Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  Then Brooke took out a copy of the page from the ledger. “Cynthia, have you ever seen this accounting code before?”

  Cynthia took one look at the three circled identical codes on the page, then brought her lawyer in close and whispered something in his ear.

  “May we have a minute?”

  “Sure.” Brooke clicked off the recorder, collected her evidence book and she and George got up and left the room.

  .G.

  Out in the hallway, Brooke looked at some of the framed pictures on the wall.

  “George, look at this.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  Brooke took out her phone and took a picture of the photo hanging on the wall. “Darn, the flash was on.” She looked at what she had taken and it was just a big white spot in the glass of the picture frame. She swiped off the flash and reshot the photograph. Then popped a few more of all the photos on the wall for good measure. Josh stuck his head out and invited them back into the room.

  Brooke pointed to the ledger sheet again. “Can you tell us what this code stands for?”

  Cueing off the nod from her lawyer Cynthia explained, “One-four-tee-gee-gee stands for, ‘one for the good guys.’”

  “What does that mean?” Brooke was a little surprised at the informal denotation.

  “Whenever there was an expenditure that, how can I put this, was recompense for someone whose time sheet didn’t reflect the actual amount of time they invested in a deal, a board member and a few others we authorized released funds as a bonus or way of compensation for off-sheet devotion and/or saving a deal.”

  “Could it be entertainment?” George said.

  “Well, yes.”

  “So for instance, if a deal was made over dinner and maybe clinched by a bottle of double malt, then the eighteen-year-old single malt would be a 14TGG charge?”

  “Well, as an example, yes,” Cynthia said.

  “Fifteen point seven mil is a lot of booze,” Brooke said.

  “That’s why I used the word example. No one except for the authorizer knew what the 14TGG was for. We never questioned it. It all happened above my level.”

  The questioning continued for another hour. When they were leaving, George asked one last question. “Cynthia, have you ever gotten any 14TGG money.”

  Brooke noticed that she must have felt a sudden chill, because she wrapped her sweater more tightly around her shoulders and looked to her counsel.

  “We are still under immunity, correct?” the lawyer said.

  “Of course,” Brooke said.

  “Well, this house,” Cynthia answered.

  For the second time in an hour, Brooke was surprised. She took her seat again and everyone followed suit as she turned the recorder back on.

  Chapter 15

  Setting the Mousetrap

  Reviewing the transcripts from the recording she made of Cynthia’s interrogation, Brooke confirmed her suspicions that an off-the-books slush fund of a major hedge house was somehow the conduit for funneling millions to terrorist front groups around the globe. But the nagging question was why? The stated goal of most terrorists was the disruption of capitalism with its forced democracy and blasphemous multicultural cooperation. That’s why they hit London as soon as they were awarded the 2012 Olympics; it was a blow against multiculturalism. A hedge fund would be practicing suicide by inviting in a sworn enemy like ISIS and cozying up to radical fundamentalists. For the terrorist’s part, they would certainly take Satan’s money, but a hedge fund would have no reason to . . .

  “A Mr. Remo on line two.”

  Brooke looked at the phone. She couldn’t put this off any longer. She hit the blinking light. “Peter! How nice to hear from you . . . Everything’s fine. Yes, he’s doing quite well, thanks for asking . . . I’m here helping out Uncle Sam . . . For about three months now . . . Time does fly . . . Tonight? . . .”

  She bit her bottom lip. She fluffed some papers on her desk a little too loudly. “Let’s see, I can make drinks at 5:30 but I have a 7:30.” She waited for him to decline. “Oh, okay then 5:30 at Harry’s? See you then.”

  She hung up and felt a pang of guilt, but she couldn’t live the rest of her whole life avoiding her past because she was married now. Her fling with Peter had been over well before she met Mush. However, she and Peter had worked together on a few really big and dangerous cases. So in her mind, she relegated her acceptance of Peter’s invitation for drinks as just getting together with a workmate to swap old war stories, and that eased the case of the “guilts” she was having.

  She dug back into the transcript but it only lasted a few seconds. She picked up her cell and swiped through her contacts. “Hello. This is Brooke Burrell . . . er . . . Brooke Morton,” she said, correcting herself out of guilt. “Can Tina fit me in for a blowout at 4:30?”

  .G.

  A horse must have thrown a shoe, Warren Cass thought as he nudged the iron crescent with the tip of his riding boots, outside the paddock area of his ranch in the Maryland countryside. Here, away from his Federal Protective Service 24/7 security detail, he could speak freely on a private cell phone without concern of being overheard, except by Thunder, the beautiful, fifteen-hands-tall Arabian who was grazing to his right. He was listening to the New York lawyer, Josh Wasserman, recount the meeting between Cynthia and Brooke. Josh was being paid by him, “off budget,” to represent Cynthia. More accurately, the taxpayer’s hard-earned dollars were being put to good use protecting the Treasury secretary’s reputation.

  Warren had met Cynthia years back when she was the diligence officer of a small startup fund. They’d had some grand times together and it was she who’d introduced him to Morgan Prescott. Whatever Prescott was mixed up in, which he was duty bound as Secretary of the Treasury to uncover, he knew in his heart that Cindy, as he called her, would never be a party to it. His faith in her was in no way connected to the fact that he’d worn a wedding band all during his dalliances with the “madam of diligence.” But that had been twenty years ago . . .

  “So what do you think they believe they have discovered?” he said, patting the rare black coat and mane of the warm animal in the chilled air of dusk. He listened as Josh gave his take on what he thought they were after. When the call ended, he chided himself for not remembering that Cindy had reached out to him, her old fling, four years back when he’d been head of the Office of Management and Budget for the last president. She’d made a case for Prescott on some loosening of trade regulations with a few countries on the “no-trade” list. Warren was able to pull some high-level strings and Prescott’s deal flew through. The hedge fund head had to have made a couple hundred million on the deal. He had forgotten, or didn’t know at that time, that Cindy’s bonus for reaching out to him had been a new house.

  He made a mental note to check his archives and emails from that time to make sure there was nothing more than the normal governmental intervention to help a US commercial endeavor in foreign markets. Making those overtures for American business was something that was actually in the best interest of the government to do. It just couldn’t be because his old girlfriend/mistress had asked him to do it. He was sure there was no record of communication between them that existed. The Prescott emails and letters and eventual regulatory findings were now all a matter of public record, and had passed the smell test during his Senate confirmation to head up the Treasury. Still, he’d double check.

  His stomach was doing cartwheels and as he walked back to the house for his medication, a light rain fell. He turned up the collar of his ranch coat and wondered how he’d managed to forget that business about Cindy’s house but, at seventy-two, sometimes it was a miracle he remembered to zip his fly.

  .G.

  Feeling like a piece of meat in a kennel was not a new experience to Brooke. In the testosterone-laced environs of the Navy, and later in the FBI, she c
onstantly had to overcome the assumption that, since she was attractive, she therefore couldn’t really be serious about her job. To counter this all-too-common bias, she’d developed a speech pattern and behavioral modes that effectively put any thoughts that she was merely there for window dressing to rest. But the men here at Harry’s, and a few of the women, checked her out as she walked in. It made her feel like a prize steer being led to slaughter. She dismissed the turning heads as nothing more than the fact that she was fresh meat in this place of after-work regulars. She walked over to the bar and found two seats. She looked around as she climbed on the stool but didn’t see Peter.

  .G.

  A sandy-haired stockbroker in a pinstriped suit with a loosened tie and holding a longneck beer set his sights on Brooke the second she sat down.

  .G.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him circling in for the kill. The bartender placed down a coaster and asked, “What’ll ya have?”

  “I’d love a Pinot Grigio.”

  “Coming up!” the bartender said and turned to start a tab.

  “There is no reason for you not to think this is a line, and even as I’m saying it, I know it sounds like one, but . . . Do I know you?” the arriving prospect proffered.

  Brooke looked straight ahead and purposefully not at him. “Yes it is. You’re right. And no.”

  “Huh?”

  She finally turned to him. “Yes, I think it’s a line, you are right, it sounds like a line, and no you don’t know me.”

  “Okay, but . . . I really do. I’ve seen you before.” He took the liberty to rest an elbow on the bar, squeezing into the space between her and the next stool.

  “And I’ve heard that one before, too.”

  He snapped his fingers and blurted out, “Prescott!”

  Brooke’s voice went from casual conversation to police command. “Whoa. Stop right there. What is your connection to Prescott Capital Management?”

  “I used to work there. You showed up on the last day. You were by the elevator. You’re a fed or something.”

  “Yes, what did you do at PCM?”

  “Was that a fed question or pretty-blonde-in-a-bar question?”

  “Was that an evasive answer or a pretty-boy-behind-bars answer?”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t know how I knew you . . .”

  “Well, now you know. What’s your name?”

  “Um, I really should get back to my buds over there.”

  “Are they ex-Prescott too?”

  “I really got to go.” He backed away and almost knocked over a poor waitress with a tray full of drinks.

  Brooke was smiling when Peter came up beside her. “Well, you seem like you are in a great mood.”

  “Peter!” They hugged and he took the seat next to her.

  “Well, Brooke, I have to say you look great. Married life seems to definitely agree with you.”

  “Thank you, Peter. It is pretty sweet.”

  “So is Mush here with you?”

  “No, he’s working.”

  “Oh.”

  Brooke was mildly shocked. “You seem disappointed?”

  “Well, a little.”

  “Explain.”

  “I was hoping to have a chat with him.”

  Brooke let out a laugh that surprised Peter.

  “What’s so funny?” he said.

  “Nothing . . . I’ll tell you later . . . maybe.” The bartender made his way back to their end of the bar with her wine. Brooke nodded to him and turned to Peter. “What are you drinking, Mr. Remo?”

  Thirty-five minutes later, they were seated at a table. Peter was turning a glass by the stem between his fingers as he recounted his current project. “So I was hoping that your sub-driver husband would help me with some final details.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to help, as soon as he gets back. I’ll ask him to call you.” The time being two wines later than a half-hour ago, Brooke laughed again.

  “Okay, lady, there’s some kind of little funny thing bouncing around in your head. Are you going to let me in on it?”

  “Oh, Peter . . . I was . . . I mean . . . Well, when you called, I thought, you know . . . You. Me. Our history.”

  “Okay, now I get it . . . Booty call?”

  “Not as bad as that, but I definitely thought it was in that general direction.” She began laughing again.

  Peter feigned insult as he tried to control reflexively joining in the laugh. “Wait. What would be so funny about that?”

  “Because you are so you!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m almost feeling guilty coming to meet you, and all you want to talk about is IMF protection anagrams.”

  “EMP protection algorithms!”

  “Whatever.”

  “So you are laughing to hide your female ego?”

  Brooke stopped for a second. Considered his point. “I got to admit it’s half relief and half a little disappointing that I didn’t get to say no.”

  “See, it’s exactly that kind of logic, or in this case lack of it, that makes Electro-Magnetic Pulse dynamics so much easier to understand than females.”

  Brooke glared at him, but couldn’t hold it in and burst out laughing again.

  Peter joined in and raised his glass. “To Impulse or EM-Pulse, whatever works. It’s good to see you so happy, my friend!”

  “To my friend. Thanks, Peter.” They touched glasses and drank. “Wanna order something?”

  Peter looked at his watch. “I thought you had a 7:30?”

  “Well, that was another impulse, in case your impulse was the non-magnetic kind. Or wait . . . if there was a magnetic . . . attraction thing.”

  “Very good. Very funny, but hey, I’ll always be attracted to you. But I’ll always be your friend.”

  Brooke chewed on that statement. “Hold on, are you leaving a door open here?”

  “No, I know you walked through a one-way door to get to the altar and, believe me, I am so happy for you. But I’ll always have a special place for you and the sweet times.”

  “Paris.”

  “Yes, a few others.”

  “Wait, what others? We only spent one week together in France.”

  “Well, I got my own YouTube up here.” He touched his temple. “Moments when I caught you being you. They are etched in my brain.”

  “I know I shouldn’t ask, but like when?”

  “Well, when we were working with Bill and I’d look over to you and you’d be taking in the crime scene, deconstructing it. The look on your face, the confidence, the way your eyes moved as if you could see it, watching the way it went down, like live TV in your mind. I fell for you more and more in moments like those.”

  “And all that time I thought you were just checking out my boobs.”

  “Didn’t I mention all the while I was admiring you, it was happening right above the most ample . . .”

  Brooke put her finger on his mouth. “Enough. My bad. I shouldn’t have gone there.” She pulled away her finger.

  “AbleBodiedLawEnforcementOfficerIEverMet.” He said it really fast to it get all in, in one word. Then smiled.

  Brooke smiled, and raised her glass again.

  He did likewise and added, “WithAGreatRack!” he sped through before he sipped.

  “Peter!”

  .G.

  They were still telling stories and laughing when the waiter brought the dessert list.

  “None for me.”

  Peter looked over the top of the menu. “Coffee?”

  Brooke looked towards the waiter. “Better make it decaf.” Then, to Peter, “Can’t drink caffeine past three or I am walking the halls all night.”

  Peter turned from the menu to the waiter. “I see you have hot c
hocolate. I’ll have one with extra whipped cream please.”

  “It’s like I’m with a big kid. Cranberry and 7 Ups in wine glasses, hot chocolate, not even coffee . . .”

  “I never got the drinking gene.”

  “I guess in the long run that’s a blessing.”

  “And a curse. A lot of people don’t trust someone who doesn’t drink,” Peter said.

  “There are two sides to everything, I guess.”

  .G.

  The sandy-haired broker, who had moved on to Shirley from accounting, glanced over and said under his breath, “Oh, she was meeting her dad!”

  .G.

  “So back to your job,” Peter said as he found the raw sugar in the little silver holder that landed on the table.

  “Temporary assignment,” Brooke said, choosing not to acknowledge his sweeter-than-most sweet tooth.

  “Noted.”

  “Again, what I can share with you is that at one level it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no greater sign of American capitalism than a hedge fund, yet why would one cooperate with those who are sworn to destroy the American economic system?”

  “In the aftermath of 9/11, there were some very quickly silenced stories about a sudden movement of financial instruments. The shorting of airline stocks on 9/10, for instance.”

  “So you’re saying ideology has nothing to do with it?”

  “If I am a player, and I know something monumental is about to happen, I can make boatloads of income betting with or against it. Or being axed. You know, winning no matter which way it goes.”

  “No I don’t know. Never heard of axe.”

  “I summer interned for my senior year at a trading house. That’s when I thought my life was going to go that way. I soon found out they had a language all their own. The short-and-long game is classic. And you could make boat loads of cash . . . The key is knowing what’s going to happen.”

  Brooke thought for a split second. “So if you knew two airlines were going to be used as weapons, and lose millions of dollars literally in one day . . .”

  “Then shorting the stock makes you the genius of all time. Rich genius.”