The Jezebel Remedy (36 page)

“Evidently.” Hansen contracted his face, frowned, exasperated that people could be so haphazard with their security measures.

“The money question is: Can you tell when and how the fake was inserted?” Williams peered at Hansen. “Did Benecorp leave tracks? Can we trace it? Can you prove a substitution to a Henry County jury?”

“Yes and no,” Hansen answered.

“ ‘Yes and no'?” Williams repeated.

“The system keeps log files that show who did what when, to put it in plain English.”

“That ought to help,” Joe said hopefully. “You just need to search the log files.”

Hansen gave him a condescending glance. “Yes. Thank you. I have, of course. But if you're an administrator, you can erase the log files or change the date of activity.”

“Damn,” Joe muttered.

“Does the erasure itself show up or give us any clues?” Lisa asked.

“Not clues as you'd like to find them, but it does show up. Of course, it could happen in the ordinary course of things because of a full disc or a retention time limit or for other reasons, like a systems failure. I've found seventeen log erasures between the date of the LPV will being registered at Mrs. Helms's office and the day you discovered the fake. Any of those could be the door Benecorp opened and closed.”

“But you can't directly tie it to Benecorp?” Williams asked. “It's just general, a possibility?”

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Williams,” Hansen said, suddenly patient and earnest. “It's far more than a theory. I've considered your situation and talked to Mr. Anderson about it. While I'm testifying for Mr. Stone, at the very end I'll have my laptop primed, and I'll do the magic from the courtroom in front of the jury. Something kind of funny and spectacular.” He rotated his iPad on the table and slid it toward the lawyers on the other side. “See, I hacked the system while I was sitting here waiting. I inserted a court paper from Supreme Court Judge Derek ‘Dr. Overbyte' Hansen that sends lawyer Philip Anderson to the public stocks for six hours. I can do something comparable at your trial. Wham-bang and abracadabra.”

“This is now in the system?” Lisa asked. They were all looking at a document with a big, hokey signature scrawled in red crayon.

“Of course. Go check. If we do this for real, I'll take the judge and the jury to Mrs. Helms's office and we'll pull it up on her own terminal, same as the alleged fake will.”

“Damn,” Williams said, allowing a grin to spread. “I'll drive over and confirm it. Better not alarm Vicky any more than she already is.”

“Suit yourself,” Hansen said. “Call me and confirm what I already know, then I'll erase my paperwork and scrub the log.”

“Do you know a Sean Morris?” Williams asked. “From Brooklyn?”

“He goes by the handle Tribble. Yeah, I know him. He's a cyberanarchist and a bandit. Why?”

“Is he accomplished in this field, computers and so forth?” Williams pressed.

“Depends on what you mean,” Hansen replied sharply. “He's a pickpocket. He and his nihilist pals think it's brilliant and urgent to unlock devices so they can defeat years of honest work and adapt phones and gaming consoles to their whims.”

“Is he smart?”

“I guess you could say so,” Hansen conceded. “In the same way Khalid Sheikh Mohammed is smart.”

“He's their expert,” Williams informed him. “You ready to take him on?”

“He's sloppy and brooding and a punk. If he's honest, he can't tell you squat, any more than I've told you.”

“They've also listed a Dr. Han Liu from the University of Virginia as an expert,” Williams said.

“Liu's a stuffed shirt and an academic glad-hander,” Hansen sniffed. “Put it this way: He parrots what people like Tribble and Overbyte discover. His career consists of creating absolutely nothing. I'm not a fan. He's a commentator, not an innovator.”

“I take it he'll be the polished, reassuring counterpoint to Morris,” Lisa noted. “They plan to cover all the bases. These guys are shrewd.”

“Oh, Liu will definitely be dressed for the role,” Hansen remarked. “He adores bow ties. Maybe he and Phil are related.”

“Speaking of which,” Lisa said, facing Hansen, “could I offer you a tip? In terms of your wardrobe?”

“Seriously?” Hansen sounded uncertain.

“Yes,” Lisa answered.

“If it's constructive input in a field I'm still exploring, input from someone with skill and experience, I'd more than welcome it.” Hansen keened his head, seemed engaged, interested.

“Seersucker and khaki don't mix. I appreciate what you're trying for, and damn good for you at your age. I'm impressed. You're too young to go totally seersucker, plus it still has a
Matlock
echo for many of us, and unfortunately there's no true coat counterpart for your slacks,
unless you go for a blazer, which is too pat and stock for a guy with your edge.”

“Okay,” Hansen said, completely focused on Lisa. He reached for his iPad and pulled it toward him.

“For the summer, invest in a nice poplin suit, tan or light brown. You can still use the same shirt and tie, but ditch the tassels. Also, don't scrimp on the socks and end up with droopy, fuzzy leg warmers. You can let the suit wrinkle and rumple, too, which would preserve what we like about you, keep your very unique Derek badge intact.”

“Sweet. Poplin? Thank you. Where would I look for such a suit?”

“Give me your e-mail address, and I'll send you several options.”

“I already have your contact info. I didn't come here unprepared. I'll shoot you my mine. How much will this set me back, a poplin suit or two? Coordinated shoes?”

“What're you charging us?” Joe asked.

“Phil informed me he bills at four hundred dollars an hour. I'll be charging you four hundred and
one
.”

Everyone laughed.

“You should be able to afford the suit,” Lisa told him.

“Seriously, Toliver?” Joe glared at the detective, pissed off.

“Hey, listen, man, what you want me to do? There're no free passes in my business. No exemptions. The gun pointin' to you isn't smoking, my friend, it's lit up like a forest fuckin' fire. You're on the receivin' end of a forged will you gave to Vicky, and we got pictures of Lisa collecting some serious bribery loot from a Panama-hat bank, supposedly on your behalf. There's large money in play and a dead woman. At least a missing woman. I'm supposed to ignore it? Do the small-town, good-old-boy whitewash?”

Joe just stared, didn't speak. It was near the middle of August, past closing time, around five-thirty, hot, an evening storm gathering, swollen, violent, gray clouds taking shape in the east, and Toliver had waylaid him as he was locking the office door, leaving for the day. They were standing on the sidewalk. A shifting, fitful breeze was about to become a wind. A scrap of dirty paper whirled and reeled above the ground, rose and rode and danced and dropped back into the gutter, done until the next gust. “How long have you been waiting to ambush me? Sneaking around here with your Mickey Mouse police tricks?”

“Don't be so damn sensitive. I drove here from Collinsville, saw your car, parked mine and walked directly to your door right when you were comin' out. I promise I haven't been hidin' in the bushes. I immediately told you my business, and you decided to flip on the imbecile switch and start fuming.”

“Shit, Toliver, you clobber me at the end of a long day and announce all formal and Kojak that you're here to question
me
about ‘the
VanSandt case,' and you act like you're here to cuff me on the spot. I told you about Lettie and Benecorp, remember? Now I'm being questioned because, what, you catch a call from Seth Garrison's lawyers?”

“Actually, no. Sheriff Perry got calls from Congressman Myers, the state police and the governor's office. But I was comin' anyway, long before the whores and political toadies partially paid their Benecorp debts and phoned the sheriff. I read the paperwork from the civil suit; that alone would send me for a visit. I have a report, also: No usable prints on Lisa's cardboard from the leprechaun. There were prints, but none of any quality. I also had 'em take a stab at that smidgen of letters and numbers, but no dice there, either.”

“You're here to investigate me?” Joe locked the door but left his keys hanging. “Shit. Come on. You know me as well as anyone.”

“I love it when people say that. How they
know
someone, and he or she couldn't have done it. Really? It's my favorite dumb-ass crime cliché. Nobody knows shit for sure. As long as you're human and have a heartbeat, you can lie, steal and kill. Every crook ever convicted has a mom and dad who loved him and believed in him to the last bitter disappointment. Your neighbors, they're always fuckin' shocked because they
know
the criminal and this couldn't be. People knew Bernie Madoff and Ted Bundy. A whole congregation knew Bishop Eddie Long. You and I both thought the world of Bonnie McNamee—no way she was embezzlin' from the PTA.”

“So what do you want, Toliver?” The wind was gaining, blowing harder, less scattered. It caught the tail end of Joe's tie and briefly flipped it away from his shirt.

Toliver reached into his hip pocket and took out his tiny notebook. “Did you give Vicky a forged will?”

“No, I didn't,” Joe snarled. “I gave her the will your boss gave me. Maybe you should talk to him.”

Toliver wrote in his pad. “Okay, did you and Lisa receive any money from Benecorp?”

“No. Hell, no.”

“Did Lisa go to the Bahamas?”

“Yes. So do thousands of other people. You'll need more pages in your little Oompa-Loompa pad to list all of them.”

“But she didn't bring home any money from a bank there?” Toliver was still making notes when he asked the question.

“No, she didn't.” Joe reached for his keys. “Are we done?”

Toliver made eye contact. “Of course, you did go meet with Garrison in Virginia Beach?”

“Yeah, at your urging. Hey, did you get any money from Benecorp? Did you steal the Wound Velvet formula?”

Toliver smiled. “Nope,” he said calmly. “Anything else you want to tell me that we haven't already discussed?”

“Yeah—you can kiss my ass.”

“I'll add that to my summary. It won't be helpful in sentencing when the judge asks ‘Was Mr. Stone cooperative?' I'll have to tell him you were rude and used profanity.”

“And what're you doing to actually solve the case?”

“Hell, I been busier than the trombone player in the Ringling Brothers band. Don't want my stats ruined. But I'm not inclined to share my info with a potential suspect, you see.”

“Are you planning to harass my wife?” Joe demanded, still rankled. “To interview her?”

“If she'll see me, yes.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Joe snapped.

“Well, I'll give it a shot,” Toliver replied, putting away his pad. “Here's a nugget for you, courtesy of the guy who works for the county and hasn't had a raise in three fiscal years: What fool
withdraws
money—in cash—from a no-tell, fly-by-night bank? You transfer the dollars
to
the shady bank in order to conceal 'em and scrub Mr. Franklin clean as a whistle. If you wanted cash, why leave a trail? Demand a suitcase full of hundreds and be done with it. Why go to the Bahamas? The Bahamas are for cruise boats and parasailing, not dubious money schemes. You want to hide money, you're talkin' Cook Islands, Switzerland, maybe the Caymans. Odd, isn't it? Of course—too bad for you—your average Henry County juror ain't goin' to realize the difference. The Bahamas sounds exotic and rich to him.”

“I suppose,” Joe said cautiously. “But from the resistance we're seeing, I'd say the Bahamas still make the list of places to hide cash.”

“So when I harass your wife, I'll explore that with her, why the deal
was arranged in such a clumsy fashion. I'll also try to discover why she's leanin' on the counter there in the Bahamian bank.”

“Pardon?”

“The lady in the surveillance tape, when the teller disappears to fetch the moneychanger from underneath the ceiling fan in his office, the lady kinda slouches against the counter. Leans on an elbow, very sorta sloppy and low-rent. Not poised, in other words. I've never seen such as that from Lisa Stone, and I've seen her more than most. Have you, Joe? Ever seen Lisa any way other than a hundred percent classy in public? The woman allegedly signin' for the money, when she was waiting there at the counter, she was all dressed for the role, huge polo match, rich-white-lady hat and them obligatory Jackie O glasses, but she was Baltic Avenue, St. Charles Place, tops. Evidently an excellent confidence woman, good at the grift, but definitely not your Park Place wife. Also, we never see her sign the first piece of paper.”

“Huh. We've watched the tape until we know it by heart and, yeah, you're right. It's a shame we can't sell your theory to a jury.”

Toliver grinned and hitched his pants. He was wearing a wide tie and a short-sleeve shirt, no jacket. “No ‘we' involved, Kemosabe. I know it's not Lisa on the tape. Can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure of it. You, on the other hand, are still on my radar, with neon arrows directed at you. I put a giant star beside your name in my notes. An exclamation point too, in case important police people was to come checkin' behind me and examining my investigation. What a feather in my cap if I could pop a lawyer, especially the most honest attorney in the state.” Toliver began walking away. He glanced over his shoulder. “I'll see you later. I need to beat the storm to my car. Lucky for me I was able to conclude my penetratin' interview with you before we got rained out. By the way, Joe, the posts from Roberto100 came from a coffee shop in Charlotte—only a couple hours down the road. Took the site a while to respond to my court order. If I was you, I'd check into that news, but what do I know?”

“Perfect,” Lisa said. “You did well.” It was noon, the day after Toliver Jackson's encounter with Joe, and she'd just taken a chair across from
Derek Hansen at the Fieldale Cafe. The restaurant was busy, noisy, and she hoped the talk and bustle would obscure their conversation. “Your suit's exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“Thank you, though I
am
the doctor, so that would always be the case regardless of what I buy or how it looks.” He grinned. “The e-mails with pictures were helpful. My girlfriend's also a fan. I bought two, in slightly different colors.” He stuck his leg out from beneath the table and extended it toward her. “I didn't shortchange the accessories.”

Lisa nodded. “Derek two point oh. Nice. But don't overdo it, okay? We want our rumpled genius, not some spooky popinjay.”

“Point made.”

“Did you bring your music?” she asked him.

He placed his iPad on the table, alongside a Bose speaker. “Who can I play in here and not be made to squeal like a pig at the end of a hillbilly's hunting rifle?”

“Anything is fine. Keep the volume sociable. I want to do all I can to keep our conversation private. I don't plan to say much, and I need you to keep your comments to a minimum as well, please.”

“Okay. Esquivel is the choice.” He raised the music's level until Lisa told him to stop.

She placed three sheets of paper on the table and gestured for him to pick them up. “See what you think,” she said. While he was reading, a waitress came and Lisa ordered plate lunches for them both, fried chicken breasts, slaw, sliced tomatoes and macaroni and cheese, sweet tea to drink.

“I don't like coleslaw,” Hansen said, continuing to read. The pages were handwritten. “Mayonnaise and cabbage—nasty.”

“Sorry. I didn't want to interrupt you. Should I change it?”

“No. I'm fine.” He finished the last sheet and smiled, scratched his cheek with his thumb. “Hmm. I don't know,” he said. “Where's the rest of the team? Phil Anderson and your husband? Mr. Williams?”

She leaned closer to the speaker. “Not involved,” she said under her breath. “Only me.”

“Sketchy,” he said, following her lead, almost mouthed the word without sound. “Illegal.”

“Fight fire with fire.”

“Why the deadline?” he asked. “So quick?”

She spoke more normally, but still stayed below the music, which sounded electronic and spacey, cocktail hour for the Jetsons, a sixties prediction of what would be hip and swinging decades into the future. “The law has something called discovery. It allows each side to learn the substance and details of the other side's case. It prevents surprises at trial and helps frame the issues. Unfortunately for us, once you receive what are known as interrogatories, you have only twenty-one days to respond. The responses are done in writing, under oath.” She took the papers in front of Hansen, folded them and put them in her purse. She planned to shred them as soon as she returned to her office. “Phil wrangled a short extension from their lawyer, but we're down to only a few days before our answers are due. I hope we can get another delay from the judge, but even so, time is suddenly my enemy. Also, as part of discovery, you're able to request a deposition, a witness's oral statement under oath. The notices for deps have been served, and while we can use the excuse of busy schedules to cause some reshuffling, we're under pressure there too.”

“I already knew what a deposition is,” Hansen noted. He wasn't snide or haughty. His tone and expression signaled he understood the dilemma.

“So?”

He scratched his cheek again. “You're positive we'll win in court?”

“Yeah, as positive as you can be in a system that relies on seven random variables to reach an accurate result. But I need to have this before we show our hand. Need to know precisely
what
I'm winning or we'll be screwed.”