“Surpluses,” I said. “Bull markets. What happens when the economy slows, like right now?”
“If the company goes belly-up and the plan’s been looted, the workers have to collect from any private insurance companies that hold paper. There’s also a federal fund — PBGC. Pension Benefits Guarantee Corporation. But just like FDIC and FSLIC, it’s grossly underfunded. If enough companies with looted plans start folding, you’ll have a crisis that’ll make the S and L thing look like a picnic. But even with PBGC functioning, it can take years for a worker to collect on a claim. The employees with the most to lose are the oldest and sickest — the loyal ones who gave their lives to the company. People go on welfare, waiting. Die.”
His whole face had gone red and his hands were big mottled fists.
“Is the doctors’ fund in jeopardy?” I said.
“Not yet. As Mr. Cestare told you, Jones saw Black Monday coming and turned mega-profits. The hospital board of directors loves him.”
“Building up his cashbox, for future plundering?”
“No, he’s plundering right now. As he’s putting dollars in, he’s slipping them out.”
“How can he get away with it?”
“He’s the only one who’s got a handle on each and every transaction — the total picture. He’s also using the fund as leverage for personal purchases. Parking stock in it, merging fund accounts with his own — moving money around hourly. Playing with it. He buys and sells under scores of aliases that change daily. Hundreds of transactions daily.”
“Lots of commission for him?”
“Lots. Plus, it makes it incredibly difficult to keep track of him.”
“But you have.”
He nodded, still flushed — the hunter’s glow. “It’s taken me four and a half years but I’ve finally gained access to his data banks, and so far, he doesn’t know it. There’s no reason for him to suspect he’s being watched, because normally the government doesn’t pay any attention to nonprofit pension funds. If he hadn’t made some mistakes with some of the corporations he killed, he’d be home free, in fiduciary heaven.”
“What kinds of mistakes?”
“Not important,” Huenengarth barked.
I stared at him.
He forced himself to smile and held out one hand. “The point is, his shell’s finally cracked and I’m prying it open — getting exquisitely close to shattering it. It’s a crucial moment, Doctor. That’s why I get cranky when people start following me. Understand? Now, are you satisfied?”
“Not really.”
He stiffened. “What’s your problem?”
“A couple of murders, for starts. Why did Laurence Ashmore and Dawn Herbert die?”
“Ashmore,” he said, shaking his head. “Ashmore was a weird bird. A doctor who actually understood economics and had the technical skills to put his knowledge to use. He got rich, and like most rich people he started to believe he was smarter than anyone else. So smart he didn’t have to pay his share of taxes. He got away with it for a while, but the IRS finally caught on. He could’ve gone to jail for a long time. So I helped him.”
“Go west, young swindler,” I said. “He was your hacker into Jones’s data, wasn’t he? The perfect wedge — an M.D. who doesn’t see patients. Was his degree real?”
“Hundred percent.”
“You bought him a job with a million-dollar grant, plus overhead. Basically, the hospital got paid to hire him.”
He gave a satisfied smile. “Greed. Works every time.”
“You’re IRS?” I said.
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Very occasionally, one tentacle strokes the other.”
“What’d you do? Just put your order in to the IRS? Give me a physician in tax trouble who also has computer skills — and they filled it?”
“It wasn’t that simple. Finding someone like Ashmore took a long time. And finding him was one of the factors that helped convince... my superiors to fund my project.”
“Your superiors,” I said. “The Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research — FDIC. What does the R stand for?”
“Rip-off. It was Ashmore’s idea of a joke — everything was a game with him. What he really wanted was something that conformed to PBGC — the Paul Bowles Garden Club was his favorite. He prided himself on being literary. But I convinced him to be subtle.”
“Who’s Professor Walter William Zimberg? Your boss? Another hacker?”
“No one,” he said. “Literally.”
“He doesn’t exist?”
“Not in any real sense.”
“Munchausen man,” Milo muttered.
Huenengarth shot him a sharp look.
I said, “He’s got an office at the University of Maryland. I spoke to his secretary.”
He lifted his cup, took a long time drinking.
I said, “Why was it so important for Ashmore to work out of the hospital?”
“Because that’s where Jones’s main terminal is. I wanted him to have direct access to Jones’s hardware and software.”
“Jones is using the hospital as a business center? He told me he doesn’t have an office there.”
“Technically that’s true. You won’t see his name on any door. But his apparatus is buried within some of the space he’s taken away from the doctors.”
“Down in the sub-basement?”
“Let’s just say buried deeply. Somewhere hard to find. As head of Security, I made sure of that.”
“Getting yourself in must have been quite a challenge.”
No answer.
“You still haven’t answered me,” I said. “Why’d Ashmore die?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“What’d he do?” I said. “Make an end-run around you? Use what he’d learned working for you to extort money from Chuck Jones?”
He licked his lips. “It’s possible. The data he collected are still being analyzed.”
“By whom?”
“People.”
“What about Dawn Herbert? Was she in on it?”
“I don’t know what her game was,” he said. “Don’t know if she had one.”
His frustration seemed real.
I said, “Then why’d you chase down her computer disks?”
“Because Ashmore was interested in them. After we started to decode his files, her name came up.”
“In what context?”
“He’d made a coded notation to take her seriously. Called her a ‘negative integer’ — his term for someone suspicious. But she was already dead.”
“What else did he say about her?”
“That’s all we’ve gotten so far. He put everything in code — complex codes. It’s taking time to unravel them.”
“He was your boy,” I said. “Didn’t he leave you the keys?”
“Only some of them.” Anger narrowed the round eyes.
“So you stole her disks.”
“Not stole, appropriated. They were mine. She compiled them while working for Ashmore, and Ashmore worked for me, so legally they’re my property.”
He blurted the last two words. The possessiveness of a kid with a new toy.
I said, “This isn’t just a job with you, is it?”
His gaze flicked across the room and back to me. “That’s exactly what it is. I just happen to love my work.”
“So you have no idea why Herbert was murdered.”
He shrugged. “The police say it was a sex killing.”