William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Ben nodded. It was the same ball-park figure Sally Zacharias had derived.

“The diversion of funds has been concealed by a series of false invoices. Each accounting department was told that another department was receiving the missing money. A perfectly covered trail. The money is accounted for on the books, but nobody not-in-the-know knows where it’s really gone.”

“So what are the coded papers I found?”

“That was a summary I generated. Based on the information in the report I swiped from Sanguine’s desk.”

Ben paused a moment and let a black-leotarded woman, shielded from the world by a Walkman and earplugs, pass by. Then, he decided, it was time to ask the $64,000 question. “Who was getting the money?”

“I can’t say for sure. But I can tell you who wasn’t. The corporate shareholders. That was the reason for the entire elaborate deception, unless I’m greatly mistaken. Sanguine is a public corporation, you know. Based on provisions in its corporate charter, it has an obligation to pay annual dividends to shareholders when the corporation generates large gross profits. Or to report its decision not to pay dividends and explain why. But if you reduce the corporate gross profits enough, nobody expects dividends to be paid. More money for the slush fund.”

Ben took a deep breath of fresh air. All this corporate bookkeeping stuff was really over his head. At the D.A.’s office, he had avoided white-collar crime whenever possible. But, he supposed, the details weren’t important. He followed the gist of the matter. Someone was ripping off millions of dollars, and Adams found out about it.

“Why was Adams so determined to track this down?” Ben asked.

“You tell me,” Brancusci said. “I’m no shrink. But I can tell you this. Sanguine and the rest of the upper management types—they always treated Adams like dirt. He was old guard, definitely not one of the boys. Adams was with the company when Sanguine bought it and brought in his own management crew. Adams stayed on as a condition of the buy-out agreement. Evidently, it was cheaper to keep him and bear the nuisance than to pay him off. But that didn’t mean they had to like him. It didn’t mean they had to treat him like a human being.”

Brancusci bent down, lifted a small rock, and flung it into the river. It skipped on the surface four times before sinking. “Don’t be fooled by his job title. Adams was a vice president in name only. They never gave him anything important to do, and they paid him accordingly. Sanguine and his cronies were getting rich; Adams never even got a raise. No one said anything, but the fact was they were trying to hound him into quitting the job he didn’t really have anyway. I mean, this whole slush fund is a perfect example. By title, Adams was one of only five vice presidents in a multimillion-dollar public corporation. He should’ve had access to all important financial papers. But he didn’t. He didn’t know what was going on. They kept him locked out.”

Ben wiped his brow again. The weather was uncommonly hot, and the air seemed thin and hard to breathe. “Adams was going to blackmail Sanguine, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. He was going to do something with the information, that’s for damn sure. Something to improve his current station in life.”

“And what about you? You seem to have incurred a great deal of risk in this business. What was in it for you?”

Brancusci gazed out at the river. Then he said quietly, almost under his breath, “Let’s just say I have a strong distaste for injustice. And poverty.”

Ben pulled the summary out of his jacket pocket. “There’s a coded notation in the left-hand column on the second page.” Ben pointed to the line on the ledger. “It’s marked Ca-Em . Is that a reference to Emily?”

“I don’t know. I copied it like I found it. Could stand for anything. Obviously, it’s in code, and I wasn’t privy to the key.” He scrutinized the summary. “It appears to be grouped with other corporate real estate holdings in Tulsa. I’m almost certain this item three lines above is the office lease payment for our Tulsa headquarters. I recognize the amount.”

He continued to study the summary. “Ca-Em. Four hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-six cents. The same every month. Might be a mortgage payment or installment payment on some property. Kind of small, though. I’d bet it’s a rental or lease payment.”

“You may have to testify, you realize.”

Brancusci stopped walking. Although he faced the river, Ben could see the panicked expression in his eyes. “No way in hell I’m going to testify. I’ve already spilled everything I know. Personally, I liked Adams and felt sorry for him, and I want to see his killer caught as much as anybody. Maybe more. If I didn’t care about the old man, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. But I can’t testify. If anyone even finds out I’ve spoken to you—”

“If you’ll produce the report you based the summary upon, a personal statement may be unnecessary. But if you don’t, I guarantee you that either I or the police will slap a subpoena on you. And if you lie under oath, I’ll see that you do time for perjury. Your choice. The penitentiary in McAlester is a nasty place.”

Brancusci grimaced. “My choice, huh? Yeah, right. I should’ve expected to get screwed again.” After a moment, he resumed walking down the jogging trail. “I’ll give you the damn report. Give me your phone number. I’ll call you when I’m ready. We’ll arrange another meeting. Nothing personal, but I don’t want you to be seen at my apartment.”

Ben pulled a business card out of his wallet and gave it to the accountant.

“One more thing before you run off,” Ben said. “Who was in a position to know about this slush fund and profit from it?”

“Hell, I bet they all knew about it. All the vice presidents, except Adams. The only way to keep them quiet would be to, well, share the wealth. But only one person could have authorized it. The one person it would be absolutely impossible to leave in the dark. Sanguine.”

He turned to look at Ben and, for the first time, his eyes opened. “Your client.”

27

“YOU THINK HE KNEW more than he was telling?” Christina asked.

“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “He told a hell of a lot.”

Christina and Ben sat behind closed doors in Ben’s office. Ben had told her everything he’d learned from Brancusci.

“He should have called me back by now,” Ben muttered. “I wonder what’s taking him so long?”

“Probably can’t find his papers. You know how accountants are. Offices always a mess. Desks cluttered with papers and slide rules and IRS regulations. Don’t worry. Probably spilled coffee on the documents and had to blow-dry them in the bathroom.”

Ben sank back into his chair. “Look, Christina, I know you’re trying to be cheery, and I appreciate it, but really—don’t bother. I’m not in a good mood.”

Christina fidgeted with the papers in her hands. She was wearing a black leather skirt with offsetting burgundy hose.

Her strawberry hair was pulled back and twisted in a strange cross between a French braid and a librarian’s bun.

“I was told the hearing wasn’t all that bad, and that you displayed a certain … panache .” She paused. “I heard it wasn’t your fault.”

“You heard wrong. I should’ve told the judge about Emily’s condition in the first ten seconds of opening statement. But I didn’t. I was afraid that if the judge thought she was handicapped, he would insist that she be placed in an institution.” He rubbed his hand against his forehead. “I made a judgment call. And I was wrong.”