by Ponzo, Gary
My jaw dropped. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a word to say. “Really?” I murmured.
Kait nodded, looking coy. “You know why, don’t you?”
I felt my heart skip a beat and feared I might break out in a sweat. Please don’t tell me Helen found out about us. And the whole State’s Attorney’s Office knows.
Kait smiled. “You remember Amy Hinson, right? Or was she after your time?”
It took me a few seconds to absorb her words. “Amy Hinson,” I repeated. “The paralegal?” Amy.
“Right. Tell me you’re not surprised?” She shot me a knowing look over her glasses. “She’s young, she’s cute, and she’s smart. And she’s been assisting him on a lot of cases.”
“Of course.”
“They’ve been seeing each other for over a year.”
My mouth opened, but I couldn’t speak. I’d only broken up with Ray a few months ago.
Kaitlyn nodded. “Got it straight from Amy. Technically, she’s young enough to be his daughter. I mean if he, like, had a kid in high school.”
“Over a year, huh?”
“Says Amy.”
“Well . . . .” I couldn’t think of a thing to add. My cheeks burned.
“I’d love to chat more, but I gotta scoot and get ready for the mid-morning docket. Good luck,” she called over her shoulder, as she plunged back into the throng.
I forced a smile and waved, but my mind was reeling with the thoughts of Ray’s incredible duplicity. Fearing that I might confront him—or kill him, I stomped out of the courthouse. Staying couldn’t lead anywhere good.
<><><>
I left Upper Marlboro and took back roads, foot heavy on the pedal, to get to Walt’s office in Greenbelt. My plan was to run by Kozmik Games, the computer gaming company Brad worked for, and check his computer. Perhaps I’d find support for his claims of innocence. Since Brad’s office was right down the road from Walt’s, I decided to stop at Walt’s office first. What I had to say was better discussed in person. Besides, seeing Walt might take my mind off the news about that fucking jerk, Ray.
It was a sunny October day, and I had the top down on my purple ’67 Mustang so I could savor the last of the mild weather before November’s chill moved in. I glanced around at the unobstructed view of trees, their yellow and orange leaves splashed across a royal blue sky. The day’s beauty seemed to mock me. Damn Ray! I refused to fall apart and pushed aside my anger, hurt, and jealousy for the time being.
I made my way to Kenilworth Avenue, proceeding to where it narrows abruptly from six-lane highway to two-lane country road. I turned left onto a street flanked by office parks. Another turn and I pulled into the lot. The place was a three-minute drive from the Greenbelt Metro station and a stone’s throw from the federal courthouse, a gleaming granite and glass building. Though a decade had passed, Walt still called it the “new” federal courthouse. For him, the Maryland federal district court would always be the one up in Baltimore.
I parked outside the building where Walt rented his small, top-floor suite. After bestowing an admiring glance on the “Darth Vader buildings” across the street—two matching mid-rise cubes of bluish-black glass—I headed inside.
A quick elevator ride later, I strolled through reception, past the empty desk and the glassed-in conference room, to Walt’s office. I could hear him talking. His door was open, so I wandered in. He gave me a quick wave and gestured to a leather chair while he continued his conversation. I pointed toward the kitchen and mouthed, “Coffee,” and he nodded. I took my time. Knowing Walt’s phone habits, there was no need to rush.
During those few minutes while I waited for him, I did some deep breathing exercises. In. Out. In. Out. I visualized punching Ray in the face (or better yet, kicking him in the balls). Keep breathing, I told myself. In. Out. In. Out. I kept it up until I nearly hyperventilated.
I retrieved a ceramic beer stein from the cabinet and filled it up. After a few minutes, I heard Walt say, “All right. Great talking to you. Bye!” The phone clicked into its cradle, and Walt groaned. “Man, I need more coffee. Sorry to keep you waiting. I haven’t spoken to Jake in a coon’s age.” He wandered into the kitchen with his favorite mug—Illegitimi Non Carborundum imprinted on it—in one hand, a file in the other. He set the mug on the counter and poured coffee to the rim.
“No biggie,” I said. Based on Walt’s track record, the wait had amounted to a millisecond. “I see Laverne is off today.”
“That girl! Always sick. She’s lucky I keep her on.” Walt’s eyes were gleaming slits on each side of his slightly bulbous nose. A smile stretched across his rubbery face. “Laverne” was his nonexistent receptionist. The reception desk was a prop, for the most part, except when Walt hired a temp. Otherwise, “Laverne” was the butt of our running jokes about her taking too much leave or too many trips to the bathroom.
“So,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I was in the neighborhood on my way to Kozmik and hoped to get a few minutes of your time. I want to talk about Brad’s case.”
“Really?” He glanced at his watch. “Brad’ll be here in a few minutes if you want to talk to him, too. We’re having lunch.”
“Actually, I just wanted to talk to you.” Trying to appear casual, I took a long sip of coffee and considered my next words carefully. “You’re pretty fond of Brad, aren’t you?”
“Fond? He’s the closest thing I have to a son.” He averted his eyes before adding, “At least, now . . . .”
I felt a flush of shame for bringing it up. Walt’s divorce was decades ago. It had been so bitter, his own son had refused to speak to him since. I’d never asked the details. It was ancient history and none of my business.
“Let me be blunt. Do you think it’s possible that he’s lying to us?”
His eyebrows gnarled in concern. “Hell, it’s possible that all our clients are lying to us,” he said, in a tone that suggested the obviousness of that proposition. He glanced sidelong at me as he sipped his coffee. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, I was just thinking, Brad does have a bit of a history.”
Walt shot me a look. “That’s putting it rather delicately, isn’t it?”
“I can be less delicate, if you prefer. He’s had legal problems before.”
“Frat house high jinks.” He pulled a sour face. “Frankly, I think my sister spoiled the boy.” He shook his finger at me. “But I don’t think Brad’s a criminal.”
“When we spoke, he struck me as defensive and a bit argumentative.”
Walt waved a hand. “The boy was just nervous and tired of answering questions.”
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t buying it. “We’d better hope the audit clears him. If Kozmik presses charges, Brad won’t respond well to a cop’s third degree. He could barely stand the first degree.”
“I know, I know.” Walt held up a placating hand. “When someone checks the computer system there, I hope it shows that a hacker created that account.”
“Yes,” I said. “I hope so. I also hope the company agrees to do it, and whatever they find clears Brad. I intend to run a background check on Brad when I do one on his old boss, Darrell Cooper, and the guy who previously held Brad’s job. Vince whats-his-name.”
“Vince Marzetti.”
“Right. You would do that with any other client.”
I turned from Walt. Brad stood at the kitchen door. Tall and hunched the way tall people often are, he was in his mid-twenties. His face was boyish, with soft, delicate features and sandy-blond hair. Brad’s glance drifted my way, his gray eyes guarded and his mouth set in a sullen line. I wondered how much he’d heard of our conversation.
“Hi, Uncle Walt,” he said.
“Brad, my boy!” Brad managed a slight smile as Walt turned to greet him, setting his cup down to shake Brad’s hand and give him a one-armed embrace. “You remember Sam?”
Brad nodded. He looked about as enthused as he had at our initial me
eting. “Hi,” he said.
“I should be going,” I said, delaying a moment to wash my mug.
A look of relief washed across Walt’s features. “Good luck with your visit. I assume you’ll be talking to your friend while you’re there?”
“Friend?” I drew a blank then recovered. “You mean their general counsel, Leonard Hirschbeck?” I snorted. “I know the man, but we’re hardly friends.”
I finished rinsing my mug and placed it on the drying rack. “Take it easy, Walt. Nice to see you again Brad.”
Brad grunted. I guess I’d left him speechless with awe.
CHAPTER FOUR
I left Walt’s. The mention of Leonard Hirschbeck had taken my mind off Ray and onto Brad Higgins’s problems. Kozmik Games was a short trip down Kenilworth Avenue to a small outcropping of mid-rise office buildings just past Greenbelt Park—an anomalous national park and camping area amid suburban development. The buildings had a slightly worn air, like the post-WWII single-family homes in the neighborhood. The small brick houses, once the stronghold of white, working-class folk, had changed hands over the past thirty years to include a broader cross-section of ethnicities.
Kozmik had offices on the third and fourth floors. I took the elevator to four where the company logo covered the opposite wall—”Kozmik Games” in cartoonish yellow letters against a blue oval background dotted with small yellow stars and planets. The hallway ran almost the length of the building, ending in perpendicular hallways on each side, like a big capital “I.” Turning left, I headed toward the accounting offices.
I stepped inside a large room and strolled to the end of an aisle bisecting rows of bland gray cubicles. To my right were two private offices, their doors closed. A Led Zeppelin poster caught my eye.
The room was hushed but for the clicking of keyboards.
I peered into the first cube, where a lanky fellow was entering numbers onto a spreadsheet. I stole past him and proceeded to the workspace at the far end. A nameplate on the divider read “Bradley Higgins.”
Brad had an L-shaped desk tucked into the cubicle. His chair faced away from the entrance, providing visitors a stellar view of his back. I recalled the story of Wild Bill Hickok, shot from behind while playing poker with his back to the door. A file cabinet obscured my view of the monitor. From this vantage point, no mortal could have read the code Brad used to create the account.
I crossed to the desk and sat down. Craning my head, I examined the ceiling and its juncture with the wall behind me. No evidence of a security camera. Too bad. It might have revealed the identity of whoever planted the money. Of course, someone in the company would have gained that information too.
I turned on Brad’s computer. It beeped, and the monitor sprang to life with a soft click and a hiss. A message on a blue screen asked me to enter my user name and password. I put in the information Brad had given me and got an error message. Damn! Someone had changed it. Of course. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t double check his email messages for evidence to support what he’d told us.
“Can I help you?” The lanky fellow peered at me.
I got up and extended my hand. “I’m Sam McRae. I’m a lawyer, representing Brad Higgins.”
“Jon Fielding.” He gave my hand a half-hearted squeeze. His gaze drifted to a spot over my shoulder, then returned to me. “Technically,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about Brad.”
“Then I won’t ask about him. Can you tell me if this office has security cameras in it?”
Fielding shook his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”
“Just curious.” It was possible there were cameras the employees didn’t know about and possible they’d recorded something the company hadn’t told us about. Possibilities I’d have to explore with Hirschbeck.
Fielding looked over my shoulder again. “I don’t think you should be on his computer, either.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low to match his. “I can’t get in anyway.”
I stole a glance back at the monitor and noticed the screen saver had already kicked in. A multicolored, amorphous shape undulated against a black background. Looking at that for ten minutes would have driven me mad.
“I just wanted to check for anything that would support his story,” I told Fielding. “Nothing cloak-and-dagger.”
“Well, if you need a character witness for him, I’ll be one.” He glanced around.
“You don’t believe he did it?”
“I don’t believe it, no.” He paused and looked down. “I . . . can’t really say more.”
“That’s all right. I don’t want you to get into trouble over this.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A female voice piped up behind Brad. It belonged to a short woman, her dark eyes fixing me with a stare both curious and hostile. She had a round face, olive complexion and short dark-brown hair, shellacked into a spiky punk do. A faux ruby nose ring gleamed under the fluorescents.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I introduced myself again and explained why I was there.
“You shouldn’t be here.” She flashed a look at Fielding. I didn’t catch his reaction, but her full lips pursed in a way that told me she didn’t like it. “We’ve been instructed by our general counsel not to talk about this with anyone. You should take any questions to him. His name is Leonard Hirschbeck.”
“I know who he is. And you are?”
“Ana Lopez. I’ve taken Brad’s position.”
“You’re filling in for Brad,” Fielding said. “Temporarily.”
“Yeah? We’ll see how temporary it is.” She crossed her arms and stared me down once more. “I think you should leave now.”
“Ana, lighten up,” Fielding said.
“Don’t tell me to lighten up! I’m doing what I’ve been told. And you’d do the same, in my place. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
Heads poked up over the cubicle tops and disappeared quickly. It reminded me of Whack-A-Mole.
“You seem pretty convinced of his guilt,” I said.
“Well, look at the facts. The account was set up a month after Brad started. Only he had control over its creation and maintenance. Then they found all that money in his file cabinet. Coincidence?”
“If they thought Brad was guilty, why didn’t they fire him?” I asked.
Ana re-pursed her lips and said, “You need to speak to Mr. Hirschbeck.” Her look told me that any further inquiry would be at my own risk.
“Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hands. “I’m outta here.” I glanced at Fielding, whose lips curled in a grimace. He shrugged and gave me a what can I do? look.
I left the room, but waited outside the door. There was a brief back-and-forth I couldn’t make out between Fielding and Lopez, then silence. When I was pretty sure the coast was clear, I snuck back in and handed Fielding one of my cards.
“Call me,” I mouthed. He nodded and stuck the card in his shirt pocket.
I scampered out, knowing where two employees on the accounting staff stood.
At the opposite end of the long hall was Big Wig Central, where Brad said the president had his corner office and his veeps huddled around him for warmth. I could put my tail between my legs and slink off or I could try talking to Sondra Jones in Cooper’s stead. So talk to her, I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? She’ll tell me to leave her alone and talk to Hirschbeck. Or not. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I walked into an anteroom large enough for ten desks. I counted four. One, with a monitor and a phone that resembled the console of the Starship Enterprise, faced the door. The rest were perpendicular to the wall and near three office doors. A long black vinyl sofa with gleaming chrome legs filled the opposite wall. Magazines covered a faux-wood coffee table. Freestanding cabinets and shelving completed the decor.
At a far desk, a twenty-something woman with carrot-colored hair and a black micro-miniskirt chatted with a light-skinned black woman.
“Could you believe when he shot her? I couldn’t believe that,” the black woman said.
“Yeah, that shocked the hell out of me.”
I hoped they were talking about a movie or a TV show. I looked around, saw Sondra Jones’s name on a door and headed for it.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the black woman gesture my way. Red rushed over to intercept me, tugging at the skirt hem which barely concealed her underwear preference. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Sondra Jones,” I said, attempting an authoritative voice.
“Do you have an appointment?” Red went to the front desk and checked a calendar.
“No. But this is very important. I’m investigating the situation involving Bradley Higgins.” Okay, I’d left a few details out, but I wasn’t lying.
Her eyes widened. “Then she’ll want to talk to you. Can I have your name, please?”
“Sam McRae.”
“One moment.” She picked up the phone and I heard a faint ring coming from Jones’s office. She relayed the information to Jones then put her hand over the phone. “Are you with the police?” I shook my head. She told Jones, said “Okay,” then hung up.
“She’ll be out in just a moment,” she said, in a solemn voice.
“Thanks.” While inspecting a poster of an old pinball game over the sofa, I heard the door open and turned to see one of the tallest, thinnest women I’d ever laid eyes on. She wore a black suit and a pair of black spike-heeled pumps. Her raven hair, cut in an expensive careless shag, framed a pale face, pointed chin, cat-like green eyes and bright red lips.
“Come in and have a seat, Ms. McRae,” she said, with a lightness in her tone that contrasted with her appearance. She followed me into the office and closed the door before shaking my hand. “Sondra Jones. Since you’re not with the police, may I assume you’re a private investigator?”
“No. Actually, I’m an attorney representing Bradley Higgins.”
“I see.” She stiffened slightly. “Just a moment.” She picked up her phone and punched four buttons. “Len,” she said. “There’s a lawyer here about the Higgins matter. I need you to come to my office. Now.” So much for catching her off-guard.
