round of investment with Mako?’’
Adam said, ‘‘Yes. They should have been in a vault somewhere. But they weren’t.’’
Brand. Brand. Brand.
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.
‘‘It can’t be,’’ Jesse said. "C. M. Burns? C. Montgomery Burns?’’
‘‘And Bob Terwilliger.’’ Simultaneously we said, ‘‘Sideshow Bob.’’
Adam said, ‘‘What?’’
Jesse said, ‘‘You don’t watch enough TV. They’re cartoon characters.’’
‘‘From The Simpsons ,’’ I said. The room seemed to shift beneath me. ‘‘He faked the names. The accounts are fraudulent.’’
The rest of the implications fell into place on their own.
I said, ‘‘Brand was embezzling from Mako.’’
‘‘And Isaac stumbled onto it,’’ Adam said.
Brand stole the money, and Isaac found out. Maybe he didn’t even know what it was he’d found out. But he kept pestering Brand about it. He started dragging it into the daylight. He would have exposed Brand.
Jesse said, ‘‘The hit-and-run. He ran Isaac down deliberately.’’
Adam’s face looked desperate. ‘‘Brand murdered him.’’
10
Chris Ramseur hung up the phone. ‘‘The lieutenant’s on his way.’’
He stirred chunks of nondairy creamer into his coffee. Behind his head the morning sky was a square of gray light outside the window. He was staring at the stack of papers Adam had slapped down on his desk. The minidisk was in his hand.
He shook his head at me, his eyes crackling with energy. ‘‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You stole this from Brand—’’
‘‘Borrowed.’’
‘‘—stole this from Brand, you hand it to me on a platter, and expect applause.’’
I held out my hands. ‘‘Cuff me, Detective.’’
He sighed and threw his coffee stirrer into the trash. ‘‘There’s no chain of custody, no proof of where this disk came from, beyond your word.’’
‘‘That disk contains enough evidence to prosecute Brand for theft, fraud, and tax evasion.’’
‘‘And murder,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘It reads like the prosecution’s exhibit list. Don’t you believe me?’’
‘‘I believe you,’’ Chris said. ‘‘But I feel a yearlong migraine coming on.’’
Adam said, ‘‘But you can get corroboration from the banks in the Caymans and Bahamas, and from Mako. You need to get over there and lock down their computers. Get a warrant or whatever you do.’’
‘‘Dr. Sandoval—’’
‘‘Their system will contain
Adam said, ‘‘Yes. They should have been in a vault somewhere. But they weren’t.’’
Brand. Brand. Brand.
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.
‘‘It can’t be,’’ Jesse said. "C. M. Burns? C. Montgomery Burns?’’
‘‘And Bob Terwilliger.’’ Simultaneously we said, ‘‘Sideshow Bob.’’
Adam said, ‘‘What?’’
Jesse said, ‘‘You don’t watch enough TV. They’re cartoon characters.’’
‘‘From The Simpsons ,’’ I said. The room seemed to shift beneath me. ‘‘He faked the names. The accounts are fraudulent.’’
The rest of the implications fell into place on their own.
I said, ‘‘Brand was embezzling from Mako.’’
‘‘And Isaac stumbled onto it,’’ Adam said.
Brand stole the money, and Isaac found out. Maybe he didn’t even know what it was he’d found out. But he kept pestering Brand about it. He started dragging it into the daylight. He would have exposed Brand.
Jesse said, ‘‘The hit-and-run. He ran Isaac down deliberately.’’
Adam’s face looked desperate. ‘‘Brand murdered him.’’
10
Chris Ramseur hung up the phone. ‘‘The lieutenant’s on his way.’’
He stirred chunks of nondairy creamer into his coffee. Behind his head the morning sky was a square of gray light outside the window. He was staring at the stack of papers Adam had slapped down on his desk. The minidisk was in his hand.
He shook his head at me, his eyes crackling with energy. ‘‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You stole this from Brand—’’
‘‘Borrowed.’’
‘‘—stole this from Brand, you hand it to me on a platter, and expect applause.’’
I held out my hands. ‘‘Cuff me, Detective.’’
He sighed and threw his coffee stirrer into the trash. ‘‘There’s no chain of custody, no proof of where this disk came from, beyond your word.’’
‘‘That disk contains enough evidence to prosecute Brand for theft, fraud, and tax evasion.’’
‘‘And murder,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘It reads like the prosecution’s exhibit list. Don’t you believe me?’’
‘‘I believe you,’’ Chris said. ‘‘But I feel a yearlong migraine coming on.’’
Adam said, ‘‘But you can get corroboration from the banks in the Caymans and Bahamas, and from Mako. You need to get over there and lock down their computers. Get a warrant or whatever you do.’’
‘‘Dr. Sandoval—’’
‘‘Their system will contain
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