Clawback (37 page)

Gram picked up a small black object from the table and handed it to Haley. She studied the item—something small and electronic. “A listening device?” Haley asked. “Another bug?”

Gram nodded. “That would be my guess. Remember how, just as Jessica was leaving the house, something happened—like she tripped over something and spilled her purse? All of that happened on the far side of the couch. I'm willing to bet the whole thing was a ruse so she could plug this in without our noticing.”

“Well,” Haley said, reaching for the pan that would work best for oatmeal and giving it a fast soapy wash under running water. “I just heard on the news that both Jessica Denton and Jason McKinzie are currently being held in the Yavapai County Jail in Prescott.”

“Good riddance,” Gram said pleasantly. “May they both rot in hell.”

Once Haley got to work, it was a relatively quiet day. Admittedly, a few still-irate customers came in to formally cancel their policies. Haley spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Morgan Whitney. Dan and Millie's bodies had been released to the funeral home, so the arrangements could be finalized. By the time the call was over, the paid-in-full service was set for 2:00 p.m. on Friday afternoon. She was finishing that call when an anxious Carmen appeared in front of her desk.

“What's wrong?” Haley asked.

“That Agent Ferris is here again,” Carmen said. “He's asking to speak to you.”

Haley shook her head in resignation. “All right,” she said. “I'll speak to him in Dan's office. Bring him there in a few minutes.”

Haley stood outside the door for a moment, preparing herself to enter the office. At some point, she supposed, this would become hers. For right now, though, it was still Dan's. By the time Carmen ushered Agent Ferris in, Haley was seated behind the desk.

She rose and held out her hand. “Good morning, Agent Ferris. What seems to be the problem this morning?”

“No problem,” he said. “I came to express my apologies and also my condolences.”

Haley sank back into the chair and studied the man. “Apologies for what?” she asked.

“For the way you and your people were treated. Dan Frazier was a good guy, Ms. Jackson. He approached our department two months ago, concerned about the solvency of OFM. We asked him to gather evidence for us. In the process of doing so, he told us that he thought someone was spying on him. He believed it was someone in the corporate offices down in Phoenix. I suggested it might be someone close to him up here—you, for example.”

“Me?”

“Dan wouldn't hear of it, of course. But that's why we took the files and the computers. The files were cover. What we really wanted was access to employee e-mails to see if someone here had turned on him.”

“And we hadn't.”

“No.”

“Dan had learned that Jason had a laptop that he was absolutely hyper about keeping apart from the company's network. Dan felt sure there was critical information stored on that, and he didn't want us to make a move against McKinzie until he managed to duplicate the files. He downloaded them onto a memory card sometime overnight on Thursday and called on Friday to let us know that he had them. I thought we should move in immediately, but no one would authorize a full weekend of overtime. The raid was moved to Monday. Dan died on Tuesday. So far we've not found any trace of the file.”

“I have it,” Haley said. “Or at least a copy of what was on the card. The drive itself was left in Dan and Millie's safe-deposit box. I found it there. When I realized it was encrypted, I turned it over to a company called High Noon Enterprises.”

She tore of a sheet from a note pad, consulted her phone, wrote down a number, and passed the paper to him. “Ali Reynolds is one of the owners,” Haley said. “You should probably speak to her.”

Agent Ferris looked at the note and then slipped it into his pocket. “About the funerals . . . ,” he said.

“There will be one service only,” Haley said. “A memorial service at two p.m. on Friday afternoon at the Whitney Funeral Home here in town.”

“Since I feel personally responsible for what's happened,” Agent Ferris said, “I'd like to send some flowers and perhaps even attend, but only if you think that would be appropriate.”

“Of course, Agent Ferris,” Haley Jackson told him. “You'd be more than welcome to join us.”

I
t was two thirty in the morning before Ali dropped Cami off at her apartment in Cottonwood and made it back home to Sedona. The phone awakened her five hours later at seven thirty. Through sleep-blurred eyes, she saw Dave Holman's number in the caller ID screen.

“You're up early,” she croaked.

“Up early and on my way to the jail in Prescott, but I wanted to run something past you. During the interviews in Peoria last night, Eric Drinkwater and I were present but benched. We were able to watch the proceedings but didn't participate. My assessment says Jason McKinzie is scared witless while Jessica Denton is one cool customer. So here's my idea—the oldest trick in the book.”

“A plea deal?” Ali asked.

“Right, and, the first one to talk gets the death sentence taken off the table.”

“But—” Ali began.

“Wait a second,” Dave said. “Let me finish. I was talking to Stu a little while ago about the Phoenix traffic cam issue. He mentioned something about unlocking some kind of encryption codes and finding out that McKinzie has secreted sums of money in hidey-hole banks, institutions, and property scattered across the entire planet.”

“That's true,” Ali said, “and thanks to Haley Jackson I believe we've got a line on those, chapter and verse—not only the account numbers but also recent balances. I haven't put it all together, but the total is going to be sizable. High Noon is about to sign on to help recover those monies. We should have confirming paperwork on that later today.”

“I may be able to help with that,” Dave said. “I'll be meeting with the county attorney as soon as I get to Prescott. I'm going to suggest that we offer Jason McKinzie a deal, first rattle out of the box. He gives us a full confession—not only on all four murders but also on the OFM swindle. He has to give us everything and agree to testify against Jessica Denton. In addition, he has to grant access to all of his offshore accounts and agree to return the money, which is to be brought back to this country and placed in an escrow account for the benefit of OFM's creditors and investors. Otherwise we charge him with four counts of murder in the first degree, death sentence included.”

“What if he asks for a lawyer?”

“He hadn't as of late last night, and that's why I'm suggesting we make the offer before we ask him anything else. That way he won't have a chance.”

“Good luck with that,” Ali said. “If you can make it work, it might bring about the best of all possible outcomes. Keep me posted.”

Ali dragged herself out of bed, threw on her robe, let Bella out briefly, and then wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” Leland said. “And what would you like for breakfast today?” he asked.

Ali answered without a moment's worth of hesitation. “I can't think of anything I'd like better,” she said, “than several cups of coffee and one of your meat loaf sandwiches.”

“B.
Simpson and Ali Reynolds to see Mr. Lowensdahl,” B. said, laying a business card on the receptionist's desk. Ali happened to be wearing a linen pantsuit that day—a deliberate wardrobe choice on her part. The receptionist was wearing another sweater.

It was a full week after Ali had signed the paperwork designating High Noon as recovery agents working on behalf of the chief restructuring officer for Ocotillo Fund Management. By now there was no question about the company's being “restructured.” The bankruptcy proceedings were now focused strictly on dissolution.

Ali and B. had talked long and hard about what they were about to do. Was it moral? Maybe not. Was it right? Absolutely. And now it was time to lower the boom on Eugene Lowensdahl, with Ali doing the heavy lifting. Their planned strategy was partially a bluff, but they knew enough about the timelines involved to believe it might work.

Investigators searching Jason McKinzie's private office had uncovered a private security monitor, one that was in no way connected to the one covering the remainder of the building. On that they had found footage of Dan Frazier's surreptitious entrance during which he had downloaded the memory file. Naturally that week's footage had been taken in as evidence in the Frazier homicide, a bit of information Dave had been kind enough to pass along to Ali.

“Could I see it?” she had asked.

“You'll have to ask Eric Drinkwater. That's in his bailiwick.”

“Great,” Ali said. “Wish me luck.”

To her surprise, when she showed up at Sedona PD and asked to see it, the detective had agreed with very little argument. “I don't see why not,” he said. “You'll be able to view the file footage but not edit it.”

Ali's father had told her that he and Detective Drinkwater had buried the hatchet. Evidently the peace treaty between the two men extended as far as Ali.

Drinkwater showed her into a small, poorly air-conditioned room, sat her in front of a computer monitor, and called up a file. Once it started, Drinkwater left the room, closing the door and leaving Ali alone. It broke her heart to watch Dan Frazier sneak into the room, locate McKinzie's computer, and insert the drive. At the time, he had thought he was doing something that would help the SEC finally bring Jason McKinzie down and see to it that he was held to account. In the long run, that's exactly what had happened—he was being held to account—but Dan Frazier had died in the process, and that hurt.

Ali started to exit the file, but then for some reason she fast-forwarded through the rest of the Thursday-night footage and on into Friday morning, where she slowed it again. A young woman Ali assumed to be McKinzie's secretary showed up and set a pile of correspondence on the desk along with a hot drink container of some kind. The office was empty for a spell, then Jason McKinzie showed up. He looked at his desk and then, without touching the cup or the correspondence or even sitting down, he opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a laptop.

For a period of time, he was offscreen entirely. Then he went back to his desk and made several calls. There was no audio. Ali couldn't hear what was being said, but he looked anxious, upset. Ali continued to scroll through the day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until sometime well after six, presumably after most of the other employees had left for home.

Just after 6:30 a female, one Ali now recognized as Jessica Denton, entered the office carrying a stack of paper that had the look of some kind of legal documents. She and Jason proceeded to kiss in an entirely inappropriate fashion, then she pushed away and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a second man in tow. Ali's eyes nearly popped out of her head when she realized who he was—Eugene Lowensdahl. He sat down in a visitor's chair. There was some silent back-and-forthing, then, after considerable discussion, McKinzie picked up a pen, centered the document on a blotter on an otherwise clear desk, signed it, and passed it over to Lowensdahl.

“Aha!” Ali said aloud. “Gotcha.”

And today she and B. planned to put that “gotcha” moment to good use.

With B. along, Eugene Lowensdahl respectfully rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket as they entered the room. “Back from your travels, I see?” he asked, shaking first B.'s hand and eventually Ali's as well. He motioned them into chairs.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

In answer, Ali pulled a single piece of paper out of her purse and slid it across the table. On it was a single column of figures.

“What's this?” he asked.

“That's a list of Jason McKinzie's offshore bank accounts—the ones we've located so far,” she said. “It also includes all current balances.”

His eyes scrolled down the page. When he reached the bottom line, his eyes widened and he whistled. “That's way more than I thought it would be,” he said.

“We've also located a number of properties and several large caches of diamonds,” Ali continued. “We're having both the properties and the diamonds appraised.”

“We'll be able to sell them?”

“Over time,” B. said. “And not for fire-sale pennies on the dollar, either.”

Lowensdahl nodded. “But this is incredible,” he said. “I had no idea you'd be able to amass so much information in such a short time.”

“We have our sources,” Ali said.

“It's going to make for a hell of a payday,” he said.

“Actually, that's why we're here. Given the circumstances, our twenty percent fee seems out of line. What's your percentage, Mr. Lowensdahl?”

“Twenty,” he said.

“We're willing to make our twenty percent go away. We're prepared to change over to an hourly fee, and we think you should, too.”

“What are you talking about?” Lowensdahl said. “Why should I?”

“Because this money belongs to someone else. The people who invested it deserve to get their money back without losing another forty percent in the process.”

Lowensdahl sat up straight in his chair. “Ms. Reynolds, you're more than welcome to relinquish your share, but you have no right to dictate what I do with mine.”

“You knew McKinzie was leaving before he left,” Ali said quietly. “You knew that late Friday afternoon when you came by his office to pick up the bankruptcy paperwork. I'm sure the SEC would be interested in knowing that you had advance knowledge of his departure, and that you made no effort to stop him.”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“Yes we do,” Ali said. “And we also know that there was a witness in the room at the time who might be willing to testify to that effect.”