Like Jazz (23 page)

I couldn’t believe I’d allowed myself to tell her I’d boxed up her memory as the gift it had always been to me. Why had I been stupid enough to tell her something that would make her want to run as far away from me as possible?

Sunday afternoon, my cell phone rang. I’d just come from a noon spin class and grabbed the phone out of my gym bag without checking the display.

“Hello?”

“Detective.” The deep, booming voice surprised me and grabbed my attention.

“Commander.” We hadn’t spoken since the day he gave me the case. Our only contact had been a brief midweek voice mail in which I’d informed him that although I was still actively investigating, I’d seen enough to know some sort of financial irregularity had been and likely continued to be perpetrated at the Foundation.

“There’s been a change in plan. Do you have what you need from the Foundation? I’m pulling you from the field,” Ashby said.

“Uh, yes sir, actually. I have several strong leads and can do follow-up work away from the office. I wasn’t intending to stay much longer.”

“Good. You’re not to return there. Section ninety-two. You need to drop it or close it, in short order.”

This was bad news. Section ninety-two was the paragraph in the pilot program’s charter that precluded civilian investigators from handling violent crime, even indirectly. Since we weren’t sworn police officers—we weren’t armed and didn’t make arrests—the section was created for the safety of the program’s participants. Forbidding an investigator from returning to the premises made sense: suspicious perpetrators of ongoing crimes would be far more interested in following the activities of existing employees than of former ones. Section ninety-two had never before been invoked.

“I need a week, sir. Two at the most. I’m close.”

“Make it one, Detective.”

“What’s happened?”

“Perkins,” he said, giving me a jolt of concern over Sarah. “Luke Perkins, managing director of the Foundation. I’m sure you’ve heard by now he was killed in a car crash several weeks ago. We got a call from a man who said his van had been stolen while he was out of town. Turns out he rarely uses it, so he hadn’t noticed the damage that couldn’t have occurred while it was parked on his street. His story checked out.”

“Sorry, sir, I’m not following.”

“The guy’s van was stolen and used to take out Luke Perkins. We confirmed the paint match with the Perkins car. The Perkins car crash was no accident, Detective. This is now a homicide investigation. I can’t put you at risk.” Ashby clicked off.

Homicide?
Whoever was embezzling from the Foundation had taken out Luke Perkins. It had to be. I didn’t believe in coincidences like that. Apparently Ashby didn’t either. If Luke Perkins was purposely killed, his suspicion about what was going on at the Foundation was surely linked to it. Although I could safely continue my legwork away from its headquarters, Sarah was potentially in danger from the same person who’d targeted her father. I shuddered at the prospect. I had to wrap up this investigation ASAP—an investigation I was sure would lead me to the killer.

*

Early Monday morning I arrived at LAX and waited standby for the first flight to Phoenix, the only location where I’d finally tracked down a Broderick LLC CPA firm. The licensure of the CPA, a man named Jack Broderick, was in Arizona, not California. Time to pay him a visit. I rented a car and headed straight to the Broderick LLC office, located in a dated strip mall housing a ninety-nine cent store, a convenience store, a greasy-spoon diner, and a handful of other no-name-brand businesses. A bell sounded as I entered a few minutes after ten o’clock local time. A fortyish brunette coming from around the corner appeared startled by my entrance, as if surprised to have a visitor. Business must be booming.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for Jack Broderick.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I shook my head. “Do I need one? The sign says ‘walk-ins welcome.’”

She smiled. “Of course. Jack will be here any minute. He’s dropping something off at the post office. Please, have a seat. Can I get you some coffee or water?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

The bell jingled and I turned around to see a heavy-set Caucasian man in his mid-fifties, wearing belted khaki pants partially hidden below a massive gut covered by a drab white oxford shirt. He sported a thick mustache to compensate for his thinning hair.

“Jack.” The brunette spoke over my shoulder. “This woman is here to see you. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

I stuck out my hand to Jack. “Cassidy Warner.”

He shook it. “Jack Broderick. Come on back.” I followed him to his office, and he motioned for me to take a chair opposite his desk. As he sat, the chair groaned under his weight, and I wondered how long it would hold before breaking.

“What can I do for you, Miss Warner?”

“Do you perform the annual audit for the Kindle Hope Foundation in California?”

He didn’t hide his surprise. “Yes, I do. Is that how you got my name?”

“Yes. I was hoping you could tell me about your audit techniques specific to the last audit you conducted for the Foundation and whether you noticed anything out of the ordinary during your fieldwork.”

He furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid that’s confidential information, Miss Warner.”

I withdrew my badge and ID from my purse and handed them to him. “I’m investigating the possibility of embezzlement there and could use your cooperation. I have no desire to bring your firm any trouble, but I can make this as easy or hard as you wish.”

He studied my credentials and returned them. “We follow standard AICPA audit techniques, Detective. I sincerely doubt anything out of the ordinary’s happening at the Kindle Hope Foundation.”

“Did you physically inspect the deeds for the land?”

“Yes, indirectly. Due to the materiality of the holdings this past year, we inspected them through a sister firm located in the area.”

“Where is the bulk of the land owned by the Foundation?”

“Colorado. Grand Junction vicinity.”

“Did you confirm the securities and mutual fund holdings?”

Broderick nodded. “Of course.”

“What does Mastick Consulting do for the Foundation?”

“You’d have to ask management that question. We don’t ask why a particular firm is used. As long as the money ties out, we’re satisfied.”

“Satisfied? Those consulting costs made up eighteen percent of last year’s G&A expenses and nearly five percent of all expenses. Tell me, Mr. Broderick, what was the materiality threshold you used for the audit and how was it determined? With those numbers, I’m curious as to how you could not know the nature of the services Mastick performs or determine it wouldn’t be useful information to someone reviewing their annual report.”

Broderick tapped his fingers against the desk, then, after several moments, said, “Materiality thresholds are a matter of professional judgment, Detective. There’s no bright line to their determination.”

“Indeed.” This man knew enough auditing lingo to understand that the percentages I’d laid out would be troublesome for his firm should the audit work be peer reviewed. If I hadn’t already had his attention, I was certain I had it now. “How did your firm get involved with the Foundation?”

Broderick leaned back in his chair, making it groan loudly. “I went to college with Greg Morrison.”

It was starting to make sense. “Do you audit any other nonprofits?”

“No.”

“So you have no expertise in auditing that type of organization, yet you render such services to Kindle Hope. Were you paid to overlook certain irregularities?”

“You’re overstepping, Detective. Every service business out there gets clients through referrals. The fact that I know Greg Morrison has no bearing on my firm’s professional conduct.”

“I see. By professional, you mean how your firm is operating illegally by not being registered with the California Secretary of State, for example.”

Broderick steepled his fingers. “An accidental oversight, I can assure you.”

“Your firm is required to be registered with the California Board of Accountancy if it’s practicing public accounting in the state, which it is. Furthermore, while your firm is no longer required to be licensed there due to the recent change in law, such was not the case when you performed your prior audits of the Kindle Hope Foundation. Accidental oversight?”

Broderick’s lips tightened. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’d like to borrow your electronic audit work-papers for a few days. I won’t make any copies and I’ll return them by the end of the week.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No?”

“That’s a complete breach of confidentiality.”

“I’ll leave it to you to get comfortable with the idea. And I require you to keep it between us. I wouldn’t want anyone to give Greg Morrison or anyone else a heads-up about this inquest. Is that clear?”

Broderick glared at me in silence.

I tilted my head to the side and raised my eyebrows, waiting for his assent. I repeated, louder this time. “Is that clear? Or do I need to
broaden
my investigation?” I had enough on his firm to shut him down for years, if not permanently, and he knew it. I waited for my not-too-subtle threat to sink in.

Broderick nodded and stood, releasing the chair from its burden. “I’ll save them for you on a USB drive. Give me twenty minutes.” He left.

Any time I made headway in an investigation, I’d get a little thrill. This time, Ashby’s news about Luke Perkins dampened the charge. I’d met my share of white-collar criminals in my line of work, but this violent-crime aspect was new. I’d also never had a personal connection to a case before. Although I didn’t like that these firsts were occurring on the same assignment, I was glad Ashby had selected me for it. I wouldn’t stop digging until I was certain Sarah was out of danger.

Around eleven
AM
I was back on the road heading to the airport. My next destination: Grand Junction, Colorado. Although nonstops from Phoenix were available, there were only three a day. With the one-hour time difference, the next one wouldn’t get me in until after the county courthouse closed. I had to wait more than three hours for the next flight. During the interim, I ate lunch and used my laptop to reserve a rental car and hotel room for the night. Next, I sifted through the audit work-papers until I found the audit files relating to the land. As expected, there were no copies of the deeds, but addresses of the properties purportedly owned by the Foundation were listed. That was exactly what I needed to start my search in the morning.

*

Settled in my hotel room, I finally drifted off to sleep wondering whether Sarah was safe. I longed to hear her voice yet fought the urge to call, because I didn’t want to relive any moment of my confession or answer questions about my absence from the office. But I still worried about her.

After grabbing a bagel and coffee from the hotel restaurant, I arrived at the Grand Junction county courthouse at eight o’clock local time. The first property I searched for ended up mirroring the others. It was in the Foundation’s name, the prior owner a single man named Paul Gunderson. In and of itself, that wasn’t strange. But this Paul Gunderson happened to be the prior owner of each of the three properties held by the Foundation in the Grand Junction area. Also, the same person—someone named Joseph Stein—had notarized the deeds in the Foundation’s name as well as those in Gunderson’s name. I didn’t believe Gunderson existed any more than I believed the Foundation was the rightful owner of these properties. I was getting closer to the truth.

I hopped back in my rental car and returned to the airport. There were no direct flights to L.A., so I had to connect through Phoenix again. By the time I got home, it was nearly three o’clock and I was hungry. The two tiny bags of peanuts I received in-flight hadn’t been much of a lunch. Since my freezer was bereft of frozen entrees and I had no time to cobble together a respectable meal, I boiled some edamame and booted up my laptop again. Hating the post-airplane/airport aura that cast at least a psychological, if not physical, film over my body, I desperately wanted to shower, but had to make some calls while it was still business hours in Colorado.

In some online real-estate listings, I found old pages of information on two of the properties purchased by the Foundation, which had completed the transactions using local real-estate agents. I called both agents but was sent to voice mail, whereupon I left my contact information without explicitly saying why I called. I’d be more likely to get a quick response if I sounded like a potential client. At this point, I wanted to confirm the identity of the seller.

My theory: Greg Morrison had searched Grand Junction county records for land owned by out-of-towners who’d held the properties for a number of years, likely decades. He then falsified deeds in the name of Paul Gunderson. He used a fake ID to play a man with that name and used the same notary on documents claiming him on the title. He then listed, F
OR
S
ALE
B
Y
O
WNER
, the properties he wanted the Foundation to purchase. As a Foundation representative, he would inform the real-estate agents what the Foundation was aiming for in terms of investments in land, which would conveniently mirror the features of the properties purportedly owned by Paul Gunderson. As the seller of those properties, Paul Gunderson, a.k.a. Greg Morrison, would receive a wire in his bank account upon the closing of the deals.

The true owners of the land hadn’t yet discovered the ploy. It might be years before they did. And since the Foundation would be one of the victims of the fraud (in the event the real owners discovered the falsified documents), no one at the Foundation would likely be implicated since it wouldn’t make sense that the Foundation would harm itself.

Moreover, although I hadn’t yet connected all the dots relating to Mastick Consulting, my intuition told me Morrison had found a clever way to steal even more money from the Foundation. It was possible he kept things simple on the front end by sending payments from Mastick to the bank account he held as Paul Gunderson. On the back end, however, I suspected he’d set up entities and aliases to make his collection of payments from the Foundation to Mastick Consulting difficult to trace, based on the very fact that Mastick was set up as a Nevada Corporation. Once I could confirm Morrison’s involvement in the land transactions, I could obtain a warrant to access the Nevada records.