Deceived (11 page)

The conference
room was cluttered with papers, some neatly stacked in front of the room's
occupants, others, earlier now obsolete drafts, pushed to one end of the table
or onto the floor. Bunched in the center of the table lay remnants of a working
lunch: paper soda cups, Styrofoam coffee cups, crusts of cafeteria sandwiches
on paper plates
.

Nick, for the
fourth time, prepared to repeat the GAO's position. "Look, all your client
has to do
—
" he started
.

The door to the
conference room swung open cautiously, just a foot. All heads turned, including
Nick's. Judy peered through the opening, searching for Nick's face. He waived
her in.

"What's
up," Nick whispered to Judy, who bent to his side.

"Sorry to
bother you, Nick. It's Meg. She's on the line for you. Extension 662."

Nick gestured
to the table. "I'm in the middle of things here."

"She said
it was important."

Nick nodded and
said to the three other men, "Excuse me, this should just be a
second." He reached for the phone on the table. "Hello?"

"Nick, it's
Meg."

They last spoke
yesterday afternoon, after the meeting with Carolyn and Dennis. "What's
up?"

"I'm
outside Scott's office. The FBI's in there. They're cleaning it out.
…
I
thought you'd want to know."

"Cleaning
what out?"

"Scott's
office," Meg repeated. "Three agents; they're boxing everything up. Emptying
his desk, his shelves, his file cabinets."

Boxing up
his office?
"Okay, I'm tied up in conference for another
…
"
He appraised the lawyer across the room
—
reaching a settlement with him
would be like pulling teeth. "Another half-hour, at least. You stop them
until I get there."

"I already
tried that. They barred me from the office."

"Do they
have a warrant?" Nick asked.

"No."

"Then get
them the heck out of there. Without a warrant they have no authority to conduct
a search, no authority to seize anything."

"They
don't need a warrant, Nick. They have permission."

"Who gave
it to them?" Nick asked, and somehow knew the answer before Meg gave it to
him.

"Dennis."

"Dammit." Nick drummed his fingers on the table. "
…
Okay,
I'll be right down."

Nick spotted
Dennis on the far side of the cafeteria, sitting with two other auditors. "Dennis,"
he called, when still a dozen feet away.

Dennis swung
his head in the direction of the sound, just long enough to identify its source
and display annoyance, then turned back to his food.

Nick advanced
on Dennis's table, set his palms flat on its surface. "I was just down at
Scott's office," he said, voice harsh.

"I'm
eating now, Ford," Dennis replied, biting off a corner of his sandwich to
emphasize the point.

"I don't
give a damn. What the hell is going on down there?"

Dennis glanced
at Nick from the corner of his eye as he chewed, his face expressionless. Finally,
his mouth clear, he said, "I take it you're referring to the FBI?"

"You
called them in?"

Dennis nodded. "Of
course."

"Gave them
permission to seal Scott's office?"

Dennis took a
sip from a Coke can, then reached for his napkin. He dabbed his mouth quickly. "You
seem upset, Ford, and frankly I don't see why. If I may remind you,
you
were the one who thought Scott's death might relate in some manner to his
official duties. As preposterous as that claim may be, I followed Carolyn's
instructions. I acted on your suspicions and called in the appropriate law
enforcement agency, in this case the FBI, to investigate."

"Do you
know what they're doing down there?" Nick demanded.

"I assume
they're doing their job." Dennis reached for a French fry, and shoved its
full length in his mouth.

The two
auditors seated with Dennis looked at each other, then both pushed back their
chairs. "We'll catch you later, Dennis, Nick," they said before
leaving.

Nick claimed
one of the abandoned chairs. "They're boxing up Scott's papers, his files.
Everything."

"I'll go
way out on a limb here, Ford, and guess they consider it potential
evidence."

"But I
haven't been given the chance to review anything. To make copies. The Yünnan
Project is my audit again, remember? How can I do my job if I can't retrace
Scott's steps? How am I supposed to dig up leads?"

"I'll
remind you you're investigating an alleged case of overbilling, not a murder. If
there are
leads
to follow in Scott's papers, the FBI will follow
them."

"But I
know the case."

Dennis slid his
plate forward. "French fry?"

"
Dammit
,
I don't want a French fry." At the outburst, heads swung in Nick's and
Dennis's direction, and Nick lowered his voice. "I might be able to spot
something in Scott's papers the FBI would overlook."

"You'll
have a chance to brief them on your investigations."

"C'mon,
Dennis, they're not accountants, that's not their area of expertise."

"Expertise?"
Dennis said sarcastically. "What about your area of expertise? You're not
authorized or equipped to undertake a murder investigation, and that's the last
time I'm going to make the point. The FBI has accountants on staff
…
let
them do their job.
…
Now can I get back to enjoying my lunch?" Dennis
picked up his sandwich and held it in front of him, as if waiting for Nick to
excuse himself
.

Nick did not
accommodate. "I'd like the chance to read Scott's files," he
persisted.

"After the
FBI has inventoried and reviewed them, I'm sure they'll make them available to
you."

"You know
the FBI
…
that could be weeks, months."

Dennis
shrugged. "A thorough review might well take that long, correct. Is there
some reason you don't want a thorough review?"

Nick hung his
head, exasperated. "C'mon, Dennis."

Dennis put down
the half-eaten sandwich, wiped his hands with the napkin. "C'mon, nothing.
You seem awful anxious about those files falling into the hands of an
independent law enforcement agency."

"That's
bull, and you know it. I'm interested for one reason: Scott was a friend."

"Which
would led me to believe you'd want to support the FBI in finding his
killer."

At that moment,
Nick would have taken great pleasure in shoving Dennis's sandwich down his
throat. "With or without your help, I plan to find out what Scott was on
to."

"You
obstruct a federal investigation, and I'll see you're suspended."

"I'm
charged with investigating billing irregularities in the construction of two
hydro-electric dams in China." Nick kicked back his chair and stood. "That's
my job, and I intend to do it."

Nick had turned
his back, prepared to leave, when Dennis said, "Hey, Ford." And then,
just loud enough for Nick to hear, "You screw her yet?"

Nick jerked his
head toward Dennis, teeth clenched.

"I
figured," Dennis said, grinning, "the way you stood up for her in
Carolyn's office, you must have. Was she as good as she looks?"

Nick leaned
over the table, a violent rage taking hold of him. "I've never punched
anyone before; before now I've never wanted to. You stay out of Meg's way; you
stay out of my way. You understand, Dennis?I'm through with pretensions
—
you're
an asshole, and it's about time someone said it to your face."

Not until
Dennis lowered his eyes did Nick turn and head from the cafeteria.

Nick stopped
outside Meg's office door and peered in. A typical first year's office
—
desk
crammed, overflowing. Stacks of paper everywhere. Against the wall, lining the
radiator, blanketing the shelves
.

A poster hung
from the wall: a photo of a man in a white oxford shirt with pocket protector
and glasses. Its caption read: "It Took an Accountant to Catch Al
Capone." Cute.

He started back
to his office, planning to call and leave a message for her. That wasn't
necessary as it turned out. He rounded a corner, mind lost in thought, and
almost ran Meg over.

As she jumped
back, the coffee in the mug she carried rode up its side and over. A dollop
fell to the carpet.

"Sorry, Meg,"
Nick apologized, reaching out to steady her.

"Don't
worry, you didn't get me." Meg transferred the mug to the other hand and
wiped its bottom clean with a napkin. "You find Dennis?" she inquired
when finished.

Nick nodded. "We'll
have a chance to review Scott's files."

"Really?"
Meg said, eyebrows arching.

"Yeah. Just
as soon as the FBI finishes with them."

Meg made a
face. "Oh."

"Have a
minute?" Nick pointed to her office.

Meg nodded, and
led the way. Once behind her desk, she cleared a swath of documents so they
could look across at each other unimpeded.

"Meg,"
Nick started. "I've been out of the loop on the Yünnan Project for awhile
now. You know that. Scott's not here to fill me in, and now it seems I won't
even have access to his files. That means I'm going to have to rely on you.
…
We'll
be working together." Nick paused, self-conscious and uncertain how to
continue. One of his feet tapped nervously against the floor.

Meg looked at
him, clearly puzzled at his discomfort.

Why did you
start this
, Nick asked himself, though the answer was obvious. He had to. He
could not just keep avoiding Meg, not any longer. "The other night
…
after
the charity event," Nick started before swallowing, "
…
I want
to apologize."

If Meg seemed
puzzled before, she seemed doubly puzzled now. "For what?"

"It's just
…
well
…
I
know I probably was a little out of line and want to let you know it won't
happen again. If
…
since
…
we'll be working together, I think it's
best that we keep things on a business level. That's what the department recommends."

There, he
had said it. It was out.

She reddened;
her eyes sunk to her feet. "
…
Of course."

Seeing Meg's
reaction, Nick didn't feel nearly the relief he expected. He had wanted
distance between them, for reasons only he could understand, and now he had it.
What was said could not be unsaid. Mission accomplished, so why had his stomach
soured?

"Good.
…
That's
good. Again I apologize." Nick swallowed, then cleared his throat,
preparing to shift gears quickly to more comfortable territory. "The Yünnan
Project audit. I need to know where the investigation's gone. Everything you
can remember."

Meg stared to
her right while answering, at the office's one small window. "Since you
left? There's not much to tell. Almost nothing's happened."

"Nothing?"
Nick repeated, surprised. "It's been
…
what
…
four weeks? You
must have made some progress."

Meg shook her
head. "That's what got Scott so down. All we've done is rehash old
evidence, write memos, and summarize testimony. A waste of time, Scott
thought."

Meg still would
not look at him; that made it easier, somehow, to concentrate on business. "Why
didn't you move the investigation forward then?" Nick asked.

"Couldn't.
Dennis's orders. He wanted to reassess the audit's status before, in his words,
we wasted any more of our time."

 "What
about the undocumented billing?"

Meg shook her
head again. "Never got to it."

"And the
subcontracts?" Nick rattled off the questions, his mind now shifting fully
into work mode, the previous subject not forgotten, but subsumed.

"We'd
started, but Dennis pulled the plug. He said there were other more fruitful
avenues of investigation he wanted us to pursue."

"Like?"

Meg shrugged. "Your
guess is as good as mine. As I said, all we did was rehash."

"You say
you had started reviewing the subcontracts?"

"Yes. Scott
had me read the principal contracts. I summarized them for him. Dates, dollar
amounts, material terms. And some other information: principal place of each
subcontractor's business, the names of the key officers, addresses too if I
could find them."

Addresses of
key officers?
"Scott asked for addresses?"

"Actually,
he emphasized the point
—
said he would need them."

Nick had a
hunch why. "Do you still have that summary?"

Meg nodded.

"Okay,
I've got to get to a meeting." Nick checked his watch. "I'm already
late. Do you have some time this afternoon?"

"I can
make some."

"Good. This
is what I want you to do
…
"

Meg wrote down
Nick instructions on a legal pad
—
three bullet points. "Anything
else? she asked when Nick finished.

"No. That
should keep you busy. Leave whatever you come up with on my desk before you
head home. I'll be in early tomorrow morning to look it over." He stood,
about to put a halt to the conversation, but hesitated. Meg deserved something
more than cold indifference
—
if not a hint of his feelings, at least a
touch of humanity. She had done nothing wrong; the problem was his.

Nick softened
his voice and said, "Meg, working with me on this, I'm afraid it's going
to put you on Dennis's bad side permanently."

"Don't
worry about it." She smiled, thin lipped, finally gazing directly into his
eyes. "I'm guessing that's the right side to be on."

It was well
after midnight, long past working hours. The two cleaning women worked as a
team, each responsible for one side of the hallway. They were new to the
building, hired only that Monday, but both had been employed by one janitorial
service or another for all of their adult lives. Or so their résumés said.

Fifty offices
lined the floor, and though only one of the fifty interested the women, their
profession demanded patience, and so they entered each of the darkened offices
in turn, flicked on the lights, and proceeded with a thorough cleaning. They
collected Styrofoam cups, emptied waste baskets, vacuumed carpets. "Diligent
and hard-working," their supervisor had written on their initial review
.

2:30 p.m.
brought them to their goal. One of the women
—
black hair streaked with
gray, medium height, and, as with so many in her profession, unexceptional
looking tending toward plain
—
nodded quickly in the direction of her
partner, then disappeared into the office marked "Nick Ford" wheeling
a garbage bin before her. Her partner remained in the hall, vacuuming in place,
eyes flicking side to side, ready to snap the vacuum off then on again
—
the
prearranged signal.

The dark haired
woman moved quickly. She reached into the bin and withdrew a small, dented
cardboard box, by all appearances just another piece of trash. She opened the
box and removed a small leather wallet which she unfolded to reveal a set of
jeweler's tools, a small wire cutter, and a loop of wire.

She started
with the phone. The bug, voice activated and state-of-the-art, fit neatly into
the receiver. It transmitted on the same frequency as a popular local radio
program. If anyone scanned for bugs, an unlikely prospect, the radio broadcast
would mask its signal.

Ford's computer
came next. Unlike Scott Johnson and Meg Taylor, whose offices another cleaning
woman had bugged a couple of weeks ago, Ford did not use a laptop. That made
the job simpler; there was only one computer to deal with. She opened the
system case
—
not locked, though she carried a duplicate key if necessary
—
and
found what she looked for in the second expansion slot: the U.S. Robotics
fax/modem. All GAO computers, of Nick's year and make, were similarly equipped,
the woman knew.

The dented
cardboard box provided what looked to be an identical fax/modem card protected
by bubble wrap. The woman switched them, expertly, quickly, snapping the new
card in place then resealing the system case. They'd have access to Nick's
computer now, whenever, and from wherever, they desired.

Last she
powered up Ford's computer and installed a short program
—
a hidden file
unlikely to be detected and seemingly innocuous if it was.

The woman stood
and checked her watch. Seven minutes and twenty seconds. A full thirty seconds
less than in the practice sessions. Good.

She scanned
Ford's desk and two stacks of papers caught her eye. More exactly the heading
of the cover memo of one of them caught her eye:

To: Nick Ford

From: Meg Taylor

Re: Yünnan Project Audit/Subcontracts

She flipped
through each stack quickly, but the papers meant nothing to her. Others,
however, might find the information valuable. It was her call, and she made it.
For seven minutes she laid herself open to exposure as she ran both stacks
through the copy machine down the hall, then she returned, and replaced the
papers on Ford's desk
.

The woman
signaled to her partner in the hall, who nodded perfunctorily before disappearing
into another office. Back to their routine
—
they had another twenty
offices to clean before their shift ended at four
.

The dark haired
woman emptied Ford's waste basket, then began on the carpet. She reached for
the cleanser at one point, spotting a dark stain to the front of Ford's desk. Ground
in soil, probably from a mishandled plant
.

The woman
scrubbed diligently at the stain until it disappeared, taking satisfaction in a
job well done.