Stained River (9 page)

Things went well for the first two years. By the third, Connery showed an inclination to make moves without input from Hewett
, not all the time, but enough to be irritating to a man who had contributed substantially to increasing Hawthorne’s client base. That wasn’t all. Connery became pompous, too concerned with his image, too inclined toward sex romps on the continent, while Hewett steered the ship. Their friendship dissolved that year. Disillusionment followed, then quiet resentment. Hewett became the scapegoat for anything that Connery felt went wrong. Yet it was Hewett who maintained forward momentum and the profits needed to support Connery’s lavish lifestyle. In the succeeding year, quiet resentment turned to anger, anger to plotting.
I should be in charge, not Connery.
The relationship frayed. That’s when he hired Walters and soon after, made contact with Castelo Branco.

Hewett had just hung up from the conversation with Pam. His scheme was well underway. Soon he would have Hawthorne, but he couldn’t do it without the likes of a Castelo Branco, now his partner in the affair whether he liked it or not. He became nervous, however, when Pam mentioned her conversation with the
Treasury agent. Treasury was on to Castelo Branco. Or were they? He would call and find out.

“Estevo! This is Hewett.”

The response was curt.

“I asked that you limit our contacts. You shouldn’t have taken my call to Connery’s office the other day.”

“This is different. You’ve heard about Connery?”

“Of course! He’s out of the way. This is a much better solution, don’t you think? My other approach would have taken longer.”

“I agree. But here’s why I’m calling. I just talked with Connery’s wife. The Treasury Department paid her a visit. I’m sure it was to offer condolences. You may be beyond their reach, but I’m not.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Proceed as we discussed. I’ll tell you this: the agent’s name is Morris. I’ve known about him for some time, but his little investigation will go nowhere. You see, his boss is a friend of mine. Well paid too. You don’t think I take care of things before they get this far? You need to relax, my friend.”

“I should have known.”

“Good! Then don’t call again. I’ll get in touch with you when I think it’s necessary. Oh! One other thing. The secretary, Cindy. She was a little too close to Connery. She may know more than I am comfortable with.
Leave this to me.”

Hewett hung up, then looked at Cindy, busy at her computer.
He was in league with the devil. What had he gotten himself into?

CHAPTER TWELVE

News of the crash and Connery’s death gripped Cindy Pellegrino like a vise. She felt dizzy, her legs weakened, and she grabbed the side of her desk, barely able to make it to her chair before collapsing. Three co-workers saw her reaction and rushed to help.

“No, no. I’m all right, just give me a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They left, but kept a close watch, concerned she might pass out. She had paled considerably.

He depended on her these past eight years and that
gave her great satisfaction. She rose to executive secretary, becoming an unofficial “insider” at Hawthorne Capital, Connery’s “go to girl.” Despite her position, everyone liked her. Cindy Pellegrino was sharp, observant, and had a way of uncovering information that he always found of use. She had the pulse of the organization at the corporate level. The feedback and advice she gave, he listened to. She was forthright, spoke her mind, even warning him that his extracurricular dalliances were not only the source of office scuttlebutt, they would eventually bring harm to the company if he didn’t pay more attention to what was going on. She warned him too, that Dan Hewett wasn’t what he seemed to be. On those issues, Connery tended to play down their significance. Now, there was the SEC to contend with, and she knew what he faced.

While she and Connery were close, they weren’t physically close
, as the office rumors supposed. That was not her choosing; it was his. Hers was just the role he wanted her in, and she knew he avoided any private relationships with women in his employ. He reasoned, that kind of relationship would terminate eventually and the result might become sticky. She accepted those conditions. Still, abiding by them was not always easy. Relatively attractive, yet still unmarried, she hadn’t yet met the right guy.

Dan Hewett was her nemesis. She never liked him. They didn’t get along and that was of no consequence. As long as Connery was around, her job was always safe. He was her mentor. More than that, he was her friend, gave her confidence, built her up. Because of him, and the responsibility he entrusted to her, she had status, respect. She looked forward to going to work every day. The only thing she didn’t have was him. Now, it had all ended in a rush of emotion, a near collapse. At the same time, she couldn’t avoid the practical aspect. He was gone and her job soon would be
too. Hewett would take care of that. Eventually, he would find a reason to terminate her. Over the coming weeks and months, nothing would be the same. She was forty-two and with her expenses, being without a job was unthinkable. She might get another, but Terry wasn’t around to give her a recommendation and Hewett would never consider it.

She got up, poured herself a glass of water from a silver pitcher inscribed with her name written in script
, a Christmas gift from three years before. Life had been good at Hawthorne, the bonuses more than generous. She had to think this through, protect herself, if possible.

Something going on with Hewett didn’t
seem right. She remembered Connery’s reaction when she mentioned that he had taken Castelo Branco’s call. That day, Hewett went to his office, closed the door and picked up the phone. He was engrossed in the conversation, and she watched him on the other side of the glass wall partition. After ten minutes, he reached into his desk drawer for his leather bound notebook, the one he always kept locked up. He continued talking while writing something. Then he hung up, closed the book and locked it in the drawer. She wondered what it contained. In addition, who was this Castelo Branco anyway? She had met him, but once only. The week Hewett was away. Terry usually confided in her, but he never said anything about the meeting or why it took place. She wanted answers.

Two weeks after the crash, Cindy Pellegrino still had her position at Hawthorne. But the tide had changed and not in her favor. She had nothing to do. Her work was delegated to someone else, she had no inside track on anything, Hewett ignored her. Though stripped of responsibilities, Personnel had neglected to ask for her key to the upstairs corporate offices.

Sitting alone in her living room, she tried to sort the reasons why things didn’t seem right; the sudden SEC audit,
her discovery of Hewett’s possible connection with Castelo Branco, the hiring of that lackey, Stephen Walters, Connery’s death. The more she thought, the more she would like to see what was in Hewett’s notebook. Then she remembered;
I have the key
.

It was late, getting on midnight
, when she cabbed to the Hawthorne building. The city had quieted. It had rained, and storefront lights reflected off wet streets giving them a rippling glow. She entered the lobby, walked to the elevator and pushed the UP button.  The building was large with a shopping mall on the ground level. A few people lingered; none paid any attention to her. The doors parted. She got in and pushed another button, this time for the thirtieth floor. She watched the lit panel as it climbed from “Lobby” to 30. All of a sudden, she felt very alone, but knew this was the only way she would be satisfied. The elevator stopped, the doors opened. She walked into familiar surroundings, yet fumbled for the key because she was nervous. Inside, service lights dimly lit the office. She closed the door, not noticing a small red light that had come on above her. In her haste and nervousness, she had forgotten about the ubiquitous security cameras. She walked the long aisle to Hewett’s office, came to his door, put her hand on the handle, as another red light came on. She was inside and knew where he hid the key to his desk; the unlocked top drawer.
Jerk!
She thought.

Somewhere in the building, a security officer should have noticed a signal that someone was in the offices on the thirtieth floor. He didn’t. It was blind luck that she didn’t get caught. She had the book in her hand when
she looked up, saw the red light and realized her mistake.

“Oh, shit!”

In her panic, she put the book in her coat pocket but dropped the desk key on the floor. Security would be there at any second.

Next morning, she went to work as usual, but knew the tapes in the surveillance cameras
were a problem. Hewett had already called the police. There would be questions. It was the longest day she ever spent, expecting her arrest to be imminent. But in the end, no one had approached her about the break in. There was, however, plenty of office talk. She decided the raincoat and hat she wore the previous evening, concealed her identity. The camera images, however, were certain to be looked at carefully.

Two weeks passed. Still no one
asked about the break in. She began to think no one would. Sloppy police work, perhaps, but lingering doubt persisted. Hewett’s book contained phone numbers. Lots of them. She began making calls just to see who answered. One was to Castelo Branco’s company, several were to off shore banks and she jotted the names. Several more were to an office of the SEC. That might be explainable in light of what happened, but she wanted to know exactly who Hewett had talked to. She would organize the information carefully and piece it all together.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

Brasilia

The company occupied a suite on three floors of One Playa del Mendoza, down town. The twenty fourth floors housed administrative offices, the twenty fifth and twenty sixth, executive suites and large conference rooms. In a lobby,
the outside receptionist sat behind a circular desk staring at a computer monitor, trying hard to pass the time. Behind her was a massive green marble wall twenty feet high with raised gold metallic letters that said
Companhia do Azevedo Limitada.
Copious sunlight entered from high floor to ceiling windows, and the lobby was large enough to produce an echo-particularly when a woman walked across its tan and white marbled floor with high heels. To the left of the receptionist, a large double door with polished brass handles led to the interior offices. By any standard, an impressive image, a company of substance.

Estevo Castelo Branco, the founder and CEO, occupied a large corner office, also with floor to ceiling
glass, offering a magnificent view of the city. The interior was elegant, totally in keeping with the head of a business that appeared legitimate and very successful.

He amassed substantial wealth, ostensibly as a business
-man engaged primarily in mineral resources. His real name was Juan Marquez. Until twenty- five years ago, a onetime stage performer in Rio. Greed placed a number of opportunities in his path. He was quick to capitalize, holding complete disregard for anyone who got in his way. In this manner, he built a small mineral resource company into one of substantial size within the industry. He chose to maintain a low profile when it came to running the company, using the title,
chairman emeritus.
He was, however, the mastermind behind a vastly corrupt empire that used an industrial base to its advantage.

Early in his career, Marquez thought his name was too plebian, so he changed it to the more aristocratic sounding Castelo Branco, believing it would serve him better.
He lived quietly with his third wife in a very large and expensive villa outside Brasilia, appearing in public only when the occasion required. The aura of a subdued private life belied the world he lived in; one of political corruption, intimidation, and assassination. In it, he moved adroitly to achieve power and influence.

In the early eighties when word spread there was gold in the Amazon, he and two others flew to a remote town with a dirt runway deep in the
rainforest. They verified the rumors. There
was
gold. Plenty, if you knew how to extract it and few laws to prevent anyone from doing it. The territory was simply too large for Brazilian authorities to establish any form of justice. The unscrupulous could rape the land, taking whatever they wanted. Corruption and dominance of local tribes could easily become tools to that end.