Private Sector (27 page)

“At 5:55 P.M. you logged onto the firm’s server. Correct?”

“What form does it say that on?”

“The central server monitors all transactions. I receive a complete printout twice a day.” He snapped, “At 5:55, correct?”

“You’re sure it wasn’t 5:57?”

The piggy eyes turned piggier. “The server is recalibrated every fourth second by the clock at Greenwich. It is accurate to within three microseconds. It does not make errors.”

“But you do. Right, Hal?” I actually was starting to think I’d just been transported to a really bad episode of
Hogan’s Heroes
with Sergeant Schultz saying, “Achtung, Herr Colonel Hogan, the commandant is mad zat zomebody drew pimples on Der Führer’s picture.”

And true to form, Hal continued, “Starting at 5:58 there were multiple attempts from your terminal to enter the e-mail account of Lisa Morrow. Seven fruitless attempts, followed by a successful effort.”

“What time was the successful effort?”

He stared back at his form. “That would be 6:04.”

“And how many microseconds?”

His face reddened. “It has been widely noted that you have an attitude problem. Don’t try it in here.” He set down the folder and informed me, “Breaking into another firm member’s files is a violation of firm policy. That policy was included on the firm’s associate exam you took and passed. You should also know it is a federal crime.”

I suspected that having two partners staring over his shoulder was cramping Hal’s style. This motorized, legalistic interrogation was too lawyerly and prompted for this chubby little buffoon. In fact, it struck me that Hal had been given a script.

He put his elbows on the table, bent toward me, and went on, “What were you doing in that file?”

“Ask your all-knowing server.”

Again, Hal glanced at his file, and oops—apparently, the server could tell him. “You downloaded information and an e-mail was sent. We know Janet Morrow was present.” He established eye contact and asked, “Did you in fact permit a non-firm member to access our confidential databases?”

“Did I?”

Bronson chose this moment to intrude. “Answer him, Drummond.” He folded his arms and added, “Miss Morrow, we’ve learned, is a city prosecutor in Boston, and her office is currently involved in cases against two of our firm’s clients.”

Well, it suddenly struck me that Hal was the type of paranoid bureaucrat who liked burning people, and the presence of two senior partners implied that the firm took Hal’s obsessive idiocy seriously.

I therefore addressed my remarks to the partners and said, “We looked up Lisa’s e-mail addresses so her sister could inform her friends about the funeral.”

Hal demanded, “But you logged on using Lisa Morrow’s name and password?”

“Is there another way, Hal?”

“And Janet Morrow was present, wasn’t she?”

“And she’s Lisa Morrow’s sister, and she only saw the e-mail addresses.” I looked back at the partners and added, “Case closed, docket cleared, time to run up those billable hours.”

Bronson looked annoyed. But apparently Hal wasn’t finished, because he lifted up the folder again, withdrew a computer printout, and tossed it onto his desk. “Explain this, Drummond.”

“This” turned out to be a long column of electronic scribbles with two phrases highlighted in yellow—“LF: BosVSParagon” and “LF: BosVSMurray.”

I shrugged and he said, “Don’t play dumb with me. You know ‘LF’ stands for legal file. And you know the entries are
City of Boston versus Paragon Ventures,
and
City of Boston versus William Murray.
”

I replied, “Do I?”

“And you know Paragon Ventures is under indictment by the Boston District Attorney’s Office for fraud and overbilling the government on Medicare payments. And William Murray has been charged with mail-order fraud and conspiracy. They are clients of this firm, and both files were downloaded from Lisa Morrow’s e-mail file.”

He leaned back into his chair and smugly rocked back and forth. I found myself wondering why a firm such as this would hire a putz such as this.

And I knew from his expression that he wasn’t finished, and indeed, he then said, “How these files ended up in Lisa Morrow’s e-mail is very mysterious. But she’s no longer alive to explain, is she?”

“But a brain like yours has surely manufactured an explanation, Hal.”

“In fact, I have. I surmise that Lisa Morrow intended to help her sister. You were her friend, possibly her accomplice. Alternatively, you might have planted those files in Captain Morrow’s e-mail, foolishly assuming we wouldn’t pay attention to electronic activity in a dead person’s account. In any regard, both files contain confidential information that would benefit the City of Boston’s case.”

Cy’s shoulders were slumped with disappointment. Bronson did not appear at all disappointed; he had that half-scowling, half-happy look of a high school vice principal who just caught the school hoodlum drilling peepholes in the girls’ room walls.

“Why, Sean?” asked Cy. “I knew you were unhappy about this assignment . . . but why?”

Indeed, why? Had I failed to see those two files in Lisa’s e-mail? I mean, Janet had been so hot-to-trot to see Lisa’s files. But that theory only worked if Lisa was crooked also.

It was also possible the server had an electronic infarction and registered the wrong files in the wrong place. But unlikely.

Which obviously left a setup—a high-tech frame. But by who? And why? I recalled my conversation the day before with Barry. Was there a connection? If so, there’s who . . . possibly why. But how?

The Law of Crappy Coincidences warns that when two really good things happen to you at once, that’s probably a coincidence. But when two really shitty things happen, there’s a direct connection—you just have to find it.

“What happens next?” I asked.

Bronson answered, “Our ethics committee will meet Tuesday evening to decide your fate and whether we should turn this matter over to the court system.” He added, regretfully, “You’ll be permitted to defend yourself, of course.”

“Of course.”

He further informed me, “Until then your electronic rights are suspended. If you enter the firm’s facilities you must have an escort from Mr. Merriweather’s office. Is that understood?”

“Fine.”

He fixed me with his version of a nasty glare, lowered his voice, and ordered, “And now, you will return to Morris Networks and complete the audit.”

Was he kidding? I’m not trusted enough to turn on a computer or walk through the firm without a watchdog, but I remain billable to clients.

On the other hand, the audit had probably set back Morris Networks a few million bucks, and it sure would suck to have to inform the client that the supervising attorney was too ethically challenged to perform his duties, and ask to have it done again. The client might very logically point out that since the firm picked me, the firm should now pick up the tab. Back to the Law of Crappy Coincidences—the audit was scheduled to be completed Tuesday and the disciplinary powwow was set for that night.

You see what I mean? These private-sector guys think we public-sector guys are too stupid to pee.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A
S I DROVE TO MORRIS NETWORKS I USED THE JAG’S BUILT-IN CARPHONE to call Janet’s cell phone. Five rings, and then a mechanical female voice offered me a series of options—dial one for voicemail and so forth. So I punched one, and said, “Drummond here. Call me. Pronto.”

I took the elevator upstairs and went to the conference room, where I found Martha parked in a corner peering quizzically at a long spreadsheet. We exchanged brief pleasantries and I was struck by this really off-the-wall thought that she might be the one who recorded those phone messages for the wireless services. Same dull, flat monotone and . . . oh, who gives a crap.

“Yesterday,” I reminded her, “you asked about a company called Grand Vistas.”

“Yes?”

“What information do you have on it?”

“Is there a problem?”

“None at all. I need to inform them they’re included in our financials. It’s a standard legal courtesy.”

She nodded, then went back into the room and returned with a thin manila folder. “The contact information is inside. It’s a privately held foreign company. Surely Morris’s normal accounting firm knows this company, but since we were only hired for this audit, we’re completely unfamiliar with it.”

I thanked her and retreated to the car.

Janet returned my call as I drove to my apartment. I gave her directions and told her to meet me there for lunch.

A mere two weeks before, my life had been simple, tidy, and largely pleasant. I had a job I liked and understood, in an organization I loved but nobody understood. True, my boss and I had something of a conflicted relationship, but, to the degree the Army allows any individual such latitude, I had been the master of my own fate.

Suddenly, I was inside the cat’s paw of any number of parties. Janet, for one; manipulating me to investigate her suspicions. Spinelli, jerking me around every time a new corpse turned up. Barry, maybe lining me up as a future scapegoat. And now, somebody I didn’t know, or maybe did know, was setting me up for something worse. The fates seemed to be handing out tickets for a piece of Sean Drummond’s ass, and I wanted to know why.

I got to my apartment, flipped on my computer, went to Google. com, and typed in “Janet Morrow—Boston Globe.”

Three direct hits, and a long list of partial hits. The first direct hit was a news story that concerned a murder conviction Janet had won for a Crips gang member who shot three goombahs from a competing gang. Janet was quoted as saying, “Justice has been served,” and the defense attorney naturally swore the trial was disgustingly unfair and vowed to appeal. Next was more of the same, a life sentence for a bigamist who snuffed two wives for the insurance premiums, and then a conviction against a pimp who killed two of his girls in a murderous rage.

So this was both interesting and instructive—three murder cases within a seven-month period. District attorneys typically assign their top brawlers when the charge is murder, or, as we say in the trade, headline magnets. This suggested that Janet was a fair-haired girl when the big ones were in play.

I noodled past other entries till I found one titled “Janet Morrow receives Patriot Award,” part of a newsletter from an organization calling itself “The Patriot League, Responsible Citizens Dedicated to the Preservation and Improvement of Law and Order in the Grand City of Boston and its Local Environs.” Surely a worthy cause, whatever the hell it meant. Described in the article were the date of the dinner, who attended, and so forth—stuff people read only to see if they’re mentioned. In a speech, the chairman of the Patriot League, Jack Something, exalted Janet’s many legal accomplishments, her unparalleled conviction rate, and he anointed her the Avenging Angel of Boston. Cute.

Grand Vistas was next, and multiple entries popped up. It appeared to be the kind of malleable title befitting everything from a porn site “for lovers of big-assed Latino women” to a tourist agency. Eventually, I found a company Web site.

Your standard corporate logo popped on the screen, a huge Z, like Zorro, with a bunch of portals for everything from corporate information to job opportunities. I thought maybe I should start with the job openings. I might be needing one.

Grand Vistas described itself as an international holding company registered in Bermuda with extensive investments and interests in telecommunications, zinc, diamond mines, gold mines, shipping, and heavy equipment leasing. Sounded like a company with identity issues. Nothing about owners or investors. Nothing about the corporate structure or its corporate officers. A few pictures of ships and mines representative of the company’s wide-spread businesses.

Geez. Trojan wrappers offer more information.

I dug the contact’s phone number out of the folder. I studied a long string of numbers that started with 0011, an overseas exchange, though I didn’t recognize the country code.

I was connected to one of those metallic voices that spooled me through ten options, none of which sounded like who I wanted to speak with, I suppose, because I had no idea who I did want to speak with. I was finally allowed to punch nine for a real human being.

“Grand Vistas. How may I help you?” answered a female voice, in English, but accented in some European flavor I couldn’t discern. I informed her I wanted to speak with somebody who knew how the corporation operated. She pointed out that a number of offices knew how the corporation operated, and couldn’t I be more specific. Accounting perhaps? Absolutely not, I replied. Legal? No, lawyers are assholes. Operations? Yes, fine.

A voice eventually answered, “Philippe Jardeau.”

I said, “Hello, Philippe, do you speak English?”

“A leettle. Can I help you with sometheeng?”

“I hope so. Name’s Bill . . . Bill Clinton, and I work for Morris Networks.”

“Cleen—ton?” he asked with that odd way the French have of mistreating our vowels.

“Of all names, right?”

“I suppose.”

“I always tell people I’m the one who
did
inhale.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey, get this. My wife’s name’s Monica. Wow, she catches some shit.” Well, enough with causing confusion about my telephonic disguise. I asked Philippe, “Hey, what’s your position in the company?”

“I am the
aseestant
director for operations.”

“Hey, I’ve got the right guy. Thing is, I’m working on a company audit, and the name of your conglomerate came up. I mean, we do all that swapping together every year.”

“Swapping?”

“Yeah—exchanging shares and utilization on each other’s networks.”

“Ah. . . yes, I am familiar with
theeez.
”

“This audit is critical to us getting a big Defense Department contract.”

“Okay. I see.”

“And we’ve booked a lot of revenue from you guys. Eighty million, last quarter.”

“Yes?”

“Turns out our Defense Department has no record of you.”

“And why is
theez
a problem?”