The Kingfish Commission: A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. (Kingfish Corruption Series Book 1)
Page 17
It was even hard for Rob, and he had known Clarence for just four years.
Doug and Becky wanted to sit around and gossip, as usual. Until Sherry looked at her watch and announced the time.
“Wow! It’s already ten after five! Where has the day gone?” She knew this would get their feet off her desk and on the way to the elevator.
“Are you kidding?” Doug’s usually high-pitched voice was even higher. Man, I’ve got to get going.” He was already halfway across the room.
“Oh, my gosh! Me, too,” Becky said in her near ‘Valley Girl’ inflection. Sherry had always wondered how a kid from Bogalusa had developed such a California affectation. “See ya’ — bye!”
Sherry waved, but didn’t look up from her desk. Too busy. Too much to do. That’s what she wanted them to think anyway.
Once they were safely gone, she looked around. Alone already. It was 5:11 PM and the place was deserted. But, it was Monday. It was tough enough to get ad agency people in to work on Monday, much less have them stay long after five.
She picked up her half-empty cup of cold coffee, got up from her desk and began walking slowly through the building.
Just on my way to the coffee room. One more cup of coffee to get me through a late day at the office.
That’s what she would say if anyone asked. Only a couple of stragglers remained, and they quickly said ‘good-night’ in their rush to catch the elevator.
Sherry needed about an hour to gather some hard evidence. She would collate all the files in bookkeeping and photocopy her purchase orders to compare with print-outs of the Tropical Treasures bills. Then she would try again to access the payables files and verify the payments to Bellemont.
She and Rob should have done all of this yesterday.
But, yesterday had not been a good day. Sherry would rather forget everything that had happened yesterday. Everything.
She felt a full range of emotions from all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She was frightened. She was angry. Confused.
Embarrassed.
Depressed.
Lonely.
Sherry had been wandering down the hall without paying attention.
“Look out, LeVasseur,” Ashton Brocata said.
She had almost run into him on the way to bookkeeping. He was the last to leave.
“Oh, sorry. I — uh, was thinking,” she stammered. “I was just going to get a cup of coffee. Still have a few things to do — billing and all — before I leave.”
“Well, good night.” He had never stopped walking.
Brocata could care less that she had to work late. He had more important things on his mind. The big day was tomorrow, it was all he could think about. Had been all day. He couldn’t stay focused on agency business today. It all seemed so trite, compared to what life was about to be like. Tomorrow was the beginning of a new life. No more car dealer campaigns. No more media buyers wandering the halls, almost spilling coffee all over his Armani suit. Hell, no more suits. Just the good life.
Sherry watched Brocata get on the elevator.
She looked up and down the hall once again. Now she was alone, for sure.
She hoped.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rob was in Clarence’s old office. The computer had been left on, from when Rob had just arrived at the station and had begun showing the staff how to program the music for the automation. That had been over three hours ago. He exited the current program and loaded a system prompt.
Rob put the flash drive that Janice had given him into the computer’s USB port. He keyed in a command for a directory of the files on the stick. This could be it. Or it could be nothing.
The screen listed only two files. Both were simple text files and should be easy enough to open and explore. The file names gave Rob no clues. One was called “SOSDB.TXT” and the other was simply a number, “00101.TXT”.
He loaded the computer’s word processing program and imported the file with the numerical reference.
Rob felt a chill. It was a letter addressed to him from Clarence:
Rob,
The two files on this disk contain what I’ve found out so far about our friends at the Tropical Treasures riverboat. We’ll use this information to break the news of the biggest scandal in this state since Reconstruction.
The billing ‘problems’ we’ve accidentally uncovered are part of a payoff scheme to affect the outcome of the licensing process for the New Orleans casino. What I’ve learned so far:
1. Tropical Treasures is allowing their account to be overbilled by Ashton Brocata and Associates.
2. The money is being used to pay off one or more members of the State Gaming Commission. I don’t know who they are — yet.
3. My sources (Some cousins! ha!) tell me the commissioners are being ‘urged’ to vote for approval of the Pelican Players application. One of my ‘cousins’ (this one really is!) works in the Secretary of State’s office. He has made a copy of their database containing ownership information for Pelican Players LLC. I have included a copy of that information on this disk. I haven’t reviewed it all yet -- but there’s got to be a connection there somewhere between Pelican Players, Brocata and the Tropical Treasures.
4. This thing is big. One source tells me it goes up as high as you can get in Baton Rouge.
That’s what I’ve got so far. I’ll call you in a day or so to discuss all this, plus anything else I’ve learned in the meantime.
You’ll be happy to know that from what I’ve been able to find out, our friend, Sherry, doesn’t have any connection to all this.
Later,
CM.
Rob stared at the blinking cursor following Clarence’s initials. His fingers worked the keyboard as he exited the first document and loaded the database from the Secretary of State’s office.
The screen lit up with the new file:
0107811811854837 LA SEC STATE ATDT/504-555-3498
ON-LINE DATABASE 21:33:06.4 9/27/16
PUBLIC ACCESS APPROVED
LOG-IN....
ACCESSES TO DATE: 1,985.
Apparently it was a screen-capture of an on-line database. Rob hit the ‘PgDn’ key to scroll past the blank screen after the initial login information.
SEARCH?
-> SGCOMM
OPEN
SEARCH?
-> NOCASINO
OPEN
SEARCH?
-> APPLICANTS
SEARCH LL CROLL
-> N
OK...
NAME?
-> PELICAN PLAYERS, LLC
WAIT............
SEARCH?
-> APPLICANT NAMES
NOT A VALID RESPONSE
SEARCH?
-> OWNERSHIP
WAIT.....
——-
PELICAN PLAYERS, LLC
APPLICANT: NEW ORLEANS LAND BASED CASINO
FILE: 00997834
BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA
LIMITED LIABILITY CORPORATION
APPLICATION ACCEPTED 3/10/16
LIST OF OFFICERS AND/OR SHAREHOLDERS OF CORPORATION:
RANDOLPH MORGAN, 1234 HOLLYWOOD, WESTWEGO, LA.
MELVIN LEBLANC, RT. 45, BOX 3, METAIRIE, LA.
MICHAEL O. PIZALLOTO, 1415 CANYON WAY, LAS VEGAS, NV.
JUNE FERRER, 4355 LAKESHORE, NATCHITOCHES, LA.
The screen continued to scroll through dozens of names. Rob scanned them all, looking for something to ring a bell. Nothing did. There had to be a name that would tie Tropical Treasures, Pelican Players and Ashton Brocata together.
But, one thing was becoming apparent. Clarence Menard’s death could not be simply ruled an accident. There must be an investigation.
Rob decided that it was time to visit the Clay Parish Sheriff’s Department and make sure that investigation started immediately.
Ashton Brocata’s Mercedes made good time on the interstate. He would weave in and out of traffic fearlessly, negotiating through the outbound c
ommuter congestion with ruthless ease.
Get me the hell home, he thought.
His wife had planned for them to attend a cocktail party tonight.
Tonight of all nights.
She had given him no opportunity to miss this one. It was a fundraiser for some charity organization.
Who cares if she’s the president of the damn thing?
But, that’s OK. Better days are ahead.
Soon, he’d have so much money, he wouldn’t have to attend such fundraisers.
Hell, I’ll just send them a check, if they’ll just leave me alone.
He was making good time. Get there early and leave early. That’s the plan.
And stay in constant touch with Sloan and the governor. If anything came up that might threaten their big day tomorrow, he would know about it. They could reach him on his cell, day or night.
But all was well. Niles Sloan had made the arrangements, and Ashton Brocata had personally paid Bellemont his latest ‘consulting fee,’ so he didn’t expect to get a call regarding any problems.
He leaned over the center console, reaching for his briefcase laying on the passenger seat, to get cellphone.
Might as well make sure it’s fully charged.
The Mercedes weaved into an adjacent lane as he opened his brown leather briefcase and felt around inside. A Dodge van honked to protect its territorial lane-rights.
Damn, where’s the phone?
He felt around some more. He spun the briefcase around for a better look.
No phone.
Damn. Think! Where is it?
On his desk.
Damn!
Brocata crossed three lanes of traffic, without checking the rearview mirror. He had to find an exit ramp, turn around, go all the way back to the office and get his phone. He had to have it.
Within two miles, an exit appeared. He swung off the interstate at a remarkable speed and made an immediate U-turn under the highway. In seconds, he had joined the flow of traffic headed in the opposite direction.
He pressed the accelerator harder.
And then, immediately jammed on the brakes.
Traffic had come to a complete stop ahead and he was rapidly gaining on the cars in front of him. Too rapidly.
The Mercedes had to lose quite a bit of rubber on its tires to avoid hitting the now motionless line of cars ahead.
A little boy wearing a black Saint jersey in the bright red Honda Accord ahead of him waved. Smiling. Laughing, in fact — and telling his Mommy how they had almost been hit by the gray-haired man behind them. Mommy was not laughing.
Traffic was not moving.
Damn!
The Clay Parish Sheriff’s office was located in the basement of the court house, a block away from KAGN. Rob locked the radio station as he left and took the short walk.
In minutes, he swung open the glass door emblazoned with the department’s gold shield, took the five steps down from the entrance and entered the dingy reception area. A chest-high counter with a dingy glass partition separated the hall from the cluttered front office. The dim room had a pale, sickly cast, the light diffused from the dead bugs that shadowed the bottom of the plastic fluorescent light shades suspended in double rows from one end of the ceiling to the other — they were further stained from years of hanging in a stuffy office, choked with cigarette smoke.
The dispatch radio operator had his feet on the counter behind the partition and was reading The Weekly World News. Rob noticed the front page banner headline: another alien had been seen with Elvis.
The deputy looked up. A wooden match dangled from the corner of his mouth. The tip of the match was black. It was a used match.
“Help you?” His words were barely muttered and further obscured by the match. The phrase sounded more like hepyuh. One word. No enunciation. And this was the radio operator. He must need to save all of his energy for a law enforcement emergency.
“I’m here to see the Sheriff.” Rob felt like getting right to the point and forego his nice-guy approach.
“It’s after five. Sheriff Perot is unavailable.”
An eight-to-five sheriff. They must have polite criminals here in Moss Point that only work the day shift, Rob thought.
“Unavailable? Does that mean he’s not here?” Rob was beginning to like his new tough-guy persona.
“No, sir. That means he’s unavailable.” The deputy still had his feet up and had only taken his eyes off the article he was reading for a moment. “Who are you?”
Rob could feel his right temple throb with annoyance.
“Tell him I’m here to talk to him about his investigation into the murder of Clarence Menard.”
“Murder,” the deputy snickered. “He wasn’t murdered. He died fooling around with his transformer.”
“Transmitter.”
“Whatever.”
Rob couldn’t waste any more time.
“Just tell the Sheriff that every radio and television station in the state is about to report how the Clay Parish Sheriff’s Department refuses to investigate a death under questionable circumstances…”
Rob’s voice was building fury with each word.
“A death that may be associated with corruption at the highest levels of state government…”
His words were coming faster and louder by the moment.
“A murder that may be tied to racketeering, bribery and federal fraud charges!” Rob pounded his fist on the counter to punctuate the last of his argument.
The deputy put down the tabloid, took his feet off his desk and pointed to Rob with the match he had taken out of his mouth.
“I’ll get the Sheriff.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sherry was about half-finished. It sounded as if three people were working in the bookkeeping office, but it was only Sherry. The printer was spitting out page after page of agency records: falsified billing documents, modified client statements, revised purchase orders. Meanwhile, she was photocopying valid media affidavits, sorting her original purchase orders and stapling comparative documents together.
She collated another stack and set it on top of the copier.
Now, to see if her lunch-time strategy would pay off.
Sherry returned to the computer and punched up the General Ledger menu. She needed to get some hard evidence on the payments made to Bellemont. How much? How often? That information would help seal the scenario.
A red box popped up on the screen:
ENTER PASSWORD:
OK. Sherry looked around Melanie’s workspace. Small photographs of her son were everywhere — along with a couple of publicity shots of Zac Efron and Chris Hemsworth.
Melanie used her son’s birthdate as her ATM personal identification number. Maybe she also used it for her computer password.
Sherry knew that Melanie’s son was five years old, but, of course, had no idea of the boy’s exact birthdate. It would be useless to guess.
She picked up one of the photographs. He was sitting on a bike, in front of their house. A birthday present? She looked on the back of the picture. There was a date! Sherry anxiously tapped in the numbers as the password.
INVALID PASSWORD!
She picked up each snapshot and looked for clues, front and back. She was surprised not to find one birthday photo. Some luck.
Sherry once again scanned the office.
Melanie’s wall calendar! She wheeled over to the large hanging calendar and began flipping back the pages. Several dates were circled and a full week was blocked off — Melanie’s vacation. Then she flipped to October. On the eighteenth, large block letters proclaimed: “JB’s b-day!”
Sherry subtracted five years, and keyed in the corresponding date into the computer.
INVALID PASSWORD!
Maybe it was something else related to her son.
His name?
Sherry tried to remember Melanie’s son’s name.
She typed in J-E-R-R-Y.
INVALID PASSWORD!
&nb
sp; Oh, what was the kid’s name? Think, Sherry!
Jason! That’s it!
She typed in the name.
INVALID PASSWORD!
Sherry huffed in disgust. She looked around the office again. You would think such a proud mother would have the kid’s name written down somewhere.
No such luck.
Jacob! That’s it, I’m sure!
Her fingers nervously typed the name on the keyboard.
INVALID PASSWORD!
Sherry was getting frustrated and becoming increasingly concerned about being locked out of the system from too many invalid password entries. She thought she had been so cunning with her ploy in the break-room, but now it seemed as if it were hopeless.
She sat back in the swivel chair and sighed. The copier was still churning out paperwork. The computer’s printer was still generating reports. She had almost everything she needed.
Everything but the proof of payments to Bellemont.
She looked at the photographs again.
In one, Jacob was hugging a puppy. She picked up the snapshot and studied it again.
The boy had his arms wrapped tightly around the little Dalmatian. The puppy’s eyes seemed to be bulging slightly, loving the attention but looking as if he was being choked just a bit with all of the affection.
The snapshot was taken in Melanie’s kitchen. In the background was the bottom of a refrigerator, and a couple bowls. Dog bowls.
One had the puppy’s name on the side of it.
Snoopy.
That would be a perfect password. It was worth a try.
Sherry sat up and tried the name. Not enthusiastically. It was a last-ditch effort.
S-N-O-O-P-Y
PASSWORD VERIFIED.
SELECT MENU ITEM.
She was in!
Now, she just hoped no one would make a surprise return visit to the office.
Ashton Brocata was cursing non-stop. The kid in the Honda Accord ahead of him kept laughing and pointing. The mother was ignoring her child.