The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) (2 page)

‘Okay. Dallas Used Semiconductors. Buying used IBM mainframe kit? That’s not our – and selling it to – oh shit.’

‘Yeah.’ Paulie frowned. ‘I looked up the book value. Whoever’s buying those five-year-old computers down in Argentina is paying ninety percent of the price for new kit in
cash greenbacks – they’re the next thing to legal currency down there. But up here, a five-year-old mainframe goes for about two cents on the dollar.’

‘And you’re sure all this is going into Proteome and Biphase?’ Miriam shook the thick sheaf of paper into shape. ‘I can’t believe this!’

‘Believe it.’ Paulette drained her coffee cup and shoved a stray lock of hair back into position.

Miriam whistled tunelessly. ‘What’s the bottom line?’

‘“The bottom line?”’ Paulette looked uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t counted it, but – ’

‘Make a guess.’

‘I’d say someone is laundering between fifty and a hundred million dollars a year here. Turning dirty cash into clean shares in Proteome Dynamics and Biphase Technologies. More than
enough to show up in their SEC filings. So your hunch was right.’

‘And nobody in Executive Country has asked any questions,’ Miriam concluded. ‘If I was paranoid, I’d say it’s like a conspiracy of silence. Hmm.’ She put her
mug down. ‘Paulie. You worked for a law firm. Would you call this . . . circumstantial?’

‘“Circumstantial?”’ Paulette’s expression was almost pitying. ‘Who’s paying you, the defense? This is enough to get the FBI and the DA muttering about
RICO.’

‘Yeah, but . . .’ Miriam nodded to herself. ‘Look, this is heavy. Heavier than usual anyway. I can guarantee you that if we spring this story we’ll get three responses.
One will be flowers in our hair, and the other will be a bunch of cease-and-desist letters from attorneys. Freedom of the press is all very well, but a good reputation and improved circulation
figures won’t buy us defense lawyers, which is why I want to double-check everything in here before I go upstairs and tell Sandy we want the cover. Because the third response is going to be
oh-shit-I-don’t-want-to-believe-this, because our great leader and teacher thinks the sun shines out of Biphase and I think he’s into Proteome too.’

‘Who do you take me for?’ Paulette pointed at the pile. ‘That’s primary, Miriam, the wellspring. SEC filings, public accounts, the whole lot. Smoking gun. The summary
sheet – ’ she tugged at a Post-it note gummed to a page a third of the way down the stack – ‘says it all. I was in here all day yesterday and half the evening –
’

‘I’m sorry!’ Miriam raised her hand. ‘Hey, really. I had no idea.’

‘I kind of lost track of time,’ Paulette admitted. She smiled. ‘It’s not often I get something interesting to dig into. Anyway, if the boss is into these two, I’d
think he’d be glad of the warning. Gives him time to pull out his stake before we run the story.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Miriam stood up. ‘I think we want to bypass Sandy. This goes to the top.’

‘But Sandy needs to know. It’ll mess with his page plan – ’

‘Yeah, but someone has to call Legal before we run with this. It’s the biggest scoop we’ve had all year. Want to come with me? I think you earned at least half the credit . .
.’

*

They shared the elevator up to executive row in silence. It was walled in mirrors, reflecting their contrasts: Paulette, short and dark-haired with disorderly curls and a bright
red blouse, and Miriam, a slim five-foot-eight, dressed entirely in black. The business research wonk and the journalist, on their way to see the editorial director. Some Mondays are better than
others, thought Miriam. She smiled tightly at Paulette in the mirror and Paulie grinned back: a worried expression, slightly apprehensive.

The Industry Weatherman
was mostly owned by a tech venture capital firm who operated out of the top floors of the building, their offices intermingled with those of the magazine’s
directors. Two floors up, the corridors featured a better grade of carpet and the walls were genuine partitions covered in oak veneer, rather than fabric-padded cubicles. That was the only
difference she could see – that and the fact that some of the occupants were assholes like the people she wrote glowing profiles of for a living.
I’ve never met a tech VC who a
shark would bite
, Miriam thought grumpily. Professional courtesy among killers. The current incumbent of the revolving door office labeled editorial director – officially a vice
president – was an often-absent executive by the name of Joe Dixon. Miriam led Paulette to the office and paused for a moment, then knocked on the door, half-hoping to find he wasn’t
there.

‘Come in.’ The door opened in her face, and it was Joe himself, not his secretary. He was over six feet, with expensively waved black hair, wearing his suit jacket over an
open-necked dress shirt. He oozed corporate polish: If he’d been ten years older, he could have made a credible movie career as a captain of industry. As it was, Miriam always found herself
wondering how he’d climbed into the boardroom so young. He was in his mid-thirties, not much older than she was. ‘Hi.’ He took in Miriam and Paulette standing just behind her and
smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’

Miriam smiled back. ‘May we have a moment?’ she asked.

‘Sure, come in.’ Joe retreated behind his desk. ‘Have a chair, both of you.’ He nodded at Paulette. ‘Miriam, we haven’t been introduced.’

‘Oh, yes. Joe Dixon, Paulette Milan. Paulie is one of our heavy hitters in industrial research. She’s been working with me on a story and I figured we’d better bring it to you
first before taking it to the weekly production meeting. It’s a bit, uh, sensitive.’

‘“Sensitive.”’ Joe leaned back in his chair and looked straight at her. ‘Is it big?’

‘Could be,’ Miriam said noncommittally.
Big? It’s the biggest I’ve ever worked on!
A big story in her line of work might make or break a career; this one might
send people to jail. ‘It has complexities to it that made me think you’d want advance warning before it breaks.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Joe.

‘Okay. Paulie, you want to start with your end?’ She passed Paulette the file.

‘Yeah.’ Paulie grimaced as she opened the file and launched into her explanation. ‘In a nutshell, they’re laundries for dirty money. There’s enough of a pattern to
it that if I was a DA in California I’d be picking up the phone to the local FBI office.’

‘That’s why I figured you’d want to know,’ Miriam explained. ‘This is a big deal, Joe. I think we’ve got enough to pin a money-laundering rap on a couple of
really big corporations and make it stick. But last November you were talking to some folks at Proteome, and I figured you might want to refer this to Legal and make sure you’re firewalled
before this hits the fan.’

‘Well. That’s very interesting.’ Joe smiled back at her. ‘Is that your file on this story?’

‘Yeah,’ said Paulette.

‘Would you mind leaving it with me?’ he asked. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m kind of embarrassed,’ he said, shrugging a small-boy shrug. The defensive set of his
shoulders backed his words. ‘Look, I’m going to have to read this myself. Obviously, the scope for mistakes is – ’ he shrugged.

Suddenly Miriam had a sinking feeling:
It’s going to be bad.
She racked her brains for clues.
Is he going to try to bury us?

Joe shook his head. ‘Look, I’d like to start by saying that this isn’t about anything you’ve done,’ he added hurriedly. ‘It’s just that we’ve got
an investment to protect and I need to work out how to do so.’

‘Before we break the story.’ Miriam forced another, broader, smile. ‘It was all in the public record,’ she added. ‘If we don’t break it, one of our
competitors will.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Joe said smoothly. ‘Listen, I’ll get back to you in an hour or so. If you leave this with me for now, I just need to go and talk to someone in
Legal so we can sort out how to respond. Then I’ll let you know how we’re going to handle it.’

‘Oh, okay then,’ said Paulette acceptingly.

Miriam let her expression freeze in a fixed grin.
Oh shit,
she thought as she stood up. ‘Thanks for giving us your time,’ she said.

‘Let yourselves out,’ Joe said tersely, already turning the first page.

Out in the corridor, Paulette turned to Miriam. ‘Didn’t that go well?’ she insisted.

Miriam took a deep breath. ‘Paulie.’

‘Yeah?’

Her knees felt weak. ‘Something’s wrong.’

‘What?’ Paulette looked concerned.

‘Elevator.’ She hit the ‘call’ button and waited in silence, trying to still the butterflies in her stomach. It arrived, and she waited for the doors to close behind them
before she continued. ‘I may just have made a bad mistake.’

‘“Mistake?”’ Paulette looked puzzled. ‘You don’t think – ’

‘He didn’t say anything about publishing,’ Miriam said slowly. ‘Not one word. What were the other names on that list of small investors? The ones you didn’t
check?’

‘The list? He’s got – ’ Paulette frowned.

‘Was Somerville Investments one of them?’

‘Somerville? Could be. Why? Who are they?’

‘Because that’s – ’ Miriam pointed a finger at the roof and circled. She watched Paulette’s eyes grow round.

‘I’m thinking about magazine returns from the newsstand side of the business, Paulie. Don’t you know we’ve got low returns by industry standards? And people buy magazines
for cash.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry, Paulie.’

When they got back to Miriam’s cubicle, a uniformed security guard and a suit from Human Resources were already waiting for them.

‘Paulette Milan? Miriam Beckstein?’ said the man from HR. He checked a notepad carefully.

‘Yes?’ Miriam asked cautiously. ‘What’s up?’

‘Would you please follow me? Both of you?’

He turned and headed for the stairwell down to the main entrance. Miriam glanced around and saw the security guard pull a brief expression of discomfort. ‘Go on, ma’am.’

‘Go on,’ echoed Paulette from her left shoulder, her face white.

This can’t be happening,
Miriam thought woodenly. She felt her feet carrying her toward the staircase and down, toward the glass doors at the front.

‘Cards, please,’ said the man from Human Resources. He held out his hand impatiently. Miriam passed him her card reluctantly: Paulette followed suit.

He cleared his throat and looked them over superciliously. ‘I’ve been told to tell you that
The Industry Weatherman
won’t be pressing charges,’ he said.
‘We’ll clear your cubicles and forward your personal items and your final paycheck to your addresses of record. But you’re no longer allowed on the premises.’ The security
guard took up a position behind him, blocking the staircase. ‘Please leave.’

‘What’s going on?’ Paulette demanded, her voice rising toward a squeak.

‘You’re both being terminated,’ the HR man said impassively. ‘Misappropriation of company resources; specifically, sending personal e-mail on company time and looking at
pornographic websites.’

‘“Pornographic – ”’ Miriam felt herself going faint with fury. She took half a step toward the HR man and barely noticed Paulette grabbing her sleeve.

‘It’s not worth it, Miriam,’ Paulie warned her. ‘We both know it isn’t true.’ She glared at the HR man. ‘You work for Somerville Investments,
don’t you?’

He nodded incuriously. ‘Please leave. Now.’

Miriam forced herself to smile. ‘Better brush up your résumé,’ she said shakily and turned toward the exit.

*

Two-thirds of her life ago, when she was eleven, Miriam had been stung by a hornet. It had been a bad one: Her arm had swollen up like a balloon, red and sore and painful to
touch, and the sting itself had hurt like crazy. But the worst thing of all was the sense of moral indignation and outrage. Miriam-aged-eleven had been minding her own business, playing in the park
with her skateboard – she’d been a tomboy back then, and some would say she still was – and she hadn’t done anything to provoke the angry yellow-and-black insect. It just
flew at her, wings whining angrily, landed, and before she could shake it off, it stung her.

She’d howled.

This time she was older and much more self-sufficient – college, pre-med, and her failed marriage to Ben had given her a grounding in self-sufficiency – so she managed to say
good-bye to an equally shocked Paulie and make it into her car before she broke down. And the tears came silently – this time. It was raining in the car park, but she couldn’t tell
whether there was more water inside or outside. They weren’t tears of pain: They were tears of anger.
That bastard
–

For a moment, Miriam fantasized about storming back in through the fire door at the side of the building, going up to Joe Dixon’s office, and pushing him out of the big picture window. It
made her feel better to think about that, but after a few minutes she reluctantly concluded that it wouldn’t solve anything. Joe had the file. He had her computer – and Paulie’s
– and a moment’s thought told her that those machines were being wiped
right now
. Doubtless, server logs showing her peeking at porn on the job were being fabricated too.
She’d spoken to some geeks at a dot-com startup once who explained just how easy it was if you wanted to get someone dismissed. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled to herself and sniffed.
‘I’ll have to get another job. Shouldn’t be too hard, even without a reference.’

Still, she was badly shaken. Journalists didn’t get fired for exposing money-laundering scams; that was in the rules somewhere, wasn’t it? In fact, it was completely crazy. She
blinked away the remaining angry tears.
I need to go see Mom,
she decided. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start looking for a new job. Or to figure out a way to break the story herself,
if she was going to try and do it freelance. Today she needed a shoulder to cry on – and a sanity check. And if there was one person who could provide both, it was her adoptive mother.

*

Iris Beckstein lived alone in her old house in mid-Cambridge. Miriam felt obscurely guilty about visiting her during daytime working hours. Iris never tried to mother her, being
content to wander around and see to her own quiet hobbies most of the time since Morris had died. But Miriam also felt guilty about not visiting Iris more often. Iris was convalescent, and the
possibility of losing her mother so soon after her father had died filled her with dread. Another anchor was threatening to break free, leaving her adrift in the world.