Least Wanted

by Debbi Mack

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That night, I crashed like Sleeping Beauty on sedatives. Someone must have been watching over me. The adjoining room remained empty, and I awoke to my alarm instead of a slamming door.

  I took a quick shower, cut short by my cell phone ringing. I couldn’t get to it in time and toweled off before retrieving the message from Leonard Hirschbeck. “Please give me a call.”

  I combed my hair, put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, dabbed makeup on my bruise (a lovely mottled brown), and then called Tina’s guidance counselor, Frank Powell. He was in the weeds—work had backed up and he had a full day of meetings. But he promised to be available at four.

  Then I called Hirschbeck. Sounding resigned, he said, “The company approved the audit the day after we spoke. We paid extra for the auditors to work through the weekend.”

  “Considering someone’s life is at stake, that seems fair,” I said.

  He ignored my sarcasm. “It looks like your client may be in the clear, if an expert can verify that the account information was altered. There was only one suspicious account. Which means someone deleted the account Marzetti found, or there was only one all along and someone tinkered with it to implicate Brad.”

  “I think that someone could be Max Fullbright, Chip Saltzman or Mike LaRue.”

  A moment of silence passed. Not surprising. I'd pulled those names out like rabbits from a hat. “Why?” he said.

  “I have evidence that they’re involved in the embezzlement. And a lot of other things the cops will want to follow up on. It seems they were using the money to develop a little project on the side.” I summarized what I’d learned from Narsh, my surveillance of the two Kozmik employees, the DVD, and the contents of Cooper’s lock box.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Hirschbeck said. He sounded appropriately shocked, as if discovering that his mother had been raped. “That’s unbelievable.”

  “Since Saltzman is a programmer and appears to have had his boss’s blessing, I suggest focusing on his computer. He may have used it to access the accounting files. And possibly to work on their after-hours project. If the lead pans out, you’ll save a little time and money.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He sounded dazed. “I want you to know that I meant it when I said I’m not the same person you knew in law school. I’m . . . sorry if we got off to a shitty start on this.”

  “You were trying to protect your client,” I said, not wanting to rub it in or say “I told you so.”

  “I can’t believe that about Fullbright.” After a moment of silence, he added, “It’s hard to know sometimes. Impossible, really. What people in your organization have been doing. You can’t always know everything . . . .”

  In other words, all clients lie. Ain’t it the truth, I thought.

  * * * * *

  No sooner had I closed the phone than it rang again. To my surprise, it was Marzetti.

  “I need to talk to you.” His voice was an anxious whine. “Can you meet me in Ellicott City in an hour?”

  “I don’t know, Vince. I’m very busy.” I didn’t need anything from him, and his previous stonewalling and hostility hadn’t endeared him to me. Let him rot, I thought.

  “I’ll pay you for your time,” he blurted. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Ookay,” I said grudgingly. “Give me two hours. There’s a matter I have to take care of first.”

  * * * * *

  I called Walt with the good news about the audit and that Brad was probably in the clear. He sounded tired, but relieved. I promised to visit him soon. In record time I packed my bag, grabbed my suit, checked out, and drove to Staples. The clerk copied everything, digitized the photos and put it all on a disc. Ah, the wonders of technology.

  At Starbucks, I got online and e-mailed the audio file and photos to Detective Willard, explaining how I got them and what I thought they signified. I asked him to send copies to Detective Harris for her file on Shanae’s murder.

  With that out of the way, I drove north to meet Marzetti in Ellicott City, a historic small town whose Main Street curves up a steep hill, the road lined with rocky protrusions reminiscent of western Pennsylvania. By the time I parked, I was twenty minutes late. I raced to the coffee shop, arriving breathless. Marzetti was hunched over a small table in the corner. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet and nearly knocked over the table. He was jittery and without the bravado of our earlier meeting. We shook hands and I ordered coffee at the counter.

  He started spouting before I sat down. “I know nothing about that account, okay? It showed up in the system, and I had no idea how. That’s all I told Cooper. He was supposed to handle it from there.”

  I nodded and let him talk. Maybe I could learn more.

  “A few months after I left the company, something odd happened. Cooper asked to meet me for a drink. I was surprised to hear from him. His call came out of the blue. He said he had a business proposition for me.”

  He leaned forward and raked his hair back with clawed fingers. “He brought someone with him.” He stared at me, his eyes wide. “A huge blond man. Looked like a wrestler or a football player.”

  “What happened? What did he say?”

  “The business proposition was a crock. He had no intention of proposing anything. He asked if I remembered the odd account I’d found before I left Kozmik. I said, yeah, I remembered. Cooper gripped my arm. It made me nervous. He told me to never mention that account to anyone, ever.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not really. He seemed scared. And the whole time, the blond man sat like a statue, listening and staring at me. Like he was memorizing my features. Now and then, Cooper would pause or stumble over a word, and the guy gave him a look . . . .” Marzetti trembled. “A look that would freeze water.”

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, the last time you called me, you mentioned a large, blond man. I could never forget that guy. He freaked me out. Like when you came by my house asking all those questions. I’m sorry about that.”

  “No harm done,” I said. “What changed your mind about talking to me?”

  “On Friday, someone called me and said he was doing an audit for Kozmik Games. He wanted to know if I’d reported a suspicious account in the system. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about. But now I’m worried.” Our eyes met. He looked like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. “Am I doing something illegal by not cooperating with the audit? Could I get into trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Your cooperation may not be necessary. Without going into details, I’ll tell you this. It looks like they’re going to check the system for tampering. So unless there’s something about the account you’re not telling . . . .”

  “No. Like I said, one day it was there, and I had no idea how it got there. I told Cooper. When I asked him about it later, he seemed pissed off. He said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’ He was a moody guy. I didn’t give it much thought until later when he told me to keep quiet.” He glanced at his watch. “I should get back to work. So, you think I’m okay, not saying anything?”

  I shrugged, unsure how to answer. “Why don’t you let it be for now? If someone calls, you might want to share what little you know. If only to keep from looking like you’re obstructing the investigation.”

  “Thank you, Ms. McRae,” he said. When he reached for his wallet, I told him to put it away. I already had two clients involved in this mess. That was enough. He smiled and thanked me, and then he left.

  I returned to my car and headed south toward the hospital in Laurel. I owed Walt a visit before dropping my stuff at home and going to the office. Cooper may have been paid early on not to blow the whistle and then intimidated into keeping mum when Diesel entered the picture after money went toward creating the child porn game. As an accountant, Cooper added nothing to the scheme. His only value was in keeping quiet. Why didn’t they kill him? Maybe because the computer nerds and their boss weren’t
killers; Diesel was. Perhaps Cooper gathered the evidence against the embezzlers and Diesel, so he’d have something to trade if the people he was protecting turned against him.

  The unanswered question was how Diesel and Greg Beaufort had hooked up with Fullbright and the geeks from Kozmik. Was it through Tina’s father, Rodney Fisher? Was he the middleman?

  Heading down Route 29, my cell phone jangled. It had rung more in the last week than in the previous year. I pulled over to answer it. “I have good news and bad news,” Little D said.

  I sighed. “Bad news first, please.”

  “Tina’s alibi, Beaufort? He ain’t talkin’ no more.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “His problem is he’s dead. He hanged himself at home last night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Shit.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. Who could blame Beaufort for killing himself? He had nothing to look forward to except prison and the stigma of a convicted statutory rapist and child pornographer. His death left me without a solid alibi for Tina.

  “Now, the good news,” Little D said. “I may have some witnesses who saw the girls leave Beaufort’s place shortly before nine. If they saw Tina, they can back our story that she wasn’t the one leaving her house around eight.”

  “They’d better be very observant witnesses,” I said. “Eyewitnesses often remember things wrong. Unless they have a reason to remember her, it’s likely they won’t be able to verify that she was with the group. In which case, we’re back to depending on Rochelle and her friends for Tina’s alibi. I don’t know how credible a friend’s word will seem to the police. Especially friends like these.”

  “I can try to hunt down some other men at the party,” Little D said. “The cops will want to find them anyway. Maybe one of the witnesses knows the men.”

  “That’s a thought,” I said. A tractor-trailer swept by, rocking the car. The shoulder of Route 29, a six-lane highway, was not the best place to chat. I wrapped it up quickly. “I wish I could talk to Tina. Any luck there?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  I reminded myself to call Tina’s guidance counselor, Frank Powell. I asked Little D to keep in touch and said goodbye.

  En route to the office, I considered what I would do if I couldn’t find Tina. Should I bring Rochelle into this? Would her word alone be compelling enough to nip the matter in the bud? Or should I start exploring other options? And what about Fisher? There was still the possibility that he’d murdered Shanae after she threatened to reveal the source of his extra income. I needed to find out if he had an alibi for that night.

  * * * * *

  I had a pleasant visit with Walt, dropped my stuff at home, and picked up Oscar at Russell’s. I got to the office about 2:00 p.m. Sheila, the receptionist, eyed me suspiciously and asked where I’d been hiding.

  I told her I’d taken yesterday off.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many people trooped in and out of here looking for you,” the gray-haired receptionist rasped. “A courier left a package for you. Three clients dropped in to chat about their cases. And some blond guy who looked like Mr. America was hanging around. Wouldn’t even tell me what it was about.”

  I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I couldn’t imagine what Diesel might have done to me during business hours. If his intent was to intimidate me, he had succeeded.

  “When I told him you weren’t here, he went upstairs to shove a note under your door,” Sheila said. She handed me the package and a pile of mail. “Here you go. You’re welcome. Next time, I’d appreciate a heads up when you go AWOL.”

  When I had picked up my files before checking in at the motel, I’d made sure to lock my office door. From the top of the stairs I could see that the door was shut, but not completely latched. Someone had jimmied the lock.

  I opened the door a little at a time. The place had been turned upside down. The file drawers had been emptied. Files scattered about like confetti. The desk drawers were open, contents in disarray. My computer was on. The intruder hadn’t been able to get past the security code I’d installed.

  The intruder had been thorough. My framed diplomas and bar license lay on the floor, the backings sliced wide enough for a hand to check behind the certificates. My bar certificate had incurred a small cut. It was barely noticeable. My eyes fell on my father’s photo of Jackie Robinson. It had received similar treatment. Gasping, I ran over to examine it. I was grateful to find it in good condition. Any nicks on that photo and I would have inflicted bodily harm on the perp.

  I surveyed the wreckage, despairing at the prospect of putting everything back together again. No equipment was missing, but it was obvious someone had been looking for something. Did Diesel do all this while he was up here, pretending to leave me a note? It was possible as I had most of the top floor to myself. Maybe he’d used the opportunity to scope the place out, then returned later. He could have picked the front door locks so my landlord wouldn’t notice the break-in. And once he got to my office, the contents were fair game.

  If he’d done this, why hadn’t he done the same to my apartment? Maybe I’d surprised him and come home before he’d had a chance.

  I gathered papers and set them in piles. I would sort them out later. I checked to see if any of my visitors had actually left a note. An unfamiliar business card lay in the wreckage near the door. I picked it up. “Fisher’s Pawn Shop, Rodney Fisher, Proprietor.” On the back, someone had scribbled, “We need to talk, RF”. I found no other note or envelope. It’s unusual for a client to drop in without an appointment. If someone wanted to waste my time and their money, they usually did it by phone. I faced the possibility that someone other than Diesel had done this. One of my other so-called clients.

  I sprinted downstairs. “Sheila, did anyone else go up to my office? Or leave anything with you?”

  “Two of ’em left envelopes that I stuck with your mail,” she said. “The blond guy and two others went up to your office.”

  “The ones who went upstairs. What did they look like?”

  “One was a youngish, very dark-skinned black man. Kind of bulked up—you know, the sort with muscles on his muscles. Had his hair in those braids . . . .” She snapped her bony fingers in double-time. Sheila might have been twice my age, maybe more, but she had the manual dexterity of a twenty-year-old. “Whatta ya call ’em?”

  “Cornrows,” I said.

  Sheila pointed at me. “Right.”

  That sounded like Narsh. He must have delivered Rodney’s card.

  “What about the other?”

  She closed her eyes. “Another black man. He was short and skinny with light-brown skin. Wore sunglasses and a baseball cap.”

  The description fit Greg Beaufort. Clearly, he had tried to disguise his looks. “Were they together?”

  She shook her head. “The darker fellow was here yesterday morning. The other guy came in the afternoon.”

  Greg Beaufort had likely been told to leave work after I’d talked to the vice principal. Had he come here to beg me not to report him to the cops? Did he break into my office to search for the DVD? If so, perhaps his failure to find me or the disc was the final straw for Beaufort. And he chose to kill himself rather than face the consequences. Maybe, I thought. It was all speculation.

  I shook my head, dispelling possibilities and refocused on facts. “What about the blond man?” I asked. “When was he here?”

  “This morning. Why do you ask?”

  “Okay, don’t freak out. But I think one of them broke into my office.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “You’re joking. Is anything missing?”

  “Nothing obvious. I’ll have to look through the mess before I know for sure. The place got tossed. Whoever did it was looking for something related to two cases I’m working on.” Since Narsh had left Fisher’s card, I focused on the remaining two as possible suspects. Either could have had reason to break in and rummage around. “How long were those guys upsta
irs?”

  Her brow furrowed. “The dark fellow with the corn rows might have been five minutes. As for the lighter-skinned guy, I can’t say. I left my desk to help Milt organize his files. So I couldn’t tell you exactly when he left.”

  “And the blond?”

  “God, I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead. “I wasn’t paying close attention. And I had my earbuds in, transcribing letters. I couldn’t hear a thing other than Milt, droning on about capital gains.” She bit her lip.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You didn’t know there’d be a pop quiz.”

  “Okay.” She sounded a bit shaky. “Are you going to call the police?”

  I’d been so wrapped up in figuring out who and why, I had forgotten about the police. “Far as I can tell, nothing expensive has been stolen,” I said. “But I’ll call.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The police came and took my report. I had little faith that much would come of it since nothing big had been stolen. All my files were accounted for. I’d had my backup hard drive at the motel—out of sight and out of reach.

  I placed a call to Little D. “Someone broke into my office,” I said. “I think it was probably Beaufort or Diesel.”

  After I’d explained what Sheila had said, Little D said, “Well, it’s too late to ask Beaufort and I don’t think you want to ask Diesel.”

  “But I would like to talk to Fisher,” I said. “He sent his little errand boy, Narsh, with an invite to see him. You doing anything this afternoon? I want to go by Fisher’s shop and see what he wants.”