Steven Gore - Power Blind

“The main one is a trade secrets case. Fiber-optic switches. My clients developed a switch-a kind of splitter-that tripled fiber-optic line capacity. FiberLink. The owners mortgaged their houses and borrowed from their retirement accounts to fund their research. Really nice people. The brains were two women who used to work at Intel. They came up with the switch on their own time, then brought in some friends to form the company.”

“What happened?”

“One of their husbands smuggled out the design and sold it to OptiCom, which used it as the backbone for their bid to wire Western Europe, and they won. I chased him around Europe for a couple of weeks, then cornered him in Zurich. I brought him back and delivered him to the FBI.”

“Why’d he do it?”

“Jealousy. He thought his wife was cheating on him.”

“Was she?”

“I don’t think so, but it still wouldn’t justify what he did.”

Spike looked over at an abandoned newspaper on the next table, an unopened business section lying on top. “How much was the European contract worth?”

“Billions and billions and billions. OptiCom’s stock went through the roof. The world’s biggest fiber-optic company doubled in value overnight.”

“I’ll bet their stock is going to tank when this hits the news. I mean really plummet.” Spike smiled, then rubbed his hands together. “Maybe it’s time for a little insider trading. I’ve been doing a little reading. Seems there’s a way to make a lot of money if you know a stock is going to crash.”

Gage smiled back. “Too bad you don’t know of one.”

“Yeah.” Spike sighed. “Way too bad. I guess I’ll have to keep making money the old-fashioned way. Slurping at the public trough.”

Gage pointed at the envelope. “What’s next?”

“Retrace my steps, see if I missed anything. But I’ll lay off for a while if you’re going to do something. You’re probably in a better position anyway, what with the attorney-client privilege issues.”

“That’s fine. I’ll make it quick. I need to make sure whatever Charlie was up to doesn’t snap back at Socorro again.”

Spike and Gage both alerted to the Jaliscos leaning back against the window next to them. The newcomer’s hand was under his sweatshirt.

“Something’s going sour,” Gage said. “Maybe it’s a rip-off.”

The newcomer angled his chair away from the Jaliscos, giving himself a view of the rest of the restaurant. He glanced around, his eyes hesitating when they fell on the cook and the waiter behind the counter to Gage’s left, then on Gage and Spike, as if counting the number of witnesses who’d have to be eliminated.

Gage caught the waiter’s eye, then tilted his head toward the kitchen. The waiter nodded his understanding: If two witnesses escaped there would be no reason kill the remaining ones.

The newcomer caught the motion and pushed himself to his feet. Seconds later all three dealers were waving guns at one another, then at the waiter, the cook, Spike, and Gage.

Spike slipped his right hand under the table and rested it on his gun while Gage rose with his hands up and eased toward the counter. Three barrels tracked his movement. The newcomer yelled, “Freeze, asshole.” But Gage took a final step, coming to a stop in front of the cook and waiter.

The waiter pulled the cook to the floor with him and used Gage and the counter for cover as they crawled into the kitchen and toward the back door.

Gage lowered his hands and pointed at the weapons.

“Why don’t you guys take your business outside?”

The Jaliscos swung their guns toward the newcomer.

Spike repeated Gage’s question as an order. “ Tomen sus negocios afuera.”

He was now aiming his semiautomatic at the Jaliscos, his elbows propped on the table and using a double-handed grip.

“Just walk away,” Spike said. “Nobody’s gonna stop you.”

The newcomer looked back and forth between Spike and Gage, but spoke to the Jaliscos: “ Estamos chidos.” We’re cool.

The three looked at one another, then one of the Jaliscos reached down for the briefcase of cash, while the newcomer picked up his bag. They backed toward the entrance, then slipped their guns into their pockets as they turned and stepped outside into the glare of the afternoon sun-and into the sights of racking police shotguns.

F ollowing six cars behind Gage as he drove up Mission Street toward his office, the Texan spoke into his cell phone.

“He met with a Mexican cop for lunch. Then a little fun and games with some narco-wetbacks.”

“Could you tell what Gage was up to?”

The Texan snapped back: “You think I can read his mind?”

“Why didn’t you get a table next to them?”

“And get caught in a crossfire?”

“What do you mean, crossfire?”

“It’s not important. Anyway, it would’ve been stupid to go inside. Gage is like a bloodhound. His nose snapped toward those beaners the second they walked in the place. He would’ve sniffed me out in a heartbeat.”

Where do we stand?” Gage asked Alex Z the next morning.

Alex Z was hunched over his keyboard, his face inches from one of the monitors standing on his desk.

“I decrypted a spreadsheet using the name of Charlie’s boat, but everything in it is coded except the numbers.”

Alex Z pressed a couple of keys. A file opened. Gage saw subtotaled and totaled columns with dates at the top, and to the far left, a column of gibberish, a mixture of letters and numbers.

“What’s your guess?” Gage asked.

“There are no negative numbers, so it’s probably not money going in and then coming out again. So if it’s really money, it’s either all in or all out.”

“How much?”

Alex Z scrolled to the bottom of the spreadsheet. “About ten million on this one.”

“Maybe he was tracking financial transactions in a case. Have you tried decoding the label column?”

Alex Z scratched his head. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that, boss.”

“Stymied?”

“Yeah.”

Gage smiled. “You’ll figure it out. Anything else in there?”

“Lots and lots. I’m still trying to decode them.”

Gage glanced down at a stack of billing records. Alex Z’s eyes followed.

“I sorted those by case and by date,” Alex Z said. “But there’s not much there. About thirteen thousand outstanding, spread among three cases.”

“I guess he really was closing down. Viz said Charlie used to clear about three hundred thousand a year.”

Alex Z pointed at the printouts. “All he had going was the yacht tax fraud, an earth-moving accident that killed an oil executive’s kid, and a dispute between Paramount and Universal over film rights.”

“What about Brandon Meyer’s mugging? Did he put time in for that?”

“No. But he kept all the receipts. Cab fare. Posters. Restaurant receipts.”

“Restaurant receipts? From where?”

“Ground Up Coffee Shop on Geary. One from a week before he got shot and one just the day before.”

Gage recognized the name. He’d remembered driving past it on his way from downtown out to the Presidio. It was a few blocks away from where Charlie had been shot and from where Spike suspected a Checker cab had dropped him off.

“Look and see whether he saved any Ground Up receipts from other visits,” Gage said. “Maybe it was his regular place to meet people in that part of town.”

“Already did. It doesn’t show up at all in his accounting records, but neither do these two.”

“Maybe was waiting to enter them until the case was over,” Gage said.

“It would be the first time. I checked the tax fraud and the other cases. He entered the costs the same day he spent the money.”