Ben was totally confused. “Three million what?”
“Three million dollars made but unaccounted for in expenditures or profits.”
“How could a mistake like that be made?” Ben asked. “Surely someone would notice.”
“So it would seem,” Christina said quietly.
“No one could divert three million dollars and get away with it.”
“That depends on how many people had access to this summary,” Sally said. “A lot can be hidden in annual reports and financial statements, especially if you keep your base financial data secret and can afford the cleverest accountants.”
She tossed the papers on the table. “To most people, an annual report is just fifty pages of financial gobbledy-gook. Everyone looks at the bottom line and assumes the rest is accurate. Someone else has checked it, right?” She took another bite of garlic bread;
“Can you tell if anyone did anything … improper?”
“Not unless you can break the code in the left-hand column. Now, if I knew what company we were talking about … well, sometimes I hear things. So come clean. Who are you doing this for?”
Ben took the papers and placed them in his briefcase. “For a little girl with a lousy memory.”
Sally’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”
“I wish I knew,” Ben replied.
After lunch, Ben returned to his office and found a hand-delivered envelope waiting for him. Mike had sent over a copy of the MUD sheets from the phone company. The sheets listed every phone call made to and from Jonathan Adams’s home and office phones during the seventy-two hours preceding his death. Next to the numbers, some staff person had written the name of each caller or callee and, frequently, a brief identification of the person named. There were no surprises. Several calls to other Sanguine executives and employees. Two calls to his wife. Four calls to franchisees in Michigan and Illinois.
Ben studied the names identified as Sanguine personnel. He pulled the Sanguine personnel directory out of the Eggs ‘N’ Such file and matched names to positions. Two of the interoffice calls, one on the day of the murder and the other on the day before, caught Ben’s eye. The recipient of the calls was Harry Brancusci, a member of the Sanguine Enterprises accounting department.
Ben dialed the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Harry Brancusci?”
A pause. “Who’s this?”
Ben told him who he was. “I wondered if you could answer some questions for me regarding some Sanguine financial documents.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Sanguine accounting records are confidential.” Did Brancusci’s voice seem to quiver, or was it just a bad connection? “As a public corporation, we have to be very careful about revealing financial information. The SEC regulations are very complex—”
“I understand that,” Ben interrupted. “I’m a lawyer. What’s more, I’m your lawyer. At Raven, Tucker & Tubb. We represent Sanguine Enterprises. Anything you tell me is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”
“Nonetheless,” Brancusci insisted, “I’m afraid I can’t provide that information unless I have express authorization from Mr. Sanguine himself. Shall I connect you with his office?”
Ben felt his blood pressure rising. “Can you explain why Sanguine’s annual expenditures and distributions don’t equal the total amount of gross profits?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brancusci snapped. “Sanguine has over a dozen accountants here in Tulsa alone, and I can assure you that every record is checked and double-checked—”
“Why were you talking to Jonathan Adams just before he was murdered?”
The voice on the other end broke. Brancusci sputtered for a moment, then said, “It was business. Ours. And none of yours.” The receiver on the other end of the line slammed down.
Ben sat motionless in his chair, listening to the dial tone. I blew it, he realized. I should have gone over there in person, so he couldn’t blow me off so easily. Now he knows everything I know. He’ll find some way to explain it away. And I’ll be right back where I was before.
Nowhere.
21
DEREK STRODE INTO HIS office and hung his jacket on the brass hanger behind the door.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone. I’ve been at the clinic playing Stump the Surgeons. Damned idiots haven’t the slightest idea what’s wrong with me.”
Ben and Christina sat in the chairs opposite Derek’s desk. Maggie was sitting on the sofa parallel to both.
“Let me get straight to the point.” Derek threw himself into the chair behind the desk. “I suppose you’ve all heard that we won the trade dress motion before Judge Schmidt.”
There was a general chorus of congratulation.
“We’ve already received a written order of judgment. Receiving a written order from Judge Schmidt so soon after oral argument is truly amazing. I thought to myself, Schmidt must have really taken my arguments to heart. So I decided to reexamine our brief, to see what might’ve persuaded Schmidt so effectively.”
Derek took a copy of the brief from his desk and began thumbing through the pages. “Upon rereading this brief, I found two misspelled words. One on page fourteen and another on page thirty-two.” Derek ripped out the offending pages and slid them across the desk and under Ben’s nose.
“It’s a forty-page brief, sir.”
“Yes, Kincaid,” Derek said, his voice rising, “and it has two typos in it! This brief has my name on it! This brief is now part of the public record! And it’s a public embarrassment. In the eyes of my peers—and, moreover, in the eyes of Judge Schmidt.” The tone of his voice became increasingly nasty. “What is Judge Schmidt going to think when he looks at this brief and sees—” He pointed at the word interim, misspelled with a u between the i and the m.
“Inter-ee-um?” Ben offered.
Derek glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Kincaid. I hope you understand just how serious this is.” Derek sunk back in his chair. “You wrote this mess, Kincaid. When was the last time you proofread it?”
Ben thought back. “On the Monday before the hearing. Then I gave it to Christina for cite checking.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Passing the buck, Kincaid?”
“N-no, I was—I was just answering your question, sir.”
Derek turned his attention to Christina. “What’s your story, McCall?”
Christina shrugged. “I did all my checking vis à vis case citations, marked my corrections, and gave the red-ink copy to Maggie.”
Derek turned and stared at Maggie. Her eyes were huge, and she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “What about it, Maggie? You’re supposed to do the final proofread on these things.”
Maggie was so flustered she could barely speak. Her neck was covered with red blotches, and beads of sweat were forming along her hairline. “I … I’m sorry … I … you know how busy I am. I have to be at the phone in case you call, and … and now all the extra work for—” She jerked her head in Ben’s direction.
The poor woman was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. Ben sympathized. Maggie had been Derek’s faithful servant for six years, and her reward was a public trip to the woodshed. A more merciful master might have interrupted her babbling, but Derek said nothing. He waited until she had thoroughly humiliated herself.
“Maggie, I want you to take this brief home over the weekend and read it, word for word, page by page. I want you to mark every typo, every miscitation, every misspelling—everything! Then, on Monday, we’ll prepare a corrected brief and ask leave of court to amend.”