William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“I’ve asked her, and she’s accepted. We’ve set a tentative date early next month.”

“Next month ?”

“Well, we want to wait until her daughter is out of school.”

“ Daughter ?”

“Yes. Illegitimate, I’m afraid. But I’m going to change all that.”

Ben fell back into his chair. He didn’t know where to begin. “But”—he waved his hands meaninglessly in the air—“your career! You were so concerned about your career, Alvin.” He looked at Alvin sternly. “Did you sleep with her?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“And you told me you were celibate. Probably a virgin.” He exhaled slowly. “You know, Alvin, you don’t have to marry the first girl you sleep with just because you slept with her.”

“I think you’re way out of line, Kincaid.”

“Have you told Greg about this yet?”

Alvin looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t told anyone else yet. I came to you first, though now, I can’t imagine why. I didn’t think Greg would understand.”

“You mean you thought Greg would make fun of you—and you were damn well right.”

Alvin grunted and walked toward the door.

“Look, Alvin, do yourself a favor. Don’t tell anyone else about this for a while. Wait until the newness wears off a bit. Just to be sure.”

“I don’t see why—”

“Do it for me, Alvin. Buddy to buddy. Okay?”

Alvin bristled and threw his shoulders back. “Fine. Mum’s the word.” He opened the door, then paused. “I must say, though, I thought you would be different. Somehow, you seemed … I don’t know, more sensitive than the rest of the guys. I hoped you’d understand about true love, about wanting to help a woman and a little girl.” He pulled the door shut.

Ben stared down at his desk. He thought his head was going to explode. A little girl. A little girl. I hoped you’d understand about wanting to help a woman and a little girl.

Almost in a daze, Ben began dialing the telephone. Seven rapid clicks, some static, and two rings. Someone lifted the receiver on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Look, you sonovabitch, I know damn well you and Adams spoke the day he was killed. I want to know what you discussed. You don’t want to open up to the police—I can understand that. But not talking to me is a whole goddamn different ball game. I’m sure you’re scared for your own skin and you don’t want to end up like him. I’ll tell you something—I don’t give a damn. People are depending on me, so I’m depending on you to level with me. So talk !” His words reverberated in the phone receiver.

There was no reply. Silence. Static.

“I said, I want you to fucking talk to me! Now !”

A long pause. Then, at last: “I don’t know what it is you want to know.”

“What did Adams discover in the financial records? Or what did you discover in the records and tell him about?”

Another pause. “I can’t talk here,” he said at last. “Can we meet somewhere?”

Ben fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. He felt such a sense of release that he nearly teetered onto the floor. “Yes,” he said. “We can meet now .”

26

THE RIVER PARKS ARE probably the most scenic parts of central Tulsa. Attractive greenery, nature walks, exercise parcourse, bike trails, playground equipment, picnic tables, and hot dog stands—it all can be found between the Arkansas River and Riverside Drive. The park performed a variety of important civic functions. It was where harried parents brought their children to get them out of the house, where housewives came to aerobicize their way to personal fulfillment, where homosexuals congregated in search of companionship.

It was also an ideal place to have a private conversation in public, Ben decided. Harry Brancusci, Sanguine’s accountant, had agreed to meet Ben there during his lunch break. They talked as they walked slowly upriver along the jogging trail, their voices dropping to a hush whenever someone passed nearby.

“So Jonathan Adams suspected that money was being diverted out of the Sanguine corporate gross profits. Why did he need you?”

“For proof,” Brancusci said quietly. He was a thin, dark-haired man, probably in his mid-thirties. He had the disconcerting habit of shutting his eyes whenever he looked at Ben and opening them again whenever he looked away.

“Somehow, Adams learned a slush fund existed. Don’t ask me how. But he needed proof. So he came to me. Only Sanguine accountants and top executives have access to Sanguine financial documents. In the case of accountants, we have them only briefly. And no one accountant has access to all financial documents. Sanguine Enterprises is divided into three divisions, financially speaking. The first division is composed of franchises that pay a percentage of their monthly gross profits; the second division is composed of franchises that pay a straight fee and keep their profits. The third financial category involves nonfranchising activities, administrative costs, office expenses, leases, executive perks—that sort of thing.”

His eyelids closed as he turned to face Ben. “Sanguine has three accounting staffs, each corresponding to one of the three divisions. I’m in the franchise straight-fee department. So I never saw more than one-third of the Sanguine financial data.”

Ben wiped his brow. It was a hot day, and unlike those trotting past him on the jogging trail, he didn’t enjoy sweating. “Why the elaborate cloak-and-dagger approach to something as simple as doing the corporate books? That must have made people suspicious.”

“Not really. It’s pretty standard corporate operating procedure. It’s a nasty world out there. A lot of people would be interested in knowing how Sanguine is doing from quarter to quarter.”

“At some point, though, someone must have access to all three sets of data. Someone must compile all the financial information so that Sanguine executives can see the big picture and judge how the corporation is doing, plan for the future, pay the taxes—whatever it is executives do.”

Brancusci nodded his head. “Sure, someone. Some officer of the corporation or vice president or secret conclave of accountants. But not me. And not Adams.” His thin face turned away. “Adams wanted me to follow the paper trail and find out who had access to, as you say, the big picture.”

“And?”

“And?” Brancusci raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “And I did. Follow the trail, that is. With the assistance of a blonde, teenage office messenger who was not altogether unfriendly to me—” He paused doubtfully, as if unsure whether this was a conquest of which he should boast. “I monitored the flow of interoffice mail throughout the two-week period prior to this year’s annual meeting in Nashville. One day a thick report with numbers that didn’t come from any of the three standard accounting departments was circulated among the upper echelon. So that night …” His eyes stretched out across the water. “… what do you know, I had to work late. Walked into Sanguine’s office under the pretense of delivering something he needed, unlocked his desk with a paper clip, and swiped the report. Photocopied it, returned it, and no one was the wiser.”

Ben decided the less said about that the better. Given recent events, he was in no position to criticize. “What did you learn from the report?”

“I learned that Adams was right. A large amount of money was being diverted from the gross earnings of the corporation.”

“How large?”

“Difficult to say for certain, but it’s in the millions. I’d guess about three million dollars, over a number of years.”