Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict Page 3

  “That acid eats through almost anything. So I would guess you’re making something—a lot of somethings—just disappear. Things that are not exactly legal to have around.”

  “That’s a good guess,” he said. “But, for your own peace of mind, as well as deniability, you really don’t want to take your hunch any further.” He paused to see how she reacted to the warning.

  Her eyes went wide for a second; then she nodded. But she did so without the telltale squint that might indicate an element of either calculation or cunning. She was merely accepting his advice.

  “Do you think your machine believed me,” he asked, “about making rocket fuel?”

  She thought for a moment, then nodded again. “The numbers might almost add up. But sooner or later Rover will notice that you also buy those grenades and the rest off the shelf. It’s a very bright machine.”

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  She considered. “Leave a big hole in the data stream. Don’t file any reports about how many rounds you actually fire on the job.”

  “We never do,” he assured her.

  “What? Fire any bullets?”

  “No. Kiss and tell.”

  2. Red Handed

  Pamela the Myrmidon was at least a dozen years older, and her bobbed and lacquered blonde hair now had a frost tip, but her tough, athletic body could still fill out a business suit with wide shoulders and a short skirt, and she could still crack walnuts with her bare hands—a trick she demonstrated at Christmas parties after three vodka sours. John Praxis’s daughter had found her by chance, working as cashier in the food court at Nordstrom’s, and immediately offered her a job. So Pamela was back at the PE&C reception desk, which was still located in the hallway opposite the door with the pebbled glass on the third floor at Sansome Street. If this desk wasn’t armored, at least the woman behind it certainly was.

  When Pamela brought a man and woman into Praxis’s office, the frown on her face indicated trouble. But all she said was “Police Detective Blount and Assistant District Attorney Brown to see you, sir.”

  They might have been fraternal twins, male and female, with sober faces, short dark hair, thick necks on hefty torsos, and navy blue suits. The only difference seemed to be that Ms. Blount’s jacket had brass buttons, epaulettes, a gold shield above her left breast, and a bulge where a pistol hung under her left armpit, while Mr. Brown’s business suit was conventionally unadorned.

  “They just flew up from Los Angeles,” the receptionist added. “They don’t have an appointment.”

  “I see,” he said. “Thank you, Pamela.” His watchdog receptionist reluctantly withdrew. Praxis turned to study his guests. “I’m surprised you didn’t call me on the webwall first,” he said. “I might have been out of town.”

  “Some things still have to be done in person,” Brown said.

  “Subpoenas, injunctions … reading Miranda rights,” Blount supplied.

  “We came prepared to serve you and other company officers,” Brown finished.

  “I see,” Praxis said cautiously. “And this would be regarding …?”

  “Your award of the Long Beach Freeway renovation.”

  “Yes, we just received the notice. Is something wrong?”

  “The decision was improperly influenced,” Brown said.

  “To the tune of half a million dollars,” Blount observed.

  “Are you telling me Praxis has to bribe people to get jobs?”

  The two just stared at him, like a pair of owls in daylight.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “We run an honest business.”

  “We have one-half of the conspiracy already in custody,” Brown observed.

  “The person taking the bribe, Melissa Willbrot, working with the Board of Public Works,” Blount explained.

  “I’ve never heard of her,” Praxis said. He could feel his eyebrows drawing together. “I’d have to check our records, but I don’t recall that the request for proposal came from any such agency. Which one was it, again?”

  “Board of Public Works. Willbrot was their staff counsel,” Brown said.

  “She was on the review committee,” Blount offered. “She was very influential.”

  “Very enthusiastic,” Brown corrected his partner. “Perhaps too enthusiastic.”

  “I think we’d better include my president in this,” Praxis said. “And the head of my Legal Department.” Then he rang for Pamela to round them up.

  * * *

  When Antigone Wells entered John’s office with Callie to hear from the representatives of Los Angeles’s Police Department and District Attorney’s office, she pulled a chair around behind his desk so that she could sit beside John, whisper in his ear, and offer him legal counsel without having to talk to him across the desk. This way, she could also face his two accusers as his confidante and attorney. She put a restraining hand on John’s arm but kept her touch light for the moment.

  She listened in silence while they preferred charges of bribery and conspiracy to suborn a public official against Praxis Engineering & Construction Company, its principals, and its executive-level officers, including everyone sitting in the room. When the two were finished, it was time for Wells to swing into action. She gave John’s arm a light squeeze for reassurance.

  “I’d like to note for the record,” she began, addressing Brown and Blount, “that neither of my clients present had any participation in or knowledge of the alleged acts.”

  The ADA and the detective ducked their heads together and whispered. Then Brown lifted his. “Your contention is so noted,” he said.

  “We will immediately start an internal investigation,” Wells continued, “and will surrender the guilty party to you for prosecution. In the meantime, Praxis Engineering retracts its bid on the freeway project—” She heard both John and Callie draw breath at that. She tightened her grip on John. “—and cancels any extant agreements and subcontracts. We will also post a bond with the City and County of Los Angeles, with Caltrans, and with the F.R. Department of Transportation to cover the costs of rebidding. Will that be acceptable?”

  More huddling. “Yes,” Brown said.

  “And finally, as my clients are principals in this firm and integral to its continued operation, I would suggest they pose no flight risk. Can we dispense with the formality of your taking them into custody?”

  Brown drew an envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to her. “So long as you will acknowledge that they have been properly served and will appear in court on the date specified therein.”

  Wells opened the envelope, scanned the subpoena, and observed that it listed both John and Callie as well as a number of unspecified John and Jane Does. The date was for a month hence—plenty of time for her to investigate, file motions, and get to the bottom of whatever it was that had happened.

  “So noted,” she agreed. She laid the document on John’s desk.

  At her nod, he summoned the receptionist to escort the two visitors out, but he signaled for Wells and Callie to remain.

  Antigone Wells moved around to one of the guest chairs in front of his desk.

  When the door was firmly closed, John looked first at his daughter, then at Wells, and asked, “Any idea what all that was about?”

  Callie sat slumped, arms folded, face creased by a deep frown.

  Wells bit her lower lip. “They must have something solid, if those two will identify this Willbrot woman to us so openly. Some hard evidence. Maybe even a confession.”

  “Callie?” John prompted.

  “Kunstler,” his daughter said.

  “She worked on the bid documents, of course,” Wells observed. “But then, so did two or three of our engineers, some of the clerical staff—”

  “She went to Los Angeles,” Callie said. “Alone. She met with people, made contacts. None of the other staff did that.”

  “Do you have reason to suspect she might have bribed this woman?” Wells asked, glancing sideways at Joh
n, who met her eyes. “In my review of them, I thought our bid documents looked reasonable, in line with—”

  “Let’s say I have no reason to suspect she wouldn’t,” Callie offered.

  “I don’t understand,” John said. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because,” the daughter said, “Mariene likes to win.”

  “But … you brought her into the company.”

  “Yes, because I thought I knew her.”

  “Not well enough, evidently.”

  Wells had a sick feeling in her stomach. First, the Praxis grandsons in the Security Department and their unindicted felonies—assault, murder, destruction of property, obstruction of justice, and conspiracy to commit all of the above. Now, the friend and protégé of Praxis’s own daughter and the suspicion of underhanded business dealings—subornation, bribery, conspiracy. What kind of mob family had she joined? And where would it end?

  She quietly moved her chair back away from John’s desk. Just a few inches. But he noticed the gesture.

  * * *

  When Penny Winston was called into the media room by the spooky new receptionist, she found the chairman, John Praxis, the president, Callista Praxis, and the lawyer, Antigone Wells, all seated at the table facing the webwall. Callista had Rover’s text box open and was clearly trying to get information out of him—without success. His previous responses alternated between null signs, question marks, and requests for restatement.

  Callista caught sight of Penny. “Well, hell, about time,” she said. Then her head jerked in annoyance.

  “What?” Penny asked.

  “Your tee shirt …”

  The front lettering read “What part of t√1-v2/c2 don’t you understand?” It was the Lorentz transformation governing time dilation in special relativity. The shirt’s back, which was covered by her jacket, showed a saddle-shaped universe compressed into a globe, like the yin-yang stitching pattern on a baseball. That represented distance dilation, which was the flip side of the transformation. With all these engineers in the room, she figured someone had to have studied cosmology. Apparently not.

  “It’s just science,” Penny said.

  “Yes, but that’s hardly business attire.”

  “Could we get back to the subject at hand?” John Praxis suggested.

  “What’s the problem?” Penny asked. “Rover’s not responding?”

  “I need to find out who authorized and distributed a sum of money,” Callista said.

  “Oh, that would be in accounts payable,” Penny replied. “Rover?”

  The cursor in the window blinked its ready status.

  “We already looked there,” Callista said. “He’s got nothing.”

  “It wouldn’t be a regular account,” Antigone Wells said. “It’s probably not even a company check.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Penny asked reasonably.

  “Someone in the company paid half a million to bribe an LA County official.”

  “Whew!” Penny whistled. “And you want to know who, right?”

  “It might not even be money,” Wells went on. “A bungalow on the beach. Or a couple of fast cars. The actual bribe could be impossible to trace.”

  “But I can find those things,” Penny said, “if this company bought them.”

  “The district attorney was very specific about the amount,” Callista replied. “It sounded like a lump sum.”

  “District attorney, huh?” Penny said. “So the cops are already involved?”

  “Yeah, we’re all going to jail,” Wells said, “unless we find the perpetrator.”

  “It could be cash,” Callista said. “But try looking for smaller amounts, odd thousands, taken out over—”

  “Wait a minute!” Penny held up her hands. “Start from the other end. What was the bribe for?”

  “Favorable review of our bid on a big highway project,” Wells said.

  “So it’s got to have come from a marketing account,” Penny said.

  “You’ll never find it there,” Callista said. “I’ve already looked.”

  “Yeah, but you have to know what to ask for,” Penny said. “Rover, display the annual budget allotted to the marketing department, subheadings only.”

  Out popped a table of accounts and amounts. The total budget barely topped a million dollars.

  “Sum expenses alongside, year to date,” she instructed.

  The table repeated with a parallel column of amounts paid out for each heading. They showed that only half of the total budget had already been spent.

  “Anything added or missing?” she asked the people in the room. “Bogus accounts? Bogus amounts? Expenses shown as paid that you know for a fact have not been made?”

  They stared and studied, then one by one shook their heads.

  “So, either your marketing people are able to subsist without spending any money—like some kind of air fern—or their regular accounts didn’t supply the half million used in the bribe.”

  “It had to come from within the company,” Callista stated.

  “Rover,” Penny instructed, “do a regression analysis of the entire corporate budget, variance between projected and expended, year to date. Note any outliers beyond ten percent. List and sum the outliers.”

  The screen showed a scattershot diagram, dot by dot, drew a slanted line through the mass of dots, and circled those that lay pretty far outside the main pattern. It then listed the affected budgets and the amounts at variance. The total, combining both over and under variances, came to about two hundred thousand.

  “Any of those look different from what you’d expect?” she asked.

  “Are we really leaking two hundred kay?” the elder Praxis asked.

  “Small potatoes,” the daughter told him. “The year is young yet.”

  “Do you think any of those are hiding your bribe?” Penny asked.

  “Not even close,” Callista said. “Unless you pieced ’em together.”

  “Rover, note all high-side variances and sum,” Penny instructed.

  The screen listed the different headings too fast to note, then gave a total that was more than half a million, but not by much.

  “Is anyone in the company in a position to skim a little bit here, there, and everywhere?” Penny asked. “That is, and not get caught?”

  President and chairman looked warily at each other. They shook their heads at the same time.

  “That would be a neat trick,” Callista Praxis said.

  “The managers involved would scream,” John Praxis added.

  Penny shrugged. “Then we must deduce the money didn’t come from here.”

  * * *

  That evening when Antigone Wells returned with John Praxis to the house on Balboa Street, she could tell from the street that something was wrong. A white card about fifteen inches square was nailed to the front door, and she could read the title while still on the sidewalk: “notice of eviction.” Not until they climbed the steps to the front stoop and read the fine print did they learn the house had been sold at a sheriff’s auction two weeks earlier.

  Wells was thankful it was just her and John. Callie and her daughter had moved out some months ago, taking an apartment closer to downtown and to Rafaella’s elementary school. It would have been bad for the little girl to come home in the middle of the afternoon and find the house sold—or even find the sheriff’s deputies still there, nailing up the notice and denying her entry.

  “Nice of them to tell the owners,” Praxis grumbled. He tore the card down, folded it, put it under his arm, and unlocked the door.

  “I’m sure it must be some kind of mistake,” she said. But when they got inside, Wells reached over and took the card from him. It was still a public document.

  “What?” he asked. “I’m throwing it away. It’s all just bureaucratic nonsense.”

  “That’s still an official notice. It belongs on somebody’s door—just not ours.”

  “You’re right, it’s my house. Bought and paid
for. I don’t even have a mortgage, so they can’t foreclose on it.”

  That reminded Wells of something. “But do you own it, John?” she asked. “Think back a bit.”

  Two years earlier, when money was tight and they needed to post a performance bond on the War Memorial Opera House—one of their first big projects—Praxis had put the house on Balboa Street up as collateral. As Wells remembered it, the appraised value had just about covered the ten percent in real money that the engineering firm needed to raise in order to get the five-million-dollar bond.

  “Right, the opera house,” he said. “But we’re fine on that job. Ahead of schedule, in fact.”

  “I’ll look into it in the morning,” she said. “Maybe it was the bank that made a mistake. Now that can happen.”

  “But then … are we even allowed to stay here tonight?”

  “No one around to stop us, is there?”

  In the morning, it took three calls to the bank for Antigone Wells to discover that the performance bond had been quietly cancelled. With the opera house project more than ninety percent complete their client, the San Francisco War Memorial and Performing Arts Center, had not questioned the cancellation when they received notice of it some weeks earlier. The person who authorized the action had elected to withdraw the value of the bond in cash, in the form of a readily negotiable cashier’s check, and release title to the property held as collateral.

  “Who signed the authorization?” Wells asked.

  “Praxis Engineering’s vice president of marketing,” the bank official said. “I can’t quite make out the signature.”

  “Mariene Kunstler?” she suggested.

  “That could be it,” he agreed.

  After she got off the phone, Wells went in to see Callie and explained what she had discovered. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is where Kunstler got the authority to do all this.”

  “We gave her power of attorney,” Callie said.

  “Why, for heaven sakes?” Wells asked.

  “Mariene needed to be able to sign for the company—contracts, joint ventures … performance bonds. It simplified the bidding process and let her make deals on the spot.”