by Jeff Buick
“Come on in,” Hinks said, turning and shuffling down the hall to his office. Earl Hinks was in his late fifties and a poster boy for a heart attack. He was sixty pounds overweight, ate junk food three times a day, didn’t exercise and drank to excess. And he smoked.
Taylor and Alan followed him and sat in the comfortable chairs facing his desk. Hinks closed the door and sat down, his chair groaning under the weight. He wiped his brow from the exertion and tucked the handkerchief in his inside suit pocket. He adjusted his glasses and opened the lone file sitting on his desk.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he began, clearing his throat, “but the bank is calling your loan.”
Alan sat forward. “What? Calling the loan? Why, Earl? Why would they do that?”
Now Hinks looked really uncomfortable. He fidgeted in his chair for a moment, then said, “NewPro has disappeared.”
Neither Alan nor Taylor uttered a word for the better part of ten seconds. Then Taylor said, “What do you mean, Earl? How can a company disappear?”
“Our bank regularly sends out teams of inspectors to monitor new companies our clients have used our funds to invest in. Strictly due diligence, nothing else. We do it all the time. When our man arrived at the NewPro offices this morning, they were empty. Everything inside was gone: the desks, the computers and servers, the copiers, even the coffee machine.” Hinks was quiet for a moment, then said, “This looks like it could be fraud.” He cleared his throat, a strange gargling sound. “Do either of you know about this? Did Edward Brand mention he was moving to a new location?”
Both shook their heads. Alan said, “What does this mean, Earl. For us?”
Earl Hinks took a couple of deep breaths. “The loan has to be repaid.”
“When?” Taylor asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Now.”
“Define now,” Alan said.
Hinks glanced at the file on his desk. “When you invested in NewPro, you gave them one-point-six million in cash and levered another thirteen million using the equity in G-cubed. The cash was yours, but the thirteen million was our money, and according to the contract, the money is due immediately if the bank decides the risk is too great. That’s why it’s called a demand loan. And obviously, if the business you invested in has packed up shop and disappeared, the risk is no longer acceptable.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Earl,” Alan said.
“We need the money from the sale of G-cubed to cover the loan,” Hinks said. “That would mean you need to put the business on the market immediately. At a price where it will sell. We can wait a bit for you to find a buyer and for the deal to close, but we’re talking within one to three months. Any longer and the guys in the head office are going to force the sale, and that’ll mean you’ll be taking a fire-sale price on the business.”
Taylor stared at the banker, the room about her swaying. “Earl, it’s all we’ve got. The cash plus the business. Aside from our house, there’s nothing else.”
Hinks didn’t respond. He was taking shallow breaths and repeatedly wiping his brow despite the cool air being pumped into the enclosed room. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. Maybe the police . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
Alan slumped back in the chair. “Jesus. We’re ruined.”
Taylor didn’t say a word.
CHAPTER TWO
Taylor caught a glimpse of her husband as she walked past the door to their home gym. He was on the treadmill and running hard. Probably still in shock, as she was. The Monday afternoon meeting with Earl Hinks, only three days ago, seemed surreal. A tasteless joke with no redeeming value. But she knew in her heart it was no joke. The paperwork on Hinks’s desk had detailed the bank’s position in black and white, no gray area.
The loan was due. Now.
Thirteen million dollars. Money they did not have.
She felt her knees buckling and ducked into the office, sitting on a stool before she collapsed. Everything she and Alan had worked for was gone. The business would have to go on the block. Finding a buyer to purchase the company she had worked twelve years to build would not be difficult. Letting it go would be next to impossible. She had put her heart and soul and an interminable amount of hours into the business, and her employees were like family. What was happening was impossible.
She glanced about the room, quiet elegance with dark, teak furniture and wall units. The brick fireplace was clean and ready to be lit. One wall was covered with plaques, framed accolades and awards her company had won over the years for its savvy in the highly competitive advertising world. Her eyes came to rest on Alan’s degree from Stanford, set in a simple black frame against the taupe wall. No matting, nothing fancy—it was so Alan. When they had met three years ago, it had been packed in a box and stuck in his bedroom closet. They were learning about each other, talking to all hours of the night, when the subject of education had come up. He had never mentioned his Master’s degree in Electrical Engineering. Nor did he wear the ring. It took him almost a week to find the box where the degree was tucked between a Sports Illustrated and a handful of National Geographic magazines. He didn’t hang it on the wall until after they were married, almost seven months later. He did wear the ring, though. But only at her insistence.
That was a real difference between her and her husband. Alan didn’t care about the house or what car he drove, and he certainly didn’t care if anyone knew he was a Stanford graduate. What he did care about was doing things right. It wasn’t the degree that mattered; it was putting the knowledge into action. He worked for one of San Francisco’s most forward-thinking corporate security companies, and when he designed a new system for his clients, it was perfect in theory and in implementation. They had talked about it and planned it since they were married, and he was only a year or so from starting his own company. Silicon Valley was a veritable gold mine for companies that could provide secure environments for the software and hardware designers. Price was not an issue when it came to protecting a billion-dollar idea. But what had been a dream within their grasp was now a fleeting thought. The start-up costs were high and the carrying costs for the first year staggering. There was no chance Alan Bestwick would be controlling his own destiny for some time.
And Taylor’s tangible dream was in tatters. G-cubed would have to be sold. Twelve years of novel ideas that grew to become national icons for some of corporate America’s most innovative clients were history. And the six- and seven-figure billings that accompanied the print and television ads were gone. The good news was that the company carried no debt. And the net worth of G-cubed was at least thirteen million, which covered the loan Taylor and Alan had taken out to purchase a chunk of NewPro. That left them broke, except for the equity in their house.
It was a nightmare.
But to Taylor, the nightmare went far beyond the financial. She had invested heavily in her company not only financially, but emotionally. She couldn’t count the number of times she had sat alone in her corner office with red eyes and a half-empty box of tissues. She remembered the day Amy Reid, one of her copy editors, had phoned in on a regular Monday morning. She could barely speak. Her baby had died of SIDS over the weekend. She wouldn’t be in to work for a while. Taylor had met the baby three weeks before at a company picnic. Charles Reid. A perfect little boy, wide eyed at the newness of the world that surrounded him. Now deceased.
Taylor had called a meeting of all the staff. They were to contact the clients who knew Amy and let them know what had happened. She wanted a trust fund in Charles’s name established immediately, the proceeds to go toward university education for Amy’s other two children. She had gathered the women separately, setting a firm timetable for them to be at the Reid house, helping with dinner and the grind of daily chores. And just being there for the grieving family. They had set a minimum of three months. In the end, the women kept up the vigil for almost seven months. They cooked and cleaned, but more importantly, they gave Amy and her husband a new l
ease on life. Taylor spent more time at Amy’s house than any other woman.
There was a low sound, and Taylor turned toward the door. Alan stood in the doorway, sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt soaked. He wiped his brow with a towel and walked over to where she sat on the stool. He knelt on the floor in front of her.
“We’ll survive this,” he said, touching her lightly on her knee. “We’ve got the house, I’m working, and you’re about the most employable person on the planet.”
The tears started. Again. She wiped at them, but they streamed down her face. Alan dabbed them with his towel. “How could this have happened?” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
“The police have a forensics crew looking into it,” Alan said. “Maybe they’ll come up with something.”
“Your money,” she said. “My business. They took everything we had.”
Now it was Alan’s turn to choke back the tears. “It’s just money,” he said after a few moments. “Feeling guilty isn’t going to change anything.”
“Only money,” she said. She took his hand and squeezed. “You worked your entire life to save that money. And it’s my fault it’s gone.”
“No,” Alan said, taking her by the shoulders and locking eyes. “You can’t think that way, Taylor. We both agreed that NewPro was a good investment. Either one of us taking the blame and feeling guilty about what happened isn’t healthy. We’ve got to focus on where we are right now and hope the police can catch these guys.”
The doorbell rang, and Alan asked, “The real estate agent?”
She nodded. “He wanted to see the house before he did the market analysis.”
Alan gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll show him around.”
“Thanks,” she said.
She heard the front door open and muffled voices in the hall. Footsteps echoed off the hardwood as her husband and the Realtor moved through the main floor of the two-story Victorian. She stood and walked to the window, looking out over Octavia Street. They had purchased the house two and a half years ago when they got married. The San Francisco real estate market had been increasing steadily since then, and their location in Pacific Heights was ideal. Taylor figured the house would fetch about one-point-four. After expenses and the mortgage, that would net them about nine hundred thousand. How much of that would have to go toward paying off the bank was the only real variable. And that depended on what they could net from the sale of G-cubed. The word was already on the street that they needed to sell, and she knew there would be low-ball offers from competitors looking to capitalize on their misfortune. She turned from the window as Alan and the Realtor entered the office.
“Honey, this is Dave Bryant,” Alan said.
She walked across the room and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said.
“Not a problem. Referrals are important. I jump when someone puts their name on the line for me.” Bryant’s name had been passed along to Taylor through one of her office staff who had used him to sell their house in San Mateo and find them a condo in the city. He glanced about the room, then followed Alan back into the hall. Their voices diminished as they moved to the back of the house.
Taylor checked her watch. Almost three o’clock. On any normal day she would be at the office working on an ad campaign or at a client’s office making a presentation. Not so now. In two hours someone from the corporate fraud division of the San Francisco police would be paying them a visit.
Corporate fraud.
Why didn’t they see it? How could they have fallen so hard for the scam? Why did they invest so heavily? Questions, so many questions. And right now, no answers.
She closed her eyes and wondered if there would ever be any answers.
CHAPTER THREE
Detective Sam Morel shook his head. He’d seen cleanout jobs before, but nothing quite like this one. The office space was absolutely bare, not a stitch of furniture or paper. The forensics crew dusting for fingerprints was almost finished and they had yet to find one usable print. Morel snapped his notebook shut as two men in dark suits entered through the main doors. Morel knew cops, and these ones reeked of feds. He waited for them to approach him. At ten feet the badges came out, and at five feet one of the suits introduced himself.
“Detective Morel, I’m Special Agent Hawkins, and this is Special Agent Abrams. We’re with the San Francisco office of the FBI.”
Morel glanced at the creds. He didn’t quite loathe FBI agents, but it was close. They always dressed the same, talked the same and most importantly, thought the same. Brent Hawkins was six feet tall and thin, his face chiseled rather than formed. He wore his dirty-blond hair short to his scalp, which only served to highlight his intense blue eyes. His hawklike nose was a touch too big for his lean face, and his jaw was set in a permanent scowl. John Abrams was softer, in the eyes and around the midsection. He topped out at five-ten, and his face was caught somewhere between full and chubby. His hair was at the maximum length the Bureau would allow, and his suit was off the rack, not tailor-made like his partner’s. Both men were mid-thirties.
“What makes an agent special?” Sam Morel asked. “As compared to just a regular agent?”
Hawkins ignored the barb. “We understand you’re in charge of this operation,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” Morel said, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be for long. FBI agents didn’t show up at white-collar crime scenes for no reason. Somewhere, somehow this scam had crossed state lines, and it was now federal.
“We have reason to believe that the people involved in this fraud were also operating in New York, Chicago and New Orleans. The information is still coming in, but this appears to be a well-organized setup, with offices across the country. And if they are tied together, then the case will come under federal jurisdiction.”
“I understand,” Morel said. There was no up-side to arguing with the suit. The best approach was to cooperate and hand over the file. Hell, his department was already busy, he hardly needed the business. The FBI could have this one if they wanted. In fact, just that morning he had stared at himself in the mirror, seeing the creases running back from the corners of his eyes to the tufts of hair he called sideburns. His face was thicker than when he was in his thirties. Not pudgier, thicker. He didn’t seem to have as much neck either, almost like his head was settling into his shoulders. That wasn’t good; he’d never been taller than five-nine at any point in his life. He still had all his body parts, a healthy head of graying hair and sturdy teeth. And his prostate was in fine form. Life was good; no sense letting a few wrinkles mess with his mind-set.
Morel said, “We had the place sealed for two days until we got search warrants, so we only got in this morning. My CSU guys are almost finished. If you want to bring in your own experts I’ll arrange for access.”
Hawkins nodded. “Thanks. Have you requisitioned the phone logs?”
“First thing. The company operated out of this space for eight months. We’ve got a request in for a complete list of incoming and outgoing calls over that period. We’ve also identified the bank they used to pay their operating expenses and have asked for copies of the corporate seal, the directors’ names and all transactions since inception. I’ll forward that ahead to your office.”
Hawkins raised an eyebrow, then handed Morel a business card. “We appreciate the cooperation, Detective Morel.”
Morel smiled. “We’re on the same side, Agent Hawkins. I try to keep that in mind.”
“Thanks.”
Morel glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with two of the victims in half an hour. Want to come along?”
“That would be good,” Abrams said. They had planned on conducting their own interview within twenty-four hours. This just made things easier.
Morel scribbled Alan and Taylor’s address on a piece of paper and held it out. Abrams took it. “See you there at five,” he said. He started toward the door, then stopped. “Hey, I’ve gotta kn
ow something.”
“What is it, Detective?” Abrams asked.
“Do you guys take a course on always talking in proper English? You know, never using slang or saying ‘Sure’ instead of ‘That would be good.’ ”
Abrams looked like he was going to blow, but Hawkins smiled. “They teach us to be polite, Detective. And to never swear.”
“See you in half an hour,” Morel said, grinning. Life at the Bureau was certainly different from SFPD.
Morel was fifty-two and three years from a full pension with the department. His waistline, a steady thirty-six for fifteen years, had recently ballooned to a forty. Grecian formula couldn’t stop the constant flow of gray hair, and he needed an hour a week now just to pull out the unsightly nose and ear hairs. This was early fifties. What the hell was coming when he hit seventy or eighty? His energy levels were dropping as fast as his waistline was expanding. There was a time in his career when he would have fought the feds tooth and nail for jurisdiction, but not now. That surprised him, given the scope of what was fast becoming a major scam. White-collar crime in America was huge, and this one was shaping up to be one of the largest he had ever seen. First indications were that this was going to run into the tens of millions in San Francisco alone, even before the dollar amounts from the other cities were added in. He slid behind the wheel of his unmarked car and checked the map. Octavia Street—Pacific Heights. The high-rent district.
Twenty-five minutes later, he parked outside the restored Victorian belonging to Alan Bestwick and Taylor Simons. He called in his location, locked the car and hoofed it up the stairs to the front door. An extremely attractive woman with red hair and pale skin answered the doorbell. He slipped his badge out and held it up for her.
