Clawback

by J. A. Jance

  “Everything is wiped?”

  “Yes. That kind of secure delete operation—something that should have taken hours to accomplish—was over and done with in not much more than two. In other words, all of OFM’s data—customer information, trading information, everything—went away.”

  “So it’s someone with a whole lot of technical know-how.”

  “Indeed,” B. agreed. “I’ve called Lance Tucker in on this and have him looking around on the dark web for anyone advertising those kind of services, but having to ferret out the kind of detailed information needed for the bankruptcy proceeding is going to be a monumental undertaking.

  “And as long as we’re talking bankruptcy,” B. continued, “according to news reports, this bankruptcy thing supposedly came as a total surprise to everyone. Not so much. On Friday afternoon of last week, one of the OFM board members, an attorney named Eugene Lowensdahl, was tapped to serve as the CRO.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The chief restructuring officer. Think of it as the opposite of CFO, and you don’t appoint a CRO unless you’re anticipating filing for bankruptcy.”

  “Let me guess. A CRO is the guy in charge of liquidating assets and initiating clawbacks?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Lowensdahl was appointed by whom?”

  “That would be Jason McKinzie, who, as far as we can determine, is truly in the wind. He flew out of Sky Harbor on his way to Mexico City on Friday evening. No one has seen him since.”

  “He didn’t appear for the bankruptcy filing on Monday?”

  “Nope. As for the CRO? My guess is that the company is defunct, and there won’t be any restructuring—mostly because there won’t be sufficient assets for anything other than a complete liquidation.”

  “What about the building?”

  “Funny you should ask. Stu found out just this morning that OFM’s corporate headquarters on Central in Phoenix was sold for an undisclosed sum a little over three months ago. Since then, McKinzie has been leasing the space back from the new owners.”

  “Did anyone else in the company know about that sale?” Ali asked.

  “Can’t tell,” B. replied. “Maybe, maybe not. From what Stu found, McKinzie’s name was the only one on the deed.”

  “Is that even legal?” Ali asked. “In making a decision to liquidate a major asset like that, shouldn’t he have had to consult with a board of directors and possibly report the sale to the SEC?”

  “You’d think so, but Jason McKinzie hasn’t been coloring inside the lines for a very long time. I managed to get a face-to-face appointment with Eugene Lowensdahl for three o’clock this afternoon. Unfortunately, that ball is now in your court.”

  “Do we know anything about this Lowensdahl guy?”

  “Yes,” B. said. “He’s a high-end attorney in Phoenix who has served on OFM’s board of directors. He’s also got something of a reputation as an MCP.”

  “Male chauvinist pig?” Ali asked with a laugh. “Are you kidding? I haven’t heard that term in years.”

  “It evidently applies here. Years ago, Lowensdahl was sued and settled out of court for attempting to fire one of the female attorneys in his firm, claiming she refused to conform to the company dress code.”

  “Which was?“Ali asked.

  “She evidently had the unmitigated nerve to come to work in a pantsuit.”

  “Since when doesn’t a pantsuit constitute proper business attire?”

  “That lawsuit was a couple of decades ago, but the story is still out there on the Internet. Since we need to impress this guy, you should definitely dress for success when you take the meeting.”

  Ali groaned, looking down at her casual summer-in-Sedona attire. “Heels and hose on a June afternoon in Phoenix? That should be fun. But tell me, what’s this face-to-face supposed to accomplish?”

  “As CRO, some of Lowensdahl’s compensation will be based on a percentage of the money he brings back into play, either from clawbacks or from liquidating assets.”

  “Yes,” Ali said, “with his focus mostly on the low-hanging fruit.”

  “That’s true, but if we convince him that there may be far more low-hanging fruit out there, maybe we can also persuade him that High Noon can help him find it. More money in the pot means more money going back to the investors eventually, but also more money coming to him. Your job is to talk him into hiring High Noon to go looking for OFM’s missing funds.”

  “When you say hiring I take it that’s what you mean—hiring us, as in not tackling the job out of the kindness of our hearts?”

  “Absolutely not!” B. exclaimed. “Not on your life. You and I both know we’d do it for free in a minute, but if we made that offer, Lowensdahl would never take us seriously. Tell him we want a percentage of whatever we recover.”

  “How much?”

  “Let’s say twenty-five percent, for starters.”

  “Twenty-five?” Ali demanded. “Are you kidding? That’s outrageous. This is other people’s money, B. It’s my parents’ money.”

  B. laughed. “Start high and give Lowensdahl a chance to drive a hard bargain. That’s the only way to hook a lawyer, you know. Make him think you’re charging an arm and a leg.”

  Just then Stu burst into the room. “Cami got a line on the vehicle, and I’ve identified the driver and both passengers.”

  “What vehicle are we talking about?” B. asked.

  “The landscape truck.”

  “You mean the facial rec worked?” Ali asked.

  “Right,” Stu answered.

  “Wait,” B. said to Ali. “You already knew about this?”

  “Cami called me about it on my way here. I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Ali quickly recounted Cami’s earlier phone call before they both turned back to Stu.

  “I ran a facial rec on the passengers in the vehicle as it went north. One of them turns out to be Dan Frazier. The other two are ex-cons with extensive records.” He handed Ali and B. two printouts that turned out to be rap sheets.

  “These are the guys?” Ali asked. “Alberto Joaquín and Jeffrey Hawkins?”

  Stu nodded. “I also ran the plates. Those lead back to an Alejandro Joaquín in Peoria. The thing is, I just heard over my scanner that a vehicle with a matching plate number is now involved in what they’re calling an active homicide investigation—a double homicide investigation—north of Sun City.”

  “Are you kidding? A second double homicide in as many days?” Ali was aghast. “Yavapai County or Maricopa?”

  “Yavapai.”

  Since Dave Holman was the sheriff department’s lead homicide investigator, Ali knew the case was bound to have landed in his lap.

  “It sounds like we need to talk to both Dave Holman and Eric Drinkwater ASAP.”

  “Not so fast,” B. cautioned. “Don’t go off the deep end and talk with Drinkwater until you run it past Dash.”

  “What about Cami?” Stu asked. “Do you want her to come back here?”

  “No,” Ali said. “Ask her to try to get in to see Dash Summers and show him what we have. If he gives the okay, Cami and I can stop by Sedona PD and show Detective Drinkwater what the two of you have found. I still need to interview the Frazier Insurance Agency employees. Maybe Cami can help with some of those since apparently I’m on my way to Phoenix for a three o’clock.”

  “But what about my doughnuts?” Stu objected. “Cami was supposed to pick them up.”

  Ali hurried around the desk and gave B. a brief good-bye kiss. “Don’t worry about Lowensdahl,” she told him. “But you’ll need to text me the address.” Then, on her way past Stu, she added, “As for the doughnuts? My folks are in my office working on the data sort. If I ask her to, I’m sure Mom will be glad to go on a doughnut run.”

  “Okay, then,” Stu allowed grudgingly. “Glazed, not chocolate.”

  Ali headed out with a smile on her face. As long as strangers came to Stuart Ram
ey’s lair bearing gifts of doughnuts or pizza, maybe they weren’t that unwelcome after all. Her smile lasted only as long as it took for her to reach the parking lot, where she ran into the last person on earth she wanted to see right then—Detective Eric Drinkwater himself.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “What’s your father doing here today?” he asked in return. “I went by Sedona Shadows, and the people there said he was down here working on his case—that you’re working on his case. I’m here to remind you, Ms. Reynolds, that this is police business and you need to stay out of it. Interfering with a police investigation into a homicide turns out to be a felony.”

  “What we’re doing has nothing to do with your business and everything to do with ours,” Ali said, battling to hold her temper in check. “My father’s attorney, Dash Summers, hired our firm, High Noon Enterprises, to do investigative work on behalf of my father’s defense team. As a U.S. citizen, my father’s allowed that, you know. He’s entitled to a robust defense.”

  “Robust, my ass,” Drinkwater growled. “And you know what I think? That you’re a rich bitch who believes her money gives her the right to push everybody around.”

  “And I think you’re an overbearing jackass,” she returned. “Since this is a free country, we’re both entitled to our opinions. But let me remind you, Detective Drinkwater, this is private property. Unless you happen to have a valid arrest warrant in hand, you’re trespassing, and if I call the cops here in Cottonwood, the ones who show up won’t be coming from Sedona PD. Got it?”

  It took real restraint on Ali’s part not to nail him with what Stu and Cami had just learned, but remembering B.’s caution about talking to Dash first, she kept her mouth shut on that score—but not on every score. She already knew that Eric Drinkwater didn’t like to be crossed. He was furious now. For a few seconds, Ali half expected that he was going to punch her with a clenched fist. Remembering the way he’d treated her father, she couldn’t help herself—she goaded him.

  “Go ahead and hit me,” she said. “There are security cameras all around this entrance. Anything you do here will be caught on tape—every single move—and the next thing you know, E.D., I’ll have your badge.”

  His eyes bulged in absolute rage. “What did you just call me? Who told you that?”

  “You heard what I called you, and it doesn’t matter who told me,” Ali replied calmly. “Not only that, I meant every word of it. After the way you treated my father yesterday and last night, you should be glad I didn’t come up with something a hell of a lot worse.”

  He glared first at her and then at the overhead cameras. “Bitch,” he muttered again before stomping away.

  “Good riddance to you, too, Detective Drinkwater,” she said under her breath before calling after him. “Have a nice day. Maybe I’ll drop by to see you a little later.”

  38

  Leaving the girls—Sheila, Phyllis, Juanita, Susan, Ellen, Pat, and Carmen—to reassemble the office, Haley Jackson set off on a series of difficult errands. Armed with the envelopes from her FINAL DIRECTIVES files, she drove straight to the Whitney Funeral Home in downtown Sedona. Having read the directives she knew now what Dan and Millie had wanted, and she was determined to make that happen. She started with the funeral home mentioned by both Dan and Millie.

  When Haley introduced herself, Morgan Whitney, the owner, greeted her somberly.

  “I’m here about Dan and Millie Frazier,” Haley explained. “I’m in charge of their final arrangements.”

  “I see,” he said, directing Haley to a chair, surprisingly enough without any mention of the obligatory “Sorry for your loss.”

  Once seated, Haley extracted the two envelopes from her purse, removed the applicable sheets of paper, and passed them along to Mr. Whitney. He read through them before handing them back.

  “We lost money, too,” he said. “With OFM, I mean. Dan encouraged us to move our 401(k) program over to them, and we did.”

  As Gram had said, as far as the people of Sedona were concerned, Haley was now the face of Dan Frazier’s business. Morgan Whitney wasn’t the first to hold Haley responsible for his losses, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “I’m sorry,” Haley said. “If you’d rather I took the business elsewhere . . .”

  “Oh, no,” Whitney said. “Nothing like that. Of course we’ll handle the arrangements. As it turns out, we need all the business we can get. The wife and I were hoping to retire in a year or two. Now that’s not going to happen, so we need to talk about the kinds of services you envision.”

  “Service,” Haley corrected. “A single memorial service for both of them together. No open casket; no viewing; no visitation. I want it small but dignified. As you saw in the letter each of them expected the other to scatter their ashes. With them both gone I’ll handle that. What about timing?”

  “Have the autopsies been performed?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll have to check with the ME in Prescott. I can’t give you an exact date or time until after the bodies are released. What about payment?”

  “How much will it be?” Haley asked.

  Whitney shrugged. “We’ll have to collect the bodies from the ME in Prescott, transport them here for cremation. There’s a rental charge for using our chapel facility for the service itself. There’s no extra charge if I officiate, but if you bring in someone else to do that, you’ll need to handle their charges. Then, depending on the urns you select, we’re probably looking at between five and seven thousand, and require payment in full prior to conducting the services.”

  That seemed high to Haley but she didn’t quibble. “Of course,” she said.

  Eventually Mr. Whitney led Haley into a softly lit coffin- and urn-lined room to make her selection. Some of the urns were surprisingly expensive. Finally her eye was drawn to a brass one engraved with a simple Greek key design.

  “That one,” she said.

  “Two of them, then?”

  “No, just one.”

  “I’m not sure you understand,” Mr. Whitney said reprovingly. “Cremains take up a certain amount of space. The urn you’ve chosen is large enough for one person but not for two.”

  “I do understand,” Haley said. “Dan and Millie Frazier lived together. They died together, and if I have any say about it, their ashes will be scattered together. I want the ashes mixed together. Load as much of their ashes as will fit into the one urn and feel free to dispose of the rest.”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Whatever you wish.”

  Haley forced herself to bite back what she really wanted to say. What I wish is that Dan and Millie weren’t dead, and I wasn’t here.

  “Thank you,” she said, heading for the door. “Once you have prepared an invoice, give me a call.”

  She phoned the office as she climbed into her Accord. “How’s it going?”

  “We’re making decent progress,” Carmen told her. “I’ve been sitting here working on reassembling computers while everyone else has been working on the filing mess.”

  “Let everyone know that I’m ordering pizzas all around,” Haley told her. “I’ll pick them up and bring them back after I finish at the bank.”

  As Haley headed back toward the Village of Oak Creek, she noted the bright yellow car driving behind her. She noticed it mostly because she’d always wanted a yellow car of her own. It never occurred to her that someone might be following her. After all, the highway from Sedona to the Village was one long no-passing zone.

  39

  Ali dialed Dave Holman’s cell phone before she exited High Noon’s parking lot. “Holman here,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be working that double homicide down by the 303, would you?” she asked.

  “You can’t possibly know that,” he began, and then stopped. “No, wait. I remember. Stuart Ramey has his police scanner on pretty much 24/7, right?”

  “Have you identified your victims yet?” />
  Dave sighed. “Ali, I know we’re friends, and I know you and your family are going through a lot right now, but I . . .”

  “Would they happen to be named Alberto Joaquín and Jeffrey Hawkins?”

  Dave said nothing for a moment, then he exploded. “My dead guys haven’t even made it to the morgue and you already know who they are? How did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do it,” Ali replied. “Cami Lee, Stuart Ramey’s new assistant, is the one who figured it out. My father had mentioned seeing a landscaping rig at the scene of the Frazier homicides—a pickup truck loaded with mowers, rakes, and leaf blowers. Unlike Detective Drinkwater, Cami took my father’s word as gospel. This morning she went out on her own looking for it. She finally found a set of functioning security cameras blocks from the scene. After she located footage of a landscaping truck coming and going around the time of the crime, she asked Stu to send it through our facial rec program. Three people—Dan Frazier, Alberto Joaquín, and Jeffrey Hawkins went north. Only Joaquín and Hawkins made the return trip.”

  “So what’s the connection between Dan Frazier and my new dead guys?”

  “Something you should maybe ask the next of kin.”

  “I’ll do that. First chance I get. This Cami person sounds like my idea of Wonder Woman,” Dave said. “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “And have you mentioned any of this to Detective Drinkwater?”

  “Not yet, but we will eventually, once we run it by Dash Summers. I expect we’ll give good old E.D. the complete package, including video footage, enhanced photos of the bad guys, and copies of their respective rap sheets along with the plate number on the vehicle they were driving.”

  “Detective Drinkwater isn’t going to like having to let go of your father as a suspect, and he won’t appreciate having his ass handed to him by a twenty-two-year-old.”

  “No,” Ali said. “I don’t suppose he will. I, for one, can hardly wait.”

  “So what are the chances of getting this Cami person to come to work for the sheriff’s department on a permanent basis?” Dave asked. “I could use someone like her on my new double homicide.”