“Is that a big step for her?”
Cassidy shrugged. “I guess. A line producer credit coupled with her A.D. credentials upgrades her resume.”
My mind stored Camille Brooks’ promotion in the compartment reserved for key information in a murder investigation: Who Benefits?
“Let’s look at the spreadsheet designated for Raleigh,” I said.
Cassidy clicked to close the document and got a “Save” option. He clicked “Yes” and then pounded the desk. “Damn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have saved it. Now there’s a new time stamp on the file. If Braxton notices, he’ll see someone else saved the spreadsheet at a late hour. The guard will tell him I was here.”
“Then have a story ready for him. You have a key, you know the password, and you were curious as to how the film’s budget was faring with the construction overages. All he can do is complain to your uncle. He might not want to draw attention to the budget.”
Cassidy took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll be sure not to save the Raleigh file. If Braxton goes deeper into its history, he might see it was opened, but at least it won’t be in front of his face.”
An identically formatted spreadsheet filled the monitor’s screen.
“This is odd,” Cassidy said.
“What?”
He pointed with his finger. “The date of the document is the same, but the figures are different. Look at these summary columns.”
“I didn’t really look at the others that closely.”
Cassidy scrolled through the pages. “Here’s the total-to-date, $4,809,890, almost double the first version.” He clicked to the detailed page with his screenwriter fee. “And it shows they’re paying me two thousand a week. I can tell you that ain’t happening.”
“Do you think he’s trying to hit your uncle up for more money?”
“I don’t see how that would work. Uncle Arnold would have gone screaming to Nancy Pellegatti.”
“And she’s dead,” I said. “What about the investors? Would they be on the hook for more?”
“I don’t know how those deals were structured.” He paused a moment as an idea hit him. “What if Nancy was in on it? Or if she found out and threatened to go to my uncle? Braxton could have killed her.”
“Dustin Henry told me that accounting on a movie is the most creative part of film production. Braxton might have some scam going we don’t understand.”
“What do you want to do?” Cassidy asked.
“Close the file and see if we find anything in the Word documents.”
He repeated the process and opened a recent document labeled “Investors.” There were about twenty names with Arnold Osteen at the top. I scanned down the list, recognizing a few from Asheville’s well-heeled elite. Then one jumped out. Woody Farmer. The man who rented the guesthouse to Nancy Pellegatti. The man who told me and the police that he wasn’t an investor.
“Hold that list on the screen.” I reached for my phone, switched it to camera mode, and took a photograph. “Let me do the same thing for the two versions of the spreadsheet.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“For now, I’ll hold them until I figure out the best approach to take. Don’t say anything to your uncle. In fact, however this turns out, it might be safer if no one knows you helped me.”
“You think I’m in danger?” Cassidy couldn’t mask the quiver in his voice.
“I don’t know. Better safe than sorry.”
“Better safe than dead.” Cassidy re-opened the Excel files, I photographed the spreadsheets, and then he closed down the computer.
If Raymond Braxton was cheating Osteen and the investors, I didn’t understand how he could avoid detection when the bank’s canceled checks and payment records were examined. Maybe as the state’s auditor, he worked under minimal oversight.
I looked at the file cabinets lining the walls. “Are hard copies kept in this office?”
“I’ve seen Heather go in and out of the file drawers.”
I tugged on the handle of the top drawer of Braxton’s stacked three. It was locked. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key to his desk, would you?”
Cassidy stood up from the chair. “No, but these old metal desks Uncle Arnold rented have a lot of play in them. I lost the key to my desk and use this.” He pulled a single-bladed folding knife from his pocket. “You wedge the blade above the lock, then twist to pry open a gap that’s bigger than the short bolt protruding from the lock.”
I stepped aside to let Cassidy have a go. He inserted the blade a few times until he found the sweet spot where the metal gave and the drawer popped open. He lifted out a ledger-sized checkbook.
“Braxton doesn’t print checks by computer?” I asked.
“No. They’re hand-issued. The biggest checks go to a payroll company. Braxton writes one very big check and then workers are paid by an individual check that has taxes and Social Security deductions. Technically, the crew’s employed by the payroll company. Checks are issued weekly.” He pointed to the stub from one check still attached to the ringed binder. “See, Media People Services is a payroll company in Charlotte. This was last week’s check for $58,500.”
“Does that include your fee?” I asked.
“No, I’m not hourly or a day-player so I don’t have to go through a payroll service.”
“Can you find a stub from your check?”
The blank checks were laid out three to a sheet. Cassidy flipped back through the stubs of the written ones. “Here’s one from two weeks ago. A thousand dollars.”
I pointed to a similar checkbook still in the drawer. “And what’s this?”
“Extra checks, I guess.” He lifted it out and opened the cover to reveal the same check pattern, three to a sheet, with the stubs held by the notebook-sized binding rings.
“He’s written checks out of this one as well,” I said.
Cassidy peered closely. “And he’s written them to the same companies as the other set, but these amounts are different. See, here’s the same check number for me but the amount is two thousand. He’s jacked up the dollar amount on each of them.”
“How would he get identical check numbers?”
“Easy. You can order checks online. Give them the routing and account numbers and the starting number for your sequence, and you have a duplicate set.”
“But what would be reflected in the bank statements?” I asked.
“If he’s embezzling the difference, then maybe he’s doctoring the statements. With Photoshop and other software programs he could scan the real statements and revise.”
“So, Nancy Pellegatti and Harlan Beale uncovered only the tip of the iceberg with the construction materials.”
Cassidy nodded. “And got themselves killed. We’ve got to tell Uncle Arnold.”
Something gnawed at my gut. Something out of place. “Your uncle has a financial interest in Phillips Building Supplies. Why would his own company be stealing from him?”
“My uncle has interests in a lot of companies in Asheville. He’s a big believer in vertical integration.”
“Meaning?”
“He says it’s smart to have an interest in the companies you do business with.”
“Well, I think we need to hold off on telling him till I can check out a few more things. If Braxton gets word we’re snooping around, all this goes up in smoke like the construction supplies. Then we have no evidence. We’ve obtained what we have illegally, and we’re outside the jurisdiction of the Asheville Police Department. I’ll take photos of these checkbooks and anything else we find in the drawers. Then I want you to sit tight. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Cassidy assured me.
We pried open the rest of the drawers and found blank invoices from Phillips Buil
ding Supplies, the payroll company, the temp agency, the rental car company, and the catering service.
“Here’s where he could create support for a superficial audit,” I said. “It’s like printing money for himself.”
I finished taking the photographs with my phone and Cassidy used his knife to close the drawers. A few new scratches marked our intrusion, but the desk had enough mars already that I believed these would be unnoticed.
Cassidy returned to the car carrying the dummy box of copy paper. He opened the trunk, scanned the darkness for any sign of the patrolling guard, and waved me to join him. Back in the trunk, I heard the guard log out Cassidy at ten-forty. A mile away, the car turned onto the side road and Cassidy freed me.
As we headed back to Asheville, Cassidy said, “I know I’m on the sidelines while you weigh the best approach to the authorities, but could I ask a favor?”
“What?”
“Can I be with you when you tell my uncle? He doesn’t value what I write or what I do. I know he’s disappointed in me.”
“I would think you’re very successful,” I said. “He shouldn’t define your life.”
“I know. My dad died when I was eight, and Uncle Arnold stepped in and told my mother what I should be doing. He pushed me into sports that I didn’t like and paid for a college degree in computer science I didn’t want. This movie is the first thing we’ve done together, and I’d like him to see I helped uncover something that was happening under his nose. I guess that sounds silly, but it’s important to me.”
“No. I understand.” I thought about my father and my rebellion to join the Army rather than go to college. I wished he were alive to see the successes I’d had. Not so much to prove him wrong, but to hope for his approval and maybe that he’d feel some pride in his son.
I looked at Cassidy as he stared with determination at the illuminated road, seeing only what the headlights revealed.
Roland Cassidy had hidden wounds, I thought. We all do.
Chapter Twenty-three
The next morning I beat Nakayla into the office. The day promised to be one of multiple encounters as I tried to gather the divergent threads of our investigation into a coherent pattern. One thing I felt certain was that Paul Weaver’s death in 1948 hadn’t unleashed something in the present. Rather, Beale’s killer had seen our case as an opportunity to obscure what was the real motive. And Harlan Beale had conveniently called me, not because he had information about Weaver but because I was a detective and he wanted me to help him with what he discovered in the replacement construction materials.
So, whoever killed him had to know about the research assistance Beale was providing us. But that could have been anyone on the set, including Raymond Braxton. And someone had either met or lured Beale from his home because we found the Black Mountain College book there. Perhaps that was the location where Beale was murdered.
I wrote down the elements at play. Someone had stolen construction materials that reappeared in the replacement delivery. Raymond Braxton was keeping two sets of books and creating discrepancies between actual expenditures and falsified ones. The scam offered the opportunity for embezzlement, although the magnitude seemed too large to hide.
And there was Woody Farmer, who owned the guesthouse where Nancy Pellegatti had been shot. He denied being an investor but his name appeared on Braxton’s investor list. Farmer deserved another conversation, one without Newly since I couldn’t tell the police detective about breaking into Braxton’s desk.
All of these factors had nothing to do with the case we were being paid to investigate. I hoped to hear from Special Agent Lindsay Boyce and I wanted to talk to a doctor at the VA hospital. A theory was beginning to percolate in my brain and the medical information would be crucial.
The office door opened and I heard the click of paws on the hardwood floor. Blue trotted to my desk and put his head in my lap, tail wagging like a maniacal metronome.
“You’re the early bird,” Nakayla said.
“You know me. Never one to let grass grow.”
“Actually, I don’t know you. What happened to Sam?”
“Very funny. How’d Blue do last night?”
“Fine. He was a little restless, expecting you to come in.”
“It was so late and I knew I’d be restless too.” I stood. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Grab a cup and let me tell you what I’ve been thinking.”
We sat in the conversation area, coffee in hand, coonhound underfoot.
“I’ve transferred all the photographs from the accounting office onto my hard drive for you to review,” I said. “Clearly something fishy is going on.”
“Are you going to tell Newly?”
“Yes. But I want to nail down a few more things first.”
I told her my plan to talk to Woody Farmer about his investment and ask why he’d lied. And I would contact Lindsay Boyce if I hadn’t heard anything from her by early afternoon. I said I planned to talk to someone at the VA hospital about Paul Weaver’s condition. Since I volunteered with wounded veterans, I felt I could get access to the information I needed.
“All that sounds good,” Nakayla said. “And are we thinking the same thing for the accounting evidence?”
I laughed. “You’re ahead of me, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t I always? I’ll call her and see when I can run by. Violet Baker might not know much about the movie business, but as a career accountant, she should have some insights into what’s really going on with these checks.”
“And no one in Asheville knows her,” I said. “There won’t be a leak from a local accounting firm about what we’re doing.”
I decided to try Woody Farmer first. Although I hadn’t asked specifically, I suspected he was retired and morning might be the best time to catch him at home. The street was calm and quiet, a far cry from the spectators and flashing police lights of the other night. I parked on the driveway between the main house and guest quarters.
I knocked on the back door, the one we had entered the night of the murder. At first there was no answer. Then I saw Mr. Farmer approach, clearly surprised to see me again.
He opened the door. “Mr. Blackman. Are you like Columbo?” He laughed. “One last question?”
“Yes, I am. Can we talk a moment?”
His smile faded, but he waved me in. “Let’s go back to the den. Mickey’s run down to Whole Foods. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I won’t take too much of your time.”
I chose the chair I’d sat in before. Farmer took the near end of the sofa.
“Now how can I help you?”
I gave him a hard stare. “Why did you lie to me about being an investor in Osteen’s film?”
Color rose in his cheeks, but he didn’t seem angry. More embarrassed. “What do you mean?”
“I think it’s pretty clear. I asked you point-blank in front of the police whether you were an investor and you answered no. I’m reviewing documents as part of my investigative responsibilities and I see that you are. So, are you or aren’t you?”
Farmer sighed. “Yes. But I haven’t told Mickey.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not one for, shall we say, risky investments. Arnold said the secret is to keep the budget in line and make a film with a ready market. Roland’s book sold well enough and then the rebate guarantees a twenty-five percent return.”
“You mean the state incentive?”
“Yes. Arnold explained all the angles. How if most of the film is made in North Carolina with North Carolina workers and suppliers, then twenty-five percent of the expenses are returned.”
“What’s the film’s budget?”
“Ten million. We might have up to two and a half million returned before ever selling a ticket.”
“Has Arnold Osteen said anything to you
about cost overruns?”
“No. Not so far. Maybe the producer’s death will have an impact, but Arnold hasn’t asked for more money. Any overages are supposed to be taken out of the rebate.”
“Have you talked to him?”
Farmer shook his head. “Well, I really can’t. Not when Mickey’s around.”
“Sounds like a well-conceived plan, as far as minimizing risk in a risky venture. Did your wife know about the opportunity?”
“Yes. Arnold first mentioned it in front of her.” Farmer looked away as if deciding to say something more. He turned back. “Look. Mickey gets these vibes off of people. She said as smart as Arnold might be, she didn’t think he’d have our back if everything went south. I reviewed the investment documents before signing, and we’re as protected as anyone. I’ll tell Mickey when the checks start coming in.”
“Mr. Farmer, you know the film’s producer was shot on property owned by an investor in the movie that she was responsible for bringing under budget. You are not a disinterested party and you lied about your status. That doesn’t look good. In fact, the police might want to make it an obstruction of their investigation.”
“I had nothing against that woman. Ask Arnold. He assured me everything was going fine.”
I believed him. Now I had to calm him down. “All right. I’m sorry if I seemed to impugn your integrity. But look at it from my perspective, especially since I asked the original question.”
“I know, I know.”
“So, just to avoid a bigger mess, I won’t mention this to anyone and I suggest you do the same. If you tell Osteen, he might feel obligated to report it to the police and that would put both of us in a bad light.”
Farmer nodded like his neck was a spring. “I understand. You have my word.”
I stood and offered my hand. Farmer rose and shook it firmly.
“I hope your investment returns a bundle,” I said.
“Thanks. First check, Mickey and I are taking you out to dinner. Might be a good time to tell her.” He laughed. “She won’t hit me in public.”
Hidden Scars Page 20
