by Dave Daren
“How much did he take?” I pressed when it seemed Pickering was debating whether to continue or not.
“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted. “Many clients didn’t even notice. If I hadn’t sent them a letter alerting them to the discrepancy and saying that appropriate actions had been taken, I don’t think they would have ever complained. A few thousand, here or there, is hardly worth noting.”
“A few thousand can start to add up,” I pointed out.
“True,” he admitted. “Though I must say, Matthew had replaced much of the money himself.”
“So no one ever filed a lawsuit?” I asked.
“Oh, well,” Pickering stalled again. He dusted an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve this time.
“Or they did file, but you settled before anything went public,” I corrected as Pickering gave me a raised eyebrow in response. “Is that what drew the FBI’s attention?”
“Actually,” Pickering declared, “There were some strange accounts that I couldn’t understand. Money was moved in and out quickly, usually to off-shore locations. And the source of the funds wasn’t always clear, either.”
“And you reported these accounts,” I guessed.
“It’s required,” Pickering asserted. “The SEC is very clear on that.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Were you ever able to identify the owners of these accounts?”
“No,” Pickering grudgingly admitted. “That was another reason I reported them. The SEC contacted the FBI at some point, of course.”
“What did the FBI do then?”
“I don’t know,” Pickering replied. “They thanked me for my assistance, and then left. I haven’t heard from anyone at the agency since.”
“I’d like to talk to some of Burke’s clients,” I said. “Especially those that Burke ‘borrowed’ from.”
“No,” Pickering said bluntly. “I can’t just turn over a list of clients to you.”
“At least call and ask if anyone would be willing to meet with me,” I persisted. “If they say no, fine. But we’ll probably have to subpoena the files any way.”
“Just to have the man declared dead?” Pickering demanded. He looked horrified at the idea.
“If the FBI continues to challenge the request,” I said with a shrug.
“I’ll make some phone calls,” he conceded. “But I think you’ll find that most won’t talk.”
“But someone might,” I pointed out.
“Gloria,” Pickering grumbled. “That woman has always managed to make my life miserable.”
“How so?” I asked.
Pickering sniffed but offered nothing else. He stood up, and waited patiently for me to pull myself out of my chair. He walked me back to the waiting area, and acknowledged my thank you with a short wave of his hand. He pulled the door shut, and I was left holding my hand out toward empty air.
“Everything went well?” the bird woman asked.
“I think so,” I replied.
She did another one of her head bobs and wished me a pleasant afternoon. I thanked her, and returned to the foyer. The elevator ground its way to the second floor, and I stepped inside. Another clank and thunk, and then I was on my way back downstairs. I decided I would have to find the staircase if I came back out here. Aside from the fact that the extra exercise would be good, I absolutely did not want to be stuck in this thing when it died. Which, judging by the noise, was probably a regular occurence.
I stepped outside and found that the smoke had taken on a heavier texture. I coughed a couple of times, trying not to suck in any of the ash. I practically ran back to the Honda, with one hand over my nose and mouth. I noticed that the few other pedestrians who were out were doing the exact same thing. I hopped into the driver’s seat, coughed a few more times, and then sucked in a long breath of reasonably clean air.
With my lungs feeling slightly more clear, I pulled my phone out. I had a text message from Sofia, asking me to call, and a voice mail from Anna Bernardi. I figured Sofia’s call was business, but Anna’s might offer something a little more fun. I decided a few minutes checking voicemail messages was just the thing.
“Vince,” Anna’s voice greeted me happily, “I know we were supposed to meet for dinner tomorrow night, but I’m going to have to cancel. I’m this close to nailing a new contract with Pfizer, as well as Samsung, but I need to fly to Singapore and close these deals in person. I’m leaving tonight, but I’ll call you as soon as I’m on my way back. Oh, but I might have to fly to Hong Kong, too. I’ll let you know.”
I sighed and deleted the message. Anna had been so busy rebuilding the reputation of ArDex Shipping that we hadn’t been able to spend much time together. We’d planned this date nearly two weeks earlier, when Anna was supposed to be back in L.A. for a few days. I couldn’t begrudge her the opportunity to save the company, but I sorely missed our nighttime activities. With a sigh, I called Sofia on the office phone.
“Tell me you found something interesting,” I said as soon as she picked up.
“That depends,” she replied. “What would you consider interesting?”
“The location of Big Foot’s secret lair,” I remarked. “The final resting place of the Lost Ark. The ability to teleport.”
“Sorry,” she laughed. “The best I can offer you is the name of someone who sued Matthew Burke for embezzlement.”
“I’ll take it,” I replied.
“Her name is Carla Bowles,” Sofia said. “She sued Burke about seven years ago, but it looks like it settled quickly, before anyone was really paying any attention.”
“Sued Burke or sued the firm?” I asked.
“Burke, personally.”
“Interesting, I don’t suppose you have a number,” I suggested.
“I do,” she assured me. “I’ve also arranged an interview. She said she could meet with you this afternoon if you’re available. I told her you would call and let her know.”
“Have I mentioned recently how much I love you?” I declared.
“Only once this morning,” she replied coyly. “I’ll send you the number. How’d it go with Mr. Pickering?”
“He doesn’t have a very high opinion of our client,” I mused. “I’d say he blames her for all of Matthew’s problems.”
“Huh,” Sofia said thoughtfully. “I admit, she’s not the most likeable person, but I don’t think Matthew was either.”
“Do tell,” I insisted.
“I think he was one of those people who could be very nice on the surface,” Sofia replied. “But maybe not so nice once you got to know him. At least, that’s the impression I get from Carla Bowles, and a couple of other people I’ve talked to.”
“Well, we don’t have to like our clients,” I pointed out.
“Good thing,” Sofia said. “Or we may not have enough to pay the bills.”
“They’re not that bad,” I laughed. I knew Sofia was still grumbling about the hoarder’s house she’d had to pick through to find a will, as well as a recent encounter with a surly service dog that another client had dragged into our office.
“Call Carla,” Sofia prompted. “Then we can compare notes.”
That’s exactly what I did. Carla Bowles, it turned out, was happy enough to talk about Matthew Burke, no matter what the non-disclosure agreement said. I made an appointment to meet her at a tiny little spot where the ladies who lunch gathered to have tea in the afternoon. That left me just enough time to return to the office, and return a few phone calls. Not to mention grabbing a bite of something more solid than cucumber sandwiches.
I stopped at the still nameless burrito place and ordered the day’s special - arroz con pollo. The scent of cayenne, turmeric, and maybe just a hint of saffron drifting up from the bag had my mouth watering before I’d even hit the first step on the stairs to the second floor. I walked into the office and realized Sofia had the same idea. She was just polishing off the last bit of rice when I entered with my own bag.
“I’ll warn you no
w,” she declared. “You’ll want to go back for seconds.”
“Maybe I can convince Carla Bowles to meet me downstairs instead,” I replied.
“Only if they start serving tea and scones,” Sofia replied. “And gossip. I suspect that the daily tea ritual is less about the food and more about who’s been seen doing what.”
“You’re probably right,” I said with a grin. “What do you think the ladies will make of our meeting?”
“I’m sure Carla is hoping to set some tongues wagging,” Sofia said with a laugh. “She wanted to know what you looked like, and when I told her you were young and handsome, she declared that you would just have to meet her for tea.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about being the object of speculation,” I mused.
“You love it,” Sofia replied. “And you know it.”
I gave her another jaunty grin and disappeared into my office. The chicken was as delicious as promised, with a crispy skin, and tender meat that melted on my tongue. The flavors exploded in my mouth, and I’m pretty sure I was making happy sounds while I devoured my lunch. Sofia wasn’t exaggerating when she said I would want a second serving, and only a phone call with a client kept me from returning for another plate.
With most of the business taken care of for the day, I grabbed my jacket and an extra bottle of water, and set out for my high tea with Carla Bowles. Smog alerts had been posted for the city, and traffic was at a crawl. The Honda’s AC did little against the stultifying air, and I was glad I’d brought the water with me. By the time I walked into the cafe, I was thirsty again and hoping my cuppa would come with a nice, tall glass of cold water as well.
The hostess threw me a brilliant smile when I stepped up to her station, though she appeared somewhat puzzled by my appearance. I could see that all of the tables were taken, mostly by groups of two to three women, all of whom were engaged in conversations that required the participants to lean in closely. Slowly, as my presence was noted, the women turned to look at me. It was, to put it mildly, a little bit creepy.
“I’m here to meet Carla Bowles,” I explained to the hostess.
“Oh, Mrs. Bowles,” the hostess chirped. “Yes, she said she had a guest today.”
Judging by the way the hostess was eyeing me, Mrs. Bowles hadn’t bothered to explain that her guest was a man. I followed the hostess to a booth at the back. A small ‘reserved’ sign sat on the table, and as I dropped onto the plush velvet seat, the hostess removed the card. She had a menu in her hand, though she was hesitant to leave it with me.
“I’m sure whatever Mrs. Bowles orders will be fine,” I told the hostess, guessing that Mrs. Bowles had a usual order that probably hadn’t changed in years. “I could use a glass of water, though.”
“Of course,” the hostess replied, her happy smile back in place. She strode back toward her station, intercepting a waitress along the way, and pointing toward me while she delivered my order. The chatter level had dropped noticeably, and several women were still looking at me, the speculation clear in their eyes. I nodded to a couple, who quietly turned around, and resumed their conversations.
Carla Bowles arrived at the tea room just as the water made it to the table. I knew it had to be her, because every woman in the room perked up when she walked in, and the noise level shot up again. Carla Bowles was probably nearing seventy, but she carried herself like a supermodel. She gave the hostess a gracious smile as she removed her sunglasses to reveal blue eyes that still crackled with youthful vigor. I saw her scan the room, and when she saw me, she smirked with pleasure. She cat walked to the table, and held out one delicate hand, princess-style, when she stopped in front of me. I was on my feet in a heartbeat, and I clasped her hand in both of mine. I couldn’t decide if I should give her fingers a kiss, but she reclaimed her hand, and slid gracefully into the booth next to me.
“Mr. Creed,” she purred. “I’m happy to see your paralegal wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Erm, thank you,” I replied. I could feel the blush sneaking up my neck and I hoped it didn’t make it past my collar.
The waitress returned again, this time with a large pot of tea, two cups, and a small collection of tiny sandwiches. Carla Bowles expertly poured the tea into each cup, and after examining the sandwiches, placed one on her plate and one on mine.
“The salmon and dill are my favorite,” she sighed as she took a delicate bite.
I picked mine up, and with an effort, managed not to down it in a single gulp. I had to admit, it was really good. The salmon was remarkably fresh, and the cream and dill dollop on top was the perfect counter to the heatwave outside. We finished two more of the tiny sandwiches before Carla took a sip of her tea, then she sat back and examined me more closely.
“So you want to know about Matthew Burke,” she finally said.
“I do,” I agreed as I set my tea cup back down. I had to admit, even the tea was quite good. I was starting to understand why this might become a regular routine.
“And this is for Gloria’s petition to have him declared legally dead,” she clarified.
“It is,” I replied. “We’re expecting the FBI to protest again, so I’d like to have a better idea of what was going on in his life.”
“And what has Gloria told you?” she asked. The waitress returned, this time bearing a platter of small cookies and macaroons. I could definitely see doing this high tea thing again, though maybe with a larger cup for the tea. A mug would be perfect.
“She says that Matthew had been having a difficult week, but it wasn’t exceptional in any way,” I replied after the waitress retreated. “He was supposed to be working around the house, but had apparently decided to go fishing instead. When she realized he hadn’t been home for over a day, and that the boat was missing, she called the Coast Guard.”
“Yes, and they found the boat, but no Matthew,” Carla supplied. She examined the cookies, and selected something that looked like a gooey chocolate delight. I scooped up a bright pink macaron and took a nibble. Fresh raspberries couldn’t have tasted more raspberry-like. Sandwiched between two puffy pieces of meringue, it was my new favorite way to eat fruit.
“You accused him of embezzlement,” I remarked as I polished off the macaroon and eyed something that looked like a white chocolate truffle.
“Yes,” she said. “I was always the one that tracked the money, even before my husband passed away. I think that surprised Matthew. I think he was hoping I was just like the rest of them. I wouldn’t look to closely, and if I did notice something was off, I would simply accept his explanations, and wait for the corrections to be made.”
“Tell me what you noticed.”
“Small amounts, a few thousand, that would disappear for a while, then reappear a few months later,” she replied. “When I asked him what was going on, he made vague references to various trades, but he never produced any tickets. I started paying closer attention, and I was convinced that he was using the account like a private bank. The money eventually reappeared, but sometimes only after I had said something.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I did,” she assured me. “He could be quite charming when he needed to be, you know, and he certainly laid it on thick when I complained. Of course, I’ve had to deal with charming men all my life, so I know who’s sincere, and who isn’t.”
“And Matthew wasn’t sincere,” I guessed.
“And you’re clever, too,” Carla teased. “Yes, you’re right. There was something about Matthew that made me uncomfortable. I can’t point to a specific episode, but I always felt like I was a bug caught under a microscope when he was around. When we were first introduced, I didn’t want to invest with him, but my husband, bless his heart, had heard what a great success his friends had had with Matthew’s firm, so Ron signed us on.”
“Ron was your husband?” I asked.
“For nearly thirty-five years,” she sighed. “He was a true trust fund baby, so he never worried about money, or where it ca
me from. It just appeared in his account at regular intervals, and he was happy.”
“When did he pass away?”
“Well, let’s see, it must be nearly ten years ago now,” she replied. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Has it really been that long?”
“Why did you stay with Burke after your husband died?” I asked.
“Well, he was making us money,” she admitted. “At least, initially. The embezzlement didn’t really start until, oh maybe two years before Burke disappeared. Of course, he and Gloria were having some money difficulties then.”
“Oh?” I prodded as I snagged the truffle.
“Most people don’t know about that,” she said with a nod toward the other women in the tea room. “Gloria and Matthew were always exceptional at putting on a good face. But I happen to know that Matthew had been trying to use some of his techniques to place bets, and it didn’t work out so well.”
“So he lost a lot of money gambling,” I surmised after another sip of tea.
“I think he was hoping it would be a shortcut toward improving their status, or possibly even a new career,” she explained. “After all, predicting markets isn’t all that different from predicting games, at least in theory. You study the stats, you run some numbers through your formulas, and there you go. Unfortunately, there’s a lot that can’t be predicted by numbers, and eventually, the house wins.”
“How much did he lose?” I asked.
“Well,” she protested daintily, “I don’t know the exact amount, but certainly enough to force them to cut back on certain activities and economize in others.” I had a sneaking suspicion that she could put a number to the amount if she wanted to, but right now I didn’t see the need to press her on the point. The waitress returned with another pot of tea, and a second batch of sweets.
“How many other people do you think Burke… borrowed from?” I questioned as I claimed a lime green macaroon.
“I don’t know anything for certain,” she said. “I do have some suspicions though.”
“I suspect your suspicions are better than most people’s facts,” I replied with a smile.
