Mission Canyon (10 page)

I squirmed and kicked and worked my lips apart and bit him.

‘‘Christ.’’ His hand flew off my mouth.

I screamed.

‘‘Don’t do that—don’t.’’ His fingers groped at my face again.

I yelled, but with the fan clamoring I didn’t think anyone could hear me. He reeked of cologne. His hand closed over my mouth and nose. I clawed my fingernails into his arm but he didn’t budge. His ring pressed into my skin, a pinkie ring with a diamond as big as a computer chip.

‘‘Who are you working with?’’

One shot, I thought—I had one shot to talk my way out of here. Or at least to talk him off me, so I could grab for the phone. I called upon the god of attitude to pump up the impudence and keep it coming. I pounded on his arm.

He shook my face. ‘‘I take my hand off and you scream again, I’ll hurt you. I’ll break your jaw. I’m not kidding.’’

I blinked assent. He took his hand away.

‘‘God, that cologne stinks. What is it called, Putridity? Get off me; the smell’s getting in my clothes.’’

His face puckered.

I said, ‘‘Kathleen Evans,
Los Angeles Times
.’’

He blinked. ‘‘You’re with the press?’’

‘‘And you’re toast.’’

He blanched. I felt his breath on me.

‘‘Two choices,’’ I said. ‘‘One, you keep this up, and the headline reads, ‘Death Driver in New Assault.’ ’’

His hand hovered near my jaw. His eyes were sour. ‘‘And two?’’

‘‘We go to the bar and you give me your side of the story.’’

‘‘You want an interview?’’

‘‘Uncensored, your own words.’’

He guffawed. ‘‘You’re kidding. What, ‘Franklin Brand, My Story’?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘How I lost my job, how my wife divorced me and now my so-called friends wouldn’t cross the street to blow their nose on my shirt. That’s what you want?’’

He wasn’t letting me up. I tried to gauge how far it was to the phone, and he saw me looking. He reached over and ripped the cord from the wall.

He stared at me. I prayed that the minidisk wasn’t sticking out of my pocket.

‘‘Forget it,’’ he said.

‘‘Then give me a comment about the hit-and-run. Do you have any words for the victims?’’

A blue vein was squirming on his temple. ‘‘No. No comment from the death driver. No comment from the millionaire fugitive heartless perpetrator.’’

‘‘Why did you come back?’’

‘‘You don’t have a clue, do you? You are so far off base you can’t even see the ballpark.’’

My plan wasn’t working. He believed my cover and was still holding on to me. My chest tightened with fear.

I said, ‘‘Tell me about your meeting tonight at the Biltmore.’’

His lips parted. I had caught him off guard.

‘‘What got you so upset?’’ I said.

‘‘Shut up.’’ The vein wriggled. ‘‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll see. You’ll all fucking see.’’

I heard the sound of a key going into the lock. The door opened and a maintenance man gaped at us from the doorway. He wore a green uniform with a name patch that read, FLOYD.

He said, ‘‘What’s going on?’’

‘‘Help me.’’ I fought to get up, but Brand didn’t move. ‘‘Get him off me.’’

‘‘I thought I heard screaming.’’

And like smoke, Brand’s anger evaporated. His eyes cooled. ‘‘Sorry it got loud. She’s a little drunk.’’

‘‘No, help me,’’ I said. ‘‘Please get me out of here.’’

Floyd looked back and forth between us, as if deciding whom to believe. He said, ‘‘This ain’t your room. You got to leave.’’

Brand’s voice had turned smoother than oil. ‘‘She told me this was her room. Said she’s here for that family reunion.’’ He raised his hand toward Floyd. It had a twenty-dollar bill in it. ‘‘Honest mistake on my part. Can we square it away?’’

I said, ‘‘Call the police. For God’s sake, he ripped the phone out.’’

Floyd looked at the hole in the wall. He scowled and grabbed the twenty, and said, ‘‘Get out, both of you.’’

Finally I felt Brand relent. I jumped up and bolted for the door. It wasn’t until I was in my car and halfway home that I started crying.

Blocking a doorway can be harder than it looks.

‘‘You’re not going to the motel,’’ I said.

Jesse faced off against me in Adam Sandoval’s front hallway. He was ready to push straight through me. His face looked like a hurricane.

‘‘Move,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m going to whip his ass.’’

Behind him in the living room, Adam pretended he wasn’t listening. He sat at one of his computers, dinking with the minidisk.

I stood my ground. ‘‘This is why I didn’t tell you.’’

And Jesse might not have found out that Brand attacked me if my computer had been able to play the minidisk. But my laptop couldn’t handle it, so we brought it to Adam. Who welcomed me in and said, ‘‘What happened to your lip?’’

Brand’s diamond pinkie ring had scratched my face. Jesse got a good look at me in the light, and I didn’t know how to lie to him.

‘‘Once I report the assault, the judge will revoke Brand’s bail,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s going back to jail. Do you want to share his cell?’’

‘‘Yes. Make it me and Bubba and a bar of soap and a crowbar.’’

I thought he could pull me off my feet and pitch me over his lap to get past. I thought he could probably do Brand significant damage, before he ended up on the floor or in the ER. I knew I loved him for wanting to protect me. I had to stop him.

‘‘If you put a fist into Brand’s face, he’s going to figure out exactly who I am, and where the minidisk is,’’ I said. ‘‘Hold fire. Let’s see what’s on the disk, and I’ll call Chris Ramseur.’’

His shoulders were tight, his eyes cold blue. His voice quieted.

‘‘He could have hurt you.’’

And that was the truth of it. I felt the tears welling up again, fought them.

‘‘Ev?’’

‘‘No, I’m okay.’’ If I cried, nothing would stop him. ‘‘We’ve misjudged Brand all these years. We thought he was a coward, fleeing from what he did. But he’s dangerous. He’s into something bad.’’

Adam said, ‘‘It’s running.’’

Jesse gave me a look aching with frustration. We went into the living room. I hoped the minidisk would be worth the risks I took to get it.

Adam hunched at the computer. ‘‘It’s a CD.’’

He typed so fast that the keys clicked like a Geiger counter. He opened a directory and scrolled down a list of files. I stared over his shoulder.

‘‘Spreadsheets, accounting data, e-mails . . .’’ He stopped scrolling.

Jesse said, ‘‘Whoa.’’

‘‘They’re Mako financials,’’ Adam said.

He opened a file. It looked like a record of disbursements from Mako to other companies.

‘‘Accounts payable?’’ I said.

Jesse said, ‘‘The amounts look awfully big for that. . . .’’ He read. ‘‘It’s a list of companies Mako invested in.’’

Adam stared at the screen. ‘‘Angel funding. This is their development fund, money going to small firms Mako bought into.’’

I read the names of the companies. PDS Systems, Segue, Firedog . . .

Of course Firedog would be there, Isaac’s company. But seeing it sent a frisson down my spine.

‘‘What’s in these other files?’’ I said.

They were labeled GRAND CAYMAN and BAHAMAS. They were bank records for accounts in the name of FB Enterprises.

‘‘You think?’’ I said.

We huddled around the computer and started peeling back the layers. There were e-mails from Brand to various bankers, and records of deposits and transfers he made. The money invariably went first into the Bahamas account and from there to the Cayman Islands. But where did it come from in the first place?

I looked at my watch. We’d been at it an hour.

I said, ‘‘We have to get this to the police. Wait much longer, they’ll think my whole story is fishy.’’

Adam said, ‘‘Let me download it first. I’ll print it, and also e-mail it to both of you.’’

He typed, hit
send
, jumped up, and ran into the guest room. We heard him rustling around.

Jesse ran a hand over his face. ‘‘Why has all this stuff been compiled on the disk? And why did this guy at the Biltmore give it to Brand? What’s the point?’’

Adam came back in with a bulging cardboard box. ‘‘More of Isaac’s things from the office.’’

He began unloading papers and folders on a table. I stood and stretched, feeling grungy. When I inhaled, I smelled Brand’s cologne on my shirt. Excusing myself, I went to the bathroom to wash up.

I craved a shower, but settled for splashing cold water on my face. In the guest bathroom I let it run over my hands, and scrubbed my skin. The scrape from Brand’s ring looked minor. My face looked as exhausted as I felt. I came out and sat down on the guest bed. Just for a minute.

When I heard voices raised in the living room, I realized I had fallen asleep. I sat up. Outside, the eastern sky was graying with light. How long had I been out? Finger-combing my hair, I walked back to the living room.

Papers covered the desk, coffee table, and floor. Jesse was stretched out prone on the sofa with a printout in his hands, looking weary. Adam stood in the center of the room, clutching a stack of papers.

‘‘Evan, look at what I’ve found.’’ He shoved the papers into my hands. ‘‘From Isaac’s desk. God, why didn’t I go through it years ago?’’

I flipped through them—memos, phone message slips, scratch paper with hand-jotted notes. I glanced at Jesse. From the look in his eyes he knew what the papers contained, and he didn’t like it.

Adam pointed to a sheet of binder paper. ‘‘Look.’’

I saw it, a single word.
Brand
.

Adam said, ‘‘Isaac knew Franklin Brand. He knew him. He knew him.’’

I said, ‘‘You’re telling me—’’

Adam gestured toward the papers. ‘‘If you read through those, you can follow the sequence of events.’’ But he was too agitated to let me read through them. His eyes looked wired. ‘‘Do you know what Brand did at Mako?’’

‘‘I’m not sure—’’

‘‘Finance. Mergers and acquisitions. He would have negotiated Mako’s investment in Firedog. Seven hundred thousand dollars Mako put in, cash for stock.’’

I glanced at the papers again. There were references to shares and stock certificates, with question marks doodled near the words.

I said, ‘‘And Isaac—’’

He bustled to the coffee table. ‘‘We laid it out in order. Jesse cross-referenced the stuff from the minidisk with Isaac’s notes.’’ He pointed. ‘‘Mako’s initial investment is here.’’ He showed me the printout of the angel fund data. ‘‘But look here. The next year. The angel fund lists another investment as going to Firedog.’’

I took the printout and started reading. Adam hovered by my shoulder. I saw the entry on the spreadsheet:
Firedog . . . $500,000.

He said, ‘‘The money never got to Firedog.’’

I followed the trail they had laid out. Half a million dollars was listed on Mako’s accounts as going to Firedog. Shortly thereafter, the Bahamas account for FB Enterprises registered a half-million-dollar deposit, on the same day $200,000 transferred in from an entity named Segue. The next day, $700,000 was transferred from the Bahamas account to the Caymans account of FB Enterprises. I looked at Adam, then at Jesse.

Jesse said, ‘‘Follow the trail down the rabbit hole.’’

I looked at Isaac’s jotted notes.
What shares? All sent
. These were the notes that had piqued our interest in the first place.

I said, ‘‘Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Brand stole investment money that should have gone to Firedog?’’

‘‘I’m saying that he
told
Mako he was arranging additional financing, in exchange for another chunk of stock. But he never gave the money to Firedog. He kept it.’’

Another note.
Brand—shares/his action item
.

I said, ‘‘Isaac was double-checking on the actual, physical transfer of the stock certificates from Firedog to Mako.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Somebody at Mako called Isaac and asked why they hadn’t sent the shares over. That has to be it.’’

I said, ‘‘And Isaac said, ‘What shares?’ Because they hadn’t done a second round of investment with Mako?’’

Adam said, ‘‘Yes. They should have been in a vault somewhere. But they weren’t.’’

I said, ‘‘You think Brand stole the money?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ His chest was laboring up and down. ‘‘I think so because Isaac thought so. He thought Brand was embezzling money from Mako.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Half a million dollars’ worth.’’

My mind ran off into the bushes, digging, sniffing, running ahead and out of control. Isaac was a young guy, not the top man at Firedog, a programmer handling other duties because the company was so small. The messages on his doodle sheets showed that he tried many times to get hold of Brand, without success. His calls and e-mails weren’t continuous, but they were persistent.

You don’t have a clue, do you? You are so far off base you can’t even see the ballpark. . . .
Was this what Brand meant?

I stared at the papers assembled on the coffee table. Back to the records of the accounts labeled,
FB Enterprises.

‘‘Hang on. Is there any evidence that FB is actually Franklin Brand?’’

Jesse rolled on his side and sat up. ‘‘Yeah. Account records.’’ He stretched for some papers and handed them to me.

I read the details—account numbers, instructions for transferring funds through a correspondent bank in New York, owner and coowner information. The owner of both accounts was listed as Franklin Brand.

I was awake now, but still I almost missed it. I did a double take. I sat on the arm of the couch and showed the data to Jesse.

‘‘The names.’’

Coowner of the Bahamas account was C. M. Burns, and of the Caymans account, Bob Terwilliger.