Breaking Down Barriers

by Jean Martino

  “I see,” said Warner. “We’ll try to make this easy on you then. You said when you told Roger McLean that day that Brampton had left for two weeks he seemed upset?”

  “Considerably,” said Wainwright. At this point he wasn’t even sure who was running the company anymore. A board of directors meeting had been set up for the next day which was why he had forced himself back to the office. On learning that the FBI was investigating the company, he knew it was just a matter of time before he was out of a job also, but the one thing he didn’t intend doing was getting himself involved in McLean and Brampton’s doings. “At that point Roger said he would take over Michael Brampton’s special accounts and he talked to Buddy Bremerton, our computer analyst, to have the password changed so no one else could gain access to Brampton’s own data base.”

  “Didn’t you think it strange that McLean wanted to handle them himself and exclude you from it?”

  Wainwright sighed. “Yes, I did. When I took this position I didn’t realize, until I had been here a while, that this job was no more than a façade of sorts. I was expected to attend board meetings and discuss financial positions of the company, but as far as the everyday handling of client’s accounts I was not to be involved. That’s what Mr. McLean told me. He said he didn’t want me doing things his brokers did as he considered it a waste of my time.”

  “I see,” said Warner. “So, on that day, McLean took charge of Michael Brampton’s special clients’ accounts.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said the password might have been changed and no one else in the firm knew it. Did Mr. Bremerton know it?”

  “I know he worked it out that day himself. But then I heard Roger talking to him on the phone asking how to change it so no one else could get into it. But you’d have to talk to him about it. That’s all I know.”

  “Well, we are a bit confused,” Warner said, shaking his head. “We are being told Brampton had his own data base for his special clients and no one else in the firm had access to these accounts, and now you are telling us Roger McLean did, and this Buddy Bremerton, and yet our own computer experts have been unable to get into that data base. It seems, from what our computer analysts have told us, that that part of the firm’s activities has been wiped off all hard drives. We have also been unable to find anything on McLean’s computer’s hard drive. Perhaps you could explain how this could happen?”

  “If I knew I would tell you,” said Wainwright.

  “Then could there be someone else in the firm who was perhaps a friend of Michael Brampton we could speak to?”

  “As far as I know he kept to himself, and considering the nature of what he was doing that you have told me, I doubt he would have confided anything he was doing with anyone here. But you are welcome to ask the other brokers and staff.”

  “We will,” said Warner. “We are attempting now to clear those accounts that have no link to the ones in question. Those particular accounts can be serviced here by the brokers we have interviewed and cleared also. Have you any idea of who is in control now since Roger McLean’s death?”

  “It would have to be the board of director’s decision. I only know that McLean and his family held 51 percent ownership so am presuming, since his unfortunate death, his wife would have control now. Has anything been uncovered in the investigation into his death?”

  Warner shrugged. “That’s the police department’s responsibility. Our only interest is in the connection of his death to certain underworld figures we are investigating.”

  “I see,” said Wainwright, remembering his conversation with Harry Parkinson, the private investigator he had hired to find out just what was going on in McLean’s Investment Company, last week. “Then if you have no further questions I need to try to straighten out things around here and prepare for the board meeting.”

  “At this point,” said Warner, “there will be no board meeting. We have closed this company down from all operations except the servicing of normal investor accounts, and until we know the extent of involvement by any board members and, or, staff here then all business will be under our control as of today.”

  “But there are hundreds of investors who have trusted us to take care of their accounts,” argued Wainwright. “We can’t just leave them hanging. They are losing money as we speak.”

  “As I told you, Mr. Wainwright, we are only interested in the clients of this Michael Brampton. From our interviews with the other brokers we have determined that certain accounts can continue to be serviced, until we find what we are looking for, at which time this company can reopen fully. Until then we expect your full co-operation in the matter.”

  “Of course,” said Wainwright, knowing that to continue to argue the pros and cons of it would be like banging his head against a brick wall. “I presume you have also advised the other shareholders of this?”

  “We have mailed a letter to each shareholder and set up an advisory service to answer their questions.”

  And taken everyone’s computer to be hacked into, Wainwright thought angrily, leaving the brokers helpless and having to rely on the phones to take care of their clients. An intolerable situation but one he had no power to override. At least the FBI had allowed a skeleton staff to still work there and try to bring order to the chaos that was reigning.

  The two agents stood up to leave. “We will need to have our auditing staff go over your books,” the other agent, who had remained silent till now, said.

  “Of course,” said Wainwright, feeling on level ground again, knowing that the financial statements were something he at least knew about. “Anything you need just ask.”

  When they left, Wainwright picked up the phone and dialed Harry Parkinson’s number. There was no answer so he left a message telling him they needed to meet as soon as possible. Now that everything had hit the fan and he had convinced the FBI he wasn’t involved, he didn’t want Parkinson doing anything to muddy up the waters again. And he felt, all things considered, Parkinson should return at least half the two thousand dollars he had paid him. He would allow him to keep the other half for his troubles.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday, June 24, 2003:

  It was almost six pm as Scott sat in Cindy’s yellow Ford car outside the underground parking lot at McLean’s Investments. He had gotten, through the Department of Motor Vehicles, the description of Benny Freedom’s car and the license plate number; an almost new Ford Fairlane sedan, gray with black interior. He had driven past the house where he lived next to Linda’s rental property earlier that day and seen a white station wagon in the driveway which he presumed Benny’s wife drove.

  He hadn’t wanted to upset Benny’s wife and kids so was hoping he could talk to Benny away from his home. Gradually cars started driving out of the underground parking lot and he kept alert, watching for the Ford Fairlane. When it finally emerged he started his car and drove after it, keeping enough distance in the traffic to not let Benny see him, not wanting to scare him off, until Benny turned down the street that would lead him to his own street and home. At this point Scott drove faster and honked his horn.

  Benny looked through the rear view mirror and pulled over, jumping out of his car to stare at the yellow Ford, recognizing Cindy’s car.

  Scott parked behind him and got out too and walked quickly towards him, his ID opened in his hand.

  “Benny Freedom?” he asked, showing his ID.

  “Yes,” said Benny. “I know who you are. I saw you at McLean’s last week with Mrs. Rossi. Why are you driving Cindy Brampton’s car?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Scott, glad he could forego any explanation as to who he was. “Then you must know also that I’m a friend of Linda Rossi’s and trying to help her find her daughter and son-in-law.”

  Benny nodded. “But I can’t help you anymore than I have,” he said.

  “Anymore? Then it was you who put that CD on my car, wasn’t it.”

  Benny shuffled his tall, lanky body nervously, stari
ng past Scott down the street as if expecting some car to come rushing around the corner. “I can’t say anymore,” he said, a frown creasing the tanned skin of his forehead above his darkly brooding brown eyes. “You must know the FBI is now involved. My job is on the line as it is and I have a wife and three kids to support.”

  “I’m not trying to cause you any harm,” said Scott, understanding Benny’s nervousness but knowing he had to keep prodding him. “All I need to know is if you know anything at all about where Cindy and Michael are, and why they are in hiding right now.”

  Benny groaned aloud. “Damn,” he swore softly. Then he went silent, still shuffling but seemingly thinking and making a decision. Finally he said with a sigh. “There’s a bar two blocks away. We can talk there. I don’t want to stand here on the street like this.”

  Scott followed Benny into the semi darkness of the bar and inside they found an empty booth in the corner. The waitress took their order and returned with two beers and then, when they were alone, Benny started talking, sounding as though he was even relieved to be able to tell someone his concerns.

  “I wanted to say something to Mrs. Rossi,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness, “but I couldn’t and I’m sure you understand the spot I was in. Michael got me that job there but we kept our friendship secret from the rest of the staff. It was how he wanted it and I knew it was something to do with him being heavily involved in more than just ordinary stock investors’ accounts. But he kept to himself mostly at work and kept everything to himself. If I asked a question he would just laugh and change the subject. Then when they moved into that house in Newport Beach he started to become even more secretive. I never understood how he could afford it at the time, but knew to question him would push him further away and affect our out-of-work friendship.”

  Scott sipped his beer, listening intently, getting the picture in his mind.

  “He became very tight mouthed about everything and even Cindy was getting worried. She came to see me at home a couple weeks ago. It was Saturday and I was out the back digging around in the garden when I heard my wife calling.

  * *

  “Benny! Cindy’s here,” called Rosie, a short plump pretty woman with red hair and fair freckled skin.

  “Send her back here!” he called from the garden.

  In minutes Cindy came hurrying out. Cindy always hurried as though she was running a race or something. When they were kids growing up next door to each other she was always yelling to him, ‘race ya Benny,’ and of course he always went along with it and always let her beat him, although sometimes she did of her own accord. At five feet eight inches she towered over Rosie, even more so with the high heeled black leather sandals she was wearing. Tight blue jeans hugged her slim hips and an above-the-waist tight black tee shirt exposed the cleavage of her full breasts. She was a knockout, thought Benny, watching her hurrying towards him, her black hair reaching just to her shoulders, straight and shiny as always, and her black eyes sparkling in her oval olive skinned face. But the best thing about Cindy was she didn’t have a vain bone in her gorgeous body, she was one of those women who just accepted her looks and got on with life without feeling any need to impress.

  “Hey Benny,” she said coming up to him and giving him a hug. “Haven’t seen you for weeks now. How’ve you been?”

  “Working my fingers to the bone as usual to keep a roof over my family’s head,” he said, grinning. “How are things with you?”

  For several minutes they made small talk, then Cindy suddenly got serious. “Benny, I need some advice. Well not really advice, but I need to ask what you think. We have a real problem, Michael and me, and I don’t know how to get around it. Has Michael seemed a bit... well, a bit more nervous to you lately?”

  “A bit,” he said. “What kind of problem?”

  Cindy shrugged. “Well, a couple months ago he started bringing home work. Something he never did before. When I asked him why, he told me not to go there, like it was none of my business. He got a bit nasty a couple times too. Actually told me if I wanted to live in a fancy house like we were then I should accept he has to work harder than he used to. Hell! I don’t want to live in that house if it’s going to make him kill himself working, and quite frankly I’m still wondering why we had to sell our Huntington Beach house to buy this one. It’s not me, Benny. It’s like a fucking mausoleum.”

  “No gain without pain,” said Benny, unsure where this was leading.

  “Bullshit!” she cried. “If this is how we have to live to live in that house then I’d rather sell it and move back to something that takes less work and causes less pressure.”

  “That could be arranged,” said Benny. “Is that what you wanted to discuss? I think this is something you should talk to Michael about, Cindy, not me.”

  She sat down on the garden seat next to where he was digging. “No, it’s only part of it. Something happened last week, Benny, that rattled me a bit. I got an assignment from one of the papers I write for and they wanted me to do an article on white collar crime. I know nothing about corporate offices and stuff like that because I’ve never worked in one. So I started doing research at the library and court records and... I saw him at the courthouse...”

  Benny waited for her to continue but she was staring into space and finally he said, “Saw who?”

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “Sorry, it was Carl Denholm, one of Michael’s clients. He was talking to another guy and he didn’t see me. I never liked him much. Met him once before, at Roger McLean’s house in Beverly Hills at one of those stupid functions he puts on after Christmas. Once was enough for me. He slid his arm around my waist then and placed his hand on my rear. I wanted to slap him but didn’t want to make a scene and so just moved away. The bastard actually winked at me as if I was going to faint at his feet or something. Yuck. So, anyway, when I saw him the other day at the courthouse I left there before he saw me and that night I told Michael I had seen Denholm and wow, Michael looked like I’d tossed a bomb on his lap. I have never seen him so angry.”

  Benny knew who Carl Denholm was; everyone did. He was one of the scumbags living in Palm Springs behind a six foot brick wall in a security guarded mansion, with henchmen wandering around to protect him from other scumbags. He had seen him come into the office and talking to Michael, and knew he was one of Michael’s clients. But what he knew about him was mostly office gossip that he had heard being discussed around the coffee machine. Michael had never talked about him or any of the other account holders he serviced. Talk was that Denholm had made his money in drug trafficking in New York and Vegas and even owned a couple hotels in Vegas. Benny had often wondered how Michael, who he knew was one of the smartest brokers in the firm, had ended up with Denholm as a client.

  Cindy was now showing signs of distress but she continued talking. “I asked Michael why he looked so scared and why he was so angry and he told me to stop nosing around, that his work wasn’t some project the newspapers had asked me to research.”

  “Michael is under a lot of pressure at work right now,” said Benny in his defense. “He probably didn’t mean it as an insult to you.”

  “I know,” she agreed, “but it bothered me just the same. You know, when we sold our house in Huntington Beach, Michael said we should store all our furniture and personal items till we had settled into the new house. He said we should only take our clothes and toiletries for now and store everything else, and when I objected he gave me some cock and bull story about making a fresh start in the house and not cluttering it up with old stuff. I didn’t like that much, but he promised me it would only be for a couple months until we got settled and knew what we wanted in the house.

  “I couldn’t believe it came with furniture and linens and dishes either, but Michael said the prior owners had rented it out before selling it and the price included everything. He took me to look at it before we bought it and I couldn’t believe they were willing to sell it to us for only three hundred thousand. I
was sure it was worth twice that, but Michael said we should take it because it was a once in a lifetime deal which it sure sounded like. We bought it on the spot. The realtor already had the papers all set up in his brief case which surprised me at the time but I was so excited about the house I never questioned it then.”

  Rosie came walking down to where they were, holding a plate of sandwiches. “Thought you two might be hungry,” she said. “I’m taking the kids to Kmart to get some new clothes so I have to leave now.”

  After she had left, Benny sat down next to Cindy and they nibbled on the sandwiches quietly for a while, both thinking about what she had said.

  “I have to admit I also thought the house was a bit out of your price range,” he agreed.

  “Well wait till you hear the rest of my story,” she said, wiping her mouth with the paper napkin. “But you must promise me, Benny, that what I tell you next you won’t ever let Michael know you know, or anyone for that matter.”