last night and found out about the heroin, the dealing, the prison in California.
Jeffrey was wearing a black turtleneck and denims, the Jobsian uniform of the successful modern executive, but his dark eyes spoke worry. He didn’t look as confident as he had the first time she met him. He also had a habit of dipping his head and pulling on his earlobe. Did he pick that up in prison? An effort to literally keep his head down?
“I thought we could handle everything. There wasn’t much to handle, actually. Just grieve and get over it.”
Harsh words for his only sister, Georgia thought as she glanced out the window. Freezing rain had washed away some of the snow, exposing the weary dregs of winter in Chicago.
“What about the beef jerky email? Don’t you want to know who’s behind it?”
“Of course. But it seemed far-fetched to me that a PI could discover what the police and FBI couldn’t.” The undercurrent in his tone implied Georgia wasn’t up to his standards.
He went on. “We did upgrade our security systems. That’s why I needed to make the flash drive for you, as it happens.”
“Okay,” she said. “So, you didn’t want me around. What changed?”
“The thirty grand that’s missing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We had a bookkeeper at the foundation. Iris. She’d been with us since the beginning. Dena hired her. Then about six months ago she told us the books weren’t adding up.”
“What was her explanation?”
“At first she said she didn’t know and put it down to petty cash. It was only a couple hundred. Someone forgot to submit an invoice or something. Then I took a closer look. Of course, I suspected her.”
“Why?”
“Because accountants and bookkeepers know all the tricks to hide embezzlement.”
“And you would know.”
Jeff’s face turned crimson, and his lips parted. He dipped his head and tugged on his ear. “When did you find out?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She was stretching the truth a bit, but he didn’t have to know.
He looked up at her. “I didn’t take the money.”
“And I should believe you because . . .”
“Think about it. Under the circumstances, I would be the first suspect, right?”
“Yep.”
He sat up. “My mother was the person who pulled me through prison. She never gave up. She sacrificed her time and money—and love—to get me straightened out. Visiting every few weeks; bringing me books; urging me to take online courses. I owe her everything. And with Dena gone, there’s no way I would do this to her.”
Georgia almost believed him. If he was innocent, he’d bend over backward to prove it.
“That’s why I’ve been scrupulous in going over the books.”
“And?”
Jeff settled back in his chair, swiveled toward the window, then back toward her. “Apparently Iris and Dena had an argument about six months ago. I was on vacation that week. Actually I was in Vallejo seeing my parole officer. When I got back, Iris was gone.”
Georgia tilted her head. “Did she quit or was she fired?”
“Dena said she fired her because of the financial discrepancies. At the time I’d just come on board and had no reason to doubt her. Dena knew I’d been doing inventory for the warden and asked me to take over. I said sure.” He gave Georgia a one-sided smile. “Yeah. Shawshank Redemption. That was me.”
“Anyway, it seemed like the perfect solution, and a good way for me to learn the foundation’s business.
“That’s when the discrepancies became more obvious. We’re not a big organization. Only about four or five on staff. Except for the scholarships and stipends we award, our budget is fairly consistent. But gradually our expenses went up. A thousand here, two grand there.” He shifted. “When I started reviewing the actual invoices, I found it.”
“Found what?”
“Dena was cooking the books. She submitted invoices from fake consultants and service providers, then pocketed the money.” He rolled back his chair, opened a drawer, and pulled out a manila folder. “It’s all in here.”
“Did you confront her?”
Again he nodded.
“And?”
“At first she denied it, but when I showed her the invoices, she said she needed the money for her activist group. She said bringing down a president was more important than balancing a P&L.”
Georgia had been wondering where Dena got the money to plan demonstrations, buy signage and supplies, promote the event, and all the other tasks that an emerging political movement required. “So it wasn’t for her personal use.”
Jeff shot her a glance that was just short of indignant. “My sister was nothing if not committed. She didn’t need any money for herself. She had access to her trust fund. Our grandfather set them up for us both. I’m sure she dipped into hers, too.”
“May I see the files?”
Jeff handed them over. Georgia scanned through them. About two dozen invoices, some from Curtis Dixon, the boyfriend Georgia had interviewed yesterday, for political consultation. There were also two in the name of Ruth Marriotti, for services provided. Georgia’s eyebrows rose. “What happened when you showed these to your mother?”
He slacked in his chair. “I haven’t. Yet.”
“Why not?”
“In her eyes Dena could do no wrong. I’m the official black sheep of the family.”
“You think she’d blame you? After all she did for you while you were in prison?”
“I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“But you’d take the fall for your sister? And risk that you’d be blamed for embezzling money? Maybe even thrown back into prison?”
“That’s why I decided we didn’t need you.”
“Because you thought I’d persuade your mother you were the criminal.”
“My mother’s been through enough.”
“If you ended up back inside, your mother would be left with no one.”
“I know. That’s why I changed my mind. I trust my mother. And she seems to trust you.”
“So you want me to tell your mother Dena stole
the money?”
Jeffrey swiveled nervously in the chair, but his tormented expression told Georgia she was right. She was flummoxed. She didn’t know whether Jeffrey was a masochist, an expert manipulator, or the prodigal son. In other words, did he take after his father or his mother?
“Are you still in contact with your father?” she asked.
“No one is. Anymore.”
“What about Jarvis? Did you know him?”
“Of course not. I never heard his name until Dena was killed.”
Georgia sat back in her chair. “You know I’m going to check this out with Iris.”
“I’ll give you her number. I’d like her to come back anyway.”
“You’ll have to do that yourself.” Georgia stood up. “But I’ll report to your mom and tell her about these.” She handed the files back to Jeffrey and looked around his office. “Could I have a quick tour of the place? I was in a hurry the other day, but I have a little more time today.”
“Sure.” It wasn’t a smile, but he seemed pleased that she’d asked.
There were only four offices, each off the same hall. Two were unoccupied and empty. Georgia ducked her head into the third office, which Jeffrey said had been Iris’s. She did the same with the fourth, now occupied by a researcher who checked out potential grant recipients. Then she went into Dena’s office. The furnishings were what she expected. A clean black lacquer desk, executive chair, black lacquer table in the corner, and empty bookshelves, except for one photograph. It was a shot of Dena with her father. They were on a sailboat, and she was hoisting the sail up the mast. The shot managed to capture a bright sun, a blue Lake Michigan, and an even bluer sky. Her father stood in the background, hands on hips, a broad smile on his face.
Jeff, who had come in behind her, followed her gaze to the photo. “You know the story about the prodigal son, right?”
Georgia turned around. “Of course.”
“You know who probably convinced the father to forgive his son?”
“Tell me.”
“A grateful mother.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Georgia fished out her key and unlocked the door to her apartment. She was greeted with deep silence. No coos or cries of an infant, or the sound of Vanna cooking, rocking, or feeding. All she heard was the occasional tick of the heating system. She stood beside the door for nearly a minute, then checked the spare room. The crib, diaper stand, and even the mobile were gone, along with Vanna and Charlie. The apartment no longer felt cramped, albeit in a cozy sort of way. Now it had never looked larger. Or lonelier. She blinked away something wet and forced her thoughts back to the Baldwin case.
If Dena Baldwin had been siphoning money away from the family foundation to finance the ResistanceUSA movement, Georgia would have to press Ruth Marriotti about it. Had Dena paid her a salary? Is that why Ruth was so hardworking and loyal? And what about Curt Dixon? Was he on the payroll too? Or did Dena dummy up the invoices without their knowledge?
Georgia sat down at her tiny kitchen table, trying to rationalize Dena’s behavior. Money was the best way to motivate people to do a job. And starting a political movement required a lot of people to handle a lot of tasks. But she couldn’t ignore the dark side: money could persuade people to act against their better instincts. And it could be used for bribes, threats, and kickbacks, which, in some hands, was another way of saying extortion.
Whatever her reasons, Dena was clearly more of a schemer than Georgia had expected. Like her father. Maybe she was more like him than she would have wanted to admit. By the same token, Jeff was looking more like the true prodigal son. She grabbed some cheese from the fridge, topped it on a cracker, and wolfed it down. She hadn’t eaten since last night at Mickey’s.
She was reaching for her laptop when she realized it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. She’d left it on her kitchen table. Now it was on the counter. She froze. Slowly she turned to gaze at her living room. The cushions on the sofa had been tampered with as well. She’d left them in disarray; now they were evenly plumped. She went into her bedroom. Her closet door was open. She knew she’d closed it. She always did. Someone had been inside her home.
She backtracked to her computer. It was on, but that wasn’t unusual. She opened the folder she’d created for the Baldwin case and scanned the dates and times the files had last been accessed. Sure enough, someone had been through most of her documents in the past half hour. Who? What did they want? How did they get into her apartment? She shivered. A sense of violation was worse when you didn’t know who was behind it. She called Jimmy and left him a voice mail to call ASAP.
As creepy and disturbing as the break-in was, Georgia had to admit that whoever was behind it would be disappointed. Her results so far were insignificant. As soon as she untangled one knot, a twist of the rope revealed another. Money, family feuds, and politics had coalesced into a sticky wad of uncertainty. Unless her skill as an investigator was slipping. Maybe she wasn’t up to the job. All she had done was retrace the FBI’s work. Break-in or not, she needed a new approach.
She went to the window in her kitchen and looked out. The single mother across the street, whose kids always left their trikes and toys strewn across the lawn, was dragging two garbage cans to the curb. Half a block away, the sanitation truck announced its arrival with its shrill belches of brakes and hoots. The mailman in his boxy truck would soon pass by. Everyone had their routines. A man came out of the house across the street to help the woman with the recycling bins. Did she have a new boyfriend? Or was he a relative, maybe a brother? Georgia straightened. She had an idea.
• • •
She met Erica Baldwin that afternoon at her Glencoe home and told her what she’d learned from Jeff. Erica was silent. Georgia wondered if Erica had always known—or suspected—in a dark corner of her mind, that Dena was as flawed as the rest of the family. She was about to ask Erica whether she was okay, when Erica said, “So Jeff had nothing to do with it?”
“I need to talk to Iris, but it doesn’t look like it.”
Georgia saw Erica’s relief, the loosening of tension. “And, Erica, I need a different approach to the case. I want to find out more about Jarvis.”
“Why?” Erica asked. “What do you hope to get?”
“Maybe a connection to Dena. Maybe not.”
“The FBI didn’t think there was one.”
“I know.” She took a breath. “He has a sister.”
“Right. I saw her on the news.”
“I’m sure the FBI has already talked to her, but I think it’s worth a shot.”
“But what about the forty thousand members of Dena’s group? Wouldn’t they be more important?”
“I have a team of computer geeks working on that. They’re doing criminal background checks. But it’s going to take a while to get the results.”
“Just background checks?” Erica fingered her necklace, a gold chain with a pear-shaped diamond at her throat. “What if it’s someone—I don’t know—crazy as a loon, but hasn’t got a record.”
“There’s always a chance that someone could slip through the cracks. But remember, we’ve been looking for a needle in a haystack since we started. In the meantime, maybe I’ll discover Jarvis was clearly acting alone. At this point we just don’t know.”
“Well, if you think it’s important . . .” Erica let her voice trail off, clearly indicating she wasn’t convinced.
“I do.” Georgia felt like a kid who crosses her fingers, hoping she’s telling the truth.
“By the way, I have to tell you something else.” She filled Erica in on the break-in at her apartment. And the guy on the motorcycle who’d tailed her.
“Do you think it’s connected to the case?”
Georgia shook her head. “I don’t know. But you can bet I plan to find out. In the meantime, be careful. If they’re breaking into my place, they’re likely stalking you too. Your husband and Jeffrey as well.”
Erica swallowed. “We’ve b
eefed up our security so much I don’t know what more we can do. Do you think we need bodyguards?”
“I can’t answer that. Ask Paul Kelly what he thinks.”
Erica squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh God. I wish this was over. I want my life back.”
“I get it.” Georgia gave her a sympathetic smile. Now was not the time to tell Erica that her life, even when she got it back, would never be the same.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Five Months Before the Demonstration
“We have to take a stand,” Dena said. “Fracking is the most destructive way to find new energy.” It was late afternoon on a late summer day in September. She, Ruth, Curt, and DJ squeezed into a booth at The Barracks, a Rogers Park tavern. The Barracks, and the ex-military crowd who frequented it, had seen better days. The tavern was known for its cheap pitchers of beer and buffalo wings between four and six, which was how it managed to keep its doors open. The customers were known for downing prodigious amounts of alcohol, raucous talk, and the occasional brawl. Dena had dared them to meet here to “fraternize with the enemy,” she joked.
“Who knows? Maybe we’ll convert one or two of them.” She’d laughed.
“You’re right about fracking, of course.” Ruth looked around uneasily. “But if we take on other issues that aren’t Resistance-related, we dilute our message. We’re here to get the asshole out of office and restore our democracy. That’s our voice. Our strength.”
“Our unique selling proposition, as the ad guys say.” DJ nodded. “People know what they’re gonna get when they join ResistanceUSA.”
The waitress arrived with a pitcher and glasses, and Curt poured everyone beer. “They’ve got a point, Dena.”
Dena’s lips tightened into a stubborn line. “We’re not one-dimensional dummies. Just because we’re dedicated to one issue doesn’t mean we can’t speak out on another. What was that Tom Hanks movie? The one about the band with only one hit record?”
High Crimes Page 10