Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller

by Gordon Hopkins

  A tall, painfully skinny white man appeared, smiling and holding out a friendly hand as he approached.

  “Hello there. You must be Mr. Jones.”

  DiMauro took the man’s hand. “That’s right. This is my secretary, sorry, I mean administrative assistant, Gary.”

  Garrett silently bristled at the introduction but couldn’t do anything about it. DiMauro was the senior investigator, so Garrett was relegated to the role of secretary. He also hated being called Gary.

  “My name is Jason Conor. We spoke on the phone. I’m the general manager here. So I understand you want a tour of our facilities.”

  “That’s right. You were recommended by the Yang-Hsing Health Center. They say good things about you. They also say your prices are right. I represent a couple of young doctors, fresh out of residency and looking to set up shop in the Bay Area. They’re just starting out so, as you can imagine, they’re concerned about costs, but they don’t want to skimp on security. We want to be sure there’s no chance any paperwork will fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Why don’t we start with a quick overview of our processes? Take a look at that.” Mr. Conor pointed to a large truck lumbering down the driveway towards the warehouse. DataGuard and a number twelve was stenciled on the side. The vehicle disappeared around the side of the building. “That’s one of our trucks. It’s taking its load to be destroyed. All of our trucks have GPS trackers installed. All our drivers have set schedules and must report in at each stop. Not even the smallest deviation is possible without being recorded. Now come with me.”

  The three men walked to an office at the side of the warehouse. Inside was a bank of monitors. DiMauro could see several different views of the inside of the warehouse. The truck with the number twelve on the side was now parked, and men were unloading the orange bins. One man was passing out keys to the others.”

  “As you can see, gentlemen, our drivers don’t even have the keys to the shredder bins. They couldn’t remove any paper even if they wanted to. The bins are never unlocked until they are ready to be emptied. The paper is dumped into the shredding machine where it is cut to less than half the recommended size. The confetti is unreadable, so we bale it and sell it for recycling. Recycled paper is a surprising lucrative business. That’s how we are able to keep costs down.”

  DiMauro peered closer at one of the monitors. There were security cameras everywhere. There were also a few windows but they were high up and frosted, so even if someone could get high enough, it would be impossible to see inside. “So everything inside is recorded?”

  “That’s right. As you can see, the recordings are time stamped. If you ever have any concerns about security, you can request to see any recording at any time for no charge. Just call and ask.”

  “That’s all very impressive.”

  Before DiMauro has a change to ask anything else, another man entered the office. He was Filipino, not tall, but very broad. He wasn’t fat, but he had a powerful, muscular build which was not well concealed by his business suit. He wasn’t built like a typical bodybuilder, however. He didn’t look like a man who worked out. He looked like a man who worked.

  “My name is Mr. Salazar. I am director of operations. I apologize, but we have a full plate at the moment and are not taking any new clients.” He gave a dangerous look to his coworker. “Mr. Conor should have checked with me before dragging you all the way down here and wasting your time.”

  “That’s quite all right,” DiMauro said amiably. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? We are talking about just two doctors. It’s not a large operation at all.”

  “I’m very sorry. Mr. Conor will show you out.” He left without another word.

  Mr. Conor apologized profusely and repeatedly all the way during the walk back to the taxi.

  As soon as the taxi was out of sight of the warehouse, Garrett whipped off the tie, wadded it up and handed it to DiMauro. “I guess they made us.”

  DiMauro unfolded the tie and began smoothing out the wrinkles. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We report back to the Old Lady. She reports to the FBI, and that’ll be the end of our involvement. Then it’s somebody else’s problem.”

  “But we didn’t learn anything.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We now know definitely that DataGuard is lying.”

  “And just how do we know that?”

  “Didn’t you notice the windows?”

  “What windows?”

  “The windows in the room where they shred the paper.” DiMauro said. “I saw them on the video monitors.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were too dim.” DiMauro looked at his watch. “It’s 10:30, and the windows were on the east side. Bright sunlight should have been streaming through those windows.”

  Garrett took a moment to process this information. “So the video feed we saw wasn’t live. It was a recording.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But is that enough evidence to get the FBI to act?”

  “Maybe. Probably not. Like I said, it’s not our problem any more.”

  “You know, there is something else we could do.”

  Uh-oh. “No, there isn’t.”

  “Sure there is. You’ve heard of ‘honor among thieves,’ haven’t you?”

  “What about it?”

  “Ain’t no such thing. I say we corner one of the employees, let them know we’re on to them, and offer him immunity if he agrees to roll over on his bosses.”

  “You’ve been watching too damned many cop shows on TV. Insurance companies don’t have the authority to offer anybody immunity for anything.”

  “Maybe he won’t know that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At the back of the warehouse was another, bigger office. This one had no windows and no security cameras. There were several computers and several printers, all running simultaneously, spitting out reams and reams of paper. The room’s lone occupant was a man in khaki pants and a pullover sweater. He was young, early twenties, but a receding hairline and a paunch made him look older. He sat at one of the computers, typing. Even sitting, he was enormous.

  A door opened, and Salazar nearly threw Conor into the room. He slammed the door behind them.

  Conor nearly toppled over. He righted himself and demanded, “What the fuck, man? What’s your problem?”

  Salazar said to the man at the computer, “Tell him what the problem is.”

  The man at the computer didn’t look up from his work. He had to speak up to be heard over the raucous noise of the printers. “I was watching you on the monitor. The problem is that man.”

  Conor was confused. “Which one? Jones or his secretary?”

  “His name isn’t Jones. It’s Gil DiMauro. He’s an investigator.”

  Conor didn’t hide his shock. “You mean he’s a cop?”

  “No. He works for one of the insurance companies.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Irwin stopped typing and stood up. He was a big man. Bigger than Conor. Bigger even than Salazar. He still had the muscular build that once made him a high school football star and a shoo-in for pro, but four years in prison and drug use had wreaked havoc with his once near-perfect body. In addition to the belly that he couldn’t seem to get rid of, his once youthful face was now pockmarked with the acne scars commonly associated with steroid abuse. He dyed his blonde hair black when he first broke parole, but the blonde roots now constantly showed. He no longer cared enough about his appearance to do anything about it. “That cocksucker ruined my life. He took everything from me. He sent me to prison over nothing. A little steroid use, that’s all. Everybody does it. I was gonna be a pro football star. I was gonna be rich and famous, and he spoiled it all.”

  Salazar knew he had to get Irwin under control soon. He was the poster child for ‘roid rage, and his rants could quickly spiral out of control. As far as S
alazar knew, he hadn’t used steroids in years, but he still seemed prone to uncontrolled rages. On the other hand, maybe he was just plain crazy. “Okay. Let’s just stay calm and think this through. Is this really a problem? He didn’t find anything.”

  “He obviously suspects something,” Irwin said, angrily. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.”

  Salazar countered, “He may suspect, but he doesn’t know and he sure doesn’t have any evidence. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come here himself. He would have sent the cops. Maybe this will be the end of it.”

  Conor shook his head sadly. “It was all going so well, too. Rose is going to be pissed.”

  “The hell she is,” said Salazar. “Rose isn’t gonna find out.”

  “But we have to tell her.”

  Both of the bigger men stepped towards Conor in an obvious attempt to intimidate him. Surprisingly, he refused to back down. Conor crossed his arms and stuck out his chin defiantly. “Rose said this was never going to be a permanent operation. The moment we got found out, we’re supposed to shut down and move on.”

  “No way.” Irwin was on the verge of losing control. “We’re making too much money to give it all up without a fight. DiMauro isn’t gonna ruin this for me like he did before.”

  Conor objected. “Rose is the boss and Rose said …”

  Irwin was about to snap Conor’s neck, and the smaller man was too stupid to realize it.

  Salazar stepped between the two. “All right. Let’s just stop and think for a minute. Remember, I used to work in the insurance business. Insurance companies will only spend so much time and resources on an investigation before they give up and move on. There’s always some other, easier fraud to go after. Let’s just wait and see what happens. This DiMauro guy may just give up.”

  Conor asked, “And if he doesn’t?”

  Prone to the dramatic, Irwin made a show of cracking his knuckles loudly. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Once back in San Francisco, Gil DiMauro and Garrett Nash parted ways. DiMauro returned to the office to report to the Old Lady. He knew what she would do next. The Old Lady would call the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and they would take the lead in investigating DataGuard. DiMauro’s role would be reduced to providing files and numbers to the FBI when requested. That was fine with him. DiMauro had already done the fun part - figuring out the who and the how. The rest was just collecting the evidence necessary to shut them down. Let the FBI do the grunt work.

  Garrett didn’t go to the office with DiMauro. He said he wanted to go home and change clothes first, which he did. Once he changed into jeans and a T-shirt, however, he didn’t go back to Bremler Mutual’s office. Instead, he hiked to the nearest BART station and took a train back to Daly City. He didn’t go back to DataGuard. Instead, he located a strip mall just down the street. He entered a taqueria, ordered a vegetarian burrito, and parked himself by a window.

  A little after noon, several men came walking down the street, mostly clustered together in a group, talking and occasionally laughing. They all wore the same coveralls Garrett had seen the workers at DataGuard wearing. It was obviously lunchtime for the workers. About half the men were Filipino. Daly City had a substantial Filipino population. Most of the group filed into the taqueria to order lunch.

  One young man held back from the group. He was carrying a brown paper bag and, instead of joining the others, he walked next door to a convenience store. This was the one, Garrett thought to himself. He quickly discarded the remains of his burrito and followed.

  The young man picked out a cold soda and paid for it with change, carefully counting out coins from his pocket. He stepped outside the store and sat down on a concrete bench to eat his lunch, a wrapped sandwich and an orange. Was he struggling financially, Garrett wondered or just frugal? Why didn’t he hang out with the other workers? Whatever the reason, it made him the ideal choice.

  Garrett sat down next to the man. “Hi there. I’m Garrett.”

  “Um, hi?” There was plenty of seating available. The young man was uncomfortable that this interloper had chosen to strike up a conversation.

  “I think we should have a talk.”

  “Actually, I have to get back to work.” He began stuffing his barely eaten lunch back into its bag.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No.” The young man stopped and took another look at the interloper. “Wait a minute. I do recognize you. You were at DataGuard this morning, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right.” Garrett handed the young man one of his business cards. “I work for one of the insurance companies you’ve been ripping off.”

  “I have to go.” The young man stood up.

  “Before you leave, I think you might want to hear what I have to say.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  San Francisco rents may not rise to quite Manhattan levels, but it still has some of the most expensive real estate in the country. Both places have basically the same problem. Manhattan is an island, and San Francisco is a peninsula. Everybody and their brother wants to live there, either for work or just the cachet, but they have no more room to grow. As a result, resident who aren’t filthy rich need to use a little imagination to find solutions to the rent problem. Not all these solutions are one hundred percent legal. Many formerly single-family homes have been divided up into apartments called in-laws.

  Gil DiMauro lived in a basement in-law in North Beach. Basements were rare in San Francisco. The building was built on one of the city’s infamous hills, so only half of DiMauro’s apartment was underground. One wall that wasn’t completely underground had two smallish windows, one in the bathroom. Since they were at street level, both windows were covered by security bars. It was small, but its unofficial status made the rent affordable, at least by San Francisco standards, and especially for North Beach.

  After work, DiMauro stopped at Rose Pistola for dinner with a few of his friends. None of them were in the insurance business. North Beach is San Francisco’s “Little Italy,” and boasts some of the finest Italian food outside the old country. Since DiMauro was the lone Italian in the group, they sought his opinion on the night’s fare. He ordered the mortadella and duck tortellini, and declared it “not bad.” After dinner, the group wandered over to Vesuvio’s for drinks. Vesuvio’s reputation as a one-time hangout for Beat figures like Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Gregory Corso (before he got banned) made it a popular destination for tourists and hipsters. Still, it wasn’t as bad as some other places, and DiMauro liked the idea of getting hammered in a place where Jack Kerouac probably threw up. Alas, DiMauro wouldn’t be getting hammered that night. He and his friends all had jobs and responsibilities. The days of staying out till four in the morning, drunk and high and rowdy, were over. The party broke up by ten.

  The advantage of living in North Beach was that he could walk home no matter how drunk he was, although he wasn’t even a little bit drunk that night, having only downed two bluetinis. Once home, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. It seemed too early to go to bed. If he did that, he might wake up early and end up going into work on time. He didn’t like that idea. It might set a dangerous precedent.

  He debated calling Hiro. Things had been weird between them, lately. Not awkward, just weird. Their on-again, off-again, relationship seemed more off than on these days. Then DiMauro remembered she had recently moved to the night shift and would be working anyway. He wondered if the schedule change had been deliberate, to avoid seeing him.

  With nothing else to do, DiMauro changed into plaid lounge pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, smoked half a joint, and fell asleep on the sofa watching The Conan O’Brien Show. DiMauro firmly believed unconscious was the best way to watch Conan O’Brien.

  It was two in the morning when the pounding woke him up. Still fuzzy-headed, he shook his head to clear it and called, “Hello?” Someone was knocking at his door. He tried again, “Hello? W
ho is it?” Still no answer. The pounding continued.

  Now wide awake, DiMauro got up from the sofa and walked to the door. “I’m calling the police.”

  He looked down and realized a silver, metal spike was sticking out of the door, just above the doorknob. It was a nail. Then, another appeared. Then a third. The pounding was a hammer, and his door was being nailed shut. “Hey! What the hell is going on?” He tried the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open. He had been sealed in.

  “I’m calling the police.” He yelled, again, and frantically looked around for his phone. Not for the first time, he cursed the invention of the cell phone. Before, he could always find his phone because it couldn’t go anywhere.

  The window shattered and something poked through between the bars. At first, DiMauro thought it was a gun barrel and he threw himself flat against a wall. The he realized it was too big. It was a hose. Was someone trying to gas him? He heard the whirring noise of an engine start and, suddenly, it was like there was a blizzard in DiMauro’s apartment. Only, it wasn’t snow filling up his apartment, it was paper. The hose was blowing clouds of confetti through the window. In no time, the floor was covered and floating bits of paper hung in the air, creating a paper fog. Now there was no chance DiMauro could find his phone in that snowstorm, so he began screaming, “Help me! Somebody call the police!” He wondered if anyone could hear him over the sound of the engine. If it was loud enough to drown out his voice, surely someone would complain about the noise.