She’d lived with the case file for weeks. She knew where the defendants ate breakfast, that Craig Womback preferred the aisle seat on airplanes, and that Martin Sheely always brought his kids gifts from the local street market or bazaar when he traveled. She knew who they reported to within SystemSource, that Womback had once had an affair with a secretary, and that Sheely always filed his travel expense reports the day after a trip. And she’d built a solid case against them for their attempts to bribe Señor Cruz. She’d mined the facts for every element she was required to prove, but that was all she’d looked for.
If Rosie’s hunch was right, she’d obviously missed something that mattered a great deal to someone else. Time to stop searching for it and let it come to her.
She fiddled with the earbuds in her ears and hit “Play” on her audio player. Then she leaned back in her chair and listened to the recorded telephone conversations for what had to be the six hundredth time. This time, however, she would listen with no agenda, no purpose. Just listen.
Her pencil traced the words on the transcript as they filled her ears:
Mr. Womback: It’s me. Can you talk?
Mr. Sheely: I have a few minutes. My flight’s boarding now. How’d it go?
Mr. Womback: Time will tell. I met Cruz for drinks at some craphole authentic joint.
[Laughter]
Mr. Sheely: Did you talk dollars?
Mr. Womback: No. He’s still skittish. You remember that dude in Poland, who freaked out when we brought up the specifics too soon?
Mr. Sheely: How could I forget? That was close. So, you’re still dancing?
Mr. Womback: Still dancing, but I think he’s game. He has the ultimate authority to choose the system; no sign-off required, so why wouldn’t he pick ours and line his pockets at the same time?
Mr. Sheely: Let’s hope so. We have to get this contract. I got yet another reminder from those pricks back at HQ.
Mr. Womback: [Snorts.] Let me guess—“Our investor has made it clear that his interest is in our international footprint. Government contracts are the most lucrative, stable way to expand that footprint”?
Mr. Sheely: They called you, too?
Mr. Womback: Frigging bean counters. They think it’s so easy, let them pound the pavement trying to hit a sales quota month after month.
Mr. Sheely: You got that right. Screw them.
Mr. Womback: And screw that Ukrainian ballbuster, too.
Mr. Sheely: They’re gonna close the doors. I gotta go.
Mr. Womback: Safe travels.
Mr. Sheely: Yeah. Adios.
[The phone call ends.]
She stared down at the paper and digested what she’d heard. The meat of the call was that the two sales reps had kindly hit every element she needed to prove a violation of the FCPA and had even named the Mexican official who was the target of the bribe.
But what else had they said? What was hidden in the call that someone wanted to keep buried?
Not the attempted bribe in Poland. SystemSource had admitted that as part of its settlement, and the Department of Justice had agreed not to pursue charges against the individual defendants for that conduct.
So, what?
The company was pressuring them to produce because an investor wanted to expand globally? As far as she knew, unless movies had lied to her, corporate greed was hardly unusual.
She nibbled her eraser and played back the recording in her mind. The Ukrainian ballbuster resonated. She circled the phrase on the transcript. Could it be a reference to another bribery attempt, one Justice hadn’t managed to uncover?
No, the context made it seem like the Ukrainian was an insider, not a government official. Someone in the company’s finance department? The investor?
Her cell phone vibrated on top of a pile of papers on her desk. She ignored the buzzing. She imagined anyone who was texting her midday on a Wednesday was either her mother forwarding a picture of her floppy-haired guinea pig or her mobile carrier letting her know her bill was ready for payment. In either case, the text was less important than the task at hand.
She underlined the circled words. It was something. She’d ask Rosie to look for a Ukrainian entity in the web of companies that made up SystemSource.
There was a soft rap at the door. She looked up.
Mitchell leaned against the doorframe.
“So—are you Woodward or Bernstein?”
“As long as I don’t end up like Archibald Cox, I’ll be happy.” She popped out the earbuds.
“Cox? The special prosecutor who Nixon had fired? Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure Sid isn’t going to fire you.”
Of course he knew his political history. She bet his secret ambition was to someday be the solicitor general—or maybe even the attorney general.
“I’m not worried about me. Did you forget the other victims of Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre? His attorney general and the deputy AG both resigned rather than carry out the order to fire Cox. I don’t need to drag you and Rosie down with me following some ill-advised hunch.”
He shook his head. “There’s something to this. Take a look at what Rosie’s put together.”
He crossed the room and handed her a printout. As she took it, his fingers brushed her wrist. Her pulse jumped at the contact, but she managed to keep her expression neutral.
She looked down at the diagram of interlocking companies Rosie’d managed to find so far.
“That’s a lot of companies. Are you guys making any headway?”
She hadn’t realized Rosie was going to enlist help, but she couldn’t really fault her. They still had a massive amount of trial prep to get through. Every minute they spent playing investigative journalists was stolen from time that should have gone toward polishing their opening statement and nailing down the direct examinations of their witnesses.
He shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, we’re finding lots of entities who could have an interest in the outcome of the trial or in preventing the tapes from becoming public. Too many.”
Her eye trailed from the word SystemSource at the top of the page, along a series of vertical lines coming down from the word, branches on the company’s family tree. It was a messy, overgrown tree. A jumble of subsidiaries, affiliates, joint ventures, divisions, and operating units spread around the globe, some connected horizontally, others branching off from a shared parent. A wholly owned Croatian subsidiary sat next to a co-owned Swiss affiliate.
Rosie had culled the names from the information statements that the company, as a publicly traded corporation, was required to file with the Securities and Exchange Commission. But those financial reports wouldn’t tell the whole story; business lawyers drafted them with the express purpose of providing the minimum amount of detail needed to comply with the reporting regulations. This was a tree without fruit. And, somehow, the corporate structure had never been tied down during the initial investigation into SystemSource.
She felt a surge of irritation for the lawyer whose sloppiness had let that go undone, but she quickly dismissed it. The company had agreed to pay a big, juicy fine. What would have been the point of wasting taxpayer dollars on continuing to dig into its background?
Wow. You’re really starting to sound like a government lawyer, she told herself with some measure of amusement. Aroostine Higgins, ladies and gentlemen, consummate bureaucrat.
She coughed to cover her giggle.
“What are the next steps?”
“I just wanted you to sign off on this list of entities. I have a friend who works at the SEC in the Division of Corporate Finance. We have a standing lunch date. Rosie’s going to tag along and ask him to pull the files on all these interrelated companies. Want to join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ll just grab a sandwich here. You know, you don’t need to do that. We can get most of this stuff off EDGAR.”
> The Security and Exchange Commission’s electronic database was public and freely searchable.
“Not all of it, though—only the information the registrants are required to report. Besides, it’ll be quicker for him to do it. We’d have to run down each branch. He can just dig up the entire tree.”
She frowned. He was right. But still. She didn’t like the thought of him and Rosie running around calling in favors all over DC. She bit her lower lip but didn’t say anything.
Mitchell looked at her closely.
“Why is it so hard for you to ask for help?”
She stared down at the desk for a moment. Because I grew up a charity case. The only thing I want in life is to be able to take care of myself. She swallowed the words and looked up.
He waited.
She shrugged. “You know, you don’t have to help us with this. You have your own caseload.”
She winced as her words hung in the air between them. She sounded ungrateful, petulant. That wasn’t how she felt. Although she wasn’t exactly sure how she did feel. Conflicted. Cared for. Grateful. Embarrassed.
A shadow of disappointment flitted across his face, and then it was gone. He leaned in close to her and tipped her chin back with warm fingers until she met his eyes.
“I’m not trying to help you win your case. I’m trying to help you stay alive.” His voice was just above a whisper.
“Why?” she managed.
He stepped closer to her. For a crazy moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
“I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
He reached out and ran his fingertips along her cheekbone.
She tried to ignore the heat that flooded her body.
And then he stepped back. He watched her struggle for an answer. Then his mouth curved into a gentle smile.
“I better go. Rosie’s probably waiting for me.”
“Um. Okay.”
Brilliant response, she told herself.
He headed for the door.
“Wait,” she called. “Tell Rosie to look for a Ukrainian company, too. I don’t even know if there is one, but . . . it’s a hunch.”
“Will do.”
As he continued out into the hallway, she took a deep breath, then said, “Mitchell—I owe you one.”
He turned and pierced her with an unreadable look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll collect.” He flashed her another smile and left the room.
She watched him disappear down the hall and imagined what his lips would feel like pressed against hers. How his mouth would taste.
Stop that.
She jumped to her feet and searched the room for a distraction from the emotions she wasn’t ready to admit she had. Her eyes fell on the iPhone. She scooped it up gratefully and unlocked the screen to check her text message. And every lustful thought of Mitchell was wiped from her mind in an instant.
She didn’t recognize the sender’s number, but she recognized the grainy picture. It was no guinea pig. It was Joe. He was stretched out on a dark floor. His eyes were closed. His mouth gaped open. The picture accompanied a terse, to-the-point message:
You have a choice: your husband or your case.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I sent the message.” Franklin’s voice sounded dull and dead to his own ears, as heavy as the weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach when he’d seen the man’s most recent text.
He’d just finished choking down an early lunch when his phone had dinged to announce the arrival of the picture of the man’s newest captive along with instructions for Franklin to forward it to the lawyer with a very specific message.
He wondered if he’d go through the rest of his life cringing and tensing every time he heard the sound of a text arriving.
“Good.”
Franklin hesitated. If the man wasn’t going to bring up his mother, he had no choice but to push the issue. He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and plunged ahead.
“Now, what about my mother?”
“She’s resting comfortably.”
The man delivered the news neutrally, like a hospital nurse reporting the condition of a post-op patient.
“That’s not what I meant.”
The man laughed.
Franklin’s grip on the cell phone tightened, and he struggled to keep his emotions lidded.
“I know what you meant, Franklin. I told you. Change of plans. Momma’s not ready to come home just yet. Besides, now she has a friend to keep her company.”
Company. Franklin ignored the acid wash of guilt that hit his throat at the mention of Joe Jackman. He couldn’t get hung up on the unavoidable fact that he was responsible for Jackman’s current predicament. He hadn’t had a choice.
“When, then? What more do you want from me?” he demanded.
“Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming. If the lawyer is smart, she will find a way to lose her case. Then, as I said in my message, her husband will be released—along with your mother.”
“Lose the case? But the trial doesn’t start until next week. You’ve had my mother since last Monday. She needs to come home. She’s an old woman.”
“She’s fine.” The man dismissed his pleas.
Franklin could tell by his tone that the man was getting ready to end the call.
“Wait—don’t go. Please. What if Higgins isn’t smart? What if she doesn’t throw the case? What then?”
Silence.
Franklin asked the question knowing the man wouldn’t say that he’d honor his promise and release his mother, but he had to ask anyway, because an impossible sliver of hope still existed somewhere inside him.
After a very long pause, the man said, “That will be regrettable for Mr. Jackman and your mother, then, won’t it?”
Franklin pushed on. “What if she calls the police?”
The man exhaled loudly. “I suggest you see to it that she doesn’t.”
The soft click of the man ending the call sounded in his ear, and the remaining shard of hope he’d been carrying around shattered into a thousand pieces. He stared at the silent phone for a long moment, then chucked it at the wall.
His helplessness overwhelmed him, threatening to smother him.
There was nothing he could do—except hope that Aroostine Higgins stayed the course after she saw the picture of her husband.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The door groaned. Joe turned away from the small window. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there, his forehead pressed against the cold pane of glass, staring out into the dense woods, hoping to see someone—a hiker, a hunter, anyone who could get him out of the cabin. But all he’d seen were two deer and a rabbit.
The quiet, empty woods outside the window had reminded him of Aroostine. And thinking about her made him feel almost worse than being locked in a log cabin. Almost.
The door opened inward, fast, and a tall figure stepped through the doorway and closed the door securely behind him. It was a man, tense and alert, ready for trouble, judging by his wide-legged stance and the raised shotgun he held.
Joe eyed him from his spot by the window. The shotgun was a smart choice, regardless of whether this guy was an accomplished marksman or a rank novice with a gun. And, judging by the stiff way he handled the shotgun, Joe guessed he was closer to the latter than the former. Not that it would matter: the shotgun would be easy to use and would easily hit a target, especially in a confined space like this one.
“Where’s Jen?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.
The man shot him a quizzical look. Then understanding dawned on his lined face. He laughed—it was a guttural, harsh sound, completely at odds with his expensive haircut, cashmere sweater, black slacks, and highly polished, square-toed shoes.
“Jen? You mean the whore whose name you’
ve been crying like a baby calling for his mother? I assume she’s in some filthy trailer hunched over a computer, spending her fee. Virtual payment, who ever imagined,” the man mused, talking more to himself than to Joe.
Whore? Jen was a prostitute. Embarrassment and self-disgust washed over Joe. He’d been targeted by a hooker. All she’d had to do was feign interest in his stories and engage in a modicum of flirting, and he’d walked right into a trap.
But why would anyone want to ensnare him? Master carpentry wasn’t a field known for its cutthroat rivalry. And he was a go-along-to-get-along kind of guy. He just didn’t have the sort of personality that would draw someone’s ire—at least not so much that they’d go through the trouble of hiring a call girl to lure him to a remote wooded cabin to be held captive. Yet, here he was.
“Who are you?”
“This is not your concern.”
Joe thought he heard the hint of an accent. Eastern European? Russian? He couldn’t pinpoint it. But this guy clearly hadn’t grown up in Pennsylvania.
He took a closer look at the man.
Late forties, maybe early fifties. Deep tan, with the attendant lines that habitual tanning caused. Short hair, brown, graying at the temples. He looked fit—tall and lean—but not obviously muscled. He could be a cycler or golfer, maybe a skier—some expensive sport for rich people. Everything about the man said “money.” He looked out of place in the simple, rustic cabin.
In fact, he reminded Joe of many of his clients: wealthy New Yorkers who plunked down hundreds of thousands of dollars to renovate old farmhouses so they could have a country home to get away from their Manhattan lives.
This guy couldn’t be some crazed Wall Street banker holding a grudge because his hand-crafted reclaimed wood bookcase had been delivered a few weeks late or some crap, could he?
Joe studied the man’s face. No. He’d never seen this particular rich guy before.
The man looked back at him, impassive and patient. He showed no sign of worry that Joe might recognize him or be able to describe him later. Joe filed that scrap of worrisome information away for later consideration.
Critical Vulnerability (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 1) Page 10
