“So I don’t get any leads?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Here’s one for you, Mr. Malone. Ever know a guy named Tracy Dinmore?”
Uh, oh. Someone had made a connection, probably through ballistics. And a review of telephone records, either his or Dinmore’s, wouldn’t be beneficial.
“I’m thinking, Detective. Yes, I talked to a Tracy Dinmore on the phone once. He called me. I think he belonged to the Treasury Department and he was looking for a consultant. I couldn’t accommodate him. How did this come up?”
“Mr. Dinmore was killed in New York.”
“Oh-kay. And that relates to me?”
“Killed by the same gun we recovered in your hotel room.”
“Damn. This is weird, Detective.”
“That was my reaction,” Ford said.
Bobbi kept glancing his way rather than concentrating on all the traffic around her.
“I can’t think of a single person that I know at Treasury. If I come up with something, I’ll call you.”
“Please do,” Ford said and clicked off.
Bobbi had picked up on it. “They connected the ballistics?”
“They did. It’s the wonderful world of law enforcement databases.”
Malone then called the Institute and asked for Paxton. He came on the line quickly.
“Yes? This is Jeffrey Paxton.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I know you must be busy, but I’m only in town for the day, and a friend suggested that I take a look at your operation. I represent several multinational companies conducting business in Europe and the Middle East, and my friend thought that we might have some common interests. What I’m asking for is fifteen or twenty minutes of your time.”
“I’d be happy to meet with you,” Paxton said.
“I’m about thirty or forty minutes away.”
“That will be fine. I’ll make the time. May I ask your name?”
“Nathan Malone.”
After he clicked off, Oak said, “A very courteous gentleman.”
“Did you ever try selling snake oil?” Bobby asked. “Nathan?”
Galway took them over the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and into the heart of Washington D.C. She was accustomed to the traffic and they reached Dupont Circle soon enough, but still had to park two blocks away.
She popped the trunk, and Malone rifled through his carryon, found the Sig Sauer, and slapped a loaded clip into it. Setting the example for visiting a peace agency partially funded with his tax dollars.
They walked back to the building, entered the lobby that had no more security than one guy in a private security uniform at a desk. His black nametag identified him as “Mel” in gold letters. Took the elevator to the sixth floor. The Institute for International Stability appeared to have two doors, the first one they reached also marked “Employees Only.” Malone noted that it was controlled by a Schlage keypad lock above the door handle. The second door was all glass, flanked by two large windows. The name was printed on the glass in white letters outlined with black. A sign in the window said to “Come In.”
They did, to find a moderate reception area with a few chairs and couches. Scenes from around the world decorated the walls.
Cheryl, whose name he had read on Bobbi’s listing, was at the desk fronting the door. To Cheryl’s right, he saw another door protected by the same Schlage keypad lock. Leading into the same room as the hallway door.
Cheryl asked if she could help them.
“I’m Nathan Malone. Here to see Mr. Paxton.”
She checked via intercom, and a slim man with brown hair and a carefully trimmed beard appeared in the doorway behind her and smiled at them.
“Mr. Malone, please come in.”
They skirted the receptionist’s desk and entered the private office which was not elaborately decorated. Just the basics. Reaffirming the impression that the Institute spent its money on more important matters than personal comfort.
“Mr. Paxton, this is Roberta.”
He left it open to conjecture about whether she was a colleague or a spouse. He didn’t particularly want to divulge her full name and possibly have Big Brother tracking her, too.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Paxton said and invited them to sit in visitor chairs aimed at his desk. This executive director didn’t even have a conversational grouping of sofa and chairs stuck in the corner. One would think that he was a rookie in Washington circles.
They sat, and Bobbi dug into her tote, pulled out papers, and held onto them.
“I’m sure you’re quite busy,” Malone said, “so we won’t take much of your day. To get right to the point, I’d like to know if we have some mutual contacts from whom I could get references.”
“Certainly.” Paxton was happy to oblige.
“The first is Patrick Corridan.”
He could feel Bobbi tensing up and didn’t dare look at her.
“The Senator? I’ve met him once, and of course, he’s an early benefactor for the Institute.”
“How so?”
“He managed to pass legislation that gives us a federal match to the amount we raise during the fund drive of the previous year.”
“Ah. That must be helpful.”
“Extremely helpful,” Paxton conceded.
“But you’ve only met him once?”
“He’s a busy man, and rightfully so.”
“All right. How about James Mears?”
The reaction was a puzzled expression on his face. “I don’t believe so. Who is he?”
“He lists himself as a member of this organization.”
“Oh. Well, with over a million and a half members, I certainly don’t know each one.”
“Lani Dixon is another member.”
Paxton shook his head slowly, again with a certain blankness in his eyes.
So much for that line of thought. This was going to be more disappointing than he expected.
“All right, sir. Thank you. Now, Roberta, do you have the donation listing?”
“I do,” she said and reached across the desk to hand a stapled set of paper to Paxton. These were only the donations, not the receipts.
“I believe,” Malone said, “that the listing shows all of the donations made by the Institute in the past three years.”
Paxton’s eyes followed his forefinger as he swept it down the page. “This looks right, yes. I’d have to have our information manager double check it to be certain.”
“Understood. That’s an impressive picture of philanthropy.”
“We try to do our best with the resources we have.”
Bobbi handed him the next set of papers.
“Now, that’s the same listing of donations,” Malone said, “but the second column shows the amount received by the charitable organizations based on their own audits and reports. My question, Mr. Paxton, is why do the organizations only receive exactly half of what you reportedly give to them?”
That one was a homer, way out over the left field fence. Paxton’s eyes nearly crossed. He kept running his finger down the column, trying to show his concentration, while he desperately searched for a plausible answer.
They waited.
And waited.
Silence was the best weapon of all.
Finally, he looked up, but his face no longer displayed the cheerful mask with which he had first greeted Oak and Bobbi.
“I have never seen this information before. Anything I say would be speculation, but perhaps the charitable organizations account differently than I might have expected.”
“Over a hundred different organizations in eleven different countries? Exactly half. That’s some accounting system.”
“I will certainly mount an investigation to verify this data.”
“I would hope so, Mr. Paxton. The companies I represent will be most displeased and since taxpayer funds are involved, will probably ask Congressional committees to launch hearings. My friend, who happens to be
with the Washington Post, will want answers as well. We can find our way out.”
He and Bobbi rose, turned, and found their way out of the suite.
On the elevator down, Galway said, “That was priceless.”
“Indeed it was. However, I don’t think he has a clue about Mears or Dixon.”
“I know what you mean by facial tells. No, he doesn’t know them.”
“Too late to talk to Corridan, you think?”
“I’ll do it in the morning, Oak.”
The firmness in her tone made him think that morning would be just fine.
He said, “How about food?”
“We’ll stop for takeout Chinese and take it to my place. So far, Big Brother knows you bought an airline ticket and rented a car. Let’s not give him a hotel, too.”
*
Hampstead was at her computer terminal when she heard the door open. Paxton came in, and she spun around to see that his face was pasty white.
“We’re ruined,” he said.
“How is that, Jeffrey?”
He threw papers on her desk. She turned them around, saw it was output on a spreadsheet, and glanced down the columns.
Well, shit. Someone somewhere had figured it out.
Alicia knew she couldn’t let herself panic in front of Jeffrey. She had to be strong, and she knew that with enough time, she could work it out.
“Tell me what happened, Jeffrey.”
“When this hits the newspapers and television, my reputation will be gone. I won’t find a job anywhere!”
His voice was about an octave higher than normal.
“Again, please. Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
“This guy and his wife came in. I met them. They asked about Senator Corridan. About someone named Mears. About a Lani Dixon. People I don’t know.”
No. No.
“Then they gave me that spreadsheet.”
“What did they say?”
“The guy did the talking. Wanted to know why the accounting was different.”
“And you said?”
“Maybe they used a different accounting system in foreign countries. I didn’t know. I said I’d investigate.”
“Well, that was good, Jeffrey. That way we can come back with an answer.”
“We can?”
“Certainly. I may have to dig deep for documentation, but I’m sure I can find it. We know we have to meet the baksheesh requirements. You were aware of that, were you not?”
“Yes, yes. But Alicia, how do we explain it to the membership?”
“There will be a way to spin it. Trust me, Jeffrey.”
“But he pointed out that it’s exactly half in every case. That wouldn’t sound right if some of it was for bribes.”
Well, that was an oversight. She should have staggered it somehow.
“Did he give you a name, Jeffrey?”
“Nathan. His wife was Roberta.”
Nathan? A new player? Maybe the one who helped out Malone in Sausalito?
“A last name?”
“Oh, ah, Ma . . . Malone. That was it, Malone.”
Nathan Oakley Malone. Damn it, he did figure it out. Much more dangerous than she had anticipated. If only November and December hadn’t fucked it up so badly.
“Did he say he would do something with this information, Jeffrey?”
“Tell his companies. The Washington Post.”
She didn’t know what was meant by his companies, but the newspaper was not good.
“All right, Jeffrey. You relax now and I’ll take care of this.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Paxton left, and Hampstead started considering her options. She could forge documentation regarding bribes and no one in the recipient countries was going to acknowledge anything. She could set up an account, or use one like Dinmore’s that had been around for some time to lodge some money in, call it unspent bribery money. Explain that, as a matter of practice, they automatically set aside half of a donation amount. The spin could work. The membership wouldn’t be happy, but hell, most of them had no idea about the realities in third world nations.
She wished the Chairman would call. Damn him for being so tight with his phone number.
While she waited, she would call November and get him on a plane for Washington.
He was going to be needed.
First of all, she accessed her databases, and after awhile she found Malone’s flight into Dulles and his car rental. She hadn’t been monitoring him, thinking he would lay low, so she had missed his trip to the city.
When she checked passenger manifests for his flight, she found one Roberta. Galway. The name didn’t mean anything to her, but she would track it down later.
She started checking hotels.
Chapter Twelve – Friday, June 21
The evening before, while Oak manhandled the suitcases and the cartons of Chinese food, Galway had unlocked both of the locks on the door to her condo, flipped on living room and outside lights, checked to make certain the place was halfway presentable, and carried her tote into the bedroom. Pulling the laptop from the tote, she laid it on the bed. Slipping out of her suit jacket, she tossed it on the bed, too.
She looked at the portrait of Bob on the dresser, and then picked it up and placed it in her lingerie drawer. Bobbi didn’t know why she did that.
She went back to the living room to find Oak standing in the doorway with the two suitcases and the takeout bag.
“This is nice,” he said.
It was comfortable, she thought, and fit her. Maybe a bit more feminine than Oak would care for, but not yet doilies and Afghans. The sofa and flanking chairs were finished in ivory fabric, aimed at the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The tables were a French design. Angled into one corner was a tall étagère that displayed some of the figurines that her mother had collected over the years and passed on to her. The artwork on the walls trended toward colorful floral arrangements. Three variously sized pots contained healthy ferns. She liked the lacy appearance.
“Hey, it’s a large condo at 1100 square feet and still affordable. Down the hall, the room on the right is my office, but it’s got a hide-a-bed.”
She lifted the sack of food from his left hand, which was also towing his carryon, and carried it into the kitchen. Finding plates and glasses in the cabinet, she laid them on the counter and began unpacking the bag. Malone had bought way too much, just in case they were hungry an hour later.
He came back and shut and locked the front door. Hooked the heavy security chain in place.
“Chop sticks or the easy way?” she asked.
“If it’s all the same to you, I grew up with a fork.”
“In the front closet are a couple TV trays.”
He set them up in front of the couch, and they both fixed bowls of egg drop soup and plates of fried rice, chicken and cashew nuts, roast pork, and crab Shumai dumplings. Oak picked up three of the Lai Wong Bao custard buns. Bobbi poured two cups of hot tea, placed them in the microwave to regain some of the heat.
Seated in the living room, they ate in silence for awhile, and then Oak asked, “Think Paxton was surprised?”
“I think he was surprised that someone had discovered what they were doing. But I think he knew they were doing it. I’m bothered by the fact, I think it’s a fact, that he didn’t know anything about Mears or Dixon.”
“I screwed up,” Malone said. “I should have asked him about Dinmore.”
“On the other side of the question, our only knowledge about Mears and Dixon is from what Dinmore gave you. They might not, and Patrick might not, have a damned thing to do with some scam that Paxton’s running.”
“True, though Dinmore didn’t give me Paxton’s name, and if he’s involved, my mind is becoming more muddled. Try this, Bobbi. Without thinking about who might be involved, tell me what you think about how it would be accomplished. Just the day-to-day operation.”
Well, okay, that
was a decent track to follow.
“These are large numbers, Oak. Maybe with some of the smaller organizations, checks are written and delivered. I’m sure they wouldn’t deal in cash. With most of the transactions, though, I would expect they’d use electronic fund transfers. Someone in the organization has the passwords necessary to access and make transfers to and from bank accounts.”
“So, starting from the top. Although it’s possible, I would doubt that any of those celebrities listed on the Board of Directors would make a decision to rob the taxpayer. My best estimate is that Paxton makes a decision to award a million bucks to XX charity. Does Paxton make the transaction himself?”
“Hold on,” she said. “Paxton doesn’t make that decision by himself. He’d be subject to enormous criticism if he was spending 26 million all by his lonesome. No, I read in one of the newsletters that the six lobbyists, all of whom have education, training, and/or experience in different disciplines, serve as an advisory committee. The committee sets the priorities for spending.”
“Or rubber stamps whatever Paxton proposes.”
“Possible, but it really doesn’t matter. Whatever the committee comes up with, the donation is going to lose fifty percent. The committee of lobbyists probably doesn’t even know what’s happening.”
“I’d buy into that,” Oak said. “Okay. Decision made. Next step?”
“The finance manager, that’s Shackleford, would likely determine which fund it’s coming out of, operating, investment, whatever. He orders the transaction.”
“He could determine the exporting fund and the destination accounts, right? Half to XX, half to Y account. He keys in the transaction from a computer terminal.”
“Could,” she agreed. “Or the computer people take care of it. Even if Shackleford keys it in, the computer people would have to know.”
“All right. Shackleford may or may not be in on it, but whoever affects the transaction is in league with Paxton. Who are the computer people?”
“According to the directory, just two. The information manager named Hampstead and a computer specialist named Katt. The manager’s a former teacher. I think middle school math. I don’t know how sophisticated she might be.”
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