by Debbi Mack
I stopped at the office to retrieve my active files, backup hard drive, and Rolodex, keeping a sharp eye out for Diesel Don or his black car. I set up my phone to forward calls to my cell. After borrowing an old laptop with a wireless Internet card from my friend, Jamila, I checked into a cheap motel on Route One and locked myself in my room, ready to do business on the run.
If only I could repaint my car, I thought glumly, while peeking at it through the curtains. Even at night, my grape-colored Mustang stood out like a purple beacon.
Staying at a motel gave me some peace of mind. Still, it seemed like the calm eye of a hurricane. One step outside, and I felt certain I’d be blown away.
I stayed in all day Sunday, organizing paperwork and my thoughts. I sat cross-legged on the bed, files fanned around me, and made another to-do list.
My first thought was to find Tina and wrestle the truth out of her. While turning her in would be unavoidable, I had to do it—to get the truth and protect her.
Second, follow up with the police about the child porn discs. They could be relevant to two murder investigations and evidence of a separate set of crimes.
Third, call Hirschbeck about the status of the audit and bug him again to check the computers for tampering.
Fourth, show Brad pictures of the guys who picked up the package and see if he recognized them.
Last, but certainly not least, figure out Diesel’s part in this. I suspected his role was limited to hired muscle. I hoped that would be revealed after I got the package from Philadelphia.
Setting aside for the moment the question of how a couple of nerdy-looking guys hooked up with someone like Diesel, I focused on what I knew about the Kozmik Games murders. Diesel had been in Philadelphia, looking for Brad’s old boss, Darrell Cooper. Soon after, Cooper was found dead in the water—suggesting that Diesel may have put him there. Making murders appear like accidents didn’t jibe with Diesel’s style, but that didn’t rule him out as Cooper’s killer.
Diesel was in Kozmik’s office building around the time Brad’s new boss, Sondra Jones, was shot. Knowing Diesel’s proclivity for breaking and entering, Diesel probably broke into Brad’s condo and planted the gun that murdered Jones. I hoped the cops could find Diesel and bring him in for questioning on that murder—preferably before he found me.
Meanwhile, I had a discovery dispute to work out in the messy divorce case, and a possible settlement in a simple personal injury matter. I was waiting for a hearing to be set on whether Tina would be tried as an adult. That issue might become moot if I could find her and get her to admit where she had been the night Shanae was murdered.
Once I’d made the list, I did triage. What first? The better question was, what could I do first? Right now, I couldn’t reach Tina. If Little D could find her, I’d deal with her then. I needed Little D to give me copies of the disc before I went to the cops. Hirschbeck, I’d call the next day—get his Monday off to a good start. That left Brad. I phoned him, and we arranged to meet in the morning at his condo in Greenbelt to look at the photos.
That night, I tossed and turned, the next-door TV on until the wee hours. In my fitful, half-dozing state, I had nightmares. In one, Tina and I were running through Bed-Stuy, down filthy alleys, past drug dealers and prostitutes. It was dark. I was trying to get home, but the alleys and streets kept changing. I was lost and frantic. I dragged Tina by the hand. When I finally spotted my building, I realized she was gone. I felt torn between wanting to run for home and searching for her. My mother appeared out of nowhere in her bikini, smiling and laughing. I awoke with a start when a door slammed.
I sat up, heart racing, eyes darting around the room, in the pre-dawn light. The bedside clock glowed 6:35 in red. A door banged again. The door for the adjacent room.
I tried to relax, snuggled under the covers and closed my eyes. Another door slam. Then another. Some idiot, carrying luggage to the car, lacked the sense or consideration to prop the damn door open. By the time the commotion ceased, I was awake for good. I got up, grumbling.
Peeling off my night shirt and tossing it aside, I stumbled to the bathroom and took a hot shower, trying to wash away the memory of the bad dreams. I wiped a section of the fogged-up mirror and reassessed the damages to my face. My lip looked better. The purple spot on my cheek matched my car’s exterior. Thank God for concealer. I combed my short auburn hair, threw on some clothes and called Hirschbeck. I left another voice mail then headed for Brad’s.
On my way, I stopped at Greenway Shopping Center near Brad’s development for a venti high-test brew at Starbucks. If it had been on the menu, I would’ve paid extra to have it administered intravenously.
I’d guzzled most of it by the time Brad ushered me into his place. A short hallway led to the living room, where an old sofa and a scarred wooden coffee table sat across from a gleaming high-def TV.
“Nice,” I said, nodding at the TV.
“I bought it right before all hell broke loose. I thought I’d be able to pay it off quickly. Now . . . . ” For a crazy moment, I wondered if Brad might be in on the embezzlement. Maybe he’d paid his co-worker Jon Fielding to mislead me. Christ, I thought. I’m really getting paranoid. No doubt, Brad liked expensive toys, like a lot of guys his age.
“You said you had some pictures to show me?” Brad asked.
“I do.” I clicked through a few photos on my digital camera to shots of the two men. Brad squinted at the small screen and asked permission to download them to his computer, to enlarge the images. I watched over his shoulder as he plugged the camera into a port and performed technical magic that transferred the images to the hard drive.
As he opened one file, I asked, “Are you using Photoshop?”
“Uh-huh. My parents got it for me. A professional-quality program. Awesome for graphics and video, too.”
I watched him fiddle with apps to enlarge and fine-tune the images. By changing the contrast and tint, he further defined the men’s features.
Brad’s jaw dropped. “Hey, I know them. They work for Kozmik.” He became animated. “Chip Saltzman and Mike LaRue.”
“What do they do for the company?”
“They’re in game development.”
Of course. The game developers who met with Diesel. “Are they computer programmers?” I asked, peering at the photos.
“One’s a game designer, the other’s a programmer.”
Assuming the system was tampered with, who better to do it than a couple of computer geeks? “I think we’ve found our embezzlers,” I said.
“You’re kidding,” he said, eyes wide. “What makes you say that?”
“I found a money trail, and it leads to them. Are they friends of yours?”
“Not like close friends.” He looked away. “But I’ve gotten to know them. I never dreamed they’d do something like this to me.”
“This must be a shock,” I said. Brad nodded. He seemed unable to speak.
What I still didn’t know was “why” and “how”: Why were these guys using the embezzled money to buy kiddie porn? And how had a couple of middle-class white nerds gotten hooked up with a janitor from Suitland?
* * * * *
When I left Brad’s, my cell phone jangled. I flipped it open when I saw the caller ID.
“Hi, D,” I said. “Anything new on Tina?”
“Naw,” he said. “But I’ve got the janitor’s name for you. It’s Greg.”
“Greg. That’s it?”
“I find out more, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Where have you looked for Tina, by the way?”
“She ain’t with dad and she ain’t at her friend Rochelle’s house, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“They’d both crossed my mind. Could she have gone home?”
Little D grunted. “Checked there too. No sign of her.”
“I may run by and check again. I’m going to hit the school and pay a visit to Greg. If you’re not busy, you want to sit in on our chat?”
“Wouldn’
t miss it,” he said. “I’ll bring your copies of the DVD with me.”
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
“Ah-ight.”
I thought about the DVD and all the questions I had for Janitor Greg. I hoped that, somewhere in his answers, there would be a solid alibi for Tina.
* * * * *
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to run by Kozmik and get some face time with Hirschbeck. Enough with voice mails. I had to see him.
I approached the building and spotted Ana Lopez lighting a cigarette as she pushed through the front door. The same spiky-haired Ana Lopez who’d all but thrown me out of Kozmik’s accounting department on my previous visit.
“Hi,” I said.
She turned away, blowing a dragon’s breath of smoke. “What do you want? Like I don’t already know.”
“I’m here to talk to Len Hirschbeck. I have some photos of the guys who may be the real embezzlers.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Can I see them?”
Fascinating, her sudden curiosity. Might she be in on this? “I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk to you about the case,” I said. Ana rolled her eyes. Score ten for me. I snickered to myself for parroting her words. “For the moment, it would probably be best if I kept their identities confidential and shared them only with your legal counsel.” I emphasized only.
She shrugged and struck another pose while taking a drag on her cigarette. “Whatever. How can you be sure you have the right guys?”
“I have evidence.” I decided this would be a good time to test my theory that she had accused Brad of embezzlement. “Do you have any evidence to back your claim that Brad Higgins did it?”
Her jaw dropped. “I never. Who told you that?”
“Your whole attitude about Brad screams disdain for him. Tell me, is there solid evidence against him? Or did you accuse Brad because you wanted him gone?”
“I didn’t,” she sputtered.
“You accused him because you wanted his job, right? The job you thought you deserved.”
Ana’s mouth twitched. “Okay, look.” She exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “I never accused him of anything. But I heard stuff about him. And he had this attitude. Like, he didn’t need to worry because he would get his someday. He kept hinting he had it made financially.” She took a drag and blew the smoke my way. “So when they found money in his file cabinet, I figured he was the one stealing. It would, like, explain his whole attitude, you know? And, yeah, it made me mad. I could have used that promotion and I never would have stolen from the company.”
“Did it not occur to you that Brad’s family may have money? That an inheritance would be his someday?”
She sniffed. A sapphire-blue stud twinkled in her nose. “Oh, really. Well poor, pitiful Brad.”
“That doesn’t justify accusing him of a crime.”
“Look, all I said was he had this attitude.” Ana dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her pointy-toed pump. “I never accused him of anything. I figured he did it, though.”
I wasn’t sure I bought her story, but I nodded and we went inside. As the elevator doors opened, she said, “I still think he’s an asshole.”
* * * * *
Hirschbeck wasn’t in his office and wasn’t expected back all day. I hustled back to the car and sped off to Silver Hill Intermediate.
Little D was waiting in front of the school. I flashed my courthouse pass at the guard and explained that we needed to see Greg the janitor about a case involving one of the students. He took us to the administrative gatekeepers. After we’d received their blessing and our visitor’s badges, the guard directed us to the custodian’s office.
The head custodian was a stocky man with a shiny mahogany pate. Folds of fat collected above the back of his collar. “Greg’s busy,” he said, in a voice suggesting that he was, too. “Could you come back later?”
Little D stepped forward. “It’s important we speak to him. Now.”
The man’s gaze traveled up the full length of Little D. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I could page him, if it’s that important.”
Little D smiled. “We’d appreciate it so much.”
The man walked to the nearby PA system and hit a button. “Greg Beaufort, please come to the custodian’s office. Greg Beaufort, to my office.”
He busily ignored us while D and I waited. The second Beaufort came into view, I recognized him from the video. He was short and slight, with close-cropped hair. His complexion reminded me of caramel candy. His crow’s feet suggested that he was between 30 and 40. He wore a dark-blue jumpsuit.
An adjoining room had a metal desk and a couple of chairs. I asked the custodian if we could use it. He grunted assent.
Walking in, Beaufort’s glanced darted back and forth from Little D to me. “Whatchoo want?”
“I’m Sam McRae,” I said, closing the door behind him. “I’m a lawyer.” I paused to let it sink in. “I need to talk to you about something that affects my client. Have a seat, please.”
His eyes narrowed, but he sat down. Little D leaned against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed. I perched on a corner of the desk.
“First, I need you to verify how late Tina Jackson was at your place a week ago Wednesday. Second, I want to know how you got involved in the child porn business with Kozmik Games.”
He glared at me. “Fuck you.”
“We know Tina was at your place that night,” Little D said. “We know about the sex parties.” He stepped toward Beaufort, pulled a DVD envelope from his jacket pocket and waved it. “We have a copy of your, shall we say, greatest hits?” Little D’s voice was calm, but the look he gave Beaufort could have melted steel.
Beaufort’s expression changed. The cockiness vanished for a second. He collected himself. His temple pulsated. “Bullshit.” He spat the word. “That could be Walt Disney you got.”
“Fine. You don’t have to believe us now.” I shrugged. “After we give the DVD to the police, and they see Tina and her friends giving you and your buddies blow jobs, I think you’ll start believing.”
Beaufort’s calm expression collapsed into panic. His eyes broadcast fear, his mouth trembled. He held his head. “Shit,” he said.
“There’s no point lying. Tell me how late she stayed that night.”
“Shit,” he said again. He covered his face, as if to wipe us out of his sight. “I’ma lose my job.”
“You’re going to lose more than that,” I said. “Of course, if you cooperate, you might be able to make some kind of deal. You never know.”
“For havin’ sex wit’ a minor? An’ recording it, too?” He shook his head. “Shit.”
Little D stood over Beaufort, staring down at him with growing disgust. At this last remark, I thought D might haul off and hit the little shitheel. I shook my head at him. D snorted. A wave of his hand said Beaufort was hopeless. D resumed his pose against the wall.
“Tell me, how late was Tina there?”
Beaufort held his face in his hands. “It was a little before nine when they lef’,” he said.
“Are you sure of the time?” I asked.
“Yeah. They said their ride would be there at nine. They all come wit’ some friend o’ Rochelle.”
I breathed a sigh. That was an hour after the neighbor thought she’d seen Tina leave her house. She had an alibi.
“So who was the friend?” I asked.
“I dunno.” He saw the look on my face and his voice cracked. “Look, I really dunno. All I know is it was some friend, see?”
Little D looked at me, ready to have at him. I held him back with a raised hand. He scowled, but stayed where he was.
“So how did you get hooked up with the guys at Kozmik Games?”
“Say what? What guys?”
“The guys paying you for the porn.”
“I dunno about no guys,” he said, in a loud, exasperated voice.
“Well, why were you in Philadelphia looking for Cooper?”
I sucker-punched Beaufort with that question. His eyes widened and he stuttered. “Ph-Ph-Philadelphia? I ain’t been there.”
“Don’t bother to deny it. There’s a witness who can identify you.” I didn’t mention that the charming Elva McKutcheon thought all black people looked alike. For another twenty bucks she’d probably identify him—even if she didn’t recognize him.
Beaufort squirmed. “I went there to find that dude Cooper, as a favor for a friend.”
“What favor? What friend?”
“He wanted to talk to Cooper, is all.”
“Who did?”
He shook his head.
“Someone with Kozmik Games?”
In one fluid motion, Little D sprang from his spot against the wall, grabbed Beaufort’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “Start talkin’, mutherfucker. And tell us the truth.”
“I don’t know whatchoo talkin’ ’bout wit’ ’dis Kozmik Game shit!” Beaufort was laying it on a bit thick, I thought. Either he really didn’t know or he was lying at the top of his voice.
His rage barely suppressed, Little D glared at Greg. “You want me to break his arm?” he said quietly. Beaufort whimpered.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, keeping a steady tone. “We have an alibi for Tina, either through him or the person who took Tina and the other girls home. Breaking his arm could be considered overkill.”
“Too bad,” Little D said. “I could stand a little overkill right now.”
We left Beaufort sitting in the chair, head bowed.
* * * * *
Little D had someplace to be. I decided to see Tina’s guidance counselor before I left the building. I wanted to know if he’d heard anything more through the grapevine. Frank Powell’s office was locked. One of the staff said he’d taken the day off. I made a mental note to call Powell the next day and asked to see the principal about the janitor’s “after-school program.”
The principal was tied up, but the vice principal agreed to see me. Reginald Thompson was bony and long-limbed, with a face as brown as a raisin and almost as wrinkled. His handshake and manner were firm and no-nonsense.
As I explained the situation, I watched his eyes display a kaleidoscope of emotions. His expression ran from disgust and anger over what Beaufort had done to dismay and anxiety over the fallout it would create for him and the school. When I finished, he sat staring into space for a full minute.
