by Rachel Ford
Harlow blinked, then nodded. “We will. And – well, I’m sorry about your agent. This case…I know your presence put up a few backs. But, you should know, we’re on this a hundred percent.”
Alfred shot him a wary glance. Ten seconds earlier, the other man had been trying to insinuate he had something to do with the killing.
Harlow seemed to read his mind, because he flashed an almost apologetic smile. “I have to ask questions, even the ugly ones.”
Alfred nodded. “Ask away. Then let’s get this piece of refuse.”
Chapter Eleven
Special Agent Rodriquez had been killed at approximately five-thirty in the evening, two days earlier. He’d already been dead for over twelve hours when he missed his first day of work. He’d been dead for about forty hours by time Alfred found him.
The medical examiner could piece together an approximate hour of death based on the condition of the body, but the digital forensic team helped narrow it further. Rodriguez had logged onto his computer at twenty-two minutes after five on the evening of his death. He’d sent two emails, one at five twenty-nine, and one at five thirty-three. Fifteen minutes later, his computer went into sleep mode, putting an end to all passive and active internet traffic. Since he was found dead at his computer, they speculated that his time of death was somewhere between five thirty-three – the last email – and five forty-eight – the last traffic his computer sent.
The narrowed window helped Alfred establish his alibi almost immediately. He and Nance had been at dinner. They’d got to the restaurant just before half after five, where they’d remained for a good hour longer. Between the receipt and the restaurant’s security camera footage, the taxman was in the clear. Which meant he could get to work on the case immediately.
Ironically, Agent Dixon’s clearance took a little while longer. He’d picked up out takeout and gone home after work. The takeout receipt put him in the drive through at eighteen after five, but that left plenty of time to get to Rodriguez’s house and kill him. Dixon’s alibi was his wife, but Mrs. Dixon couldn’t remember when her husband got home. She couldn’t say if it had been before five thirty or after. She only knew that it had been before the six o’clock news, because they ate and watched that together.
The process might have dragged out longer, until she remembered, “He pulled in right as my sister called me. I had to tell her I’d call back, because we had dinner.” And though Mrs. Dixon couldn’t say when her sister had called, her phone could: twenty-four minutes after five.
Which meant that – as Chief Harlow put it – “provided Mrs. Dixon is to be believed, her husband couldn’t have been the killer either, because he was home eating dinner.”
Director Caspersen let the remark slide. She was getting what she wanted – her agent back on the case. And despite his brusque manner, Harlow had begun to show a more cooperative side. Alfred had first seen it in his interview with the other man, but he observed it in the chief’s interactions with her too.
Whatever their quarrel about jurisdiction, they were both on the same team. And someone had just murdered a member of that team. That took precedence.
The first order of business was bringing Harlow’s men – and Alfred – into the loop. “We were looking into Donaldson’s consulting businesses. He’s run dozens over the years, and he’s got – or, had – seven separate companies or PAC’s and super PAC’s operational now.”
Harlow shook his head. “In English. What the hell’s a PAC?”
“Political Action Committee. There’s rules around which ones can coordinate with and donate to the candidate, and which ones can raise unlimited money and which ones are limited, and so on. But that’s more Dixon and Favero’s wheelhouse. Where it gets interesting for all of us is that Donaldson’s fingerprints are all over three PACs, two of which are super PAC’s, supporting Governor Johnson.”
The police chief exchanged glances with a few of his detectives. “I see.”
Caspersen nodded. “Which means this case has the potential to get political quickly.”
“Which is why we need to get ahead of it, as soon as possible. These PAC’s, tell me about them.”
So Caspersen did. Only one of the three, the regular PAC, explicitly aligned with Governor Hitt. It was the governor’s official political action committee, and while it regularly contracted with Donaldson’s enterprises, he had no leadership role within it. The two super PAC’s, though, were another matter. They’d both been given fanciful monikers evoking revolutionary patriots and freedom from tyranny. Neither seemed to have done anything particularly revolutionary, though.
The first had formed shortly before the governor’s pre-primary exploratory committee, a good three years earlier. The primary field at the time had been packed, and Hitt was but one of nine candidates. Once Hitt announced, the super PAC raised and spent a good deal of money attacking his opponents. “Hitt started as the longshot, and the underdog,” Caspersen said. “At the time, Abe Dalton was considered the shoo-in. He had the party’s backing, and all the right ties.”
Alfred only vaguely remembered any of this. He wasn’t a political buff by any stretch of the imagination. He wasn’t a Democrat, and he wasn’t a Republican. He paid enough attention each election cycle to figure out who he’d vote for, and that was it. He had voted against Hitt in the general, though he’d had no particular love of his opponent either. He’d just cast his ballot for the least smarmy and corrupt of the two. American Democracy at its finest.
But as he didn’t belong to either party, he hadn’t cast a vote in the primary, or even paid much attention to it. So he listened attentively now, and he had the feeling that he wasn’t the only one in the room for whom this was all new.
“Then Dalton had that health scare – you remember? Anyway, he stepped out of the race about a week before the primary. That left Hitt and three other candidates. Van Hollen, Raine, Brooks and Avery had already conceded by then.
“Billings had never even bothered to show up to a debate, Edgerton had the child support thing, and Bryce got a DUI two days before the election.”
Alfred did remember that, and he shook his head. One of the officers said, “That’s right. He blew up at the arresting officer, didn’t he?”
“Yes. And it was all on tape, so you can imagine how that went over with the police union.
“In the end, Hitt was the last man standing. Donaldson’s super PAC went into fundraising overdrive. That one super PAC spent just over twenty million in the months leading up to the general election.
“Now, what we were looking at were fees paid by the super PAC to Donaldson’s businesses: consulting fees and product orders.”
“That’s not illegal, is it?” Officer Harris asked.
“No, it’s not. You can buy services from yourself. But, you need to actually provide the services. That’s the piece we don’t think happened.”
She gestured to Dixon, who spoke up now. The special agent looked haggard and drawn in a way that finding the first body hadn’t impacted him. “Rodriguez was the one crunching the numbers. But he found what looks like double and triple orders for goods and services…yard signs, bumper stickers, clothing…either there’s warehouses somewhere full of last election cycle’s merchandise, or else he was paying himself three times per order.”
“So he was ripping the governor off?”
Caspersen shook her head. “No. This is a super PAC. They’re not allowed to coordinate with the politician.” Harlow snorted, and she shrugged. “I know: on paper, anyway. The point is, this would be donor money, not Hitt’s.”
“Still, it was money that should have gone – unofficially – toward electing him, right?”
“We’re making no assumptions about who knew or didn’t know about the overbilling, or who did or didn’t approve it,” Dixon said, which seemed at once an evasive but also a fairly clear answer: even if they couldn’t prove it, they suspected Hitt did know something.
Harlow’s eyebrow
s rose, but he nodded. “Meaning, this has the possibility to get very political.”
Caspersen nodded.
“What about the other super PAC?” Harris asked.
“That one formed earlier this year. We have very limited financials on it yet, but from what we can find online, its presence seems to be devoted to boosting Hitt’s national profile.”
“There’s no stated goal,” Caspersen added, “but rumor in the political world is that Hitt is considering a senate or presidential run. My guess is, the national PAC means there’s truth to the rumor.”
As far as the details of Donaldson’s actual businesses, those Alfred had already perused. The dead man owned a printing shop, a campaign-focused media company, and a political consulting firm. Their websites boasted that the enterprises had served hundreds of winning campaigns state and nation-wide, and provided the crucial edge needed for victory. They promised to do everything from making buttons and designing mailers to engaging in cutting-edge opposition research and voter outreach. They could provide candidate coaching, find reliable campaign staff, and help bring a candidate to victory. All for the right fee, of course. Democracy to the highest bidder, and all that.
Still, there was nothing illegal or suspicious about the services offered. It seemed to be a fairly standard operation – certainly nothing to kill someone over.
But, of course, Donaldson was dead; and not just Donaldson, but Agent Rodriguez too. Which put an idea in Alfred’s head: why Rodriguez, and not Dixon? What had he learned that made him a target, but not the other man?
He didn’t think that was a question to ask in front of the police officers – they’d already detained both him and Dixon long enough, and he didn’t want to arouse their suspicion. So he waited to share the thought until he was headed back to the IRS building with Caspersen and the special agent.
Dixon was in the passenger seat of the massive SUV, and he turned a furious glance back on the taxman. “You think I wanted it to happen that way? He’s been my partner for twenty years, asshole.”
Alfred blinked at the other man’s fury – and foul language. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t suggesting…”
“I think what Alfred’s saying is, what did Rodriguez figure out that we haven’t? Why would anyone think they needed to silence him – if that’s what we think happened – but not you?”
Dixon’s scowl softened, but only a little. “How the hell should I know? We’re partners. He’s supposed to tell me if he finds anything.”
“Heck,” Alfred said, meekly.
“What?”
“Heck. Not – not hell.”
Dixon stared questioningly at him, then turned to Caspersen. “What’s he talking about?”
“Oh. Alfred’s got a…a thing for language.”
The special agent blinked. “You’re shitting me, right?”
“No.”
Dixon barked out a laugh. “Well, you’re in for a rude awakening if you’re working with me. Because I swear like a goddamned sailor.”
Caspersen frowned at him. “Not on the job. We’re professionals, Dixon.”
He frowned back. “You’re not serious.”
“All I’m saying is, let’s just try to maintain a professional atmosphere, okay?”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“Kidding.”
He scowled at the director, then at Alfred. Then, he turned back to face the windshield wordlessly.
Chapter Twelve
Alfred didn’t get an answer to his question until they reached the parking lot. Director Caspersen was parking the vehicle, and Dixon said, “I think I might know.” He’d been silent for so long that the taxman at first had no idea what he meant. But then he added, “Rodriguez said he wanted to look beyond Donaldson himself, at his colleagues and associates. That was…hell, last week some time.” Then, he glanced back at Alfred. “Heck.”
Caspersen shut the SUV off and nodded. “Okay, that’s good. Did he say who he was looking at in particular?”
Dixon shook his head. “No.”
“Then we need to do it too. Favero –”
“I got it,” Dixon interrupted. “He was my partner, Director. I’m going to find this son-of-a…” Here, he trailed off. “Well, you know.”
She nodded. “Alright. Then Favero, you take a look at the financials again. I know that’s your specialty anyway. See if you see anything unusual. If you do, flag it for Dixon. We want to crosscheck the names Dixon’s looking at with any payments made or received, including payments made to businesses run by those names. Any weird ‘consulting fees’ or anything else. Okay?”
It sounded like looking for a needle in a haystack. Then, that’s what Alfred excelled at. So he nodded. “Right.”
“Good. Right now, the cops are going to be following up the physical leads. We’re not in competition with them. But…”
Both men nodded in unison. They weren’t – but at the same time, they were. The killer had got one of their guys. They’d be content to take him down through any means possible. If that meant the cops got him first, well, so be it; they were all the same team. But on the other hand, there’d be something particularly poetic about Rodriguez’s colleagues breaking the case and bringing his killer to justice.
She glanced at her watch. “We’ve got two hours until quitting time. I want us in conference room C, at quarter to five. If you can stay later –” Again, both men nodded, and she did too. “Good. I’m going to see if Abbot will stay too. I want her going through Rodriguez’s history.”
Alfred knew that referred to the agent’s browser history, on his computer. Which he further knew meant that Nancy would be able to see some at least of what Agent Rodriguez had been doing recently. Further, he knew that even though the laptop was still in police custody, Nancy would have some way to view his history anyway. It had something to do with firewalls and cloud storage, or something to that effect. It was all Greek to the taxman, and he was perfectly happy to leave the particulars to her. But the idea of working the case alongside Nance definitely sat well with him.
So he hurried back to his office and threw himself into the work. The truth was, Alfred didn’t know quite how he felt about all of this. It had been terrible enough to find Donaldson with his throat cut. But he’d been a political mudslinger, a general lowlife, and, worst of all, a tax cheat. That didn’t justify his killing, of course. But often enough, bad men met bad ends. That was just the way it worked.
Rodriguez, on the other hand, had been one of the good guys. He’d been part of Alfred’s own team. And the taxman wasn’t sure he’d ever shake the image of his bloating, discolored body from his mind.
No, if he was ever going to sleep easily again, he had to find Rodriguez’s killer. He’d been the one to find him; he owed the dead man justice.
Focusing on the work would do more than restore his peace of mind in the long term, though. It would distract him in the short term. And he very much needed to be distracted.
So Alfred pulled up the audit files, and the hundreds of pages of spreadsheets and invoices and receipts. Before going through any of those, though, he browsed to two files called, Staff Directory and Client List.
The first seemed to have been straight from Donaldson’s people, but the second bore Rodriguez’s initials. Here, the taxman found an in-progress list of all the clients who had hired services through any of the dead man’s LLC’s. The names were marked with different colors, green for repeat customer and blue for one-time client. Rodriguez seemed to have begun, and then abandoned, the process of recording receipt dates – probably because the list very quickly grew to be monstrous for repeat clients. Still, the information might be useful later on, so Alfred made a mental note to keep it in mind.
But for the moment, he focused on the staff directory. This had been arranged by the businesses. The consulting firm had five names listed, including Donaldson’s, as regular employees, and a dozen more contractors. Alfred didn’t recognize any of them
, and the job titles did little to clarify their roles. What would a “Political Guru” do, anyway, or a “Chief Mensch,” or even a “Head Geek” for that matter? Would the so-called guru be a policy wonk, or would his role focus on prepping the candidate to survive the political machine? Would a Head Geek provide actual technical services, or advice about those services? As for the Head Mensch, well, Alfred couldn’t begin to guess. He figured the whole thing was supposed to sound modern, and evocative of some kind of young, diverse consulting firm. Or at least what folks in the Midwest might envision when they pictured a young, diverse consulting firm.
He moved on to the next LLC. This was the print shop, and its list of employees proved longer – but, surprisingly, not much longer. The shop produced millions of dollars of merchandise in election years, but employed only eight fulltime staffers. A full half of them worked in administration – including Donaldson himself, two account managers, and a secretary. Alfred assumed the staff numbers would be supplemented by seasonal workers during an election year.
The final business on the list was the media firm, which owned the downtown building and employed twice as many staff as the other enterprises combined. Donaldson, of course, had a role. But along with him, Alfred found names for social media experts, web designers, graphic designers, videographers, an accountant, facilities and security staff, a receptionist – the same Gloria he and Dixon had met the day before – and a personal secretary named Dianne Godsey.
Here, the taxman froze, his mind taking him back to Donaldson’s office building the day before, and the top floor…and the empty secretary’s desk. All of which begged the question: where was Dianne Godsey? For that matter, why was she not at her desk?
Alfred brought up the internal messenger app and pinged his boss. “Director, question for you…did Chief Harlow say anything about the secretary? Dianne Godsey.”
The chat window told him Caspersen had started a response. Then, she must have erased it, because the notice vanished. A moment later, it reappeared. This cycle repeated three times before he got his response. “No. Should he have?”
